“This happened shortly after the cereal transaction. A dispute broke out over the succession to the abbacy involving Richolf, the treasurer at the time and also the one responsible for provisioning, and John Chrysostom, prior of the abbey, who was ultimately elected to the position. However, Richolf has left town and Chrysostom died the following year. They didn’t tell me much more, but I managed to establish who drove the cart that transported the grain. It might come as a surprise to you, but it turns out that The Swine may not be as slow-witted as we thought.”
On the way back to the library they stopped at the kitchens for some porridge and milk. Theresa put the food on a tray she found among the dozens of scattered-about pots and pans. She mentioned how surprised she was that the kitchens were in such a mess.
“I would have to agree with you,” said Alcuin. “Clearly there is too much work—or not enough hands.”
Theresa took the opportunity to press him regarding Helga the Black. “Perhaps you could employ her here. She is good in the kitchen, and as clean and tidy as they come.”
“Clean? A prostibulae? A loose woman who lies with men for money?”
“She’s clean with food. If you accepted her here, you’d help her give up her obscene behavior. And there’s also the matter of her pregnancy. Should a child have to pay for its mother’s sins?”
Alcuin fell silent. It was widely believed that the offspring of prostitutes were marked by the Devil from birth, but he didn’t accept such nonsense. He coughed a couple of times before announcing that he would suggest it to the bishop.
“But I cannot promise anything,” he added. “And now, let us resume our work.”
Once they were at the scriptorium, Alcuin discovered a huge and immaculate sheet of parchment, which he spread out on the table. He began to write on it with abandon, as if it had no value.
“Let us go over the case with a fine-tooth comb: On the one hand we are looking at some deaths, which, as far as we know, were caused by the victims ingesting contaminated cereal. Wheat that, it seems, was ground at Kohl’s mill—or that passed through it at least.” Theresa nodded, and Alcuin continued. “And on the other hand, we have seen evidence of the sale, nearly four years ago, of a large batch of cereal to a county where, either before or after the transaction, a strange plague was unleashed. Unfortunately, the people who could help clarify matters the most have either died, like Boethius and John Chrysostom, or have been arrested and accused of murder, like The Swine.”
“And let’s not forget, someone tried to hide proof of the sale not so long ago.”
“That’s right. Well observed.” He paused for a moment to reflect. “So, my theory is that the Plague in Magdeburg, no doubt attributed to the siege by the Saxons that winter, was in actual fact caused by consumption of the wheat, contaminated due to the harsh winter conditions. This corruption would have been well known among the county’s millers, who during one of their worst famines in history would’ve probably taken their chances with the grain rather than die of starvation. However, with the arrival of Charlemagne’s troops, and the replenishment of supplies, we can assume that they would’ve chosen to destroy the contaminated grain.”
“I’m listening.”
“But what would happen if that spoiled wheat, rather than being incinerated, ended up back on the same carts that delivered the rye from Fulda? No doubt it would have been a tidy bit of business for the Magdeburg vendor, who would have made a return on unusable grain—and it would have been even better for the buyer from Fulda, who would have cereal at a rock-bottom price that could then be sold for a hefty profit.”
“And do you think they were aware of its blight?”
“That’s something we may never know. It might have been bought without knowledge of the poison that it contained or, if they were aware of the fact, they might have intended to thoroughly clean the grain.”
“But if they had cleaned it thoroughly, wouldn’t that have prevented the deaths?”
“Unless, of course, the batch of grain changed hands without that bit of knowledge.”
Theresa looked at Alcuin with a sense of excitement, feeling that she was playing a part in each new discovery. However, Alcuin’s brow remained furrowed as he pondered their next step. He asked Theresa to return the codices to the bookcase while he meditated for a moment. Then he finished his milk and looked out through the window as if he were observing time itself.
“You know what? I think it’s time we spoke to The Swine.”
