The Scribe (27 page)

“Perfect,” Alcuin said without hiding his satisfaction. “By the way, yesterday I broke my stylus and I need to make another. Could you tell me where I can find some goose feathers?”

“Goose feathers? I don’t know. The chamberlain takes care of such matters. He is in the square now, making final preparations
for the execution. But if you go to The Cat Tavern, someone there will tell you. There are several farms with ducks and hens in the area.”

Ducks and hens
, thought Alcuin with disdain. They already had ducks and hens in the kitchen’s coop! Did nobody in the chapter know that only goose feathers are suitable for writing? He then remembered that it was not the first time he had heard of The Cat Tavern. In fact, it must be a pretty popular place, for even the bishop himself was quick to recommend the delicious mead that they served at the inn. Alcuin thanked the secretary and went to rejoin Theresa.

Together they left for The Cat Tavern, encountering a light drizzle as soon as they stepped out of the palace. The friar covered his head before descending the stairs, where the group joined the crowd thronging the cathedral square since the early hours. Theresa trailed behind Alcuin. She admired the myriad of narrow streets, abuzz with folks laden with bundles of goods, livestock traders herding animals, merchants desperate to find a space for themselves among the mass of people, and street urchins fleeing the vendors they had just stolen from—all of this amid the throng of stalls offering all manner of wares.

Alcuin took the opportunity to buy a dozen walnuts, the shells of which, he explained to Theresa, would make an excellent ink after he burned and mixed them with a quart of oil. He cracked one open and tipped it into his mouth. Then they made for the blacksmiths’ street, where they would find the famous tavern.

A pleasant smell of fresh bread accompanied by a lively cacophony of voices confirmed they had found the right inn. It was located in a large house of reddish timber, with two tiny windows and a door consisting of a brightly colored blanket. As they were about to enter, the blanket parted and a woman with bare breasts appeared, stumbling and stinking of wine. Seeing Alcuin, she gave him an idiotic smile as she pushed her nipples back into the men’s
jerkin she wore. She apologized and ran down the road gibbering nonsense. Alcuin crossed himself, told Theresa to cover herself well, and walked decisively into the tavern.

Inside, Theresa blushed as she witnessed a spectacle like a scene from hell. An obscene mishmash of men and women with pottage and drink were giving themselves to gluttony and lust in equal measure. At the back, the blind man who was playing a wind pipe and baring his gums indecently sat barricaded behind a pair of barrels that served as a counter.

The monk lowered his gaze and walked toward a man with a bushy beard and greasy arms who appeared to be the landlord. Theresa followed him, albeit at a distance.

“Tell me, brother, what can I get for you?” asked the innkeeper as he dispensed a round of ale to some other customers.

“I come from the chapter. The bishop’s secretary sends me.”

“I’m sorry but we’ve run out of mead. Come back at the end of the day, if you will. By then we’ll have had a delivery.”

Alcuin presumed the clergy went there to stock up on drink. When he explained that he did not require mead, but geese, the man guffawed. “You’ll find what you need at the farms by the river. Are you preparing a feast at the chapter?”

But before he could respond, there was a loud clamor. Alcuin and the innkeeper turned in surprise to see that everyone had formed a ring around a table and denarii were flitting from hand to hand.

“Fight to first blood!” cried the landlord as he ran toward the crowd.

Alcuin went over to where Theresa stood watching the events, fully engrossed. A fight to first blood. She had heard about them. She had even seen youth playfully pretend at them, but she had never witnessed a real one. As far as she knew, it was a contest of skill that ended when one of the fighters seriously injured the
other with a sharp weapon. Alcuin suggested she take note of what she saw.

By then the customers had made space for the contenders: One was a ball of fat with tree trunks for forearms—and his opponent was a red-haired man who looked like he had drunk all the wine in the tavern. They paced about each other like wolves stalking their prey. The onlookers roared and cheered as the fighters stabbed at each other furiously with their blades.

