The Scribe(67)
The red-haired one resisted for a while, the veins on his arms swelling like earthworms. The crowd kept cheering and urging them on, but suddenly the stout man’s hand made a crunching sound, and the onlookers fell quiet—as though the Devil himself stood before them. The red-haired man screamed something incomprehensible, made a feint, and then his knife flashed from one hand to the other. In the blink of an eye he had attacked the fat one and then stepped back and straightened his posture as if nothing had happened.
The fat man stood still, looking at his opponent as though he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Suddenly a jet of blood spouted from his belly, and the man collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut. The redhead howled in triumph and spat on the fallen body, while onlookers ran to tend to the wounded man. Some men cursed their bad luck, while the more fortunate ones rushed to squander their winnings with prostitutes. The red-haired man took a seat at a table away from the crowds and calmly combed his hair, laughing with contempt as he watched them take the fat man out back. He picked up a tankard and drank from it until it was empty, then served himself some bread and sausage and ordered a round of ale for all.
Alcuin told Theresa to wait for him. He approached the winning fighter with a jug of wine he’d found unattended on a nearby table.
“An impressive display. May I offer you a drink?” said Alcuin, sitting down without waiting for a response.
The redhead looked him up and down before grasping the tankard and downing every last drop. “Spare me your sermons, monk. If you’re after alms, go into the middle of the room there, grab a blade, and may God protect you.” The man turned his attention to the table and started counting the coins that a friend had just delivered as part of his winnings.
“To be honest, I thought the stout fellow would do away with you, but your mastery of the dagger proved to be the stuff of legends,” Alcuin said obligingly.
“Listen, I’ve already told you I don’t give alms, so clear off before I tire of you.”
Alcuin decided to be more direct. “In truth I did not want to speak to you about the fight. Rather, I am interested in the another matter: the mill.”
“The mill? What about the mill?”
“You work there, do you not?”
“And what if I do? It’s no secret.”
“You see, the chapter wishes to acquire a batch of grain. A good bit of business for someone who knows how to handle it. With whom should I discuss the matter?”
“You’re from the chapter and you don’t know the answer to that? I don’t take kindly to liars,” he said, his hand moving to the handle of his knife.
“Relax,” the monk hastened to say. “I don’t know who is in charge because I’m new here. The wheat would go to the chapter, but it is a private matter. In truth I wish to replace some batches before the missi dominici inspect the grain stores. Nobody knows about it and that’s how I want it to stay.”
The redhead let go of the hilt of his dagger. He knew that the missi dominici were the judges Charlemagne periodically sent across his lands to resolve important legal matters. Their last visit had been in autumn, so it was possible that the friar was telling the truth. “And what’s this got to do with me? Speak to the owner and see what he says.”
“The owner of the mill?”
“The owner of the mill, of the stream, of this tavern, and of half the town. Ask for Kohl. You’ll find him at the grain stall at the market.”
“Hey, Rothaart, are you going to become a monk now?” interrupted the same man who’d brought him his coins. It was clear to Alcuin that Rothaart was the redhead’s name, for that is precisely what the word meant in the language of the Germanic peoples.
“You keep joking, Gus. One of these days I’ll smash in your skull and put a gourd in its place. Even your wife will appreciate the change,” Rothaart retorted to his friend. “And as for you,” he said to Alcuin, “if you’re not going to bring more wine, you can make room for one of the whores waiting for me.”
Alcuin thanked him for his time and gestured to Theresa. The two of them left the tavern and made for the market square.
“Where are we going now?” she asked.
“To speak to a man who owns a mill.”
“The abbey mill?” Theresa ran to keep up with Alcuin, who walked with increasing speed.
“No, no. There are three mills in Fulda: Two belong to the chapter, though only one is located at the abbey. The third is owned by a man called Kohl who, it appears, is the local rich man.”
“I thought you wanted to find some feathers.”
“That was before I met Rothaart.”
“But didn’t you know him already? I heard you address him and say that he worked at the mill. And why do you want to buy grain?”
Alcuin looked at her as if the question irritated him. “Who told you I want to buy anything? And I didn’t know the miller. I deduced that he worked at the mill from the flour that not only dusted his clothes but was also embedded deep under his fingernails.”
“And what’s so special about this mill?”
“If I knew that, we would not be visiting it,” he said, without slowing his pace. “All I can say is that I had never seen a miller who eats rye bread. By the way, what did you write on your tablets?”