In the vicinity of the abbey, he turned down a narrow street, scraping the sides with the cart’s wheels, and continued along a road that led east. Gradually the houses became older and darker, and the smell of cooking and spices gave way to a persistent stench of sour wine. When they reached a dilapidated home, Althar stopped the horse. But Althar dismounted and walked up to the house opposite with a door daubed in bright colors. It wasn’t in ruins, but it certainly needed some attention. The old man walked in without knocking. He soon returned, sporting a cheerful smile.
“Come on, they’re making us some lunch,” he said.
They unloaded the bears and their baggage and made themselves comfortable in the hostelry.
11
Helga the Black proved to be a most entertaining prostitute. As soon as she recognized Althar, she stuck her tongue out at him impudently, lifted her skirt to show him her knees, and said “sweetheart, come here!” before planting a loud kiss on his cheek. Then she turned to Theresa and asked about his prissy girlfriend. She continued to jest until she noticed the wounded man with them, which caused her to immediately stop her fooling around to start fussing over Hoos as though her life, and perhaps his, too, depended on it.
While she fussed, she told Theresa her story. She had worked as a barmaid until the day she discovered that sucking off a neighbor was more lucrative than doing it to her drunkard of a husband. So as soon as he died, she sold her house and opened a tavern to earn her living. They called her “the Black” because her hair was dark as charcoal and so were her fingernails. As she spoke, she frequently burst into laughter, her smile revealing several conspicuous gaps between her teeth. Theresa noticed that the rouge on her cheeks worked hard to hide her wrinkles, but despite this, she was still an attractive woman. As she changed Hoos’s bandages, Helga asked after Althar’s wife, and Theresa understood now why the old man had told her to keep his secret.
Theresa had never dealt with prostitutes before. In Würzburg she knew none, and indeed she was surprised there should be one so close to the abbey in Fulda. When the woman had finished fussing with Hoos’s dressings, she asked Althar about the severity of his injuries. He told her what he thought and she appeared to ponder deeply before responding. Finally, she said, “The only physician here is a monk who lives in the monastery, but he only attends to the Benedictines. The rest of us are at the mercy of the dentist-barber.”
“This isn’t just any old casualty,” said Althar irritably. “He needs someone who knows what he’s doing.”
“Well, let me know how you get on, my dear. I can’t turn up with a man at the abbey gate. And you can’t just turn up either: As soon as they realize who it is, you can be sure they’ll set the dogs on you.”
Althar stroked his beard. Helga the Black was right: In the monastery there were many who thought him responsible for the death of the abbot’s son. The only option was to call for the barber.
“His name is Maurer,” said Helga. “In the morning he tends to the sick and cuts hair, but by midday he’s already in the market tavern spending every penny he’s just earned.”
Althar nodded as if he understood. Then he asked Theresa to put her things under Hoos’s bed and accompany him. Helga would look after the patient.
“We’re going to the market,” he announced with a smile. “I almost forgot we have some bears to sell.”
When they arrived at the market, they had to set up shop on its periphery, for the best spots had already been claimed. The crowds thronged around stands selling food, ceramics, tools, implements, seeds, fabrics, and basketwork. It was market day and everyone was there to shop, gossip, and chatter about the mercantile, even though the same things were sold every week.
Althar parked the cart against a wall so he would only have to guard one side from the street urchins who took every opportunity to steal from him behind his back. In the cart, he lifted the bear up into a standing position, propping the other head beside it with some sticks.
He asked Theresa if she knew how to dance. She said she didn’t, but the old man didn’t seem to care. He ordered her to climb onto the cart and shake her behind anyway she pleased. Then he took out a hunting horn and blew on it.
First a few young lads appeared to imitate Theresa’s wiggling, but soon more onlookers arrived, drawn to the unusual spectacle before them, and before long a ring of people had formed around the cart.
“I’ll swap my wife for that bear,” a toothless peasant proffered. “Her claws are just as long and sharp.”
“Sorry, but I already have a wild beast for a wife,” said Althar with a laugh.
“That creature’s a bear you say?” said another man from the back. “You can’t even see its balls.”
The crowd guffawed.
“Come closer to its jaws and yours will shrivel up, too.”
The people laughed again.
“How much for the girl?” someone else asked.
“It was the girl who killed the bear, so imagine what she could do to you.”
There was another roar of laughter.
A boy threw a cabbage at them, but Althar swiftly grabbed him by the hair and gave him a shove that sent him scuttling back to the other youngsters. An ale merchant decided to take advantage of the situation and pulled his barrel up near the cart. Some drunks followed him, hoping for a handout
“This bear devoured two Saxons before we made the kill,” Althar announced. “Their skeletons were in his cave. He killed my dog and wounded me,” he said, showing them an old scar on his leg from some unrelated accident. “And now he can be yours for just a pound of silver.”
Hearing the price, several onlookers turned away and walked off. Anyone in their right mind in possession of a pound of silver would buy six cows, three mares, or even a couple of slaves before the patched-up skin of a dead bear. The ones who stayed seemed more transfixed by Theresa, who was still dancing.
