As the days went by, his arm improved. Gradually he began to move his shoulder without excruciating pain. The stitches fell out and the scar took on a pinkish tone like the rest of the shoulder. One morning the stump stopped hurting, and it never bothered him again.
At the beginning of the third week he decided to explore the tunnels that went down into the mine. In the nearest one, he found steel and enough tinder to light the torches that were mounted throughout the tunnels. Further down he found some strips of iron that he could use as cooking utensils. During his excursions he categorized the tunnels into caves, passages, and pits. The first two tunnels, which he thought had entrances prepared for moving animals and materials, he judged to be useful shelters. The rest of the tunnels were so slippery that he decided he would only use them if he were in danger.
In time he began to plan his return to Würzburg. He was growing thinner with each passing day, and was certain that if he stayed at the mine much longer, sooner or later he would be discovered. He was convinced that he could parley with Wilfred and reach some agreement. After all, the count was a cripple. Perhaps if he could find him alone, he could approach without risk. And he might be willing to exchange the document in return for guaranteeing the safety of him and his family. All he had to do was watch the count’s movements in order to find the right moment.
He had spent the previous day preparing a beggar’s outfit, which he easily achieved given the condition of his clothes. He had added a hat that he had found in the tunnels and a threadbare woolen cloak. He was about to don his outfit when he heard the pealing of bells in the distance sounding an alarm. It was the first time they had rung since the fire, and given that the entire city would be in a state of alert, he decided to wait until nightfall to avoid arousing suspicion.
As he descended the hill he feared the reason for the bells might have been a Saxon attack, but he continued regardless. However, when he arrived at the city gates, he found them closed. He spoke to a guard, saying he was a poor wanderer looking for some shelter, but the soldier suggested he go back to where he came from.
Despondent, he explored the unusually quiet streets of the outlying poor quarter. An old man peered out from the shack he was hiding in. When Gorgias asked him what was happening, the old man bolted his window shut, but Gorgias pressed him and he finally informed him that several young lads had been stabbed to death. Then added, “It’s some man called Gorgias. The same one who murdered Genseric not long ago.”
Gorgias was dumbstruck. He pulled his hat down over his ears and, without even saying thanks, fled toward the mountains.
FEBRUARY
21
The days went by and Helga the Black’s belly swelled. Touching it, Theresa was surprised to find that she wished for Hoos Larsson to give her a child. However, the problems and complications of pregnancy made her push the idea from her mind, and she was content to stand by and admire the way Helga devoured every bit of food within reach.
But it was not just her belly that had changed. Pregnancy, it appeared, had transformed the slovenly woman into an industrious worker, for a few days earlier she had traded her tavern for a larger house near the chapter. She no longer caked her face in makeup and her attire began to resemble that of any respectable woman. And yet, what astonished Theresa most was the ease with which Helga labored in the kitchens. Favila said she had a gift for stewing, to the point that she had stepped back from the pots to leave that responsibility to the new cook. Theresa told herself that, ultimately, all that would remain of the old Helga was the terrible scar that her lover had left on her face.
Helga, however, only seemed to care about the future of her child. She rocked her great belly as if it were a cradle, sung made-up melodies to it softly, explained to it the secrets of a good roast pheasant. She knitted tiny hats that would keep the baby’s head warm. She prayed for the child that she suspected was a girl, and she visited Nicholas, the old carpenter who, in exchange for some pastries, was building a beautiful cot for the baby in his free time.
Despite her belly, Helga did not neglect her duties in the chapter kitchen. Indeed, that night a dinner was to be held as an apology to Alcuin of York, that was to be attended by the king and his entourage. For the occasion, Helga had prepared capon and pigeon, grilled pheasant and freshly killed venison, which alongside an ox stew and the cheesecake made by Favila, would surely delight the guests. Generally dinner was served in the refectory after the None service, but on this occasion Ludwig, Lothar’s secretary, had commandeered a smaller chamber located above the calefactory, for there would not be a large number of diners.
For Theresa, the banquet would have just been another dinner, were it not for the fact that she had been invited.
“The king insists,” Alcuin had informed her.
From that moment, Theresa had been a bundle of nerves, trying to memorize the Appendix Vergiliana, Virgil’s epic poems that Alcuin had told her to recite during the feast.
“You don’t have to learn them by heart,” the monk had explained, “but you must practice them several times so that you find the right intonation.”
However, Theresa’s greatest concern was whether the dress that Helga had bought for her that afternoon in the textile district would fit properly.
When she had finished her work in the scriptorium, she set off for Helga’s house trembling like a chicken up until she put on the dress and saw herself transformed into a lady of refinement. She was dying to show it off, but Helga made her wait for the final touches to be made. Finally, her friend stepped back to check the fit, tightened the dress a little more, and then hugged her affectionately. “It’s too close-fitting, isn’t it?” Theresa said, embarrassed.
“You look beautiful,” Helga the Black informed her, telling her to run along to the dinner.
