The Scribe(88)
He seemed to be sleeping, but Theresa could not see any chains restraining him. That filled her with fear. The thought occurred to her that she could still back out, call the guard, and explain everything. She would be scolded and might even receive a couple of blows from his stick, but at least she would escape with her life. The Swine gave a sudden jerk, and Theresa managed to stifle a scream.
She looked at him again more closely and saw that indeed he was sleeping, but when he moved a little, she saw a glint at his ankles, and thanked the heavens when she realized it was the reflection of chains.
She took a deep breath before continuing, then moved forward until she was within a step of his broken bowl that still contained some scraps of food in it. If she were any closer, The Swine might be able to reach her. She crouched down to observe him more closely. His tangled hair was covered in filth, his clothes were in tatters, and his skin was covered in dried blood. In his sleep, his eyelids remained half-open, revealing expressionless little eyes, like a pig whose life had been cut short. He was breathing with difficulty and from time to time he coughed, giving Theresa a fright.
Using the poker she probed one of The Swine’s feet, which shrank back as though it had been stung by a bee. Theresa gave a start, but she poked him again until he woke. He seemed dazed, as if he could not understand what was happening. But before long his eyes fell on her. He was surprised to see her and retreated as far as his chains would allow. Theresa was glad he feared her, but even so, she kept wielding the poker purposefully. If he tried to attack her, she would sink it into his head.
After observing her for a while, The Swine moved closer. He was hobbling like an old drunk, dragging a lifeless foot. Theresa saw that his eyes contained no malice.
They remained silently watching each other for a while. Finally, Theresa rummaged around in her pockets.
“It’s all I have,” she said, offering him the remains of the oat cake.
The Swine held out his trembling hands, but Theresa decided to leave the pieces on the bowl and step back a few paces. She watched the man try to pick them up without success before sinking his face into the dish and licking it like an animal. When he had finished, he uttered something unintelligible that Theresa interpreted as some kind of thanks.
“We will get you out of here,” she said, not knowing how she would fulfill such a promise. “But first I need your help. Do you understand?”
The man nodded, making a guttural sound. Theresa repeated question after question until she was convinced that the poor wretch was truly a half-wit. He responded with meaningless gestures, poked about in the bowl with his deformed hands or simply glanced from side to side. However, when he heard the name of the redhead, he started hitting himself on the head as if he had lost his senses. When Theresa repeated the name Rothaart, The Swine showed her the raw stump of his severed tongue.
At that moment she heard the screech of a bolt at the other end of the passage. She hid in a cubbyhole just in time to avoid being seen by the guard who approached bearing a torch. Theresa gestured to The Swine to be silent and remained out of sight until the guard passed. Then she ran with all the speed she could muster toward the exit. She did not stop until she reached the abbey.
When she found Alcuin, she had to wait to catch her breath before she could inform him of her findings. She tried to tell him everything all at once, gesticulating with her arms and stumbling over her words, while Alcuin attempted to make sense out of her blather. Theresa sucked in some air before blurting out, “I know who the culprit is,” she announced with a triumphant smile.
She told him again, this time more slowly, the events that had transpired at the slaughterhouse, taking pleasure in recounting the most gory details and leaving the big surprise to the end. Alcuin listened attentively.
“You should not have gone alone,” he reproached her.
“And that was when,” she added, ignoring him, “hearing the redhead’s name, he hit himself with such force I thought he would split open his head. He showed me what that man did to his tongue. It was horrible.”
“Did he tell you that Rothaart did it?”
“Well, not exactly. But I’m certain of it.”
“Even so, he’s not the one we’re looking for.”
“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“Rothaart was found dead this morning. At Kohl’s mill. Ergot poisoning.”
Theresa let herself flop, dejected. It was not possible. She had risked her life for nothing. She was about to argue with him when the monk cut in.
“And not just that. It would seem that our man is rushing to sell all the flour. Since this morning people have been falling sick all over the place. Saint John’s Church is crammed full, and the hospital is overrun.”
“But in that case it’ll be easy to catch him.”
“And how do you propose we do that? He is clearly very cunning, and is most likely selling batches of putrid flour alongside batches in good condition. What’s more, remember that nobody is aware that wheat is the source of the illness.”
“Even so, we can question the sick. Or their relatives, if necessary.”
“Do you think I have not already done so? But people don’t just buy their flour from the mills. They also acquire it from the market, from houses, from farms. They eat it in taverns, at bakeries or at peddlers’ stalls. They share bread at work, use flour to pay for their purchases, or trade it for meat or wine. Sometimes they even mix wheat with rye flour so that it holds up longer in the oven.” He paused to reflect. “Each sick person told me a different story. It’s as if the entire town has been infected.”