The Scribe

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by Garrido, Antonio


  Her walk ended in front of the city’s great gates, an impressive lattice of timber, hawthorn, and metal beams that protected the main entrance into Fulda. At the top, sharpened tree trunks stood in a line like a row of teeth flickering in the reddish glow of the torches. The many repairs that had been made to the gates gave them the appearance of a dying structure.

  Though there were other entrances, they were less well defended. On either side of the gates, a stone wall was erected to protect the city. Inside the walls, numerous homes were built directly up against it so that the city’s fortifications served simultaneously as one of the walls of their home. This design made it difficult for the garrison to guard the wall with ease. However, the defenses only encircled part of the town, the oldest quarter. The original wall was built when the town was just the monastery and its orchards. But with the city’s continual expansion, a proliferation of buildings had spilled into previously empty fields. The new expansion of the wall would protect the extensive suburbs from any possible attack.

  Each night the secondary gates were barred and only the main entrance was left open. However, that evening the main gates were also closed, turning the city into an impregnable bastion. Theresa thought that perhaps the bishop had ordered them shut to prevent the criminal from escaping. But one of the guards told her that late in the day several peasants had spotted armed strangers, and though they were probably just bandits, they had decided to take precautions.

  Lost in thought, Theresa suddenly became aware of a clamor of frightened folks banging on the other side of the gate, demanding entry to the town. She watched as the guards discussed it with their superior. Then one of the guards left the turret and went down to open the gate. Theresa watched as another guard threw buckets of water on the people who were trying to squeeze through before the gates were opened. Another two guards positioned themselves on each side of the gate armed with spears. The guard on top of the gate shouted down to the unruly mob, warning them that he would not open the gates if they didn’t settle down. This seemed to have a temporary calming effect. But as soon as the bolts were released, the mob pushed through the entry, making the sentries retreat in alarm. Theresa stood aside as a flood of people shoved their way past. Men, women, and children loaded with belongings and animals stormed into the enclosure as if the Devil were pursuing them. When the last person was inside, the guards closed the gates and went back up to the turret.

  One of the townsfolk approached Theresa, eager for conversation. “Many have stayed outside thinking they won’t attack, but they won’t catch me unawares again,” he said, showing her an old scar on his belly.

  Theresa didn’t know what to think. Those who had just gained entry seemed like they were fleeing the Apocalypse, and yet they were only a small fraction of everyone who lived outside the protection of the city walls. When she asked the man why everybody didn’t want entry, he told her that not everyone believed an attack was imminent.

  Fear made Theresa decide to return to the abbey. But first she went by Helga’s old tavern, in case she had decided to return to her former home. She found it still empty, so she made for the episcopal palace to check the kitchens before retiring for the night. But, yet again, there was no sign of her friend. She only found Favila, who reproached her for bringing a prostitute to the chapter. “I knew that she would do the dirty on us at the first opportunity,” she declared, without giving her a chance to reply.

  Theresa left without saying a word. In the stables, she pondered the events: a young woman murdered, dozens of townspeople poisoned, a monk she didn’t know whether to trust, and her only friend suddenly gone as if by magic. In her prayers she remembered her family. She thought of Hoos and Helga the Black. Then she made herself comfortable among the hay bales and waited for dawn.

  But at midnight she was awakened by a sudden racket. From every direction she heard shouting and hurried footsteps, some running. Several clerics came into the stables bearing torches to saddle a couple of the animals.

  Frightened, Theresa rose and ran to Favila’s chambers, where she found the woman pacing up and down, her flesh dancing about under a simple robe. She was about to ask what was happening when the banging of drums interrupted. The two women ran upstairs to the roof terrace with views of the entire city and found themselves looking down on a surprising scene: All along the main street, which was illuminated by dozens of torches, amid cheers and applause, rode a procession of riders led by a man clad in steel, escorted by a troupe of drummers. Despite the late hour, dozens of onlookers greeted the horseman as if he were God Himself and His cohorts. Favila crossed herself and ran downstairs crying out with joy, while Theresa followed behind, still feeling clueless.

