The Scribe (55 page)

When Alcuin suggested they go to speak to Genseric, Wilfred fell silent for a moment. Then he downed his wine and looked at the monk with glazed eyes.

“I’m afraid that will not be possible. Genseric is dead. They found his body last week in the middle of the forest, run through with a stylus.”

Alcuin coughed when he heard this last part, but his astonishment turned to stupor when he heard that, according to Wilfred, Gorgias was the murderer.

The next morning Alcuin went to the kitchens early. As in other fortresses, they were located in a separate building so that, in the event of a kitchen fire, the flames would be contained. Indeed, as soon as he entered, he noticed the blackened walls—a clear sign of repeated fires. He asked a maidservant for the head cook, who turned out to be Bernardino, a stout monk the size of a wine barrel. The squat man greeted him without a glance as he dashed about as nimbly as a squirrel organizing the supplies. When he finally stopped, he gladly turned his attention to Alcuin. “Sorry about the rush, but we were in desperate need of the provisions you brought.” He handed him a hot cup of milk. “It’s an honor to meet you. Everyone is talking about you.”

Alcuin accepted the milk with pleasure. Since he had left Fulda he had drunk nothing but watered-down wine. Then Alcuin asked Bernardino about Genseric. Wilfred had told him that it was the cook who had found the coadjutor’s body.

“That’s right.” With difficultly he perched on a chair. “I discovered the old man in the middle of the forest, lying face-up with
froth at the mouth. He couldn’t have been dead long, for the vermin had not yet devoured him.”

He told him about the stylus sunk into his belly. It was of the type used by scribes to write on wax tablets, he explained. It had been driven deep into him.

“And you think it was Gorgias?”

The midget shrugged.

“The stylus undoubtedly belonged to Gorgias, but I would never have attributed an act like that to him. We all thought him a good man,” he added, “though lately some strange events have taken place.” He explained to him that, in addition to Genseric, several young boys had turned up dead, and it was rumored that the scribe was also behind those murders.

When Alcuin asked him about the coadjutor’s body, Bernardino informed him where it had been buried. The midget was surprised at the monk’s interest in the whereabouts of the clothes that Genseric had been wearing, for normally they washed the garments of the dead and if they were in good condition they were reused.

“But Genseric’s stank of urine, so we decided to bury him in his habit.”

Alcuin finished his cup of milk and asked the cook if the young boys had also been stabbed.

“They were. Strange goings-on.”

Alcuin nodded, disconcerted. He thanked Bernardino for the information and wiped the remnants of milk from his mouth. Then he asked when they could examine the place where he had found Genseric. They agreed they would meet that afternoon following the Sext service. So he said farewell and returned to his chambers. On the way he decided to ask Wilfred to exhume the coadjutor’s body, for something did not add up.

In the corridor that led to his room, he bumped into Flavio Diacono, with bleary eyes and disheveled hair. It was late to be
rising and the prelate behaved as if there was no work to be done. Alcuin had the impression that Flavio Diacono—with his puffy flesh and perfumed clothes—was the kind of priest who was less concerned with abiding by the precepts than in fulfilling his own desires. In a moment of drunkenness, he had even admitted that in Rome he used to enjoy the company of young girls, suggesting that Alcuin should try it. But Alcuin naturally chose celibacy. The Church, of course, condemned concubinage, but it was not uncommon for some men of the cloth to succumb to the pleasures of cohabitation, living with women they bought or coerced with the threat of eternal damnation.

He returned Flavio’s greeting and accompanied him to the dining hall. It was not his place to judge his behavior, but as Saint Augustine had declared in his
De Civitate Dei
, though men were born with the freedom to choose, there was no doubt that for some, such a faculty only allowed them to make poor decisions.

At breakfast, everyone present discussed Theresa’s miracle.

Izam did not give an opinion, but several clerics suggested setting up an altar on the ashes of the old workshop, and one even suggested building a chapel there. Wilfred was in agreement, but listened to Alcuin’s objection when he proposed that they wait for an ecumenical council to comment on the matter.

When they inquired after the whereabouts of the young woman, Wilfred responded that Theresa had spent the night in the fortress storerooms, after Zeno had given her an infusion of willow and lemon balm. Rutgarda had stayed by her side, waiting for her to awaken. It would appear that Rutgarda had barely slept between praying, weeping, and tending to Theresa, hoping that the miraculous appearance of her stepdaughter was an omen that her husband would return.

