Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [94]
“He already has,” Brother Rudolph replied, “for though the viscount needs an heir, his lady is barren. Just last month, she was delivered of another stillborn babe.”
The noble procession pulled up before the abbatial church. Joan watched Judith dismount and approach the church door with solemn dignity, carrying a single taper.
“You should not stare, Brother John,” Thomas remonstrated piously. He frequently curried favor with Brother Rudolph at the expense of his fellow novices. “A good monk should keep his eyes chastely lowered before a woman,” he quoted sanctimoniously from the rule.
“You are right, Brother,” Joan replied. “But I’ve never seen a lady like that, with one eye blue and the other brown.”
“Do not compound your sin with falsehood, Brother John. Both the lady’s eyes are brown.”
“And how do you know that, Brother,” Joan inquired slyly, “if you did not look at her?”
The other novices burst into laughter. Even Brother Rudolph could not suppress a smile.
Thomas glared at Joan. She had made him look a fool, and he was not one to forget such an injury.
Their attention was distracted by Brother Hildwin, the sacristan, who hurried to interpose himself between Judith and the church.
“Peace be with you, lady,” he said, using the Frankish vernacular.
“Et cum spiritu tuo,” she replied smoothly in perfect Latin.
Pointedly, Brother Hildwin addressed her again in the vernacular. “If you require food and lodging, we stand ready to accommodate you and your entourage. Come, I will escort you to the house for distinguished visitors and inform our lord Abbot of your arrival. He will doubtless wish to greet you in person.”
“You are most kind, Father, but I do not require hospitalitas,” she replied again in Latin. “I only wish to light a candle in the church for my dead babe. Then I will be on my way.”
“Ah! Then it is my duty, as sacristan of this church, to inform you, Daughter, that you may not pass through these doors while you are still”—he sought a suitable word—“unclean.”
Judith flushed but did not lose her composure. “I know the law, Father,” she said calmly. “I have waited the requisite thirty-three days since the birthing.”
“The babe of which you were delivered was a girl child, was it not?” Brother Hildwin said with an air of condescension.
“Yes.”
“Then the time of … uncleanliness … is longer. You may not enter the sacred confines of this church for sixty-six days after the birth of the child.”
“Where is this written? I have not read this law.”
“Nor is it fitting that you should, being a woman.”
Joan started indignantly at the brazenness of the affront. With the force of remembered experience, she felt the shame of Judith’s humiliation. All the lady’s learning, her intelligence, her breeding stood for naught. The vilest beggar, ignorant and mud streaked, could enter the church to pray, but Judith could not, for she was “unclean.”
“Return home, Daughter,” Brother Hildwin continued, “and pray in your own chapel for the soul of your unbaptized babe. God has a horror of what is against nature. Lay down the pen and pick up a womanly needle; repent of pridefulness, and He may lift the burden He has placed upon you.”
The flush in Judith’s cheeks spread its color across her face. “This insult shall not go unanswered. My husband shall know of it directly, and he will not be pleased.” This was a piece of face-saving bravado, for Viscount Waifar’s temporal authority carried no weight here, and she knew it. Holding her head high, she turned toward her waiting mount.
Joan came forward from the little group of novices.
“Give me the candle, lady,” she said, holding out her hand. “I will light it for you.”
Surprise and distrust registered in Judith’s beautiful dark eyes. Was this a further attempt to humiliate her?
For a long moment the two women stood looking at each other, Judith the epitome of feminine beauty in her golden tunic, her long hair framing her face in a becoming