Moments later a group of clerics appeared led by Bishop Lothar. In his right hand he brandished a golden staff, and in his left, he held up an ornate silver crucifix. He was wearing a ciclatoun robe of red silk, covered by a tunic of Bukharan cotton, his head crowned with a linen infula of dubious taste. The rest of the clergymen wore woolen paenulae, all of them covered with the priestly alb. The bishop took the second seat at the table where a man in black already sat. Upon the bishop’s arrival, the man stood to kiss his ring. An acolyte served them wine, and then a city magistrate took the third seat.
The square erupted into a roar when the oxen transporting The Swine were driven into the arena toward the hole in the ground. As soon as they stopped, the executioner grabbed the condemned man and threw him headlong onto the ground. A cheer went up and objects rained down upon the wagon, forcing the executioner and driver to take refuge under the cart. When the crowds had calmed down, the executioner dragged the prisoner to a stake near the pit, tied him to it, and put a rope around his neck. Then he checked that the knots were tight and gave a signal to the rider who was also dressed in black. The rider nodded and looked at the pathetic sight of the captive with evident pleasure.
Alcuin was the last person to arrive at the arena. Crossing the square and elbowing his way through the crowd, he jumped over the fence, threatening to excommunicate the guard who tried to stop him. As he approached the dignitaries, he realized that the man in black was the mill owner Kohl, father of the murdered young woman. His wife, accompanied by some other women, was there, too, but she was farther back in a more discreet location, her grief evident from the dark rings around her eyes. He thought to himself that, for this family, not even the execution of the perpetrator would bring relief.
As Alcuin contemplated how to deposit the powdered drug into Lothar’s wine, the drums sounded, and he tried to stand behind them—close, but out of the way. The three men stood up, and Bishop Lothar spoke. “In the name of Charlemagne—the wisest and noblest king of the Franks; ruler of Aquitania, Austrasia, and Lombardy; patrician of the Romans and conqueror of Saxony—we declare that Fredegarius, better known as The Swine, a man without light and an envoy and disciple of Lucifer, has been found guilty of an abominable murder and other dreadful crimes. I, Lothar of Reims, Bishop of Fulda, lord of these lands, and representative of the king, his power and his justice, order under God’s law that the accused be punished with the greatest of torments, and that his remains be spread about the city’s fields as a lesson to those who dare offend God and His Christian creatures.”
The crowds screamed with fury. At Lothar’s signal, the executioner untied the condemned man and, after tying his hands behind his back, ushered him with blows to the edge of the pit.
The Swine seemed dazed, as if uncomprehending of what was about to happen. When he could see the ditch he was destined for, he attempted to free himself, but the executioner cast him to the ground and kicked him in the head. By then, The Swine was little more than a mass of trembling flesh. The multitude pressed against the fence squealed like a great herd of pigs.
Two boys armed with stones evaded the guards while finding their way into the arena, though they were soon caught. When the crowds had calmed down again, the executioner lifted The Swine to his feet. Lothar stepped forward, made the sign of the cross with a gesture of contempt, and ordered the executioner to begin the torment.
The crazed onlookers screamed their approval. It seemed that at any moment they would knock down the fence and lynch the prisoner.
Alcuin took advantage of the commotion to open his ring and tip the drug into the bishop’s tankard of wine. Nobody saw it, but Lothar turned to see him with his hand still gripping the handle. With no time to react, Alcuin raised it and offered it to him in a toast. “To justice!” he cried, handing him his own tankard and picking up another.
Lothar was a little surprised, but finally he took it and downed its contents in one gulp. “To justice,” he repeated raising his empty cup.
The executioner grabbed hold of the prisoner and with a violent blow cast him into the bottom of the pit. The clamor became deafening. The Swine stood up, drooling, with a lost look in his tear-filled eyes. The crowds pumped their fists in the air and called for blood. At that moment, two more men approached the pit bearing large wooden spades, making the crowd delirious with excitement. They positioned themselves beside a heap of sand and without saying a word they started shoveling it onto the captive. The Swine tried to turn around to escape from the pit, but the men prevented him with blows. One of them pressed into his back with the end of his spade, immobilizing him, while the others continued to bury him alive. As if in a fit of ecstasy, the crowd egged them on with curses and oaths. The Swine attempted to wriggle away from the spade that held him down. But the weight of the earth now upon him prevented him from moving his legs, and all he could do was thrash about like a trapped rabbit.
Soon the earth was piling onto his head. He spat and started to writhe out of pure desperation, his eyes all but coming out of their sockets. Spitting again and again, the sand continued to rain down on him until, gradually, he was completely covered.
For a moment the square fell silent, but suddenly the sand moved and the prisoner’s head reappeared, spewing out soil. The Swine breathed in as though it would be his last mouthful of air, and the crowd cried out in astonishment.
The bishop stood up and gestured to Kohl, but he didn’t notice. Alcuin knew that the drug was starting to take effect.
Lothar sensed his vision clouding. His legs weakened and a dry heat pricked at his throat. He tried in vain to grab hold of Kohl. He attempted to speak but was unable, and he barely had time to cross himself before he fell flat on his face, taking the chair and table with him.
