The Scribe(2)
When Rutgarda first found out about Theresa’s appointment, she was up in arms. If Theresa had been feebleminded or sickly, she might have understood the decision. But she was an attractive young woman—perhaps a little skinny for the tastes of Frankish boys—but with wide hips and generous breasts, not to mention a full set of teeth, as white as they come. Anyone else in her position would have sought a good husband to knock her up and keep her. But no, Theresa had to throw away her youth, shut away in some old priests’ workshop, working on pointless priestly things, and enduring the idle gossip of the priests’ women. And worst of all, Rutgarda was certain that the person responsible for all of this was none other than Theresa’s father.
In the end the girl had succumbed to Gorgias’s absurd ideas. His head was always stuck in the past, yearning for his native Byzantium, and he rattled on about the benefits of knowledge and the greatness of the ancient writers as if those wise men could put food on his table. The years would go by, Rutgarda thought, and one day, all of a sudden her stepdaughter would find herself with sagging flesh and bare gums. Then she would regret that she had not found a man to feed and protect her.
On the second to last Friday of November, Theresa awoke earlier than usual. She used to rise before the sun to sweep the animal pen and take care of the hens, but for some time there had been no food to give them and no chickens to feed. Even so, she considered herself lucky. The storm that had laid waste to the poor quarter and forced her to take refuge in the cathedral for a few nights had left the walls of her house intact—and neither her stepmother nor her father had been harmed.
As she lay in bed, waiting for the sun to rise, she curled up under her blankets. In her head she went over the trial she would undertake in a few hours’ time. The week before, Korne had expressed his objections to her taking the entry examination to become an official parchment-maker. When he discovered she had applied to take the exam, he became like a bear with a sore head, arguing that a woman had never before held the position. He grew even angrier when she reminded him that two years had gone by, following which, under the rules of the guild, anyone could demand entry into the trade.
“Any apprentice who is able to carry a heavy load,” Korne had responded with a look of distaste.
Nevertheless, late on Thursday, Korne had appeared in the workshop and sneeringly told her that he would accept her application, informing her that the test would take place the following day.
Korne’s haste raised Theresa’s suspicions, and despite her joy at the news, she could not help but wonder why Korne had changed his mind so suddenly. Yet she was confident that she could pass the test: She could distinguish between parchments of lambskin or goat’s vellum. She was able to frame and stretch the damp skins better than even Korne, and she could mend arrow and bite marks to leave the leather as white and as clean as a newborn’s backside. And that was all that mattered to her.
Even so, when it was time to rise Friday morning, she could not stop a shiver from running down her spine. Quietly, she sat up and unhooked the worn blanket that separated her old bed from her parents’. Wrapping the blanket around her body and tying it in place with a piece of cord, she left the room, doing her best not to make any noise. After relieving herself in the animal pen, she washed with some ice-cold water and ran back into the house. She lit a little oil lamp and sat down on a chest. The flame dimly lit the only room in the house, a small rectangular space that could barely accommodate a family. In the center of the room, the fire smoldered in its pit dug into the soft, damp earth. The cold was biting and the embers were beginning to weaken, so she added a little peat and stoked the fire with a stick. Then she took a scorched pot and scraped leftover porridge from it—until she heard a voice behind her.
“What on earth are you doing? Come on! Back to bed.”
Theresa turned around and looked at her father. She wished she hadn’t woken him.
“It’s the test. I can’t sleep,” she explained.
Gorgias stretched and moved closer to the fire with a begrudging grumble. Its glow lit up a bony face under a tangle of white hair. He sat next to Theresa and squeezed her against him.
“It’s not that, my child. It is this cold, which will end up killing us all,” he whispered as he rubbed his hands. “And forget that porridge. Not even the rats would eat it. Your mother will find you something for breakfast. Right now what you have to do is stop being bashful and use the blanket to keep warm at night instead of using it as a curtain.”
“Father, I don’t do it out of shyness,” she lied. “I put it there so I don’t bother you while I read.”
“I don’t care why you do it. One day we will find you stiff as an icicle, and there will be nothing to agree or disagree about.”
Theresa smiled and went back to scraping the porridge. She served some for her father, who devoured it as he listened to her.
“I can’t sleep because of the examination. Yesterday, when Korne agreed to test me, there was a strange look in his eyes. I don’t know… something that worried me.”
Gorgias smiled and ruffled her hair. He promised her that all would be well. “You know more about parchments than Korne himself. What vexes that old man is that his sons, after ten years in the trade, can’t tell a donkey’s hide from one of Saint Augustine’s codices. He’ll give you some documents to bind, you will do it perfectly, and you will become Würzburg’s first official female parchment-maker. Whether Korne likes it or not.”