The Scribe (49 page)

“The religious men who come to the scriptorium… are they monks too?” she inquired one day.

“No,” said Alcuin with a smile. “They might have been once, but now they’re clerics of the Roman chapter.”

“Monasteries… chapters… it’s all the same thing isn’t it?”

“Not at all. A monastery or abbey is a place where monks withdraw into solitude to pray and ask for the salvation of mankind. Generally they are closed-off places, sometimes far from the towns, with their own laws and lands, governed by a prior or abbot according to his best judgment.

“A chapter, on the other hand, is an open congregation, made up of a group of priests guided by a bishop who administrates a diocese.” He saw Theresa’s expression and continued. “To be clear, in Fulda there is both the abbey, with its abbot, its monks, its orders, and its walls—and the chapter, with its bishop, its clerics, and its ecclesiastical duties. The monks pray without leaving the monastery, while the chapter’s priests attend to the townspeople in the churches.”

“I always get the clergy mixed up: Monks, bishops, deacons… aren’t they all priests?”

“Of course not,” he laughed. “For instance, I have been ordained as a deacon, but I’m not a priest.”

“How is that?”

“It might seem a little odd, but pay attention and you will understand quite easily.” He picked up Theresa’s wax tablet and drew a cross at the top of the rectangular space. “As you know, the Church is governed by the Holy Roman Pontiff, who we refer to as the Pope or Patriarch.”

“In Byzantium there’s another pope,” she said, pleased with herself. It was one of the few things about these matters that she did know.

“True.” And he added another four crosses to the first. “The Roman Pope governs the Patriarchate of the West. Aside from this, there are the four Eastern Patriarchs: Constantinople, Antioch, Alexandria, and Jerusalem. Each Patriarchate presides over the various kingdoms or nations that fall under their jurisdiction through the Primatial Archdioceses or Primacies, which are overseen by the most senior archbishops in each kingdom.”

“So they would be the spiritual leaders of each nation,” the young woman ventured.

“Guides, more than leaders.”

Under the first cross he drew a circle to represent the Primacy. “Several archbishoprics are dependent on this Primatial Archdiocese.” He drew some small squares to symbolize the archdioceses.

“The Papacy, the senior archdiocese, archdiocese, and then the diocese.”

“Corresponding to the Pope, the senior archbishop, the archbishop, and the bishop.”

“It’s not so complicated,” she confessed. “And these Roman clerics belong to the Papacy.”

“That’s right. Though it doesn’t mean that they have been bishops. In fact, most of the time it is ties of kinship or friendship that determine who fills these positions.” He gave Theresa a suspicious look. “Tell me—why this sudden interest in priests?”

She looked away, red-faced. In truth she was worried about her dwindling responsibilities as a scribe, and she thought that the more she knew about religious matters, the easier it would be to keep her job.

Alcuin had mentioned to Theresa that the papal mission had traveled to Fulda on its way to Würzburg. The mission was transporting some relics that Charlemagne hoped would put a stop to the continual insurrections to the north of the Elbe. Very soon the mission would continue on its way to the citadel to deposit the sacred artifacts in its cathedral.

When Alcuin told her that he would join the expedition, a blot appeared on the parchment that Theresa had been working on.

That afternoon she came across Izam on his way to the stables. The young man asked how the lands were doing, but Theresa barely paid any attention to him, her head filled with thoughts of Würzburg. When Izam said farewell, she regretted her rudeness.

That night she could hardly sleep.

She pictured her father, humiliated and dishonored. Every night since she had fled she had asked God for His forgiveness. She missed the two of them, her father and her stepmother. She pined for their hugs, their laughter, their joking banter. She longed to hear the stories that Gorgias would tell about Constantinople, his passion for reading, their nights of writing by candlelight. How many times had she wondered what had become of them, and how many times had she avoided thinking about the answer!

Sometimes she felt tempted to return and prove to everyone that she was not to blame. As the months passed she had reflected deeply on the parchment-maker’s role in causing the fire, recalling his every action, his provocation, the blow he dealt to the frame and how it fell into the flames.

