The Scribe(57)
At length, Theresa asked, “Why are we here? And what are you doing dressed as a bishop?”
“Well, not like a bishop, exactly.” He gave her another smile. “My name is Alcuin—Alcuin of York, and in reality I am just a monk. Worse still, I haven’t even been ordained as a priest, though on occasions, due to the position I hold, I am obliged to cover myself in this pretentious garb. As for this place, I reside here temporarily, along with my acolytes. Well, in truth I stay at the cathedral chapter on the other side of the city, but that detail is unimportant.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The fact is that I owe you an apology. I should have explained to you yesterday that I am not the apothecary.”
“Then who are you?”
“Well, I’m afraid I am that ‘foreign newcomer’ about whom you’ve heard such unfavorable reports.”
Theresa gave a start. For a moment she thought Hoos’s fate hung by a thread, but Alcuin put her mind at rest.
“You need not worry. If I wanted to cast him out, do you think I would have bothered attending to him? As for my identity, my intention was not to deceive you. The apothecary died quite suddenly the day before yesterday. It’s a matter I can expound on later. By coincidence I know a great deal about herbs and poultices, so when you took me by surprise in the garden, my only thought was to aid your friend.”
“But after—”
“Afterward I did not wish to worry you. I thought that given your wariness, knowing the truth would only heighten your concern.”
Theresa fell silent for a while. “How is he?” she eventually asked.
“Thanks be to God, much better. We will visit him later. But for now let us talk about why I brought you here. Let us talk about your job.” He picked up one of the volumes from the table and examined it with great care. De Coelesti Hierarchia by Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite. A true wonder. As far as I know, only two other copies exist—one in Alexandria and another in Northumbria. You said you can write, did you not?”
Theresa nodded.
The monk clapped his hands and soon the acolyte appeared with some implements. Alcuin carefully placed them in front of the young woman.
“I would like you to transcribe this paragraph.”
Theresa bit her lip. Though it was true that she could write, recently she had only done so on wax tablets because parchment was too valuable to be wasted. She recalled that, in the words of her father, the secret to good writing resided in selecting the right quill: not too light, to avoid a loose stroke; but not too heavy, which would prevent the required fluidity and grace of movement. She wavered between several of the writing implements before her, finally opting for a pink goose quill, testing its weight in her hand a couple of times before smoothing the vane and barbules. She checked the slit in the umbilicus through which the ink would flow, judging it to be blunt and too inclined, so she cut a new tip using a scalpel. Then she examined the parchment. Selecting the softest side to write on and using an awl and a tablet, she traced several invisible lines to use as a guide. Next, she positioned the text on a lectern and dipped the calamus in the ink until the pen was dripping. Taking a deep breath, she began to write.
The first letters, though tremulously written, were nicely joined. Then the ink flowed bright and silky, the pen sliding over the parchment with the delicacy of a swan on water. At the beginning of the eighth uncial, however, a blot appeared that ruined the entire page. It frustrated Theresa and made her think of giving up, but she clenched her teeth and continued with determination. When she had finished the text, she scraped and blew away the error, cleaned away the remains of the pounce, and finally handed it to Alcuin, who had been watching her closely the entire time.
The monk inspected the parchment and then looked at Theresa with a severe expression. “It’s not perfect,” he concluded. “But it will do.”
Theresa watched the monk as he turned back to scrutinize the text, noticing his eyes in particular. They were a light, muted blue color—a dull tone that clouds the eyes of the elderly. They did not correspond to his apparent age, which she estimated at around fifty-five years old.
“You need a scribe?” she ventured to ask.
“Indeed. Romuald, a Benedictine monk who always accompanied me, used to help me with my work. Unfortunately he fell ill soon after we arrived in Fulda. He died the day before the apothecary passed away.”
“I’m sorry.” She didn’t know what else to say.
“As am I. Romuald was my eyes, and at times my hands also. My eyesight has worsened of late, and though when I rise my vision is still sharp enough to discern a strand of saffron or read intricate script, as the afternoon wears on, my sight begins to cloud over and seeing becomes arduous. That was when Romuald would read for me or transcribe my comments.”
“You cannot write?”
Alcuin raised his right hand, showing the back of it to Theresa. It was shaking.
“It started some four years ago. Sometimes the shaking spreads above the elbow so that I cannot even drink. That is why I need someone to write down my notes. I like to record events that I witness without omitting a single detail so I may reflect on them later. What’s more, I wanted to transcribe some texts from the bishop’s library.”
“And there are no scribes in the abbey?”
“Of course. There are Theobald of Pisa, Balthazar the Old, and also Venancio. But they are of senior rank and too important to follow me around all day. There are also Nicholas and Maurice, but though they can write, they cannot read.”