“But that doesn’t mean that I gave them to him,” Theresa replied defensively. Then she added, “Not to mention that it was in exchange for allowing me to pass.”
“That also has an explanation: Benedictines cannot eat meat, for the Rule of Saint Benedict forbids it. Only in certain cases is it allowed, for example when one is sick, and of course, that’s not the case with the cellarer. So I surmised that it must have been someone from outside the abbey who supplied the chops. I knew he was chewing on a chop because I saw him spit out a piece of bone. What’s more, yesterday you brought me a meat pie as a gift, so it would be logical to expect you to do the same again.”
He bent down to straighten out a lettuce that was growing crooked. “And if that were not enough information to confirm you gave him a chop for your entry, before you started writing, I saw you wipe your hands on a cloth, leaving a trace of fat there that soon attracted a pair of flies. I do not believe a young lady so well educated would appear before a supposed apothecary dirty, even if dressed in peasant clothing.”
Theresa remained silent, dazed. She still found it hard to accept that Alcuin was not calling upon the black arts to make those divinations. But before she could think of a suitable reply, a sulfurous smell alerted her that they were arriving at the abbey hospital. Before going in, Alcuin asked her to make it quick.
The hospital had a large but dark hall, with two rows of beds, most of them occupied by monks too decrepit to care for themselves. There was also a small room for the infirmarians and an adjoining chamber used for patients from outside of the monastery. Alcuin explained that, despite what Theresa may have heard, the abbey did indeed treat the townsfolk.
A stout friar suddenly appeared and delivered a short summary on Hoos’s welfare. His fever was in remission and he had got up to visit the latrine and walk about for a while, but grew tired and went back to bed. He also told them that he had wheat bread and a little wine for breakfast.
Alcuin frowned at the monk and told him next time he must give him rye bread only. However, he was pleased to hear that he had not coughed up any blood since his last visit. While Alcuin inquired after other patients, Theresa walked over to Hoos, who lay covered in thick furs, his face bathed in a veil of sweat. She stroked his hair and the young man opened his eyes. Theresa smiled at him, but it took a few moments before he recognized her.
“They say you’ll be better soon,” she said.
“They also say this wine is good,” Hoos responded, smiling back. “What are you doing wearing a novice’s robe?”
“I had to put it on. Do you need anything? I can’t stay long.”
“To get better is what I need. Do you know how long they will keep me here? I hate priests almost as much as quacks.”
“Until you recover, I suppose. From what I’ve been told at least a week, but I promise to visit you often. In fact starting from today, I work here.”
“Here, in the monastery?”
“Yes, I don’t know as what, exactly, as a scribe I think.”
Hoos nodded. He seemed very tired.
Alcuin approached to ask after his health. “I’m glad you’re improving. If you keep on this trajectory, within a week you will be hunting cats, which is the only thing that you’ll find to hunt around the abbey,” Alcuin informed him.
Hoos smiled again.
“Now we must go,” he added.
She would have liked to kiss him, but instead Theresa said good-bye with a look that brimmed with tenderness. Before they left, Alcuin instructed the infirmarian on the treatment that the young man should receive for the rest of the day. Then he led Theresa to the abbey exit, explaining as they went that the art of medicine rested on the foundations of a science, the theorica, which provided the elements required to put it into practica. Knowledge of both components, theorica and practica, improved the operatio, or everyday practice. “At least, in theory that’s what should happen in the art of medicine. As it should,” he added, “in the art of writing.”
She was surprised to meet a monk familiar with two such different arts, writing and medicine, but after witnessing his divinatory ability, she didn’t want to ask too many questions. As they reached the gate, Alcuin said good-bye and told her to return the next day, first thing in the morning.
When Theresa arrived back at Helga’s house, she found her lying on her bed, crying. The room was still a mess, with upturned chairs and pieces of broken cups and earthenware jugs scattered all over the place. She tried to console her, but Helga hid her head in her arms as if her greatest desire was that Theresa should not see her face. The young woman hugged her anyway, not knowing how best to comfort her.