Despite his corpulence, the fat one brandished his scramasax with great spirit, forcing the red-haired man to retreat, switching his knife from hand to hand. Theresa scribbled something on her tablet, believing that the contest would soon end, but neither man was able to deal the deciding blow.

Finally, the stout one lunged at his opponent in a flurry of thrusts, forcing him to withdraw to a corner. It looked like he would run him through at any moment, but the red-haired man remained calm as if, instead of fighting for his life, he were playing with a child. He limited himself to simply stepping back and feinting. Meanwhile the bets continued to flow.

The stout one started to sweat and move more slowly. He must have thought that cornering his opponent would gain him an advantage, so he pushed a table into his path. But the redheaded fighter jumped clear over it. At that moment the fat man managed to grasp his opponent’s weapon-wielding arm by the wrist, but in response he received the same treatment, so they were locked in a standstill.

The red-haired one resisted for a while, the veins on his arms swelling like earthworms. The crowd kept cheering and urging them on, but suddenly the stout man’s hand made a crunching sound, and the onlookers fell quiet—as though the Devil himself stood before them. The red-haired man screamed something incomprehensible, made a feint, and then his knife flashed from one hand to the other. In the blink of an eye he had attacked the
fat one and then stepped back and straightened his posture as if nothing had happened.

The fat man stood still, looking at his opponent as though he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Suddenly a jet of blood spouted from his belly, and the man collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut. The redhead howled in triumph and spat on the fallen body, while onlookers ran to tend to the wounded man. Some men cursed their bad luck, while the more fortunate ones rushed to squander their winnings with prostitutes. The red-haired man took a seat at a table away from the crowds and calmly combed his hair, laughing with contempt as he watched them take the fat man out back. He picked up a tankard and drank from it until it was empty, then served himself some bread and sausage and ordered a round of ale for all.

Alcuin told Theresa to wait for him. He approached the winning fighter with a jug of wine he’d found unattended on a nearby table.

“An impressive display. May I offer you a drink?” said Alcuin, sitting down without waiting for a response.

The redhead looked him up and down before grasping the tankard and downing every last drop. “Spare me your sermons, monk. If you’re after alms, go into the middle of the room there, grab a blade, and may God protect you.” The man turned his attention to the table and started counting the coins that a friend had just delivered as part of his winnings.

“To be honest, I thought the stout fellow would do away with you, but your mastery of the dagger proved to be the stuff of legends,” Alcuin said obligingly.

“Listen, I’ve already told you I don’t give alms, so clear off before I tire of you.”

Alcuin decided to be more direct. “In truth I did not want to speak to you about the fight. Rather, I am interested in the another matter: the mill.”

“The mill? What about the mill?”

“You work there, do you not?”

“And what if I do? It’s no secret.”

“You see, the chapter wishes to acquire a batch of grain. A good bit of business for someone who knows how to handle it. With whom should I discuss the matter?”

“You’re from the chapter and you don’t know the answer to that? I don’t take kindly to liars,” he said, his hand moving to the handle of his knife.

“Relax,” the monk hastened to say. “I don’t know who is in charge because I’m new here. The wheat would go to the chapter, but it is a private matter. In truth I wish to replace some batches before the
missi dominici
inspect the grain stores. Nobody knows about it and that’s how I want it to stay.”

The redhead let go of the hilt of his dagger. He knew that the
missi dominici
were the judges Charlemagne periodically sent across his lands to resolve important legal matters. Their last visit had been in autumn, so it was possible that the friar was telling the truth. “And what’s this got to do with me? Speak to the owner and see what he says.”

“The owner of the mill?”

“The owner of the mill, of the stream, of this tavern, and of half the town. Ask for Kohl. You’ll find him at the grain stall at the market.”

“Hey, Rothaart, are you going to become a monk now?” interrupted the same man who’d brought him his coins. It was clear to Alcuin that Rothaart was the redhead’s name, for that is precisely what the word meant in the language of the Germanic peoples.

