7  

THEY arrived at the cella while the sun was still low in the sky, but the bishop’s men were already awake, impatiently awaiting their companion’s return. When Joan and John told them what had transpired, the men became suspicious. They took John’s bone-handled knife and examined it carefully. Joan breathed a prayer of thanks that she had thought to clean it thoroughly in the forest stream, washing off all trace of blood. The men rode back to find their companion’s body, taking Joan and John with them; the discovery of the yellow-feathered arrow confirmed the children’s story. But what should they do with the body? It was out of the question to carry it all the way to Dorstadt, a fortnight’s journey, not with the spring sun making the days so warm. In the end they buried their companion in the forest, marking the spot with a rough wooden cross. Joan said a prayer over the grave, which impressed the men, for, like their companion, they knew no Latin. Expecting to escort a girl child, the men did not, at first, want to take John.

“There’s no mount for him,” their leader said, “nor food neither.”

“We can ride tandem,” Joan offered. “And share a ration.”

The man shook his head. “The bishop sent for you. There’s no point bringing your brother.”

“My father made a compact with your companion,” Joan lied. “I was permitted to go only on condition that John accompany me. If he doesn’t, my father will call me home again—and you’ll be put to the trouble of escorting me back.”

The man frowned; having just endured the discomforts of a long journey, he did not relish the prospect of another.

Joan pressed her advantage. “If that happens, I’ll tell the bishop that I tried my best to explain the situation, and you wouldn’t listen. Will he be pleased to learn that the entire misunderstanding was your fault?”

The man was stunned. He had never heard a girl speak so boldly.

Now he understood why the bishop wanted to see her; she was a curiosity, that was for certain.

“Very well,” he agreed grudgingly. “The boy can come.”

IT WAS an exhausting journey to Dorstadt, for the men of the escort were eager to get home and rode long and hard every day. The rigors of the journey did not trouble Joan; she was fascinated by the ever-changing landscape and the new world which every day opened before her. At last she was free, free from Ingelheim and the confines of her existence there. She rode through squalid little villages and bustling towns with equal delight, full of curiosity and wonder. John, however, quickly grew irritable from lack of sufficient food and rest. Joan tried to soothe him, but his ill humor was only inflamed by his sister’s good-natured solicitude.

They reached the bishop’s palace at noontide of the tenth day. The palace steward took one disapproving look at the two children, in their stained and rumpled peasants’ garments, and gave orders for baths and clean clothing before he would permit them to be admitted to the bishop’s presence.

For Joan, accustomed to hurried washings in the stream that ran behind the grubenhaus, the bath was an extraordinary experience. The bishop’s palace had indoor baths, with heated water, a luxury she had never even heard of. She remained in the warm water for almost an hour while serving women scrubbed her till her skin glowed pink and almost raw. Her back, however, they cleansed with utmost gentleness, clucking their tongues sympathetically over the jagged scars. They washed her hair and twisted the long, white-gold mass into shining plaits that framed her face. Then they brought her a new tunic of green linen. The texture was so soft, the weaving so fine, Joan found it hard to believe it had been made by human hands. When she was dressed, the women brought her a looking glass set in gold. Joan lifted it and saw the face of a stranger. She had never viewed her own features, except in occasional distorted fragments reflected by the muddy water of the village pond. Joan was astonished by the clarity of the image in the mirror. She held the mirror up, scrutinizing herself critically.

She was not pretty, but she knew that. She did not have the high, pale forehead, delicate chin, and frail, slope-shouldered form so favored by minstrels and lovers. She had a ruddy, healthy, boyish look. Her brow was too low, her chin too firm, her shoulders too straight for beauty. But her hair—Mama’s hair—was lovely, and her eyes were good—deep-set gray-green orbs, fringed with thick lashes. She shrugged and put the glass down. The bishop had not sent for her to discover if she was pretty.

John was brought in, equally resplendent in tunic and mantle of blue linen. The two children were taken to the palace steward.

“Better,” the steward said, examining them appraisingly. “Much better. Very well, then, follow me.”

They walked down a long corridor whose walls were covered with enormous tapestries intricately worked with gold and silver thread. Joan’s pulse leapt nervously in her throat. She was going to meet the bishop.

