The Scribe(168)

“Then Alcuin lies,” he emphatically declared.

“Heretic!” bellowed the monk.

The rain continued to pour insistently while the men stood unsure of what would happen next. Izam took a deep breath. It was time for his final ploy. He took a few steps forward, gripped the crucifix that hung from his neck, and fell on his knees before Drogo.

“I call for a trial by ordeal!”

They all fell silent, amazed. A trial by ordeal invariably ended in death.

“If you are trying to save her…” Wilfred warned him.

“I demand it!” He pulled his crucifix from his neck and held it up to the heavens.

Drogo cleared his throat. The missus looked at Wilfred, then Flavio, and finally to Alcuin. The first two shook their heads, but Alcuin argued that it was impossible to survive an ordeal.

“So, you will be judged by God, will you? Approach,” Drogo ordered. “Do you know what you are getting yourself into?”

Izam nodded. He knew that the usual way these trials went was to force the accused to walk barefoot on red-hot bars: If his feet burned, he was guilty, but if by divine mediation they were unharmed, then he would be proclaimed innocent. Or, they might cast him into the river with bound feet and hands: If he floated, he would be absolved of his sins. However, Izam’s plan was to insist on trial by combat, which was a possible option when there were two opponents. He challenged Alcuin.

“But he is not being accused,” Wilfred objected.

“Alcuin claims that Theresa stole from him, but I say that he is lying. In which case, only God can decide who is the lost sheep.”

“What utter nonsense! Have you forgotten that Alcuin is the shepherd and Theresa is the sheep?”

At that moment, Alcuin approached Izam, looked him in the eyes, and snatched the crucifix from him.

“I accept the ordeal.”


After agreeing that they would meet at the pyre at dawn, they all went back inside. Izam returned to the ship having been promised by the missus that nothing would happen to Theresa. Meanwhile Wilfred, Flavio, and Alcuin discussed the ordeal.

“You should not have accepted,” Wilfred repeated, incensed. “There was no reason why you—”

“I know what I’m doing, I promise you. Think about it. In reality, what you believe to be an act of insanity is the perfect way to justify an execution, which, in the eyes of the populace, would be controversial.”

“What do you mean?”

“The masses idolize Theresa. They believe she has come back from the dead. To put her to death now makes no sense, especially if we are accusing her of a crime that we can’t really talk about. A trial by ordeal, on other hand, would mean that God has justified it.”

“But you know nothing of arms. Izam will send you to hell.”

“That may be, but God is on my side.”

“Don’t be a fool, Alcuin!” Flavio Diacono cut in. “Izam is a skilled soldier. At the first thrust, he will strew your intestines across the yard.”

“I trust in God.”

“For goodness’ sake! Perhaps you shouldn’t trust Him quite so much.”

Alcuin seemed to ponder it. After a while, he stood up, newly animated. “A champion. That’s what I need.”

He reminded them that in an ordeal, the offended party could designate a defender. “Theodor, perhaps,” he suggested. “He’s strong as a bull and a full head taller than Izam.”

“Theodor’s useless. If he had to peel an onion, he would lose his fingers with the first cut,” Wilfred said. “We have to think of someone else.”

“What about Hoos Larsson?” Flavio Diacono suggested.

“Hoos?” said Wilfred, surprised. “I agree he is able, but why would he want to help us?”

“For money,” Flavio declared.

Alcuin admitted that the young man in question had the required vigor and skill for the duel, but he was not confident that he would willingly take on the risk. However, not only was Flavio sure of it, but he offered to be the one to convince him, so Wilfred and Alcuin agreed.


Before the dawn of the next day, an emissary appeared at Izam’s ship to inform him that he was required at the fortress walls. The order was confirmed by a tablet with Drogo’s seal, so Izam picked up his crossbow and several darts, belted his scramasax, protected himself from the rain with a fur overcoat, and followed the envoy to the gates. Inside, the emissary led him around the moat until they reached the point nearest the parade ground at the foot of the tower.

At the base of the tower, the remains of the scaffolding climbed steeply up to the trunk of the beam that acted as a support between the tower and the walls. When the servant informed Izam that he was to climb the scaffolding, Izam didn’t believe him.

“Why should we have to fight up there?” he inquired.

The emissary shrugged and pointed to the top. Izam looked up to see Drogo looking down onto the parade ground from a considerable height. The missus signaled to him to climb the scaffolding. But before he began, the emissary asked him to hand over his crossbow. Izam complied, then crossed himself before beginning the climb.

At first the scaffolding seemed solid, but as he ascended, the framework of poles and ropes creaked as if on the verge of collapse, so he made sure to step on only the most secure joints. His wounded leg throbbed, but his hands clasped the projections like claws. The higher he ascended, the more it swayed. Two-thirds of the way up, he stopped to catch his breath, with the rain and wind lashing against his face. Far below in the moat, a bed of rock seemed to be waiting for his strength to fail. He sucked in some air and continued to climb to the top, right to where the wooden trunk buttressed the watchtower to the wall.