The Scribe(94)
Theresa noticed the entrance of the refined, little man who had bought Althar’s bear. Behind him followed a rosy-cheeked servant holding a tray as if it were a dish of food, but on it was the head of the beast that she had hunted herself during her time at the bear caves. The little man crossed the hall and bowed before the king. Then, after a brief explanation, he stepped aside so the servant could place the animal’s head among the plates of food. Charlemagne stood to admire its beauty. He said something about the bear’s eyes, to which the little man responded with more bows. The king thanked him for his gift, which he had someone position at one end of the table, and then he dismissed the man who retreated backward, bowing repeatedly.
Since the head had ended up near Theresa, she decided to examine it to see what had caught Charlemagne’s attention. She could see that one of the eyes had come loose in its socket, making it appear a little less fierce. She thought that it wouldn’t be difficult to repair, so she took hold of a knife and—without waiting for permission—started to cut the stitching that ran to the damaged eye. She had almost opened it fully when someone grabbed her from behind.
“May I ask what the devil you are doing?” It was the little, rich man, shouting so that everyone could hear him.
Theresa explained that she was trying to fix the eye, but the man gave her a slap that made her fall flat on her face. One of the cooks ran toward Theresa to drag her out before the little man could do her any more harm. But right then, the king stood and asked them to pick her up. “Come here,” he ordered.
Theresa obeyed, trembling.
“I was only…” she fell silent, ashamed.
“She was trying to ruin my bear head,” the little man interrupted.
“You mean, my head,” Charlemagne corrected him. “Is that true? You wanted to ruin it?” he asked Theresa.
When the young woman tried to answer, all she could manage was a thin, little voice. “I was just trying to put the eye back in place.”
“And that’s why you were slitting the face open?” said the king in surprise.
“I was not slitting it, Your Highness. I was just cutting the stitching.”
“And a liar, too!” interjected the little man. At that moment, Alcuin whispered something to the king, who nodded.
“Cutting the stitching…” Charlemagne examined the head closely. “How could you have cut it, if the stitching isn’t even visible?”
“I know where it is because it was me who sewed it,” she declared.
Hearing her response, everyone except Alcuin burst into laughter.
“I see that I will have to agree with you,” the king said to the little man who had branded her a liar.
“I promise you I am not lying. First I hunted the bear, then I sewed it,” Theresa insisted. The laughter stopped, replaced by a stunned silence. Not even those closest to the king would dare to make such a joke. Charlemagne himself changed his condescending expression.
“And I can prove it,” she added.
The monarch arched an eyebrow. Until then the young woman had seemed likeable, but her effrontery was starting to verge on foolishness. He could not decide whether to order her flogged, or to simply dismiss her, but something in her eyes stopped him.
“In that case, show me,” said the king, ordering silence. Only the chewing of food could be heard in the hall.
Theresa looked at Charlemagne with resolve. Then, in front of the amazed faces of everyone present, she told in full detail the story of the hunt in which she helped Althar bring down the animal. When she had finished the story, not even a belch could be heard in the room.
“So you killed the bear by shooting it with a crossbow? I must admit that your fable is truly fabulous, but all it proves is that you are a bare-faced liar,” declared Charlemagne sententiously.
Theresa understood that she had to convince him soon or they would remove her from there with force. She quickly took the animal’s head in her arms. “If what I am saying is false, then how is it possible that I know what it contains?”
“Inside?” Charlemagne asked, intrigued.
“Inside the head. It is filled with beaver skin.”
Without waiting for permission, she broke the stitching and pulled out a ball of fur, which she let fall onto the table. She unrolled it so that everyone could see that it was a damaged beaver pelt. Charlemagne looked at her gravely.
“So it was you who killed it.”
Theresa bit her lip. She looked around her until her eyes fell on the pile of weapons where the men-at-arms had left them before eating. Without saying a word, she crossed the hall and took hold of a crossbow that was lying on a chest. A soldier drew his sword, but Charlemagne gestured for him to hold off. Theresa knew she had just one chance. She recalled how, after the bear hunt, she had practiced with Althar and developed some skill in handling the weapon. However, she had never managed to load one by herself. She placed the end on the floor and held it down purposefully with her foot. She grasped the string and tensed it with all her strength. When the string was a mere whisker from being secured into place, it slipped through her fingers.
There was some commotion from the onlookers, but Theresa didn’t give them time to react. She clasped it again and pulled hard, feeling the fibers digging into her fingers. She thought of the fire in the workshop; of her father Gorgias; of Althar; of Helga the Black and of Hoos Larsson. There had been too many mistakes in her life. She clenched her teeth and pulled harder. The string snapped loose, resting safely in its slot.