That night, crammed together, they did not sleep well, despite Olaf spending the night outside. The next day they surveyed the sown fields, which were already beginning to germinate, as well as the uncultivated land. In the afternoon, they went down to Fulda to buy timber and tools, and over the next few days they began to build what would become the family home.
On the fourth day, while Olaf and Lucille were in town, Izam took the opportunity to speak to Theresa alone. He put down the firewood he was carrying and approached her from behind, tenderly embracing her. She could feel the sweat of his brow on her neck, and she turned to kiss his sweet, plump lips.
Izam stroked her hands, which were now covered in blisters. “They used to be so delicate,” he lamented.
“But I didn’t have you before,” she replied, kissing him again.
Izam looked around him as he wiped the perspiration from his eyebrows. The house was progressing slowly, and it was not going to be as large as Theresa had wanted. What’s more, the virgin soil required more work than they had calculated—perhaps too much for the meager yield they hoped to gain from it. However, he admired the pride with which Theresa confronted every undertaking.
Together, they walked beside the stream. Izam kicked the odd pebble. When Theresa asked what he was thinking about, his response was that all they had was not what he wanted for her.
“What do you mean?”
“This kind of life. You deserve more,” he responded.
Theresa didn’t understand. She told him that she was happy simply to know he loved her.
“And your reading and writing? I have seen you rereading your tablet every night.”
She tried to hide the tears welling up in her eyes.
“We could go to Nantes,” Izam suggested. “I have fertile lands there, inherited from a relative. The climate’s mild, and in summer the beaches are filled with gulls. I know the local bishop, a good and simple man. I’m sure he’ll lend you books and you’ll be able to write again.”
Theresa’s face lit up. She asked him what would happen to Olaf and his family, but to her astonishment, Izam had already thought of it.
“They will travel with us,” he said, “and serve us in our new home.”
Over the next few days, they made their final preparations. They sold the land, sending a portion of the money to Rutgarda and giving several arpents to Helga the Black.
Then on the first Sunday of May, they set off for Nantes to join some traders who were making the journey as far as Paris. Holding her husband-to-be close to her, Theresa looked up at the sky that turned a darker shade of blue with each passing moment. Remembering her father, she celebrated her twists of fate with a kiss.
EPILOGUE
Although “Dirty Eric” had lost a tooth in his last fight, he could still spit farther than the rest of the boys, and this meant—along with the fact that he had the quickest fists in Würzburg—that he was still the undisputed leader of the urchins. He guided their motley group from the poor quarter everywhere about town, always on the lookout for new hiding places.
When they returned to the slave huts that spring, they were amazed at how dilapidated they had become since the winter. Exploring the mine tunnels, they gathered all sorts of sticks, stones, and other things they would need for their games. Eric decided they should set up camp in the best-preserved hut. He told little Thomas to climb the roof beams so he could better keep watch for bandits and threatened to leave him up there if he didn’t stop crying.
After a while, Dirty Eric noticed that Thomas had stopped sobbing and was crawling up a beam.
“There’s something hidden here,” the little boy announced. He sat up on the crossbeam and lifted up a carefully tied leather package.
Eric ordered him to hand it over.
The others crowded round. “What is it?” one of the boys asked.
Eric told them to be quiet and gave one boy a slap for trying to touch the package. He untied the cord with the care of someone unwrapping treasure. But when he discovered that it only contained a few parchments, he screwed up his face and cast the package into a corner.
The boys laughed at Eric’s disappointment, but he lashed out at the nearest ones until they regretted having mocked him. Then he gazed for a while at the documents he had just thrown aside before going over and carefully picking them up.
“Why do you think that I’m the boss?” he boasted. “I’ll go to the fortress and swap these for quince cakes.”
At the fortress gates, Eric tried to get one of the guards to let him through, but the man shoved him aside, telling him to scram and go play with the other urchins. He was thinking about destroying the documents when he bumped into a tall monk who appeared interested in what he had. The monk said his name was Alcuin.
Eric was wary, but he summoned some courage. That was why he was the boss after all, he reminded himself. He licked his hands and smoothed down his hair before offering Alcuin the parchments in exchange for some cakes. When the monk examined the documents, he fell to his knees. Covering Eric with kisses, he blessed the child. Then he ran to the scriptorium to give thanks to God for returning the Donation of Constantine.
That afternoon, the gang of boys hailed Dirty Eric as the best boss in the world, for aside from the quince cakes, he had also managed to obtain four barrels of wine.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
All in a Novel
How It Began
In October 1999 I attended a conference on automotive engineering in the magnificent city of Wiesbaden, a short distance from Frankfurt, Germany. As ever, the talks proved to be boring, but on the last day I was fortunate enough to have a conversation with Dr. Gerhard Müller, an affable absent-minded professor type who would not stop greeting me until I managed to convince him he had the wrong person. But it turned out to be a providential meeting, for I ended up as a guest in his home, helping him prepare dinner. I wasn’t naturally inclined toward cooking at that time, but it so happened that Frida Müller, my host’s wife, was engrossed in her doctoral thesis, and Dr. Müller proposed that he and I take care of the eggs with cream.
Over dinner I realized that Frida was an extraordinary woman, not for her appearance, which was perfectly ordinary, but for the unexpected and contagious enthusiasm with which she spoke of the thesis she was working on. Her research focused on the intrigue surrounding the coronation of Charlemagne as Emperor of Europe, and it aroused in me such interest that on my return to Spain I immediately ordered as much literature on the subject as I could find.
Countless email exchanges with Frida Müller and with a number of German experts ensued, and they helped me compile exhaustive documentation. Meanwhile I worked hard on the storyline of The Scribe.
Because I had always wanted to write a novel.