11 
LADY Richild, Countess of Villaris,” the herald announced as Richild swept regally into the bishop’s reception hall.
“Eminence.” She made a graceful reverence.
“Lady, you are welcome,” Fulgentius said. “What news from your lord? God grant he has not met with misfortune on his journey?”
“No, no.” She was pleased to find him so transparent. Of course he must wonder at the purpose of her visit! He must have thought— Gerold had been gone five days now, time enough to have met with some disaster on the dangerous roads.
“We have had no word of any difficulties, Eminence, nor do we expect any. Gerold took twenty men with him, well armed and well provisioned; he will not take any chances on the road, as he is on the Emperor’s business.”
“We heard as much. He is gone as missus—to Westphalia, is it?”
“Yes. To settle a dispute about wergeld. There are some minor matters of property to be settled as well. He will be away a fortnight or more.” Time enough, she thought, just time enough.
They spoke briefly of local affairs—the shortage of grain at the mill, the repair of the cathedral roof, the success of the spring calving. Richild was careful to observe the necessary courtesies, but nothing more. I am the scion of better stock than his. Just as well to remind him of that before coming to the matter of her visit. Obviously he suspected nothing. So much the better; surprise would be her ally in this day’s work.
Finally, she judged the time was right. “I have come to ask your help with a domestic matter.”
He looked gratified. “Dear lady, I am only too happy to help. What is the nature of your difficulty?”
“It is the girl Joan. She is no longer a child; she”—Richild chose her words delicately—“has now reached womanhood. It is no longer seemly for her to remain under our roof.”
“I see,” Fulgentius said, though it was apparent he did not. “Well, I should think we could find some other lodg—”
“I have arranged an advantageous match,” Richild interrupted. “With the son of Bodo, the farrier. He is a fine young man, well favored, and will be farrier himself when his father dies—there are no other sons.”
“This comes as a surprise. Has the girl expressed any inclination for marriage?”
“Surely that is not for her to decide. It is a far better marriage than she has any right to expect. Her family is poor as coloni, and her odd ways have given her something of a … reputation.”
“Perhaps,” the bishop replied amiably. “But she seems devoted to her studies. And she could not, of course, continue at the schola if she married the farrier’s boy.”
“That is why I have come. As it was you who contracted to bring her to the schola, you would have to agree to her release.”
“I see,” he said again, though he still did not, quite. “And how does the count feel about the match?”
“He does not know of it. The opportunity only just offered itself.”
“Well, then.” Fulgentius looked relieved. “We will wait till his return. There’s no need to rush the matter, surely.”
Richild persisted. “The opportunity may not be open long. The boy is reluctant—seems he’s taken a fancy to one of the town girls— but of course I have seen to it that this match will be far more beneficial for him. His father and I are agreed upon the dowry. The boy now says he will carry out his father’s wishes—but he is young and of a changeable disposition. Best if the wedding take place immediately.”
“Nevertheless …”
“I remind you, Eminence, that I am mistress of Villaris, and the girl has been placed in my care. I am fully capable of making this decision in my husband’s absence. Indeed, I am better suited to make it. To speak frankly, Gerold’s partiality for the girl clouds his judgment where she is concerned.”
“I see,” Fulgentius said, and this time he did, only too well.
Richild said quickly, “My concern is strictly monetary, you understand. Gerold has spent a small fortune obtaining books for the girl— a wasteful expense, since she has no possible future as a scholar. Someone must provide for her future; now I have done so. You must see that the match is a good one.”
“Yes,” Fulgentius admitted.
“Good. Then you agree to release her?”
“My apologies, dear lady, but my decision must attend upon the count’s return. I assure you I will discuss the matter fully with him. And with the girl. For though the match is … advantageous, as you say, I am loath to commit her to it against her will. If the match proves agreeable to all, we will proceed with dispatch.”
She started to speak, but he cut her off. “I know you believe the match will be compromised if it is not concluded immediately. But, forgive me, lady, I cannot agree. A fortnight, or even a month, will make little difference.”
Again she tried to object, and again he silenced her. “I am quite decided. There is no point in further discussion.”
Her cheeks burned with the insult. High-handed fool! Who does he think he is to dictate to me? My family was living in royal palaces while his was still tilling fields!
She eyed him levelly. “Very well, Eminence, if that is your decision, I must accept it.” She began to pull on her riding gloves as if preparing to leave.
“By the way”—she kept her tone deliberately casual—“I have just had a letter from my cousin, Sigimund, Bishop of Troyes.”
The bishop’s face registered a gratifying respect. “A great man, a very great man.”
“You know that he is to lead the synod which convenes in Aachen this summer?”
“So I had heard.”
Now that she had ceased pressing him, his manner was once again relentlessly cheerful.
“Perhaps you have also heard what is to be the chief topic of discussion at this gathering?”
“I should be interested to learn,” he responded politely. He obviously guessed nothing of where she was leading.
“Certain … irregularities”—she baited the trap carefully—“in the conduct of the episcopacy.”
“Irregularities?”
He did not take her meaning. She would have to be plainer.
“My cousin plans to address the question of adherence to episcopal vows, especially”—she looked him directly in the eyes—“the vow of chastity.”
The color drained from his face. “Indeed?”
