Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [58]
“Dhuoda, that remark is unbecoming a lady.” Richild looked up from her embroidery to chastise her younger daughter.
“I’m sorry,” Dhuoda said to Gisla contritely. But as soon as her mother looked away she stuck out her tongue at Gisla, who smiled back at her good-humoredly.
Richild said, “As for you, Joan, it is not for you to offer an opinion; Gisla will wear whatever I think best.”
Joan flushed at the reprimand but said nothing.
“Count Hugo is such a handsome man.” Bertha, one of the serving wenches, spoke up. A red-cheeked girl of no more than sixteen winters, she was new to household service, having been brought in a month ago to replace a girl dead of typhoid. “He looks so fine on his charger, with his ermine cloak and gloves.”
Gisla giggled delightedly. Encouraged, Bertha continued. “And, mistress, from the way he looks at you, it cannot matter what tunic you wear. Come the wedding night, he’ll have it off you quick enough!”
She laughed boisterously, pleased with her joke. Gisla tittered. The others in the wagon sat quietly, watching Richild.
Richild put down her embroidery, her eyes dark with anger. “What did you say?” she asked, in a tone ominously quiet.
“Uh—nothing, my lady,” Bertha said.
“Oh, Mother, I am sure she did not mean—” Gisla tried ineffectually to intervene.
“Coarseness and filth! I will not suffer it in my presence!”
“I’m sorry, my lady,” Bertha said, chastened. But she still smiled a little, not believing Richild could be truly angry.
Richild motioned Bertha to the open back of the cart. “Out.”
“But, my lady!” Bertha wailed, at last comprehending the enormity of her error. “I did not mean—”
“Out!” Richild was adamant. “In penance for your impudence, you will walk the rest of the way.”
It was a punishing journey to St.-Denis. Bertha looked ruefully at her feet, covered with rough, hemp-soled buskins. Joan felt sorry for her. Her remark had been heedless and ill advised, but the girl was young and new to service, and obviously had not meant to give offense.
“You will recite the paternoster aloud while you walk.”
“Yes, my lady,” Bertha said resignedly. She clambered out of the cart, took up a position alongside, and after a minute slowly began to recite, “Pater Noster qui es in caelis …” She spoke in an odd singsong style that emphasized all the wrong words. Joan was sure she had no idea what she was saying.
Richild returned to her embroidery. Her black hair shone in the sunlight as she bent her head over her stitching. Her lips were tight, her eyes hard with anger as she drove the needle through the thick cloth.
She is an unhappy woman, Joan thought. This was difficult to understand, for was she not married to Gerold? Yet theirs had been an arranged marriage, and although many such matches turned out to be happy ones, this one obviously had not. They slept in separate beds, and, if the servants’ gossip was correct, had not known each other as man and wife for many years.
“Would you care to ride?” Gerold smiled down at her from astride his chestnut stallion. In his right hand he held the reins of Boda, a lively bay mare he knew Joan especially favored.
Joan blushed, embarrassed by what she had just been thinking. She had been so lost in thought that she had not seen Gerold ride back to retrieve Boda from the group of spare mounts and lead her toward the wagon.
“Ride with the men?” Richild frowned. “I won’t permit it! It would not be proper!”
“Nonsense!” Gerold replied. “It does no harm, and the girl wants to ride, don’t you, Joan?”
“I … I …,” she said awkwardly, caught in the middle and reluctant to further offend Richild.
Gerold raised an eyebrow. “Of course, if you’d rather remain in the wagon …”
“No!” Joan said quickly. “Please, I’d love to ride Boda.” She stood in the cart and reached out her arms. Gerold laughed and caught her about the waist, swinging her high onto the saddle before him. Then, keeping the horses close, he hoisted her sideways onto Boda’s back.
She settled into the saddle.