Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [62]
“Stop!” the woman shouted. “You dunderheads! You are stretching it!” And indeed, it appeared as if the men would rip the cloth in half to make the most of its measure.
There was a loud burst of shouting and laughter from a crowd circling a small open enclosure a short distance ahead.
“Come on.” John pulled on Joan’s arm. She hesitated, not wanting to leave Gerold, but he saw what John wanted and good-naturedly shooed them in that direction.
Another great shout rose from the crowd as they drew close. Joan saw a man fall to his knees in the center of the enclosure, clutching his shoulder as if it were hurt. Quickly he got back up to his feet, and now Joan could see that in his other hand he held a thick, sturdy birch bough. Another man stood in the ring, similarly armed. The two of them circled each other, swinging the heavy sticks with ferocious abandon. There was an odd, high-pitched squeal as a blood-spattered pig ran frantically between the two men, its stubby legs pumping like matched butter churns. The two men swung at the pig, but their aim was wild; the one who had just fallen shrieked as he took a solid hit on his nether parts. The crowd roared with laughter.
John laughed along with the others, his eyes lit with interest. He tugged on the sleeve of a short, pockmarked peasant who stood beside them. “What’s going on?” he asked excitedly.
The man grinned down at him, the holes in his face widening as the skin creased. “Why, they’re after the pig, lad, d’ye see? Him as kills it, takes it home for his table.”
Odd, Joan thought, as she watched the two men compete for the prize. They swung their sticks forcefully, but their blows were random and undirected, falling on thin air or on each other more often than on the hapless pig. There was something strange about the appearance of the man facing her. She looked more closely and saw a milky whiteness where his pupils should have been. Now the other man turned to face her; his eyes looked normal enough, but they stared out fixedly into space, vacant and unfocused.
The men were blind.
Another blow found its mark, and the milky-eyed man staggered sideways, clutching his head. John jumped up, clapping his hands and shouting with laughter along with the rest of the crowd. His eyes glittered with a strange excitement.
Joan turned away.
“Psst! Young mistress!” a voice called out to her. Across the way, a vendor was gesturing at her. She left John cheering on the bizarre combat and went to the man’s stall, fronted by a long table displaying an assortment of religious relics. There were wooden crosses and medallions of every kind and description, as well as holy relics of several locally popular saints: a strand of hair from St. Willibrord, a fingernail of St. Romaric, two teeth of St. Waldetrudis, and a scrap of cloth from the robe of the virgin martyr St. Genovefa.
The man pulled a vial from his leather scrip.
“Know what this holds?” His voice was so low she could barely hear him over the surrounding din. She shook her head.
“Several drops of the milk”—his voice dropped still further—“of the Holy Virgin Mother.”
Joan was stunned. So great a treasure! Here? Surely it should be enshrined in some great monastery or cathedral.
“One denarius,” the man said.
One denarius! She fingered the silver coin in her pocket. The man held the vial out to her, and she took it, its surface cool in her hand. She had a brief vision of the look on Odo’s face when she returned with such a prize for the cathedral.
The man smiled, holding out his hand, fingers waggling to coax the coin from her.
Joan hesitated. Why would this man sell so great a treasure for such a sum?