The Scribe(103)

The official smiled, revealing a row of chipped teeth. “In th… at one,” he indicated.

Alcuin opened the hand he had indicated, showing it to be empty.

“In th… th… at one,” he said, pointing to his other hand.

But once again, it was empty. Martin was left wide-eyed. His face was like that of a child whose apple had been stolen. “You… you’re… a… demon.”

Alcuin let his arms drop and from his sleeves fell the handfuls of wheat.

Martin smiled.

“May I ask what this buffoonery is about?” Lothar interrupted in indignation.

“Forgive me,” said Alcuin, “Forgive me, Your Majesty… it was just a joke. Permit me to continue.”

Charlemagne agreed with some reluctance. Alcuin bowed and turned back to the little man. “Martin, tell me… is it true that you found the wheat?”

“It… it is… sir.”

“I see! But as I seem to recall, Lothar announced that it was very, very well hidden.”

“That’s right… s… sir. Ve… very well hiiid… en. It to… took all… all morn… ing to f… f… find it.”

“But in the end you discovered its whereabouts.”

“Yes… sir.” He smiled like a young boy who had caught a very slippery eel.

“And tell me, Martin, if the wheat was so well hidden, how was it possible that you found it, if you aren’t even able to find a fistful in my hands?”

Except for Lothar, everyone, including Martin, roared with laughter. However, the little man’s smile froze when he noticed Lothar’s cold stare. “He… he help… helped me,” he said, signaling the bishop.

“Well, I never! I hadn’t heard that part of the story before.” He turned to Lothar. “So the bishop told you where to search for the wheat?”

“What did you expect?” the bishop retorted. “Have you not seen that he is a half-wit? What matters is not whether I helped him, but the fact that it was found.”

“Of course, I don’t doubt it.” He paced up and down. “And tell me, my good Lothar, how did you know that the wheat was contaminated?”

The bishop hesitated for a moment, but then quickly answered: “Because of the grain that Theresa told me about.”

“This grain?” said Alcuin, putting his hand in his pocket and showing him another fistful of wheat with clearly visible tiny black balls intermixed.

Lothar looked at it without much interest, then his glassy eyes looked back up at Alcuin. “Exactly like that, yes,” he confirmed.

Alcuin arched his eyebrows. “How odd, because those black balls are peppercorns.” He closed his hand and put the wheat grain back in his pocket.

“Not so fast,” the bishop blurted out. “You have not yet explained your attempt to poison me and why, knowing what you knew, you decided to remain silent.”

“Do you truly want to know?” he said with a wry smile. “First, as everyone here should comprehend, it was never my intention to poison you. It’s true that I added this powder to your drink.” He opened his ring and showed them the powder. “But it is no poison, just a harmless purgative.” He tipped the remaining contents into his hand—and then, in full sight of the king, he swallowed it with evident disgust. “Lactuva virosa: unpleasant, but little more. If I had wanted to poison you, you can be sure I would have succeeded. No, dear Lothar, no. I drugged you, but it was to prevent another terrible murder. That of the poor wretch whose only crime was that he was born slow-witted.”

“Are you referring to The Swine? That degenerate who slit the throat of the miller’s daughter?”

“I am referring to The Swine. That man who you attempted to execute knowing that he was innocent. The simpleton you chose to blame for a murder committed by another: Rothaart, the redhead, an employee of Kohl and your accomplice.”

“By God! Have you lost your mind?” Lothar roared.

“It was him, in fact, who led me to you,” he said, even louder. Alcuin took a deep breath to calm himself. “The young woman was killed with a blade. I must confess that at first I too blamed the idiot with his grotesque face and the evasive look in his little pig’s eyes. But then I saw his deformed hands that have been that way since birth, and I realized that he could not have even held a spoon.”

“What do you know!”

“I know that Kohl’s daughter died from a knife to the throat. More specifically, it was on the left side and with an upward motion. A slash made by someone left-handed, without a shadow of a doubt. The maidservant who found the body described it in detail, and a small piece of the young woman’s ear was missing.”

“But how did that lead you to Rothaart?” Charlemagne inquired.

“Rothaart was hotheaded. He was left-handed, and he was skilled with the knife, which he brandished frequently in the tavern. He had money. Too much of it. The day I met him, he was bragging shamelessly to a friend about his wealth. I contacted that friend not long after Rothaart’s death, and his friend had no qualms admitting that, the day after the girl’s murder, Rothaart had scratch marks on his face.”

“That doesn’t prove it was he who killed her,” the monarch remarked.