Silence descended upon the crowd. Even the executioner turned his head, forgetting about The Swine for a moment.
Seeing the executioner distracted, Kohl intervened. “Finish him off, damned fool.”
The executioner didn’t move. Then Kohl leapt down toward the pit and snatched the spade from him.
He was about to deal the final blow when Alcuin appeared between him and the prisoner. “You dare to disobey a sign from the heavens? God wishes to prolong this criminal’s suffering,” cried Alcuin as loudly as he could. Then he walked over to the fallen bishop and pretended to examine him. “When Lothar recovers, we will enjoy another execution!” he added.
The crowd roared again.
“You?” exclaimed Kohl. “You’re the monk who came to the mill just the other day!”
“The murderer will pay for his crime, but the law, the executive authority, must justify the punishment,” he put forth.
Kohl tried to strike The Swine again, but Alcuin stopped him.
“This is not God’s will,” he repeated, holding the spade firmly.
The masses bellowed excitedly.
Finally, Kohl spat on the prisoner, took his wife by the arm, and departed, escorted by his entourage. The chapter’s council followed him, still bewildered by what had happened to Lothar. But Alcuin reassured them that the bishop’s condition was not serious and he would soon recover.
Finally, amid insults and threats, The Swine was lifted out of the pit and reloaded onto the cart. He and his captors left the square, and headed back to the slaughterhouse.
Helga the Black seemed distraught. Not only had she not seen an execution, but in a moment of distraction, a street urchin had stolen her bag of pastries. Theresa proposed buying a hot bun made with rye from a nearby stall, an offer that Helga immediately accepted. While Theresa searched through her empty pockets, the prostitute had already approached the pastry stand and was bartering for the buns. She selected a round bread roll, agreeing with the baker that she would pay her dues when he came by the tavern. She smiled with pleasure as they both wolfed down the pastries in no time at all. They found it to be so delicious that Helga did not hesitate to buy another, bigger one, laden with honey.
When t
hey had finished, Theresa noticed the paste of flour and earth around Helga’s mouth that she had used to hide her scar. Another blob hung from her nose like a strange white wart. When she told her, Helga burst into animated laughter. Theresa was surprised it didn’t make her wound bleed again. She decided to ask what had happened.
“I wasn’t out of bed yet when I heard a banging on the door,” she said. “I didn’t even have time to ask who it was. As soon as I opened it, I felt a kick to my stomach and punches rained down on me. The animal! He slit my face and told me that if I dared keep the child, next time it wouldn’t be my belly that he’d cut open.”
“But why does he behave so? What does he care what you do?”
“He must fear that I’ll report him.”
She explained that those accused of adultery were given seven years of penance, a punishment that consisted of daily fasting for the duration of the sentence, although a sum of money could be paid in lieu of it.
“He really likes his food,” she complained. “And I think he’s scared that his wife will disown him. Then he’ll lose the carpenter’s workshop, which belongs to his father-in-law. But you know what? I’m going to do it. I’ll report him even if it comes to nothing. With this scar, nobody will pay for my services anymore. Who’s going to want to lie with a disfigured whore?”
“It’s not that bad,” Theresa reassured her. “It’s barely visible. When I saw you this morning, it really seemed much better.”
“It’s only deep here,” she said, pointing near the ear, “but they’ll reject me anyway. Plus I’m getting on a bit.”
Theresa stopped to look at her. It was true. She was wrinkled, with visible gray hair and sagging flesh. She thought that some men might not care that her face had been scratched.
“Anyhow,” Theresa said, “you can’t be thinking of continuing with that work now that you’re pregnant.”
“Oh no?” she said, her laugh sounding bitter. “And how will I eat every day? I don’t have a priest infatuated with me who’ll pay me to scrawl a few words.”
“You could find another trade,” she responded without taking her comment to heart. “You cook better than that third-rate baker.”
Helga the Black felt flattered, but she shook her head. She knew that nobody would hire a prostitute, not to mention a pregnant one.
“Let’s go to the chapter,” Theresa suggested.
“Are you mad? They’ll send us packing with a boot to the backside.”
Theresa’s only response was to take her by the hand and ask that she trust her. On the way to the episcopal palace, she told her about the conversation she had had with Alcuin about a job in the kitchen.
At the entrance to the cathedral they asked for Alcuin, who soon appeared. The monk was surprised to see Helga the Black, but once he composed himself, he inquired about the wound on Helga’s face, to which she replied with all the gory details. When she had finished speaking, the monk turned away, asking them to follow.
In the kitchen, he introduced them to Favila, a woman so fat she seemed like she was wearing not one but thirty dresses. Alcuin explained that she was in charge of the cooking, and that she was as kind-hearted as she was plump. The woman smiled with mock embarrassment, but when she learned Alcuin’s intentions, her expression turned hard.
“Everyone in Fulda knows Helga,” she argued. “Once a whore, always a whore, so get out of my kitchen.”
Helga turned to leave, but Theresa stopped her.
“Nobody has asked you to lie with her,” the young woman blurted out.
