The Scribe (30 page)

“I bet you’re pregnant,” Helga jested, and she laughed again before Theresa could throw a lettuce at her head.

On her way to the monastery, Theresa reflected on Helga’s pregnancy. For a moment she imagined herself round as a barrel, bearing a defenseless child in her belly without any means to raise it. She ran her hands over her flat stomach and a shiver ran down her spine. At that moment she promised herself that, as much as she desired him, she would not lie with Hoos again until they were married.

When she reached the abbey, the cellarer allowed her to pass without a fuss, having learned his lesson after it was made apparent that he had accepted chops as a bribe. Theresa was also wearing the robe Alcuin had given her so that, with the hood up, she looked no different from the novices milling around outside the buildings. The monk in charge of the infirmary was surprised to see her, but after confirming that she had Alcuin’s permission, he agreed to tell her what they knew about Hoos’s whereabouts.

“I will tell you again: The only explanation is that he left of his own accord.”

“So why didn’t he tell me?” she said, feigning indignation.

“How should I know! Do you think we hide cripples around here?”

Theresa didn’t like his comment. She wondered if this was the friar who had stolen Hoos’s dagger while he lay in bed. The infirmarian noticed the young woman’s look of mistrust, but he was unmoved.

“If you do not like what you hear, take it up with Alcuin,” he said, pointing toward the scriptorium, and deciding that he would not give her another moment of his time, he turned away to mix a poultice.

Theresa wasn’t sure whether to visit the monk. Although Hoos had warned her against him, the truth was that so far Alcuin had kept all of his promises. She also needed to pay Helga back the money she had borrowed to buy the horse. Suddenly she remembered the sample of grain she had taken during her clandestine visit to the mill. It was still in her pocket, so she decided to show it to him and use it as an excuse to discuss her wages.

She found him at the door of the scriptorium, just as he was leaving. He was not expecting to see her, but greeted her with a friendly manner nonetheless.

“I’m sorry to say that your friend—”

“I know, I’ve just come from the infirmary.”

“I don’t understand what might have happened to him. If I had more time… but I have several matters of the utmost importance to take care of.”

“And Hoos is not important?” she asked insincerely.

“Of course he is. I promise I will examine the case for a while this evening.”

Theresa nodded, pretending she was satisfied, then she rummaged in her pockets and brought out a handful of the grain she had purloined from the mill. When Alcuin saw it, his eyes grew
almost as wide as his mouth. “Where did you get that?” he said, looking closer at the cereal.

She told him the story, explaining she went back for the grain and leaving out the part about the horse. The friar examined the grain for a moment before picking up a twig from the ground, which he used to sift through the cereal. He told her to put it back in her pocket and thoroughly wash her hands. Then they set off for the apothecary.

After checking that nobody was there, Alcuin lit several candles and closed the doors and windows so that no one could see them. He then asked Theresa to place every last grain into a metal dish. When she had finished, he made her shake the inside of her pocket onto the same dish and instructed her to wash her hands again.

“Have you felt any discomfort in your stomach?” he asked.

She shook her head. She had some discomfort, but it was from spending the night with Hoos.

The monk arranged all the candles so they were positioned near the dish. The golden grains of wheat glowed like the sun in the light of the flames, as did Alcuin’s face, which was so close to the receptacle that it reminded Theresa of an animal sniffing its fodder. He asked Theresa to bring him two white ceramic bowls and some tongs from a nearby shelf. Then he began transferring the cereal, grain by grain, from the metal dish to one of the bowls.

He continued the task at a steady but slow pace, taking time to examine each grain, smelling and touching each one in a strange ritual. With three quarters of the cereal now in one of the bowls, Alcuin suddenly jumped up, brandishing the tongs that gripped a single black grain. He proudly showed it to her and let out a laugh. But he sat down again upon seeing the blank look on the young woman’s face.

Then he placed the black grain in the other empty bowl. “Come here,” he said, “and observe the shape and color.”

She looked closely at the grain that resembled some sort of tiny horn. It was a blackish, twisted thing, and roughly the same size as a fingernail cutting.

“What is it?” She thought it looked like any old seed.

“
When the cereal blows in the wind, Körnmutter roams the fields scattering her children, the wolves of the rye.”

Theresa looked at him, uncomprehending.

“
Körnmutter
: the Mother Goddess of Grain,” he explained. “Or, at least, that’s what the pagans in the north believe. I suspected it from the outset, but the strangest thing is its presence in the wheat.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Look closely,” he said, picking the object up with the tongs again. “This is no grain of wheat. It is ergot, a hallucinogenic fungus. What you see here is the
sclerotium
, the structure in which it survives after releasing its prey.” He took a knife from his belt and cut open the capsule, revealing a whitish interior. “The fungus nests in damp ears, which it consumes like a parasite, and it does the same thing to anyone unfortunate enough to eat it. The symptoms are always identical: nausea, infernal visions, gangrenous limbs, and finally a terrible death. I examined the rye a thousand times without finding a single trace of ergot, but it didn’t occur to me to look in the wheat. Not until after the death of Romuald, my poor acolyte.”

“Why didn’t it occur to you?”

“Maybe because I am not God, or perhaps because ergot does not grow in wheat,” he responded in an annoyed tone. “Observe its size. It is much smaller than rye. It was not until recently, when I recalled that the illness was only affecting the wealthier folks, that I decided I must examine the wheat.”

Theresa took the knife and examined the remains of the capsule with the point, as if it were a dead insect.

“So, if this is what’s causing the deaths…” she ventured.

“Which it undoubtedly is.”

“Then these deaths can be avoided by alerting the millers.”

