Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [72]
“You will take a letter.”
Like all the noblewomen in this part of the Empire, Richild could neither read nor write. Wala, the Villaris chaplain, was usually her scribe. Wido could also write a little and sometimes served Richild in this capacity.
Why, then, has she sent for me? Joan wondered.
Richild tapped her foot impatiently. With a practiced eye, Joan surveyed the quills on the desk and selected the sharpest. She took a leaf of fresh parchment, dipped the quill in the inkwell, and nodded at Richild.
“From Richild, Countess, doyenne of the estate of Villaris,” Richild dictated.
Joan wrote quickly. The scratching of the quill grated in the stony silence of the room.
“To the canon of the village of Ingelheim, Greetings.”
Joan looked up. “My father?”
“Continue,” Richild commanded in a tone that indicated she would tolerate no questions. “Your daughter, Joan, having attained almost fifteen years, and thus being of a marriageable age, will no longer be permitted to continue her studies at the schola.”
Joan stopped writing altogether.
“As the girl’s guardian, ever vigilant for her welfare,” Richild continued, keeping up the pretense of dictation, “I have arranged an advantageous match with Iso, son of the farrier of this town, a prosperous man. The wedding will take place in two days. The terms of the arrangement are as follows—”
Joan jumped up, knocking over her stool. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because I choose to.” A small, malicious smile lifted the corners of Richild’s mouth. “And because I can.”
She knows, Joan thought. She knows about Gerold and me. The blood rose into her neck and face so suddenly it felt as if her skin were on fire.
“Yes. Gerold told me everything about that pitiful little interlude by the riverbank.” Richild laughed mirthlessly. She was enjoying this. “Did you really believe your clumsy kisses would please him? We laughed about them together that very night.”
Joan was too shocked to respond.
“You are surprised. You shouldn’t be. Did you think you were the only one? My dear, you are only the latest bead in Gerold’s long necklace of conquests. You shouldn’t have taken him so seriously.”
How does she know what passed between us? Did Gerold tell her? Joan felt suddenly cold, as if caught in a chance wind.
“You do not know him,” she said staunchly.
“I am his wife, you insolent child.”
“You do not love him.”
“No,” she admitted. “But neither do I mean to be … discomforted by the worthless daughter of coloni!”
Joan tried to steady her thoughts. “You cannot do this without Bishop Fulgentius’s approval. He brought me to the schola; you cannot remove me without his permission.”
Richild held out a sheet of parchment, marked with Fulgentius’s seal.
Joan read it quickly, then once again slowly, to be sure she had not made a mistake. There was no room for doubt; Fulgentius had terminated her studies at the schola. The document bore Odo’s signature as well. Joan could imagine the pleasure it must have given him to pen it.
Richild’s heart rejoiced as she watched Joan read. The arrogant little nobody was discovering just how insignificant she was. She said, “There is no point in further arguing. Sit down and finish taking the letter to your father.”
Joan replied defiantly, “Gerold will not let you do this.”
“Foolish child, it was his idea.”
Joan thought quickly. “If this marriage were Gerold’s idea, why did you wait until he left to arrange it?”
“Gerold is tenderhearted … to a fault. He lacks the heart to tell you. I have seen it happen before, with the others. He asked me to take care of the problem for him. And so I have.”
“I don’t believe you.” Joan backed away, fighting back tears. “I don’t believe you.”
Richild sighed. “The matter is settled. Will you finish taking the letter, or shall I call Wala?”
Joan whirled and ran from the room. Before she reached the great hall, she heard the tinkle of Richild’s bell, calling for her chaplain.
LUKE was waiting where she had left him. Joan flung