The Scribe(90)

“Like Rothaart, for instance.”

Alcuin nodded. “And Kohl provided me with a sample sack of wheat, but without accounting for its provenance. After apologizing for my behavior on the day of the execution, I pressed him to sell me some wheat, which he agreed to do without too many objections. But he did say that it would take him a couple of days to procure. To my surprise, he gave me a sack so that I could verify its quality.”

“I’ve seen it. It’s riddled with ergot,” Theresa confirmed.

“You should not have touched it,” he protested.

Theresa pulled out the cloth and showed him the little black capsules. Alcuin shook his head. “At any rate, our list of suspects continues to narrow,” he added. “Now it consists only of Kohl and the priors Ludwig and Agrippinus.”

“And Lothar?”

“I ruled out the bishop some time ago. Remember that Lothar did not object to us checking the chapter’s polyptychs. No. His innocence is beyond doubt. As for Agrippinus, we should remove him from the list: He has also fallen sick, and I do not think he will live.”

“At this rate, all of our suspects will die.”

“It would be a solution,” he said with bitterness.

Theresa fiddled with her hair. The list of suspects now consisted of just Kohl and the prior Ludwig. She could not understand why Alcuin would not take action once and for all.

“You should reveal the source of the illness,” she finally said. “Dozens are sick now. Women and children will soon fill the cemeteries,” she pleaded.

“We have already talked about that,” he responded with a grim expression. “As soon as people know ergot is the cause of the Plague, the culprit will mill all the contaminated grain and hide it, and we will never know who it is.”

“But by warning them, we will save people’s lives.”

“Save them from what? Dying of sickness rather than hunger? What do you think they will eat if they cannot have wheat or rye?”

“At least they could decide the manner of their death,” she retorted in irritation.

Alcuin took a deep breath, his teeth clenched. The girl was the most pigheaded creature he had ever come up against. She would never understand that not even closing the mills would stop the murderer. Such a killer would just grind the grain manually or sell it immediately to some unscrupulous person—or even take it to another city to continue his business. Alcuin tried to explain, but it was useless.

“People are dying now,” she continued. “Not tomorrow, not in a month’s time. Do you not see? It is now or never,” she insisted.

“These deaths are like God’s eyes,” explained Alcuin. “Or do you think that the lives lost now are more valuable than those that will be lost in a few months?”

“All I know is that the abbey is full of sick people who don’t understand what their sin has been,” said Theresa, now crying with rage. “For that is what they believe: that they have sinned and that God is punishing them.”

“Clearly you are still too young to understand certain matters. If you wish to help, go back to the scriptorium and continue copying the Hypotyposeis texts.”

“But Father—”

“Go back to the scriptorium.”

“But—”

“Or would you rather return to the tavern?”

Theresa bit her tongue. She thought to herself that were it not for Helga the Black’s pregnancy, she would’ve told Alcuin he could go take his texts and sleep in the dung tonight. Finally, she walked off without saying a word.



After reproducing several paragraphs, Theresa absentmindedly screwed up the parchment. Why shouldn’t she ask for help, she thought. If the bishop wasn’t a prime suspect, why not tell him what was happening? She was sure that Lothar could contribute to solving the problem. He knew the suspects, he was familiar with how the abbey operated, and he knew how a mill was run. She simply couldn’t understand Alcuin’s behavior, yet she had no option but to abide by his decisions.

She took out a new parchment and began again until the quill broke under the pressure. When she went to find another, she discovered that none remained in the little chest where Alcuin kept his writing materials. So she went to the kitchen to procure a new one. There she found that Favila was a bundle of nerves. She asked after Helga the Black, but the woman did not seem to hear her. She just stood there scratching her legs and arms.

“What’s the matter?” Theresa asked, speaking up.

“It’s this damned plague. I think your friend may have infected me,” she answered, still scratching herself.

“Helga?” Theresa’s hands pressed against her mouth.

“Don’t even think about going near her,” Favila said, pointing to an adjoining room before submerging her arms in a basin of cold water. Theresa ignored her and ran toward the chamber. She found Helga the Black prostrate on the floor. She was trembling like a fawn and her legs were turning blue.

“God almighty! Helga! What has happened to you?”

The woman did not respond. She merely carried on sobbing.

“Get up! You must go to the abbey. They will look after you there.” She tried to pull her up but could not. “He told me not to bother. That they would not take in a prostitute.”

“Who told you that?”