me without his help.” He turned to John. “Gather your belongings, and be quick. Tomorrow you ride for Dorstadt, to begin studies at the cathedral in accordance with the bishop’s express command.”
Joan gasped.
John
was being called to study at the schola? How could this be?
The stranger shook his head. “With all respect, Holy Father, I believe it’s a girl child I’m supposed to bring back with me. A girl by the name of Johanna.”
Joan stepped out of her mother’s encircling arm. “I am Johanna.”
The bishop’s man turned to her. The canon stepped quickly between them.
“Nonsense. It’s my son Johannes the bishop wants. Johannes, Johanna.
Lapsus calami.
A slip of the pen. A simple mistake on the part of the bishop’s amanuensis, that is all. It happens often enough, even among the best of scribes.”
The stranger looked doubtful. “I don’t know …”
“Use your head, man. What would the bishop want with a girl?”
“It did strike me as odd,” the man agreed.
Joan started to protest, but Gudrun drew her back and placed a warning finger over her lips.
The canon continued. “My son, on the other hand, has been studying the Scriptures since he was a babe. Recite from the Book of Revelation for our honored guest, Johannes.”
John paled and began to stammer.
“Acopa … Apocalypsis Jesu Christi quo … quam dedit illi Deus palam fa … facere servis—”
The stranger impatiently signaled a stop to the unsteady flow of words. “There is no time. We must leave immediately if we are to reach the cella before dark.” He looked uncertainly from John to Joan. Then he turned to Gudrun.
“Who is this woman?”
The canon cleared his throat. “A Saxon heathen whose soul I am laboring to bring to Christ.”
The bishop’s man took note of Gudrun’s blue eyes and slim form and the white-gold hair peeking out from under her white linen cap. He smiled, a broad, knowing, gap-toothed grin, then addressed himself directly to her.
“You are the children’s mother?”
Gudrun nodded wordlessly. The canon flushed.
“What do you say, then? Is it the boy the bishop wants, or the girl?”
“Disrespectful dog!” The canon was furious. “You dare to question the word of a sworn servant of God!”
“Calm yourself, Holy Father.” The man emphasized the word
holy
ever so slightly. “Let me remind you of the duty you owe to the authority I represent.”
The canon glared at the bishop’s man, his face purpling.
Again the man asked Gudrun, “Is it the boy? Or the girl?”
Joan felt Gudrun’s arms tighten around her, drawing her close. There was a long pause. Then she heard her mother’s voice behind her, musical and sweet, filled with the broad Saxon vowels that still marked her, unmistakably, as a foreigner. “The boy is the one you want,” Gudrun said. “Take him.”
“Mama!” Shocked at this unexpected betrayal, Joan could only utter the single, startled cry.
The bishop’s messenger nodded, satisfied. “Then it is settled.” He turned toward the door. “I must see to my horse. Have the boy ready as quickly as possible.”
“No!” Joan tried to stop him, but Gudrun held her tight, whispering in Saxon, “Trust me, little quail. It is for the best, I promise you.”
“No!” Joan struggled to free herself. It was a lie. This was Aesculapius’s doing. Joan was certain of it. He had not forgotten her; he had found a way at last for her to continue what they had begun together. John wasn’t the one being called to study at the schola. It was all wrong.
“No!” She twisted sharply, broke loose, and made straight for the door. The canon reached for her, but she evaded him. Then she was outside, running swiftly toward the retreating messenger. Behind her, in the cottage, she heard her father shouting, then her mother’s voice, tense, tearful, raised in reply.
She caught up with the man just as he reached his horse. She tugged at his tunic, and he looked at her. From the corner
Joan gasped.
John
was being called to study at the schola? How could this be?
The stranger shook his head. “With all respect, Holy Father, I believe it’s a girl child I’m supposed to bring back with me. A girl by the name of Johanna.”
Joan stepped out of her mother’s encircling arm. “I am Johanna.”
The bishop’s man turned to her. The canon stepped quickly between them.
“Nonsense. It’s my son Johannes the bishop wants. Johannes, Johanna.
Lapsus calami.
A slip of the pen. A simple mistake on the part of the bishop’s amanuensis, that is all. It happens often enough, even among the best of scribes.”
The stranger looked doubtful. “I don’t know …”
“Use your head, man. What would the bishop want with a girl?”
“It did strike me as odd,” the man agreed.
Joan started to protest, but Gudrun drew her back and placed a warning finger over her lips.
The canon continued. “My son, on the other hand, has been studying the Scriptures since he was a babe. Recite from the Book of Revelation for our honored guest, Johannes.”
John paled and began to stammer.
“Acopa … Apocalypsis Jesu Christi quo … quam dedit illi Deus palam fa … facere servis—”
The stranger impatiently signaled a stop to the unsteady flow of words. “There is no time. We must leave immediately if we are to reach the cella before dark.” He looked uncertainly from John to Joan. Then he turned to Gudrun.
“Who is this woman?”
The canon cleared his throat. “A Saxon heathen whose soul I am laboring to bring to Christ.”
The bishop’s man took note of Gudrun’s blue eyes and slim form and the white-gold hair peeking out from under her white linen cap. He smiled, a broad, knowing, gap-toothed grin, then addressed himself directly to her.
“You are the children’s mother?”
Gudrun nodded wordlessly. The canon flushed.
“What do you say, then? Is it the boy the bishop wants, or the girl?”
“Disrespectful dog!” The canon was furious. “You dare to question the word of a sworn servant of God!”
“Calm yourself, Holy Father.” The man emphasized the word
holy
ever so slightly. “Let me remind you of the duty you owe to the authority I represent.”
The canon glared at the bishop’s man, his face purpling.
Again the man asked Gudrun, “Is it the boy? Or the girl?”
Joan felt Gudrun’s arms tighten around her, drawing her close. There was a long pause. Then she heard her mother’s voice behind her, musical and sweet, filled with the broad Saxon vowels that still marked her, unmistakably, as a foreigner. “The boy is the one you want,” Gudrun said. “Take him.”
“Mama!” Shocked at this unexpected betrayal, Joan could only utter the single, startled cry.
The bishop’s messenger nodded, satisfied. “Then it is settled.” He turned toward the door. “I must see to my horse. Have the boy ready as quickly as possible.”
“No!” Joan tried to stop him, but Gudrun held her tight, whispering in Saxon, “Trust me, little quail. It is for the best, I promise you.”
“No!” Joan struggled to free herself. It was a lie. This was Aesculapius’s doing. Joan was certain of it. He had not forgotten her; he had found a way at last for her to continue what they had begun together. John wasn’t the one being called to study at the schola. It was all wrong.
“No!” She twisted sharply, broke loose, and made straight for the door. The canon reached for her, but she evaded him. Then she was outside, running swiftly toward the retreating messenger. Behind her, in the cottage, she heard her father shouting, then her mother’s voice, tense, tearful, raised in reply.
She caught up with the man just as he reached his horse. She tugged at his tunic, and he looked at her. From the corner
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