“I should have killed that bastard the first time he beat me,” she finally said between sobs.
Theresa dampened a cloth with water to clean the dried blood from her face. Helga had a gashed eyelid and split lips, but she seemed to be crying more out of rage than pain.
“Let me wash you at least,” Theresa pleaded.
“Damn him a thousand times! Damn him!”
“What happened? Who hit you?”
Helga was crying inconsolably now. “I’m with child,” she sobbed. “By a pig that almost killed me.”
She said that though she took precautions, this was not the first time she had been made pregnant. At first she had followed the advice of the midwives. To guard against pregnancy she would remove her clothes, smear herself with honey, roll around on a pile of wheat, and then carefully gather up all the grain that had stuck to her body and grind it manually in the opposite direction of normal—from left to right. The bread made from this flour she then fed to the man before copulating, whose germinal fluids would then be sterilized, but she was more fertile than a family of rabbits, she said, and despite these precautions, as soon as she let her guard down, she would fall pregnant.
After her husband passed away, she had allowed her first two children to die as soon as they were born, because that was what unwedded mothers normally did. The other pregnancies ended before birth thanks to an old woman who stuck a duck feather between her legs. However, last year she met Widukind, a married woodsman who didn’t seem to mind how she made her living. He would say that he loved her, and they were like young lovers when they went to bed. Once he told her he would forsake his wife to marry her.
“Which is why, when I missed my second period, I thought it would make him get on with it. Well, you can see what happened. When I told him this morning, he flew into a rage as if he had been robbed of his soul. He laid into me, calling me a devious whore. The lying bastard. I hope his prick rots, and if one day he does want to have children, let them be born with antlers!”
Theresa stayed by her side until Helga eventually stopped crying. Later she learned that Widukind hat hit her on other occasions, too, but never as brutally as that day. She also heard about the countless women who without the means to support their children would kill their newborns rather than give them up as slaves.
“But this one I want to keep,” Helga confessed, stroking her belly. “Since I lost my husband, I’ve had nothing but problems.”
Between the two of them they tidied the tavern. Theresa told her about Alcuin of York who was not the apothecary, and how Hoos was recovering from his injuries but would need to remain at the monastery for a while. She added that Alcuin had mentioned how odd he thought the sickness that afflicted the town.
“He’s right. It’s a strange illness, for it only seems to affect the wealthy,” said Helga.
At midday they ate a pottage of boiled pulses and rye flour. They spent the rest of the afternoon talking about childbirth, children, and pregnancy. At the end of the day, Helga admitted that she had started selling herself in order to survive. One night, not long after she had become widowed, a stranger came into her home and raped her until she was broken. When the neighbors found out they turned their backs on her, refusing to speak or break bread with her. Nobody offered her work, so she had to earn a living by humiliatin
g herself.
They went to bed early, Helga complaining of a headache.
It was not yet dawn when Theresa left the hostelry equipped with tablets filled with fresh wax and headed out into the frost-covered streets. At the first corner, she felt the wind growing stronger and so wrapped herself in the novice’s robe that Alcuin had given her. Then she ran through the streets, fearing that she would take a wrong turn and arrive late on her first day at work. When she reached the monastery, the cellarer opened up as soon as he saw her and again accompanied her to the optimates’ building where Alcuin waited at the entrance.
“No chops today?” he said to Theresa with a smile, leading her to the same room as the day before. Theresa found it better lit thanks to some large candles arranged around the table. She noticed that they had added a newly oiled desk on which sat a codex, an inkwell, a knife, and several sharpened pens.
“Your workplace,” announced Alcuin, signaling the desk with the palm of his hand. “For the time being you will remain here copying texts. You must not leave the room without my authorization, and of course, when you do, you will always be accompanied. Later on, when I have informed Bishop Lothar that I have employed you as an assistant, we will move to the chapter.”