But there was one woman, wearing a coat of fine furs, who seemed to be admiring the animal quite a bit. She was accompanied by a little man of an elegant appearance who, upon seeing her interest, sent a servant to inquire about the price.
“Tell your master what he already knows,” said Althar. “One pound for the animal,” and he blew the horn again.
The servant went pale, but his owner appeared unperturbed when he learned the cost. He sent the servant back to offer half.
“Tell him I wouldn’t sell him a vixen for that price,” Althar responded. “If he wants to impress his lady, he can get his coin pouch out or risk his own backside and kill one himself.”
This time, when the couple heard his response, they turned away and disappeared into the crowds. However, when they had walked a few steps, Althar saw the woman look back at them. The old man smiled and starting packing up. “Time for a drink,” he announced to Theresa.
Before leaving, he managed to make a few deals: He sold a beaver pelt to a silk merchant for a gold solidus, and exchanged another with a baker for three pecks of wheat. Then he paid two boys to guard the bear, though not without warning them that he would skin them alive himself if he returned to find anything missing.
Althar and Theresa walked into a nearby inn, and sat near the window to keep an eye on the cart. Althar ordered two cups of wine and some bread and sausages, which were served to them immediately. While they drank, Theresa asked him why he had refused to negotiate on the price for the bear.
“You need to learn the language of business,” he replied as he scoffed down his food. “And the first lesson is know your customer, which luckily for me I do. The man who showed an interest is one of the richest men in Fulda: He could buy a hundred bears and still have the money for a thousand slaves. And as for her, I don’t know what she must have between her legs, but she always gets what she wants.”
“Well, I might not speak your language of trade, but the bear is still out there and if you had lowered the price then we might be celebrating a sale right now.”
“And that’s wh
at we’ll do,” Althar laughed, winking and pointing at the door just as the little rich man walked in. The woman who was with him earlier accompanied him now, but stayed outside, admiring the stuffed animal.
The newcomer approached them. “May I?” he asked.
Althar consented almost without a glance and the man sat down unhurriedly. The innkeeper soon came over and as he served them wine and cheese, Theresa took the opportunity to examine their guest more closely. He wore rings on all his fingers and under his nose hung a limp, recently oiled moustache. She noticed that his clothes, though ostentatious, seemed to be covered in bits of food. The man grabbed the wine jug, and after filling his own cup, he filled Althar’s until it was brimming over.
“Do you not want my money?” he asked bluntly.
“As much as you want my bear,” Althar answered without lifting his eyes from his cup.
The man pulled out a pouch and deposited it on the table. Althar picked it up and felt its weight in his hand before placing it back down in front of its owner.
“Half a pound is what one of my laborers earns in a year,” the man pointed out.
“That’s why I’m not a laborer,” said Althar, brushing aside the comment.
The man picked up the bag and stood, irritated, before going outside and speaking to the woman. Then he returned and kicked the table, making Theresa and Althar’s food scatter across its surface. He took out two pouches and threw them down onto the mess he had just created. “A pound of silver. I hope you and your whore enjoy it,” he said, glancing at Theresa.
“That we will, sir. Thank you!” said Althar, downing the last of his wine without batting an eyelid.
Outside, the woman fluttered about, kissing her man and laughing, while a pair of servants transferred the bear to another cart. One of the kids who Althar had paid to ward off thieves tried to stop them, receiving a slap in return. When Althar came out of the tavern, he called the boy over and gave him an obol for his bravery.
“Tell me, lad, do you know where I can find Maurer—the barber?”
The boy bit into the obol and ground it between his teeth before eagerly stuffing it in his pocket. He said he did, so they all climbed onto the cart and the boy guided them down a few streets to another tavern a couple of blocks away. Jumping off and running ahead, the boy disappeared into the inn, soon reappearing accompanied by a pot-bellied man with a pockmarked face.
Althar clambered down from the cart and after telling the barber the reason for their visit, they agreed on a price for a consultation. The barber went back into the tavern and returned carrying a bag. Climbing onto the driver’s seat with Althar, they all set off to Helga the Black’s hostelry.
Though he stank of wine, the barber set to work with obvious skill. As soon as they arrived, he shaved Hoos’s torso and cleaned it with oils. Then he examined the hardened skin on his chest near the nipples, remarking on the redness, heat, and swelling. His bruises made the barber shake his head. He listened to his breathing using a bone ear trumpet, which he positioned over the wound, and inhaled Hoos’s breath, which he found thick and sour. He prescribed a poultice, deciding that bleeding him would be unnecessary.
“It’s the fever that worries me,” he explained, gathering up his razors and the colored stones he had used to sharpen them. “He has three broken ribs. Two seem to be healing, but the third has punctured his lung. Fortunately it went in and out. The wound is scarring well, and the murmurs are weak. But the fever—that’s bad news.”
“Will he die?” asked Althar, prompting Helga to give him a slap on the head. “I mean… will he live?” he corrected himself.
“The problem is the swelling. If it persists, the fever will grow worse. There are plants… potions that can alleviate the illness, but unfortunately I don’t have any.”
“If it’s money you need…”
“Regrettably, no. You’ve paid me well, and I’ve done what I can,” he said.
