The Scribe (21 page)

“You need to learn the language of business,” he replied as he scoffed down his food. “And the first lesson is know your customer, which luckily for me I do. The man who showed an interest is one of the richest men in Fulda: He could buy a hundred bears and still have the money for a thousand slaves. And as for her, I don’t know what she must have between her legs, but she always gets what she wants.”

“Well, I might not speak your language of trade, but the bear is still out there and if you had lowered the price then we might be celebrating a sale right now.”

“And that’s what we’ll do,” Althar laughed, winking and pointing at the door just as the little rich man walked in. The woman who was with him earlier accompanied him now, but stayed outside, admiring the stuffed animal.

The newcomer approached them. “May I?” he asked.

Althar consented almost without a glance and the man sat down unhurriedly. The innkeeper soon came over and as he served them wine and cheese, Theresa took the opportunity to examine their guest more closely. He wore rings on all his fingers and under his nose hung a limp, recently oiled moustache. She noticed that his clothes, though ostentatious, seemed to be covered in bits of food. The man grabbed the wine jug, and after filling his own cup, he filled Althar’s until it was brimming over.

“Do you not
want
my money?” he asked bluntly.

“As much as you want my bear,” Althar answered without lifting his eyes from his cup.

The man pulled out a pouch and deposited it on the table. Althar picked it up and felt its weight in his hand before placing it back down in front of its owner.

“Half a pound is what one of my laborers earns in a year,” the man pointed out.

“That’s why I’m not a laborer,” said Althar, brushing aside the comment.

The man picked up the bag and stood, irritated, before going outside and speaking to the woman. Then he returned and kicked the table, making Theresa and Althar’s food scatter across its surface. He took out two pouches and threw them down onto the mess he had just created. “A pound of silver. I hope you and your whore enjoy it,” he said, glancing at Theresa.

“That we will, sir. Thank you!” said Althar, downing the last of his wine without batting an eyelid.

Outside, the woman fluttered about, kissing her man and laughing, while a pair of servants transferred the bear to another cart. One of the kids who Althar had paid to ward off thieves tried to stop them, receiving a slap in return. When Althar came out of the tavern, he called the boy over and gave him an obol for his bravery.

“Tell me, lad, do you know where I can find Maurer—the barber?”

The boy bit into the obol and ground it between his teeth before eagerly stuffing it in his pocket. He said he did, so they all climbed onto the cart and the boy guided them down a few streets to another tavern a couple of blocks away. Jumping off and running ahead, the boy disappeared into the inn, soon reappearing accompanied by a pot-bellied man with a pockmarked face.

Althar clambered down from the cart and after telling the barber the reason for their visit, they agreed on a price for a consultation. The barber went back into the tavern and returned carrying a bag. Climbing onto the driver’s seat with Althar, they all set off to Helga the Black’s hostelry.

Though he stank of wine, the barber set to work with obvious skill. As soon as they arrived, he shaved Hoos’s torso and cleaned it with oils. Then he examined the hardened skin on his chest near the
nipples, remarking on the redness, heat, and swelling. His bruises made the barber shake his head. He listened to his breathing using a bone ear trumpet, which he positioned over the wound, and inhaled Hoos’s breath, which he found thick and sour. He prescribed a poultice, deciding that bleeding him would be unnecessary.

“It’s the fever that worries me,” he explained, gathering up his razors and the colored stones he had used to sharpen them. “He has three broken ribs. Two seem to be healing, but the third has punctured his lung. Fortunately it went in and out. The wound is scarring well, and the murmurs are weak. But the fever—that’s bad news.”

“Will he die?” asked Althar, prompting Helga to give him a slap on the head. “I mean… will he live?” he corrected himself.

“The problem is the swelling. If it persists, the fever will grow worse. There are plants… potions that can alleviate the illness, but unfortunately I don’t have any.”

“If it’s money you need…”

“Regrettably, no. You’ve paid me well, and I’ve done what I can,” he said.

“And these plants you speak of?” Helga inquired.

“I shouldn’t have mentioned them. Aside from fennel for constipation and chervil for hemorrhages, I don’t know much more about them.”

