Pope Joan, by Donna Woolfolk Cross - Excerpt

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description

For a thousand years her existence has been denied. She is the legend that will not die–Pope Joan, the ninth-century woman who disguised herself as a man and rose to become the only female ever to sit on the throne of St. Peter. Now in this riveting novel, Donna Woolfolk Cross paints a sweeping portrait of an unforgettable heroine who struggles against restrictions her soul cannot accept.

Transcript of Pope Joan, by Donna Woolfolk Cross - Excerpt

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POPE JOANA N O V E L

DO N N A WO O L F O L K C R O S S

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Anyresemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirelycoincidental.

Copyright © 1996, 2009 by Donna Woolfolk Cross

All rights reserved.Published in the United States by Three Rivers Press, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.www.crownpublishing.com

Three Rivers Press and the Tugboat design are registered trademarks ofRandom House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication DataCross, Donna Woolfolk.

Pope Joan / Donna Cross.—1st Three Rivers Press ed.Originally published: New York : Crown, © 1996.1. Joan (Legendary Pope)—Fiction. 2. Popes—Legends—

Fiction. I. Title.ps3553.r572p66 2009813'.6—dc22 2008051919

isbn 978-0-307-45236-8

Printed in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

First Three Rivers Press Edition

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F o r m y f a t h e r ,

W i l l i a m Wo o l f o l k ,

and there are no words

to add

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1

Prologue

IT WAS the twenty-eighth day of Wintarmanoth in the year of ourLord 814, the harshest winter in living memory.Hrotrud, the village midwife of Ingelheim, struggled through the

snow toward the canon’s grubenhaus. A gust of wind swept throughthe trees and drove icy fingers into her body, searching the holes andpatches of her thin woolen garments. The forest path was deeplydrifted; with each step, she sank almost to her knees. Snow caked hereyebrows and eyelashes; she kept wiping her face to see. Her handsand feet ached with cold, despite the layers of linen rags she hadwrapped around them.

A blur of black appeared on the path ahead. It was a dead crow.Even those hardy scavengers were dying this winter, starved becausetheir beaks could not tear the flesh of the frozen carrion. Hrotrudshivered and quickened her pace.

Gudrun, the canon’s woman, had gone into labor a month soonerthan expected. A fine time for the child to come, Hrotrud thought bit-terly. Five children delivered in the last month alone, and not one ofthem lasted more than a week.

A blast of wind-driven snow blinded Hrotrud, and for a momentshe lost sight of the poorly marked path. She felt a swell of panic.More than one villager had died that way, wandering in circles only ashort distance from their homes. She forced herself to stand still asthe snow swirled around her, surrounding her in a featureless land-scape of white. When the wind let up, she could just make out theoutline of the path. Again she began to move forward. She no longerfelt pain in her hands and feet; they had gone completely numb. Sheknew what that could mean, but she could not afford to dwell on it; itwas important to remain calm.

I must think of something besides the cold.She pictured the home in which she had been raised, a casa with a

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prosperous manse of some six hectares. It was warm and snug, withwalls of solid timber, far nicer than their neighbors’ homes, made ofsimple wooden lathes daubed with mud. A great fire had blazed inthe central hearth, the smoke spiraling up to an opening in the roof.Hrotrud’s father had worn an expensive vest of otter skins over hisfine linen bliaud, and her mother had had silken ribbons for her long,black hair. Hro trud herself had had two large-sleeved tunics, and awarm mantle of the finest wool. She remembered how soft andsmooth the expensive material had felt against her skin.

It had all ended so quickly. Two summers of drought and a kill -ing frost ruined the harvest. Everywhere people were starving; inThuringia there were rumors of cannibalism. Through the judicioussale of the family possessions, Hrotrud’s father had kept them fromhunger for a while. Hrotrud had cried when they took away herwoolen mantle. It had seemed to her then that nothing worse couldhappen. She was eight years old; she did not yet comprehend the hor-ror and cruelty of the world.

She pushed her way through another large drift of snow, fightingoff a growing light-headedness. It had been several days since she hadhad anything to eat. Ah, well. If all goes well, I will feast tonight. Per-haps, if the canon is well pleased, there will even be some bacon totake home. The idea gave her renewed energy.

