The Scribe (34 page)

The masses bellowed excitedly.

Finally, Kohl spat on the prisoner, took his wife by the arm, and departed, escorted by his entourage. The chapter’s council followed him, still bewildered by what had happened to Lothar. But
Alcuin reassured them that the bishop’s condition was not serious and he would soon recover.

Finally, amid insults and threats, The Swine was lifted out of the pit and reloaded onto the cart. He and his captors left the square, and headed back to the slaughterhouse.

Helga the Black seemed distraught. Not only had she not seen an execution, but in a moment of distraction, a street urchin had stolen her bag of pastries. Theresa proposed buying a hot bun made with rye from a nearby stall, an offer that Helga immediately accepted. While Theresa searched through her empty pockets, the prostitute had already approached the pastry stand and was bartering for the buns. She selected a round bread roll, agreeing with the baker that she would pay her dues when he came by the tavern. She smiled with pleasure as they both wolfed down the pastries in no time at all. They found it to be so delicious that Helga did not hesitate to buy another, bigger one, laden with honey.

When they had finished, Theresa noticed the paste of flour and earth around Helga’s mouth that she had used to hide her scar. Another blob hung from her nose like a strange white wart. When she told her, Helga burst into animated laughter. Theresa was surprised it didn’t make her wound bleed again. She decided to ask what had happened.

“I wasn’t out of bed yet when I heard a banging on the door,” she said. “I didn’t even have time to ask who it was. As soon as I opened it, I felt a kick to my stomach and punches rained down on me. The animal! He slit my face and told me that if I dared keep the child, next time it wouldn’t be my belly that he’d cut open.”

“But why does he behave so? What does he care what you do?”

“He must fear that I’ll report him.”

She explained that those accused of adultery were given seven years of penance, a punishment that consisted of daily fasting for the duration of the sentence, although a sum of money could be paid in lieu of it.

“He really likes his food,” she complained. “And I think he’s scared that his wife will disown him. Then he’ll lose the carpenter’s workshop, which belongs to his father-in-law. But you know what? I’m going to do it. I’ll report him even if it comes to nothing. With this scar, nobody will pay for my services anymore. Who’s going to want to lie with a disfigured whore?”

“It’s not that bad,” Theresa reassured her. “It’s barely visible. When I saw you this morning, it really seemed much better.”

“It’s only deep here,” she said, pointing near the ear, “but they’ll reject me anyway. Plus I’m getting on a bit.”

Theresa stopped to look at her. It was true. She was wrinkled, with visible gray hair and sagging flesh. She thought that some men might not care that her face had been scratched.

“Anyhow,” Theresa said, “you can’t be thinking of continuing with that work now that you’re pregnant.”

“Oh no?” she said, her laugh sounding bitter. “And how will I eat every day? I don’t have a priest infatuated with me who’ll pay me to scrawl a few words.”

“You could find another trade,” she responded without taking her comment to heart. “You cook better than that third-rate baker.”

Helga the Black felt flattered, but she shook her head. She knew that nobody would hire a prostitute, not to mention a pregnant one.

“Let’s go to the chapter,” Theresa suggested.

“Are you mad? They’ll send us packing with a boot to the backside.”

Theresa’s only response was to take her by the hand and ask that she trust her. On the way to the episcopal palace, she told her
about the conversation she had had with Alcuin about a job in the kitchen.

At the entrance to the cathedral they asked for Alcuin, who soon appeared. The monk was surprised to see Helga the Black, but once he composed himself, he inquired about the wound on Helga’s face, to which she replied with all the gory details. When she had finished speaking, the monk turned away, asking them to follow.

In the kitchen, he introduced them to Favila, a woman so fat she seemed like she was wearing not one but thirty dresses. Alcuin explained that she was in charge of the cooking, and that she was as kind-hearted as she was plump. The woman smiled with mock embarrassment, but when she learned Alcuin’s intentions, her expression turned hard.

“Everyone in Fulda knows Helga,” she argued. “Once a whore, always a whore, so get out of my kitchen.”

Helga turned to leave, but Theresa stopped her.

“Nobody has asked you to lie with her,” the young woman blurted out.

Alcuin took out a couple of coins and left them on the table. Then he looked Favila in the eyes. “Have you forgotten the word
forgiveness
? Did Christ not help the lepers, did he not pardon his executioners, or take in Mary Magdalene?”

“I am not a saint like Jesus,” she grumbled, though she pocketed the coins.

“While the bishop remains indisposed, this woman is now in your charge. Oh! And she’s pregnant,” he said, “so do not overwork her. If anyone gives you any grief for it, tell them it was my decision.”

“I may be kind hearted, but I’m also fussy as hell about my kitchen. And I know a thing or two about working pregnant. I’ve had eight children and the last one I almost let drop out of me right here,” she said, patting the table where Alcuin had placed the
coins. “Come then, get that paint off your face and start peeling onions. And the girl? Is she staying too?”

“She works with me,” Alcuin told her.

“But I can help if needed,” offered Theresa.

Then Alcuin left the women to their cooking. He only had a couple of days before Lothar recovered, and he wanted to use every last moment to continue his investigation.

Favila proved to be one of those people who overcame her problems by grumbling and stuffing her face. She would complain about everything from her staff’s lack of diligence to the cleanliness of the stoves. After each scolding, she would take a bite of a bun or of a loaf of bread dipped in pickling brine, and eventually joy would be restored to the kitchen. She loved children and began to talk about Helga’s future baby with such enthusiasm that Theresa thought Favila was the pregnant one.

“Although, I will never understand how something the size of a suckling pig can come out of a tube as wide as a cherry,” Favila said to Helga, and upon seeing the color drain from her face, offered her a pastry to bring the color back.

