“And the fire?”
“I must admit, that was a riskier assumption. Or at least it was riskier to assume that was the reason you left.” He turned and continued to walk and talk as if they were engaged in mundane banter about the weather. “Your clothes and arms are dotted with little burns, which though dispersed are identical in appearance: Very small and precise, they indicate their cause was a single event. Their nature and dispersion reveal that you were in a burning building or at least in the vicinity of a large fire, because the marks can be found on both the front and the back of your dress. What’s more, the burns on your arms have not scarred yet, which means the incident must have taken place not much over three weeks ago.”
Theresa looked at him, doubting his words. Although his explanations sounded reasonable, she could still not believe that someone could deduce so much information from a mere glance. She picked up her pace even more in order to keep up with his long strides. They skirted a little garden that led to a low building.
“But how did you find out about the chops? When I gave them to the cellarer, we were alone.”
“That was the easiest bit to figure out,” he said, laughing. “When that glutton accompanied you to the optimates’ residence, he didn’t even wait for you to go in before taking out the second chop and devouring it in three mouthfuls. I saw it from the window, where I was awaiting your arrival.”
“But that doesn’t mean that I gave them to him,” Theresa replied defensively. Then she added, “Not to mention that it was in exchange for allowing me to pass.”
“That also has an explanation: Benedictines cannot eat meat, for the Rule of Saint Benedict forbids it. Only in certain cases is it allowed, for example when one is sick, and of course, that’s not the case with the cellarer. So I surmised that it must have been someone from outside the abbey who supplied the chops. I knew he was chewing on a chop because I saw him spit out a piece of bone. What’s more, yesterday you brought me a meat pie as a gift, so it would be logical to expect you to do the same again.”
He bent down to straighten out a lettuce that was growing crooked. “And if that were not enough information to confirm you gave him a chop for your entry, before you started writing, I saw you wipe your hands on a cloth, leaving a trace of fat there that soon attracted a pair of flies. I do not believe a young lady so well educated would appear before a supposed apothecary dirty, even if dressed in peasant clothing.”
Theresa remained silent, dazed. She still found it hard to accept that Alcuin was not calling upon the black arts to make those divinations. But before she could think of a suitable reply, a sulfurous smell alerted her that they were arriving at the abbey hospital. Before going in, Alcuin asked her to make it quick.
The hospital had a large but dark hall, with two rows of beds, most of them occupied by monks too decrepit to care for themselves. There was also a small room for the infirmarians and an adjoining chamber used for patients from outside of the monastery. Alcuin explained that, despite what Theresa may have heard, the abbey did indeed treat the townsfolk.
A stout friar suddenly appeared and delivered a short summary on Hoos’s welfare. His fever was in remission and he had got up to visit the latrine and walk about for a while, but grew tired and went back to bed. He also told them that he had wheat bread and a little wine for breakfast.
Alcuin frowned at the monk and told him next time he must give him rye bread only. However, he was pleased to hear that he had not coughed up any blood since his last visit. While Alcuin inquired after other patients, Theresa walked over to Hoos, who lay covered in thick furs, his face bathed in a veil of sweat. She stroked his hair and the young man opened his eyes. Theresa smiled at him, but it took a few moments before he recognized her.
“They say you’ll be better soon,” she said.
“They also say this wine is good,” Hoos responded, smiling back. “What are you doing wearing a novice’s robe?”
“I had to put it on. Do you need anything? I can’t stay long.”
“To get better is what I need. Do you know how long they will keep me here? I hate priests almost as much as quacks.”
“Until you recover, I suppose. From what I’ve been told at least a week, but I promise to visit you often. In fact starting from today, I work here.”
“Here, in the monastery?”
“Yes, I don’t know as what, exactly, as a scribe I think.”
Hoos nodded. He seemed very tired.
Alcuin approached to ask after his health. “I’m glad you’re improving. If you keep on this trajectory, within a week you will be hunting cats, which is the only thing that you’ll find to hunt around the abbey,” Alcuin informed him.
Hoos smiled again.
“Now we must go,” he added.
She would have liked to kiss him, but instead Theresa said good-bye with a look that brimmed with tenderness. Before they left, Alcuin instructed the infirmarian on the treatment that the young man should receive for the rest of the day. Then he led Theresa to the abbey exit, explaining as they went that the art of medicine rested on the foundations of a science, the theorica, which provided the elements required to put it into practica. Knowledge of both components, theorica and practica, improved the operatio, or everyday practice. “At least, in theory that’s what should happen in the art of medicine. As it should,” he added, “in the art of writing.”
She was surprised to meet a monk familiar with two such different arts, writing and medicine, but after witnessing his divinatory ability, she didn’t want to ask too many questions. As they reached the gate, Alcuin said good-bye and told her to return the next day, first thing in the morning.
When Theresa arrived back at Helga’s house, she found her lying on her bed, crying. The room was still a mess, with upturned chairs and pieces of broken cups and earthenware jugs scattered all over the place. She tried to console her, but Helga hid her head in her arms as if her greatest desire was that Theresa should not see her face. The young woman hugged her anyway, not knowing how best to comfort her.
“I should have killed that bastard the first time he beat me,” she finally said between sobs.
Theresa dampened a cloth with water to clean the dried blood from her face. Helga had a gashed eyelid and split lips, but she seemed to be crying more out of rage than pain.
“Let me wash you at least,” Theresa pleaded.
“Damn him a thousand times! Damn him!”
“What happened? Who hit you?”