When she reached the dining hall, she saw that the guests were already settled in their seats. She was received by Alcuin, who apologized for her lateness. Theresa curtsied to the monarch, then ran with dainty steps to the place that had been reserved for her, beside an elegantly dressed young woman. The girl greeted her with a smile that revealed tiny white teeth. She looked about twenty years old, though later Theresa discovered that she was around fifteen. A servant whispered to Theresa that it was Gisela, the eldest daughter of Charlemagne, and this was not the first time she had visited Fulda because, aside from the battlefield, she accompanied her father wherever he went. Theresa counted another twenty or so people, most of them the king’s men, as well as five or six tonsured fellows she assumed belonged to the diocese. Charlemagne presided over the long rectangular table, which was covered in impeccable linen tablecloths and decorated with winter flowers. Several trays full of game competed abundantly for space with plates of cheese, cold meats, and fruit, while dozens of jugs of wine sat packed in among the food signaling a celebration fit for kings.
At the monarch’s signal, they all raised their cups and started eating like ravenous animals. As the dinner progressed, Theresa noticed that some of the diners, their appetite for food sated, turned their attention to her curves. Embarrassed, she loosened her belt so that the dress did not cling to her so tightly and then she positioned a centerpiece of flowers between her and the ogling eyes. Gisela realized what was happening and added another couple of bunches to hide Theresa even more.
“Don’t worry,” the girl said with a smile. “All men are the same—except if they drink. Then they’re worse.”
When the desserts arrived, Alcuin approached Theresa and told her to stand, an event which some men approved of vociferously. A cleric too drunk to applaud got up from his chair and attempted to say a few words, but all he managed to do was belch before losing his footing and collapsing onto the table. After they had removed him, Charlemagne stood and asked Theresa to read.
Before beginning she prepared herself by taking a swig of wine. The long draft gave her courage. She dodged the scraps of food scattered around the floor and went over to the lectern that Alcu
in had prepared for her. She opened the codex and took a deep breath. As soon as the first word left her mouth, the room fell silent. She read slowly, calmly—sometimes whispering, sometimes impassioned. When she had finished, nobody said a thing. Charlemagne was still standing, transfixed, looking at her oddly. For a moment Theresa thought he was about to reprove her, but to her surprise, the king filled his cup and offered it to her in admiration. She accepted it, but when he told her that he wanted to see her in his private chambers, the cup slipped through her fingers, causing wine to splash all over her new dress.
After the dinner, Theresa told Helga what had happened.
“Consider yourself fucked,” she responded.
Theresa regretted having worn the dress. She was scared, but she didn’t believe the king could force her to do anything like that. She decided to speak to Alcuin before going to meet the monarch. However, try as she might, she could not find him anywhere.
As two guards led her to Charlemagne’s chamber, Theresa prayed he would be asleep. To her relief, Alcuin opened the door. The monk invited her in and stood beside her as they waited for Charlemagne to finish washing.
“Ah! You’re here! Come in and take a seat,” said the king.
As he dried his torso, Theresa admired him. Though he was of a mature age, he was the biggest man she had ever seen. Bigger still than the largest of the Saxons.
“Excellent. So has Alcuin informed you of my intentions?”
“No, Your Majesty,” she stammered.
“He has told me that you are very clever. That it was you who discovered the contaminated wheat.”
Theresa looked at Alcuin, red-faced, but he merely nodded.
“The truth is that it happened by chance,” she said.
“And that you also found the hidden text in the polyptych?”
The young woman looked to Alcuin again. For a moment she thought that Charlemagne was trying to implicate her, but Alcuin reassured her.
“Well, I went over the polyptych several times, but the credit should go to Brother Alcuin. It was he who insisted on it.”
“Modest as well as bold. Let’s not forget your role in obtaining the final piece of evidence.”
She blushed. It was true she had taken a risk when she tore out the page from the polyptych, but she hadn’t expected the king to acknowledge it. She was still suspicious of the reasons for this praise.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she managed to say.
Charlemagne grunted, finished drying himself, and then covered himself with a woolen cloak.
“I would like your behavior to serve as an example for my subjects. I have discussed it with Alcuin, and he has agreed—so I have decided to reward you in some way. Perhaps with those lands that belonged to the bishopric.”
Theresa was speechless. Now she was sure he must be joking.
“After all,” continued the king, “the land was only half-plowed, and if it is not cleared, then it will be a waste.”
“But I… I don’t know anything about crops or land.”
“That’s what Alcuin told me, so I told my engineer to take a look. He will give you the help you need. Furthermore,” he added, “just the verses you recited would have earned you this reward.”
Theresa left the room in a daze. She could not believe that overnight she had gone from being a poor, frightened outsider to an estate owner. And not only that: Charlemagne had assured her that she would have the grain needed to sow the fields immediately. When she told Helga, her friend said she was not convinced.