Helga, for her part, aptly demonstrated her culinary skills that first evening by preparing a delicious stew of celery and carrots using the leftovers from the midday meal. Favila enjoyed the casserole and before she had finished eating, the two women were celebrating the result as if they had known each other all their lives.

That night while Theresa made herself comfortable in the straw, she was glad that she had helped Helga the Black. Then she remembered Hoos and a pleasant shiver ran down her neck, back, and legs. She imagined the vigor of his strong, hard body, the taste of his warm lips. She felt guilty that she desired him to be inside her and longed for time to pass so that she would no longer have to sin in his absence. She missed him so much that she thought if he did not return, she would go find him wherever he was. Then she realized she had thought of nothing else since the day of his departure.

JANUARY

17

Helga the Black was not accustomed to rising with the lark, nor used to going to bed early, so when she woke, she rinsed her face and swapped her flamboyant dress from the night before for a dark serge, one that would not cling to her figure. Then she left the storeroom where they had allowed her to sleep and went into the kitchens, which were still empty. She threw a piece of cheese into her mouth and started to clean, singing softly to herself and stroking her belly. When Favila arrived, she found Helga so neat and tidy, with her hair gathered up, and not reeking of sickly sweet perfume, that she thought she was an entirely different woman. The scar across her cheek was the only giveaway that she was the same woman.

Theresa appeared as breakfast was being served, with straw still in her hair, but managed to remove it before Favila and Helga could make fun of her.

“If you’re going to help, follow Helga’s example. She was already cooking before dawn,” Favila reproached Theresa.

Theresa was just glad the cook was beginning to discover all her friend’s virtues.

Before going to Lothar’s chambers, Alcuin asked God to forgive him for his conduct with the bishop. He regretted having poisoned him, but he had been unable to find another way to prevent the execution of The Swine, who, in his mind, was guilty only of low intelligence. However, now, to alleviate Lothar’s symptoms, he had to counteract the effects of the toxin with a syrup of agrimony. He shook the vial vigorously so that the tincture would mix with the thinner. When he entered, he found the prelate stretched out on his four-poster bed. He was breathing heavily, with bags the size of kidney beans under his eyes. When Lothar asked him for his opinion, Alcuin pretended not to know anything. Nevertheless, Lothar accepted the medicine without reservation.

Soon after drinking it, he felt some improvement.

“I suppose you were pleased by the setback,” he suggested as he sat up in bed. “But I can assure you that The Swine will meet his death all the same.”

“If that is God’s will,” Alcuin conceded without stating his opinion on the matter. “Tell me—how are you feeling?”

“A bit better now. It’s fortunate that you know medicine, especially now that we have no physician. Are you sure you don’t know the cause of my indisposition?”

“It might have been something you ate.”

“I will speak to the cook. She is the only person who touches my food,” he responded irritably.

“Or perhaps something you drank,” he said, trying to exonerate Favila.

At that moment Favila waddled in accompanied by a boy with a tray full of food. Lothar looked at the woman without accusation, and his eyes widened when he saw the assortment of delicacies on the menu. Before beginning to eat he looked toward Alcuin and though he found his expression wary, he eagerly dived into the pigeon casserole anyway with Favila proudly standing by to await
his verdict. As Lothar picked at the little bones, Alcuin informed him of the situation with Helga the Black.

“A prostitute? Here in the chapter? How dare you!” he sputtered over himself.

“She was desperate. A man attacked her.”

“Well, they can employ her somewhere else. By God! We have to set an example here.” And he stuffed another pigeon into his mouth.

“That woman can change,” the cook interjected. “Not all harlots are the same.”

Hearing her speak, Lothar choked. He pulled a bone from his mouth and spat the rest onto the tray. “Of course they are not all the same! There are the
prostibulae
, who ply their trade wherever they can… the
ambulatarae
, who work the streets… the
lupae
, who offer themselves in forests… and even the
bastuariae
, who fornicate in cemeteries. They are all different, but all of them make money in the same way,” he said, clutching his groin.

“She does not have to be employed in the clerics’ kitchen. She could work here in the palace,” Alcuin suggested.

“With these delicious pigeons that Favila makes, why would I need more servants?”

“It wasn’t me who cooked them. It was her,” the woman explained.

Lothar looked at the plate of pigeon and then at the apple cake, which he surmised must also be the work of Helga the Black since Favila had never prepared it before. He tried it cautiously, and found it sublime.

Hesitating, he muttered, “Very well. But she mustn’t leave the kitchen.”

Favila turned and left, barely able to contain her smile. When she had gone, the bishop rose to empty his bladder, which he did in front of Alcuin as he rambled on about forgiveness and indulgence.

At the end of the lecture, Alcuin inquired about the chapter’s polyptychs, and by then Lothar had lost his energy to wax eloquent. He informed him that he was still a new bishop and so wasn’t acquainted with the details of previous food transactions. However, he referred the monk to his official treasurer for the information he needed.

Alcuin spent the rest of the morning organizing his notes in his cell. He was about go over them again when Theresa appeared, a little before their agreed upon time.

“I wanted to thank you for helping Helga,” she said. “From my heart.”

Alcuin didn’t respond. Instead, he asked her to approach and share in his ruminations. The young woman gave him her full attention. After listening to Alcuin’s thoughts, she said, “So, if I understand correctly, the person responsible for the Plague is one of these men.”

“For the deaths caused by the sickness. And do not forget that the girl’s murderer is also at large.”

Theresa went over Alcuin’s list. First there was Kohl: The contaminated grain was at his mill, which made him the prime suspect. Then there was Rothaart, the red-haired miller on Kohl’s payroll who possessed objects too valuable for a man of his status. And finally there was The Swine—because even if he did not kill the girl, he still drove the cart.