In the morning, Theresa tidied the tavern, which looked like a battleground. Afterward she prepared some breakfast, eating alone since Helga was still hung over. When at last she rose, the woman washed her crotch in a grubby bowl, complained about the cold, and then offered Theresa some advice before she left for the abbey. “And most important, don’t mention that you know me,” she impressed on her with puffy eyes.
Theresa kissed Helga good-bye, recalling that she had already told the apothecary where she was staying. Then she ran to the abbey because the bells announcing the beginning of the Terce service were already chiming.
A stout monk with a retiring demeanor met her at the main gate, and he seemed surprised to hear her intentions.
“Indeed, I am the cellarer, but explain something to me. Who have you come to see? The apothecary, or Brother Alcuin?”
Theresa was taken aback, for she had assumed that the apothecary and Brother Alcuin were the same person, but the cellarer, seeing her hesitation, closed the wicket, leaving her alone outside. She rapped on the little door again with her knuckles, but the monk did not answer until he returned to empty a bucket of scraps outside.
“If you keep making a nuisance of yourself, I’ll take a stick to you,” he threatened.
Theresa tried to respond but couldn’t think what to say. For a moment she considered pushing the monk aside and running to the garden, but it occurred to her to offer him the meat she had brought for the apothecary. Perhaps it would persuade him.
When the cellarer saw the chops, his eyes widened. “Well, make up your mind, then, lass. Who do you want to see?” he asked, snatching the meat from her.
“Brother Alcuin.” She had to assume the gatekeeper was an idiot.
The man bit into one chop, stuffing the other into the sleeve of his robe. He stepped aside to allow her through, and closing the wicket behind them, told her to follow him.
To Theresa’s astonishment, rather than head toward the garden, the cellarer crossed the animal pens, kicking cocks and hens out of the way. They passed the stables, and the kitchen, and after skirting round the granaries, made for an imposing stone building that stood out majestically from the rest. The friar knocked on the door and waited. “The optimates’ residence. Where important guests stay,” he explained.
An acolyte answered, his dark robe contrasting with his pale face. The man looked at the cellarer and nodded as if he had been expecting them. Theresa followed the man in. They avoided the communal chambers by taking some stairs that led them to a hall, its walls lavishly decorated with woolen tapestries. The furniture was finely carved and on the main table were several volumes arranged in a circle. A thread of light filtered onto them through the alabaster window. The acolyte told her to wait and thereupon left the room. Moments later the tall figure of the apothecary entered wearing an exquisite white penula fastened to the waist by an embroidered belt decorated with silver plaques. Theresa felt embarrassed by her own outfit.
“You will excuse the attire I was wearing yesterday, though perhaps I should apologize more for today’s outfit.” The monk smiled. “Please, take a seat,” he said and made himself comfortable on a wooden armchair. Theresa sat on a stool beside him. She looked at his bony face and aging white skin, thin as the layers of an onion.
At length, Theresa asked, “Why are we here? And what are you doing dressed as a bishop?”
“Well, not like a bishop, exactly.” He gave her another smile. “My name is Alcuin—Alcuin of York, and in reality I am just a monk. Worse still, I haven’t even been ordained as a priest, though on occasions, due to the position I hold, I am obliged to cover myself in this pretentious garb. As for this place, I reside here temporarily, along with my acolytes. Well, in truth I stay at the cathedral chapter on the other side of the city, but that detail is unimportant.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The fact is that I owe you an apology. I should have explained to you yesterday that I am not the apothecary.”
“Then who are you?”
“Well, I’m afraid I am that ‘foreign newcomer’ about whom you’ve heard such unfavorable reports.”
Theresa gave a start. For a moment she thought Hoos’s fate hung by a thread, but Alcuin put her mind at rest.
“You need not worry. If I wanted to cast him out, do you think I would have bothered attending to him? As for my identity, my intention was not to deceive you. The apothecary died quite suddenly the day before yesterday. It’s a matter I can expound on later. By coincidence I know a great deal about herbs and poultices, so when you took me by surprise in the garden, my only thought was to aid your friend.”
“But after—”
“Afterward I did not wish to worry you. I thought that given your wariness, knowing the truth would only heighten your concern.”
Theresa fell silent for a while. “How is he?” she eventually asked.
“Thanks be to God, much better. We will visit him later. But for now let us talk about why I brought you here. Let us talk about your job.” He picked up one of the volumes from the table and examined it with great care. De Coelesti Hierarchia by Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite. A true wonder. As far as I know, only two other copies exist—one in Alexandria and another in Northumbria. You said you can write, did you not?”
Theresa nodded.
The monk clapped his hands and soon the acolyte appeared with some implements. Alcuin carefully placed them in front of the young woman.
“I would like you to transcribe this paragraph.”
Theresa bit her lip. Though it was true that she could write, recently she had only done so on wax tablets because parchment was too valuable to be wasted. She recalled that, in the words of her father, the secret to good writing resided in selecting the right quill: not too light, to avoid a loose stroke; but not too heavy, which would prevent the required fluidity and grace of movement. She wavered between several of the writing implements before her, finally opting for a pink goose quill, testing its weight in her hand a couple of times before smoothing the vane and barbules. She checked the slit in the umbilicus through which the ink would flow, judging it to be blunt and too inclined, so she cut a new tip using a scalpel. Then she examined the parchment. Selecting the softest side to write on and using an awl and a tablet, she traced several invisible lines to use as a guide. Next, she positioned the text on a lectern and dipped the calamus in the ink until the pen was dripping. Taking a deep breath, she began to write.
The first letters, though tremulously written, were nicely joined. Then the ink flowed bright and silky, the pen sliding over the parchment with the delicacy of a swan on water. At the beginning of the eighth uncial, however, a blot appeared that ruined the entire page. It frustrated Theresa and made her think of giving up, but she clenched her teeth and continued with determination. When she had finished the text, she scraped and blew away the error, cleaned away the remains of the pounce, and finally handed it to Alcuin, who had been watching her closely the entire time.