The Scribe(18)

“It must be a family thing. Rutgarda is sensible, too,” Gorgias confirmed.

Rutgarda smiled. Gorgias did not say nice things to her often, but he was a good man, and it made her proud.

“Stop your flattery and go chop some firewood. I have to prepare the shroud. I’ll let you know when I’ve finished,” Lotharia grumbled.

Rutgarda filled a bowl with soup and handed it to Gorgias.

“See what I mean. They have more sense than some men,” Reinold repeated.

The two men drank their broth eagerly. Before going out, Gorgias’s eyes turned to the single chest in the room. He examined it closely and after a moment’s hesitation he opened and started to empty it.

“What are you looking for?”

“I think I’ll be able to turn it into a casket. Outside I’ve got some planks that might work.”

“But it’s our only chest. We can’t just throw our belongings on the floor,” said Rutgarda.

“We’ll leave our clothes on Theresa’s bed—and don’t worry, I’ll buy another better one soon,” said Gorgias as he pulled out the last garment. “When you’ve finished shrouding her, wrap these things in a blanket. Then gather up everything of value: food, pots, dresses, tools… I will take care of the books.”

“Good God! But why?”

“Don’t ask, just do as I say.”

Gorgias seized a torch and asked Reinold to help him with the task. His friend lit another torch and together they dragged the chest outside.

Lotharia left Rutgarda to gather their belongings while she undressed Theresa’s charred body. Naturally it was not the first time she had shrouded a body, but until then she had never had to deal with one whose skin came off in pieces like willow bark. She carefully removed the remains of her dress and cleaned the blackened body with hot water. Then she doused it in perfume, splashing it with cardamom essence. To wrap her she used a linen sheet, swathing her from feet to shoulders. Afterward she selected an old dress, which she tore with a knife to use as decoration for the shroud. By the time Lotharia had finished, Rutgarda had gathered up practically all of their valuable things.

“Though she was not my daughter, I always loved her as my own,” Rutgarda said with tears in her eyes.

Lotharia thought it best not to say anything. It was already enough that Rutgarda could not conceive, and now she had lost her only stepdaughter.

“We all loved her,” Lotharia said at length. “She was a good girl. Different, but good… I’ll get the men.” She dried her hands and called out to Gorgias and Reinold.

The two of them appeared with the chest transformed into a strange coffin.

“It’s not pretty, but it will do,” Gorgias declared. He dragged the chest near to where the body lay, looked sadly upon his daughter and turned to Rutgarda. “I’ve been talking to Wilfred. He warned me that Korne is likely to lodge a complaint against us.”

“Why us? What does that rat want? Does he want us to be exiled? Does he want us to admit that Theresa should never have set foot in the workshop? For the love of God! Have we not been punished enough?”

“Not enough for him, it would seem. I presume he wants to get his dues for the losses caused by the fire.”

“But what is he going to achieve? We barely have enough to eat.”

“That’s what I said to Wilfred, but under Frankish law, they can take everything we have.”

“Oh? And what do we have? All our possessions are there, wrapped up in a tiny bundle on the bed.”

“They could take your home,” suggested Lotharia.

“The house is rented,” Gorgias responded. “And that is precisely the problem.”

“Why’s that a problem?” Rutgarda asked anxiously.

Gorgias looked hard at Rutgarda and sucked in his breath. “Because they could sell us at the slave market.”

Rutgarda’s eyes opened almost as wide as her mouth. Then she buried her head in her lap and broke into tears. Lotharia shook her head and reproached Gorgias for his words.

“I said they could do it, not that they will do it,” he explained. “First they must prove that Theresa is guilty, and Wilfred says he will help us.”

“Help us?” Rutgarda sounded doubtful as she sobbed. “That cripple?”

“I promise he will. In the meantime I want you to take all our belongings to Reinold’s house. That way nobody will be able to take justice into his own hands. Leave some old junk here, and a couple of worn blankets. Don’t forget the mattresses. Empty out the straw and use the covers to transport everything. That way we won’t arouse suspicion. Then you and Lotharia must shut yourselves in with the children at their house while Reinold and I take care of the burial. We’ll return at dawn.”


Gorgias sat alone on the casket and waited for nightfall. He had agreed with Reinold that they would head to the cloister after sundown, so all he had to do now was keep vigil over his daughter’s body and wait for the first stars to appear. Soon his mind was painting a picture of Theresa. He remembered Constantinople, the pearl of the Bosphorus, the land where he was born. Those were times of good fortune and abundance, of enjoyment and happiness. How life had changed, and how cruel his memories had become. Nobody in Würzburg could have imagined that Gorgias, the man who worked as a simple scribe in the scriptorium, had once held the title of patrician in the city of all cities, far-off Constantinople.