The Scribe(106)
Alcuin raised an eyebrow, surprised at the thoughtfulness of her answer. “As I was saying, sometimes murder is punished only with a fine, while crimes that cause grave losses, such as arson or destruction, end up being punished with the execution of the perpetrator.”
“So he who kills is fined, while he who steals is killed.”
“More or less, that’s the law.”
Theresa turned her attention back to the gospel she had been working on since the early hours of the morning. After dipping her pen in the ink, she transcribed another verse so that she could complete the daily page that Alcuin required of her as soon as possible. Each page consisted of around thirty-six lines, which she usually finished in about six hours of work, half the time it would take an experienced scribe. For some time Alcuin had been working on a type of calligraphy that would enable faster and simpler writing that was easier to read and transcribe. He had developed a new kind of uncial lettering, smaller than capitals, which made it easier to copy Vulgates. Theresa was using it, and the speed at which she worked filled the monk with pride.
After the copying was complete, Alcuin turned his attention to broadening Theresa’s knowledge, insisting on the ars dictaminis, or the art of writing epistles. “You shouldn’t spend all your time thinking about how to copy—you must also think about what you want to write.”
On occasion, when Alcuin left the scriptorium, Theresa would take out the parchment that her father had hidden in his bag, and study it in an attempt to decipher its contents. Sometimes she would consult the Greek codices she found on the shelves of the scriptorium. But in none of them, nor in any of the Latin texts, was there any mention of the Donation of Constantine. She was surprised to find no reference to it, but she did not dare ask Alcuin.
In addition to analyzing the parchment, Theresa spent her time studying a fascinating book: the Liber Glossarum, a singular codex that was a compendium of a vast body of knowledge. According to Alcuin, the copy she was reading had been made at Corbie Abbey from a Visigothic original inspired by Saint Isidore’s Etymologiae.
On more than one occasion he had cautioned her against the paragraphs in which the pagan prose of Virgil, Orosius, Cicero, or Eutropius could be discerned, but because of contributions by Jerome, Ambrose, Augustine, and Gregory the Great, Alcuin allowed her to continue reading. That book provided Theresa with a window to a world of wisdom beyond the confines of religion.
“There are some things that I still don’t understand,” she said, closing the book for a moment.
“If you spent less time with that volume and made more of an effort to read the Bible…”
“I’m not talking about the Liber Glossarum. I’m referring to the incident with the poisoned wheat. I’ve been thinking, and I still fail to comprehend why you locked me in that room.”
“Ah. That? Well. The truth is I was concerned for your well-being. And also, I must confess, I was worried what more you might tell Lothar. In fact, I am the one who made you go to him the first time, but then the situation became more dangerous.”
“You? Now I really don’t understand.”
“After you discovered the hidden text, my suspicions centered on Lothar. He was the only person who had access to the polyptych, and the correction seemed recent. Unfortunately, Lothar began to grow wary of us, so I thought it would be beneficial to make him believe we suspected someone else. That was why I told Helga the Black to dye her legs and feign the sickness—so that you would become agitated and go to Lothar. I knew you would tell him that I suspected Kohl, which would enable me to continue with my investigations. I even wrote the letter he found in my cell to purposefully mislead him, knowing that he was watching me.
“But why didn’t you tell me your plan?”
“So that you wouldn’t alert Lothar for any reason. I needed him to trust you, trust your version of what was happening. In fact, the idea to dye Helga’s legs is one I got from Lothar himself.”
“How do you mean?”
“It was he who used it first with Rothaart, the redhead. I discovered it when I examined his body. He didn’t die from the sickness, but was murdered by Lothar. Rothaart was the only person who could betray him, besides The Swine, and once the redhead died, the only suspect that remained was Kohl.”
“And why didn’t you tell Charlemagne all of this? Even I doubted your innocence.”
“I needed time. As I said in the trial, I discovered that the bishop was plowing land outside of the bishopric’s boundaries. I suppose Lothar, sowing the wheat, thought that he would free himself of the proof that incriminated him, without losing the value of the grain. But the problem isn’t so easily solved. The ergot could pass from one crop to another and end up contaminating even more of the town.
“But, I didn’t know where he was hiding the cereal, nor if the batches that were found at Kohl’s mill, planted there of course by Lothar, accounted for all of the bishop’s contaminated wheat, so I had two acolytes watch the fields. I did not want to unmask him until I was certain of his intentions. What really concerns me is that there is a batch of grain that I still haven’t found.”
Theresa felt stupid for having mistrusted Alcuin. She put down the book, gathered her writing implements and asked for permission to retire to think things through. After all, night had fallen some time ago.