  Back in the kitchen while lighting the stoves, Favila said, “Don’t you know? The great monarch has arrived. Our King Charlemagne.”

  18

  Theresa had never imagined that the king’s presence could cause such a stir. That night she had to vacate the stables, since the clergy used it to accommodate the royal horses and servants. She moved to the room that Favila had in the palace pantries. However, not long after she tried to retire for the second time that night, the king’s cooks took over the kitchens, filling them with geese, pheasants, and ducks that honked and quacked like demons for the rest of the night.

  The next morning, the chapter was a hive of activity. Clerics ran to and fro, laden with plants with which to adorn the cathedral for the holy services. The busy kitchen staff prepared dishes of roasted meats, vegetables, and delicate pastries. The maidservants cleaned every nook and cranny. And Lothar’s acolytes rushed to move the bishop’s belongings to an adjoining chamber—for his room would be occupied by Charlemagne.

  When Favila ordered Theresa to join the other servants in the refectory, Theresa felt there was little point in trying to explain that she only received orders from Alcuin. She tried anyway, but her argument fell on deaf ears. With a shove Favila ushered her into the refectory to help the others.

  When Theresa walked into the dining hall she found it decked out with religious tapestries in sumptuous reds and blues. The central table had been replaced by three long boards laid on U-shaped trestles, opposite the entrance. Theresa arranged a row of green apples on the colorful linen tablecloths, already adorned with centerpieces of cyclamens, garlands, and violets—the winter flowers that were cultivated in the gardens. Several rows of stools lined each side of the tables, except for the central area, cleared to accommodate the throne and other armchairs that the king and his favorites would use.

  The cooks had prepared a feast for a legion of hungry men, with no shortage of capon and duck still with their plumage, scrambled pheasant eggs, grilled ox, lamb shoulders, pork ribs and fillets, kidney stews, offal, accompaniments of cabbage, turnip, and radish dressed in garlic and pepper, boiled artichokes, an array of sausages and cold meats, bean salads, roast rabbit, pickled quails, strudels, and a myriad of desserts made with honey and rye flour.

  On the way back to the kitchen, Theresa heard the head cook asking Favila if she had any garum. Seemingly, the monarch loved the condiment, but the expedition had left their stocks behind in Aquis-Granum. Favila explained hesitantly that she had started the process some time ago, but then gave up when she tasted it. Bringing it out, the head cook, Theresa, and Favila all took a sample and all three immediately spit it out.

  “I know how to fix it,” Theresa said, remembering what Leonora had taught her about how it could be doctored up with spices. “With your permission, of course.”

  Before the man could object, Theresa ran to the pantry and returned laden with aromatic herbs from the garden along with some salt. After following the steps just as Leonora had shown her, she poured the liquid into a large spoon, which she then handed to the cook.

  “How is it now?”

  The man tried it and looked at her in amazement.

  “Well, blow me down! Charlemagne will be pleased! Let’s see, you two,” he snapped, addressing a couple
of servants. “Leave those dressings and come and help this girl prepare more garum. I must say, if your stews are as good as your condiments, I’m sure you will have no trouble finding a wealthy husband.”

  Theresa blushed and thought of Hoos Larsson. She hoped that he would be her husband. Even though she wasn’t sure if he had money, her heart fluttered when she thought about how handsome he was.

  When the cook told Favila that Charlemagne wanted to congratulate the person who had made the condiment, Favila started trembling, insisting it was Theresa who should get the credit. She smoothed Theresa’s hair, pinched her cheeks until they lit up like a newborn’s, and gave her a clean apron to wear. Then she ushered her off, calling her a cheeky rascal. However, Theresa took her by the hand and forced her to go to the refectory with her.

  As the women approached, they were surprised by the sheer number of waiters, maids, and servants milling about near the entrance. The cook showing them the way pushed past some glaring onlookers, clearing a path through the crowd to the door of the dining hall. He told them to wait until the lector had recited the psalms.

