On the way to the ship, Izam told her why the monk had accused her of stealing the parchment. “To buy you a little more time,” he explained. “If he hadn’t, Flavio would have done away with you in an instant. It was Flavio that you heard in the tunnel. Hoos killed the young sentry, but it was you he was looking to kill. He found the emerald Vulgate and took it, believing it contained the parchment you were working on. Then, realizing it was just a Bible, he discarded it in the cloister so nobody would know he had stolen it.”
“And that’s why Alcuin had me imprisoned in the meat safe? Why he allowed me to be thrashed? Why he intended to have me burned alive?”
“Try to stay calm,” said Izam. “Alcuin thought that in the meat safe, awaiting the execution, at least you would be safe for a little while. Wilfred was the one responsible for thrashing you. And Alcuin couldn’t intervene without arousing suspicion of his plan, of which Wilfred was completely unaware.”
“Plan? What plan?” Theresa asked, taken aback.
“For me to challenge Alcuin himself.”
Theresa didn’t understand, but Izam continued. “He’s the one who came to me with the idea,” he said, referring to the monk. “He came to see me and informed me of everything I have already told you about. Alcuin didn’t know how to protect you and at the same time unmask the murderers, so he asked me to challenge him to a trial by ordeal. When I did so and Alcuin requested a champion, Flavio gave his connection to Hoos away by suggesting him as the champion.”
“And you believed Alcuin? In God’s name, Izam! Think about it. If Hoos had defeated you, you would be dead and they would’ve burned me alive.”
“That never would’ve happened. Drogo knew everything. Even if I had died, he still would have freed you.”
“Then… why did you fight?”
“For you, Theresa. Hoos is in large part responsible for the death of your father, and he hurt you. He deserved to be punished.”
“You could have died,” she said, bursting into the tears.
“It was a trial by ordeal—God’s judgment. That wouldn’t have happened.”
Three days after the funeral, a conclave exonerated Wilfred of the charges against him. Drogo, as supreme judge, ruled that Korne and Genseric had paid fair punishment for the wickedness of their deeds with their deaths, and all present applauded the verdict. But Alcuin could not let Wilfred go completely without blame—and he condemned the ambition that had driven his Christian, yet murderous, aspirations.
Coming out of the meeting, Alcuin found Theresa surrounded by bundles of clothes and books. They had arranged to meet to say farewell. Alcuin once again proposed that she transcribe Constantine’s document in exchange for money, but she flatly refused, and the monk had to finally accept her answer.
“So… are you sure you wish to leave?” he asked.
Theresa hesitated. The night before, Izam had asked her to go with him to Aquis-Granum, but she had not answered him yet. On the one hand, she wanted to begin a new life, to forget everything and follow him on the ship bound to set sail the next day. But on the other hand, her heart told her to stay with Rutgarda and her nephews. It felt as though all that she had learned to value from her father—his eagerness for her to become an educated and independent woman—had died with him. For a moment she saw herself following Rutgarda’s advice: staying in Würzburg to marry and have children.
“You could still stay and work with me,” Alcuin suggested. “I will be at the fortress for a while to organize the scriptorium and wrap up certain matters. As punishment, Wilfred will be sent to live in a monastery, so you could help me for now, and decide later about your future.”
But she had already made up her mind. Working among parchments was what she had always wanted, but now she longed for a different world, the world Izam told her about and that she yearned to discover for herself. Alcuin understood.
As he helped her pack up her bundles, he asked her again about Constantine’s document. “I am interested in the first transcription,” he explained. “The one your father made while he was held captive. He must have nearly completed it.”
“I never saw such a document,” the young woman lied, recalling the parchment she had found in her father’s bag. But it didn’t matter. She had long since destroyed it.
“It would be monumental if it exists. If we found it, we could still present it to the chapter’s council,” he insisted.
“I’m telling you that I don’t know anything about it.” She reflected before adding: “And even if I did know its location, I would never deliver it to you. In my mind there’s no place for lies, or death, or ambition, or greed—even if you wield it in the name of Christianity. So you stick with your God, and I’ll stick with mine.”
Theresa said a polite farewell without another thought of the parchment.
As she walked to the wharf, she recalled the strange symbols that she guessed her father had drawn in the meat safe and she wondered for a moment about the intensity with which he had etched those beams.
She found Izam on the riverbank helping his men caulk the ship. As soon as he saw her, he dropped his bucket of pitch and, with his hands still black, ran to help her with her belongings. She laughed when he took her face in his hands, leaving streaks of black across her cheeks. Cleaning herself with a cloth, she kissed him, then rubbed the pitch on his clean, dark hair.
APRIL
32
The day’s voyage passed pleasantly, with the quacking of ducks and wildflowers festooning the banks as if they had been arranged by a welcoming committee. They disembarked in Frankfurt, where they parted company with Drogo to join a caravan leaving for Fulda.
When they arrived back in Fulda, they found Helga the Black with her belly rounder than any Theresa had ever seen. Recognizing them, Helga dropped the haystack she was carrying and tried to run to meet her friend, wobbling like a cantharus. She hugged Theresa so hard that the girl thought she would burst. When Helga heard that they planned to settle in Fulda, she gave so many leaps of joy that it seemed as if she might give birth right there.