At that moment Wilfred’s young daughters burst into the room. The two little girls laughed playfully, evading the wet nurse who tried to grab them. Ignoring her warnings, they scampered through the legs of the guests. Finally the devoted maidservant let herself fall to the floor and threatened the girls with a spanking, but they stuck out their little tongues and with a mischievous expression hid behind Flavio and Alcuin’s robes.

Wilfred celebrated his twins’ capers by clapping his hands, to which the girls responded by running over to him. He took them in his arms and kissed their heads until their hair was wild. The children laughed again, their little eyes dancing, then pulled away when he galloped his fingers across their round tummies. Wilfred was laughing, too. The two curly-haired and red-cheeked cherubs had brought him joy again. He kissed them once more and after asking them to behave like well-mannered little ladies, he handed them over to the exhausted wet nurse.

“Quite the little devils. Just like their mother,” he said with a smile. He picked up the rag doll they’d left on his lap and placed it on the table.

Most of those present knew that Wilfred’s wife had died the year before from a wicked fever. Some had immediately advised him to remarry, but he was not partial to the idea of cohabiting with a woman again, except for the occasional dalliance.

“Refresh my memory,” Flavio Diacono cut in. “Did you say that Theresa started the fire?”

“That’s right,” answered Wilfred. “Apparently the girl flew into a rage and set fire to the workshop where she was employed. Several people died.”

“And yet, yesterday you were of the opinion that Theresa could do no harm.”

“I did say that,” he confirmed. “One of the victims later confessed to me that it was Korne who’d caused the fire when he
pushed the young woman. But I also believed her father to be an upright man, and look at him now: He is wanted for murder.”

After breakfast, Alcuin went to the fortress stables, where Bernardino, mounted on a donkey, waited for him. The midget bade him a good morning and invited him to also mount the animal. But the monk decided he would rather accompany him on foot.

As they walked, Alcuin pressed Bernardino for details of the froth that he discovered on Genseric’s face. The little man confirmed that the body lay face up, with the eyes open and a mass of bubbles on the face.

“Bubbles? You mean a froth on the lips?”

“How should I know! The man was stiff, like all corpses.”

They arrived at the place along a clear path that wound through an oak wood near the fortress. The sun was shining warmly and the patches of snow were beginning to thaw. Alcuin examined the footprints on the path.

“It was right here,” Bernardino announced, stopping the donkey. The midget jumped down from the animal and skipped off into the forest like a kid. He stopped behind some rocks, where he triumphantly indicated the place where the body had lain.

“Do you remember the exact day?”

“Of course. I had gone out in search of nuts to make a cake for Wilfred’s daughters. There are some walnut trees down there. I was passing through here when the donkey stopped and—”

“And that was what day?”

“Sorry, yes… it was last Friday. Saint Benedict’s Day.”

Alcuin crouched down at the spot Bernardino indicated. The grass was flattened down in some places where the body had lain. Then he examined the surroundings.

“How did you transport the corpse? I mean… did you drag it or put it on the donkey?”

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said with a laugh. “You think that because I’m a midget, I couldn’t have lifted him.”

“Well, yes, I suspected as much.”

Bernardino went over to the animal and struck it with his stick, making it lie down flat with a hee-haw. Then he skillfully mounted the donkey and, holding the mane tightly, he gave it another blow, making it give a start. When the animal stood up, Bernardino laughed proudly, baring his yellowing teeth.

On his return, Alcuin went to the storerooms to see how Theresa was faring. There he found Rutgarda, who went out of her way to praise him for the way he had behaved with her. Alcuin dismissed it as a minor thing and asked to speak to the young woman.

“Alone, if possible.”

Rutgarda and Hoos, who was also present, left the storeroom. Then Alcuin approached the bed. “It’s cold here. How are you feeling?”

“Awful. Nobody knows where my father is.” She had tears in her eyes.

Alcuin pursed his lips. He could tell that nothing he could say would do much to console her. He wondered whether she knew that her father had been accused of murder.

“Have you spoken to anyone about the miracle?”

She shook her head no. Then, answering Alcuin’s question without being asked, she said that her father would never have done anything like what a maidservant had told her he had done. Alcuin said he didn’t doubt it.

