The Scribe (31 page)

“The Devil resides in Fulda,” Alcuin said, crossing himself. “But not Satan, or Azazel, or Asmodeus, or Belial. Lucifer does not always need princes to do his despicable work. And do not assume I speak of rituals or sacrifices: I am referring to miscreants. Subjects unfit to call themselves ministers of God who use their position of power for their own loathsome ends.”

“I still fail to understand, but by the cape of Saint Martin you are starting to worry me.”

“I am sorry, Father. Sometimes I talk without realizing that the person who is listening to me cannot hear all of my thoughts. I will try to be clear.”

“Please do.”

“A couple of months ago, Charlemagne received news of certain irregularities taking place in the monastery. As you know every abbey behaves like a small county.” Alcuin looked at the bishop who nodded, but he continued anyway to build his case. “It has lands from which the abbot obtains a monthly income, generally paid in-kind. Some tenants hand over barley for brewing, others spelt, wheat, rams, ducks, or pigs. Some pay their rent in wool, others in tools or implements, and most give their labor.”

“That’s right. Our chapter functions in a similar way. What is your point?”

“As you are well aware, here in Fulda most of the wealthy folks grow wheat, which they grind into flour at the abbey. In exchange the monastery keeps a portion as payment.”

“Go on.”

“The fact is that dozens of townsfolk have fallen ill or died recently from unknown causes.”

“And you believe the sickness is related to our mills?”

“That is what I intend to establish. At first I speculated that it might be some kind of pestilence, but now I’m suspecting otherwise.”

“Then tell me how I may assist you.”

“Thank you, Father. The truth is that I need to inspect the mills’ polyptychs from the last three years.”

“The chapter mills?”

“Actually, all three of Fulda’s mills. I already have in my possession two books from the abbey in my cell, but I need your
permission for my assistant to accompany me to the episcopal scriptorium so that I may inspect the other chapter mill books.”

“You can request the polyptychs from my secretary Ludwig, but I doubt you will be able to obtain Kohl’s. That man does not record his accounts in books. He has it all in his head.”

Alcuin grimaced, for it was a setback he had not foreseen. “As for my assistant…” He omitted the fact his assistant was a woman.

“Oh, yes! Of course your assistant may accompany you. Now, if you will forgive me.”

“One last thing,” Alcuin paused for a moment to consider.

“Speak, I am in a hurry.”

“This sickness… do you remember a similar event occurring before? I mean, years ago.”

“No, not that I can recall. On a few occasions folks have died from gangrene, but as you know, regrettably that is quite common.”

Alcuin gave the bishop his thanks, a little disappointed. Then he made for the exit where Theresa was waiting for him, still staring at the hole that had been dug in the center of the square.

Alcuin informed her that they would dine in the chapter house that evening since they would continue working through the night. Theresa was surprised by the news, but did not question it. She asked for permission to return to Helga’s house for warm clothes, and they agreed to meet in the same place after the bells had rung for None.

When Theresa arrived back at Helga’s tavern, she found that the door had been barred. Surprised, she checked the rear entrance and the window shutters, which were also locked. There appeared to be no one inside, so she stayed outside for a while looking through the cracks, until suddenly she felt a tugging on her robe. She turned to see a small toothless child.

“My grandmother wants to speak to you,” he blurted out.

Theresa looked in the direction in which the boy was pointing and saw some small hands poking through a little door in a nearby house, beckoning to her. She picked up the infant and ran toward the house. The door opened, revealing the frightened face of an elderly woman, gesturing for her to hurry. As soon as Theresa entered, the old woman re-secured the door with a wooden bar.

“She’s there,” she pointed.

Despite the dark, Theresa could see Helga lying on the floor. Her eyes were closed, and her face was bloody.

“She’s sleeping now,” the old woman explained. “I went to ask for a little salt, and I found her like this. It was the same bastard as always. He’ll end up killing her.”

