Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [73]
I mustn’t panic. That’s just what she wants me to do.
She had to think, to plan what to do. But her thoughts spun round unproductively, all leading to the same place.
Gerold.
Where is he?
If he were here, Richild could not do this. Unless of course she was telling the truth, and the marriage was Gerold’s idea.
Joan banished the traitorous thought. Gerold loved her; he would not let her be married off against her will to a man she didn’t even know.
He might still return in time to stop it. He might—
No. She could not let her future hang on so slim a reed of chance. Joan’s mind, numbed by shock and fear, was yet clear enough to understand that.
Gerold is not due back for two more weeks. The wedding will take place in two days.
She had to save herself. She could not go through with this marriage.
Bishop Fulgentius. I must get to him, talk to him, persuade him that this wedding cannot take place.
Joan was sure Fulgentius had not signed that document with a happy heart. Through dozens of small kindnesses, he had made it plain that he liked Joan and took pleasure in her achievements at the schola—particularly since they were so effective a thorn in Odo’s side.
Richild must have some hold over him to have gotten him to agree to this.
If Joan could speak to him, she might convince him to call off the wedding—or at least delay it until Gerold’s return.
But perhaps he will not see me. However he had been won round to the marriage, he would be reluctant—even embarrassed—to meet with her now. If she requested an audience, she would probably be denied.
She fought down fear, forcing herself to think logically. Fulgentius will lead the high mass on Sunday. He will ride in procession to the cathedral beforehand. I’ll approach him then, throw myself at his feet if I have to. I don’t care. He will stop and hear me; I will make him.
She looked at Luke. “Will it work, Luke? Will it be enough to save me?”
He tilted his head inquisitively, as if trying to understand. It was a mannerism that always amused Gerold. Joan hugged the white wolf, burying her face in the thick fur ringing his neck.
THE notaries and other clerical officers came into view first, walking in stately procession toward the cathedral. Behind them, on horseback, rode the officials of the Church, the deacons and subdeacons, all splendidly attired. Odo rode among them, dressed in plain brown robes, his narrow face haughty and disapproving. As his gaze fell on Joan, standing with the group of beggars and petitioners awaiting the bishop, his thin lips parted in a malevolent smile.
At last the bishop appeared, robed in white silk, riding a magnificent steed caparisoned in crimson. Immediately behind rode the chief dignitaries of the episcopal palace: the treasurer, the controller of the wardrobe, and the almoner. The procession halted as ragged beggars pressed in eagerly all around, crying out for alms in the name of St. Stephen, patron saint of the indigent. Wearily the almoner distributed coins among them.
Joan moved quickly to where the bishop waited, his horse pawing the ground impatiently.
She fell to her knees. “Eminence, hear my plea—”
“I know this case,” the bishop interrupted, not looking at her. “I have already rendered judgment. I will not hear this petitioner.”
He spurred his horse, but Joan leapt up and grabbed the bridle, staying him. “This marriage will be my ruin.” She spoke quickly and quietly, so no one else would hear. “If you can do nothing to stop it, will you at least delay it for a month?”
He made as if to ride on again, but Joan kept tight hold of the bridle. Two of the guards rushed over and would have pulled her away, but the bishop checked them with a wave of his hand.
“A fortnight?” Joan pleaded. “I entreat you, Eminence, give me a fortnight!” Mortifyingly, for she had resolved to be strong, she began to sob.
Fulgentius was a weak man, with