On the way to Theresa’s lands, Helga asked her surreptitiously whether she was going to marry Izam. The young woman gave a nervous laugh. He had not asked her, but she knew that one day he would. She spoke to her of her plans to plow more lands and build a large, solid house, like those constructed in Byzantium, with several rooms and a separate latrine. Izam was a resourceful man and had some funds saved, so she thought it would be well within their means.
When Olaf saw Theresa and Izam arriving, he ran to them like a little boy. Izam was surprised at how well the slave moved with his wooden leg, and he asked how the joint was working. While they became engrossed discussing contraptions, horses, and land, Theresa and Helga went to the rudimentary hut that Olaf and his family had transformed into a cozy home. The children had put on weight and Lucille greeted them with food on the table.
That night, crammed together, they did not sleep well, despite Olaf spending the night outside. The next day they surveyed the sown fields, which were already beginning to germinate, as well as the uncultivated land. In the afternoon, they went down to Fulda to buy timber and tools, and over the next few days they began to build what would become the family home.
On the fourth day, while Olaf and Lucille were in town, Izam took the opportunity to speak to Theresa alone. He put down the firewood he was carrying and approached her from behind, tenderly embracing her. She could feel the sweat of his brow on her neck, and she turned to kiss his sweet, plump lips.
Izam stroked her hands, which were now covered in blisters. “They used to be so delicate,” he lamented.
“But I didn’t have you before,” she replied, kissing him again.
Izam looked around him as he wiped the perspiration from his eyebrows. The house was progressing slowly, and it was not going to be as large as Theresa had wanted. What’s more, the virgin soil required more work than they had calculated—perhaps too much for the meager yield
they hoped to gain from it. However, he admired the pride with which Theresa confronted every undertaking.
Together, they walked beside the stream. Izam kicked the odd pebble. When Theresa asked what he was thinking about, his response was that all they had was not what he wanted for her.
“What do you mean?”
“This kind of life. You deserve more,” he responded.
Theresa didn’t understand. She told him that she was happy simply to know he loved her.
“And your reading and writing? I have seen you rereading your tablet every night.”
She tried to hide the tears welling up in her eyes.
“We could go to Nantes,” Izam suggested. “I have fertile lands there, inherited from a relative. The climate’s mild, and in summer the beaches are filled with gulls. I know the local bishop, a good and simple man. I’m sure he’ll lend you books and you’ll be able to write again.”
Theresa’s face lit up. She asked him what would happen to Olaf and his family, but to her astonishment, Izam had already thought of it.
“They will travel with us,” he said, “and serve us in our new home.”
Over the next few days, they made their final preparations. They sold the land, sending a portion of the money to Rutgarda and giving several arpents to Helga the Black.
Then on the first Sunday of May, they set off for Nantes to join some traders who were making the journey as far as Paris. Holding her husband-to-be close to her, Theresa looked up at the sky that turned a darker shade of blue with each passing moment. Remembering her father, she celebrated her twists of fate with a kiss.
EPILOGUE
Although “Dirty Eric” had lost a tooth in his last fight, he could still spit farther than the rest of the boys, and this meant—along with the fact that he had the quickest fists in Würzburg—that he was still the undisputed leader of the urchins. He guided their motley group from the poor quarter everywhere about town, always on the lookout for new hiding places.
When they returned to the slave huts that spring, they were amazed at how dilapidated they had become since the winter. Exploring the mine tunnels, they gathered all sorts of sticks, stones, and other things they would need for their games. Eric decided they should set up camp in the best-preserved hut. He told little Thomas to climb the roof beams so he could better keep watch for bandits and threatened to leave him up there if he didn’t stop crying.
After a while, Dirty Eric noticed that Thomas had stopped sobbing and was crawling up a beam.
“There’s something hidden here,” the little boy announced. He sat up on the crossbeam and lifted up a carefully tied leather package.
Eric ordered him to hand it over.
The others crowded round. “What is it?” one of the boys asked.
Eric told them to be quiet and gave one boy a slap for trying to touch the package. He untied the cord with the care of someone unwrapping treasure. But when he discovered that it only contained a few parchments, he screwed up his face and cast the package into a corner.
The boys laughed at Eric’s disappointment, but he lashed out at the nearest ones until they regretted having mocked him. Then he gazed for a while at the documents he had just thrown aside before going over and carefully picking them up.
“Why do you think that I’m the boss?” he boasted. “I’ll go to the fortress and swap these for quince cakes.”
At the fortress gates, Eric tried to get one of the guards to let him through, but the man shoved him aside, telling him to scram and go play with the other urchins. He was thinking about destroying the documents when he bumped into a tall monk who appeared interested in what he had. The monk said his name was Alcuin.
Eric was wary, but he summoned some courage. That was why he was the boss after all, he reminded himself. He licked his hands and smoothed down his hair before offering Alcuin the parchments in exchange for some cakes. When the monk examined the documents, he fell to his knees. Covering Eric with kisses, he blessed the child. Then he ran to the scriptorium to give thanks to God for returning the Donation of Constantine.