Hrotrud emerged into the clearing. She could see the blurred out-lines of the grubenhaus just ahead. The snow was deeper here, be-yond the screen of trees, but she drove ahead, plowing through withher strong thighs and arms, confident now that safety was near.

Arriving at the door, she knocked once, then immediately let her-self in; it was too cold to worry about social courtesies. Inside, shestood blinking in darkness. The single window of the grubenhaus hadbeen boarded up for winter; the only light came from the hearth fireand a few smoky tallows scattered about the room. After a moment,her eyes began to adjust, and she saw two young boys seated close to-gether near the hearth fire.

“Has the child come?” Hrotrud asked.“Not yet,” answered the older boy.Hrotrud muttered a short prayer of thanks to St. Cosmas, patron

saint of midwives. She had been cheated of her pay that way morethan once, turned away without a denar for the trouble she had takento come.

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At the hearth fire, she peeled the frozen rags from her hands andfeet, crying out in alarm when she saw their sickly blue-white color.Holy Mother, do not let the frost take them. The village would havelittle use for a crippled midwife. Elias the shoemaker had lost hislivelihood that way. After he was caught in a storm on his way backfrom Mainz, the tips of his fingers had blackened and dropped off ina week. Now, gaunt and ragged, he squatted by the church doors,begging his living off the charity of others.

Shaking her head grimly, Hrotrud pinched and rubbed hernumbed fingers and toes as the two boys watched in silence. Thesight of them reassured her. It will be an easy birth, she told herself,trying to keep her mind off poor Elias. After all, I delivered Gudrunof these two easily enough. The older boy must be almost six wintersnow, a sturdy child with a look of alert intelligence. The younger, hisround-cheeked, three-year-old brother, rocked back and forth, suck-ing his thumb morosely. Both were darkavised, like their father; nei-ther had inherited their Saxon mother’s extraordinary white-goldhair.

Hrotrud remembered how the village men had stared at Gudrun’shair when the canon had brought her back from one of his mission-ary trips to Saxony. It had caused quite a stir at first, the canon’s tak-ing a woman. Some said it was against the law, that the Emperor hadissued an edict forbidding men of the Church to take wives. But oth-ers said it could not be so, for it was plain that without a wife a manwas subject to all kinds of temptation and wickedness. Look at themonks of Stablo, they said, who shame the Church with their forni-cations and drunken revelry. And certainly it was true that the canonwas a sober and hardworking man.

The room was warm. The large hearth was piled high with thicklogs of birch and oak; smoke rose in great billows to the hole in thethatched roof. It was a snug dwelling. The wooden timbers thatformed the walls were heavy and thick, and the gaps between themwere tightly packed with straw and clay to keep out the cold. The sin-gle window had been boarded over with sturdy planks of oak, anextra measure of protection against the nordostroni, the frigid north-east winds of winter. The house was large enough to be divided intothree separate compartments, one containing the sleeping quarters ofthe canon and his wife, one for the animals that sheltered there inharsh weather—Hrotrud heard the soft scuffle and scrape of their

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hooves to her left—and this one, the central room, where the familyworked and ate and the children slept. Other than the stone castle ofthe Emperor, still unfinished and therefore rarely inhabited, no one inIngelheim had a finer home.

Hrotrud’s limbs began to prickle and throb with renewed sensa-tion. She examined her fingers; they were rough and dry, but thebluish cast had receded, supplanted by a returning glow of healthyreddish pink. She sighed with relief, resolving to make an offering toSt. Cosmas in thanksgiving. For a few more minutes, Hrotrud lin-gered by the fire, enjoying its warmth; then, with a nod and an en-couraging pat for the boys, she hurried around the partition to wherethe laboring woman was waiting.

Gudrun lay on a bed of peat topped with fresh straw. The canon,a dark-haired man with thick, beetling eyebrows that gave him a per-petually stern expression, sat apart. He nodded at Hrotrud, then re-turned his attention to the large wood-bound book on his lap.Hrotrud had seen the book on previous visits to the cottage, but thesight of it still filled her with awe. It was a copy of the Holy Bible, andit was the only book she had ever seen. Like the other villagers,Hrotrud could neither read nor write. She knew, however, that thebook was a treasure, worth more in gold solidi than the entire villageearned in a year. The canon had brought it with him from his nativeEngland, where books were not so rare as in Frankland.

