The Scribe (32 page)

“A link correlated to the sale of grain, and quite possibly the purchase of contaminated wheat.”

“We need something to hang on to. This lead could be the Devil’s tail.”

Theresa concluded: “Then let’s pull the tail so we can catch the Devil.”

16

In a corner of the stables, Theresa dreamed of Hoos. The next morning she awoke as the animals began to shuffle around, whinnying and breaking wind with a complete disregard for their guest. Stretching and yawning, her hair entangled with straw, she parted the blankets that Alcuin had put up as curtains and made for the water troughs. The water was freezing, but it felt good on her face. When she had finished washing, she noticed Alcuin standing there looking at her with despair.

“So much cleanliness. Come on, woman! We have work to do.”

He told her that after she retired to the stables he went to the abbey to awaken and question two monks who may have known something. Still half-asleep, they told him that Boethius, the previous abbot, had suffered an attack of insanity that drove him to his premature death.

“This happened shortly after the cereal transaction. A dispute broke out over the succession to the abbacy involving Richolf, the treasurer at the time and also the one responsible for provisioning, and John Chrysostom, prior of the abbey, who was ultimately elected to the position. However, Richolf has left town and Chrysostom died the following year. They didn’t tell me much more, but I managed to establish who drove the cart that
transported the grain. It might come as a surprise to you, but it turns out that The Swine may not be as slow-witted as we thought.”

On the way back to the library they stopped at the kitchens for some porridge and milk. Theresa put the food on a tray she found among the dozens of scattered-about pots and pans. She mentioned how surprised she was that the kitchens were in such a mess.

“I would have to agree with you,” said Alcuin. “Clearly there is too much work—or not enough hands.”

Theresa took the opportunity to press him regarding Helga the Black. “Perhaps you could employ her here. She is good in the kitchen, and as clean and tidy as they come.”

“Clean? A
prostibulae
? A loose woman who lies with men for money?”

“She’s clean with food. If you accepted her here, you’d help her give up her obscene behavior. And there’s also the matter of her pregnancy. Should a child have to pay for its mother’s sins?”

Alcuin fell silent. It was widely believed that the offspring of prostitutes were marked by the Devil from birth, but he didn’t accept such nonsense. He coughed a couple of times before announcing that he would suggest it to the bishop.

“But I cannot promise anything,” he added. “And now, let us resume our work.”

Once they were at the scriptorium, Alcuin discovered a huge and immaculate sheet of parchment, which he spread out on the table. He began to write on it with abandon, as if it had no value.

“Let us go over the case with a fine-tooth comb: On the one hand we are looking at some deaths, which, as far as we know, were caused by the victims ingesting contaminated cereal. Wheat that, it seems, was ground at Kohl’s mill—or that passed through it at least.” Theresa nodded, and Alcuin continued. “And on the other hand, we have seen evidence of the sale, nearly four years ago, of a large batch of cereal to a county where, either before or after the
transaction, a strange plague was unleashed. Unfortunately, the people who could help clarify matters the most have either died, like Boethius and John Chrysostom, or have been arrested and accused of murder, like The Swine.”

“And let’s not forget, someone tried to hide proof of the sale not so long ago.”

“That’s right. Well observed.” He paused for a moment to reflect. “So, my theory is that the Plague in Magdeburg, no doubt attributed to the siege by the Saxons that winter, was in actual fact caused by consumption of the wheat, contaminated due to the harsh winter conditions. This corruption would have been well known among the county’s millers, who during one of their worst famines in history would’ve probably taken their chances with the grain rather than die of starvation. However, with the arrival of Charlemagne’s troops, and the replenishment of supplies, we can assume that they would’ve chosen to destroy the contaminated grain.”

“I’m listening.”

“But what would happen if that spoiled wheat, rather than being incinerated, ended up back on the same carts that delivered the rye from Fulda? No doubt it would have been a tidy bit of business for the Magdeburg vendor, who would have made a return on unusable grain—and it would have been even better for the buyer from Fulda, who would have cereal at a rock-bottom price that could then be sold for a hefty profit.”

“And do you think they were aware of its blight?”

“That’s something we may never know. It might have been bought without knowledge of the poison that it contained or, if they were aware of the fact, they might have intended to thoroughly clean the grain.”

“But if they had cleaned it thoroughly, wouldn’t that have prevented the deaths?”

“Unless, of course, the batch of grain changed hands without that bit of knowledge.”

Theresa looked at Alcuin with a sense of excitement, feeling that she was playing a part in each new discovery. However, Alcuin’s brow remained furrowed as he pondered their next step. He asked Theresa to return the codices to the bookcase while he meditated for a moment. Then he finished his milk and looked out through the window as if he were observing time itself.

“You know what? I think it’s time we spoke to The Swine.”

On the way to the slaughterhouse, Alcuin informed Theresa that there were no dungeons in Fulda. Prisoners were chained out in the open until the day they received their punishment. However, though he was guarded, someone had thrown stones at The Swine that almost split his head open, so the prefect had ordered him locked inside the abattoir to prevent some miscreant from ruining the spectacle.

At the entrance to the slaughterhouse they came across a sentry, numb with cold and nodding off. When they tapped him on the shoulder, he blew out a lungful of alcohol fumes, and then once he had learned Alcuin’s intentions, recomposed himself sufficiently to stop them from entering. But as soon as he heard that his soul ran the risk of being consumed by the fires of hell if he did not let them pass, he allowed them in.

