Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [87]
Now he knew.
I want her as my wife.
It would be difficult, and no doubt costly, to free himself from Richild, but that did not matter.
Joan will be my wife, if she will have me.
With this resolve came a sense of peace. Gerold breathed deeply, reveling in the rich, exciting smells of the spring forest, feeling happier and more alive than he had for years.
THEY were very near home. A low-lying cloud hung heavily in the air, obscuring Gerold’s view of Villaris. Joan was there, waiting for him. Impatient, he urged Pistis into a canter.
An unpleasant scent filled the air, penetrating his senses.
Smoke.
The cloud over Villaris was smoke.
Then they were all riding recklessly through the forest at an open run, unmindful of the branches tearing at their hair and their clothes. They emerged into the clearing and reined in sharply, staring in bewilderment.
Villaris was gone.
Beneath the cloud of slowly spiraling smoke, a blackened pile of rubble and ash was all that remained of the home they had left only two weeks before.
“Joan!” Gerold shouted. “Dhuoda! Richild!” Had they escaped, or were they dead, buried beneath the smoldering heap of debris?
His men were on their knees in the middle of the heap, searching for anything recognizable—a scrap of clothing, a ring, a headpiece. Some of them wept openly as they tore at the rubble, fearful that any moment they would find what they were seeking.
Off to one side, under a pile of blackened beams, Gerold saw something that made his heart sink.
It was a foot. A human foot.
He ran over and began pulling off the beams, clawing at them with his hands till they bled, though he did not know it. Gradually, the body underneath was revealed. It was a man’s body, so badly burned that the features were scarcely recognizable, but from the amulet around the neck Gerold knew that it was Andulf, one of the guards. In his right hand was a sword. Gerold bent to take it up, but the dead man’s hand followed, refusing to loose its grip. The heat of the fire had melted the handle, fusing flesh and iron into one.
Andulf had died fighting. But whom? Or what? Gerold surveyed the landscape with a soldier’s practiced eye. There was no sign of any encampment, no weapons or materials left behind to lend a clue to what had happened. The surrounding forest lay motionless in the bright spring afternoon.
“My lord!” His men had found the bodies of two more guards. Like Andulf, they had died fighting, their weapons still in their hands. The discovery fueled a renewed search, but it was fruitless. There was no sign of anyone else.
Where are they all? They had left over two score people behind in Villaris—they couldn’t all have vanished, without even a trace of bone or blood.
Gerold’s heart pounded with a wild hope. Joan was alive, she must be alive. Perhaps she was nearby, hiding in the forest with the others who were missing—or perhaps they had fled to the town!
He mounted Pistis in a single leap, calling to his men. They rode into town at a gallop, slowing only when they reached the vacant, deserted streets.
Quietly, Gerold and his men scattered, reconnoitering, into the long row of silent houses. Gerold took Worad and Amalwin and rode on to the cathedral. The heavy oaken doors hung crookedly open on broken hinges. Warily they dismounted and approached, swords in hand. Climbing the steps, Gerold stumbled on something slippery. A pool of darkening blood lay atop the well-worn wood, fed by a slow, steady trickle from the other side of the door.
Gerold stepped inside.
For one merciful moment, the darkness of the interior obscured his sight. Then his vision cleared.
Behind him, Amalwin began to retch. Gerold felt his own gorge rise, but he swallowed hard, mastering himself. He covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve and moved forward into the nave of the church. It was difficult to avoid stepping on the densely sprawled bodies. He heard Worad and Amalwin cursing, heard the sound of his own rapid, shallow breath. He continued as in a dream, picking his way among the ghastly human debris,