The Scribe (58 page)

“And that means…?”

“Think about it. Books aren’t the only things missing from the scriptorium. Also gone are inkwells, pounce, pens… everything that your father would need to prepare a document. And curiously, all the prints left behind from this equipment display a similar amount of dust as the large stylus, which allows us to deduce that the equipment and the large stylus were taken at the same time. So, it doesn’t make sense that the other stylus would disappear later, especially considering that, after your father’s disappearance, Wilfred closed the scriptorium. So, someone other than Gorgias took that stylus that was found in Genseric.”

“But why?”

“To frame your father, of course. And not only that. I am certain that Genseric did not die from the stabbing. Rather, the suspected murderer drove the stylus into him after he was killed.”

“But, how can you be so sure?” Theresa asked in surprise.

“Well, with the far-fetched excuse that I wanted to bless the coadjutor’s body with some relics, I was allowed to exhume his coffin, and was able to examine his habit. I must confess that if
Genseric had not been of weak bladder, they would have buried him in other clothes, and his habit would be lost by now, so I was fortunate that he was. During my examination I found the entry wound, with the corresponding hole in his clothes at stomach level. An injury like that would have made him bleed to death. But interestingly there was nothing more than a small ring of blood on the habit.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, a living heart pumps the blood through the wound, causing death by exsanguination, which never happens when a body is already dead.”

Theresa was still trying to grasp the meaning of his words. “So what you are saying is that Genseric died some other way, and then someone tried to feign a murder?”

“He didn’t die another way—he was killed another way!” he exclaimed.

He told her how he had examined the remains of vomit found on Genseric’s front, and without being able to establish the nature of the poison, he was still absolutely certain that some kind of bane had finished him off.

Theresa breathed a sigh of relief. She considered telling Alcuin what she had found on her excursion with Zeno, but without knowing why, she decided to wait a while.

Meanwhile, the monk, who was gathering together codices and tidying the scriptorium, continued to ponder his theories. “Wherefore, whoever gained entry to the scriptorium was in all likelihood the same person who murdered Genseric,” he concluded.

“You mean Wilfred?”

“Poor Wilfred is a cripple. What’s more, he’s not the only person who had keys. Genseric also had some.”

“So what does that mean?”

“This is what I intend to find out.”

He explained that, before disappearing, Gorgias had been working on a document of vital importance to the interests of Charlemagne and the Papacy. A fourth century testament in which the Emperor Constantine yielded the Roman Church to the Papal States, acknowledging the Pope’s entitlement to govern the Christian world.

“Gorgias did not finish the document. In fact he was working on a replica of the original. I have the original with me, but it is in a deteriorated state. The fact is we need to complete it, and to do so, we need your father.”

“What do you mean?” Theresa interrupted.

“He is the only person who can finish it. Hence, I would like to propose a deal: You stay here in the scriptorium, working on this draft—and in the meantime, I will search for Gorgias.”

“And what will I have to do with it?”

“Go over the draft. We might be able to use it, if necessary. The truth is nobody else should know about this matter. And under these circumstances, finding a scribe I can trust—and with a good enough command of Greek to transcribe correctly in it—would be difficult, to say the least.”

Alcuin then explained in more detail what the work would consist of, and reiterated the importance of keeping it secret.

“Not even Wilfred can know?”

“Not Wilfred, nor anyone else. You will work alone in this scriptorium, and if anyone asks, you say you’re transcribing a Psalter. You will continue to sleep in the fortress, come here in the morning, and not stop until nightfall. While you make headway, I will look for your father. He cannot have gone far.”

Theresa agreed. Finally she decided she must tell him about Zeno. Hesitantly, she told him of her discovery of the amputated arm and the crypt in the wall.

“Amputated, you say? Good God, Theresa! Why did you not tell me immediately?” he cried, despairing.

Theresa tried to apologize, but it seemed as if the Devil himself had suddenly taken hold of Alcuin as he swore and cursed, scattering the parchments across the floor, before slumping into the chair like a defeated, old rag doll.