Alcuin took out a couple of coins and left them on the table. Then he looked Favila in the eyes. “Have you forgotten the word forgiveness? Did Christ not help the lepers, did he not pardon his executioners, or take in Mary Magdalene?”
“I am not a saint like Jesus,” she grumbled, though she pocketed the coins.
“While the bishop remains indisposed, this woman is now in your charge. Oh! And she’s pregnant,” he said, “so do not overwork her. If anyone gives you any grief for it, tell them it was my decision.”
“I may be kind hearted, but I’m also fussy as hell about my kitchen. And I know a thing or two about working pregnant. I’ve had eight children and the last one I almost let drop out of me right here,” she said, patting the table where Alcuin had placed the coins. “Come then, get that paint off your face and start peeling onions. And the girl? Is she staying too?”
“She works with me,” Alcuin told her.
“But I can help if needed,” offered Theresa.
Then Alcuin left the women to their cooking. He only had a couple of days before Lothar recovered, and he wanted to use every last moment to continue his investigation.
Favila proved to be one of those people who overcame her problems by grumbling and stuffing her face. She would complain about everything from her staff’s lack of diligence to the cleanliness of the stoves. After each scolding, she would take a bite of a bun or of a loaf of bread dipped in pickling brine, and eventually joy would be restored to the kitchen. She loved children and began to talk about Helga’s future baby with such enthusiasm that Theresa thought Favila was the pregnant one.
“Although, I will never understand how something the size of a suckling pig can come out of a tube as wide as a cherry,” Favila said to Helga, and upon seeing the color drain from her face, offered her a pastry to bring the color back.
Helga, for her part, aptly demonstrated her culinary skills that first evening by preparing a delicious stew of celery and carrots using the leftovers from the midday meal. Favila enjoyed the casserole and before she had finished eating, the two women were celebrating the result as if they had known each other all their lives.
That night while Theresa made herself comfortable in the straw, she was glad that she had helped Helga the Black. Then she remembered Hoos and a pleasant shiver ran down her neck, back, and legs. She imagined the vigor of his strong, hard body, the taste of his warm lips. She felt guilty that she desired him to be inside her and longed for time to pass so that she would no longer have to sin in his absence. She missed him so much that she thought if he did not return, she would go find him wherever he was. Then she realized she had thought of nothing else since the day of his departure.
JANUARY
17
Helga the Black was not accustomed to rising with the lark, nor used to going to bed early, so when she woke, she rinsed her face and swapped her flamboyant dress from the night before for a dark serge, one that would not cling to her figure. Then she left the storeroom where they had allowed her to sleep and went into the kitchens, which were still empty. She threw a piece of cheese into her mouth and started to clean, singing softly to herself and stroking her belly. When Favila arrived, she found Helga so neat and tidy, with her hair gathered up, and not reeking of sickly sweet perfume, that she thought she was an entirely different woman. The scar across her cheek was the only giveaway that she was the same woman.
Theresa appeared as breakfast was being served, with straw still in her hair, but managed to remove it before Favila and Helga could make fun of her.
“If you’re going to help, follow Helga’s example. She was already cooking before dawn,” Favila reproached Theresa.
Theresa was just glad the cook was beginning to discover all her friend’s virtues.
Before going to Lothar’s chambers, Alcuin asked God to forgive him for his conduct with the bishop. He regretted having poisoned him, but he had been unable to find another way to prevent the execution of The Swine, who, in his mind, was guilty only of low intelligence. However, now, to alleviate Lothar’s symptoms, he had to counteract the effects of the toxin with a syrup of agrimony. He shook the vial vigorously so that the tincture would mix with the thinner. When he entered, he found the prelate stretched out on his four-poster bed. He was breathing heavily, with bags the size of kidney beans under his eyes. When Lothar asked him for his opinion, Alcuin pretended not to know anything. Nevertheless, Lothar accepted th
e medicine without reservation.
Soon after drinking it, he felt some improvement.
“I suppose you were pleased by the setback,” he suggested as he sat up in bed. “But I can assure you that The Swine will meet his death all the same.”
“If that is God’s will,” Alcuin conceded without stating his opinion on the matter. “Tell me—how are you feeling?”
“A bit better now. It’s fortunate that you know medicine, especially now that we have no physician. Are you sure you don’t know the cause of my indisposition?”
“It might have been something you ate.”
“I will speak to the cook. She is the only person who touches my food,” he responded irritably.
“Or perhaps something you drank,” he said, trying to exonerate Favila.
At that moment Favila waddled in accompanied by a boy with a tray full of food. Lothar looked at the woman without accusation, and his eyes widened when he saw the assortment of delicacies on the menu. Before beginning to eat he looked toward Alcuin and though he found his expression wary, he eagerly dived into the pigeon casserole anyway with Favila proudly standing by to await his verdict. As Lothar picked at the little bones, Alcuin informed him of the situation with Helga the Black.
“A prostitute? Here in the chapter? How dare you!” he sputtered over himself.
“She was desperate. A man attacked her.”
“Well, they can employ her somewhere else. By God! We have to set an example here.” And he stuffed another pigeon into his mouth.
“That woman can change,” the cook interjected. “Not all harlots are the same.”
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