Hrotrud saw immediately that Gudrun was in a bad way. Herbreathing was shallow, her pulse dangerously rapid, her whole bodypuffed and swollen. The midwife recognized the signs. There was notime to waste. She reached into her sack and took out a quantity ofdove’s dung that she had carefully collected in the fall. Returning tothe hearth, she threw the dung on the fire, watching with satisfactionas the dark smoke began to rise, clearing the air of evil spirits.

She would have to ease the pain so Gudrun could relax and bringthe child forth. For that, she would use henbane. She took a bundle ofthe small, yellow, purple-veined flowers, placed them in a clay mor-tar, and skillfully ground them into powder, wrinkling her nose at theacrid odor that was released. Then she infused the powder into a cupof strong red wine and brought it to Gudrun to drink.

“What is that you mean to give her?” the canon asked abruptly.Hrotrud started; she had almost forgotten he was there. “She is

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weakened from the labor. This will relieve her pain and help the childissue forth.”

The canon frowned. He took the henbane from Hrotrud’s hands,strode around the partition, and threw it into the fire, where it hissedbriefly and then vanished. “Woman, you blaspheme.”

Hrotrud was aghast. It had taken her weeks of painstaking searchto gather that small amount of the precious medicine. She turned to-ward the canon, ready to vent her anger, but stopped when she sawthe flinty look in his eyes.

“It is written”—he thumped the book with his hand for empha-sis—“ ‘In sorrow shalt thou bring forth children.’ Such medicine isunholy!”

Hrotrud was indignant. There was nothing unchristian about hermedicine. Didn’t she recite nine paternosters each time she pulled oneof the plants from the earth? The canon certainly never complainedwhen she gave him henbane to ease the pain of his frequenttoothaches. But she would not argue with him. He was an influentialman. One word from him about “unholy” practices, and Hrotrudwould be ruined.

Gudrun moaned in the throes of another pain. Very well, Hrotrudthought. If the canon would not allow the henbane, she would haveto try another approach. She went to her sack and withdrew a longpiece of cloth, cut to the True Length of Christ. Moving with brisk ef-ficiency, she wound it tightly around Gudrun’s abdomen. Gudrungroaned when Hrotrud shifted her. Movement was painful for her,but that could not be helped. Hrotrud took from her sack a smallparcel, carefully wrapped in a scrap of silken fabric for protection.Inside was one of her treasures—the anklebone of a rabbit killed onChristmas Day. She had begged it off one of the Emperor’s huntingparty the previous winter. With utmost care, Hrotrud shaved offthree thin slices and placed them in Gudrun’s mouth.

“Chew these slowly,” she instructed Gudrun, who noddedweakly. Hrotrud settled back to wait. From the corner of her eye, shestudied the canon, who frowned in concentration on his book till hisbrows almost met over the bridge of his nose.

Gudrun moaned again and twisted in pain, but the canon did notlook up. He’s a cold one, Hrotrud reflected. Still, he must have somefire in his loins, or he wouldn’t have taken her to wife.

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How long had it been since the canon brought the Saxon womanhome, ten—or was it eleven?—winters ago. Gudrun had not beenyoung, by Frankish standards, perhaps twenty-three or twenty-fouryears old, but she was very beautiful, with the long white-gold hairand blue eyes of the aliengenae. She had lost her entire family in themassacre at Verden. Thousands of Saxons had died that day ratherthan accept the truth of Our Lord Jesus Christ. Mad barbarians,Hrotrud thought. It wouldn’t have happened to me. She would havesworn to whatever they asked of her, would do it now for that matter,should the barbarians ever sweep through Frankland again, swear towhatever strange and terrible gods they wished. It changed nothing.Who was to know what went on in a person’s heart? A wise womankept her own counsel.

The fire sparked and flickered; it was burning low. Hrotrudcrossed to the pile of wood stacked in the corner, chose two good-sized logs of birch, and put them on the hearth. She watched as theysettled, hissing, into the fire, the flames licking upwards aroundthem. Then she turned to check on Gudrun.

It was a full half hour since Gudrun had taken the shavings ofrabbit bone, but there was no change in her condition. Even thatstrong medicine had failed to take effect. The pains remained erraticand ineffectual, and Gudrun was weakening.

