Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [61]
Two of Richild’s retainers grabbed the woman roughly and hurried her away, still screaming imprecations.
The chaplain approached Richild, wringing his hands in nervous apology. “She is Bertha’s mother. Grief has driven the poor woman quite out of her senses. Of course the child’s death was an accident. A tragic accident.”
“No accident, Wala,” Richild said sternly. “It was God’s will.”
Wala blanched. “Of course, of course.” As Richild’s chaplain, a private “house priest,” Wala held a position little better than that of a common colonus; if he displeased her, she could have him whipped— or worse yet, cast out to starve. “God’s will. God’s will, lady, most assuredly.”
“Go and speak to the woman, for the extremity of her grief has surely placed her soul in mortal danger.”
“Ah, lady!” He fluttered long, white hands skyward. “Such heavenly forbearance! Such caritas!”
She dismissed him impatiently, and he hurried away, looking like a man who has been cut loose from the gallows just before the trap opens.
Gerold gave the command to start up, and the procession moved out, bumping along the riverbank back toward the road to St.-Denis. Behind them, in the rearmost wagon, the mother’s screams gradually subsided into a steady, heart-wrenching sobbing. Dhuoda’s eyes were moist with tears; even Gisla’s unflagging high spirits were quenched. But Richild appeared entirely unshaken. Joan studied her appraisingly. Could anyone be that skillful at hiding her emotions, or was she really as cold as she appeared? Did the girl’s death not weigh upon her conscience at all?
Richild looked at her. Joan turned her eyes away so she could not read her thoughts.
God’s will?
No, my lady.
Your command.
THE first day of the fair was in full swing. People streamed through the huge iron gate that led to the open field fronting the Abbey of St.-Denis—peasants in ragged bandelettes and shirts of rude linen; noblemen and fideles in silk tunics crossed with golden baldrics, their wives elegantly bedecked in fur-trimmed mantles and jeweled headdresses; Lombards and Aquitanians in their exotic bouffant panta loons and boots. Never had Joan seen so odd or so large a conglomeration of humanity.
On the field, the stalls of the merchants crowded closely together, their various goods displayed in a gaudy, incoherent riot of color and form. There were robes and mantles of purple silk, scarlet phoenix skins, peacock’s feathers, stamped leather jerkins, rare delicacies such as almonds and raisins, and all manner of scents and spices, pearls, gems, silver and gold. Still more merchandise poured through the gates, heaped high on wagons or carried in unwieldy piles upon the backs of the poorer vendors, bent almost double under the weight. More than one of these would not sleep that night from the pain of muscles strained past endurance, but in this way they avoided the expensive tolls, the rotaticum and saumaticum, charged against goods carried in on wheeled vehicles and beasts of burden.
Inside the gate, Gerold said to Joan and John, “Hold out your hands.” Into each of their outstretched palms, he placed a silver denarius. “Spend it wisely.”
Joan stared at the shiny coin. She had seen denarii only once or twice before, and those at a distance, for in Ingelheim trade was accomplished by barter; even her father’s income, the décima tithed from the peasants of his parish, had been offered in goods and foodstuffs.
A whole denarius! It seemed a fortune beyond measure.
They wandered down the narrow, crowded passageways between the stalls. All around vendors hawked their merchandise, customers bargained hotly over prices, and performers of every kind—dancers, jugglers, acrobats, bear and monkey trainers—plied their trades. The din of innumerable deals, jests, and arguments surrounded them on every side, conducted in a hundred dialects and tongues.
It was easy to get lost in the jostling crowds. Joan took John’s hand—to her surprise, he did not protest—and kept close to Gerold’s side.