Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [60]
A minute passed. Behind them the first wagon gained the far bank and bumped safely onto land. Joan did not notice. Her eyes were fixed on the spot where Gerold had dived under.
Fear moistened her palms, made her hands slip on the reins. The bay mare, sensing trouble, whinnied and shifted. Luke threw back his head and howled.
Deus Misereatur, she prayed. Dear God, take pity. Demand what sacrifice You will, only let him rise from this.
Two minutes.
It was too long. He needed to come up for air.
She swung down out of the saddle into the cold water. She could not swim, but she did not stop to think of that. She began splashing wildly toward the hole. Luke leapt back and forth in front of her, trying to block her advance, but she shoved past him. Only one thought occupied all her mind—reach Gerold, pull him out, save him.
She was half a yard from the water hole when there was a splash and a plume of water. Gerold broke the surface in one leap and stood gasping, his red hair smeared across his face.
“Gerold!” Joan’s exultant shout sounded clear above the cheers of the men. Gerold turned to her and nodded. Then he took a deep breath, ready to dive again.
“Look!” The mule driver in the first wagon pointed downriver.
A round blue object rose and fell gently against the far bank. Bertha’s robe was blue.
They remounted and rode downriver. In the water, caught in branches and debris that had accumulated along the bank, Bertha was floating on her back, limbs thrown wide as if discarded, her lifeless features fixed into a terrible expression of helplessness and fear.
“Take her up.” Gerold spoke brusquely to his men. “We will bear her to the church in Prüm for a decent burial.”
Joan began to tremble violently, unable to pull her eyes away from Bertha. In death, she looked so much like Matthew had—the pale gray skin, the half-closed eyes, the slackened mouth.
Suddenly Gerold’s arms were around her, turning her head away, pressing it to his shoulder. She closed her eyes and clung to him. The men dismounted and splashed into the water; she heard the soft, wet rustle of the river reeds as they released the weight of Bertha’s body.
“You were coming after me back there, weren’t you?” Gerold whispered, his mouth close to her ear. He spoke wonderingly, as if the realization had just struck him.
“Yes.” She nodded, never taking her head from his shoulder.
“Can you swim?”
“No,” she admitted, and felt Gerold’s arms tighten around her as they stood together by the river’s edge.
Behind them, the men slowly carried Bertha’s body toward the wagons. The chaplain walked alongside, his head bowed as he recited the prayer for the dead. Richild was not praying with him. Her head was high, and she was staring at Joan and Gerold.
Joan stepped out of the circle of Gerold’s arms.
“What is it?” His look was warm with affection and concern.
Richild was still watching them.
“N-nothing.”
He followed the direction of her gaze. “Ah.” Gently he lifted a stray lock of white-gold hair from her face. “Shall we rejoin the others then?”
Side by side they walked to the wagons. Then Gerold left to consult with the chaplain about the disposition of the body.
Richild said, “Joan, you will ride in the wagon for the rest of the journey. You will be far safer here with us.”
It was useless to protest. Joan climbed into the wagon.
The men gently laid Bertha in one of the rear wagons, moving sacks aside to make room. A household servant, an older woman, cried out and threw herself onto Bertha’s body.
The woman began the traditional keening wail for the dead. Everyone waited in a respectful, embarrassed silence. After a decent interval, the chaplain approached and spoke softly to the woman. She raised her head; her eyes, wild with grief and pain, fixed on Richild.
“You!” she screamed. “It was you, lady! You killed her! She was a good girl, my Bertha,