The Scribe(80)

As they progressed, the torch illuminated the narrow corridor through which the animals were led to their slaughter. At the back of the room they saw a huddled figure—dark, deformed, covered in chains like an animal that had fallen into a trap.

When they approached, Theresa could see that the poor wretch had soiled himself. Alcuin did not seem to care. The friar moved closer and greeted him in a soft voice. The Swine did not respond.

“You have nothing to fear.” He offered him an apple that he had brought from the kitchens.

The Swine remained silent. His eyes trembled in the glow of the torch. Alcuin noticed a pair of gashes in his head, no doubt caused by the stones thrown at him.

“Are you all right? Do you need anything?” Alcuin persisted.

The idiot curled up into himself even tighter, terrified.

Alcuin moved the torch nearer to examine his injuries, but suddenly The Swine leaped toward him and attempting to strike him.

But Alcuin merely stepped back so that the chains stopped the captive before he could reach him.

“We should go,” Theresa suggested.

Ignoring her, Alcuin moved the torch closer once more. This time The Swine retreated. He seemed fearful again.

“Calm down. Nobody wants to hurt you. Who did this to you?”

Still he said nothing.

“Are you hungry?” Alcuin cleaned the apple and placed it on the ground within reach. The Swine hesitated for a moment, then with some difficulty he grabbed the fruit and eagerly stashed it in his clothing.

“Are you afraid to answer? Don’t you want to speak?”

“I don’t think he’ll talk to you,” the guard interrupted from behind. Theresa and Alcuin turned in surprise.

“No? How can you be so sure?” asked Alcuin challengingly.

“Because last Sunday they cut out his tongue.”



On the way back to the chapter, Alcuin walked with his head bowed, kicking any stones in his path. It was the first time Theresa had heard him curse so bitterly.

At the entrance to the episcopal palace they came across Lothar, who was arguing with a richly attired woman. Alcuin tried to approach, but the bishop gestured for him to wait. Before long he took his leave from the woman and approached Alcuin.

“What brings you here? Did you not see who I was speaking to?”

Alcuin kissed his ring. “Forgive my ignorance. I did not know I was interrupting a matter of importance.”

“Next time, wait until I am ready. You made me look bad in front of that lady,” he grumbled.

“I’m sorry, but I need to speak to you urgently, Father, and this is not the right place,” he said apologetically. “Incidentally, perhaps you can explain what the hole is for that they are digging in the square.”

“You will find out in due course,” he said with a smile. “Are you hungry? Accompany me to lunch and we will discuss whatever it is you wished to see me about.”

Alcuin said good-bye to Theresa, agreeing to meet her afterward in the kitchens. When the friar reached the refectory, he was taken aback by the overwhelming array of food crammed onto the table.

“Please, come and sit down,” said the bishop taking his seat.

Alcuin took a seat by his side and greeted the other diners.

“I hope you have a hearty appetite,” said the bishop, “because as you can see, we are blessed. This lamb’s head seems particularly succulent, see the sweetbreads? They are so sweet, just looking at them makes them melt.”

“You already know, Father, that I am moderate in my eating habits.”

“And by God does it show. You are thin as an earthworm! Look at me, plump and healthy. If some infirmity afflicts me, it will not be for want of food.”

Then Lothar stood, blessed the table, and recited a prayer in chorus with the other guests. When they had finished, he took the lamb’s head in his hands and broke it into several pieces, which he shared merrily among those closest to him. “This is delicious, Alcuin. Do you know the pleasure you are depriving yourself of? Rich cakes, great venison pies, cheese pastries with hazelnuts, and sweet chickpeas with quince. I am certain that you have not had the chance to sample such delicacies in your Northumbria.”

“And I am certain you know that the Rule of Saint Benedict is opposed to gluttony.”

“Oh, yes! The Rule of Saint Benedict! Pray and die of hunger! But fortunately, we are not in your monastery now,” laughed Lothar as he served himself another piece of lamb.

Alcuin raised his eyebrows and served himself a bowl of chickpeas. As he ate, he looked round at the other diners. Opposite him, Chaplain Ambrose, with his dog’s face, sucked on some pigeon heads. To his right, half-hidden behind a dish of fruit, the lector munched louder than the others were talking. Beyond him, two old men with pale eyes and few teeth argued over the last piece of cake.

The bishop cast the leftovers on his plate to the dog beside him and served himself some more.

“So tell me,” he said, “what was it that you wished to speak to me about so urgently?”

“It concerns The Swine.”

“Indeed? That business again? So what is it now?”

“I would rather explain in private.” He studied the bishop carefully. His neatly shaven face, with hardly a wrinkle, soft and chubby, revealed as much emotion as a sunburned pig. He guessed him to be around thirty-five years old, an uncommonly young age for a role with such great responsibility, albeit no impediment for a relative of Charlemagne.