Will I be able to answer his questions? Will he accept me in the schola? All at once she felt inadequate and unsure. She tried to remember a single thing she had studied, but her mind went blank. When she thought of Aesculapius, of the faith he had shown in her by arranging this interview, her stomach clenched.

They stopped before a huge pair of double-sided oaken doors. From inside came a din of voices and a clattering of plates. The palace steward nodded at the house knave positioned at the entrance, and the man swung the heavy doors open.

Joan and John walked into the room, then stopped, gaping. Some two hundred people were gathered in the hall, seated at long tables piled high with food. Platters filled with every variety of roasted meat—capons, geese, moorhens, and several haunches of stag— crowded together on the tables within easy reach of the diners, who pulled off chunks of flesh with their fingers and stuffed it in their mouths, wiping their hands on their sleeves. In the center of the largest table, half devoured but still recognizable, rested the enormous head of a roasted boar, larded with sauce. There were pottages and pasties, peeled walnuts, figs, dates, white and vermilion sweetmeats, and many other dishes which Joan could not identify. She had never seen so much food in one place in her life.

“A song! A song!” Pewter cups banged on the wooden tables, rhythmic, insistent. “Come, Widukind, a song!” A tall, fair-skinned young man was prodded to his feet and rose, laughing.

“Ik gihorta dat seggen dat sih urhettun aenon muo tin, hiltibraht enti hadubrant …”

Joan was surprised. The young man sang in Theodisk, the common tongue—the canon would have called it the pagan tongue.

“This I have heard told, that warriors met singly, Hildebrand and Hadubrand between two armies …”

The men stood and joined in, holding their cups high. “… they let glide spears of ashwood, sharp showers; they stepped together and cleft the battle boards until their shields of limewood shattered hacked by the weapons …”

An odd song for a bishop’s table. Joan glanced sidelong at John, but he was listening raptly, eyes alight with excitement.

With an exultant shout, the men finished the song. There was a loud scraping of wood as they sat, pulling the long planked benches up to the tables.

Another man rose with a taunting smile. “I heard of something rising in a corner …” He paused expectantly.

“A riddle!” someone cried, and the crowd bellowed its approval. “One of Haido’s riddles! Yes! Yes! Let’s have it.”

The man called Haido waited till the noise abated. “I heard of something rising in a room,” he repeated, “swelling and lifting its cover. The bold-hearted bride grabbed at that boneless wonder with her hands …”

A knowing chuckle began to build among the guests.

“… she covered that swelling thing with a swirl of cloth.” Haido’s smiling eyes raked the room challengingly. “What is it?”

“Look between your legs,” someone shouted, “and you’ll find the answer right enough!” This was followed by more laughter and a barrage of obscene gestures. Joan watched in astonishment. This was a bishop’s residence?

“Wrong!” Haido retorted merrily. “You are all wrong!”

“The answer, then! The answer!” People shouted and banged their cups on the tables.

Haido paused a moment for dramatic effect.

“Dough!” he announced triumphantly, and sat down as a wave of shouting laughter shook the room.

When the noise subsided, the steward said, “Come with me,” and led the two children to the far end of the hall, where the high table rested on its dais. The bishop sat in the center, still chuckling, dressed in magnificent yellow silk stained with drops of grease and wine. A soft down pillow cushioned his place on the bench. He did not look at all as Joan had imagined him. He was a big man, thick necked; the muscularity of his chest and shoulders showed through his thin silken tunic. His large belly and florid face were those of a man who enjoyed his food and wine. As they approached, he leaned over and held a crimson sweetmeat to the lips of a buxom woman seated beside him. She bit it, then whispered something in his ear, and they both laughed.

The palace steward cleared his throat. “My lord, the men have returned from Ingelheim with the child.”

The bishop stared at the steward opaquely. “Child? Eh? What child?”

“The one you sent for, my lord. A candidate for the schola, I believe. Recommended to you by the Gr—”

“Yes, yes.” The bishop waved impatiently. “I remember now.” His arm rested lightly around the woman’s shoulders. He looked at Joan and John. “Well, Widukind, am I seeing double?”

