The Scribe(81)

At a signal from Lothar, everyone at the table stood. Alcuin waited for the room to empty before he began.

“Be brief, Alcuin. I must dress for the execution.”

“The execution? But did you not postpone it?” he asked, bewildered.

“And now I have brought it forward,” the bishop responded without so much as a glance at him.

“Please forgive me, but that is precisely what I wanted to speak to you about. Were you aware that someone has cut out The Swine’s tongue?”

Lothar looked him up and down. “Of course. The whole town knows it.”

“And what is your opinion?”

“The same as you, I should think. That some undesirable has deprived us of the pleasure of hearing him scream.”

“And also speak,” he said openly.

“Yes, but who is interested in the lies of a half-witted murderer?”

“Maybe that is the crux of the matter.” He paused to consider his next words. “Perhaps someone does not wish him to speak. And there’s more.”

“More?”

“The Swine is no criminal,” he said.

Lothar looked at him with irritation. Then he turned and walked off.

“I can guarantee you that he did not kill the girl,” Alcuin continued.

“Stop talking nonsense!” He turned back and walked straight back toward Alcuin until they were face to face. “How many times do I have to tell you that they found him with the victim, clutching the sickle that was used to cut her throat? Soaked in her blood!”

“That does not prove he killed her,” he responded calmly.

“Would you be capable of explaining that to her mother?” Lothar retorted.

“If I knew who she was, I don’t see why I couldn’t.”

“Then you just missed your chance! She was the woman I was speaking with when you interrupted. The mill owner Kohl’s wife.”

Alcuin fell silent. Though it was too early to jump to conclusions, that information upset most of his ideas. However, it didn’t alter the fact that he believed an innocent man was about to be executed.

“Will you listen to me, for the love of God? You are the only person who can stop this insanity. That man would be incapable of holding a sickle. Have you seen his hands? His fingers are deformed. Deformed from birth. I have seen them with my own eyes.”

“You have seen him? How? Have you visited him? Who authorized it?”

“I tried to ask your permission, but your secretary told me that you were busy. And now answer me this: If The Swine is incapable of holding even an apple with either hand, how could he have held, much less wielded, a sickle?”

“Look, Alcuin, you may be a minister of education. You may know your letters, theology, and a thousand other things. But I must remind you that you are merely a deacon. Here in Fulda, whether you like it or not, the person who has the final decision is me, so I suggest you forget your foolish theories and concentrate on that codex that so interests you.”

“All I am interested in is preventing an outrage. I can assure you that The Swine did not—”

“And I assure you that he killed her! And if your only argument is that his fingers do not work, you can start praying—for there is nothing else you can do before he’s marched to the gallows.”

“But Your Excellency—”

“This conversation is over,” he said, leaving and slamming the door to his chambers in Alcuin’s face.

Alcuin returned to his cell with his head bowed. He was certain that The Swine had not murdered that young woman, but his certainty rested only on the fact that the man could not even hold an apple.

He cursed his stupidity. If instead of attempting to convince Lothar he had tried to have the execution postponed, perhaps he would have had time to find more convincing proof. Maybe he should have argued it was more appropriate to wait for Charlemagne’s arrival, or perhaps he should have suggested they wait until The Swine’s injuries heal, to add to the enjoyment of the spectacle. But now there was nothing he could do. Only a couple of hours remained to try to prevent the inevitable.

Then the idea came to him. He wrapped up and hurried out of his cell to get Theresa from the stables. Together they made for the abbey.

In the apothecary he asked Theresa to wash a bowl while he examined the various flasks that filled the shelves. Uncorking several, he sniffed their contents before deciding on one labeled lactuca virosa. Opening it, he removed a whitish block, which he placed on an earthenware plate.

It had been a long time since he had used the compound extracted from a variety of wild lettuce, the sap of which had a strong hypnotic effect. He took a walnut-sized portion, crushed it into a powder, then opened the little lid on his ring and tipped the powder into the tiny receptacle. Then he tidied the flasks, leaving everything how it was, before hurrying off to the chapter.

However, when they reached the episcopal palace they found the doors closed. Theresa parted ways, for she had promised Helga she would accompany her to The Swine’s execution, and Alcuin, too, set off for the gallows.


When Theresa arrived at the tavern, Helga was ready to leave, her face painted and hair pinned up. The gash on her face had disappeared under a paste of flour, water, and colored with earth, which made Theresa think it might not be too deep. Helga seemed excited, and she had prepared some sweet pastries so they wouldn’t have to buy them from the hawkers, and though they were not the most attractive things, they smelled of honey and spices. Before heading to the square, they both donned fur cloaks to protect themselves from the cold. Then they locked up properly and set off carrying their food and some wine. While they walked, Theresa told Helga about what she had seen at the slaughterhouse, but to her surprise, Helga rejoiced to hear they had cut out The Swine’s tongue.