The Scribe(58)
“How is that possible?”
“Reading is a complex process. Demanding. It requires effort and an ability that not all monks possess. Yet, as strange as it seems, there are copyists who can imitate symbols with great skill all without being able to understand their meaning. Though of course, they are incapable of taking dictation. So there are those who can write, or rather, transcribe, but who remain unable to read. And there are others who can read well enough but haven’t learned to write. And then there also those who, though they can read and write, can only do so in Latin. If we also exclude those who confuse L with F, those who write at an exasperatingly slow pace, those who commit errors as if on purpose, and those who grow bored of the work and complain of pain in their hands, we are left with very few. And unfortunately not all of those people can or want to set aside their chores to help a newcomer.”
“But you could order them.”
“Well, because of my position, I could, but let’s just say I have no interest in unwilling help.”
“And what position is that?” she ventured, and then bit her tongue, aware her curiosity might be getting the better of her manners.
“It could be described as a teacher of teachers. Charlemagne loves learning and the Frankish kingdom lacks it, which is why the king has entrusted me with the task of ensuring that education and the Word of God reach all corners of the kingdom. At first I took it as an honor, but I must admit that it has become an arduous responsibility.”
Theresa shrugged. She still couldn’t understand Alcuin’s true intentions regarding her role in everything, but she supposed that if she wanted to help Hoos, she would have to accept the job, whatever it was.
Then the monk said was time to visit the patient. Before they set off, he covered Theresa with a robe to hide her from wandering gazes.
“What puzzles me,” Theresa said as they walked, “is that you think I can help you. You don’t know anything about me.”
“I wouldn’t go that far… for instance: I know your name is Theresa, and that you can read and write Greek.”
“That’s not a great deal.”
“Well, I could also add that you are from Byzantium, no doubt from a wealthy family, albeit fallen on bad times. I know that until a few weeks ago you lived in Würzburg, where you worked in the parchment-maker’s workshop, and that you probably had to flee because of a sudden fire. And I know that you are obstinate and determined enough to bribe the cellarer with two meat chops to gain entry.”
Theresa spluttered. It was impossible that Alcuin could know those things because she had not even told Hoos. For a moment she thought she was looking at the Devil himself.
“And just in case you’re wondering—no, Hoos Larsson did not reveal these things to me.”
Theresa grew even more frightened, suddenly stopping. “So who, then?”
“Keep walking,” he said with a smile. “The question is not who, but how.”
“What do you mean?” she said, picking up her pace to catch up with him.
“Anyone with the right expertise and keen observation skills could have guessed it.” He stopped for a moment to explain. “For instance: Your Byzantine provenance is easy to establish from your name, Theresa, of Greek origin and unusual in these parts. Then there is your accent, an uncommon mix of Romance and Greek, which not only confirms my theory but also suggests that you have been in the region for several years. And if this were not enough evidence, your ability to read the medicine jars would have sufficed, since for reasons of security were written in Greek.”
“And the fact about a wealthy family fallen on bad times?” She stopped again, but Alcuin kept walking.
“Well, it is logical to assume that if you can read and write you are not from a family of slaves. Plus, your hands do not have the typical scars of heavy manual labor. In fact, the particular kind of corrosion on your nails and the minor cuts between your left index finger and thumb, signal to me that you have been engaged in parchment-making.” He stopped for a moment to allow a procession of novices to pass. “All of this tells me that your parents possessed enough wealth to prevent their daughter, an exquisitely educated young woman, from having to work in the fields. However, the clothes you wear are humble and threadbare, and you do not wear fine shoes. This means that, for some reason, your family’s past affluence is no longer.”
“But what made you assume I lived in Würzburg?”
The processions finished filing past and they starting walking again.
“The fact that you have not resided in Fulda for very long was obvious since you didn’t know what the Brother Herbalist looked like. So the only possibility was that you were from a nearby town, for with this recent storm it would be unthinkable that you came from further afield. The three closest towns are Aquis-Granum, Erfurt, and Würzburg. If you had lived in Aquis-Granum, without doubt I would have known you, because that is where I reside. And in Erfurt there is no parchment-maker’s workshop, so by a simple process of elimination, I knew you must be from Würzburg.”
“And the fire?”
“I must admit, that was a riskier assumption. Or at least it was riskier to assume that was the reason you left.” He turned and continued to walk and talk as if they were engaged in mundane banter about the weather. “Your clothes and arms are dotted with little burns, which though dispersed are identical in appearance: Very small and precise, they indicate their cause was a single event. Their nature and dispersion reveal that you were in a burning building or at least in the vicinity of a large fire, because the marks can be found on both the front and the back of your dress. What’s more, the burns on your arms have not scarred yet, which means the incident must have taken place not much over three weeks ago.”