Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [55]
By the time they reached the bailey, the wolf was straining hard. Joan and Gerold watched as the tip of one small paw began to emerge, followed by another, and then by a tiny, perfect head. Finally, with a last heave from the bitch, a small, dark body slid wetly onto the straw lining the bottom of the cage and lay still.
Joan and Gerold strained to see into the darkness of the cage. The newborn pup lay inert, completely covered by the birth sac, so they could hardly make out head from tail. His dam licked the sac off and ate it.
Gerold raised the lantern high against the bars of the cage to give more light. The newborn did not appear to be breathing.
The mother began to strain with the effort of a second delivery. Moments passed, and still the newborn cub did not move or give any sign of life.
Joan looked at Gerold with dismay. Was it so? Would it lie lifeless, waiting for its father to lick it into life? Had Odo been right, after all?
If so, then they had killed it, for they had taken it far from the father who would have given it life.
Once again the mother grunted; a second small body slid out, landing partly on top of the first. The impact jolted the firstborn, which twitched and let out a soft squeal of protest.
“Look!” The two of them prodded each other and pointed in exultant unison. They laughed, well pleased with the results of their experiment.
The two pups bumped their way over to their mother’s side to nurse, even before she finished the throes of a third delivery.
Together, Gerold and Joan watched the beginning of this new family. Their hands reached out for each other in the dark, meeting and clasping in mutual understanding.
Joan had never felt so close to anyone in her life.
“WE MISSED you at vespers.” Richild glared at them reprovingly from the portico. “It is the Eve of St. Norbert, have you forgotten? It sets a poor example when the lord of the manor absents himself from the holy devotions.”
“I had something else to attend to,” Gerold replied coolly.
Richild started to respond, but Joan interrupted excitedly.
“We watched the white wolf give birth to her pups! They are not born dead, despite what people say,” she announced jubilantly. “Lucretius was right!”
Richild stared at her as if she were mad.
“All things in nature are explainable,” Joan continued. “Don’t you see? The pups were born alive, with no reliance on the supernatural, just like Lucretius said!”
“What godless speech is this? Child, are you feverish?”
Gerold stepped quickly between them. “Go to bed, Joan,” he said over his shoulder. “It is late.” He took Richild by the arm and firmly steered her into the house.
Joan remained where she was, listening to Richild’s voice echo shrilly through the calm evening air.
“This is what comes of educating the girl beyond her capacity to learn. Gerold, you must cease to encourage her in these unnatural pursuits!”
Joan slowly made her way back to her sleeping chamber.
THEY killed the white wolf after she weaned her pups. She was dangerous, having already attacked and carried off one small child, and such a man-killer could not be set free. Her last-born did not survive; it was a sickly thing that lived only a few days. But the other two grew into robust and active pups, whose playful antics delighted Joan and Gerold. One had a coat of brown and gray mottled fur, typical of the forest wolves in this part of Frankland; Gerold made a gift of him to Fulgentius, who derived a wicked pleasure in pointedly displaying him to Odo. The other pup, the firstborn, had his mother’s snow white coat and singular, opalescent eyes; this one they kept. “Luke,” Joan and Gerold called him, in Lucretius’s honor, and their affection for the frisky, energetic pup strengthened the developing bond