She should be going back to fight Korne, she thought, and would cry at her cowardice. She feared losing what by some miracle all that she had gained in Fulda: the love of Hoos Larsson, Helga the Black’s friendship, Alcuin’s wisdom, and the wealth from her lands. If she were condemned in Würzburg, she would lose her new life.

She estimated that it had been three months since she fled. Finally she slept, thinking that she would never have the courage to return.

The next morning, Alcuin scolded her after she chose an ink that was too fluid by mistake.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I slept poorly last night.”

“Problems with your land?”

“Not exactly.” She wondered whether she should tell him. “Do you remember what you were saying yesterday? About your impending trip to Würzburg?”

“Yes, of course. What about it?”

“The thing is… I was thinking it over, and I would like to go with you.”

“Come with me?” He paused. “What kind of a foolish idea is that? It is a very dangerous expedition. There will be no women traveling, and I don’t see what interest—”

“I want to go with you,” she persisted. Alcuin was surprised by the brusqueness of her interruption.

“And the slaves? And your land? Is that why you slept so poorly?”

“Helga will look after Olaf and Lucille. She’ll look after all of it. I beg you… You told me yourself that you need an assistant.”

“Yes, but here in Fulda, not on board a ship.”

Theresa had finally decided to take the risk. Although she could not admit to her part in causing the fire, she had to return to Würzburg and face up to her responsibilities.

“I will go all the same,” she protested. Alcuin could not believe his ears.

“Excuse me? May I ask what brew have you been drinking?”

“If you don’t want to help me, I’ll go by myself, on foot.”

The monk was taken aback by the young woman’s insolence. He thought about giving her a slap, but ultimately he pitied her. “Listen to me, you pigheaded devil! You will stay in Fulda, whether you like it or not. Now, forget all this nonsense and concentrate on your work.” He left the scriptorium, slamming the door violently behind him.

The next day, an acolyte informed Alcuin that the papal delegation had decided to move their departure forward to Sunday morning. It would appear that someone had arrived from Würzburg bearing ill news. When the acolyte left, Alcuin closed the door and turned to Theresa.

“Guess who has arrived?”

“I don’t know, some soldier?” She feared they might be searching for her.

“It’s your friend—Hoos Larsson.”

Theresa didn’t locate her loved one until late in the afternoon. She found out from Alcuin that he had been taken to the optimates’ residence so that he could inform the papal mission of the situation in Würzburg, and since the morning he had been in a meeting with Charlemagne’s soldiers. Just before None, the young man exited the meeting room with an expression of frustration.

Theresa had been waiting for him outside, numb with cold. As soon as she saw him, she stood. He looked thin and haggard, but his shaggy hair and deep blue eyes made him intensely attractive.
When the young man recognized her, he ran to her and they melted together in an endless kiss.

They spent the night at Helga the Black’s house. She was more than happy to lend them her home and move to the kitchens. Theresa attempted to prepare some meat, but the stew burned. They ate frugally and spoke very little since all they wanted to do was smother each other in kisses. When they went to bed, Theresa thought that no book could fill her like Hoos did with his body.

In the morning, the young man told her the terrible news. “I wish I did not have to tell you this, Theresa, but Gorgias, your father… has disappeared.”

She looked at him in disbelief. Then she moved away from him.

She asked him a hundred times what he was referring to, and she hated him for not telling her the night before. He could not explain why he hadn’t shared the news until the next day.

He told her that, in Würzburg, Count Wilfred had informed him about the fire. It didn’t take him long to figure out that the girl everyone believed to be dead was the same young woman he was in love with.

“When we met, you told me that you worked as an official parchment-maker—that you had fled Würzburg and were born in Byzantium. It all fit together.”

“And you told them?”

“Of course not. But Wilfred said to me that the girl’s father, or in other words, your father, had disappeared. He spoke of nothing else, as if he was desperate to find him.”

“But what do you mean
has
disappeared
?” Tears ran down her cheeks. “How did it happen? Have they searched very hard for him?”