That afternoon, the gang of boys hailed Dirty Eric as the best boss in the world, for aside from the quince cakes, he had also managed to obtain four barrels of wine.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
All in a Novel
How It Began
In October 1999 I attended a conference on automotive engineering in the magnificent city of Wiesbaden, a short distance from Frankfurt, Germany. As ever, the talks proved to be boring, but on the last day I was fortunate enough to have a conversation with Dr. Gerhard Müller, an affable absent-minded professor type who would not stop greeting me until I managed to convince him he had the wrong person. But it turned out to be a providential meeting, for I ended up as a guest in his home, helping him prepare dinner. I wasn’t naturally inclined toward cooking at that time, but it so happened that Frida Müller, my host’s wife, was engrossed in her doctoral thesis, and Dr. Müller proposed that he and I take care of the eggs with cream.
Over dinner I realized that Frida was an extraordinary woman, not for her appearance, which was perfectly ordinary, but for the unexpected and contagious enthusiasm with which she spoke of the thesis she was working on. Her research focused on the intrigue surrounding the coronation of Charlemagne as Emperor of Europe, and it aroused in me such interest that on my return to Spain I immediately ordered as much literature on the subject as I could find.
Countless email exchanges with Frida Müller and with a number of German experts ensued, and they helped me compile exhaustive documentation. Meanwhile I worked hard on the storyline of The Scribe.
Because I had always wanted to write a novel.
Some people enjoy a luxurious yacht, an unpronounceable menu, or the latest designer handbag. I prefer to spend my time with a book or a good friend, though the latter are harder to find.
Over the years I’ve read dozens of pamphlets and booklets; treatises on history and philosophy; stories and essays; adventure, period and intrigue novels; exemplary narratives or humorous and inconsequential tales. And through all of them I was both educated and entertained. But if I had to choose one genre, without doubt it would be the one that has made me breathe in the penetrating damp of an abbey, dried my throat with the asphyxiating dust of the deserts of Isfahan, or endure the harsh life of the Middle Ages in rural England. Traveling to other eras and meeting the characters of the time. To me, this is historical fiction.
The Struggle
A historical novel must do more than document history; it must also be a novel. Historical detail is merely scenery, the varnish that makes the characters shine, the packaging that legitimizes them and makes them credible. But like any thick varnish, if the description overwhelms it darkens the canvas, which will undoubtedly ruin the painting. Because what is truly essential is the story itself: its fast steady plot, its unexpected twists, its terrible outcomes. In a historical novel, the characters, despite the distance in time, must feel as credible and as familiar as the neighbor you see every morning, or the unfortunate beggar who asks you for money on the street.
Over the course of two years I studied thousands of pages before closing in on the authorship of famous eighth-century forged document most call the Donation of Constantine, which would underpin the plot of The Scribe.
The earliest record is traced to Latin Codex 2777 of the Bibliothèque Nationale de France, in Paris, dating from the ninth century, though this codex is nothing more than a copy of the original that was never found. Many studies have attributed its authorship to the same hand that concocted the False Decretals, while others, such as Baronius, pointed to the East and a schismatic Greek. Recent researchers have turned their eyes toward Rome, the Papacy being the main beneficiary, while the older interpretation of Zechariah and others points strongly to the Frankish Empire. The latter theory, championed skillfully by Hergenröther and Grauert, emphasizes the fact that the Donatio first appears in the Frankish collections, namely the Fa
lse Decretals and Saint Denis’s manuscript, thus arguing that the document legitimized the Translatio imperii to the Franks, or in other words that the Imperial title would transfer to the coronation of Charlemagne.
I could mention other hypotheses, such as those posited by Martens, Friedrich, and Bayet, who support the existence of multiple authors, or those of Colombier and Genelin, on the date of its implementation, but fortunately the conclusion would not change: these gaps in historical foundation left room for my characters to enter without them seeming like impostors.
Having overcome this obstacle of accuracy, others soon appeared (of course), such as issues of topography (I needed a river, two cities in close proximity, an abbey and a gorge), weaponry (Theresa could not learn to use a bow in one day), and the unlikelihood that bands of Saxons would decide to venture so far from home.
The setting would be Würzburg and Fulda, cities to which I traveled on several occasions to ensure the suitability of their location. The bow I replaced with a crossbow, an instrument that, though it solved my problem, brought me another, for the crossbow, although existing at the time, was not widespread. But ultimately, such proposals were feasible, so I endeavored to make them as credible as possible.
As for the characters, Alcuin of York, it should be remembered, was a man of momentous influence on the history of Europe, whose existence I appropriated to turn him into an investigator enshrouded in dark shades.
And though these comments might make it seem as if it is the history that drives the novel, in truth it is the characters and the events that make it a mosaic of adventure, love, and crime, interwoven to form intricate workings in which the historical documents merely push forward the plot.
DEDICATIONS AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
When I considered writing a novel I was not thinking of myself. Not even of what I personally like to read.
I wanted it to be the reader who would enjoy it, not me, which was why I consulted those who know most about books: the booksellers.
The Scribe Page 54