The Scribe(79)
“This happened shortly after the cereal transaction. A dispute broke out over the succession to the abbacy involving Richolf, the treasurer at the time and also the one responsible for provisioning, and John Chrysostom, prior of the abbey, who was ultimately elected to the position. However, Richolf has left town and Chrysostom died the following year. They didn’t tell me much more, but I managed to establish who drove the cart that transported the grain. It might come as a surprise to you, but it turns out that The Swine may not be as slow-witted as we thought.”
On the way back to the library they stopped at the kitchens for some porridge and milk. Theresa put the food on a tray she found among the dozens of scattered-about pots and pans. She mentioned how surprised she was that the kitchens were in such a mess.
“I would have to agree with you,” said Alcuin. “Clearly there is too much work—or not enough hands.”
Theresa took the opportunity to press him regarding Helga the Black. “Perhaps you could employ her here. She is good in the kitchen, and as clean and tidy as they come.”
“Clean? A prostibulae? A loose woman who lies with men for money?”
“She’s clean with food. If you accepted her here, you’d help her give up her obscene behavior. And there’s also the matter of her pregnancy. Should a child have to pay for its mother’s sins?”
Alcuin fell silent. It was widely believed that the offspring of prostitutes were marked by the Devil from birth, but he didn’t accept such nonsense. He coughed a couple of times before announcing that he would suggest it to the bishop.
“But I cannot promise anything,” he added. “And now, let us resume our work.”
Once they were at the scriptorium, Alcuin discovered a huge and immaculate sheet of parchment, which he spread out on the table. He began to write on it with abandon, as if it had no value.
“Let us go over the case with a fine-tooth comb: On the one hand we are looking at some deaths, which, as far as we know, were caused by the victims ingesting contaminated cereal. Wheat that, it seems, was ground at Kohl’s mill—or that passed through it at least.” Theresa nodded, and Alcuin continued. “And on the other hand, we have seen evidence of the sale, nearly four years ago, of a large batch of cereal to a county where, either before or after the transaction, a strange plague was unleashed. Unfortunately, the people who could help clarify matters the most have either died, like Boethius and John Chrysostom, or have been arrested and accused of murder, like The Swine.”
“And let’s not forget, someone tried to hide proof of the sale not so long ago.”
“That’s right. Well observed.” He paused for a moment to reflect. “So, my theory is that the Plague in Magdeburg, no doubt attributed to the siege by the Saxons that winter, was in actual fact caused by consumption of the wheat, contaminated due to the harsh winter conditions. This corruption would have been well known among the county’s millers, who during one of their worst famines in history would’ve probably taken their chances with the grain rather than die of starvation. However, with the arrival of Charlemagne’s troops, and the replenishment of supplies, we can assume that they would’ve chosen to destroy the contaminated grain.”
“I’m listening.”
“But what would happen if that spoiled wheat, rather than being incinerated, ended up back on the same carts that delivered the rye from Fulda? No doubt it would have been a tidy bit of business for the Magdeburg vendor, who would have made a return on unusable grain—and it would have been even better for the buyer from Fulda, who would have cereal at a rock-bottom price that could then be sold for a hefty profit.”
“And do you think they were aware of its blight?”
“That’s something we may never know. It might have been bought without knowledge of the poison that it contained or, if they were aware of the fact, they might have intended to thoroughly clean the grain.”
“But if they had cleaned it thoroughly, wouldn’t that have prevented the deaths?”
“Unless, of course, the batch of grain changed hands without that bit of knowledge.”
Theresa looked at Alcuin with a sense of excitement, feeling that she was playing a part in each new discovery. However, Alcuin’s brow remained furrowed as he pondered their next step. He asked Theresa to return the codices to the bookcase while he meditated for a moment. Then he finished his milk and looked out through the window as if he were observing time itself.
“You know what? I think it’s time we spoke to The Swine.”
On the way to the slaughterhouse, Alcuin informed Theresa that there were no dungeons in Fulda. Prisoners were chained out in the open until the day they received their punishment. However, though he was guarded, someone had thrown stones at The Swine that almost split his head open, so the prefect had ordered him locked inside the abattoir to prevent some miscreant from ruining the spectacle.
At the entrance to the slaughterhouse they came across a sentry, numb with cold and nodding off. When they tapped him on the shoulder, he blew out a lungful of alcohol fumes, and then once he had learned Alcuin’s intentions, recomposed himself sufficiently to stop them from entering. But as soon as he heard that his soul ran the risk of being consumed by the fires of hell if he did not let them pass, he allowed them in.
Theresa followed Alcuin’s torch as he walked ahead in the darkness. The stench of rotten meat in the damp air was so intense that the porridge she had eaten for breakfast churned in her stomach. Alcuin opened a window onto the inner courtyard. The remains of bones, feathers, and skin could be seen everywhere in the light that filtered through the cracks in the poorly sealed boards.