The Scribe(32)
Since she had left the cabin, she had endeavored to follow Hoos Larsson’s advice when he had told her about his journey. She recalled his description of the Saxons as lazy brutes, careless folks whose singing and extravagant campfires were usually enough to betray their whereabouts. According to Hoos, staying alive was not difficult: All she needed to do was behave with the cunning of a hunted animal, move stealthily, refrain from lighting fires, avoid startling flocks of birds, and watch for footprints in the snow. He had also declared that, with enough care, anyone who knew the way could make it through the passes.
“Anyone who knows the way,” she grumbled.
Normally, to reach Aquis-Granum travelers had to take the western route, which meant crossing the River Main in the direction of Frankfurt, following its course for four days to its confluence with the Rhine, and then journeying for three more days to the capital. But according to Hoos, with the bandits prowling both banks of the river, that route meant certain capture.
On the other hand, in the middle of winter, with the snow growing worse on the paths, going south to the Alps would be an act of insanity.
She decided that her only option was to travel via Fulda.
She looked skyward to contemplate the impregnable wall of mountains. The Rh?n range marked the northern boundary of the countship of Würzburg. It was the road that Hoos had taken from Aquis-Granum. Once she reached Fulda, she would continue along the Lahn, a river that, according to Hoos, was easy to negotiate.
Though she had never traveled to Fulda, Theresa estimated that it would take her two days to reach the abbatial city, which meant she would have to spend the night on the road. She crossed herself, took a deep breath of air and set off toward the mountains.
She walked in double time, fixing her sights on the peaks that seemed more distant with every stride. Drinking her remaining water, she ate whatever berries and nuts she could find on the way. For several miles she marched without incident, but within three hours she started to hobble. What began as a slight tingling quickly became a sharp pain that finally stopped her in her tracks. With snow up to her knees, she looked at the mountains and sighed. Dusk had arrived. If she wanted to reach the Rh?n pass, she would have to pick up the pace considerably.
She was about to get moving again when a whinny made her start. She turned slowly, expecting to find an enemy, but to her surprise there was nothing there. Soon she heard another whinny, followed by some barking. She kicked away the snow that confined her and ran to crouch behind some rocks, but as she hid, she noticed with horror that she had left a trail of footprints in the snow. Whoever came through would undoubtedly discover her. She tucked in her head and waited, hunched over, as the barking grew louder until it became the clamor of a pack of dogs. Slowly she lifted her head and scanned the surroundings. The place was still deserted, but she noticed that the racket came from the gully flanking the path.
She hesitated for a moment but then decided to leave her hiding place, and she crawled to the edge of the precipice, where she lay flat on her stomach. She edged forward to poke her head out and was immediately transfixed by the scene in front of her: A pack of wolves were devouring the innards of a horse, which lay at the bottom of the gully. The poor horse was puffing and snorting, struggling and kicking in desperation. She could see its guts already strewn across the snow.
Without giving it a second thought, she shouted and waved her arms as if she were the one being attacked. Upon hearing her, the wolves stopped feasting and immediately started growling with menace. For a moment she thought they would attack her, so she bent down and picked up a dry branch at her feet. Wielding it above her head, she threw it at the pack with all her strength. The stick flew until it hit the crown of a tree. The snow that had piled high on its branches dislodged, falling to the ground. A gray wolf was startled and fled. The others hesitated, but then quickly followed.
After making sure they weren’t returning, Theresa decided to head down the gully. Descending was more difficult than she expected, and when she arrived at the bottom, she could see that the horse was in the throes of death. She found it peppered with wounds—and not all of them had been inflicted with teeth. She tried to loosen its girth, but it was impossible. It shuddered as though it were being flayed, whinnied a couple of times, and then—after several spasms—it lay lifeless in the snow.
A tear of compassion rolled down Theresa’s cheek. Calming herself, she untied the saddlebags and inspected them. In the first she found a blanket, a lump of cheese, and a leather bag with the name Hoos scrawled on it. For a moment she froze, stunned by the coincidence of her discovery. The horse undoubtedly belonged to the Larsson boy. He had mentioned that his mount had fallen headlong down a ravine, which explained the other injuries. She bit into the cheese and continued to search eagerly. In the same saddlebag she found a tanned boar skin, a pot of jam, another of oil, two metal traps, and a flask containing a stinking essence. She kept the jam and left everything else. In the other saddlebag, there were several more skins that she could not identify, a sealed amphora, a handful of peacock feathers, and a box of beauty ointments. She assumed they were gifts that Hoos had been taking to his relatives, and that he may have decided to leave behind when he lost his mount.
She knew that some of these objects might come in useful, yet they would also be a burden. What’s more, if someone found them on her, they might accuse her of theft, so she decided to take just the food. She closed the saddlebags, and glancing back at the horse for the last time, continued her journey.