A boy threw a cabbage at them, but Althar swiftly grabbed him by the hair and gave him a shove that sent him scuttling back to the other youngsters. An ale merchant decided to take advantage of the situation and pulled his barrel up near the cart. Some drunks followed him, hoping for a handout
“This bear devoured two Saxons before we made the kill,” Althar announced. “Their skeletons were in his cave. He killed my dog and wounded me,” he said, showing them an old scar on his leg from some unrelated accident. “And now he can be yours for just a pound of silver.”
Hearing the price, several onlookers turned away and walked off. Anyone in their right mind in possession of a pound of silver would buy six cows, three mares, or even a couple of slaves before the patched-up skin of a dead bear. The ones who stayed seemed more transfixed by Theresa, who was still dancing.
But there was one woman, wearing a coat of fine furs, who seemed to be admiring the animal quite a bit. She was accompanied by a little man of an elegant appearance who, upon seeing her interest, sent a servant to inquire about the price.
“Tell your master what he already knows,” said Althar. “One pound for the animal,” and he blew the horn again.
The servant went pale, but his owner appeared unperturbed when he learned the cost. He sent the servant back to offer half.
“Tell him I wouldn’t sell him a vixen for that price,” Althar responded. “If he wants to impress his lady, he can get his coin pouch out or risk his own backside and kill one himself.”
This time, when the couple heard his response, they turned away and disappeared into the crowds. However, when they had walked a few steps, Althar saw the woman look back at them. The old man smiled and starting packing up. “Time for a drink,” he announced to Theresa.
Before leaving, he managed to make a few deals: He sold a beaver pelt to a silk merchant for a gold solidus, and exchanged another with a baker for three pecks of wheat. Then he paid two boys to guard the bear, though not without warning them that he would skin them alive himself if he returned to find anything missing.
Althar and Theresa walked into a nearby inn, and sat near the window to keep an eye on the cart. Althar ordered two cups of wine and some bread and sausages, which were served to them immediately. While they drank, Theresa asked him why he had refused to negotiate on the price for the bear.
“You need to learn the language of business,” he replied as he scoffed down his food. “And the first lesson is know your customer, which luckily for me I do. The man who showed an interest is one of the richest men in Fulda: He could buy a hundred bears and still have the money for a thousand slaves. And as for her, I don’t know what she must have between her legs, but she always gets what she wants.”
“Well, I might not speak your language of trade, but the bear is still out there and if you had lowered the price then we might be celebrating a sale right now.”
“And that’s what we’ll do,” Althar laughed, winking and pointing at the door just as the little rich man walked in. The woman who was with him earlier accompanied him now, but stayed outside, admiring the stuffed animal.
The newcomer approached them. “May I?” he asked.
Althar consented almost without a glance and the man sat down unhurriedly. The innkeeper soon came over and as he served them wine and cheese, Theresa took the opportunity to examine their guest more closely. He wore rings on all his fingers and under his nose hung a limp, recently oiled moustache. She noticed that his clothes, though ostentatious, seemed to be covered in bits of food. The man grabbed the wine jug, and after filling his own cup, he filled Althar’s until it was brimming over.
“Do you not want my money?” he asked bluntly.
“As much as you want my bear,” Althar answered without lifting his eyes from his cup.
The man pulled out a pouch and deposited it on the table. Althar picked it up and felt its weight in his hand before placing it back down in front of its owner.
“Half a pound is what one of my laborers earns in a year,” the man pointed out.
“That’s why I’m not a laborer,” said Althar, brushing aside the comment.
The man picked up the bag and stood, irritated, before going outside and speaking to the woman. Then he returned and kicked the table, making Theresa and Althar’s food scatter across its surface. He took out two pouches and threw them down onto the mess he had just created. “A pound of silver. I hope you and your whore enjoy it,” he said, glancing at Theresa.
“That we will, sir. Thank you!” said Althar, downing the last of his wine without batting an eyelid.
Outside, the woman fluttered about, kissing her man and laughing, while a pair of servants transferred the bear to another cart. One of the kids who Althar had paid to ward off thieves tried to stop them, receiving a slap in return. When Althar came out of the tavern, he called the boy over and gave him an obol for his bravery.
“Tell me, lad, do you know where I can find Maurer—the barber?”
The boy bit into the obol and ground it between his teeth before eagerly stuffing it in his pocket. He said he did, so they all climbed onto the cart and the boy guided them down a few streets to another tavern a couple of blocks away. Jumping off and running ahead, the boy disappeared into the inn, soon reappearing accompanied by a pot-bellied man with a pockmarked face.
Althar clambered down from the cart and after telling the barber the reason for their visit, they agreed on a price for a consultation. The barber went back into the tavern and returned carrying a bag. Climbing onto the driver’s seat with Althar, they all set off to Helga the Black’s hostelry.
Though he stank of wine, the barber set to work with obvious skill. As soon as they arrived, he shaved Hoos’s torso and cleaned it with oils. Then he examined the hardened skin on his chest near the nipples, remarking on the redness, heat, and swelling. His bruises made the barber shake his head. He listened to his breathing using a bone ear trumpet, which he positioned over the wound, and inhaled Hoos’s breath, which he found thick and sour. He prescribed a poultice, deciding that bleeding him would be unnecessary.
“It’s the fever that worries me,” he explained, gathering up his razors and the colored stones he had used to sharpen them. “He has three broken ribs. Two seem to be healing, but the third has punctured his lung. Fortunately it went in and out. The wound is scarring well, and the murmurs are weak. But the fever—that’s bad news.”
“Will he die?” asked Althar, prompting Helga to give him a slap on the head. “I mean… will he live?” he corrected himself.
“The problem is the swelling. If it persists, the fever will grow worse. There are plants… potions that can alleviate the illness, but unfortunately I don’t have any.”
“If it’s money you need…”
“Regrettably, no. You’ve paid me well, and I’ve done what I can,” he said.
“And these plants you speak of?” Helga inquired.