Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [64]
While Gerold paid for his purchase, Joan’s attention wandered to a few sheets of ragged-looking parchment scattered untidily toward the rear of the stall. The edges of the sheets were torn, and there was writing on them, very faint and obliterated in places by ugly brown stains. She bent close to read the writing better, then flushed with excitement.
Seeing her interest, the merchant hurried over.
“So young, and already a fine eye for a bargain,” he said unctuously. “The sheets are old, as you see, but still good for their purpose. Look!”
Before she could speak, he took a long, flat tool and scraped it quickly across the page, effacing several letters.
“Stop!” Joan spoke sharply, remembering a different piece of parchment and a different knife. “Stop!”
The merchant looked at her curiously. “You needn’t worry, lass, it’s only pagan writing.” He pointed proudly to the page. “See? Nice and clean and ready to write on!” He lifted the tool to demonstrate the trick again, but Joan grabbed his hand.
“I’ll give you a denarius for them,” she said tersely.
The man feigned being insulted. “They’re worth three denarii, at least.”
Joan took the coin from her scrip and held it out to him. “One,” she repeated. “It’s all I have.”
The merchant hesitated, searching her face assessingly. “Very well,” he said testily. “Take them.”
Joan thrust the coin at him and gathered up the precious parchment before he could change his mind. She ran to Gerold.
“Look!” she said excitedly.
Gerold stared at the pages. “I don’t recognize the letters.”
“It’s written in Greek,” Joan explained. “And it’s very old. An engineering text, I think. See the diagrams?” She pointed to one of the pages, and Gerold studied the drawing.
“Some kind of hydraulic device.” His interest was kindled. “Fascinating. Can you provide a translation of the text?”
“I can.”
“Then I might be able to rig it up.”
They smiled at each other, conspirators in a fine new scheme.
“Father!” Gisla’s voice pierced the noise of the crowd. Gerold turned, searching for her. He was taller by a head than anyone around him; in the sun his thick, red hair gleamed like colored gold. Joan’s heart jumped unevenly in her chest as she watched him. You are my pearl, he had said. She grasped the papers tightly as she watched him, holding on to the moment.
“Father! Joan!” Gisla finally appeared, pushing her way through the crowd, followed by one of the household servants, his arms laden with goods. “I’ve been looking everywhere!” she remonstrated good-naturedly. “What have you got there?” Joan started to explain, but Gisla waved her aside. “Oh, just more of your silly old books. Look what I found,” she enthused. She dangled a length of multicolored cloth. “For my wedding dress! Isn’t it perfect?”
The cloth shimmered as Gisla displayed it. Examining it more closely, Joan saw that it was woven through with slender, perfect threads of gold and silver.
“It’s astonishing,” she said sincerely.
Gisla giggled. “I know!” Without waiting for a reply, she grabbed Joan’s arm and started toward a stall some distance ahead. “Oh, look,” she said, “a slave auction! Let’s go see!”
“No.” Joan hung back. She had seen the slave traders passing through Ingelheim, their human cargo bound together with heavy ropes. Many of them were Saxons, like her mother.
“No,” she said again, and would not budge.
“Aren’t you a goose!” Gisla tweaked Joan playfully. “They’re only heathens. They don’t have feelings, at least not like us.”
“I wonder what’s in here?” Joan said, anxious to distract her. She led Gisla toward a tiny stall at the end of the row. It was dark and sealed, every panel closed. Luke circled it, sniffing curiously at the walls.
“How strange,” Gisla said.
In the bright afternoon sun, with business in full swing all around, the quiet, darkened stall was an oddity. Her curiosity piqued, Joan tapped gently on the closed shutter.
“Come in,” a cracked voice spoke from within. Gisla jumped at the sound but did not back away. The