On the way to the slaughterhouse, Alcuin informed Theresa that there were no dungeons in Fulda. Prisoners were chained out in the open until the day they received their punishment. However, though he was guarded, someone had thrown stones at The Swine that almost split his head open, so the prefect had ordered him locked inside the abattoir to prevent some miscreant from ruining the spectacle.
At the entrance to the slaughterhouse they came across a sentry, numb with cold and nodding off. When they tapped him on the shoulder, he blew out a lungful of alcohol fumes, and then once he had learned Alcuin’s intentions, recomposed himself sufficiently to stop them from entering. But as soon as he heard that his soul ran the risk of being consumed by the fires of hell if he did not let them pass, he allowed them in.
Theresa followed Alcuin’s torch as he walked ahead in the darkness. The stench of rotten meat in the damp air was so intense that the porridge she had eaten for breakfast churned in her stomach. Alcuin opened a window onto the inner courtyard. The remains of bones, feathers, and skin could be seen everywhere in the light that filtered through the cracks in the poorly sealed boards.
As they progressed, the torch illuminated the narrow corridor through which the animals were led to their slaughter. At the back of the room they saw a huddled figure—dark, deformed, covered in chains like an animal that had fallen into a trap.
When they approached, Theresa could see that the poor wretch had soiled himself. Alcuin did not seem to care. The friar moved closer and greeted him in a soft voice. The Swine did not respond.
“You have nothing to fear.” He offered him an apple that he had brought from the kitchens.
The Swine remained silent. His eyes trembled in the glow of the torch. Alcuin noticed a pair of gashes in his head, no doubt caused by the stones thrown at him.
“Are you all right? Do you need anything?” Alcuin persisted.
The idiot curled up into himself even tighter, terrified.
Alcuin moved the torch nearer to examine his injuries, but suddenly The Swine leaped toward him and attempting to strike him.
But Alcuin merely stepped back so that the chains stopped the captive before he could reach him.
“We should go,” Theresa suggested.
Ignoring her, Alcuin moved the torch closer once more. This time The Swine retreated. He seemed fearful again.
“Calm down. Nobody wants to hurt you. Who did this to you?”
Still he said nothing.
“Are you hungry?” Alcuin cleaned the apple and placed it on the ground within reach. The Swine hesitated for a moment, then with some difficulty he grabbed the fruit and eagerly stashed it in his clothing.
“Are you afraid to answer? Don’t you want to speak?”
“I don’t think he’ll talk to you,” the guard interrupted from behind. Theresa and Alcuin turned in surprise.
“No? How can you be so sure?” asked Alcuin challengingly.
“Because last Sunday they cut out his tongue.”
On the way back to the chapter, Alcuin walked with his head bowed, kicking any stones in his path. It was the first time Theresa had heard him curse so bitterly.
At the entrance to the episcopal palace they came across Lothar, who was arguing with a richly attired woman. Alcuin tried to approach, but the bishop gestured for him to wait. Before long he took his leave from the woman and approached Alcuin.
“What brings you here? Did you not see who I was speaking to?”
Alcuin kissed his ring.
“Forgive my ignorance. I did not know I was interrupting a matter of importance.”
“Next time, wait until I am ready. You made me look bad in front of that lady,” he grumbled.
“I’m sorry, but I need to speak to you urgently, Father, and this is not the right place,” he said apologetically. “Incidentally, perhaps you can explain what the hole is for that they are digging in the square.”
“You will find out in due course,” he said with a smile. “Are you hungry? Accompany me to lunch and we will discuss whatever it is you wished to see me about.”
Alcuin said good-bye to Theresa, agreeing to meet her afterward in the kitchens. When the friar reached the refectory, he was taken aback by the overwhelming array of food crammed onto the table.
“Please, come and sit down,” said the bishop taking his seat.
Alcuin took a seat by his side and greeted the other diners.
“I hope you have a hearty appetite,” said the bishop, “because as you can see, we are blessed. This lamb’s head seems particularly succulent, see the sweetbreads? They are so sweet, just looking at them makes them melt.”