Hrotrud sighed wearily. Clearly, she would have to resort tostronger measures.

The canon proved to be a problem when Hrotrud told him shewould need help with the birthing.

“Send for the village women,” he said peremptorily.“Ah, sir, that is impossible. Who is there to send?” Hrotrud raised

her palms expressively. “I cannot go, for your wife needs me here. Yourelder boy cannot go, for though he seems a likely lad, he could get lostin weather such as this. I almost did myself.”

The canon glared at her from under his dark brows. “Very well,”he said, “I will go.” As he rose from his chair, Hrotrud shook herhead impatiently.

“It would do no good. By the time you returned, it would be toolate. It is your help I need, and quickly, if you wish your wife andbabe to live.”

“My help? Are you mad, midwife? That”—he motioned distaste-

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fully toward the bed—“is women’s business, and unclean. I will havenothing to do with it.”

“Then your wife will die.”“That is in God’s hands, not mine.”Hrotrud shrugged. “It is all one to me. But you will not find it

easy, raising two children without a mother.”The canon stared at Hrotrud. “Why should I believe you? She’s

given birth before with no trouble. I have fortified her with myprayers. You cannot know that she will die.”

This was too much. Canon or not, Hrotrud would not tolerate hisquestioning her skill as a midwife. “It is you who know nothing,” shesaid sharply. “You have not even looked at her. Go see her now; thentell me that she is not dying.”

The canon went to the bed and looked down at his wife. Herdamp hair was pasted to her skin, which had turned yellowish white,her dark-rimmed eyes were hollow and sunken into her head; but forthe long, unsteady exhalation of breath, she might have been alreadydead.

“Well?” prodded Hrotrud.The canon wheeled to face her. “God’s blood, woman! Why

didn’t you bring the women with you?”“As you said yourself, sir, your wife’s given birth before without a

speck of trouble. There was no reason to expect any this time. Be-sides, who would have come in weather such as this?”

The canon stalked to the hearth and paced back and forth agitat-edly. At last he halted. “What do you want me to do?”

Hrotrud smiled broadly. “Oh, little enough, sir, little enough.” Sheled him back to the bed. “For a start, help get her up.”

Standing on either side of Gudrun, they grabbed her under thearms and heaved. Her body was heavy, but together they managed tolift her to her feet, where she swayed against her husband. The canonwas stronger than Hrotrud had thought. That was good, for shewould need all his strength for what came next.

“We must force the babe down into position. When I give thecommand, lift her as high as you can. And shake hard.”

The canon nodded, his mouth set grimly. Gudrun hung like adead weight between them, her head fallen forward on her chest.

“Lift!” shouted Hrotrud. They hoisted Gudrun by the arms andbegan to shake her up and down. Gudrun screamed and fought to

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free herself. Pain and fear gave her surprising strength; the two ofthem were hard put to restrain her. If only he had let me give her thehenbane, Hrotrud thought. She would be half-sensible by now.

Quickly they lowered her, but she continued to struggle and cryout. Hrotrud gave a second command, and again they hoisted, shook,then lowered Gudrun to the bed, where she lay half-fainting, mur-muring in her barbarous native tongue. Good, Hrotrud thought. If Imove quickly, it will all be over before she regains her senses.

Hrotrud reached into the birth passage, probing for the openingto the womb. It was rigid and swollen from the long hours of ineffec-tual labor. Using her right index fingernail, which she kept long forjust this purpose, Hrotrud tore at the resistant tissue. Gudrungroaned, then went completely limp. Warm blood poured overHrotrud’s hand, down her arms, and onto the bed. At last she felt theopening give way. With an exultant cry, Hrotrud reached in and tookhold of the baby’s head, exerting a gentle downward pressure.

“Take her by the shoulders and pull against me,” she instructedthe canon, whose face had gone quite pale. Nevertheless he obeyed;Hrotrud felt the pressure increase as the canon added his strength tohers. After a few minutes, the baby started to move down into thebirth passage. She kept pulling steadily, careful not to injure the softbones of the child’s head and neck. At last the crown of the babe’shead appeared, covered with a mass of fine, wet hair. Hrotrud easedthe head out gently, then turned the body to permit the right shoulder,then the left, to emerge. One last, firm tug and the small body slidwetly into Hrotrud’s waiting arms.