“Apparently he means to make great issue of it at the synod. He’s gathered a good deal of evidence about the Frankish bishoprics, which he finds most disturbing. But he is not so familiar with episcopacies in this part of the Empire and must therefore rely on local reports. In his letter he specifically requests me to share any information I may have about your episcopacy, Eminence.” She used the title with open scorn and was gratified to see him flinch.
“I intended to reply before now,” she went on smoothly. “But the details of the girl’s betrothal kept me far too busy. Indeed, the plans for the wedding feast would make it impossible for me to respond at all. Of course, now that the wedding is to be delayed …” She let the end of the thought hang delicately.
He sat like a stone, silent, noncommittal. She was mildly surprised. He was going to be better at this than she had anticipated.
Only one thing gave him away. Deep inside his sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes, there was a tiny, unmistakable spark of fear.
Richild smiled.
JOAN sat on a rock, troubled and sad. Luke lay down in front of her and put his head in her lap, staring up at her with his opalescent eyes.
“You miss him too, don’t you, boy?” she said, gently ruffling the young wolf’s white fur.
She was alone now, except for Luke. Gerold had been gone for over a week. Joan missed him with an ache that surprised her with its physicality. She could put her hand over the exact spot in her chest where the pain was most acute; it felt as if her heart had been removed from her body, beaten, and replaced.
She knew why he had gone. After what passed between them at the riverbank, he had to go. They needed time apart, time to let heads clear and passions cool. She understood, yet her heart rebelled.
Why? she asked for the thousandth time. Why must it be this way? Richild did not love Gerold, nor he her.
She reasoned with herself, rehearsing the arguments why this must be so, why it might even be for the best, but in the end she always came back to one unalterable fact: she loved Gerold.
She shook her head, angry with herself. If Gerold was strong enough to do this for her sake, could she be less so? What could not be changed must somehow be endured. She fixed her mind on a new resolve: when Gerold returned, things would be different. She would be content just to be near him, to talk and laugh as they always had … before. They would be like teacher and student, priest and nun, brother and sister. She would erase from her mind the memory of his arms around her, of his lips on hers …
Wido, the steward, came up suddenly beside her. “My lady wants to speak with you.”
Joan followed him through the gated palisade into the forecourt, Luke trotting by her side. When they reached the main courtyard, Wido pointed to Luke. “Not the wolf.”
Richild disliked dogs and forbade them to come inside the house walls, as they did on other manses.
Joan told Luke to lie down and wait in the courtyard.
The guard led her through the covered portico into the great hall, teeming with servants preparing the afternoon meal. They pushed their way through to the solar, where Richild was waiting.
“You sent for me, lady?”
“Sit down.” Joan started for a nearby chair, but Richild motioned imperiously toward a wooden stool set before a small writing table. Joan sat down.
“You will take a letter.”
Like all the noblewomen in this part of the Empire, Richild could neither read nor write. Wala, the Villaris chaplain, was usually her scribe. Wido could also write a little and sometimes served Richild in this capacity.
Why, then, has she sent for me? Joan wondered.
Richild tapped her foot impatiently. With a practiced eye, Joan surveyed the quills on the desk and selected the sharpest. She took a leaf of fresh parchment, dipped the quill in the inkwell, and nodded at Richild.
“From Richild, Countess, doyenne of the estate of Villaris,” Richild dictated.
Joan wrote quickly. The scratching of the quill grated in the stony silence of the room.
“To the canon of the village of Ingelheim, Greetings.”
Joan looked up. “My father?”
“Continue,” Richild commanded in a tone that indicated she would tolerate no questions. “Your daughter, Joan, having attained almost fifteen years, and thus being of a marriageable age, will no longer be permitted to continue her studies at the schola.”
Joan stopped writing altogether.
“As the girl’s guardian, ever vigilant for her welfare,” Richild continued, keeping up the pretense of dictation, “I have arranged an advantageous match with Iso, son of the farrier of this town, a prosperous man. The wedding will take place in two days. The terms of the arrangement are as follows—”
Joan jumped up, knocking over her stool. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because I choose to.” A small, malicious smile lifted the corners of Richild’s mouth. “And because I can.”
She knows, Joan thought. She knows about Gerold and me. The blood rose into her neck and face so suddenly it felt as if her skin were on fire.
“Yes. Gerold told me everything about that pitiful little interlude by the riverbank.” Richild laughed mirthlessly. She was enjoying this. “Did you really believe your clumsy kisses would please him? We laughed about them together that very night.”
Joan was too shocked to respond.
“You are surprised. You shouldn’t be. Did you think you were the only one? My dear, you are only the latest bead in Gerold’s long necklace of conquests. You shouldn’t have taken him so seriously.”
How does she know what passed between us? Did Gerold tell her? Joan felt suddenly cold, as if caught in a chance wind.
“You do not know him,” she said staunchly.
“I am his wife, you insolent child.”
“You do not love him.”
“No,” she admitted. “But neither do I mean to be … discomforted by the worthless daughter of coloni!”
Joan tried to steady her thoughts. “You cannot do this without Bishop Fulgentius’s approval. He brought me to the schola; you cannot remove me without his permission.”
Richild held out a sheet of parchment, marked with Fulgentius’s seal.