Theresa followed Alcuin’s torch as he walked ahead in the darkness. The stench of rotten meat in the damp air was so intense that the porridge she had eaten for breakfast churned in her stomach. Alcuin opened a window onto the inner courtyard. The remains of bones, feathers, and skin could be seen everywhere in the light that filtered through the cracks in the poorly sealed boards.

As they progressed, the torch illuminated the narrow corridor through which the animals were led to their slaughter. At the back of the room they saw a huddled figure—dark, deformed, covered in chains like an animal that had fallen into a trap.

When they approached, Theresa could see that the poor wretch had soiled himself. Alcuin did not seem to care. The friar moved closer and greeted him in a soft voice. The Swine did not respond.

“You have nothing to fear.” He offered him an apple that he had brought from the kitchens.

The Swine remained silent. His eyes trembled in the glow of the torch. Alcuin noticed a pair of gashes in his head, no doubt caused by the stones thrown at him.

“Are you all right? Do you need anything?” Alcuin persisted.

The idiot curled up into himself even tighter, terrified.

Alcuin moved the torch nearer to examine his injuries, but suddenly The Swine leaped toward him and attempting to strike him.

But Alcuin merely stepped back so that the chains stopped the captive before he could reach him.

“We should go,” Theresa suggested.

Ignoring her, Alcuin moved the torch closer once more. This time The Swine retreated. He seemed fearful again.

“Calm down. Nobody wants to hurt you. Who did this to you?”

Still he said nothing.

“Are you hungry?” Alcuin cleaned the apple and placed it on the ground within reach. The Swine hesitated for a moment, then with some difficulty he grabbed the fruit and eagerly stashed it in his clothing.

“Are you afraid to answer? Don’t you want to speak?”

“I don’t think he’ll talk to you,” the guard interrupted from behind. Theresa and Alcuin turned in surprise.

“No? How can you be so sure?” asked Alcuin challengingly.

“Because last Sunday they cut out his tongue.”

On the way back to the chapter, Alcuin walked with his head bowed, kicking any stones in his path. It was the first time Theresa had heard him curse so bitterly.

At the entrance to the episcopal palace they came across Lothar, who was arguing with a richly attired woman. Alcuin tried to approach, but the bishop gestured for him to wait. Before long he took his leave from the woman and approached Alcuin.

“What brings you here? Did you not see who I was speaking to?”

Alcuin kissed his ring. “Forgive my ignorance. I did not know I was interrupting a matter of importance.”

“Next time, wait until I am ready. You made me look bad in front of that lady,” he grumbled.

“I’m sorry, but I need to speak to you urgently, Father, and this is not the right place,” he said apologetically. “Incidentally, perhaps you can explain what the hole is for that they are digging in the square.”

“You will find out in due course,” he said with a smile. “Are you hungry? Accompany me to lunch and we will discuss whatever it is you wished to see me about.”

Alcuin said good-bye to Theresa, agreeing to meet her afterward in the kitchens. When the friar reached the refectory, he was taken aback by the overwhelming array of food crammed onto the table.

“Please, come and sit down,” said the bishop taking his seat.

Alcuin took a seat by his side and greeted the other diners.

“I hope you have a hearty appetite,” said the bishop, “because as you can see, we are blessed. This lamb’s head seems particularly succulent, see the sweetbreads? They are so sweet, just looking at them makes them melt.”

“You already know, Father, that I am moderate in my eating habits.”

“And by God does it show. You are thin as an earthworm! Look at me, plump and healthy. If some infirmity afflicts me, it will not be for want of food.”

Then Lothar stood, blessed the table, and recited a prayer in chorus with the other guests. When they had finished, he took the lamb’s head in his hands and broke it into several pieces, which he shared merrily among those closest to him. “This is delicious, Alcuin. Do you know the pleasure you are depriving yourself of? Rich cakes, great venison pies, cheese pastries with hazelnuts, and sweet chickpeas with quince. I am certain that you have not had the chance to sample such delicacies in your Northumbria.”

“And I am certain you know that the Rule of Saint Benedict is opposed to gluttony.”

“Oh, yes! The Rule of Saint Benedict! Pray and die of hunger! But fortunately, we are not in your monastery now,” laughed Lothar as he served himself another piece of lamb.

Alcuin raised his eyebrows and served himself a bowl of chickpeas. As he ate, he looked round at the other diners. Opposite him, Chaplain Ambrose, with his dog’s face, sucked on some pigeon heads. To his right, half-hidden behind a dish of fruit, the lector munched louder than the others were talking. Beyond him, two old men with pale eyes and few teeth argued over the last piece of cake.

The bishop cast the leftovers on his plate to the dog beside him and served himself some more.

“So tell me,” he said, “what was it that you wished to speak to me about so urgently?”

“It concerns The Swine.”

“Indeed? That business again? So what is it now?”

“I would rather explain in private.” He studied the bishop carefully. His neatly shaven face, with hardly a wrinkle, soft and chubby, revealed as much emotion as a sunburned pig. He guessed him to be around thirty-five years old, an uncommonly young age
for a role with such great responsibility, albeit no impediment for a relative of Charlemagne.

At a signal from Lothar, everyone at the table stood. Alcuin waited for the room to empty before he began.