“A girl,” Hrotrud announced. “A strong one too, by the look ofher,” she added, noting with approval the infant’s lusty cry andhealthy pink color.

She turned to meet the canon’s disapproving stare.“A girl,” he said. “So it was all for nothing.”“Do not say so, sir.” Hrotrud was suddenly fearful that the

canon’s disappointment might mean less for her to eat. “The child ishealthy and strong. God grant that she live to do credit to yourname.”

The canon shook his head. “She is a punishment from God. Apunishment for my sins—and hers.” He motioned toward Gudrun,who lay motionless. “Will she live?”

“Yes.” Hrotrud hoped that she sounded convincing. She could

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not afford to let the canon think he might be doubly disappointed.She still hoped to taste meat that night. And there was, after all, a rea-sonable chance that Gudrun would survive. True, the birthing hadbeen violent. After such an ordeal, many a woman came down withfever and the wasting disease. But Gudrun was strong; Hrotrudwould treat her wound with a salve of mugwort mixed in fox’sgrease. “Yes, God willing, she will live,” she repeated firmly. She didnot feel it necessary to add that she would probably bear no morechildren.

“That’s something, then,” the canon said. He moved to the bedand stood looking down at Gudrun. Gently he touched the white-gold hair, darkened now with sweat. For a moment, Hrotrud thoughthe was going to kiss Gudrun. Then his expression changed; he lookedstern, even angry.

“Per mulierem culpa successit,” he said. “Sin came through awoman.” He dropped the lock of hair and stepped back.

Hrotrud shook her head. Something from the Holy Book, nodoubt. The canon was a strange one, all right, but that was none ofher affair, God be thanked. She hurried to finish cleaning the bloodand birth fluids off Gudrun so she could start back home while therewas still daylight.

Gudrun opened her eyes and saw the canon standing over her.The beginnings of a smile froze on her lips as she saw the expressionin his eyes.

“Husband?” she said doubtfully.“A girl,” the canon said coldly, not troubling to hide his

displeasure.Gudrun nodded, understanding, then turned her face to the wall.

The canon turned to go, stopping briefly to glance at the infant al-ready safely ensconced in her pallet of straw.

“Joan. She will be called Joan,” he announced, and abruptly leftthe room.

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1

THUNDER sounded, very near, and the child woke. She movedin the bed, seeking the warmth and comfort of her older broth-

ers’ sleeping forms. Then she remembered. Her brothers were gone.It was raining, a hard spring downpour that filled the night air

with the sweet-sour smell of newly plowed earth. Rain thudded onthe roof of the canon’s grubenhaus, but the thickly woven thatchingkept the room dry, except for one or two small places in the cornerswhere water first pooled and then trickled in slow, fat drops to thebeaten earth floor.

The wind rose, and a nearby oak began to tap an uneven rhythmon the cottage walls. The shadow of its branches spilled into theroom. The child watched, transfixed, as the monstrous dark fingerswriggled at the edges of the bed. They reached out for her, beckoning,and she shrank back.

Mama, she thought. She opened her mouth to call out, thenstopped. If she made a sound, the menacing hand would pounce. Shelay frozen, unable to will herself to move. Then she set her small chinresolutely. It had to be done, so she would do it. Moving with exqui-site slowness, never taking her eyes off the enemy, she eased herselfoff the bed. Her feet felt the cool surface of the earthen floor; the fa-miliar sensation was reassuring. Scarcely daring to breathe, shebacked toward the partition behind which her mother lay sleeping.Lightning flashed; the fingers moved and lengthened, following her.She swallowed a scream, her throat tightening with the effort. Sheforced herself to move slowly, not to break into a run.

She was almost there. Suddenly, a salvo of thunder crashed over-head. At the same moment something touched her from behind. Sheyelped, then turned and fled around the partition, stumbling over thechair she had backed into.

This part of the house was dark and still, save for her moth er’srhythmic breathing. From the sound, the child could tell she wasdeeply asleep; the noise had not wakened her. She went quickly to the

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bed, lifted the woolen blanket, and slid under it. Her mother lay onher side, lips slightly parted; her warm breath caressed the child’scheek. She snuggled close, feeling the softness of her mother’s bodythrough her thin linen shift.