Joan read it quickly, then once again slowly, to be sure she had not made a mistake. There was no room for doubt; Fulgentius had terminated her studies at the schola. The document bore Odo’s signature as well. Joan could imagine the pleasure it must have given him to pen it.
Richild’s heart rejoiced as she watched Joan read. The arrogant little nobody was discovering just how insignificant she was. She said, “There is no point in further arguing. Sit down and finish taking the letter to your father.”
Joan replied defiantly, “Gerold will not let you do this.”
“Foolish child, it was his idea.”
Joan thought quickly. “If this marriage were Gerold’s idea, why did you wait until he left to arrange it?”
“Gerold is tenderhearted … to a fault. He lacks the heart to tell you. I have seen it happen before, with the others. He asked me to take care of the problem for him. And so I have.”
“I don’t believe you.” Joan backed away, fighting back tears. “I don’t believe you.”
Richild sighed. “The matter is settled. Will you finish taking the letter, or shall I call Wala?”
Joan whirled and ran from the room. Before she reached the great hall, she heard the tinkle of Richild’s bell, calling for her chaplain.
LUKE was waiting where she had left him. Joan flung herself to her knees beside him. His body pressed against hers affectionately, his large head resting on her shoulder. His warm, comforting presence helped calm Joan’s seething emotions.
I mustn’t panic. That’s just what she wants me to do.
She had to think, to plan what to do. But her thoughts spun round unproductively, all leading to the same place.
Gerold.
Where is he?
If he were here, Richild could not do this. Unless of course she was telling the truth, and the marriage was Gerold’s idea.
Joan banished the traitorous thought. Gerold loved her; he would not let her be married off against her will to a man she didn’t even know.
He might still return in time to stop it. He might—
No. She could not let her future hang on so slim a reed of chance. Joan’s mind, numbed by shock and fear, was yet clear enough to understand that.
Gerold is not due back for two more weeks. The wedding will take place in two days.
She had to save herself. She could not go through with this marriage.
Bishop Fulgentius. I must get to him, talk to him, persuade him that this wedding cannot take place.
Joan was sure Fulgentius had not signed that document with a happy heart. Through dozens of small kindnesses, he had made it plain that he liked Joan and took pleasure in her achievements at the schola—particularly since they were so effective a thorn in Odo’s side.
Richild must have some hold over him to have gotten him to agree to this.
If Joan could speak to him, she might convince him to call off the wedding—or at least delay it until Gerold’s return.
But perhaps he will not see me. However he had been won round to the marriage, he would be reluctant—even embarrassed—to meet with her now. If she requested an audience, she would probably be denied.
She fought down fear, forcing herself to think logically. Fulgentius will lead the high mass on Sunday. He will ride in procession to the cathedral beforehand. I’ll approach him then, throw myself at his feet if I have to. I don’t care. He will stop and hear me; I will make him.
She looked at Luke. “Will it work, Luke? Will it be enough to save me?”
He tilted his head inquisitively, as if trying to understand. It was a mannerism that always amused Gerold. Joan hugged the white wolf, burying her face in the thick fur ringing his neck.
THE notaries and other clerical officers came into view first, walking in stately procession toward the cathedral. Behind them, on horseback, rode the officials of the Church, the deacons and subdeacons, all splendidly attired. Odo rode among them, dressed in plain brown robes, his narrow face haughty and disapproving. As his gaze fell on Joan, standing with the group of beggars and petitioners awaiting the bishop, his thin lips parted in a malevolent smile.
At last the bishop appeared, robed in white silk, riding a magnificent steed caparisoned in crimson. Immediately behind rode the chief dignitaries of the episcopal palace: the treasurer, the controller of the wardrobe, and the almoner. The procession halted as ragged beggars pressed in eagerly all around, crying out for alms in the name of St. Stephen, patron saint of the indigent. Wearily the almoner distributed coins among them.
Joan moved quickly to where the bishop waited, his horse pawing the ground impatiently.
She fell to her knees. “Eminence, hear my plea—”
“I know this case,” the bishop interrupted, not looking at her. “I have already rendered judgment. I will not hear this petitioner.”
He spurred his horse, but Joan leapt up and grabbed the bridle, staying him. “This marriage will be my ruin.” She spoke quickly and quietly, so no one else would hear. “If you can do nothing to stop it, will you at least delay it for a month?”
He made as if to ride on again, but Joan kept tight hold of the bridle. Two of the guards rushed over and would have pulled her away, but the bishop checked them with a wave of his hand.
“A fortnight?” Joan pleaded. “I entreat you, Eminence, give me a fortnight!” Mortifyingly, for she had resolved to be strong, she began to sob.
Fulgentius was a weak man, with many faults, but he was not hard-hearted. His eyes softened with sympathy as he reached down to pat Joan’s white-gold hair.
“Child, I cannot help you. You must resign yourself to your fate, which is, after all, natural enough for a woman.” He bent down and whispered, “I have inquired after the young man who is to be your husband. He’s a comely lad; you will not find your lot difficult to bear.”
He signaled the guards, who pried Joan’s hands from the bridle and shoved her back into the crowd. A path opened for her. As she passed through, trying to hide her tears, she heard the villagers’ whispered laughter.
In the rear of the crowd, she saw John. She went to him, but he backed off.
“Stay away!” He scowled. “I hate you!”
“Why? What have I done?”