“You already know, Father, that I am moderate in my eating habits.”
“And by God does it show. You are thin as an earthworm! Look at me, plump and healthy. If some infirmity afflicts me, it will not be for want of food.”
Then Lothar stood, blessed the table, and recited a prayer in chorus with the other guests. When they had finished, he took the lamb’s head in his hands and broke it into several pieces, which he shared merrily among those closest to him. “This is delicious, Alcuin. Do you know the pleasure you are depriving yourself of? Rich cakes, great venison pies, cheese pastries with hazelnuts, and sweet chickpeas with quince. I am certain that you have not had the chance to sample such delicacies in your Northumbria.”
“And I am certain you know that the Rule of Saint Benedict is opposed to gluttony.”
“Oh, yes! The Rule of Saint Benedict! Pray and die of hunger! But fortunately, we are not in your monastery now,” laughed Lothar as he served himself another piece of lamb.
Alcuin raised his eyebrows and served himself a bowl of chickpeas. As he ate, he looked round at the other diners. Opposite him, Chaplain Ambrose, with his dog’s face, sucked on some pigeon heads. To his right, half-hidden behind a dish of fruit, the lector munched louder than the others were talking. Beyond him, two old men with pale eyes and few teeth argued over the last piece of cake.
The bishop cast the leftovers on his plate to the dog beside him and served himself some more.
“So tell me,” he said, “what was it that you wished to speak to me about so urgently?”
“It concerns The Swine.”
“Indeed? That business again? So what is it now?”
“I would rather explain in private.” He studied the bishop carefully. His neatly shaven face, with hardly a wrinkle, soft and chubby, revealed as much emotion as a sunburned pig. He guessed him to be around thirty-five years old, an uncommonly young age for a role with such great responsibility, albeit no impediment for a relative of Charlemagne.
At a signal from Lothar, everyone at the table stood. Alcuin waited for the room to empty before he began.
“Be brief, Alcuin. I must dress for the execution.”
“The execution? But did you not postpone it?” he asked, bewildered.
“And now I have brought it forward,” the bishop responded without so much as a glance at him.
“Please forgive me, but that is precisely what I wanted to speak to you about. Were you aware that someone has cut out The Swine’s tongue?”
Lothar looked him up and down. “Of course. The whole town knows it.”
“And what is your opinion?”
“The same as you, I should think. That some undesirable has deprived us of the pleasure of hearing him scream.”
“And also speak,” he said openly.
“Yes, but who is interested in the lies of a half-witted murderer?”
“Maybe that is the crux of the matter.” He paused to consider his next words. “Perhaps someone does not wish him to speak. And there’s more.”
“More?”
“The Swine is no criminal,” he said.
Lothar looked at him with irritation. Then he turned and walked off.
“I can guarantee you that he did not kill the girl,” Alcuin continued.
“Stop talking nonsense!” He turned back and walked straight back toward Alcuin until they were face to face. “How many times do I have to tell you that they found him with the victim, clutching the sickle that was used to cut her throat? Soaked in her blood!”
“That does not prove he killed her,” he responded calmly.
“Would you be capable of explaining that to her mother?” Lothar retorted.
“If I knew who she was, I don’t see why I couldn’t.”
“Then you just missed your chance! She was the woman I was speaking with when you interrupted. The mill owner Kohl’s wife.”
Alcuin fell silent. Though it was too early to jump to conclusions, that information upset most of his ideas. However, it didn’t alter the fact that he believed an innocent man was about to be executed.
“Will you listen to me, for the love of God? You are the only person who can stop this insanity. That man would be incapable of holding a sickle. Have you seen his hands? His fingers are deformed. Deformed from birth. I have seen them with my own eyes.”
“You have seen him? How? Have you visited him? Who authorized it?”
“I tried to ask your permission, but your secretary told me that you were busy. And now answer me this: If The Swine is incapable of holding even an apple with either hand, how could he have held, much less wielded, a sickle?”