“It’s all lies,” Theresa insisted. “He would never—” Her sobbing prevented her from continuing.

“I’m certain of it—so now the important thing is to find him. We don’t know why he disappeared, but I promise I will solve the mystery.”

He waited for Theresa to dry her tears. Then he helped her wrap up warm, alerted Rutgarda, and they all left together through a back door that led into the fortress. There he requested that Wilfred accommodate them in the main building, which was warmer and safer, instructing Theresa to stay in the room for a few days.

In the middle of the afternoon, Alcuin found Wilfred in the scriptorium. His dogs growled as soon as they saw him, but the count soothed them. He flicked the reins and the animals pulled him toward Alcuin, who offered them two pieces of meat that he had pilfered from the kitchens. The hounds devoured the fillets as if they hadn’t eaten for months.

He noticed that Wilfred still had the rag doll that his daughters had left behind. It had curious white eyes made from pebbles, on which someone had painted rough blue irises.

“How do you open doors?” the monk inquired.

“Either I use this hook,” he said, showing him a sort of harpoon attached to a hazel branch, “or the dogs pull me close. What brings you here?”

“A delicate matter. You said that Genseric was stabbed to death.”

“That’s right. Run through with a stylus.” He urged on the hounds, which turned around and dragged him to a small alcove. Opening a drawer, he removed a stylus of the type used by scribes, and showed it to him. “With this one to be precise.”

The monk studied it closely. “It’s of high quality,” he remarked. “Did it belong to Gorgias?”

Wilfred nodded and then returned it to the same place.

Alcuin examined the table that was used as a writing desk. He asked whether it was where Gorgias wrote, and the count confirmed that it was. There were several other styluses lined up neatly alongside some inkwells and a little jar of pounce. A thick layer of
dust covered the instruments, with the exception of two long, thin areas that were cleaner. Upon noticing this, Alcuin grew suspicious, but he kept his thoughts to himself, continuing his examination as if he hadn’t noticed anything amiss. He was surprised not to find the texts in Greek that Gorgias would undoubtedly have needed to prepare the manuscript. When he brought up the matter of exhuming Genseric’s body, Wilfred arched an eyebrow.

“Disinter him? Whatever for?”

“I would like to grant him the blessing of the holy relics,” the monk lied. “Flavio is the guardian of the
lignum crucis
, the wood from Christ’s cross.”

“Yes, I know, but I don’t understand.”

“Genseric died unexpectedly, perhaps with some sin on his conscience. Since we have these relics, it would be uncharitable not to use them to sanctify his body.”

“And to do that we have to take him from his grave?”

Alcuin assured him that it was necessary.

After a few moments’ hesitation, Wilfred agreed. However, he did not accompany him, but summoned the giant Theodor to show him to Genseric’s resting place.

In addition to being half a body bigger than any other person, Theodor was also half-mute. As he tirelessly removed spadesful of earth, all he mumbled was that the grave stank of dung. Alcuin thought he would be lying if he said Theodor smelled any better.

After some puffing and panting, Theodor’s spade struck the coffin. Alcuin was pleased to see they had used a timber casket, for otherwise the earth would have ruined any clues left by the murderer. Using another spade, Alcuin scraped away the remnants of soil and asked Theodor to help him pull the coffin up and out, which he did. But when he ordered him to lift the lid, the blue-eyed giant told him it was not his business and stepped away,
leaving Alcuin alone with the casket. On the third attempt, the lid came open.

As soon as he lifted it, the stench made them both vomit. Theodor moved farther away while Alcuin contended with the creatures swarming over Genseric’s corpse. The monk protected his nose with a rag as he brushed away the worms that had amassed on the half-rotten face. Then he searched the body’s habit for the place where the stylus had been thrust into him. He found the opening over the stomach: a small, clean incision. He noted the ring of dried blood around it, guessing that the diameter of the stain was about that of a candle. Next he observed the worm-eaten face, with no sign of the froth Bernardino had mentioned. However, he did find traces of it on the neckline of the habit, so taking a knife he cut off a piece of the fabric, shaking off the larvae, and put it in a pouch. Then he carefully examined the palms. The right one seemed bruised, with two strange cavities. When he had finished, he took out a piece of wood and pretended it was the
lignum crucis
, placing it in the coffin while saying a prayer. Finally he replaced the lid and asked the giant to help him rebury the casket.