The Scribe(17)
“Aha. Here it is: Capitular de Vilbis. Poitiers, anno domine 768. Karolus rex francorum. Allow me to read it to you: ‘If a free man inflicts material or personal damage on another man of equal status, and if due to any circumstances he is unable to compensate for his offense, the punishment that justly befits the offender will fall upon his family.’”
Wilfred closed the book and returned it to the shelf.
“My life is in danger?” asked Gorgias.
“Perhaps. I have known the parchment-maker for a long time. He is an egotistical man. Dangerous, perhaps, and shrewd as they come. You are no good to him dead. I imagine he will go after your assets. But what his family wants is another matter. They are from Saxony. Their customs are different from those of the Franks.”
“If what he seeks is wealth…” said Gorgias with a bitter smile.
“That is precisely your biggest problem. The trial could finish you. You could end up being sold on the slave market.”
“I don’t care about that now. After I have buried my daughter, I will find a way to remedy this situation.”
“For God’s sake, Gorgias, think it over. Or at least consider Rutgarda. Your wife is innocent. You should concentrate on preparing your defense. And do not even think about running away. Korne’s men will hunt you like a rabbit.”
Gorgias lowered his head. If Wilfred did not authorize the interment, his only option was to take the body to Aquis-Granum. But this would be impossible if—as the count warned—Korne’s relatives were prepared to hunt him down. “Theresa will be buried tonight in the cloister,” Gorgias said, “and it will be you who oversees the trial. After all, Your Grace needs my freedom much more than me.”
The count flicked the reins and the dogs growled menacingly. “Look, Gorgias, since you started copying the parchment for me, I have given you food that many would kill for. Now you are pushing me too far. In fact, perhaps I should reconsider the scope of our agreement. Your skills are to a certain extent essential to me, but if an accident, illness, or even this trial prevented you from completing the task we have agreed to, do you think my plans would go on hold? That your absence would prevent me from completing my undertaking?”
Gorgias knew that he was treading on thin ice, but his only chance was to put pressure on Wilfred. Otherwise his head would end up on a dung heap alongside Theresa’s.
“I don’t doubt that you will be able to find someone. Of course you could. All you would have to do is find a scribe whose mother tongue is Greek, who knows the customs of the ancient Byzantine court, who has equal mastery of both diplomatics and calligraphy, who can distinguish an unborn calf’s vellum from a lambskin parchment, and, who of course, knows how to keep his mouth shut. Tell me, Your Grace, how many men like that do you know? Two scribes? Three perhaps? And how many of them would be prepared to undertake such a risky commission?”
Wilfred growled like one of his animals. His head tilted to one side, aglow with rage. He was more grotesque than ever.
“I could find that man,” he said defiantly as he turned away.
“And what would he copy? A charred piece of parchment?”
The count stopped dead. “What do you mean?”
“You heard me, my Lord. The only complete copy in existence went up in flames, so unless you know someone who can read ashes, you will have to accept my conditions.”
“What do you want? For us all to end up in hell?”
“That is not my intention, for luckily I remember the contents of the document word for word.”
“And how exactly in the Devil’s name do you think I can help you? I represent the law in Würzburg. I owe obedience to Charlemagne.”
“You tell me. Or is the powerful Wilfred, count and guardian of the greatest of secrets, unable to arrange for a simple burial?”
As soon as they heard the news, Reinold and Lotharia rushed to Saint Damian’s to help with Theresa’s interment. Lotharia was Rutgarda’s older sister, and after her marriage to Reinold, the ties between the two families had only grown stronger. Once the arrangements had been made to bury the body in the cloister cemetery, Gorgias and Reinold left to retrieve the body.
Arriving home, Gorgias placed the body on the straw mattress that his daughter slept on. He looked upon her with tenderness and his eyes reddened. He could not accept that he would never again enjoy her smile, never again see her bright eyes or glowing cheeks. He could not understand how all that remained of her sweet features was a disfigured face.
It was going to be a long night of digging and the cold would numb their limbs, so Rutgarda suggested they have something hot beforehand. Gorgias agreed and he lit a fire. Once it was burning brightly, Rutgarda heated the turnip soup she had prepared the day before, topping it up with water and thickening it with a piece of lard that Lotharia had brought, while her friend busied herself tidying a corner that she thought would be appropriate for shrouding Theresa. The woman, despite her ample size, worked with the agility of a squirrel, and in a blink of the eye she had cleared the area of clutter.
“Do your children know you are spending the night away from them?” Rutgarda asked.
“Lotharia told them,” Reinold replied before whispering to Gorgias, “I shouldn’t say it, but that woman is a gem. As soon as she heard what happened to Theresa, she ran to the midwife’s house to ask for a vial of essence. I know it’s improper for me to say this, but sometimes I think she has more sense than some men.”