“And these plants you speak of?” Helga inquired.
“I shouldn’t have mentioned them. Aside from fennel for constipation and chervil for hemorrhages, I don’t know much more about them.”
“So who does?” asked Theresa. “The monastery physician? Come with us and we’ll speak to him. Perhaps you can get him to help us.”
He scratched his bald patch and looked at Theresa with pity. “I don’t think he will be much help. That physician died last month.”
Upon hearing that, Helga dropped the pot she was holding, which fell with a clatter to the floor. The news surprised Althar, too, and it hit Theresa even harder. Though no one had said it, all three of them were secretly hoping that the abbey physician would come to Hoos Larsson’s rescue.
“Although, perhaps you could visit the apothecary,” Maurer said. “The one they call Brother Herbalist. He’s stubborn as a mule, but he’ll often take pity on those who accompany their entreaties with some kind of food. Tell him I sent you. I do business with him and he regards me well.”
“But could you not come with us?” Theresa persisted.
“It’s not a good time for me to be associated with plants. At the beginning of the month a church legation sent by Charlemagne arrived in Fulda. They’re led by a friar from Britannia the king has entrusted to reform the church, and from what I hear, he has come with whip in hand.” He took a slug of wine. “All it would take is for someone to tell him that from time to time I earn a few coins warding off evil spirits and he’ll accuse me of heresy and hang me from a very tall pine tree. That Briton has the whole monastery in a frenzy, so be careful.”
Maurer finished applying the poultice and covered Hoos with a blanket. Before leaving he told them how to find the apothecary and showed Helga how to repeat the treatment without pressing too hard. Then, with a grave expression, he shook Althar’s hand and left.
For a while they sat in a silence that felt as solid and heavy as stone. Then, Helga the Black powdered her face and tidied the room where she would begin work later on that evening, and Althar decided that it was a good time to visit the smithy and have the cart’s axle casing repaired. Theresa stayed with Hoos to keep him cool with a damp cloth. She passed the cloth across his face with the delicacy of a whisper, over his eyebrows and his sleeping eyelids, praying that her trembling would not disturb his sleep. She realized that though she endlessly wiped away the sweat from Hoos’s body, her own eyes were becoming moist, as though in some way the two of them were sharing the same suffering. She swore to herself then that, while he depended on her, Hoos Larsson would not die. She would drag him to the monastery herself if necessary to have the apothecary cure him with his herbs.
When Theresa saw Helga a little while later, it was as though a completely different person stood before her. Her loose hair, decorated with colorful ribbons, seemed less gray. She had painted her lips blood red and accentuated her plump cheeks with an extravagant rouge. Her pronounced cleavage revealed ample breasts, which, though sagging, were pushed up by an underskirt. She wore a long overskirt and her outfit was cinched with an eye-catching belt. With every step beaded necklaces danced over her chest, clicking invitingly. The woman sat down and filled her cup to the brim.
“We’ll have to wait and see,” she said, looking at Hoos. A roll of flab had flopped out over her belt, which she absentmindedly pushed back into her skirt.
“I don’t think this poultice is helping. We should take him to the apothecary,” said Theresa.
“He must rest now. Tomorrow we’ll see what dawn brings, and then decide what to do. Althar told me you intend to stay in Fulda.”
“That’s right.”
“And he mentioned you have no family. Have you thought about how you will earn a living?”
Theresa flushed. The fact was she hadn’t considered it yet.
“I see,” Helga continued. “Tell me something: Are you a maiden?”
“Yes,” she responded, taken aback.
“You can certainly see it in your face.” She shook her head. �
�If you’d been a whore it would make things a lot easier, but there’s still plenty of time for that. What’s wrong? You don’t like men?”
“They don’t interest me.” She looked at Hoos and realized she was lying.
“And women?”
“Of course not!” She stood up, offended.
Helga the Black laughed brazenly. “Don’t be scared, princess, God isn’t here to hear us.” She had another sip of wine, looked her over again and then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smudging her lipstick. “Then you’ll have to think of something. Food costs denarii, clothes cost denarii, and the bed that this young man is sleeping in, when it’s not used for fucking, also costs denarii.”
Theresa’s head was spinning. For a moment she didn’t know what to say.
“I will find work tomorrow. I’ll go to the market and ask at the stalls and in the fields. I am sure to find something.”
“What trades do you know? Perhaps I can help.”
She explained that in Würzburg she had worked in a tanning workshop. She also knew how to cook, she said, having just learned a thing or two from Leonora. However, she didn’t mention her ability to write. Helga thought the tanning workshop was intriguing and pushed for more details, so Theresa told her that she had prepared parchment, sewed quinternions, and bound codices.
“There are no leather workshops here. Everyone makes do by themselves. They might make parchments at the monastery, but I couldn’t say for sure. Did you earn much doing that?”
“I was given a loaf of bread each day. Apprentices aren’t paid.”
“Ah! So you’re still learning. And what did a day laborer earn?”
“One or two denarii a day, but usually they also received food.” She didn’t explain that she was as skilled with the leather as they were.
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