Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [99]
“You have the healing touch, Brother John,” he said benevolently. “Today you have surpassed your old master; soon I will have nothing left to teach you.”
“Do not say so,” Joan responded with chagrin, for she was fond of Benjamin. “I still have much to learn, and I know it.”
Gottschalk groaned again, his pinched lips drawing back to reveal his teeth.
“He begins to feel the pain,” Brother Benjamin said. Working rapidly, he made a potion of red wine and sage, into which he infused a few drops of poppy juice. Such a preparation required the greatest care, for what could, in small doses, provide blessed relief from insupportable pain could also kill, the difference depending solely on the skill of the physician.
When he was done, Brother Benjamin handed the brimming cup to Joan, who carried it to the bed and offered it to Gottschalk. Proudly, he pushed it away, though the sudden movement caused him to cry out in pain.
“Drink it, Brother,” Joan chided gently, and held the cup to Gottschalk’s lips. “You must get well if you are ever to win your freedom,” she added in a conspiratorial whisper.
Gottschalk flashed her a surprised look. He took a few sips, then drank rapidly, thirstily, like a man who comes upon a well after a hot day’s march.
An authoritative voice sounded unexpectedly behind them. “Do not place your hopes in herbs and potions.”
Turning, Joan saw Abbot Raban, followed by a score of the brethren. She put down the cup and rose.
“The Lord grants life to men and makes them sound. Prayer alone can restore this sinner to health.” Abbot Raban signaled the brothers, who quietly surrounded the bed.
Abbot Raban led them in the prayer for the sick. Gottschalk did not join in. He lay unmoving, eyes closed as if asleep, though Joan could tell from his breathing he was not.
His body will heal, she thought, but not his wounded soul. Joan’s heart went out to the young monk. She understood his stubborn refusal to submit to Raban’s tyranny, remembering, too well, her own fierce struggle against her father.
“All praise and thanks to God.” Abbot Raban’s voice sounded clear above the rest of the brethren.
Joan joined in praising God, but in her mind she also gave thanks to the pagan Hippocrates, worshiper of idols, whose bones were dust many centuries before Christ was born, but whose wisdom had reached across the distant years to heal one of His sons.
“THE wound’s mending nicely,” Joan reassured Gottschalk after she unwrapped the bandages and laid his back bare for inspection. Two weeks had passed since the day of his scourging, and already the broken rib had knit and the jagged edges of the wound sealed neatly together—though, like her, Gottschalk would bear the marks of his punishment for life.
“Thanks for the trouble you’ve taken, Brother,” Gottschalk replied, “but it will all be to do over, for it’s only a matter of time till he has me scourged again.”
“You only provoke him with open defiance. A milder approach would serve you better.”
“I will defy him with the last breath in my body. He is evil,” he cried passionately.
“Have you thought of telling him you’ll forgo your claim to the land in return for your freedom?” Joan asked. An oblate was always offered to a monastery along with a substantial gift of land; if the oblate subsequently left, the land presumably would revert as well.
“Don’t you think I’ve offered that already?” Gottschalk replied. “It’s not the land he’s after; it’s me, or rather my submission, body and soul. And that he’ll never have, though he kill me for it.”
So it was a contest of wills between them—one that Gottschalk could not possibly win. Best to get him away from here before something terrible happened.