“You know what you’ve done!”
“John, what is it? What’s wrong?”
“I have to leave Dorstadt!” he cried. “Because of you!”
“I don’t understand.”
“Odo told me, ‘You don’t belong here.’” John mimicked the schoolmaster’s nasal intonation. “‘We only let you stay because of your sister.’”
Joan was shocked. She had been so involved in her own dilemma that she had not thought of the consequences for John. He was a poor student; they’d kept him on only because of his kinship to her.
“This marriage is not of my choosing, John.”
“You’ve always spoiled things for me, and now you’re doing it again!”
“Didn’t you hear what I said to the bishop just now?”
“I don’t care! It’s all your fault. Everything’s always been your fault!”
Joan was puzzled. “You hate book studies. Why do you care if they send you from the schola?”
“You don’t understand.” He looked behind her. “You never understand.”
Joan turned and saw the boys of the schola huddled together. One of them pointed and whispered something to the others, followed by muffled laughter.
So they already know, Joan thought. Of course. Odo would not spare John’s feelings. She regarded her brother with sympathy. It must have been difficult, almost unbearable, for him to be separated from his friends because of her. He had often joined with them against her, but Joan understood why. John never wanted anything more than to be accepted, to belong.
“You’ll be all right, John,” she said soothingly. “You’re free to go home now.”
“Free?” John laughed harshly. “Free as a monk!”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m to go to the monastery at Fulda! Father sent instructions to the bishop after we first arrived. If I failed at the schola, I was to be sent to join the Fulda brotherhood!”
So this was the source of John’s anger. Once consigned to the brotherhood, he would not be able to leave. He would never be a soldier now, nor ride in the Emperor’s army as he had dreamed.
“There may still be a way out,” Joan said. “We can petition the bishop again. Perhaps if we both plead with him, he will—”
Her brother glared at her, his mouth working as he searched for words strong enough to express what he felt. “I … I wish you’d never been born!” He turned and ran.
Dispiritedly, she started back toward Villaris.
JOAN sat by the stream where she and Gerold had embraced only a few weeks ago. An eternity had passed since then. She looked at the sun; it lacked only an hour or two until sext. By this time tomorrow, she would be wed to the farrier’s son.
Unless …
She studied the line of trees marking the edge of the woods. The forest surrounding Dorstadt was dense and broad; a person could hide in there for days, even weeks, without being discovered. It would be a fortnight or more before Gerold returned. Could she survive for that long?
The forest was dangerous; there were wild boars, and aurochs, and … wolves. She remembered the savage violence of Luke’s dam as she fought against the bars of her cage, her sharp teeth glinting in the moonlight.
I’ll take Luke with me, she thought. He will protect me, and help me hunt for food as well. The young wolf was already a skilled hunter of rabbits and other small game, which were plentiful this time of year.
John, she thought. What about John? She couldn’t just run off without letting him know where she had gone.
He can come with me! Of course! It was the solution to both their problems. They would hide together in the woods and await Gerold’s return. Gerold would set everything right—not only for her but for her brother.
She must get word to John. Tell him to meet her in the forest tonight, bringing his lance and bow and quiver.
It was a desperate plan. But she was desperate.
SHE found Dhuoda in the dortoir. Though she was only ten, she was a big girl, well developed for her age. Her resemblance to her sister Gisla was unmistakable. She greeted Joan excitedly. “I’ve just heard! Tomorrow is your wedding day!”
“Not if I can prevent it,” Joan responded bluntly.
Dhuoda was surprised. Gisla had been so eager to wed. “Is he old, then?” Her face lit with childish horror. “Is he toothless? Does he have scrofula?”
“No.” Joan had to smile. “He’s young and comely, I am told.”
“Then why—”
“There’s no time to explain, Dhuoda,” Joan said urgently. “I’ve come to ask a favor. Can you keep a secret?”
“Oh, yes!” Dhuoda leaned forward eagerly.
Joan pulled a piece of rolled parchment from her scrip. “This letter is for my brother, John. Take it to him at the schola. I would go myself, but I am expected in the solar to have a new tunic fit for the wedding. Will you do this for me?”
Dhuoda stared at the piece of parchment. Like her mother and sister, she could not read or write.
“What does it say?”
“I can’t tell you, Dhuoda. But it’s important, very important.”
“A secret message!” Her face was aglow with excitement.
“It’s only two miles to the schola. You can go and come in an hour if you hurry.”
Dhuoda grabbed the parchment. “I’ll be back before that!”
DHUODA hurried through the main courtyard, dodging to avoid the servants and craftsmen who always filled the place this time of day. Her senses were alive with an intimation of adventure. She felt the cool smoothness of the parchment in her hand and wished she knew what was written on it. Joan’s ability to read and write filled her with awe.
This mysterious errand was a welcome change from the boredom of her daily routine at Villaris. Besides, she was glad to help Joan. Joan was always nice to her; she took time to explain all kinds of interesting things—not like Mama, who was so often short-tempered and angry.
She was almost to the palisade when she heard a shout.
“Dhuoda!”
Mama’s voice. Dhuoda kept going as if she hadn’t heard, but as she passed through the gate, the porter grabbed her and forced her to wait.
She turned to face her mother.
“Dhuoda! Where are you going?”
