Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [71]
“You know that he is to lead the synod which convenes in Aachen this summer?”
“So I had heard.”
Now that she had ceased pressing him, his manner was once again relentlessly cheerful.
“Perhaps you have also heard what is to be the chief topic of discussion at this gathering?”
“I should be interested to learn,” he responded politely. He obviously guessed nothing of where she was leading.
“Certain … irregularities”—she baited the trap carefully—“in the conduct of the episcopacy.”
“Irregularities?”
He did not take her meaning. She would have to be plainer.
“My cousin plans to address the question of adherence to episcopal vows, especially”—she looked him directly in the eyes—“the vow of chastity.”
The color drained from his face. “Indeed?”
“Apparently he means to make great issue of it at the synod. He’s gathered a good deal of evidence about the Frankish bishoprics, which he finds most disturbing. But he is not so familiar with episcopacies in this part of the Empire and must therefore rely on local reports. In his letter he specifically requests me to share any information I may have about your episcopacy, Eminence.” She used the title with open scorn and was gratified to see him flinch.
“I intended to reply before now,” she went on smoothly. “But the details of the girl’s betrothal kept me far too busy. Indeed, the plans for the wedding feast would make it impossible for me to respond at all. Of course, now that the wedding is to be delayed …” She let the end of the thought hang delicately.
He sat like a stone, silent, noncommittal. She was mildly surprised. He was going to be better at this than she had anticipated.
Only one thing gave him away. Deep inside his sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes, there was a tiny, unmistakable spark of fear.
Richild smiled.
JOAN sat on a rock, troubled and sad. Luke lay down in front of her and put his head in her lap, staring up at her with his opalescent eyes.
“You miss him too, don’t you, boy?” she said, gently ruffling the young wolf’s white fur.
She was alone now, except for Luke. Gerold had been gone for over a week. Joan missed him with an ache that surprised her with its physicality. She could put her hand over the exact spot in her chest where the pain was most acute; it felt as if her heart had been removed from her body, beaten, and replaced.
She knew why he had gone. After what passed between them at the riverbank, he had to go. They needed time apart, time to let heads clear and passions cool. She understood, yet her heart rebelled.
Why? she asked for the thousandth time. Why must it be this way? Richild did not love Gerold, nor he her.
She reasoned with herself, rehearsing the arguments why this must be so, why it might even be for the best, but in the end she always came back to one unalterable fact: she loved Gerold.
She shook her head, angry with herself. If Gerold was strong enough to do this for her sake, could she be less so? What could not be changed must somehow be endured. She fixed her mind on a new resolve: when Gerold returned, things would be different. She would be content just to be near him, to talk and laugh as they always had … before. They would be like teacher and student, priest and nun, brother and sister. She would erase from her mind the memory of his arms around her, of his lips on hers …
Wido, the steward, came up suddenly beside her. “My lady wants to speak with you.”
Joan followed him through the gated palisade into the forecourt, Luke trotting by her side. When they reached the main courtyard, Wido pointed to Luke. “Not the wolf.”
Richild disliked dogs and forbade them to come inside the house walls, as they did on other manses.
Joan told Luke to lie down and wait in the courtyard.
The guard led her through the covered portico into the great hall, teeming with servants preparing the afternoon meal. They pushed their way through to the solar, where Richild was waiting.
“You sent for me, lady?”
“Sit down.” Joan started for a nearby chair, but Richild