“So who does?” asked Theresa. “The monastery physician? Come with us and we’ll speak to him. Perhaps you can get him to help us.”

He scratched his bald patch and looked at Theresa with pity. “I don’t think he will be much help. That physician died last month.”

Upon hearing that, Helga dropped the pot she was holding, which fell with a clatter to the floor. The news surprised Althar, too, and it hit Theresa even harder. Though no one had said it, all
three of them were secretly hoping that the abbey physician would come to Hoos Larsson’s rescue.

“Although, perhaps you could visit the apothecary,” Maurer said. “The one they call Brother Herbalist. He’s stubborn as a mule, but he’ll often take pity on those who accompany their entreaties with some kind of food. Tell him I sent you. I do business with him and he regards me well.”

“But could you not come with us?” Theresa persisted.

“It’s not a good time for me to be associated with plants. At the beginning of the month a church legation sent by Charlemagne arrived in Fulda. They’re led by a friar from Britannia the king has entrusted to reform the church, and from what I hear, he has come with whip in hand.” He took a slug of wine. “All it would take is for someone to tell him that from time to time I earn a few coins warding off evil spirits and he’ll accuse me of heresy and hang me from a very tall pine tree. That Briton has the whole monastery in a frenzy, so be careful.”

Maurer finished applying the poultice and covered Hoos with a blanket. Before leaving he told them how to find the apothecary and showed Helga how to repeat the treatment without pressing too hard. Then, with a grave expression, he shook Althar’s hand and left.

For a while they sat in a silence that felt as solid and heavy as stone. Then, Helga the Black powdered her face and tidied the room where she would begin work later on that evening, and Althar decided that it was a good time to visit the smithy and have the cart’s axle casing repaired. Theresa stayed with Hoos to keep him cool with a damp cloth. She passed the cloth across his face with the delicacy of a whisper, over his eyebrows and his sleeping eyelids, praying that her trembling would not disturb his sleep. She realized that though she endlessly wiped away the sweat from Hoos’s body, her own eyes were becoming moist, as though in some way the two of them were sharing the same suffering. She swore to
herself then that, while he depended on her, Hoos Larsson would not die. She would drag him to the monastery herself if necessary to have the apothecary cure him with his herbs.

When Theresa saw Helga a little while later, it was as though a completely different person stood before her. Her loose hair, decorated with colorful ribbons, seemed less gray. She had painted her lips blood red and accentuated her plump cheeks with an extravagant rouge. Her pronounced cleavage revealed ample breasts, which, though sagging, were pushed up by an underskirt. She wore a long overskirt and her outfit was cinched with an eye-catching belt. With every step beaded necklaces danced over her chest, clicking invitingly. The woman sat down and filled her cup to the brim.

“We’ll have to wait and see,” she said, looking at Hoos. A roll of flab had flopped out over her belt, which she absentmindedly pushed back into her skirt.

“I don’t think this poultice is helping. We should take him to the apothecary,” said Theresa.

“He must rest now. Tomorrow we’ll see what dawn brings, and then decide what to do. Althar told me you intend to stay in Fulda.”

“That’s right.”

“And he mentioned you have no family. Have you thought about how you will earn a living?”

Theresa flushed. The fact was she hadn’t considered it yet.

“I see,” Helga continued. “Tell me something: Are you a maiden?”

“Yes,” she responded, taken aback.

“You can certainly see it in your face.” She shook her head. “If you’d been a whore it would make things a lot easier, but there’s still plenty of time for that. What’s wrong? You don’t like men?”

“They don’t interest me.” She looked at Hoos and realized she was lying.

“And women?”

“Of course not!” She stood up, offended.

Helga the Black laughed brazenly. “Don’t be scared, princess, God isn’t here to hear us.” She had another sip of wine, looked her over again and then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smudging her lipstick. “Then you’ll have to think of something. Food costs denarii, clothes cost denarii, and the bed that this young man is sleeping in, when it’s not used for fucking, also costs denarii.”

Theresa’s head was spinning. For a moment she didn’t know what to say.

“I will find work tomorrow. I’ll go to the market and ask at the stalls and in the fields. I am sure to find something.”