“Nowhere.” Dhuoda thrust the parchment behind her. Richild caught the sudden movement, and her mouth set with suspicion.
“What is that?”
“N-nothing,” Dhuoda stammered.
“Give it to me.” Richild held out her hand imperiously.
Dhuoda hesitated. If she gave Mother the parchment, she would betray the secret Joan had entrusted her with. If she resisted …
Her mother glared at her, her dark eyes reflecting a building anger.
Looking into those eyes, Dhuoda knew she had no choice.
FOR this last night before Joan’s wedding, Richild had insisted that she sleep in the small warming room adjoining her own chamber—a privilege customarily reserved only for sick children or favored servants. It was a special honor accorded to the bride-to-be, Richild said, but Joan was sure that she simply wanted to keep her under close observation. No matter. Once Richild was asleep, Joan could slip out of this room just as easily as the dortoir.
Ermentrude, one of the serving girls, came into the little room, carrying a wooden cup filled with spiced red wine. “From the Lady Richild,” she said simply. “To honor you on this night.”
“I don’t want it.” Joan waved it away. She would not accept favors from the enemy.
“But the Lady Richild said to stay while you drink it and then take the cup away.” Ermentrude was anxious to do things right, being only twelve and new to household service.
“Have it yourself, then,” Joan said irritably. “Or empty it on the ground. Richild will never know.”
Ermentrude brightened. The idea had not occurred to her. “Yes, mistress. Thank you, mistress.” She turned to go.
“A moment.” Joan called her back, reconsidering. The wine brimmed the cup, rich and thick, shimmering in the dim light. If she was going to survive for a fortnight in the forest, she would need all the sustenance she could get. She could not afford foolish gestures of pride. She took the cup and gulped the warm wine greedily. It mustached her lips, leaving a strange sour taste. She wiped her mouth with her sleeve, then handed the cup to Ermentrude, who hurriedly left.
Joan blew out the candle and lay on the bed in the dark, waiting. The feather mattress surrounded her with alien softness; she was accustomed to the thin straw on her bed upstairs in the dortoir. She wished Richild had let her sleep in her own bed, beside Dhuoda. She had not seen Dhuoda since handing her the message, having been cloistered in Richild’s chambers all afternoon while the serving women fussed over her wedding dress and assembled the clothing and personal items that would go with her as dowry.
Had Dhuoda given John the message? There was no way to be sure. She would wait for John in the forest clearing; if he did not come, she and Luke would go on alone.
In the adjoining room, she heard Richild’s deep, slow breathing. Joan waited another quarter of an hour, to be sure Richild was asleep. Then she slipped silently from under the blankets.
She stepped through the door into Richild’s chamber. Richild lay still, her breathing regular and deep. Joan slipped along the wall and out the door.
As soon as she had gone, Richild’s eyes flew open.
JOAN moved soundlessly through the halls until at last she reached the open air of the courtyard. She breathed deeply, feeling a bit giddy.
All was still. A single guard sat with his back to the wall near the gate, his head on his chest, snoring. Her lengthened shadow spilled across the moonlit earth, grotesquely huge. She moved her hand, and a giant gesture mocked her.
Joan whistled softly to Luke. The guard stirred and shifted in his sleep. Luke did not come. Keeping to the shadows, she started toward the corner where Luke usually slept; she would not risk waking the guard by making any further sound.
Suddenly, the ground seemed to shift beneath her. She felt a rise of nausea and dizzily held on to a post to steady herself. Benedicite. I can’t be sick now.
Fighting the giddiness, she made her way across the courtyard. In the far corner she saw Luke. The young wolf lay on his side, his opalescent eyes staring blindly into the night, his tongue lolling limply out of his mouth. She bent to touch him and felt the coldness of his body beneath the soft white fur. She gasped and drew back. Her eyes fell on a half-eaten piece of meat on the ground. She stared at it dazedly. A fly settled on the bloody wetness surrounding the meat. It remained there, drinking, then flew upward, circling erratically before it dropped abruptly to the ground. It did not move again.
There was a loud humming in Joan’s ears. The air seemed to undulate around her. She backed away, turning to run, but again the ground lurched and shifted, then rose suddenly to meet her.
She did not feel the arms that lifted her roughly from where she lay and carried her back inside.
THE creaking of the wheels kept melancholy rhythm with the clopping of horses’ hooves as the cart bumped along the road toward the cathedral, carrying Joan to her wedding mass.
She had been dragged awake this morning, too dazed to realize what had happened. She stood numbly while the servants fussed over her, putting on her wedding dress and fixing her hair.
But the effects of the drug were wearing off, and Joan began to remember. It was the wine, she thought. Richild put something in the wine. Joan thought of Luke, lying cold and alone in the night. A lump rose in her throat. He had died without comfort or companionship; Joan hoped he had not suffered long. It must have given Richild pleasure to poison his meat; she had always hated him, sensing the bond he represented between Gerold and Joan.
Richild was riding in the cart just ahead. She was magnificently dressed in a tunic of gleaming blue silk, her black hair coiled elegantly around her head and secured with a silver tiara set with emeralds. She was beautiful.
Why, Joan wondered dully, didn’t she just kill me too?
Sitting in the cart drawing her ever closer to the cathedral, sick in body and heart, with Gerold far away and no way of escape, Joan wished that she had.