Theresa approached her friend, filled with dismay. There was a dreadful gash across her face, from temple to chin. She stroked her hair and told herself that it must end. She asked the old woman to look after her until the next morning and offered her a denarius for her effort, which she accepted. When she was sure there was nothing more she could do for her, she returned to the tavern, forced open the flimsiest window, and fetched her belongings.

At None she arrived at the chapter door, loaded down like a mule. On her shoulders she carried her clothes, some food, the wax tablets, and the pallet that Althar had given her before returning to the mountains. When she told Alcuin she had nowhere to go, he tried to console her.

“But you cannot stay here,” he explained.

They decided that she would sleep in the chapter stables until he found somewhere to house her. Theresa then asked him to take care of Helga the Black.

“She’s a prostitute. I can’t help her.”

She tried to persuade him that she was a good woman, that she was hurt, pregnant and in need of urgent assistance, but Alcuin remained firm.

Theresa could not contain herself. “Well, if you won’t help, I will,” she said, gathering up her possessions again.

Alcuin clenched his jaw. He could not employ another assistant without risking his discoveries being spread all over the chapter.

Cursing, he took Theresa by the arm. “I will speak to the woman in charge of the domestic service, but I cannot promise you anything. Now come, put your hood up.”

After leaving her belongings in the stables, Theresa went with Alcuin to the episcopal scriptorium, a smaller room than the one in the monastery, furnished with upholstered desks. There Alcuin unchained four volumes secured by their spines to the bookshelf. He placed them on the central table and examined their respective indices. Handing one to Theresa, he told her to look for any entry that mentioned grain transactions.

“In truth,” Alcuin admitted, “I do not know exactly what we’re searching for—but I hope to find a piece of information that reveals whether at any time the abbey, the chapter, or Kohl acquired a poisoned batch.”

“That would appear here?”

“The purchase would, at least. As far as I have been able to establish, Fulda’s harvests have never caused an epidemic, so the sickness must have originated in a batch imported from another estate.”

Theresa observed that the polyptych did not only record transactions of foodstuffs, but also acted as a record of income, land conveyances, taxes, and the allocation of roles within the chapter.

“This handwriting is incomprehensible,” she complained.

They dined on onion soup while leafing through the volumes making sure to not miss even a page. Theresa found several entries
mentioning the purchase of barley and spelt, and even some of wheat, but nothing suspicious or out of the ordinary.

“I don’t understand,” said Alcuin. “We should be able to find something.”

“There are still Kohl’s polyptychs.”

“That’s what bothers me. His transactions are not recorded.”

“So?”

“There must be something here. There must be,” he repeated, opening the codices again.

They went through them for a second time with the same outcome. Finally, Alcuin gave up.

“Can I stay a little longer?” Theresa asked, for all that awaited her in the stables was the stench of dung.

Alcuin looked at her in surprise. “Are you sure you want to continue?”

She nodded.

“In that case I shall sleep here,” he said, signaling to a bench.

The monk lay on the rigid piece of furniture, which creaked under his weight. He half closed his watery eyes and began reciting prayers, which gradually turned into snores.

Theresa smiled watching him sleep, but she quickly turned her attention to the first volume, which she started to read with every ounce of her focus. She noted the appointments and departures of the warehouse workers, the repairs to the mills, and the profits that the sale of wheat brought in each season. However, after an hour, the letters on the page started to look like a disorderly trail of insects.

She set aside the volume and turned her mind to Hoos. No doubt he was sleeping—or perhaps like her he was awake, remembering the previous night and wanting to be back by her side as they traveled to Aquis-Granum. Was he cold? If only she could be there to embrace him. Then she remembered her father and her heart sank. With each day that went by, she missed him more.

A creaking brought her out of her daydreams. She turned to see Alcuin trying to make his willowy body more comfortable on the hard bench, all the while still snoring.

She returned to her task, interspersing her reading with a few vain attempts to mop up what was left of the soup in her dish. She progressed ever more slowly, repeating her annotations to herself, until suddenly, something strange caught her attention. But it wasn’t the text.