“What trades do you know? Perhaps I can help.”

She explained that in Würzburg she had worked in a tanning workshop. She also knew how to cook, she said, having just learned a thing or two from Leonora. However, she didn’t mention her ability to write. Helga thought the tanning workshop was intriguing and pushed for more details, so Theresa told her that she had prepared parchment, sewed quinternions, and bound codices.

“There are no leather workshops here. Everyone makes do by themselves. They might make parchments at the monastery, but I couldn’t say for sure. Did you earn much doing that?”

“I was given a loaf of bread each day. Apprentices aren’t paid.”

“Ah! So you’re still learning. And what did a day laborer earn?”

“One or two denarii a day, but usually they also received food.” She didn’t explain that she was as skilled with the leather as they were.

Helga the Black nodded. Payment with food or goods was normal. However, when Theresa informed her that the laborers were given a peck of wheat, which was the equivalent of a denarius, the woman burst into laughter.

“You have obviously never been to the market. Let’s see.” She moved the jugs to one side of the table and began making little balls of bread with the leftover crumbs. “A pound of silver is twenty solidi.” She finished making the little balls and positioned two rows of ten to one side. “And a solidus is equal to twelve denarii.” She did a few more calculations, but miscounted and then sent all the balls flying onto the floor with an accidental swipe of her arm. “Basically, solidi are gold and denarii are silver, right?”

Theresa looked up as though she were searching for something on the ceiling. Suddenly she responded: “If twelve denarii make a solidus, and twenty solidi make a pound”—she counted with her fingers for a moment—“then one pound is equal to two hundred and forty denarii!”

Helga looked at her in astonishment, thinking she must have already known the answer. “That’s right,” she conceded, and then launched into explaining how it all works in the marketplace. “Two hundred and forty denarii. With one denarius you can buy a quarter of a peck of wheat or a third of a peck of rye. Even half a peck of barley—or one of oats. The problem is that, to grind them, you need a millstone, and the old ones are expensive as hell. So if you find work, it would be best if they paid you in bread rather than grain. If you could earn one denarii a day, that would equal twelve one-pound loaves, but that would be too much for one person.” She continued to speculate about how it all might work out, barely taking a pause for breath. “You really only need one loaf for your own consumption, so you would have to go to the market to trade the nine remaining loaves. And I say nine, because if you stay here, you will have to give two to me for your lodging. A pound of meat or fish costs about half a denarius—or, in other words, the equivalent of six loaves of wheat bread. After that, you will still have three to trade for salt, which doesn’t go bad, so you can always trade that again at any time. If you don’t like it here, I can ask around the area. You might find another room for that price.”

“But there are other things I will need. I don’t know… clothes, shoes…”

“Let me have a look… I can lend you something for now. At any rate, although woolen fabric costs one solidus per yard, you can find used fabric for three denarii. Deloused and mended, it will serve the same purpose as any new garment. In fact, yesterday I bought four or five yards’ worth of old wool. That’s enough for two or three garments. I’ll give you a piece so you can make a beautiful new dress.”

Theresa didn’t know what to say—she was overwhelmed by all this new information. As she chewed on a piece of bread, she just looked at Helga the Black and thought that despite her rough language and vulgar manners, the woman had a big heart.

“As for Hoos,” Helga added, “he can stay as long as necessary, but I need the bed because sometimes the customers want some fun. At the back, in the hayloft, you’ll find space where you can make yourselves comfortable.”

Theresa went over to Helga and kissed her on the cheek.

Helga was moved by the gesture. “You know, there was a time when I was pretty, too,” she said, a bitter smile on her face. “A long, long time ago.”

At dinner, Althar cursed the blacksmiths’ guild, its members, and in particular the swindler who had repaired the cartwheel. “The bastard charged me a solidus,” he complained. “Any more and he may as well have kept the cart.” He then announced that the next day he would return to the mountains.

Helga barely said a word at dinner. Theresa noticed that as the hours passed, the way her makeup smudged made her face resemble a scarecrow’s. She seemed to barely be able to keep her eyes open, having drunk more than her fair share of wine, yet she was still clutching her cup.