Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [86]
Gerold placed one hand on the spindle; with his other he raised the sword. “If Hildegarde chooses the sword,” Gerold said loudly so all might hear, “then her husband, the slave Romuald, will immediately die by it. If she chooses the spindle, then she herself will become a slave.”
It was a terrible choice. Once Gerold had witnessed a different girl, not so lovely but just as young, face the same alternatives. That one had chosen the sword and stood by while the man she loved was slain with it before her eyes. Yet what else could she have done? Who would willingly choose vile debasement, not only for herself but for her children, and all future generations of her line?
The girl stood silent and unmoving. She had not reacted with so much as a quiver when Gerold had explained the trial.
“Do you understand the significance of the choice you must make?” Gerold asked her gently.
“She does, my lord,” said Ermoin, tightening his grip on his daughter’s arm. “She knows exactly what to do.”
Gerold could well imagine it. The girl’s cooperation had doubtless been secured by means of dire threats and curses, perhaps even blows.
The guards flanking the young man took hold of his arms to prevent any struggle to escape. He eyed them scornfully. He had an interesting face—a low, common brow crowned with a thatch of coarse hair, but intelligent eyes, a well-formed jaw, and a fine, strong nose; he looked to have some of the old Roman blood.
He might be a slave, but he had courage. Gerold signaled the guards to stand off.
“Come, child,” Gerold said to the girl. “It is time.”
Her father whispered something in her ear. She nodded, and he loosed his grip on her arm and pushed her forward.
She raised her head and looked at the young man. The undisguised love that shone in her eyes took Gerold aback.
“No!” The girl’s father tried to stop her, but it was too late. With her gaze fixed on her husband, she unhesitatingly approached the spindle, sat down, and started to spin.
RIDING home to Villaris the next day, Gerold thought about what had happened. The girl had sacrificed everything—her family, her fortune, even her freedom. The love he had seen in her face fired his imagination and moved him in ways he did not entirely understand. All he knew, with a conviction that swept everything else aside, was that he wanted it—that purity and intensity of emotion that made all else seem pale and meaningless. It was not too late for him; surely it was not too late. He was only thirty-one—no longer young, perhaps, but still in the prime of his years.
He had never loved his wife, Richild, nor had she ever made any pretense of loving him. She would not, he knew, sacrifice so much as a single jeweled hair comb for him. Theirs had been a carefully negotiated marriage of fortunes and families. This was quite as things should be, and until recently Gerold had looked for no more. When, following Dhuoda’s birth, Richild had announced that she wanted no more children, he had acceded to her wishes with no sense of loss. He had had no difficulty finding willing partners to share pleasures away from the marital bed.
But now, because of Joan, all that was changed. He pictured her in his mind, her fine, white-gold hair circling her face, her wise, gray-green eyes belying her years. His longing for her, stronger even than desire, tugged at his heart. He had never known anyone like her. Her probing intelligence, her willingness to challenge and question ideas the rest of the world accepted as unshakable truths, filled him with awe. He could talk to her as he could talk to no one else. He could trust her with anything, even his life.
It would be easy enough to make her his mistress—their last encounter at the riverbank had left no doubt about that. Uncharacteristically, he had held back, wanting something more, though he had not, at the time,