“Theresa, I don’t know. I wish I could tell you something more, but nobody knows. They haven’t seen him, and of course they’ve
looked all over. Wilfred ordered a house-to-house search. He issued an edict and even organized a search party to comb the surrounding area. To be honest, I think you should go back to Würzburg. Your presence might aid the search.”

Theresa nodded. She was glad she had pressed Alcuin to allow her to accompany him. Then she remembered the attack on her father at the parchment-maker’s workshop. That time the assailant had only managed to wound his arm, but perhaps he would attempt to do worse. Her weeping prevented her from continuing. Hoos tried to console her—and though he did not manage to, Theresa appreciated the warmth of his arms.

Midmorning, Theresa set off for the chapter. There she found Helga organizing the sacks of food. Before turning to her, the woman finished straightening a final row and then stopped for a moment. At first Theresa made small talk, but her red eyes gave away the torment that she was feeling. She recounted everything to her friend: the terrible fire, the death of the girl, her father’s disappearance, and her intention to return to Würzburg.

When she had finished, Helga could not believe she was looking at a fugitive. She warmed a cup of milk for her, which Theresa drank in little sips. Helga asked her what she was going to do.

“How am I supposed to know?” she sobbed.

“Take my advice and forget your family,” she said, delicately wiping her tears. “Enjoy your new life now. You’ve found a suitor and now have more than what I or any of my friends could ever have dreamt of. If you go back to Würzburg, you will no doubt be arrested. That Korne that you speak of sounds like an evil bastard.”

Theresa nodded. In truth she was crying because she feared that her father was dead, which, as Hoos had pointed out, was quite likely.

She hugged Helga and kissed her on the cheek. When she had calmed down, her friend agreed to accompany her to the city walls, where she was to meet Olaf to give him some equipment.

They passed the time kneading spelt dough to bake some buns that they would give to Lucille’s boys. After lunch, they gathered up their things and asked Favila for permission to leave for a while.

On the way to the poor quarter, they noticed a stranger who seemed to be following them. At first they didn’t pay him any attention, but as they turned into a narrow street, he ran after them and stood in their path. It was Widukind, Helga’s violent ex-lover.

Now that he was close, they could see he had been drinking heavily. The man didn’t seem to quite know what he wanted. He was staring at them like an imbecile, with a permanent smile on his face. Suddenly he tried to grab Helga’s belly, but she pulled back. Theresa stood between the drunk and her friend.

“Out of the way, whore!” he threatened her.

He tried to shove her aside but he stumbled, and Theresa took the opportunity to draw her scramasax and she pushed it against his throat. She could smell the wine on his breath.

“If you don’t leave, I swear, I’ll stick you like a pig.”

She would have done it without hesitation, and the man sensed it. He spat on the ground and smiled again. Then he staggered off muttering to himself. When he had gone, Helga broke down in tears of desperation.

“I hadn’t seen him for days. The bastard won’t stop till he’s killed me.”

Theresa tried to console her, but there was nothing she could do. She took her back to the chapter and then returned to the walls alone, but by the time she had reached the place where she had agreed to meet Olaf, he was gone. She waited in case he came back, but finally decided to get going because the sun was going down and she wanted to give the buns to the children.

As she walked, she thought about telling Hoos about Widukind, wondering if he could scare him off since he was strong and skilled with weapons. If he had a word with Widukind, perhaps he could pacify him. As she continued down the path, she remembered the previous night, and she thought that Hoos, as well as being strong, would make the best husband anyone could hope for.

It was Saturday. As she walked, she recalled that Hoos had told her that the delegation would leave on Sunday morning. For a moment she wondered what she would do. On the one hand she longed to stay in Fulda, look after her land, and start a family, but her desire to return to Würzburg and find out what had happened to her father was even stronger.

As she progressed she admired the stream, its basin wide and peaceful. She thought to herself that in spring she would buy some nails, and instruct Olaf to build a skiff with which to sail the watercourse.

Soon, she reached the beech wood that bordered her land. The trees would give her the timber needed to build a lovely home for herself, while Olaf and his sons hunted venison with which to make nutritious stews.