The Scribe(102)

At the entrance of the church, a guard confirmed that they were assembled there, but that she could not enter. Theresa tried to persuade him, but the guard would not yield. At that moment she felt a hand rest on her shoulder. She turned to find herself face to face with Lothar, who apparently had arrived for the conclave at that moment. She feared she may have been discovered, but to her relief the bishop gave her a friendly smile.

“Perhaps you would like to join us,” he even suggested.

Theresa sensed a certain darkness in his words, but thought that it would give her an opportunity to inform Alcuin of Lothar’s involvement in the falsification of the polyptych. She accepted his invitation and the bishop told her to make herself comfortable. Everyone resumed the same positions, just as they had before the break, reminding Theresa of a painting she had seen before.

The spectators whispered to each other about Alcuin’s guilt, while the monk, some distance from them, paced up and down like a caged animal. When he saw Theresa, it seemed to unnerve him. He nodded to her almost imperceptibly and kept pacing as he studied his wax tablet. Moments later, Charlemagne appeared, attired in the impressive cuirass he normally wore for summary trials. They all stood until the monarch took his seat. After giving his permission for them to do the same, Charlemagne told Alcuin to resume his testimony. However, Alcuin continued to look over his tablet, until the king cleared his throat to call attention to the delay.

“Forgive me, Your Highness. I was rereading my notes.”

Charlemagne gestured to him to continue as silence descended upon the hall.

“It is time to reveal the truth,” Alcuin finally began. “A difficult truth, incestuous, and wicked. A truth that has on occasions led me down a path of lies, through ravines of sin that I have had to negotiate in order to reach a place of enlightenment.” He paused to scrutinize the eyes of those gathered. “As you all know, strange events have afflicted the city of Fulda. All of you have most likely lost a sibling, a parent, or a friend. My own assistant, Romuald, a strong and healthy lad, died, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it. Perhaps it is for this selfish reason that I swore to uncover the truth behind what was happening. I investigated every death. I spoke to all who fell sick. I inquired about their habits, their behavior. All in vain. There was nothing connecting the deaths, which were as unjust as they were strange and sudden. Then I remembered an epidemic that ravaged York many years ago when I was a magister. On that occasion the cause of the epidemic was rye, yet here, in Fulda, many of the dead had not recently eaten rye. My inquiries led me toward wheat, surmising that if the symptoms were so similar to the rye epidemic, perhaps there could be a link.” He paused to reread his notes. “Everyone knows that there are three mills in Fulda: the abbey’s, the bishopric’s, and Kohl’s. I searched the first two mills and found nothing to confirm my suspicions. So then I went to Kohl’s mill with the intention of obtaining a sample of wheat. It is true that I proposed a deal to Kohl, but it was only to see if he had the contaminated grain.”

“That’s all good and well,” said the king, “but your account thus far doesn’t alter Lothar’s version of events.”

“If you will allow me to continue?”

“Proceed.”

“To my surprise, in a sample that my assistant Theresa provided, I discovered the capsules that caused the sickness. I must admit that I immediately blamed Kohl. However, though the wheat found at his mill suggested he was involved, in reality those tiny, poisonous bodies did not prove that he was guilty.”

“Forgive me,” Lothar interrupted, “but what does all of this have to do with your lies? With your attempt to poison me? With your written confession in which you recognize Kohl’s guilt and with your refusal to stop the poisonings?”

“For the love of God… let me speak!” Alcuin sought the approval of Charlemagne, who gave his assent with an impatient gesture. “We knew that the contaminated wheat had passed through Kohl’s mill.”

“It was at Kohl’s mill!” Lothar specified cleverly. “Are you choosing to ignore the fact that an official has found all the batches of contaminated wheat hidden on Kohl’s property?”

“Oh, yes! The official! I had forgotten… It is this person we have before us, is it not?” said Alcuin, pointing at a timid little man. “Your name, please?”

“Ma… Maar… tin,” he stammered.

“Martin. A memorable name… would you mind coming closer?”

The little man stepped forward.

“Tell me, Martin, have you been an official for long?”

“Not lo… long, sir.”

“How long? A year? Two? Three, perhaps?”

“Not thaaaat long s… sir.”

“Less? How long then?”

“Two… m… months, I don’t know… sir.”

“His brother died from the sickness, and he assumed his post,” Lothar explained.

“Ah! Naturally, that is a good enough reason. And of course, you appointed him.”

“I am always the one who appoints the official.”

“Very good. Allow me to continue: Martin, tell me,” he said, dipping his hand in his pocket to pull out a fistful of wheat, which he then appeared to divide between his two hands. Holding out both closed fists to Martin he asked, “In what hand is the wheat?”