She moved a candle closer to one of the sheets, running the tip of her finger across its surface that was a different color than the rest. She stroked it again, confirming that its texture was also different than the other pages. She brought another candle near the sheet to examine it more closely. This particular sheet appeared lighter, cleaner, and smoother.

She recognized the feel of the parchment. The sheets were sewn together in quinternions of double pages, joined by the fold where they were backstitched. She found the second page of the irregular sheet. It was the same as the rest: rough and dark. Worn in the same way.

There was only one explanation for this, and she knew it because she had done it herself dozens of times. When a parchment was smudged, it could be rescued by scraping its surface until the stained skin is removed. If the entire sheet were scraped, it would look as good as new, ready to be reused. However, after scraping, it became thinner and a slightly different color. Scribes called it
palimpsest
.

She reexamined the smooth sheet. The handwriting was also different than the writing on the rest of the pages. Without doubt it had been written some time later.

She wondered why someone would be compelled to scrape an entire page.

For a moment she thought about waking Alcuin, but she decided to wait. Then she recalled a game the scribes would play in Korne’s
workshop to recover deleted text. They would place damp ash on the page underneath a newly scraped page and lightly rub to reveal the pressure marks left by the quill. Sometimes it was impossible because the marks of the new text jumbled the marks of the old. However, all scribes knew that before writing on a reused page, they had to position a tablet underneath to avoid leaving marks on the sheet behind it.

She took a handful of ash from the fire and crossed herself. Then she applied it, rubbing little circles gently on the page underneath until it became a gray powder that disappeared with one blow. She lifted the codex and held it against the light of the candle. A short text in white lettering appeared before her eyes. She copied it onto her wax tablet:

On the calends of February of the year 796 of Our Lord Jesus Christ.

Under the auspices of Boethius of Nantes, Abbot of Fulda, and guaranteed by Charles known as the Great, King of the Franks and Patrician of the Romans.

Transaction of six hundred pecks of rye, two hundred of barley, and fifty of spelt, settled at a discounted price, dispatched to the county of Magdeburg.

Paid to this abbey, the sum of forty gold solidi, under the law of God.

May the Almighty protect Magdeburg from the Plague.

The rest of the paragraph referred to the opening of a minor road, and it coincided with the new writing on the scraped sheet.

A surge of joy ran from her stomach to her ears. Immediately, she called out to Alcuin, telling him to wake up.

“By God, you will wake the entire chapter,” he said, half-asleep.

While she told him of her discovery, Alcuin examined the codex eagerly. Then he looked at Theresa in astonishment.

“It is not a purchase, but a sale. What’s more, the price… forty solidi is far too low.”

“But it mentions a plague, and if that weren’t important, they wouldn’t have taken the effort to hide it,” she argued.

“It could also be that, though still significant, it bears no relation to our epidemic. Yet, let me think: Magdeburg… Magdeburg… nearly four years ago… Heavens above! That’s it!”

He ran to the bookshelf and took down the document containing the latest capitularies published by Charlemagne. Then he examined the pages with the focus of someone who knew precisely what he was looking for. “Here it is: a decree of assistance dated January of the same year.” He quickly read it and explained, “It regulates the delivery and price of food sent to the county of Magdeburg. It does not specify the reasons behind the pricing, but I recall that at that time a plague was devastating the area bordering with Eastphalia, on the banks of the Elbe.”

“And what does that mean?”

“Magdeburg was besieged by the Saxons during one of the worst winters in living memory. The attackers burned the grain reserves, leading to a famine that continued after the arrival of Charlemagne’s troops. To alleviate matters, the king himself ordered cereals to be sent from nearby counties at a price lower than the stipulated one. The source of the epidemic was never known.”

“But why would someone remove that information from the polyptych, while leaving the capitulary intact?”

“Because they are different things. Ultimately, the capitulary only contains a decree of assistance, without specifying what gave rise to it. However, the erased page in the polyptych established a link between the Plague and the abbey.”