“No, Lord. The canon sent his son as well. The two of them arrived at the cella together and would not be separated.”

“Well.” The bishop’s face shone with amusement. “What do you think of that? I ask for one and get two. Would the Emperor were so generous with his favors as this country prelate!”

The table roared with laughter. There were several shouts of “Hear, hear!” and “Amen!”

The bishop reached over and ripped a leg off a roast hen. He said to Joan, “Are you the scholar you have been made out to be?”

Joan hesitated, unsure of what to say. “I have studied hard, Eminence.”

“Pah! Studying!” The bishop snorted. He took a bite of chicken. “The schola is filled with dunderheads who study but know nothing. What do you know, child?”

“I can read and write, Eminence.”

“In Theodisk or in Latin?”

“In Theodisk, in Latin, and in Greek.”

“Greek! Now that is something. Even Odo has no Greek, have you, Odo?” He grinned at a thin-faced man a few seats away.

Odo spread his mouth in a humorless smile. “It is a pagan tongue, Sire, a tongue of idolaters and heretics.”

“Quite correct, quite correct.” The bishop’s tone was taunting. “Odo is always correct, aren’t you, Odo?”

The cleric sniffed. “You know well, Eminence, that I do not approve of this latest whim of yours. It is dangerous, and ungodly, to allow a woman into the schola.”

From the back of the hall a voice called out, “She’s no woman yet, from the looks of her.” Another tide of laughter swept the hall, accompanied by lewd remarks.

A burning warmth crept from Joan’s throat up to her cheeks. How could these people behave so in the presence of the bishop?

“It is also pointless,” the man called Odo continued when the noise died down. “Women are, by nature, quite incapable of reasoning.” His eyes flicked over Joan dismissively, then returned to the bishop. “Their natural humors, which are cold and moist, are unpropitious for cerebral activity. They cannot comprehend the higher spiritual and moral concepts.”

Joan stared at the man.

“I have heard that opinion expressed,” the bishop said. He smiled at Odo with the look of a man who was enjoying himself immensely. “But how then do you explain the girl’s scholarly attainments—her knowledge of Greek, for example, which even you, Odo”—he lingered over the words—“have not mastered?”

“She has boasted of her abilities, but we have seen no proof of them.” Odo sniffed. “You are credulous, Sire. The Greek may have been less than honest in reporting her accomplishments?”

This was too much. First this hateful man insulted her, and now he dared to attack Aesculapius! Joan’s lips started to form an angry reply when she caught the sympathetic gaze of a red-haired knight seated beside the bishop.

No. He signaled her silently. She hesitated, struck by the message in his compelling indigo eyes. He turned to the bishop and whispered something. The bishop nodded and addressed the thin-faced cleric. “Very well, Odo, examine her.”

“My lord?”

“Examine her. See if she is fit for study at the schola.”

“Here, my lord? It hardly seems appro—”

“Here, Odo. Why not? We will all profit from the example.”

Odo frowned. He turned to Joan. His narrow face aimed at her like an ax.

“Quicunque vult. What does it mean?”

Joan was surprised. So easy a question? Perhaps it was a trick. Perhaps he was trying to put her off her guard. Cautiously she responded, “It is the doctrine asserting that the three Persons of the Trinity are cosubstantial. That Christ was fully divine just as He was fully human.”

“The authority for this doctrine?”

“The first council of Nicaea.”

“Confessio Fidei. What is it?”

“It is the false and pernicious doctrine”—Joan knew what to say, having been cautioned by Aesculapius on this point—“which asserts that Christ was first a human being and only secondarily divine. Divine, that is, only through his adoption by the Father.” She studied Odo’s face, but it was unreadable. “Filius non proprius, sed adoptivus,” she added for good measure.

“Explain the false nature of this heresy.”

“If Christ is God’s Son by grace and not by nature, then He must be subordinate to the Father. This is a false heresy and an abomination,” Joan recited dutifully from memory, “because the Holy Spirit proceeds not only from the Father but also from the Son; there is only one Son, and He is not an adopted son. ‘In utraque natura proprium eum et non adoptivum filium dei confitemur.’”

The people at the tables snapped their fingers in applause. “Litteratissima!” someone shouted across the room.