Stunned by his outburst, Theresa didn’t know what to say.

After recovering his normal composure, the monk stood up with an absent look in his eyes. “We have a problem, then. A big problem,” he said, his voice unnervingly tranquil.

“What problem?” a fearful Theresa asked.

“The problem, Theresa, is that even if we find your father, he will not be able to finish the job!” he screamed again like a man possessed.

Theresa’s quill slipped from her hand.

“And you know why?” he added, still roaring. “Because he is an invalid now. A useless one-armed scribe incapable of writing a docket.”

At that moment Theresa saw everything clearly. The monk had never intended to help her father. His only intention was to help himself, and now that her father was of no further use to him, he would no longer look for him and would only focus on the document.

Instantly, she hated him with every fiber of her being and suddenly had the urge to plunge her own stylus into
his
stomach. But then, just as suddenly, she remembered the parchment hidden in her father’s bag. Perhaps she could still defeat this devil.

She mustered the courage to offer a deal. “Find my father and you’ll have your parchment ready for you.”

Alcuin gave her a sidelong glance and turned back to continue brooding.

“Did you not hear me?” She boldly grabbed him by his habit. “I can finish it, I tell you.”

The monk smiled sardonically, but then Theresa took a quill and quickly began to write.

IN-NOMINE-SANCTAE-ET-INDIVIDUAL-TRINITATIS-PATRIS-SCILICET-ET-FILII-ET-SPIRITUS-SANCTI

- - -

IMPERATOR-CAESAR-FLAVIUS-CONSTANTINUS

Alcuin turned pale. “But, how the hell?”

The script was as crisp as her father’s, and the copied text was an exact replica.

“I know it by memory,” she lied. “Find my father, and I will finish it.”

Astounded, Alcuin accepted. He asked her to write a list of what she would need to write it and then ordered her to return to her chamber.

Alcuin found Zeno at the tavern in the main square, his face buried in a whore’s chest, drunk with wine. Seeing him arrive, the prostitute rummaged through the physician’s pockets and after appropriating a coin she left the table without a word. It was not the right place to talk about such serious affairs, so Alcuin convinced Zeno to exit the inn. As soon as they stepped out into the street, Alcuin threw a bucket of water over the physician, which sobered him up enough so that he could confirm what Theresa had said.

“I swear I had no dealings with Genseric. I removed Gorgias’s arm, and that was it,” he said defensively.

Alcuin clenched his teeth. He had hoped Theresa had been wrong, but if Zeno had truly operated on Gorgias, then he would surely die. The physician confirmed that it was Genseric who hired him to tend to the scribe.

“Genseric, who incidentally was found dead the next day,” Alcuin pointed out.

Zeno acknowledged it, though he doubted that Gorgias was the murderer. “He lost so much blood when I cut off his arm,” he said, shaking his head.

Alcuin understood.

“Now that you mention it, Genseric was behaving strangely, as if he were intoxicated, which I thought odd because he never drank. I recall that he mentioned something about an itchy hand. It was red and looked to be covered in bites.”

Zeno couldn’t provide Alcuin with much more information, only the location of the stables where he had operated on Gorgias and also the entrance to the crypt. After telling him these things, he walked unsteadily back into the tavern.

Alcuin had no difficulty finding the two places Zeno had mentioned. In the stables he found nothing of interest, but in the crypt he gathered several clues that improved his understanding of the situation.

On his return to the fortress, he found that there was a great stir at the gate. When he asked what was happening, a woman told him that the guards had closed the gates, locking them outside.

“I am Alcuin of York,” he said, identifying himself to a sentry. The guard paid him as much attention as he would a junk merchant.

“You can shout as much as you want—they won’t let anybody in,” a boy assured him, pushing and shoving.

“Neither in nor out. Not even their own soldiers are allowed through,” said another boy who seemed a little more informed.

Alcuin attempted to climb the hillock on which the sentry was posted, but the guard dealt him a blow with his stick. As he fell to the ground, Alcuin realized that he had just cursed out loud the man who hit him. Several peasants laughed at his unholy outburst.

