The Scribe(61)
As she examined the text, Theresa realized that she had not agreed to any kind of remuneration with Alcuin for her new employment. She knew that he was looking after Hoos, and she did not wish to appear ungrateful, but when the money she was given for the bear head was gone, she would need funds to pay for board and lodging. She didn’t know how to broach the subject, but Alcuin seemed to read her thoughts.
“As for your pay,” he informed her, “I promise to provide two pounds of bread every day, along with whatever vegetables you need. You may also keep the robe you are wearing, and I will give you a new pair of shoes so that you do not catch a chill.”
It seemed sufficient to Theresa, who guessed she would only be kept busy until dinner time, which meant she would still have several hours to help Helga at the tavern.
He had explained to her that her schedule would fit around religious services, which took place every three hours. The monastery came to life at dawn, after the Prime service. That was when they had breakfast and afterward the monks would go about their tasks. At around midmorning during the Terce service, which coincided with Chapter Mass, was when Theresa should start her work. Three hours later, at midday, the Sext service would be held, straight after lunch. None was held midafternoon until sunset, after which came dinner, and then Vespers. By midevening they would return to the church for Compline, which lasted until midnight. He told her that what time her day ended would depend on how many pages she managed to complete.
Alcuin donned a woolen overcoat. “If you should need to visit Hoos in my absence, ask for my acolyte and show him this.” He handed her a tarnished bronze ring. “He will escort you. I will return in a couple of hours to check your progress. Do you like soup?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I will tell the kitchen to prepare you some food.”
Then he left her alone with the text.
She dipped the pen in the ink, crossed herself, and started writing—putting her heart and soul into every letter. She copied the writing imitating the stroke, inclination, movement, and size. Perfect symbols appeared on the page. Words interlinked to form harmonious paragraphs full of meaning, and in her mind’s eye she saw the image of her father, encouraging her to achieve her ambitions. She was saddened to think of him and longed to be by his side. Then with renewed resolve, she went back to writing.
13
Haec studia adolescenciam alunt, senectutem oblectant, secundas res ornant, adversis solatium et perfugium praebent, delectant domi, non impediunt foris, pernoctant nobiscum, peregrinantur, rusticantur.”
“No, no, and no!” Alcuin, exasperated, said to the young assistant assigned to him by the bishop. “It has been three days and you still have not learned! How many times do I have to tell you that if you do not keep the pen perpendicular to the parchment, it will ruin the document.”
The novice lowered his head as he muttered an apology. It was already the second time he had made a mistake that afternoon.
“And look here. It’s not haec, it’s h?c. Nor is it praepent, but pr?pent, lad! Pr?pent! How do you expect anyone to understand this… this gibberish. Oh, well, I suppose we’ll leave it there for today. It’s almost dinnertime anyhow, and we’re both tired. We’ll continue on Monday when we’re both calmer.”
The young man stood, his head bowed. It was clear he didn’t like the work, but the bishop had ordered him to help Alcuin with whatever he asked. He sprinkled some chalk powder on the blot he had just made, but all this did was ruin it further. So he decided to give up completely for the day and gathered his implements, cleaning them sloppily before placing them into a wooden chest. He blew at the chalk remains and used a tiny brush to sweep away the lumps that had formed around the blot. Finally, he sharpened the calamus, rinsed it a little, and left it on the lectern with the original codex. Then he ran after Alcuin, who had already disappeared down the corridor that led to the old peristylium of the cathedral chapter.
“Master, master!” called out the young acolyte. “While I remember, we may not be able to continue on Monday, since it is the day of the execution.”
“The execution? God almighty! I had forgotten,” he said, scratching his tonsure. “Well, it is our duty to assist him at such a difficult juncture. Speaking of which, will the bishop be there?”
“With the whole cathedral chapter,” the acolyte responded.
“Well, then, lad, I will see you at breakfast on Tuesday.”
“You will not be at dinner this evening?”
“No, no. At night, food, aside from bloating my stomach, dulls my senses. And I still have to finish this De Oratione,” he said, raising the parchment roll he carried under his arm. “God be with you.”
“And you, Father. Good night.”
“By the way,” added Alcuin, glancing at the lectern, “don’t you think you should put the codex back on its shelf?”
“Oh! Of course!” said the novice, and quickly retraced his steps. “Good night, Father, I will do that right away.”
The monk set off for the boarding house at the cathedral complex with a disgruntled look. The acolyte had been working on that codex for several days and had barely managed to transcribe four complete pages. At that pace he would never have a decent copy. He decided that as soon as he saw the bishop he would announce his intention to appoint Theresa to the position, for the novice was clearly not the right person for the job.