Since their arrival at Reinold’s home, Rutgarda had looked after the couple’s children, taken charge of the cleaning and the sewing—and even of the cooking when there was enough food to make a meal. This had enabled Lotharia to concentrate on her work as a servant of Arno, one of the wealthy men of the region. Gorgias tried to help Reinold in his wood workshop when his injured arm prevented him from working in the scriptorium. However, despite his brother-in-law’s hospitality, he knew that they would have to soon find elsewhere to stay, for their presence might cause Reinold or his family to become the victims of some wicked act.
The whimpering of the littlest one made both Lotharia and Rutgarda jump up, just as the child broke into a full wail. Between the two of them they tended to the infant and also the other little ones, who were shivering as though they had fallen into a river. They washed their eyes with a little water and dressed them in robes of clean wool. Then they lit the fire and heated some dried-out porridge, which in better times would have been thrown to the pigs.
Gorgias rose. Still half-asleep, he grunted a good morning and rummaged through a rickety chest for his scribe’s apron. As he did so, he swore at the pain radiating from his wounded arm.
“You should watch your language,” Rutgarda said reproachfully, pointing at the children.
Gorgias murmured something and yawned as he went over to the fire, picking his way through the odds and ends scattered all over the room. He washed his face and moved closer to the smell of porridge.
“Another foul day,” Gorgias complained.
“At least it’s not so cold in the scriptorium,” Rutgarda said.
“I’m not sure I will go there today.”
“You won’t? So where will you go?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.
Gorgias did not answer straightaway. He had intended to investigate the attack on him before the fire had happened, as he still intended, but he didn’t want to worry Rutgarda.
“I’ve run out of ink at the scriptorium, so I’ll go by the walnut grove and gather some nuts.”
“So early?”
“If I go any later, there won’t be a single walnut left after the kids have at them.”
“Wrap up warm,” Rutgarda ordered.
Gorgias looked at his wife affectionately. She was a good woman. He held her in his arms and kissed her on the lips. Then he picked up his bag of writing equipment and set off toward the cathedral buildings.
As he climbed the narrow, still-quiet streets, Gorgias’s mind turned to the assailant who a few days earlier had stolen an incomplete draft of the valuable parchment, remembering the event as if he were reliving it: The crouching shadow pouncing on him. The icy eyes peering through the scarf that hid his face. Then the sharp pain running through his arm. And finally, nothing but darkness.
“Eyes of ice,” he said to himself bitterly. If he had a handful of wheat for every pair of blue eyes he saw in Würzburg, he could fill a granary in a week.
For a moment he hoped that the mugging might merely have been some random, unfortunate twist of fate. The desperate actions of a starving man looking for a crust to eat. If that were the case, the draft would have been dumped somewhere, ruined by the rain or gnawed at by rodents. However, it was foolish to think such a thing. In all certainty, the thief already knew its incalculable value. So Gorgias began ruminating on who might have coveted that parchment.
Several clerics and servants had access to the scriptorium, but it was unlikely they could have conceived of the value of the document—unless they had overheard something from Wilfred, the only person who knew its secret. At that moment he decided to make an actual list of suspects.
Gorgias walked into the basilica through the side entrance that led directly to the cloister. He stopped there for a while to pray for Theresa. After shedding some tears, he traced the sign of the cross on the ground. Then he went through the kitchens, not bothering to greet the cellarer, making haste for the scriptorium.
He found the room empty, so he would be able to work until Terce without interruption. Closing the door, he shuttered the windows and carefully lit the mass of candles spread around on the desks. When their flames had cut through the darkness, he took his writing instruments and a wax tablet from a small chest, erasing his previous annotations with the blunt end of a stylus. He made himself comfortable on a stool—and, loosening up his hands, he started composing the list.
For a while he scribbled away at the tablet, noting and deleting names of suspects without being convinced of any of them. His arm was smarting again, but he hardly paid any attention. All that mattered was recovering the parchment. Once he had completed his list, one by one he reviewed the names.
First there was Genseric, Wilfred’s coadjutor and secretary, a wizened old man, who, if not for his persistent odor of urine, could have been mistaken for one of the sculptures that flanked the ambulatories of the cloister. Genseric acted as vicar-general, which meant that, alongside Wilfred, he was responsible for the everyday administration and accounts of the district.
Then there was Bernardino, a Hispanic monk of tiny stature who ran the household with a firm hand. His role enabled him to come in and out of every room, so it would come as no surprise if he had got wind of the existence of the parchment.
Next in the list was Cassiano, the young precentor, a Tuscan whose honeyed voice, to Gorgias, reminded him of a woman of ill repute. As the head of the choir, Cassiano would often visit the part of the library where the psalters, tetragrams, and antiphons were kept. He was also one of the few adept at reading, which made him a serious suspect.
Finally, he had included Theodor, a giant man who, though of kindly demeanor, had the bluest eyes that Gorgias could remember seeing. Theodor worked as a general factotum, but because of his strength he often helped Wilfred with his relocations around the fortress.
He had erased Jeremiah, his personal assistant, and Emilius, his predecessor as a scribe, as well as the cubicularius Boniface, and Cyril, the novice master. The latter three could all read, but Boniface had almost entirely lost his sight, and both Cyril and Emilius had his complete trust.
The rest of the domestic staff and Wilfred’s men were either illiterate or did not have access to the scriptorium.
Gorgias reread the tablet as he massaged his wounded forearm: Genseric, the old coadjutor; Bernardino, the midget; Cassiano, the precentor; Theodor, the giant. Any of them could have been behind the attack—as could have Korne, whom he had not forgotten.
He was trying to solve the mystery when there was a resounding knock on the door. Gorgias hid the tablet and hurried to open it. However, as he took hold of the bolt, he found that it was jammed into its housing. The knocking continued, accompanied by an urgent voice, so Gorgias pushed up on the latch again until the door gave way with a piercing squeak. Genseric, the old coadjutor, was waiting on the other side. His liquid gaze scanned the room.
“May I ask what all the fuss is about?” asked Gorgias in irritation.
“I am sorry to bother you, but Wilfred asked me to speak with you. I was surprised to find the door locked, and I thought that perhaps there was a problem.”
“For the love of God, does nobody understand that my only problem is finding the time to do all the work that piles up in the scriptorium? What does Wilfred want now?”