“Amusing little oddity, isn’t she?” a woman’s voice muttered close behind Joan, just a shade too loudly.

“Well, Odo,” the bishop said expansively. “What do you say? Was the Greek right about Joan, or not?”

Odo looked like a man who has tasted vinegar. “It appears the child has some knowledge of orthodox theology. Nevertheless, this in itself does not prove anything.” He spoke condescendingly, as if to a difficult child. “There is, in some women, a highly developed imitative ability which allows them to memorize and repeat the words of men, and so give the appearance of thought. But this imitative skill is not to be confused with true reason, which is essentially male. For, as is well known”—Odo’s voice assumed an authoritative ring, for now he was on familiar ground—“women are innately inferior to men.”

“Why?” The word was out of Joan’s mouth before she was even aware of having spoken.

Odo smiled, his thin lips drawing back unpleasantly. He had the look of the fox when it knows it has the rabbit cornered. “Your ignorance, child, is revealed in that question. For St. Paul himself has asserted this truth, that women are beneath men in conception, in place, and in will.”

“In conception, in place, and in will?” Joan repeated.

“Yes.” Odo spoke slowly and distinctly, as if addressing a halfwit. “In conception, because Adam was created first, and Eve afterward; in place, because Eve was created to serve Adam as companion and mate; in will, because Eve could not resist the Devil’s temptation and ate of the apple.”

Among the tables, heads nodded in agreement. The bishop’s expression was grave. Beside him, the red-haired knight gave no outward sign of his thoughts.

Odo smirked. Joan felt an intense dislike for this man. For a moment she stood silently, tugging on her nose.

“Why,” she said at last, “is woman inferior in conception? For though she was created second, she was made from Adam’s side, while Adam was made from common clay.”

There were several appreciative chuckles from the back of the hall.

“In place”—the words tumbled out as Joan’s thoughts raced ahead and she reasoned her way through—“woman should be preferred to man, because Eve was created inside Paradise, but Adam was created outside.”

There was another hum from the audience. The smile on Odo’s face wavered.

Joan continued, too interested in the line of her argument to consider what she was doing. “As for will, woman should be considered superior to man”—this was bold, but there was no going back now— “for Eve ate of the apple for love of knowledge and learning, but Adam ate of it merely because she asked him.”

There was shocked silence in the room. Odo’s pale lips pressed together angrily. The bishop was staring at Joan as if he could not quite believe what he had just heard.

She had gone too far.

Some ideas are dangerous.

Aesculapius had warned her, but she had become so involved in the debate she forgot his advice. That man, that Odo, had been so sure of himself, so bent on humiliating her before the bishop. She had ruined her chance for the schola and she knew it, but she would not give the hateful little man the satisfaction of seeing her dismay. She stood before the high table with chin lifted, eyes blazing.

The silence stretched on interminably. All eyes were on the bishop, whose assessing gaze remained fixed on Joan. Then, slowly, very slowly, a long, low rumble of mirth escaped his lips.

The bishop was laughing.

Beside him, the buxom woman giggled nervously. Then the room erupted with noise. People cheered and pounded on the tables and laughed, laughed so hard the tears coursed down their faces and they had to wipe them off with their sleeves. Joan looked at the red-haired knight. He was grinning broadly. She met his eyes, and he winked at her.

“Come now, Odo,” said the bishop, when at last he could draw breath, “you must admit it. The girl has outwitted you!”

Odo gave the bishop a poisonous look. “What of the boy, Eminence? Do you wish to have him examined as well?”

“No, no. We’ll take him too, since the girl is so attached to him. We’ll take them both! To be sure, the girl’s education has been a bit”—he sought the right word—“unorthodox. But she is entirely refreshing. Just what the schola needs! Odo, you have acquired some new students. Take good care with them!”

Joan stared at the bishop in shock. What did he mean? Could Odo be the master of the schola? The one who would teach her?

What had she done?

Odo looked down his narrow nose at the bishop. “You have, of course, made arrangements for the child’s accommodation? She cannot board in the boys’ quarters.”