He went off for a moment and returned with two cups of milk. “At midday we will pay a brief visit to Hoos. If you need anything in my absence, tell one of my acolytes. Good. Now I must attend to other matters, so before you start with the notes, I would like you to copy a few pages of this codex.”
Theresa leafed through the volume with curiosity. It was a thick codex, of recent making, its leather cover wrought in gold, with beautifully illuminated miniatures. According to Alcuin it was a valuable specimen of the Hypotyposeis by Clement of Alexandria, a transcription of an Italian codex translated from Greek by Theodore of Pisa, which like so many other codices went from abbey to abbey, for various copyists to duplicate. She noticed that the writing was different, smaller and easier to read. Alcuin explained that it was a new type of calligraphy that he had been working on for some time.
As she examined the text, Theresa realized that she had not agreed to any kind of remuneration with Alcuin for her new employment. She knew that he was looking after Hoos, and she did not wish to appear ungrateful, but when the money she was given for the bear head was gone, she would need funds to pay for board and lodging. She didn’t know how to broach the subject, but Alcuin seemed to read her thoughts.
“As for your pay,” he informed her, “I promise to provide two pounds of bread every day, along with whatever vegetables you need. You may also keep the robe you are wearing, and I will give you a new pair of shoes so that you do not catch a chill.”
It seemed sufficient to Theresa, who guessed she would only be kept busy until dinner time, which meant she would still have several hours to help Helga at the tavern.
He had explained to her that her schedule would fit around religious services, which took place every three hours. The monastery came to life at dawn, after the Prime service. That was when they had breakfast and afterward the monks would go about their tasks. At around midmorning during the Terce service, which coincided with Chapter Mass, was when Theresa should start her work. Three hours later, at midday, the Sext service would be held, straight after lunch. None was held midafternoon until sunset, after which came dinner, and then Vespers. By midevening they would return to the church for Compline, which lasted until midnight. He told her that what time her day ended would depend on how many pages she managed to complete.
Alcuin donned a woolen overcoat. “If you should need to visit Hoos in my absence, ask for my acolyte and show him this.” He handed her a tarnished bronze ring. “He will escort you. I will return in a couple of hours to check your progress. Do you like soup?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I will tell the kitchen to prepare you some food.”
Then he left her alone with the text.
She dipped the pen in the ink, crossed herself, and started writing—putting her heart and soul into every letter. She copied the writing imitating the stroke, inclination, movement, and size. Perfect symbols appeared on the page. Words interlinked to form harmonious paragraphs full of meaning, and in her mind’s eye she saw the image of her father, encouraging her to achieve her ambitions. She was saddened to think of him and longed to be by his side. Then with renewed resolve, she went back to writing.
13
Haec studia adolescenciam alunt, senectutem oblectant, secundas res ornant, adversis solatium et perfugium praebent, delectant domi, non impediunt foris, pernoctant nobiscum, peregrinantur, rusticantur.”
“No, no, and no!” Alcuin, exasperated, said to the young assistant assigned to him by the bishop. “It has been three days and you still have not learned! How many times do I have to tell you that if you do not keep the pen perpendicular to the parchment, it will ruin the document.”
The novice lowered his head as he muttered an apology. It was already the second time he had made a mistake that afternoon.
“And look here. It’s not haec, it’s hæc. Nor is it praepent, but præpent, lad! Præpent! How do you expect anyone to understand this… this gibberish. Oh, well, I suppose we’ll leave it there for today. It’s almost dinnertime anyhow, and we’re both tired. We’ll continue on Monday when we’re both calmer.”
The young man stood, his head bowed. It was clear he didn’t like the work, but the bishop had ordered him to help Alcuin with whatever he asked. He sprinkled some chalk powder on the blot he had just made, but all this did was ruin it further. So he decided to give up completely for the day and gathered his implements, cleaning them sloppily before placing them into a wooden chest. He blew at the chalk remains and used a tiny brush to sweep away the lumps that had formed around the blot. Finally, he sharpened the calamus, rinsed it a little, and left it on the lectern with the original codex. Then he ran after Alcuin, who had already disappeared down the corridor that led to the old peristylium of the cathedral chapter.
