At the entrance of the church, a guard confirmed that they were assembled there, but that she could not enter. Theresa tried to persuade him, but the guard would not yield. At that moment she felt a hand rest on her shoulder. She turned to find herself face to face with Lothar, who apparently had arrived for the conclave at that moment. She feared she may have been discovered, but to her relief the bishop gave her a friendly smile.
“Perhaps you would like to join us,” he even suggested.
Theresa sensed a certain darkness in his words, but thought that it would give her an opportunity to inform Alcuin of Lothar’s involvement in the falsification of the polyptych. She accepted his invitation and the bishop told her to make herself comfortable. Everyone resumed the same positions, just as they had before the break, reminding Theresa of a painting she had seen before.
The spectators whispered to each other about Alcuin’s guilt, while the monk, some distance from them, paced up and down like a caged animal. When he saw Theresa, it seemed to unnerve him. He nodded to her almost imperceptibly and kept pacing as he studied his wax tablet. Moments later, Charlemagne appeared, attired in the impressive cuirass he normally wore for summary trials. They all stood until the monarch took his seat. After giving his permission for them to do the same, Charlemagne told Alcuin to resume his testimony. However, Alcuin continued to look over his tablet, until the king cleared his throat to call attention to the delay.
“Forgive me, Your Highness. I was rereading my notes.”
Charlemagne gestured to him to continue as silence descended upon the hall.
“It is time to reveal the truth,” Alcuin finally began. “A difficult truth, incestuous, and wicked. A truth that has on occasions led me down a path of lies, through ravines of sin that I have had to negotiate in order to reach a place of enlightenment.” He paused to scrutinize the eyes of those gathered. “As you all know, strange events have afflicted the city of Fulda. All of you have most likely lost a sibling, a parent, or a friend. My own assistant, Romuald, a strong and healthy lad, died, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it. Perhaps it is for this selfish reason that I swore to uncover the truth behind what was happening. I investigated every death. I spoke to all who fell sick. I inquired about their habits, their behavior. All in vain. There was nothing connecting the deaths, which were as unjust as they were strange and sudden. Then I remembered an epidemic that ravaged York many years ago when I was a magister. On that occasion the cause of the epidemic was rye, yet here, in Fulda, many of the dead had not recently eaten rye. My inquiries led me toward wheat, surmising that if the symptoms were so similar to the rye epidemic, perhaps there could be a link.” He paused to reread his notes. “Everyone knows that there are three mills in Fulda: the abbey’s, the bishopric’s, and Kohl’s. I searched the first two mills and found nothing to confirm my suspicions. So then I went to Kohl’s mill with the intention of obtaining a sample of wheat. It is true that I proposed a deal to Kohl, but it was only to see if he had the contaminated grain.”
“That’s all good and well,” said the king, “but your account thus far doesn’t alter Lothar’s version of events.”
“If you will allow me to continue?”
“Proceed.”
“To my surprise, in a sample that my assistant Theresa provided, I discovered the capsules that caused the sickness. I must admit that I immediately blamed Kohl. However, though the wheat found at his mill suggested he was involved, in reality those tiny, poisonous bodies did not prove that he was guilty.”
“Forgive me,” Lothar interrupted, “but what does all of this have to do with your lies? With your attempt to poison me? With your written confession in which you recognize Kohl’s guilt and with your refusal to stop the poisonings?”
“For the love of God… let me speak!” Alcuin sought the approval of Charlemagne, who gave his assent with an impatient gesture. “We knew that the contaminated wheat had passed through Kohl’s mill.”
“It was at Kohl’s mill!” Lothar specified cleverly. “Are you choosing to ignore the fact that an official has found all the batches of contaminated wheat hidden on Kohl’s property?”
“Oh, yes! The official! I had forgotten… It is this person we have before us, is it not?” said Alcuin, pointing at a timid little man. “Your name, please?”