THE wheels clattered noisily onto the uneven cobblestones of the cathedral forecourt, and the horses were reined to a stop. Immediately, two of Richild’s retainers appeared alongside. With elaborate obsequiousness, they helped Joan from the cart.
An enormous crowd was gathered outside the cathedral. It was the Feast of the First Martyrs, a solemn religious holiday, as well as Joan’s wedding mass, and the entire town had turned out for the occasion.
In front of the crowd Joan caught sight of a tall, ruddy, big-boned boy standing awkwardly beside his parents. The farrier’s son. She noted his sullen expression and the dejected set of his head. He doesn’t want me for a wife any more than I want him for a husband. Why should he?
His father prodded him; he came toward Joan and held out his hand. She took it, and they stood side by side as Wido, Richild’s steward, read the list of items composing Joan’s dowry.
Joan looked toward the forest. She could not possibly run and hide there now. The crowd encircled them, and Richild’s men stood close beside her, eyeing her warily.
In the crowd Joan saw Odo. Gathered around him were the boys of the schola, whispering together as usual. John was not among them. She searched the crowd and found him standing off to one side, ignored by his companions. They were both alone now, except for each other. Her eyes sought his, seeking and offering comfort. Surprisingly, he did not look away but returned her gaze, his face openly registering his pain.
They had been strangers for a long time, but in that moment they were two again, brother and sister, leagued in understanding. Joan kept her eyes fixed on him, reluctant to break the fragile bond.
The steward stopped reading. The crowd waited expectantly. The farrier’s son led Joan into the cathedral. Richild and her household swept in behind them, followed by the townspeople.
Fulgentius was waiting by the altar. As Joan and the boy came toward him, he motioned them to sit. First the holy feast would be celebrated, then the wedding mass.
Omnipotens sempiterne Deus qui me peccatoris. As usual, Fulgentius was mangling the Latin service, but Joan hardly noticed. He signaled an acolyte to prepare for the offertory and began the oblation prayer. Suscipe sanctum Trinitas … Beside her, the farrier’s son bent his head reverently. Joan tried to pray, too, bowing her head and mouthing the words, but there was no substance to the form; inside her there was only emptiness.
The mixing of the water with the wine began. Deus qui humanae substantiae …
The doors of the cathedral burst open with a loud crack. Fulgentius abandoned his struggles with the Latin mass and stared incredulously at the entrance. Joan craned her neck, trying to make out the source of this unprecedented intrusion. But the people behind her blocked her view.
Then she saw it. An enormous creature, manlike but taller by a head than any man, stood outlined in the blinding light of the doorway, its shadow spilling into the dim interior. Its face was curiously expressionless and shone with a metallic gleam, the eyes so deep in their dark sockets that Joan could not make them out.
Somewhere in the crowded assembly, a woman screamed.
Woden, Joan thought. She had long ago ceased to believe in her mother’s gods, but here was Woden, exactly as her mother had described him, striding boldly up the aisle right toward her.
Has he come to save me? she thought wildly.
As he drew closer, she saw that the metallic face was a mask, part of an elaborate battle helmet. The creature was a man and no god. From the back of his head, where the helmet ended, long golden hair curled down to his shoulders.
“Norsemen!” someone shouted.
The intruder continued past without breaking stride. Reaching the altar, he raised a heavy, two-sided broadsword and brought it down with savage force on the bald tonsure of one of the assisting clerics. The man dropped, blood spurting from the deep cleft where his head had been.
Everything erupted into chaos. All around Joan people were screaming and shoving to get away. Joan was dragged along with the crowd, packed so tightly between struggling bodies that her feet lost contact with the floor. The wave of terrified villagers swept toward the doors, then abruptly halted.
The exit was blocked by another intruder, dressed for battle like the first, except that he carried an ax instead of a sword.
The crowd swayed uncertainly. Joan heard shouting outside, and then more of the Norsemen—a dozen at least—piled through the doors. They came in at a run, shouting hoarsely and swinging enormous iron axes over their heads.
The villagers fought and climbed over one another to get out of the way of the murderous blades. Joan was pushed hard from behind and fell to the ground. She felt feet on her sides and back, and she threw up her arms to protect her head. Someone stepped heavily on her right hand, and she cried out in pain. “Mama! Help me! Mama!”
Struggling to extricate herself from the crush of bodies, she crawled sideways until she reached an open area. She looked toward the altar and saw Fulgentius surrounded by Norsemen. He was striking at them with the huge wooden cross that had hung behind the altar. He must have pried it from the wall, and now he swung it around with fierce strength as his attackers darted back and forth, attempting to strike him with their swords but unable to get inside the circle of his defense. As she watched, Fulgentius dealt one Norseman a blow that sent him flying halfway across the room.
She crawled through the noise and the smoke—was there a fire?—searching for John. All around her were shrieks, war cries, and howls of pain and terror. The floor was littered with overturned chairs and sprawled bodies, wet with spilled blood.
“John!” she called. The smoke was thicker here; her eyes burned, and she could not see clearly. “John!” She hardly heard her own voice over the din.
A rush of air on the back of her neck warned her, and she reacted instinctively, hurling herself to the side. The Norseman’s blade, aimed for her head, tore a gash in her cheek instead. The blow threw her to the floor, where she rolled in agony, clutching her wounded face.