“You know what? Nor am I!” Theresa replied, and they both burst out laughing like madwomen. They curled up in front of the fire and talked, trying to guess the size and location of the land and fantasizing about the wealth that it would bring. Helga warned that, in reality, land itself was worthless. If it was to provide income, she would need laborers, oxen, seeds, equipment, and water, and even then, rarely did they yield more than the sustenance needed by the families who worked them. But Theresa preferred to close her eyes and imagine herself alongside Hoos as a powerful landowner.
Then the two friends went to bed side by side, huddled up against each other to keep the cold out. Helga soon fell asleep, but Theresa spent the night thinking, imagining what would happen if the king was good for his word.
The next morning Theresa went to the scriptorium, where she found Brother Alcuin absorbed in his texts. The monk greeted her without raising his head, but then he looked up to congratulate her on her good fortune.
“I don’t think he was serious,” she ventured.
“Then you had better start believing it. The king is not a man who speaks lightly.”
“But I know nothing of farming. What will I do with the lands?” She waited for him to give her the answer.
“I don’t know. Work them, I suppose. Reading and writing is not a trade that supports a family. You should be happy.”
“I am. But I don’t know…”
“If you don’t know, then learn.” He turned back to his mass of documents, signaling that their conversation had ended.
Midmorning a servant appeared in the scriptorium asking for Theresa. He informed them that one of Charlemagne’s men awaited her in the main square ready to accompany her to her new land. Theresa asked Alcuin to go with her, but he refused, saying he had too much work. With the monk’s permission, the young woman wrapped up warmly and went with the servant to the place where a young man was waiting for her on horseback.
The king’s engineer was brown-skinned and wavy-haired. His green eyes contrasted attractively with his weather-beaten complexion. Despite his different appearance, he reminded her somehow of Hoos Larsson. He said his name was Izam of Padua.
“Can you ride?” he asked. A riderless mount was grazing beside him.
Theresa held on to the reins and with a leap she was in the saddle. The young man smiled. He turned his horse, spurred it on and started to trot slowly through Fulda’s narrow streets.
They rode north, following the river through a lush forest of beech trees with the sun’s tepid rays evaporating the damp earth smell that merged with the sweet aroma of the morning. After traveling in silence for some time, Theresa inquired about the meaning of the word engineer.
“I confess it’s a little-used term,” he responded with a laugh. “It’s used to describe people, like me, who built engines for war.”
The young man continued to speak as if he were discussing the matter with a colleague, enthusiastically explaining the importance of catapults and the difference between onagers and mangonels, without realizing that Theresa was yawning continually. By the time he noticed, he had already told her almost everything he knew.
“Sorry. I’m boring you.”
“It’s not that,” Theresa said, “it’s just that I don’t share your passion for weapons. Plus, I don’t understand what your profession has to do with my land.”
Izam thought about replying, but decided not to waste his breath on a girl who didn’t value his knowledge. A couple of miles on they reached a clear demarcation of hawthorn wattle that stretched into a far-off forest. A small part of the land seemed to have been plowed, but most of it was still uncultivated. The young man jumped down from his horse, opened what appeared to be a rudimentary gate, and walked into the enclosure.
“It appears the bishop knew what he was doing. Wait here a moment.”
As Theresa dismounted, Izam started walking with exaggerated steps. Suddenly he turned around with an expression of astonishment. He climbed back on his horse and told Theresa to wait as he galloped off.
But soon he returned in a state of excitement. “Lass, you can’t imagine what has fallen into your hands. The fief has about ten bonniers of arable land, of which half has already been plowed. Beyond, on the other side of the hill, there are around six arpents of vines and three or four of pasture. But that’s not all: The river we left behind us branches off into a stream that runs into this area.”
Theresa looked a
t him blankly.
“Let me explain. Do you know what a fief is?”
“Of course. It’s the land that a family owns,” she responded, offended that he had assumed she might not know.
“But its size does not depend on the amount of land available, but on whether the family is able to cultivate it.”
“I know.” She was still none the wiser, and she felt that she would never learn to cultivate the land.
They wandered around the estate on horseback, talking about plots, fiefs, arpents, and perches—and admiring the work that the bishop had already done. They found pens for animals, a newly built shepherd’s hut, and timber foundations for what could be a magnificent home. Theresa was surprised that Izam knew about farming, but the young man explained that his trade was not restricted to building engines of war. In truth, he told her, battles between armies usually ended in endless sieges that required exhaustive knowledge of the surrounding land, for they had to prevent the movement of supplies, divert watercourses, assess the position of defenses, choose the right places to make camp, and, on occasion, dig saps or mines into walls. The same factors also had to be considered when an army wanted to build a new settlement.
“And that’s not all. Sometimes sieges continue for years, so it’s important to know which fields are appropriate, both for growing grain for the soldiers and fodder for the animals.” He bent down to pick up a pebble. “For instance, see that hillock?” He tossed the stone, which flew into the tops of some fir trees. “It’s to the north. It will protect the sown fields from the icy winds. And look at this soil,” he said as he squashed a clod under his foot. “Light and damp, like brown bread soaked in water.”
Theresa bent down and picked up another pebble.
The Scribe Page 35