Gudrun yawned and shifted position, roused by the movement. Hereyes opened, and she regarded the child sleepily. Then, waking fully,she reached out and put her arms around her daughter.

“Joan,” she chastised gently, her lips against the child’s soft hair.“Little one, you should be asleep.”

Speaking quickly, her voice high and strained from fear, Joan toldher mother about the monster hand.

Gudrun listened, petting and stroking her daughter and murmur-ing reassurances. Gently she ran her fingers over the child’s face, half-seen in the darkness. She was not pretty, Gudrun reflected ruefully. Shelooked too much like him, with his thick English neck and wide jaw. Hersmall body was already stocky and heavy set, not long and gracefullike Gudrun’s people’s. But the child’s eyes were good, large and ex-pressive and rich hued, green with dark gray smoke rings at the center.Gudrun lifted a strand of Joan’s baby hair and caressed it, enjoying theway it shone, white-gold, even in the darkness. My hair. Not the coarseblack hair of her husband or his cruel, dark people. My child. Shewrapped the strand around her forefinger and smiled. This one, atleast, is mine.

Soothed by her mother’s attentions, Joan relaxed. In playful imi-tation, she began to tug at Gudrun’s long braid, loosening it till herhair lay tumbled about her head. Joan marveled at it, spilling over thedark woolen coverlet like rich cream. She had never seen her mother’shair unbound. At the canon’s insistence, Gudrun wore it alwaysneatly braided, hidden under a rough linen cap. A woman’s hair, herhusband said, is the net wherein Satan catches a man’s soul. And Gu-drun’s hair was extraordinarily beautiful, long and soft and purewhite-gold, without a trace of gray, though she was now an oldwoman of thirty-seven winters.

“Why did Matthew and John go away?” Joan asked suddenly.Her mother had explained this to her several times, but Joan wantedto hear it again.

“You know why. Your father took them with him on his mission-ary journey.”

“Why couldn’t I go too?”

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Gudrun sighed patiently. The child was always so full of ques-tions. “Matthew and John are boys; one day they will be priests likeyour father. You are a girl, and therefore such matters do not concernyou.” Seeing that Joan was not content with that, she added, “Be-sides, you are much too young.”

Joan was indignant. “I was four in Wintarmanoth!”Gudrun’s eyes lit with amusement as she looked at the pudgy

baby face. “Ah, yes, I forgot, you are a big girl now, aren’t you? Fouryears old! That does sound very grown-up.”

Joan lay quietly while her mother stroked her hair. Then she asked,“What are heathens?” Her father and brothers had spoken a good dealabout heathens before they left. Joan did not understand what heath enswere, exactly, though she gathered it was something very bad.

Gudrun stiffened. The word had conjuring powers. It had been onthe lips of the invading soldiers as they pillaged her home and slaugh-tered her family and friends. The dark, cruel soldiers of the FrankishEmperor Karolus. “Magnus,” people called him now that he wasdead. “Karolus Magnus.” Charles the Great. Would they name himso, Gudrun wondered, if they had seen his army tear Saxon babesfrom their mothers’ arms, swinging them round before they dashedtheir heads against the reddened stones? Gudrun withdrew her handfrom Joan’s hair and rolled onto her back.

“That is a question you must ask your father,” she said.Joan did not understand what she had done wrong, but she heard

the strange hardness in her mother’s voice and knew that she wouldbe sent back to her own bed if she didn’t think of some way to repairthe damage. Quickly she said, “Tell me again about the Old Ones.”

“I cannot. Your father disapproves of the telling of such tales.”The words were half statement, half question.

Joan knew what to do. Placing both hands solemnly over herheart, she recited the Oath exactly as her mother had taught it to her,promising eternal secrecy on the sacred name of Thor the Thunderer.

Gudrun laughed and drew Joan close again. “Very well, littlequail. I will tell you the story, since you know so well how to ask.”