“Master, master!” called out the young acolyte. “While I remember, we may not be able to continue on Monday, since it is the day of the execution.”
“The execution? God almighty! I had forgotten,” he said, scratching his tonsure. “Well, it is our duty to assist him at such a difficult juncture. Speaking of which, will the bishop be there?”
“With the whole cathedral chapter,” the acolyte responded.
“Well, then, lad, I will see you at breakfast on Tuesday.”
“You will not be at dinner this evening?”
“No, no. At night, food, aside from bloating my stomach, dulls my senses. And I still have to finish this De Oratione,” he said, raising the parchment roll he carried under his arm. “God be with you.”
“And you, Father. Good night.”
“By the way,” added Alcuin, glancing at the lectern, “don’t you think you should put the codex back on its shelf?”
“Oh! Of course!” said the novice, and quickly retraced his steps. “Good night, Father, I will do that right away.”
The monk set off for the boarding house at the cathedral complex with a disgruntled look. The acolyte had been working on that codex for several days and had barely managed to transcribe four complete pages. At that pace he would never have a decent copy. He decided that as soon as he saw the bishop he would announce his intention to appoint Theresa to the position, for the novice was clearly not the right person for the job.
As he crossed the peristylium he stopped for a moment to look around him. As far as he could see, Fulda’s monastic chapter had adhered to the latest reforms instituted by Charlemagne. In his institutio canonicorum, he aimed to promote community life among the chapter’s clergymen by regulating the system and design of the clerical buildings surrounding the cathedral and the bishop’s palace.
He was fascinated by that arrangement of structures of various styles and functions that wrapped around the little cathedral, and he was even more surprise
d by the fact that the bishop of Fulda had chosen an old Roman domus as the site for his episcopal see. The palace was a two-story stone building. The upper floor had eleven small heated rooms with doors leading out to a communal gallery with views over the atrium. The ground floor housed the cellar, two porticos, two chambers with timber floors, a stable, the kitchens, a bakery, the pantry, the granary, and a small infirmary. Perhaps he was not the right man to make such a judgment, but he had the impression that the palace exceeded the humility required of a prelate of the Church. That said, he knew that he should not criticize too harshly one who had so warmly welcomed him. After all, the Bishop of Fulda had felt most complimented by his presence, especially when he learned that Alcuin was interested in the exquisite treasures of his library.
It was completely dark by the time he arrived at his cell in the boarding house. He could have stayed in the optimates’ residence in the abbey, but preferred a small, private cell to a large but shared room. He thanked the heavens for a space of his own, took off his shoes, and made ready to use his brief moment of solitude to meditate on the events of the day, which had been particularly arduous, but not as bad as the days he had to endure in his far-off Northumbria. After all not in Fulda nor in Aquis-Granum did he have to rise for Matins, and after the Prime service he always had a warm breakfast of cakes with honey, cured cheese, and apple cider waiting for him. Indeed, his daily duties were nothing like those he had performed with utter devotion during his days at the episcopal school in York, where he taught rhetoric and grammar, ran the library, oversaw the scriptorium, collected codices, translated texts, oversaw the loans of books brought in from the distant monasteries of Hibernia, supervised the admission of novices, organized debates, and assessed the progress of each student. How distant were those days in York!
As if he were reliving them, his mind conjured images of his childhood in Britain. He had been born into a Christian family in Whitby, Northumbria, a tiny coastal town whose few inhabitants lived from what they could pull from the sea and from the meager orchards sprawled around an ancient fort. He remembered the rain-soaked land, an eternally damp place, but fresh, where every morning he would wake to the smell of dew and salt, and the sound of waves in constant battle.
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