“Ma… Maar… tin,” he stammered.
“Martin. A memorable name… would you mind coming closer?”
The little man stepped forward.
“Tell me, Martin, have you been an official for long?”
“Not lo… long, sir.”
“How long? A year? Two? Three, perhaps?”
“Not thaaaat long s… sir.”
“Less? How long then?”
“Two… m… months, I don’t know… sir.”
“His brother died from the sickness, and he assumed his post,” Lothar explained.
“Ah! Naturally, that is a good enough reason. And of course, you appointed him.”
“I am always the one who appoints the official.”
“Very good. Allow me to continue: Martin, tell me,” he said, dipping his hand in his pocket to pull out a fistful of wheat, which he then appeared to divide between his two hands. Holding out both closed fists to Martin he asked, “In what hand is the wheat?”
The official smiled, revealing a row of chipped teeth. “In th… at one,” he indicated.
Alcuin opened the hand he had indicated, showing it to be empty.
“In th… th… at one,” he said, pointing to his other hand.
But once again, it was empty. Martin was left wide-eyed. His face was like that of a child whose apple had been stolen. “You… you’re… a… demon.”
Alcuin let his arms drop and from his sleeves fell the handfuls of wheat.
Martin smiled.
“May I ask what this buffoonery is about?” Lothar interrupted in indignation.
“Forgive me,” said Alcuin, “Forgive me, Your Majesty… it was just a joke. Permit me to continue.”
Charlemagne agreed with some reluctance. Alcuin bowed and turned back to the little man. “Martin, tell me… is it true that you found the wheat?”
“It… it is… sir.”
“I see! But as I seem to recall, Lothar announced that it was very, very well hidden.”
“That’s right… s… sir. Ve… very well hiiid… en. It to… took all… all morn… ing to f… f… find it.”
“But in the end you discovered its whereabouts.”
“Yes… sir.” He smiled like a young boy who had caught a very slippery eel.
“And tell me, Martin, if the wheat was so well hidden, how was it possible that you found it, if you aren’t even able to find a fistful in my hands?”
Except for Lothar, everyone, including Martin, roared with laughter. However, the little man’s smile froze when he noticed Lothar’s cold stare. “He… he help… helped me,” he said, signaling the bishop.
“Well, I never! I hadn’t heard that part of the story before.” He turned to Lothar. “So the bishop told you where to search for the wheat?”
“What did you expect?” the bishop retorted. “Have you not seen that he is a half-wit? What matters is not whether I helped him, but the fact that it was found.”
“Of course, I don’t doubt it.” He paced up and down. “And tell me, my good Lothar, how did you know that the wheat was contaminated?”
The bishop hesitated for a moment, but then quickly answered: “Because of the grain that Theresa told me about.”
“This grain?” said Alcuin, putting his hand in his pocket and showing him another fistful of wheat with clearly visible tiny black balls intermixed.
Lothar looked at it without much interest, then his glassy eyes looked back up at Alcuin. “Exactly like that, yes,” he confirmed.
Alcuin arched his eyebrows. “How odd, because those black balls are peppercorns.” He closed his hand and put the wheat grain back in his pocket.
“
Not so fast,” the bishop blurted out. “You have not yet explained your attempt to poison me and why, knowing what you knew, you decided to remain silent.”
“Do you truly want to know?” he said with a wry smile. “First, as everyone here should comprehend, it was never my intention to poison you. It’s true that I added this powder to your drink.” He opened his ring and showed them the powder. “But it is no poison, just a harmless purgative.” He tipped the remaining contents into his hand—and then, in full sight of the king, he swallowed it with evident disgust. “Lactuva virosa: unpleasant, but little more. If I had wanted to poison you, you can be sure I would have succeeded. No, dear Lothar, no. I drugged you, but it was to prevent another terrible murder. That of the poor wretch whose only crime was that he was born slow-witted.”