The Norseman stood above her, his blue eyes murderous through the appalling mask. She crawled backwards, trying to get away, but she could not move fast enough.
The Norseman raised his sword for the death blow. Joan shielded her head with her arms, turning her face aside.
The blow did not come. She opened her eyes to see the sword drop from her attacker’s hands. Blood trickled from the corners of his mouth as he sank slowly to the floor. Behind him stood John, grasping the reddened blade of Father’s bone-handled knife.
His eyes glittered with a strange exhilaration. “I took him right through the heart! Did you see? He would have killed you!”
The horror of it flooded her. “They will kill us all!” She clutched at John. “We must get away, we must hide!”
He shrugged her off. “I got another one. He came at me with an ax, but I got inside and took him through the throat.”
Joan looked round frantically for somewhere to hide. A few feet ahead was the reredos. It was wrought of wood, fronted with gilded panels depicting the life of St. Germanus. And it was hollow. There might just be enough room …
“Quickly,” she shouted to John. “Follow me!” She grasped the sleeve of his tunic, pulling him down beside her on the floor. Motioning him to follow, she crawled to the side of the reredos. Yes! There was an interstice, just big enough to squeeze through.
It was dark inside. Only a thin stream of light trickled in from the seam in front where the panels were inexpertly joined.
She squatted in the far corner, tucking her legs under to leave room for John. He did not appear. She crawled back to the opening and peered out.
A few feet away she saw him, bending over the body of the Norseman he had killed. He was pulling at the man’s clothes, trying to pry something loose.
“John!” she shouted. “In here! Hurry!”
He stared at her, a mad, glittering gaze, his hands still working under the Norseman’s body. She didn’t dare shout again for fear she would reveal the precious hiding place. After a moment he gave an exultant yell and stood, holding the Norseman’s sword. She gestured for him to join her. He lifted the sword in mocking salute and ran off.
Shall I go after him? She edged toward the opening.
Someone—a child?—screamed nearby, a hideous shriek that hung in the air, then abruptly ceased. Fear overwhelmed her, and she drew back. Tremulously she put an eye to the seam between the panels and peered out, searching for John.
There was fighting directly in front of her peephole. She heard the clang of metal on metal, caught a brief glimpse of yellow cloth, the gleam of an uplifted sword. A body thumped down heavily. The fighting moved off to the side, and she was looking straight down the nave toward the cathedral entrance. The heavy doors stood ajar, propped open by a grotesque jumble of bodies.
The Norsemen were herding their victims away from the entrance toward the right side of the cathedral.
The way stood clear.
Now, she told herself. Run for the doors. But she could not bring herself to move; her limbs seemed to be locked.
A man appeared at the edge of her narrow field of vision. He looked so wild and disheveled that for a moment she did not recognize him as Odo. He was lurching toward the entrance, dragging his left leg. In his arms he clutched the huge Bible from the high altar.
He was almost to the doors when two Norsemen intercepted him. He faced his attackers, holding the Bible aloft as if warding off evil spirits. A heavy sword sliced through the book and took him directly in the chest. For a moment he stood, astonished, clutching the two halves of the book in his hands. Then he fell backwards and did not move again.
Joan shrank back into the darkness. The screams of the dying were all around her. Hunched in a ball, she buried her head in her arms. Her rapid heartbeat sounded in her ears.
THE screaming had stopped.
She heard the Norsemen calling out to one another in their guttural tongue. There was a loud noise of splintering wood. At first she did not understand what was happening; then she realized they were stripping the cathedral of its treasures. The men laughed and shouted. They were in high spirits.
It did not take them long to complete their plundering. Joan heard them grunting under the weight of their loot, their voices receding into the distance.
Rigid as a post, she sat in the dark and strained to hear. Everything was quiet. She inched toward the opening of the reredos until she reached the edge of the narrow crack of light.
The cathedral lay in ruins. Benches were overturned, hangings were torn off walls, statuary lay in pieces on the floor. There was no sign of the Norsemen.
Bodies lay everywhere, piled in careless heaps. A few feet away, at the bottom of the stairs leading to the altar, Fulgentius was sprawled beside the great wooden cross. It was splintered, the gilded crosspiece broken and wet with blood. Beside him lay the bodies of two Norsemen, their skulls crushed within their shattered helmets.
Cautiously, Joan crept forward until her head and shoulders were out of the reredos.
In the far corner of the room, something moved. Joan shrank back out of the light.
A pile of clothing twisted, then separated itself from the heap of bodies.
Someone was alive!
A young woman rose, her back toward Joan. She stood, shakily, and then began to stagger toward the door.
Her golden dress was ripped and bloodied, and her hair, torn loose from its cap, tumbled over her shoulders in auburn coils.
Gisla!
Joan called her name, and she turned, swaying unsteadily, toward the reredos.
There was a sudden burst of laughter outside the cathedral.
Gisla heard and wheeled to run, but it was too late. A group of Norsemen came through the door. They fell on Gisla with a jubilant shout, lifting her above their heads.
They carried her to an open space beside the altar and spread-eagled her, pinning her down by the wrists and ankles. She twisted violently to free herself. The tallest of the men dragged her tunic up over her face and dropped full length on her. Gisla screamed. The man dug his hands into her breasts. The others laughed and shouted encouragement as he raped her.
