The Scribe(130)

“On the boat! Get on, you wretches, get on!” Izam ordered with arrows showering down around him.

Hoos managed to clamber up first. The other survivors dropped their bows and clung to the gunwale. Alcuin hung on for his life, half his body submerged in the river.

“There are men trapped down here,” said Alcuin, holding on to a wounded oarsman.

“There’s no time, get on.” Hoos held out his arm from the parapet.

“We cannot just leave them there,” he insisted, still gripping tightly to the one he held.

“Get on, damn it, or I swear I’ll come down and hoist you up myself!”

But Alcuin didn’t budge.

Hoos jumped overboard and onto the ice alongside Alcuin. He drew his sword and ran it through the man the monk was helping. Then he stood up to finish off another oarsmen who had been struggling to escape the freezing water.

“No need to wait now. We’re off!” Hoos announced.

Alcuin looked at him in a daze. He held out his arm, and a couple of oarsmen helped him clamber onboard.


The ship progressed upriver until the sun hid behind the mountains. Before long, it stopped in a small pool.

“We’ll drop anchor here,” Izam declared.

Alcuin took the opportunity to tend to the wounded, but since he had no ointments he was limited to cleaning and bandaging arrow wounds.

A weak voice came from behind him. “Can I help?”

Alcuin looked at Theresa with a concerned expression. He accepted her offer with a grim face and the young woman crouched down to assist him. When they had finished with the wounded, Theresa withdrew to a corner to pray for the dead.

Hoos approached Alcuin with a piece of bread in his hand. “Here, eat something,” he offered.

“I’m not hungry. Thank you.”

“Alcuin, for the love of God. You saw it yourself. The boat was already on its way and those poor wretches were trapped. There was nothing else I could do.”

“You might not have thought the same had it been you trapped there,” he responded angrily.

“Don’t fool yourself. I might not be the kind of person you would share an evening of poetry with, but I saved your life.”

Alcuin nodded and walked away in irritation.


As soon as the sun came up, one of the oarsmen was lowered from the prow to assess the damage. After a while he reappeared, sour faced. “The hull’s ruined,” he informed them as they dried him off. “I doubt we’ll be able to repair it here.”

Izam shook his head. He could moor the boat to the bank to procure some timber, but it was an unnecessary risk.

“We’ll keep going for as long as the ship lasts.”

Alcuin awoke to the splashing of the oars. Beside him slept Flavio, half-covered in a blanket, and Theresa, curled up beside her father’s bag. Alcuin decided to wake them lest they freeze to death. While Flavio woke up, the young woman fetched a little wine and a slice of rye bread.

“They’ve rationed the provisions,” she informed them. “It would appear that much of the food was lost in the attack.”

“My leg hurts,” Flavio complained.

Alcuin lifted his robe. Fortunately, the Roman was a stout man and the arrow had embedded itself almost entirely in fat.

“We’ll have to remove it.”

“The leg?” he asked, alarmed.

“No, good Lord, the arrow.”

“Best we wait until we reach Würzburg,” Flavio suggested.

“All right. In the meantime try this cheese.”

Flavio took the cheese and bit into it. Suddenly Alcuin grabbed the arrow and pulled it out in one jerk. Flavio’s scream echoed around the mountains. Alcuin paid no attention, proceeding to pour a little wine on the wound. Then he covered it with some bandages that he had ready.

“Damned novice of a surgeon.”

“That wound could have developed complications,” he argued calmly. “Now get up and try to walk a little.”

Flavio obeyed begrudgingly, and soon he was staggering over to his belongings, dragging his feet as if they were in chains. He noticed one of his chests sitting in a puddle of water. He screamed hysterically and, with Alcuin’s help, moved the chest to a higher position.

“Judging by your face, it must contain something important,” Alcuin remarked, slapping the chest.

“Lignum crucis… a relic that travels with me,” an anguished Flavio explained.

“Lignum crucis? The wood from the Cross of Golgotha? The relic kept at the Sessorian Basilica?”

“I see you know what I speak of.”

“Indeed. Though in truth I’m pretty skeptical.”

“What? Are you implying—”

“Good God, no. I apologize,” he cut in. “Naturally I believe the authenticity of the lignum crucis, in the same way that I give credence to the bodies of Gervasius and Protasius, or the cape of Martin of Tours. But you will recall that there are many abbeys and bishoprics where all kinds of little bones have by chance been found.”

“Breve confinium veratis et falsi. It will not be me who disputes the authenticity of relics that contribute to drawing souls to the Kingdom of Heaven.”

“I don’t know. Where matters of God are concerned, perhaps we should trust more in His commandments.”