  While the cleric read, Theresa observed Charlemagne standing in the center of the hall. The monarch’s colossal stature made the young woman next to him seem like a dwarf. Charlemagne was dressed in a short cloak as substantial as a napkin on his great body, a woolen overcoat, baggy trousers, and leather boots. His face, shaven in the Frankish way, sported a large unruly moustache that contrasted with the rest of his hair, neatly gathered into a long ponytail. Behind him, Alcuin and Lothar waited patiently at the front of his retinue, which included a cohort of elegantly attired prelates.

  When the lector finished, they all sat and started to breakfast, which was when the cook asked Theresa to follow him. They crossed the room and he introduced her to the king, whom Theresa acknowledged with a ridiculous curtsy. Charlemagne regarded her as though he did not understand what was happening.

  “The garum girl,” the cooked informed him.

  Charlemagne’s eyes widened, surprised by her youth. Then he congratulated her and continued to eat as if nothing had happened. Before she could even think of something to say, Theresa felt the cook grasp her arm and pull her toward the exit.

  She was about to return to the kitchens when Favila suggested she wait and help her clear the tables. The two women stood together at one end of the room, observing the dignitaries devouring their feast as if it were their last meal. While the guests breakfasted, dozens of clerics, vassals, landowners, and artisans paraded through the refectory to pay tribute to the monarch.

  Theresa noticed the entrance of the refined, little man who had bought Althar’s bear. Behind him followed a rosy-cheeked servant holding a tray as if it were a dish of food, but on it was the head of the beast that she had hunted herself during her time at the bear caves. The little man crossed the hall and bowed before the king. Then, after a brief explanation, he stepped aside so the servant could place the animal’s head among the plates of food. Charlemagne stood to admire its beauty. He said something about the bear’s eyes, to which the little man responded with more bows. The king thanked him for his gift, which he had someone position at one end of the table, and then he dismissed the man who retreated backward, bowing repeatedly.

  Since the head had ended up near Theresa, she decided to examine it to see what had caught Charlemagne’s attention. She could see that one of the eyes had come loose in its socket, making it appear a little less fierce. She thought that it wouldn’t be difficult to repair, so she took hold of a knife and—without waiting for permission—started to cut the stitching that ran to the damaged eye. She had almost opened it fully when someone grabbed her from behind.

  “May I ask what the devil you are doing?” It was the little, rich man, shouting so that everyone could hear him.

  Theresa explained that she was trying to fix the eye, but the man gave her a slap that made her fall flat on her face. One of the cooks ran toward Theresa to drag her out before the little man could do her any more harm. But right then, the king stood and asked them to pick her up. “Come here,” he ordered.

  Theresa obeyed, trembling.

  “I was only…” she fell silent, ashamed.

  “She was trying to ruin my bear head,” the little man interrupted.

  “You mean, my head,” Charlemagne corrected him. “Is that true? You wanted to ruin it?” he asked Theresa.

  When the young woman tried to answer, all she could manage was a thin, little voice. “I was just trying to put the eye back in place.”

  “And that’s why you were slitting the face open?” said the king in surprise.

  “I was not slitting it, Your Highness. I was just cutting the stitching.”

  “And a liar, too!” interjected the little man. At that moment, Alcuin whispered something to the king, who nodded.

  “Cutting the stitching…” Charlemagne examined the head closely. “How could you have cut it, if the stitching isn’t even visible?”

  “I know where it is because it was me who sewed it,” she declared.

  Hearing her response, everyone except Alcuin burst into laughter.

  “I see that I will have to agree with you,” the king said to the little man who had branded her a liar.

  “I promise you I am not lying. First I hunted the bear, then I sewed it,” Theresa insisted. The laughter stopped, replaced by a stunned silence. Not even those closest to the king would dare to make such a joke. Charlemagne himself changed his condescending expression.

  “And I can prove it,” she added.