“Are you referring to The Swine? That degenerate who slit the throat of the miller’s daughter?”
“I am referring to The Swine. That man who you attempted to execute knowing that he was innocent. The simpleton you chose to blame for a murder committed by another: Rothaart, the redhead, an employee of Kohl and your accomplice.”
“By God! Have you lost your mind?” Lothar roared.
“It was him, in fact, who led me to you,” he said, even louder. Alcuin took a deep breath to calm himself. “The young woman was killed with a blade. I must confess that at first I too blamed the idiot with his grotesque face and the evasive look in his little pig’s eyes. But then I saw his deformed hands that have been that way since birth, and I realized that he could not have even held a spoon.”
“What do you know!”
“I know that Kohl’s daughter died from a knife to the throat. More specifically, it was on the left side and with an upward motion. A slash made by someone left-handed, without a shadow of a doubt. The maidservant who found the body described it in detail, and a small piece of the young woman’s ear was missing.”
“But how did that lead you to Rothaart?” Charlemagne inquired.
“Rothaart was hotheaded. He was left-handed, and he was skilled with the knife, which he brandished frequently in the tavern. He had money. Too much of it. The day I met him, he was bragging shamelessly to a friend about his wealth. I contacted that friend not long after Rothaart’s death, and his friend had no qualms admitting that, the day after the girl’s murder, Rothaart had scratch marks on his face.”
“That doesn’t prove it was he who killed her,” the monarch remarked.
“He knew the victim well. In fact, the night she was found dead, the redhead had spent the night at the mill. According to Kohl’s wife, that same night their daughter awoke in discomfort, left the house to empty her stomach, and never returned. I will say it again: left-handed and skilled with a knife. We know it could not have been The Swine because he is incapable of holding any kind of implement, and we know that Rothaart, the left-handed, was there on the premises with his knife.”
“But, what was his motive to kill her?” the king asked.
“His fear of Lothar, of course,” Alcuin said, unblinking.
“Explain yourself,” ordered Charlemagne.
“Rothaart drank frequently. He latched on to the barrel like a newborn to a teat. The night of her murder, he had to transport the contaminated wheat from the granary to the mill. When he arrived at the mill, he was drunk. As he was busy working to unload the poisoned grain, Kohl’s daughter happened upon him, probably surprised to see him there at that time of night. There were a thousand excuses Rothaart could have given her, but the aqua ardens clouded his senses and he reacted as he would’ve in the tavern: He pulled out his knife and with one stroke, killed her.”
“I didn’t know that you had the powers of a witch,” said the bishop sarcastically. “Or is it that you were there in person?”
Alcuin declined to answer, instead posing another question: “Tell me, Lothar, is it true that Rothaart regularly visited your chambers? To speak to you about the mill business, I suppose.”
“I see so many people that if I had to remember all of them, I would not have room for anything else in my head.” He cleared his throat.
“And yet your acolyte remembers. In fact, he told me that you would spend quite some time discussing matters of money.”
Lothar gave his acolyte a stern look, then turned back to Alcuin. “And what if I did talk to Rothaart a lot? The bishopric owns a mill, and Rothaart works as a miller at Kohl’s mill. Sometimes they would mill grain for us, and sometimes we did it for them.”
“But the sensible thing would be to discuss these matters with the owner of the mill, not a subordinate.”
“And from that you infer who the murderer is? Alcuin, stop talking nonsense and accept the truth: Whatever Rothaart did, it doesn’t matter. It was Kohl who was selling the wheat.”
“If you don’t mind, I will continue with my nonsense.” He glanced at his notes. “As I have already said, Rothaart the redhead had money: He wore sumptuous jerkins, boots of fine leather, and enough gold on his arms to buy an allodium—and all the farmhands needed to work it. This is inexplicable for a miller. It is clear that he had other means of income, which fits with what his friend Gus at the tavern told me he does on Sundays.”
“What activity is this?” the monarch asked.