Her voice was warm again, wistful and melodic as she began totell of Woden and Thor and Freya and the other gods who had peo-pled her Saxon childhood before the armies of Karolus brought theWord of Christ with blood and fire. She spoke liltingly of Asgard, theradiant home of the gods, a place of golden and silver palaces, which

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P O P E J O A N 13

could only be reached by crossing Bifrost, the mysterious bridge ofthe rainbow. Guarding the bridge was Heimdall the Watchman, whonever slept, whose ears were so keen he could even hear the grassgrow. In Valhalla, the most beautiful palace of all, lived Woden, thefather-god, on whose shoulders sat the two ravens Hugin, Thought,and Munin, Memory. On his throne, while the other gods feasted,Woden contemplated what Thought and Memory told him.

Joan nodded happily. This was her favorite part of the story. “Tellabout the Well of Wisdom,” she begged.

“Although he was already very wise,” explained her mother,“Woden always sought greater wisdom. One day he went to the Wellof Wisdom, guarded by Mimir the Wise, and asked for a draft fromit. ‘What price will you pay?’ asked Mimir. Woden replied that Mimircould ask what he wished. ‘Wisdom must always be bought withpain,’ replied Mimir. ‘If you wish a drink of this water, you must payfor it with one of your eyes.’ ”

Eyes bright with excitement, Joan exclaimed, “And Woden did it,Mama, didn’t he? He did it!”

Her mother nodded. “Though it was a hard choice, Woden con-sented to lose the eye. He drank the water. Afterward, he passed on tomankind the wisdom he had gained.”

Joan looked up at her mother, her eyes wide and serious. “Wouldyou have done it, Mama—to be wise, to know about all things?”

“Only gods make such choices,” she replied. Then, seeing thechild’s persistent look of question, Gudrun confessed, “No. I wouldhave been too afraid.”

“So would I,” Joan said thoughtfully. “But I would want to do it.I would want to know what the well could tell me.”

Gudrun smiled down at the intent little face. “Perhaps you wouldnot like what you would learn there. There is a saying among ourpeople. ‘A wise man’s heart is seldom glad.’ ”

Joan nodded, though she did not really understand. “Now tellabout the Tree,” she said, snuggling close to her mother again.

Gudrun began to describe Irminsul, the wondrous universe tree. Ithad stood in the holiest of the Saxon groves at the source of the LippeRiver. Her people had worshiped at it until it was cut down by thearmies of Karolus.

“It was very beautiful,” her mother said, “and so tall that no onecould see the top. It—”

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She stopped. Suddenly aware of another presence, Joan lookedup. Her father was standing in the doorway.

Her mother sat up in bed. “Husband,” she said. “I did not lookfor your return for another fortnight.”

The canon did not respond. He took a wax taper from the tablenear the door and crossed to the hearth fire, where he plunged it intothe glowing embers until it flared.

Gudrun said nervously, “The child was frightened by the thunder.I thought to comfort her with a harmless story.”

“Harmless!” The canon’s voice shook with the effort to control hisrage. “You call such blasphemy harmless?” He covered the distance tothe bed in two long strides, set down the taper, and pulled the blanketoff, exposing them. Joan lay with her arms around her mother, half-hidden under a curtain of white-gold hair.

For a moment the canon stood stupefied with disbelief, looking atGudrun’s unbound hair. Then his fury overtook him. “How dare you!When I have expressly forbidden it!” Taking hold of Gudrun, hestarted to drag her from the bed. “Heathen witch!”

Joan clung to her mother. The canon’s face darkened. “Child, be-gone!” he bellowed. Joan hesitated, torn between fear and the desiresomehow to protect her mother.

Gudrun pushed her urgently. “Yes, go. Go quickly.”Releasing her hold, Joan dropped to the floor and ran. At the

door, she turned and saw her father grab her mother roughly by thehair, wrenching her head back, forcing her to her knees. Joan startedback into the room. Terror stopped her short as she saw her fatherwithdraw his long, bone-handled hunting knife from his corded belt.

“Forsachistu diabolae?” he asked Gudrun in Saxon, his voicescarcely more than a whisper. When she did not respond, he placedthe point of the knife against her throat. “Say the words,” he growledmenacingly. “Say them!”

“Ec forsacho allum diaboles,” Gudrun responded tearfully, hereyes blazing defiance, “wuercum ende wuordum, thunaer endewoden ende saxnotes ende allum . . .”

Rooted with fear, Joan watched her father pull up a heavy tress ofher mother’s hair and draw the knife across it. There was a rippingsound as the silken strands parted; a long band of white gold floatedto the floor.