“You keep joking, Gus. One of these days I’ll smash in your skull and put a gourd in its place. Even your wife will appreciate the change,” Rothaart retorted to his friend. “And as for you,” he said to Alcuin, “if you’re not going to bring more wine, you can make room for one of the whores waiting for me.”

Alcuin thanked him for his time and gestured to Theresa. The two of them left the tavern and made for the market square.

“Where are we going now?” she asked.

“To speak to a man who owns a mill.”

“The abbey mill?” Theresa ran to keep up with Alcuin, who walked with increasing speed.

“No, no. There are three mills in Fulda: Two belong to the chapter, though only one is located at the abbey. The third is owned by a man called Kohl who, it appears, is the local rich man.”

“I thought you wanted to find some feathers.”

“That was before I met Rothaart.”

“But didn’t you know him already? I heard you address him and say that he worked at the mill. And why do you want to buy grain?”

Alcuin looked at her as if the question irritated him. “Who told you I want to buy anything? And I didn’t know the miller. I deduced that he worked at the mill from the flour that not only dusted his clothes but was also embedded deep under his fingernails.”

“And what’s so special about this mill?”

“If I knew that, we would not be visiting it,” he said, without slowing his pace. “All I can say is that I had never seen a miller who eats rye bread. By the way, what did you write on your tablets?”

Theresa stopped to search her bag. She was about to start reading, but seeing that Alcuin was not waiting, she ran after him as she read over her notes: “The stout man was wounded in the belly. The redhead waited for him to lose his balance before attacking him. The winner’s earnings totaled around twenty denarii. Ah! And I didn’t note this down, but the fat one’s injury could not have been serious, because he left the tavern on his own two feet,” she said with self-satisfaction, expecting some recognition.

“That’s what you wasted your time noting?” Alcuin looked at her for a moment, then continued walking. “Lass, I asked you to note
what you saw, not the things that were so obvious any fool could have seem them. You must learn to pay attention to the minutiae, the more subtle events—the details that go almost unnoticed or that seem insubstantial or meaningless. They yield the most interesting information.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Did you see the detail of the flour? Or notice his shoes? Did you determine which hand he used to thrust the knife?”

“No,” Theresa admitted, feeling stupid.

“First, the redhead: When we arrived at the tavern, he seemed drunk but he was actually choosing his victim carefully, for when he made his bet, he counted every last denarius.”

“Aha.”

“He chose a strong man, but one without great skill. First, his accomplice Gus sized up the unsuspecting victim, indicating him with a clumsy hand signal. Indeed, Rothaart did not start fighting until Gus had gestured that the bets had been taken.”

“I thought there was something odd about that Gus, but I didn’t think it was important.”

“As for the money you noted—twenty denarii… it’s a lot.”

“Enough to buy a pig,” said Theresa, remembering her conversations with Helga.

“But not so much if you’re paying for a round of drinks and two prostitutes. However, his shoes were of fine leather, and slightly different for each foot, which means they were made especially for him. He also wore a gold chain and a ring set with stones. Too much wealth for a miller who risks his life gambling.”

“Perhaps he fights every day.”

“If that were the case, and he always won, his reputation would precede him and he wouldn’t find opponents prepared to die, nor gamblers willing to throw away their money. And if he didn’t always win, he would probably be dead by now. No. There must be another explanation for his expensive shoes. Perhaps the same
explanation that accounts for his preference for rye bread rather than wheat.”

“So…”

“So we know he works as a miller, that he is left-handed, astute, skilled with a knife, and moneyed, too.”

“You saw which hand he used to attack the fat man?”

“I didn’t have to look. He held his tankard in his left hand, he counted his winnings with his left hand, and he used the same hand when he tried to threaten me.”

“And why is all this important?”

“It might not be. But it might also have something to do with the sickness that is plaguing the town.”