“It may seem that simple, but unfortunately that’s not sufficient enough. Whoever is selling it likely already knows that the wheat is killing people, so a mere warning would only alert the criminal to the fact that we have discovered him.”

“But at least people would stop eating wheat bread.”

“I can see you are unaware of the extremes a famine will push one toward. Folks will eat waste, rotten food, sick animals. And don’t think that it is only the rich who have been affected, for today two beggars died. What’s more, we would not just ruin the merchants, the millers, the bakers, and the hundreds of families who make a living from the cereal—but it is likely that the criminal, knowing that he is being sought, would grind all the contaminated grain and thus spread the poison irremediably. No.” He gave Theresa a grim look. “All we can do is find out who the ultimate perpetrator is before the wheat kills anyone else. And to do so, you must swear to the utmost secrecy.”

The young woman took the crucifix that Alcuin held out to her, pressed it against her chest, and swore to him, knowing that if she broke her promise her soul would be condemned forever.

After thoroughly cleaning the containers, they left the apothecary and made for the cathedral, dashing from porch to porch as though they feared someone was following them. Occasionally they stopped to catch their breath and Theresa would ask Alcuin what he knew about ergot. The monk informed her that during his time at the school in York, they had suffered the Plague on more than one occasion.

“But it was always in the rye,” he insisted.

He told her that, coinciding with his appointment as librarian, several monks had fallen ill. It was a time of famine, he explained.
When the wheat had been used up, some batches of rye were brought in from the fields of Edinburgh. This grain produced dark, bitter-tasting bread, though it was not as bitter as spelt, and it was resistant to the cold. It did not harden so quickly, so it could be kept after baking. But then people started to die. He also managed the library’s collection, but also administrated tolls, market taxes, and corvées. His access to these documents enabled him to make the connection between the arrival of the rye and the first signs of the illness. However, only after a fourth novice died did they ask for his advice and help.

“By then, half the monastery had been contaminated,” he lamented. “We called it
Ignis Sacer
, or sacred fire, due to the burning sensations that it caused in the limbs. I discovered the presence of the little horns among the rye grain, and confirmed their deadly effects after feeding them to some dogs. In later years the Plague would visit us again, but by then we knew how to protect ourselves.”

“Did you find a cure?”

“No, unfortunately. Once the poison penetrates the body, it spreads like sand in water. From that moment on, the fate of the sufferer depends on God’s will and the amount of ergot that has been ingested. However, we prevented many deaths by thoroughly inspecting the grain before eating it.”

They walked on toward the chapter, for Alcuin wanted to consult the provisioning book for its mill. He had already inspected the abbey’s polyptychs and he intended to inspect Kohl’s books, too.

“What I don’t understand is why we have to inspect the chapter’s polyptychs, when I found the ergot at Kohl’s mill,” said Theresa, involving herself in the investigation.

“The capsule… the casing of the ergot was dry. Dead,” the friar responded as they climbed the steps to the cathedral. “Yet even so, it still preserves its lethal properties. We can assume that the
grain was harvested over a year ago, for that is how long the ergot survives before drying out.”

“But that doesn’t change the fact that I found it at Kohl’s mill.”

“It is undeniable that a batch ended up there. Yet, as Kohl himself says, no wheat is planted on his lands, which I confirmed, naturally, by checking the various polyptychs.”

“So why, when you offered to buy wheat, did he even consider your offer?”

“An interesting observation,” he said with a smile. “And of course, a detail to reflect upon, as long as we do not forget that the purpose of this inquiry is to prevent more deaths. Now wait here until I return. I will be back after speaking to the bishop.”

Theresa sat on the cathedral steps, away from the vagrants competing for the spaces nearest the portico. While she waited, she watched a group of soldiers dismantling some stalls in the middle of the square.

“What are those men doing?” she asked a beggar who was gazing at her, captivated.

The mendicant hesitated before opening his mouth. “Preparing for the execution. They came a while ago and started digging in the middle.” He pointed at a medium-sized cavity.

“The hole is for the gallows?”

“No! They’re building a pond!” he guffawed, flashing his single tooth. “Can you spare a little coin?”

Theresa took a couple of walnuts from her pocket, but upon seeing them, the beggar spat on the ground and turned away. She shrugged, put them away and headed toward where the soldiers were working. Near them, two laborers toiled to widen a ditch so large it could fit an entire horse. The workers appeared talkative, but when she asked them what the hole was for, one of the soldiers told her to move on.

Alcuin found Lothar on his way back from the refectory. After the customary greetings, the bishop inquired after the progress of his writing.

“I have not made as much headway as I would have liked,” he complained, “but to be honest, the writing is the least of my concerns now.”

“Oh?”

“As you know, my presence in the abbey is at the express desire of Charlemagne.” Alcuin noticed Lothar assume an expression of weariness, but he continued. “Our monarch upholds an uncommon balance between devotion to the divine and rectitude in worldly affairs, which is perhaps why he has commissioned me to ensure particular observance of the Rule of Saint Benedict.”

Lothar nodded. He was well aware of the king’s qualities, for it was thanks to him that he held the bishopric, but he allowed Alcuin to continue his address.

“I have seen, much to my regret, that in the monastery the monks come and go, frequent the markets, speak during services, sleep instead of attending Nocturns, and sometimes even eat meat. And although we are lenient when it comes to sins like laxity or complacency—which after all, are limitations of human nature itself—we cannot approve of, let alone consent to, the depravation and impurity of those whose duty is to watch over their inferiors and set an example.”

“Forgive me, my good Alcuin, but where is this leading? You know that the monastery has nothing to do with the chapter.”