14 D O N N A W O O L F O L K C R O S S

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P O P E J O A N 15

Clapping her hand over her mouth to stifle a sob, Joan turnedand ran.

In the darkness, she bumped into a shape that reached out for her.She squealed in fear as it grabbed her. The monster hand! She hadforgotten about it! She struggled, pummeling at it with her tiny fists,resisting with all her strength, but it was huge, and held her fast.

“Joan! Joan, it’s all right. It’s me!”The words penetrated her fear. It was her ten-year-old brother

Matthew, who had returned with her father.“We’ve come back. Joan, stop struggling! It’s all right. It’s me.”

Joan reached up, felt the smooth surface of the pectoral cross thatMatthew always wore, then slumped against him in relief.

Together they sat in the dark, listening to the soft, splitting soundsof the knife ripping through their mother’s hair. Once they heardMama cry out in pain. Matthew cursed aloud. An answering sobcame from the bed where Joan’s seven-year-old brother, John, washiding under the covers.

At last the ripping sounds stopped. After a brief pause the canon’svoice began to rumble in prayer. Joan felt Matthew relax; it was over.She threw her arms around his neck and wept. He held her androcked her gently.

After a time, she looked up at him. “Father called Mama a heathen.”“Yes.”“She isn’t,” Joan said hesitantly, “is she?”“She was.” Seeing her look of horrified disbelief, he added, “A

long time ago. Not anymore. But those were heathen stories she wastelling you.”

Joan stopped crying; this was interesting information.“You know the first of the Commandments, don’t you?”Joan nodded and recited dutifully, “Thou shalt have no other

gods before me.”“Yes. That means that the gods Mama was telling you about are

false; it is sinful to speak of them.”“Is that why Father—”“Yes,” Matthew broke in. “Mama had to be punished for the

good of her soul. She was disobedient to her husband, and that also isagainst the law of God.”

“Why?”

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“Because it says so in the Holy Book.” He began to recite, “ ‘Forthe husband is the head of the wife; therefore, let the wives submitthemselves unto their husbands in everything.’ ”

“Why?”“Why?” Matthew was taken aback. No one had ever asked him

that before. “Well, I guess because . . . because women are by natureinferior to men. Men are bigger, stronger, and smarter.”

“But—” Joan started to respond, but Matthew cut her off.“Enough questions, little sister. You should be in bed. Come

now.” He carried her to the bed and placed her beside John, who wasalready sleeping.

Matthew had been kind to her; to return the favor, Joan closedher eyes and burrowed under the covers as if to sleep.

But she was far too troubled for sleep. She lay in the dark, peeringat John as he slept, his mouth hanging slackly open.

He can’t recite from the Psalter and he’s seven years old. Joan wasonly four, but she already knew the first ten psalms by heart.

John wasn’t smart. But he was a boy. Yet how could Matthewbe wrong? He knew everything; he was going to be a priest, like theirfather.

She lay awake in the dark, turning the problem over in her mind.Toward dawn she slept, restlessly, troubled by dreams of mighty

wars between jealous and angry gods. The angel Gabriel himselfcame from Heaven with a flaming sword to do battle with Thor andFreya. The battle was terrible and fierce, but in the end the false godswere driven back, and Gabriel stood triumphant before the gates ofparadise. His sword had disappeared; in his hand gleamed a short,bone-handled knife.

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About the Author

A New York City native, Donna Woolfolk Crossgraduated cum laude, Phi Beta Kappa, from the Univer-sity of Pennsylvania in 1969 with a B.A. in English. Shemoved to London, England, after graduation and workedin a small publishing house on Fleet Street, W. H. Allenand Company. Upon her return to the United States, Crossworked at Young and Rubicam, a Madison Avenue adver-tising firm, before going on to graduate school at UCLAwhere she earned a master’s degree in literature and writ-ing in 1972.

In 1973, Cross moved to Upstate New York and be -gan teaching writing at an upstate New York college. Sheis the author of two books on language, Word Abuse andMediaspeak, and coauthor of the college textbook Speak-ing of Words. The product of seven years of research andwriting, Pope Joan is her first novel. Cross is at work on anew novel set in seven teenth-century France.

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