The Scribe(51)
“Do you not want my money?” he asked bluntly.
“As much as you want my bear,” Althar answered without lifting his eyes from his cup.
The man pulled out a pouch and deposited it on the table. Althar picked it up and felt its weight in his hand before placing it back down in front of its owner.
“Half a pound is what one of my laborers earns in a year,” the man pointed out.
“That’s why I’m not a laborer,” said Althar, brushing aside the comment.
The man picked up the bag and stood, irritated, before going outside and speaking to the woman. Then he returned and kicked the table, making Theresa and Althar’s food scatter across its surface. He took out two pouches and threw them down onto the mess he had just created. “A pound of silver. I hope you and your whore enjoy it,” he said, glancing at Theresa.
“That we will, sir. Thank you!” said Althar, downing the last of his wine without batting an eyelid.
Outside, the woman fluttered about, kissing her man and laughing, while a pair of servants transferred the bear to another cart. One of the kids who Althar had paid to ward off thieves tried to stop them, receiving a slap in return. When Althar came out of the tavern, he called the boy over and gave him an obol for his bravery.
“Tell me, lad, do you know where I can find Maurer—the barber?”
The boy bit into the obol and ground it between his teeth before eagerly stuffing it in his pocket. He said he did, so they all climbed onto the cart and the boy guided them down a few streets to another tavern a couple of blocks away. Jumping off and running ahead, the boy disappeared into the inn, soon reappearing accompanied by a pot-bellied man with a pockmarked face.
Althar clambered down from the cart and after telling the barber the reason for their visit, they agreed on a price for a consultation. The barber went back into the tavern and returned carrying a bag. Climbing onto the driver’s seat with Althar, they all set off to Helga the Black’s hostelry.
Though he stank of wine, the barber set to work with obvious skill. As soon as they arrived, he shaved Hoos’s torso and cleaned it with oils. Then he examined the hardened skin on his chest near the nipples, remarking on the redness, heat, and swelling. His bruises made the barber shake his head. He listened to his breathing using a bone ear trumpet, which he positioned over the wound, and inhaled Hoos’s breath, which he found thick and sour. He prescribed a poultice, deciding that bleeding him would be unnecessary.
“It’s the fever that worries me,” he explained, gathering up his razors and the colored stones he had used to sharpen them. “He has three broken ribs. Two seem to be healing, but the third has punctured his lung. Fortunately it went in and out. The wound is scarring well, and the murmurs are weak. But the fever—that’s bad news.”
“Will he die?” asked Althar, prompting Helga to give him a slap on the head. “I mean… will he live?” he corrected himself.
“The problem is the swelling. If it persists, the fever will grow worse. There are plants… potions that can alleviate the illness, but unfortunately I don’t have any.”
“If it’s money you need…”
“Regrettably, no. You’ve paid me well, and I’ve done what I can,” he said.
“And these plants you speak of?” Helga inquired.
“I shouldn’t have mentioned them. Aside from fennel for constipation and chervil for hemorrhages, I don’t know much more about them.”
“So who does?” asked Theresa. “The monastery physician? Come with us and we’ll speak to him. Perhaps you can get him to help us.”
He scratched his bald patch and looked at Theresa with pity. “I don’t think he will be much help. That physician died last month.”
Upon hearing that, Helga dropped the pot she was holding, which fell with a clatter to the floor. The news surprised Althar, too, and it hit Theresa even harder. Though no one had said it, all three of them were secretly hoping that the abbey physician would come to Hoos Larsson’s rescue.
“Although, perhaps you could visit the apothecary,” Maurer said. “The one they call Brother Herbalist. He’s stubborn as a mule, but he’ll often take pity on those who accompany their entreaties with some kind of food. Tell him I sent you. I do business with him and he regards me well.”
“But could you not come with us?” Theresa persisted.
“It’s not a good time for me to be associated with plants. At the beginning of the month a church legation sent by Charlemagne arrived in Fulda. They’re led by a friar from Britannia the king has entrusted to reform the church, and from what I hear, he has come with whip in hand.” He took a slug of wine. “All it would take is for someone to tell him that from time to time I earn a few coins warding off evil spirits and he’ll accuse me of heresy and hang me from a very tall pine tree. That Briton has the whole monastery in a frenzy, so be careful.”
Maurer finished applying the poultice and covered Hoos with a blanket. Before leaving he told them how to find the apothecary and showed Helga how to repeat the treatment without pressing too hard. Then, with a grave expression, he shook Althar’s hand and left.
For a while they sat in a silence that felt as solid and heavy as stone. Then, Helga the Black powdered her face and tidied the room where she would begin work later on that evening, and Althar decided that it was a good time to visit the smithy and have the cart’s axle casing repaired. Theresa stayed with Hoos to keep him cool with a damp cloth. She passed the cloth across his face with the delicacy of a whisper, over his eyebrows and his sleeping eyelids, praying that her trembling would not disturb his sleep. She realized that though she endlessly wiped away the sweat from Hoos’s body, her own eyes were becoming moist, as though in some way the two of them were sharing the same suffering. She swore to herself then that, while he depended on her, Hoos Larsson would not die. She would drag him to the monastery herself if necessary to have the apothecary cure him with his herbs.