Theresa looked up as though she were searching for something on the ceiling. Suddenly she responded: “If twelve denarii make a solidus, and twenty solidi make a pound”—she counted with her fingers for a moment—“then one pound is equal to two hundred and forty denarii!”
Helga looked at her in astonishment, thinking she must have already known the answer. “That’s right,” she conceded, and then launched into explaining how it all works in the marketplace. “Two hundred and forty denarii. With one denarius you can buy a quarter of a peck of wheat or a third of a peck of rye. Even half a peck of barley—or one of oats. The problem is that, to grind them, you need a millstone, and the old ones are expensive as hell. So if you find work, it would be best if they paid you in bread rather than grain. If you could earn one denarii a day, that would equal twelve one-pound loaves, but that would be too much for one person.” She continued to speculate about how it all might work out, barely taking a pause for breath. “You really only need one loaf for your own consumption, so you would have to go to the market to trade the nine remaining loaves. And I say nine, because if you stay here, you will have to give two to me for your lodging. A pound of meat or fish costs about half a denarius—or, in other words, the equivalent of six loaves of wheat bread. After that, you will still have three to trade for salt, which doesn’t go bad, so you can always trade that again at any time. If you don’t like it here, I can ask around the area. You might find another room for that price.”
“But there are other things I will need. I don’t know… clothes, shoes…”
“Let me have a look… I can lend you something for now. At any rate, although woolen fabric costs one solidus per yard, you can find used fabric for three denarii. Deloused and mended, it will serve the same purpose as any new garment. In fact, yesterday I bought four or five yards’ worth of old wool. That’s enough for two or three garments. I’ll give you a piece so you can make a beautiful new dress.”
Theresa didn’t know what to say—she was overwhelmed by all this new information. As she chewed on a piece of bread, she just looked at Helga the Black and thought that despite her rough language and vulgar manners, the woman had a big heart.
“As for Hoos,” Helga added, “he can stay as long as necessary, but I need the bed because sometimes the customers want some fun. At the back, in the hayloft, you’ll find space where you can make yourselves comfortable.”
Theresa went over to Helga and kissed her on the cheek.
Helga was moved by the gesture. “You know, there was a time when I was pretty, too,” she said, a bitter smile on her face. “A long, long time ago.”
At dinner, Althar cursed the blacksmiths’ guild, its members, and in particular the swindler who had repaired the cartwheel. “The bastard charged me a solidus,” he complained. “Any more and he may as well have kept the cart.” He then announced that the next day he would return to the mountains.
Helga barely said a word at dinner. Theresa noticed that as the hours passed, the way her makeup smudged made her face resemble a scarecrow’s. She seemed to barely be able to keep her eyes open, having drunk more than her fair share of wine, yet she was still clutching her cup.
After clearing the table, Theresa retired to the loft to tend to Hoos. She reapplied some poultice, but the fever was still devouring him. That night Hoos vomited three times and Theresa hardly slept.
As she lay awake she thought of her father and Rutgarda and longed to be with them. Not a night went by in which she didn’t miss them sorely. She imagined them sad and downtrodden, and she felt terrible for letting them down. Sometimes she considered returning, but fear and shame held her back. She often consoled herself by imagining that they were well, daydreaming about how she would let them know where she was. She promised herself that she would find a way to contact them, to explain what had happened so that one day they might forgive her.
In the morning she was woken by Althar’s puffing and panting as he attempted to hitch the horse to the cart. Theresa helped Hoos, still confused and delirious, to the stable latrine. While he relieved himself, Theresa cut a slice of the pie that Helga had made for the apothecary. She asked Althar if he would take them to the abbey before he departed, and the old man happily agreed.
Theresa didn’t bother to say good-bye to Helga, for she was so drunk she couldn’t even get out of bed. In the stable, Theresa noticed that Althar’s cart looked good as new: The blacksmith, in addition to repairing the wheel casing, had also sanded it down. In the cart she positioned herself next to Hoos, covering him up with a blanket, to protect him from the dew.
Althar cracked his whip and the animal set off at a slow trot down the crowded streets as the earliest risers were preparing to leave their homes to head for the fields. Following the barber’s directions, they made for the southern side of the abbey, where, he had said, they would find the apothecary working in the orchard. It must have been still very early, because they could not see any workers in the fields yet through the wattle fence. Althar dismounted from the cart and helped position Hoos so he sat on a nearby tree stump.
“We’re here,” the old man announced.
A shiver ran down Theresa’s spine and she didn’t know whether it was because of the frosty morning or because she was about to find herself alone again. She gave Althar a look of gratitude and when he held out his arms she hugged him.
Then she stepped away with tears in her eyes. “I’ll never forget you, bear hunter. Nor Leonora. Tell her.”
He rubbed his eyes before rummaging around in his clothes and pulling out a pouch of coins, which he offered to Theresa.
“It’s all I could get.”
She was speechless.
“For your bear head,” he added. Then Althar waved good-bye to Hoos and urged on the horse. Slowly he disappeared down the mud-covered streets.
It was a short while before the bells rang for Prime, announcing the beginning of activity in the monastery. Soon a door opened and several monks came out to mill around the garden paths. The younger one began to lazily rake and weed, while the eldest, a tall, gangling monk amused himself by examining the shrubs, bending down from time to time to caress them. Theresa thought the tall one must be the apothecary, not just because of his age, but also because his habit was made of serge instead of than the coarser material worn by novices. The tall monk meandered from plant to plant, inspecting them in no great hurry, until he arrived near where Theresa stood partially hidden in the shrubbery.
She called to him with a “Psst.”
“Who goes there?” the monk asked, trying to see through the bramble. Theresa shrank back like a frightened rabbit.
“Brother Herbalist?” she asked in a tiny voice.
“Who seeks him?”
“Maurer the barber sends me. For the love of God, help us.”