The Scribe(55)
“I don’t know. Your behavior. Isn’t the abbey supposed to only look after its own sick? If this man finds out you are helping a stranger…”
“What is his name?”
“I don’t know. I just remember that he’s a foreign friar.”
“I meant the patient.”
“Sorry,” she answered, red-faced. “Larsson. Hoos Larsson.”
“Well, then, Sir Larsson, a pleasure to meet you. And now that we have been introduced—problem solved.”
Theresa gave him a smile, but she insisted: “If for any reason that man expels Hoos before he is cured, I could never forgive myself.”
“And what makes you think he would do that? From what I know, this newcomer is no devil. He only wishes to impose order in the abbey.”
“But the barber said—”
“For goodness’ sake, forget the barber. In any event, for your own peace of mind I can assure you that this envoy of Charlemagne’s will not get wind that Hoos is staying here in the apothecary.”
“Please try to understand me. I’m so worried. Can you promise that if Hoos stays here, he’ll get better?”
“?groto dum anima est, spes est. While there is life, there is hope.”
Theresa supposed that all this kindness would not come cheap, so she offered him the pouch of coins that Althar had given her.
But the monk paid that as much attention as he did the pie. “Keep your money. You can make it up to me some other way. In fact, come back tomorrow morning after Terce and ask for the cellarer. Tell him Brother Alcuin is waiting for you. Perhaps I can find you a job.”
When she told Helga what the monk had said, the woman could hardly believe her ears.
“I doubt the apothecary has good intentions,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Wake up, lass. Bad intentions, toward you.”
“He seemed honest. He didn’t eat the pie himself but gave it to the novices.”
“Who knows, he could have just eaten and been stuffed already.”
“But he’s thin as a rake!” Theresa said with a nervous laugh. “What kind of job do you think it could be?”
“Well, if the apothecary behaves like a good Christian, perhaps he will employ you as a maidservant. Monks may do a lot of praying, but they’re dirty as pigs. Or you might be lucky and he’ll employ you as a cook, which wouldn’t do you any harm, for you could put on a pound or two. But if you want me to be honest, there are dozens of lasses prepared to clean latrines, so I don’t understand his interest in hiring such a prissy young woman. So tread carefully and watch your backside.”
Theresa and Helga spent the rest of the morning cooking and tidying the tavern. In the main room there were several barrels that served as tables, some stools, a long bench, and a drape to separate the customers from the kitchen. By the fireplace they arranged an iron stove, two trivets, various pans and skillets, a stewpot, wooden spatulas, some chipped pitchers and jars, and an array of tankards and plates, stacked and ready to be washed with the water from the well. Helga explained she kept the wine in the loft, since it was frequently pilfered when stored in the kitchen. She plied her other trade in the storeroom, which was located at the back—half animal pen, half henhouse.
At midday they ate some of the food they had prepared to serve in the hostelry, and their conversation turned again to the events at the monastery earlier that morning. When they finished their meal, Helga proposed going to the main square to see The Swine, a prisoner accused of a terrible crime. She suggested they do their hair and amuse themselves watching the youngsters throw cabbages and turnips at him, and on the way they could buy some perfume to scent their bodies. Theresa accepted the invitation, and singing softly to themselves they left for the market square.
12
Though the blows dealt by the guards had turned The Swine’s body into a mass of battered flesh, his wrinkled, beardless face that gave him his nickname could still be made out. The man was curled up on his knees, tied to a plank of wood and guarded by two men armed with swords. Theresa thought he must be a half-wit, for his little eyes were trembling in fear, as though he were trying to understand what was happening to him. A crowd surrounded the captive, threatening and cursing him. A boy attempted to set a dog on him, but the animal turned and ran away.
Helga bought a couple of ales from a peddler and looked for some place where they could watch the spectacle, but several women were pointing fingers at her, so she finally decided to retreat somewhere more discreet. “He was born an idiot, but for thirty years nobody imagined he could be dangerous,” she told Theresa, leaning against a wall.
“Dangerous? What happened?”
“He had never made any trouble before. But last week they found the girl he had a habit of pestering, naked and sprawled out on the riverbank. He’d cut her throat.”
Theresa could not help but remember the incident when the Saxons had tried to violate her. She drank her beer quickly and asked Helga if they could go home. The woman reluctantly agreed. It had been a long time since a murderer in Fulda had been taught a lesson, but she would settle for enjoying the celebrations on execution day.
On the way back they stopped to buy the fragrances that Helga used when she plied her trade. She chose a flask of pine-scented perfume and another more intense scent similar to incense. Instead of charging Helga for the perfume, Theresa noticed the merchant wink at her and arrange to see her later on.