The Scribe(84)
“It’s only deep here,” she said, pointing near the ear, “but they’ll reject me anyway. Plus I’m getting on a bit.”
Theresa stopped to look at her. It was true. She was wrinkled, with visible gray hair and sagging flesh. She thought that some men might not care that her face had been scratched.
“Anyhow,” Theresa said, “you can’t be thinking of continuing with that work now that you’re pregnant.”
“Oh no?” she said, her laugh sounding bitter. “And how will I eat every day? I don’t have a priest infatuated with me who’ll pay me to scrawl a few words.”
“You could find another trade,” she responded without taking her comment to heart. “You cook better than that third-rate baker.”
Helga the Black felt flattered, but she shook her head. She knew that nobody would hire a prostitute, not to mention a pregnant one.
“Let’s go to the chapter,” Theresa suggested.
“Are you mad? They’ll send us packing with a boot to the backside.”
Theresa’s only response was to take her by the hand and ask that she trust her. On the way to the episcopal palace, she told her about the conversation she had had with Alcuin about a job in the kitchen.
At the entrance to the cathedral they asked for Alcuin, who soon appeared. The monk was surprised to see Helga the Black, but once he composed himself, he inquired about the wound on Helga’s face, to which she replied with all the gory details. When she had finished speaking, the monk turned away, asking them to follow.
In the kitchen, he introduced them to Favila, a woman so fat she seemed like she was wearing not one but thirty dresses. Alcuin explained that she was in charge of the cooking, and that she was as kind-hearted as she was plump. The woman smiled with mock embarrassment, but when she learned Alcuin’s intentions, her expression turned hard.
“Everyone in Fulda knows Helga,” she argued. “Once a whore, always a whore, so get out of my kitchen.”
Helga turned to leave, but Theresa stopped her.
“Nobody has asked you to lie with her,” the young woman blurted out.
Alcuin took out a couple of coins and left them on the table. Then he looked Favila in the eyes. “Have you forgotten the word forgiveness? Did Christ not help the lepers, did he not pardon his executioners, or take in Mary Magdalene?”
“I am not a saint like Jesus,” she grumbled, though she pocketed the coins.
“While the bishop remains indisposed, this woman is now in your charge. Oh! And she’s pregnant,” he said, “so do not overwork her. If anyone gives you any grief for it, tell them it was my decision.”
“I may be kind hearted, but I’m also fussy as hell about my kitchen. And I know a thing or two about working pregnant. I’ve had eight children and the last one I almost let drop out of me right here,” she said, patting the table where Alcuin had placed the coins. “Come then, get that paint off your face and start peeling onions. And the girl? Is she staying too?”
“She works with me,” Alcuin told her.
“But I can help if needed,” offered Theresa.
Then Alcuin left the women to their cooking. He only had a couple of days before Lothar recovered, and he wanted to use every last moment to continue his investigation.
Favila proved to be one of those people who overcame her problems by grumbling and stuffing her face. She would complain about everything from her staff’s lack of diligence to the cleanliness of the stoves. After each scolding, she would take a bite of a bun or of a loaf of bread dipped in pickling brine, and eventually joy would be restored to the kitchen. She loved children and began to talk about Helga’s future baby with such enthusiasm that Theresa thought Favila was the pregnant one.
“Although, I will never understand how something the size of a suckling pig can come out of a tube as wide as a cherry,” Favila said to Helga, and upon seeing the color drain from her face, offered her a pastry to bring the color back.
Helga, for her part, aptly demonstrated her culinary skills that first evening by preparing a delicious stew of celery and carrots using the leftovers from the midday meal. Favila enjoyed the casserole and before she had finished eating, the two women were celebrating the result as if they had known each other all their lives.
That night while Theresa made herself comfortable in the straw, she was glad that she had helped Helga the Black. Then she remembered Hoos and a pleasant shiver ran down her neck, back, and legs. She imagined the vigor of his strong, hard body, the taste of his warm lips. She felt guilty that she desired him to be inside her and longed for time to pass so that she would no longer have to sin in his absence. She missed him so much that she thought if he did not return, she would go find him wherever he was. Then she realized she had thought of nothing else since the day of his departure.
JANUARY
17
Helga the Black was not accustomed to rising with the lark, nor used to going to bed early, so when she woke, she rinsed her face and swapped her flamboyant dress from the night before for a dark serge, one that would not cling to her figure. Then she left the storeroom where they had allowed her to sleep and went into the kitchens, which were still empty. She threw a piece of cheese into her mouth and started to clean, singing softly to herself and stroking her belly. When Favila arrived, she found Helga so neat and tidy, with her hair gathered up, and not reeking of sickly sweet perfume, that she thought she was an entirely different woman. The scar across her cheek was the only giveaway that she was the same woman.