“Ah … accommodations.” The bishop hesitated. “Let us see …”

“My lord.” The red-haired knight interrupted. “The child could stay with me. My wife and I have two daughters, who would make her welcome. She would be a good companion for my Gisla.”

Joan looked at him. He was a man in the prime of life, some twenty-five years of age, strong, well favored, with high cheekbones and a fine, full beard. His thick hair, really an extraordinary color of red, was parted in the middle and curled thickly to his shoulders. His startling blue eyes were intelligent and kind.

“Excellent, Gerold.” The bishop thumped him warmly on the back. “It is all settled. The girl will stay with you.”

A servant came by with a tray heaped with sweetmeats. John’s eyes widened at the sight of the honeyed treats, oozing with butter.

The bishop smiled. “Children, you must be hungry after your long trip. Come sit by me.” He moved closer to the woman beside him, clearing a space between him and the red-haired knight.

Joan and John went around the table and sat. The bishop himself served them sweetmeats. John ate greedily, taking huge bites of the gooey treats, the sticky syrup mustaching his mouth.

The bishop returned his attention to the woman seated beside him. They drank from the same cup, laughing, and he stroked her hair, disarranging her coif. Joan fixed her eyes on the plate of sweetmeats. She nibbled at one of them but could not finish it; the honeyed sweetness was sickening. She yearned to be away from this place, away from the noise, the unfamiliar people, and the puzzling behavior of the bishop.

The red-haired knight named Gerold spoke to her. “You have had a long day. Would you like to leave?”

Joan nodded. Seeing them rise, John stuffed in one last mouthful of candy and got up.

“No, son.” Gerold placed a hand on John’s shoulder. “You stay here.”

John said plaintively, “I want to go with her.”

“Your place is here, with the other boys. When the meal is finished, the steward will show you to your quarters.”

John paled, but he mastered himself and said nothing.

“That is an interesting piece.” Gerold pointed to the bone-handled knife strapped to John’s waist. “May I see it?”

John pulled it from his belt and handed it to Gerold. He turned it over, admiring the working on the handle. The blade glinted, reflecting the flickering torches around the room. Joan remembered how it had glowed in the candlelight of the grubenhaus, before it bit into the parchment of Aesculapius’s book, erasing, destroying.

“Very fine. Roger has a sword whose handle has similar working. Roger.” Gerold called to a youth at a table nearby. “Come show this young man your sword.”

Roger held out a long iron sword with an elaborate handle.

John regarded it reverently. “May I touch it?”

“You can hold it if you like.”

“You’ll be given a sword of your own,” Gerold said. “And a bow. A lance too, if you’ve the strength for it. Tell him, Roger.”

“Yes. We have lessons every day in fighting and weaponry.”

John’s eyes registered surprise and delight.

“See the little nick here on the side of the blade? That’s where I struck a blow against the heavy sword of the master of weapons himself!”

“Really?” John was fascinated.

Gerold said to Joan, “Shall we go? I think your brother will not mind our leaving now.”

At the doorway, Joan turned to look back at John. With the sword across his lap, he was talking animatedly to Roger. She felt an odd reluctance to part from him. They had often been more rivals than friends, but John was her link to home, to a world familiar and comprehensible. Without him, she was alone.

Gerold had gone ahead and was striding down the corridor. He was very tall, and his long legs carried him quickly; Joan had to take little running steps to catch up.

For several minutes they did not speak. Then Gerold said abruptly, “You did well, back there with Odo.”

“I do not think he likes me.”

“No. He wouldn’t. Odo guards his dignity closely, as a man guards his coins when there are hardly any left.”

Joan smiled up at Gerold, liking him.

On an impulse, she decided to trust him.

“Was that the bishop’s … wife?” She stumbled over the word, embarrassed. All her life she had been aware of the shameful impropriety of her parents’ marriage. It was a child’s awareness, never spoken or even fully acknowledged, but deeply felt. Once, observing Joan’s sensitivity on the subject, Aesculapius had told her that such marriages were not uncommon among the lower clergy. But for a bishop …

“Wife? Oh, you mean Theda.” Gerold laughed. “No, my lord bishop is not the marrying kind. Theda is one of his paramours.”

Paramours! The bishop kept paramours!