Joan gagged, clamping hand over mouth to mask the sound.
The Norseman stood up, and another one took his place. Gisla lay slack and unmoving. One of the men took hold of her hair and twisted it to make her jump.
A third man took her, and a fourth; then they left her alone while they retrieved several sacks piled near the door. There was a ringing of metal as they hoisted them; the sacks must have been filled with more of the cathedral’s plundered treasure.
It was for these that they had returned.
Before they left, one of the men strode over to Gisla, pulled her up, still limp and unresisting, and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
They left by the far door.
Deep inside the reredos Joan heard only the eerie, echoing stillness of the cathedral.
LIGHT coming through the front seam of the reredos cast long shadows. There had been no sound for several hours. Joan stirred and crept cautiously through the narrow opening.
The high altar still stood, though stripped of its gold plating. Joan leaned against it, staring at the scene around her. Her wedding tunic was splattered with blood—her own? She could not tell. Her torn cheek throbbed with pain. Woodenly, she picked her way through the jumbled bodies, searching.
In a pile of corpses near the door, she came upon the farrier and his son, their arms sprawled as if each had tried to protect the other. In death the boy looked shrunken and old. Only a few hours ago, he had stood beside her in the cathedral, tall and ruddy and full of youthful strength and vigor. There will be no marriage now, Joan thought. Yesterday that thought would have filled her with profound relief and joy; now she felt nothing but numbing emptiness. She left him lying beside his father and continued her search.
She found John in the corner, his hand still gripping the Norseman’s sword. The back of his head had been smashed in with a heavy blow, but the violence of his death had left no mark on his face. His blue eyes were clear and open; his mouth was drawn back slightly in what appeared to be a smile.
He had died a soldier’s death.
SHE ran, stumbling, toward the door and pushed it open. It swung away from her crookedly, the hinges broken by the Norsemen’s axes. She rushed outside and stood gasping, breathing the fresh, sweet air in great gulps, ridding herself of the stench of death.
The landscape was bare. Smoke curled upward in lazy spirals from heaps of rubble that only this morning had been a lively clutter of homes and buildings surrounding the cathedral.
Dorstadt was in ruins.
Nothing stirred. No one was left. All the townspeople had been gathered in the cathedral for the mass.
She looked east. Above the trees obscuring her view, black smoke mushroomed skyward, darkening the sky.
Villaris.
They had burned it.
She sat down on the ground and put her face in her hands, cradling her wounded cheek.
Gerold.
She needed him to hold her, comfort her, make the world recognizable again. Scanning the horizon with narrowed eyes, she half-expected him to appear, riding toward her on Pistis, red hair streaming behind him like a banner.
I must wait for him. If he returns and does not find me, he will think I was carried off by the Norsemen, like poor Gisla.
But I can’t stay here. Fearfully she surveyed the ruined landscape. There was no sign of the Norsemen. Had they gone? Or would they be back, looking for more plunder?
What if they find me? She had seen what mercy an unprotected female could expect from them.
Where could she hide? She started toward the trees that marked the edge of the forest circling the town, slowly at first, then at a run. Her breath came sobbingly; at every step, she expected hands to grab her from behind, spinning her around to face the hideous, metallic masks of the Norsemen. Reaching the safety of the trees, she threw herself on the ground.
After a long while, she forced herself to sit up. Night was coming on. The forest around her was dark and foreboding. She heard a rustle of leaves and flinched in fear.
The Norsemen might be nearby, camping in these woods.
She had to escape from Dorstadt and somehow get word to Gerold about where she had gone.
Mama. She longed for her mother, but she could not go home. Her father had not forgiven her. If she returned now, bringing news of the death of his only remaining son, he would have his revenge upon her, that was certain.
If only I were not a girl. If only …
For the rest of her life she would remember this moment and wonder what power of good or evil had directed her thoughts. But now there was no time to consider. It was a chance. There might never be another.
The red sun glittered on the horizon. She had to act quickly.
She found John lying as she had left him, sprawled in the dim interior of the cathedral. His body was limp and unresistant as she rolled him onto his side. The death rigor had not yet set in.
“Forgive me,” she whispered as she unclasped John’s mantle.
When she was done, she covered him with her own discarded cloak. Gently she closed his eyes and arranged him as decently as she could. She stood, shifting her arms, adjusting to the weight and feel of her new clothes. They were not so different from her own, except for the sleeves, close-fitted at the wrists. She fingered the bone-handled knife she had taken from John’s belt.
Father’s knife. It was old, the white bone handle darkened and chipped, but the blade was sharp.
She went to the altar. Loosening her cap, she placed a mass of her hair upon the altar. It curled thickly over the smooth stone surface, almost white in the dimming light.
She lifted the knife.
Slowly, deliberately, she began to cut.
AT TWILIGHT, the figure of a young man stepped from the door of the ruined cathedral, scanning the landscape with keen gray-green eyes. The moon was rising in a sky quickening with stars.
Beyond the rubble of buildings, the eastern road shimmered mackerel-silver in the gathering darkness.
The figure slipped furtively out of the shadow of the cathedral. No one was left alive to watch as Joan hurried down the road, toward the great monastery of Fulda.