“Look, Alcuin, you may be a minister of education. You may know your letters, theology, and a thousand other things. But I must remind you that you are merely a deacon. Here in Fulda, whether you like it or not, the person who has the final decision is me, so I suggest you forget your foolish theories and concentrate on that codex that so interests you.”
“All I am interested in is preventing an outrage. I can assure you that The Swine did not—”
“And I assure you that he killed her! And if your only argument is that his fingers do not work, you can start praying—for there is nothing else you can do before he’s marched to the gallows.”
“But Your Excellency—”
“This conversation is over,” he said, leaving and slamming the door to his chambers in Alcuin’s face.
Alcuin returned to his cell with his head bowed. He was certain that The Swine had not murdered that young woman, but his certainty rested only on the fact that the man could not even hold an apple.
He cursed his stupidity. If instead of attempting to convince Lothar he had tried to have the execution postponed, perhaps he would have had time to find more convincing proof. Maybe he should have argued it was more appropriate to wait for Charlemagne’s arrival, or perhaps he should have suggested they wait until The Swine’s injuries heal, to add to the enjoyment of the spectacle. But now there was nothing he could do. Only a couple of hours remained to try to prevent the inevitable.
Then the idea came to him. He wrapped up and hurried out of his cell to get Theresa from the stables. Together they made for the abbey.
In the apothecary he asked Theresa to wash a bowl while he examined the various flasks that filled the shelves. Uncorking several, he sniffed their contents before deciding on one labeled lactuca virosa. Opening it, he removed a whitish block, which he placed on an earthenware plate.
It had been a long time since he had used the compound extracted from a variety of wild lettuce, the sap of which had a strong hypnotic effect. He took a walnut-sized portion, crushed it into a powder, then opened the little lid on his ring and tipped the powder into the tiny receptacle. Then he tidied the flasks, leaving everything how it was, before hurrying off to the chapter.
However, when
they reached the episcopal palace they found the doors closed. Theresa parted ways, for she had promised Helga she would accompany her to The Swine’s execution, and Alcuin, too, set off for the gallows.
When Theresa arrived at the tavern, Helga was ready to leave, her face painted and hair pinned up. The gash on her face had disappeared under a paste of flour, water, and colored with earth, which made Theresa think it might not be too deep. Helga seemed excited, and she had prepared some sweet pastries so they wouldn’t have to buy them from the hawkers, and though they were not the most attractive things, they smelled of honey and spices. Before heading to the square, they both donned fur cloaks to protect themselves from the cold. Then they locked up properly and set off carrying their food and some wine. While they walked, Theresa told Helga about what she had seen at the slaughterhouse, but to her surprise, Helga rejoiced to hear they had cut out The Swine’s tongue.
“Shame they didn’t rip his balls off, too,” she declared.
“Alcuin says he’s innocent. That killing him will solve nothing.”
“What does that priest know? I hope he doesn’t spoil the party,” she said, and they headed for the square arm in arm.
Not long before sundown, the cathedral bells started to chime their mournful strains. The soldiers had arranged a circular arena about thirty paces across in the center of the square, cordoning off its perimeter with a circle of stakes. Inside the arena was a hole similar in size to a grave, and in front of it were three wooden tables along with three small chairs. A dozen or so men armed with sticks were watching the crowd that was starting to gather at the fence, where traders had set up their stalls to make last-minute sales. Gradually the multitude grew, and before long, the palisade was hidden under a mass of people clamoring hysterically for the spectacle to begin.
When the bells fell silent, a long cortège paraded into the square. A rider dressed in mourning led the way, accompanied by a cohort of civilians. Most of them wore colorful outfits that contrasted with the rags worn by the serfs who followed them with cured meats hanging from their arms. Next there were several slaves announcing their arrival with the beating of drums. Then came the wagon with the prisoner, and behind him, the executioner who was busy picking up the rotten food that was thrown at the captive and then rubbing it in his face. A swarm of excited children brought up the rear of the procession.
The Scribe Page 25