“Look, it’s business that doesn’t concern you,” he snapped. “It doesn’t even concern me, so lie down and sleep until morning.”
Theresa lay quietly, but she could not get to sleep. The young man had helped her, yes, but he was no different than the laborers, and no doubt the fact that he had saved her was merely due to Providence. It also seemed odd that someone in his position should cross the mountains unarmed and unaccompanied. Almost instinctively, she clutched her knife she had hidden under her clothes and half closed her eyes. Then, after some time imagining her beloved Constantinople, she began to drift to sleep.
In the morning she woke before Hoos. The young man was fast asleep, so she rose carefully. Tiptoeing to the door, she pushed her face against a crack and was greeted by the chill of the morning. Disregarding any danger, she slowly opened the door and went out onto the blanket of fresh snow that covered the path. It smelled peaceful, and there was no threat of rain.
Hoos was still sleeping when she returned. Without knowing why, she lay down next to him, pressed against his back, and felt comforted by the warmth of his body. For a moment she surprised herself by imagining a life with him in some distant city—a warm and bright place where nobody would give her grief for her interest in writing; a place where she would converse with this young man with his honest face—so far from the problems that had unexpectedly entered her life. But in the next moment she remembered her father, and she scolded herself for being so selfish and cowardly. She asked herself what kind of daughter she was to be fantasizing about a happy world while her father bore the dishonor of her sins. She did not want to be such a daughter and swore to herself that one day she would return to Würzburg to confess her sins and give her father back the dignity that she should never have taken from him.
Then she turned her gaze to Hoos. She thought for a moment about waking him and asking him to take her to Aquis-Granum, but she resisted the temptation, knowing that, no matter how hard she pleaded with him, he would not approve of such a plan.
With trembling fingers she stroked his hair, before whispering a farewell wrought with guilt. Taking care not to wake him, she stood up and looked around. By the window rested the belongings that Hoos had taken off the bodies: hunting equipment mostly, and a disorderly pile of clothes. Although the young man had already scoured their contents for anything useful, she decided to examine them herself.
Among the folds of a cloak, she found a little wooden box containing a sharpened piece of steel, a small piece of flint, and some tinder. She also found several amber beads on a thread and a portion of dried roe, which she quickly put in her bag along with the box. She threw aside a half-rotten belt but kept a small skin of water and a couple of enormous boots, which she pulled over her own shoes. Then she turned to the weapons that Hoos himself had cleaned and sorted according to type. As he had done so, he told her about the Saxons’ skill with the scramasax, a broad dagger sometimes used as a short sword, and their ineptitude with the francisca, the throwing axe used by the Frankish armies. She looked over the assortment, passing over the yew bows and stopping in front of the deadly scramasax. As she took it in her hand, a tremor ran down her spine. Weapons frightened her, but if she intended to make it through the passes, she would have to carry something. Finally she decided on a shorter and lighter sheath knife, but as she picked it up, she noticed a dagger that Hoos had set slightly aside.
Unlike the crude Saxon knives, this dagger had intricate carvings running down both sides of the blade, interweaving into a silver handle crowned with an emerald. It was light and cold. Its delicate edge glistened in the glow of the embers. It looked priceless.
Glancing at Hoos sleeping peacefully, her heart filled with shame. He had saved her life and in return she was stealing from him. She hesitated, but then discarded the knife’s sheath and secured the ornate dagger to her belt. Whispering an imperceptible apology to Hoos, she wrapped herself in her new furs, picked up her bag, and went out into the biting cold of the early morning.
At dawn Hoos was taken by surprise, with Theresa already far from the cabin. He searched for her around the quarry and the adjoining woods, and even followed the river upstream, before giving up the hunt. As he returned to the house he was saddened at the fate that awaited the girl, but even more grieved by the fact that she had stolen his emerald-studded dagger.
6
Gorgias woke up in terror, shivering from the sweat that soaked him. He was still unable to accept that he had buried his only daughter a few days ago. He saw Rutgarda by his side and put his arms around her. Then he pictured Theresa when she was alive, smiling, wearing her new dress, ready to take the test that would make her a master parchment-maker. He remembered the attack, and how she had saved him. Then the terrible fire, his desperate search for her, all the wounded and the dead… He cried as he relived the moment when he looked upon Theresa’s body. All that was left of his daughter were the tatters of that blue dress she so adored.
Curled up beside Rutgarda, he sobbed until he had no tears left. After a while he asked himself how long they could live crammed into his sister-in-law’s home like salt herrings, with no straw to lie on, sleeping instead on the wooden boards that Reinold arranged each night on the dirt floor.
He thought how his sister-in-law and her husband made a wonderful family. Despite the inconvenience of his and Rutgarda’s presence, both had welcomed them into their house with affection, and each of them did their best to ensure that neither he nor Rutgarda missed the comforts of their old home. Gorgias was gladdened by Reinold’s good fortune. His work as a carpenter did not depend on the weather—so even in difficult times, repairing a rotten roof or fixing a broken wheel kept hunger at bay for his family.
For a moment he felt overcome with jealousy, envying Reinold’s simple life. His only concern was to find enough bread to feed his offspring, and every evening he slept with the warmth of his wife beside him. Reinold always said that happiness did not depend on the size of one’s estate, but on who awaits your return home—and judging by his family, his assertion could not have been more true.