“I spoke to Gus after Rothaart’s death at length over a couple of tankards of beer. After lamenting the loss of his friend, he told me that Rothaart obtained wheat from somewhere, which he ground at Kohl’s mill on Sundays when the mill owner was attending High Mass. Once it had been milled, he transported the cereal to a clandestine storeroom where he kept it until it was ready to be sold.”
“And Gus told you all of this, just like that?” asked the king.
“Well, it was easy to convince him that I already knew about his schemes. He was also shaken by the unexpected death of his friend Rothaart, which naturally I attributed to divine justice, and then there was the considerable amount of beer that I purchased for him to drink. So it is no surprise that he confessed to what at any rate he didn’t consider a sin. Bear in mind that Gus was being deceived, and made to work for little more than some wine and a paltry sum of money.”
“Gus, a drunk, and Rothaart, a murderer. Well, perhaps they were! But what does that have to do with me?” Lothar asked, incensed.
“Have patience, I’ve nearly finished. As I have already explained, I deduced that the sickness came from the grain due to the similarity of the symptoms I observed in victims during the famine in my native York. That was why I asked Lothar for the bishopric’s polyptychs: to find an entry perhaps related to contaminated rye. Surprisingly, neither Theresa nor I could find any direct mention of contaminated wheat, but there was a scraped and amended page containing the information we sought. As if by magic, it strongly suggested that a shipment of wheat had been transported from Magdeburg to Fulda. A deadly shipment of wheat that was likely bought at a discounted price or traded for no cost at all by the previous abbot.”
“So what are you talking about? Go to the cemetery then and accuse the late abbot,” Lothar said, red in the face.
“I would have done that, were it not for the fact that I always suspect the living, particularly since I discovered that you were plowing uncultivated land, preparing for something to be sowed in the middle of January. Tell me, Lothar, since when is wheat sown in winter?”
“What rubbish! That land belongs to me, and I can do whatever I please with it. And I will say more. I am sick of your unfounded accusations and your eagerness to show how wise you are. You speak nothing but blather without a shred of evidence. You accuse Rothaart, yet he is dead. You speak of The Swine, but he is both demented and mute. You mention the old Abbot of Fulda, yet his body has been lying in his grave for several years. And finally, you claim that there is a polyptych that reveals secrets through some act of witchcraft, on a page that nobody has seen, let alone verified. Very well. Do you have this polyptych? Show it to us once—or rescind your accusations.”
Alc
uin tensed. He had assumed that Lothar would crumble under the weight of his arguments, but he had risen to the challenge. Now, without solid proof, it would be difficult to gain Charlemagne’s support. He looked at the king, who shook his head disapprovingly.
Alcuin was about to speak up when Theresa stood and walked toward Charlemagne.
“I have that proof,” she announced in a firm voice, taking from her bag a crumpled sheet.
Everyone fell silent.
Standing before the king, Theresa unfurled the page from the polyptych that she had managed to tear from the volume moments before Lothar had cast it into the fire. Alcuin looked at her in astonishment.
The king took the page from her and examined it closely. Then he showed it to Lothar, who could not believe his eyes.
“Damned witch! Where did you get this?”
The king moved the sheet away from Lothar before he could snatch it from him. Then he gave it to Alcuin. Theresa handed him some ash so he could repeat the process of rubbing, slowly in the reverse direction, before everyone present. When the hidden text emerged, the king read it out loud.
But Lothar fought back. “And who says I had a hand in it? That text was written two years ago by the previous abbot. He was in charge of all the polyptychs. Ask anyone.”
Several monks confirmed Lothar’s claims.
Theresa boldly intervened. “That’s right. The original text that the ash reveals was written by the abbot, but the subsequent scraping and the new text that covers it was written by you, by your hand. You wrote it thinking that it would conceal the only proof that linked the wheat to the Plague.”
“I never wrote that text!” Lothar cried in fury.
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