Though there were rumors, nobody really knew what was happening. Some were saying that a pestilence had broken out. Others claimed the Saxons were attacking. There were even those who purported that more dead boys had been found.

Alcuin was about to head to the nearest church when he noticed Izam on the wall. Without giving it a second thought he clambered onto a barrel and waved his arms. Izam recognized him and ordered his men to allow him through.

“May I ask what is going on?” Alcuin protested once inside. “That idiot struck me,” he said, pointing at the sentry at the gate.

In response Izam took him by the arm and asked Alcuin to follow him. On the way to the armory he informed him that the Devil had taken over the fortress.

“I don’t understand. You said Wilfred’s little girls are missing? What happened?”

“Nobody has seen them since this morning.”

“God’s wounds! Is that what all this fuss is about? They’re probably somewhere in the fortress playing with their dolls. Have you spoken to the wet nurse?”

“We can’t find her, either,” the distressed young man responded.

When they reached the hall, it was abuzz with servants, soldiers, and monks. Most were murmuring to each other in small groups, trying to find out the latest bit of news, while others stood about distraught. Izam and Alcuin continued on to the armory, where Wilfred awaited them. He was thrashing about on his stumps in his wheelchair.

“Anything to report?” he asked Izam.

The young man clenched his teeth. He informed him that his men were guarding all the entrances and he had organized thorough searches of the stables, storehouses, orchards, and latrines… if the girls were in the fortress, they would undoubtedly be found. Wilfred nodded begrudgingly, then looked at Alcuin in hope he brought news.

“I have only just found out,” he apologized. “You have searched their rooms I suppose?”

“Even behind the walls. Lord Almighty! Last night they seemed so happy, so relaxed.”

He remarked that the girls always slept with their wet nurse, a spinster who had never given cause for concern.

“Until now,” he added, and he smashed his cup against the hearth.

Izam decided they would interrogate all who were in the fortress, particularly the servants and those close to the wet nurse. Alcuin asked for permission to inspect the rooms, and Wilfred ordered a minion to accompany him.

When Alcuin arrived at the girls’ cell he found it a terrible mess. He asked the servant if the chaos was due to Wilfred’s men searching the room, which the servant confirmed, adding that the wet nurse was a very meticulous woman.

“You were present when they searched the cell?”

“I stood at this very door.”

“And how did it look before they came in?”

“Neat and tidy, as it is every morning.”

Alcuin asked the servant to help him pick up some of the clothes that were scattered around, seemingly most from two chests that Wilfred’s men had emptied in their frantic search. The biggest chest belonged to the girls, and the other was the wet nurse’s. They paired up shoes and dresses, dividing according to whether they belonged to the twins or the wet nurse. Then Alcuin stopped to examine some objects that were on a crudely built dresser. There was a polished metal plate to use as a mirror, a bone comb, several cords, a couple of fibulae, two little vials that seemed to contain makeup, another smaller one of rose perfume, a piece of soap, and a small washbowl. They were all perfectly arranged, which confirmed the tidy nature of the nanny. There were also two generously sized square beds in the room: one for the woman, located
beside the window, and another for the two girls on the other side of the room. Alcuin paused at the former, smelling it and examining it as if he were a hunting dog.

“Do you know whether the wet nurse had relations with anyone? What I mean is, was there a man?” he asked, as he extracted some hair from between the blankets.

“Not that I know of,” the servant answered, a little surprised.

“All right,” he said gratefully. “You can lock up the room now.”

On the way to the scriptorium he bumped into Theresa, who was in such a state that he barely recognized her. Apparently some soldiers had come into her room and turned it upside down. Alcuin informed her that the twins were missing and that they had sealed off the fortress.

“But my stepmother is out there.”

“I suppose they will allow people through once the girls have been found. Now let’s go to the scriptorium. I need your help with something.”

They found that the scriptorium had also been searched. Alcuin gathered up the scattered codices while Theresa moved the furniture back into place. When they had finished, the monk sat down and asked Theresa to bring him a candle. He told her what he had learned about her father.