Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [57]
I sit a horse as well as he, Joan thought. Gerold had spent many hours teaching her to ride, and she was now an accomplished horsewoman.
As if suddenly aware of her scrutiny, John turned around and gave her a knowing smile, at once intimate and malicious. Then he kicked his horse into a canter and rode up next to Gerold. They spoke; Gerold threw back his head and laughed.
Jealousy rose sharply within her. What could John have to say to Gerold that would amuse him so? They had nothing in common. Gerold was a learned man, a scholar. John knew nothing of such matters. Yet now he rode beside Gerold, talked with him, laughed with him, while she lurched along behind in this miserable dogcart.
Because she was a girl. Not for the first time she cursed the stroke of fate that had made her so.
“It is impolite to stare, Joan.” Richild’s dark eyes regarded Joan disdainfully.
Joan tore her eyes away from Gerold. “I’m sorry, my lady.”
“Keep your hands folded on your lap,” Richild remonstrated, “and your eyes turned down, as befits a modest woman.”
Joan obediently followed her bidding.
“Proper deportment,” Richild continued, “is a higher virtue in a lady than an ability to read—something you would know if you had been gently raised.” She stared at Joan coolly for a few moments before returning her attention to her embroidery.
Joan watched her now out of the corner of her eye. She was certainly beautiful, in the pale, ascetic, slope-shouldered fashion of the day. Her creamy skin rose to an extremely high forehead, crowned by lustrous coils of thick black hair. Her eyes, fringed by long, dark lashes, were so deep a brown they appeared almost black. Joan felt a sharp pang of envy. Richild was everything that she was not.
“Come now, you must help us decide.” Gisla, the elder daughter, beamed at Joan. “Which of my gowns should I wear for the wedding feast?” She giggled excitedly.
Gisla was fourteen, only a few weeks older than Joan, and already betrothed to Count Hugo, a Neustrian nobleman. Gerold and Richild were pleased, as the union was an advantageous match. The wedding was some six months away.
“Oh, Gisla, you have so many lovely things.” And it was true. Joan had been astonished at the size of Gisla’s wardrobe—enough to wear a different tunic every day for a fortnight if she chose. In Ingelheim, a girl had but one tunic, of strong woolen cloth if she was lucky, and she kept it carefully, for it would have to last many years. “I am sure Count Hugo will think you beautiful in any of them.”
Gisla giggled again. A good-hearted but somewhat simple girl, she erupted into nervous laughter every time her affianced’s name was mentioned.
“No, no,” she said breathlessly. “You cannot wriggle out of it so easily. Listen. Mother thinks I should wear the blue, but I say the yellow. Come now, give me a proper answer.”
Joan sighed. She liked Gisla, for all her giddiness and silly ways. They had shared a bed from the very first night, when Gerold had brought Joan home from the bishop’s palace, weary and frightened. Gisla had welcomed Joan, been kind to her, and Joan would always be grateful. Still, there was no denying that conversation with Gisla could be trying, for her interests were entirely confined to clothes, food, and men. For the last few weeks, she had talked incessantly about the wedding, and it was beginning to try everyone’s patience.
Joan smiled, making an effort to be obliging. “I think you should wear the blue. It matches your eyes.”
“The blue? Really?” Gisla’s brow furrowed. “But the yellow has the lovely lace trim on the front.”
“Well, the yellow then.”
“Still, the blue does match my eyes. Perhaps it would be better. What do you think?”
“I think that if I hear any more about that stupid wedding feast I shall scream,” said Dhuoda. She was nine years old and resentful of all the attention her older sister