Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [7]
Joan nodded happily. This was her favorite part of the story. “Tell about the Well of Wisdom,” she begged.
“Although he was already very wise,” explained her mother, “Woden always sought greater wisdom. One day he went to the Well of Wisdom, guarded by Mimir the Wise, and asked for a draft from it. ‘What price will you pay?’ asked Mimir. Woden replied that Mimir could ask what he wished. ‘Wisdom must always be bought with pain,’ replied Mimir. ‘If you wish a drink of this water, you must pay for it with one of your eyes.’”
Eyes bright with excitement, Joan exclaimed, “And Woden did it, Mama, didn’t he? He did it!”
Her mother nodded. “Though it was a hard choice, Woden consented to lose the eye. He drank the water. Afterward, he passed on to mankind the wisdom he had gained.”
Joan looked up at her mother, her eyes wide and serious. “Would you have done it, Mama—to be wise, to know about all things?”
“Only gods make such choices,” she replied. Then, seeing the child’s persistent look of question, Gudrun confessed, “No. I would have been too afraid.”
“So would I,” Joan said thoughtfully. “But I would want to do it. I would want to know what the well could tell me.”
Gudrun smiled down at the intent little face. “Perhaps you would not like what you would learn there. There is a saying among our people. ‘A wise man’s heart is seldom glad.’”
Joan nodded, though she did not really understand. “Now tell about the Tree,” she said, snuggling close to her mother again.
Gudrun began to describe Irminsul, the wondrous universe tree. It had stood in the holiest of the Saxon groves at the source of the Lippe River. Her people had worshiped at it until it was cut down by the armies of Karolus.
“It was very beautiful,” her mother said, “and so tall that no one could see the top. It—”
She stopped. Suddenly aware of another presence, Joan looked up. Her father was standing in the doorway.
Her mother sat up in bed. “Husband,” she said. “I did not look for your return for another fortnight.”
The canon did not respond. He took a wax taper from the table near the door and crossed to the hearth fire, where he plunged it into the glowing embers until it flared.
Gudrun said nervously, “The child was frightened by the thunder. I thought to comfort her with a harmless story.”
“Harmless!” The canon’s voice shook with the effort to control his rage. “You call such blasphemy harmless?” He covered the distance to the bed in two long strides, set down the taper, and pulled the blanket off, exposing them. Joan lay with her arms around her mother, half-hidden under a curtain of white-gold hair.
For a moment the canon stood stupefied with disbelief, looking at Gudrun’s unbound hair. Then his fury overtook him. “How dare you! When I have expressly forbidden it!” Taking hold of Gudrun, he started to drag her from the bed. “Heathen witch!”
Joan clung to her mother. The canon’s face darkened. “Child, begone!” he bellowed. Joan hesitated, torn between fear and the desire somehow to protect her mother.
Gudrun pushed her urgently. “Yes, go. Go quickly.”
Releasing her hold, Joan dropped to the floor and ran. At the door, she turned and saw her father grab her mother roughly by the hair, wrenching her head back, forcing her to her knees. Joan started back into the room. Terror stopped her