  The monarch arched an eyebrow. Until then the young woman had seemed likeable, but her effrontery was starting to verge on foolishness. He could not decide whether to order her flogged, or to simply dismiss her, but something in her eyes stopped him.

  “In that case, show me,” said the king, ordering silence. Only the chewing of food could be heard in the hall.

  Theresa looked at Charlemagne with resolve. Then, in front of the amazed faces of everyone present, she told in full detail the story of the hunt in which she helped Althar bring down the animal. When she had finished the story, not even a belch could be heard in the room.

  “So you killed the bear by shooting it with a crossbow? I must admit that your fable is truly fabulous, but all it proves is that you are a bare-faced liar,” declared Charlemagne sententiously.

  Theresa understood that she had to convince him soon or they would remove her from there with force. She quickly took the animal’s head in her arms. “If what I am saying is false, then how is it possible that I know what it contains?”

  “Inside?” Charlemagne asked, intrigued.

  “Inside the head. It is filled with beaver skin.”

  Without waiting for permission, she broke the stitching and pulled out a ball of fur, which she let fall onto the table. She unrolled it so that everyone could see that it was a damaged beaver pelt. Charlemagne looked at her gravely.

  “So it was you who killed it.”

  Theresa bit her lip. She looked around her until her eyes fell on the pile of weapons where the men-at-arms had left them before eating. Without saying a word, she crossed the hall and took hold of a crossbow that was lying on a chest. A soldier drew his sword, but Charlemagne gestured for him to hold off. Theresa knew she had just one chance. She recalled how, after the bear hunt, she had practiced with Althar and developed some skill in handling the weapon. However, she had never managed to load one by herself. She placed the end on the floor and held it down purposefully with her foot. She grasped the string and tensed it with all her strength. When the string was a mere whisker from being secured into place, it slipped through her fingers.

  There was some commotion from the onlookers, but Theresa didn’t give them time to react. She clasped it again and pulled hard, feeling the fibers digging into her fingers. She thought of the fire in the workshop; of her father Gorgias; of Althar; of Helga the Black and of Hoos Larsson. There had been too many mistakes
in her life. She clenched her teeth and pulled harder. The string snapped loose, resting safely in its slot.

  Theresa smiled with satisfaction. Finally, she loaded a dart. Then she looked at the king, awaiting his approval. Upon receiving it, she raised the weapon, aimed carefully at an empty plot of ground, and released the arrow. The dart cut through the air, whizzing across the room and landing with a thump into the ground between the legs of the rich man himself.

  A murmur of astonishment ran through the refectory. Charlemagne stood and called the young woman over. “Impressive. I can see that Alcuin was right to advise me to believe you.” He looked at the woman sitting to his right. “After breakfast, come to my chambers. It would be my pleasure to introduce you to my daughter.”

  At that moment Lothar stood and asked for silence. He donned his miter and raised his cup in a solemn gesture. “I think it is time for a toast,” he proposed. Everyone at the table also lifted their drinks. “It is always an honor to welcome our beloved monarch, Charlemagne, who as you all know I am bound to by blood and friendship. However, we are also honored by the presence of the Roman legation that accompanies him, led by his eminence Flavio Diacono, the pope’s holy prelate. I am therefore pleased to announce that, as a gesture of respect and loyalty toward human fortitude,” he bowed toward Charlemagne, “unconditional submission to divine justice,” he did the same to the Roman Curia, “this afternoon we will finally hold the execution of The Swine.”

  At the conclusion of his speech, those present toasted without their cups coming into contact with each other. Theresa thought this strange.

  Favila explained to her that not touching cups was a sign of trust. “In the olden days, when a king wanted to control another nation, he would marry his son to the princess of his coveted kingdom and invite the father of the bride to a feast in which he would offer him a poisoned cup of wine. To prevent this barbaric practice, they would touch cups, mixing their wine together so that if one should die, so would the other. That’s why it’s the custom here, as a sign of trust, to never touch cups.”

 

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