“You are shocked. You needn’t be. Fulgentius—my lord bishop— is not a man of pious disposition. He inherited the title from his uncle, who was bishop before him. He never took priest’s orders and makes no pretense of holiness, as you will have noted. But you will find him a good enough man for all that. He admires learning, though he is not lettered himself. It was he who established the schola here.”

Gerold had spoken to her plainly, not as a child but as someone who could be expected to understand. Joan liked that. But his words were troubling. Could it be right for a bishop, a prince of the Church, to live like this? To keep … paramours? Everything was so different from what she had expected.

They arrived at the outside doors to the palace. Pages dressed in red silk swung the huge oaken panels open; the brightness of the torchlit hall spilled into the darkness.

“Come,” said Gerold. “You will feel better after a night’s sleep.” He strode quickly in the direction of the stables.

Uncertain, Joan followed him into the cool night.

“THERE it is!” Gerold pointed off to the left, and Joan followed the direction of his arm. In the distance she could just make out dark shapes of buildings outlined against the moonlit sky. “There’s Villaris, my home—and yours now as well, Joan.”

Even in the darkness, Villaris was magnificent. Situated commandingly on the slopes of a hill, it appeared enormous to Joan’s wondering eyes. It consisted of four tall, heavy-timbered buildings connected through a series of courtyards and splendid wooden porticoes. Gerold and Joan rode through the sturdy oak palisades guarding the main entrance and past several outbuildings: a kitchen, a bakery, a stable, a granary, and two barns. They dismounted in a small forecourt, and Gerold handed his mount over to the waiting hands of the stable master. Resin torches placed at regular intervals lit their way down a long, windowless corridor upon whose thick oak walls rows of gleaming weapons were displayed: long swords, lances, spears, crossbows, and scramasaxes, the short, heavy, single-edged blades favored by the fierce Frankish infantrymen. They emerged into a large second courtyard ringed by covered porticoes and passed through into the great hall itself, a vast, echoing space hung with richly decorated tapestries.

In the center of the room stood the most beautiful woman Joan had ever seen, apart from her own mother. But whereas Gudrun was tall and fair, this woman was small and slight, with ebony hair and large, proud, dark eyes. Coolly those eyes raked Joan, inspecting her with an expression that clearly found her wanting.

“What is this?” she asked abruptly as they drew near.

Ignoring her rudeness, Gerold replied, “Joan, this is my wife, Richild, the lady of this manor. Richild, may I present Joan of Ingelheim, who has today arrived to begin study at the schola.”

Joan made an awkward attempt at a curtsy, which Richild regarded with contempt before returning her attention to Gerold. “The schola? Is this some kind of jest?”

“Fulgentius has admitted her, and she is to reside here at Villaris for the duration of her studies.”

“Here?”

“She can share a bed with Gisla, who could use a sensible companion for a change.”

Richild’s graceful black eyebrows arched haughtily. “She looks like a colona.”

Joan flushed with the insult.

“Richild, you forget yourself,” Gerold admonished sharply. “Joan is a guest in this house.”

Richild sniffed. “Well”—she fingered Joan’s new green linen tunic—“at least she appears to be clean.” She signaled imperiously to one of the servants. “Show her to the dortoir.” Without another word she swept from the room.

LATER, lying on the soft straw mattress in the upstairs dortoir beside a snoring Gisla (who had not awakened even when Joan crawled in beside her), Joan wondered about her brother. Beside whom was John sleeping now—if, that is, he was able to sleep? She certainly could not; her mind was aswirl with troubling thoughts and emotions. She longed for the familiar surroundings of home, longed especially for her mother. She wanted to be held and caressed and called “little quail” again. She should not have run off the way she did—in silence and in anger, without a word of farewell. Gudrun had betrayed her with the bishop’s emissary, it was true, but Joan knew that she had done it from an excess of love, because she could not bear to see her daughter leave. Now Joan might never see her mother again. She had leapt at the chance for escape without considering the consequences. For she could never return home, that was certain. Her father would kill her for her disobedience. Her place was here now, in this strange and friendless country, and here, for good or ill, she must remain.

Mama, she thought as she stared into the forbidding darkness of the unfamiliar room, and a single tear slid silently down her cheek.