# Read the first page of Pope Joan by Donna Woolfolk Cross Read the opening of Pope Joan by Donna Woolfolk Cross free, no signup. A woman in disguise rises to the papal throne. - Page: https://uncovered.ink/read/pope-joan-donna-woolfolk-cross - Genre: Historical fiction - Year: 1997 - ISBN: 9780307453198 - Read it blind (cover and title hidden): https://uncovered.ink/?b=9780345416261&s=read-page - Buy: https://bookshop.org/a/125786/9780307453198 - Borrow: https://search.worldcat.org/search?q=9780307453198 ## The opening It was the twenty-eighth day of Wintarmanoth in the year of our Lord 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 through the trees and drove icy fingers into her body, searching the holes and patches of her thin woolen garments. The forest path was deeply drifted; with each step, she sank almost to her knees. Snow caked her eyebrows and eyelashes; she kept wiping her face to see. Her hands and feet ached with cold, despite the layers of linen rags she had wrapped 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 because their beaks could not tear the flesh of the frozen carrion. Hrotrud shivered and quickened her pace. Gudrun, the canon’s woman, had gone into labor a month sooner than expected. A fine time for the child to come, Hrotrud thought bitterly. Five children delivered in the last month alone, and not one of them lasted more than a week. A blast of wind-driven snow blinded Hrotrud, and for a moment she 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 a short distance from their homes. She forced herself to stand still as the snow swirled around her, surrounding her in a featureless landscape of white. When the wind let up, she could just make out the outline of the path. Again she began to move forward. She no longer felt pain in her hands and feet; they had gone completely numb. She knew what that could mean, but she could not afford to dwell on it; it was 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 prosperous manse of some six hectares. It was warm and snug, with walls of solid timber, far nicer than their neighbors’ homes, made of simple wooden lathes daubed with mud. A great fire had blazed in the central hearth, the smoke spiraling up to an opening in the roof. Hrotrud’s father had worn an expensive vest of otter skins over his fine linen bliaud, and her mother had had silken ribbons for her long, black hair. Hrotrud herself had had two large-sleeved tunics, and a warm mantle of the finest wool. She remembered how soft and smooth the expensive material had felt against her skin. It had all ended so quickly. Two summers of drought and a killing frost ruined the harvest. Everywhere people were starving; in Thuringia there were rumors of cannibalism. Through the judicious sale of the family possessions, Hrotrud’s father had kept them from hunger for a while. Hrotrud had cried when they took away her woolen mantle. It had seemed to her then that nothing worse could happen. She was eight years old; she did not yet comprehend the horror and cruelty of the world. She pushed her way through another large drift of snow, fighting off a growing light-headedness. It had been several days since she had had anything to eat. Ah, well. If all goes well, I will feast tonight. Perhaps, if the canon is well pleased, there will even be some bacon to take home. The idea gave her renewed energy. Hrotrud emerged into the clearing. She could see the blurred outlines of the grubenhaus just ahead. The snow was deeper here, beyond the screen of trees, but she drove ahead, plowing through with her strong thighs and arms, confident now that safety was near. Arriving at the door, she knocked once, then immediately let herself in; it was too cold to worry about social courtesies. Inside, she stood blinking in darkness. The single window of the grubenhaus had been boarded up for winter; the only light came from the hearth fire and a few smoky tallows scattered about the room. After a moment, her eyes began to adjust, and she saw two young boys seated close together near the hearth fire. ## Books with a similar feel - [The Virgin's Lover by Philippa Gregory](https://uncovered.ink/read/the-virgins-lover-philippa-gregory.md) - [The Pull of the Stars by Emma Donoghue](https://uncovered.ink/read/the-pull-of-the-stars-emma-donoghue.md) - [The Quilter's Legacy by Jennifer Chiaverini](https://uncovered.ink/read/the-quilters-legacy-jennifer-chiaverini.md) - [The Personal Librarian by Marie Benedict](https://uncovered.ink/read/the-personal-librarian-marie-benedict.md) - [The Spies of Shilling Lane by Jennifer Ryan](https://uncovered.ink/read/the-spies-of-shilling-lane-jennifer-ryan.md) - [The Tattooist of Auschwitz by Heather Morris](https://uncovered.ink/read/the-tattooist-of-auschwitz-heather-morris.md) --- Source: Uncovered (https://uncovered.ink). A short sample shown for reading and discovery. Rights holders can request removal at https://uncovered.ink/takedown.