The Scribe(66)
“Postpone it? I do not understand.”
“Charlemagne is approaching Fulda with a Roman legation, and knowing of his impending visit, it would be inconsiderate to deprive the king of the spectacle.”
“Perfect,” Alcuin said without hiding his satisfaction. “By the way, yesterday I broke my stylus and I need to make another. Could you tell me where I can find some goose feathers?”
“Goose feathers? I don’t know. The chamberlain takes care of such matters. He is in the square now, making final preparations for the execution. But if you go to The Cat Tavern, someone there will tell you. There are several farms with ducks and hens in the area.”
Ducks and hens, thought Alcuin with disdain. They already had ducks and hens in the kitchen’s coop! Did nobody in the chapter know that only goose feathers are suitable for writing? He then remembered that it was not the first time he had heard of The Cat Tavern. In fact, it must be a pretty popular place, for even the bishop himself was quick to recommend the delicious mead that they served at the inn. Alcuin thanked the secretary and went to rejoin Theresa.
Together they left for The Cat Tavern, encountering a light drizzle as soon as they stepped out of the palace. The friar covered his head before descending the stairs, where the group joined the crowd thronging the cathedral square since the early hours. Theresa trailed behind Alcuin. She admired the myriad of narrow streets, abuzz with folks laden with bundles of goods, livestock traders herding animals, merchants desperate to find a space for themselves among the mass of people, and street urchins fleeing the vendors they had just stolen from—all of this amid the throng of stalls offering all manner of wares.
Alcuin took the opportunity to buy a dozen walnuts, the shells of which, he explained to Theresa, would make an excellent ink after he burned and mixed them with a quart of oil. He cracked one open and tipped it into his mouth. Then they made for the blacksmiths’ street, where they would find the famous tavern.
A pleasant smell of fresh bread accompanied by a lively cacophony of voices confirmed they had found the right inn. It was located in a large house of reddish timber, with two tiny windows and a door consisting of a brightly colored blanket. As they were about to enter, the blanket parted and a woman with bare breasts appeared, stumbling and stinking of wine. Seeing Alcuin, she gave him an idiotic smile as she pushed her nipples back into the men’s jerkin she wore. She apologized and ran down the road gibbering nonsense. Alcuin crossed himself, told Theresa to cover herself well, and walked decisively into the tavern.
Inside, Theresa blushed as she witnessed a spectacle like a scene from hell. An obscene mishmash of men and women with pottage and drink were giving themselves to gluttony and lust in equal measure. At the back, the blind man who was playing a wind pipe and baring his gums indecently sat barricaded behind a pair of barrels that served as a counter.
The monk lowered his gaze and walked toward a man with a bushy beard and greasy arms who appeared to be the landlord. Theresa followed him, albeit at a distance.
“Tell me, brother, what can I get for you?” asked the innkeeper as he dispensed a round of ale to some other customers.
“I come from the chapter. The bishop’s secretary sends me.”
“I’m sorry but we’ve run out of mead. Come back at the end of the day, if you will. By then we’ll have had a delivery.”
Alcuin presumed the clergy went there to stock up on drink. When he explained that he did not require mead, but geese, the man guffawed. “You’ll find what you need at the farms by the river. Are you preparing a feast at the chapter?”
But before he could respond, there was a loud clamor. Alcuin and the innkeeper turned in surprise to see that everyone had formed a ring around a table and denarii were flitting from hand to hand.
“Fight to first blood!” cried the landlord as he ran toward the crowd.
Alcuin went over to where Theresa stood watching the events, fully engrossed. A fight to first blood. She had heard about them. She had even seen youth playfully pretend at them, but she had never witnessed a real one. As far as she knew, it was a contest of skill that ended when one of the fighters seriously injured the other with a sharp weapon. Alcuin suggested she take note of what she saw.
By then the customers had made space for the contenders: One was a ball of fat with tree trunks for forearms—and his opponent was a red-haired man who looked like he had drunk all the wine in the tavern. They paced about each other like wolves stalking their prey. The onlookers roared and cheered as the fighters stabbed at each other furiously with their blades.
Despite his corpulence, the fat one brandished his scramasax with great spirit, forcing the red-haired man to retreat, switching his knife from hand to hand. Theresa scribbled something on her tablet, believing that the contest would soon end, but neither man was able to deal the deciding blow.
Finally, the stout one lunged at his opponent in a flurry of thrusts, forcing him to withdraw to a corner. It looked like he would run him through at any moment, but the red-haired man remained calm as if, instead of fighting for his life, he were playing with a child. He limited himself to simply stepping back and feinting. Meanwhile the bets continued to flow.
The stout one started to sweat and move more slowly. He must have thought that cornering his opponent would gain him an advantage, so he pushed a table into his path. But the redheaded fighter jumped clear over it. At that moment the fat man managed to grasp his opponent’s weapon-wielding arm by the wrist, but in response he received the same treatment, so they were locked in a standstill.