The Scribe(112)

In time he began to plan his return to Würzburg. He was growing thinner with each passing day, and was certain that if he stayed at the mine much longer, sooner or later he would be discovered. He was convinced that he could parley with Wilfred and reach some agreement. After all, the count was a cripple. Perhaps if he could find him alone, he could approach without risk. And he might be willing to exchange the document in return for guaranteeing the safety of him and his family. All he had to do was watch the count’s movements in order to find the right moment.

He had spent the previous day preparing a beggar’s outfit, which he easily achieved given the condition of his clothes. He had added a hat that he had found in the tunnels and a threadbare woolen cloak. He was about to don his outfit when he heard the pealing of bells in the distance sounding an alarm. It was the first time they had rung since the fire, and given that the entire city would be in a state of alert, he decided to wait until nightfall to avoid arousing suspicion.

As he descended the hill he feared the reason for the bells might have been a Saxon attack, but he continued regardless. However, when he arrived at the city gates, he found them closed. He spoke to a guard, saying he was a poor wanderer looking for some shelter, but the soldier suggested he go back to where he came from.

Despondent, he explored the unusually quiet streets of the outlying poor quarter. An old man peered out from the shack he was hiding in. When Gorgias asked him what was happening, the old man bolted his window shut, but Gorgias pressed him and he finally informed him that several young lads had been stabbed to death. Then added, “It’s some man called Gorgias. The same one who murdered Genseric not long ago.”

Gorgias was dumbstruck. He pulled his hat down over his ears and, without even saying thanks, fled toward the mountains.





FEBRUARY





21


The days went by and Helga the Black’s belly swelled. Touching it, Theresa was surprised to find that she wished for Hoos Larsson to give her a child. However, the problems and complications of pregnancy made her push the idea from her mind, and she was content to stand by and admire the way Helga devoured every bit of food within reach.

But it was not just her belly that had changed. Pregnancy, it appeared, had transformed the slovenly woman into an industrious worker, for a few days earlier she had traded her tavern for a larger house near the chapter. She no longer caked her face in makeup and her attire began to resemble that of any respectable woman. And yet, what astonished Theresa most was the ease with which Helga labored in the kitchens. Favila said she had a gift for stewing, to the point that she had stepped back from the pots to leave that responsibility to the new cook. Theresa told herself that, ultimately, all that would remain of the old Helga was the terrible scar that her lover had left on her face.

Helga, however, only seemed to care about the future of her child. She rocked her great belly as if it were a cradle, sung made-up melodies to it softly, explained to it the secrets of a good roast pheasant. She knitted tiny hats that would keep the baby’s head warm. She prayed for the child that she suspected was a girl, and she visited Nicholas, the old carpenter who, in exchange for some pastries, was building a beautiful cot for the baby in his free time.

Despite her belly, Helga did not neglect her duties in the chapter kitchen. Indeed, that night a dinner was to be held as an apology to Alcuin of York, that was to be attended by the king and his entourage. For the occasion, Helga had prepared capon and pigeon, grilled pheasant and freshly killed venison, which alongside an ox stew and the cheesecake made by Favila, would surely delight the guests. Generally dinner was served in the refectory after the None service, but on this occasion Ludwig, Lothar’s secretary, had commandeered a smaller chamber located above the calefactory, for there would not be a large number of diners.

For Theresa, the banquet would have just been another dinner, were it not for the fact that she had been invited.

“The king insists,” Alcuin had informed her.

From that moment, Theresa had been a bundle of nerves, trying to memorize the Appendix Vergiliana, Virgil’s epic poems that Alcuin had told her to recite during the feast.

“You don’t have to learn them by heart,” the monk had explained, “but you must practice them several times so that you find the right intonation.”

However, Theresa’s greatest concern was whether the dress that Helga had bought for her that afternoon in the textile district would fit properly.

When she had finished her work in the scriptorium, she set off for Helga’s house trembling like a chicken up until she put on the dress and saw herself transformed into a lady of refinement. She was dying to show it off, but Helga made her wait for the final touches to be made. Finally, her friend stepped back to check the fit, tightened the dress a little more, and then hugged her affectionately. “It’s too close-fitting, isn’t it?” Theresa said, embarrassed.

“You look beautiful,” Helga the Black informed her, telling her to run along to the dinner.

When she reached the dining hall, she saw that the guests were already settled in their seats. She was received by Alcuin, who apologized for her lateness. Theresa curtsied to the monarch, then ran with dainty steps to the place that had been reserved for her, beside an elegantly dressed young woman. The girl greeted her with a smile that revealed tiny white teeth. She looked about twenty years old, though later Theresa discovered that she was around fifteen. A servant whispered to Theresa that it was Gisela, the eldest daughter of Charlemagne, and this was not the first time she had visited Fulda because, aside from the battlefield, she accompanied her father wherever he went. Theresa counted another twenty or so people, most of them the king’s men, as well as five or six tonsured fellows she assumed belonged to the diocese. Charlemagne presided over the long rectangular table, which was covered in impeccable linen tablecloths and decorated with winter flowers. Several trays full of game competed abundantly for space with plates of cheese, cold meats, and fruit, while dozens of jugs of wine sat packed in among the food signaling a celebration fit for kings.