“I will tell the kitchen to prepare you some food.”
Then he left her alone with the text.
She dipped the pen in the ink, crossed herself, and started writing—putting her heart and soul into every letter. She copied the writing imitating the stroke, inclination, movement, and size. Perfect symbols appeared on the page. Words interlinked to form harmonious paragraphs full of meaning, and in her mind’s eye she saw the image of her father, encouraging her to achieve her ambitions. She was saddened to think of him and longed to be by his side. Then with renewed resolve, she went back to writing.
13
Haec studia adolescenciam alunt, senectutem oblectant, secundas res ornant, adversis solatium et perfugium praebent, delectant domi, non impediunt foris, pernoctant nobiscum, peregrinantur, rusticantur.”
“No, no, and no!” Alcuin, exasperated, said to the young assistant assigned to him by the bishop. “It has been three days and you still have not learned! How many times do I have to tell you that if you do not keep the pen perpendicular to the parchment, it will ruin the document.”
The novice lowered his head as he muttered an apology. It was already the second time he had made a mistake that afternoon.
“And look here. It’s not haec, it’s h?c. Nor is it praepent, but pr?pent, lad! Pr?pent! How do you expect anyone to understand this… this gibberish. Oh, well, I suppose we’ll leave it there for today. It’s almost dinnertime anyhow, and we’re both tired. We’ll continue on Monday when we’re both calmer.”
The young man stood, his head bowed. It was clear he didn’t like the work, but the bishop had ordered him to help Alcuin with whatever he asked. He sprinkled some chalk powder on the blot he had just made, but all this did was ruin it further. So he decided to give up completely for the day and gathered his implements, cleaning them sloppily before placing them into a wooden chest. He blew at the chalk remains and used a tiny brush to sweep away the lumps that had formed around the blot. Finally, he sharpened the calamus, rinsed it a little, and left it on the lectern with the original codex. Then he ran after Alcuin, who had already disappeared down the corridor that led to the old peristylium of the cathedral chapter.
“Master, master!” called out the young acolyte. “While I remember, we may not be able to continue on Monday, since it is the day of the execution.”
“The execution? God almighty! I had forgotten,” he said, scratching his tonsure. “Well, it is our duty to assist him at such a difficult juncture. Speaking of which, will the bishop be there?”
“With the whole cathedral chapter,” the acolyte responded.
“Well, then, lad, I will see you at breakfast on Tuesday.”
“You will not be at dinner this evening?”
“No, no. At night, food, aside from bloating my stomach, dulls my senses. And I still have to finish this De Oratione,” he said, raising the parchment roll he carried under his arm. “God be with you.”
“And you, Father. Good night.”
“By the way,” added Alcuin, glancing at the lectern, “don’t you think you should put the codex back on its shelf?”
“Oh! Of course!” said the novice, and quickly retraced his steps. “Good night, Father, I will do that right away.”
The monk set off for the boarding house at the cathedral complex with a disgruntled look. The acolyte had been working on that codex for several days and had barely managed to transcribe four complete pages. At that pace he would never have a decent copy. He decided that as soon as he saw the bishop he would announce his intention to appoint Theresa to the position, for the novice was clearly not the right person for the job.
As he crossed the peristylium he stopped for a moment to look around him. As far as he could see, Fulda’s monastic chapter had adhered to the latest reforms instituted by Charlemagne. In his institutio canonicorum, he aimed to promote community life among the chapter’s clergymen by regulating the system and design of the clerical buildings surrounding the cathedral and the bishop’s palace.
He was fascinated by that arrangement of structures of various styles and functions that wrapped around the little cathedral, and he was even more surprised by the fact that the bishop of Fulda had chosen an old Roman domus as the site for his episcopal see. The palace was a two-story stone building. The upper floor had eleven small heated rooms with doors leading out to a communal gallery with views over the atrium. The ground floor housed the cellar, two porticos, two chambers with timber floors, a stable, the kitchens, a bakery, the pantry, the granary, and a small infirmary. Perhaps he was not the right man to make such a judgment, but he had the impression that the palace exceeded the humility required of a prelate of the Church. That said, he knew that he should not criticize too harshly one who had so warmly welcomed him. After all, the Bishop of Fulda had felt most complimented by his presence, especially when he learned that Alcuin was interested in the exquisite treasures of his library.
It was completely dark by the time he arrived at his cell in the boarding house. He could have stayed in the optimates’ residence in the abbey, but preferred a small, private cell to a large but shared room. He thanked the heavens for a space of his own, took off his shoes, and made ready to use his brief moment of solitude to meditate on the events of the day, which had been particularly arduous, but not as bad as the days he had to endure in his far-off Northumbria. After all not in Fulda nor in Aquis-Granum did he have to rise for Matins, and after the Prime service he always had a warm breakfast of cakes with honey, cured cheese, and apple cider waiting for him. Indeed, his daily duties were nothing like those he had performed with utter devotion during his days at the episcopal school in York, where he taught rhetoric and grammar, ran the library, oversaw the scriptorium, collected codices, translated texts, oversaw the loans of books brought in from the distant monasteries of Hibernia, supervised the admission of novices, organized debates, and assessed the progress of each student. How distant were those days in York!
As if he were reliving them, his mind conjured images of his childhood in Britain. He had been born into a Christian family in Whitby, Northumbria, a tiny coastal town whose few inhabitants lived from what they could pull from the sea and from the meager orchards sprawled around an ancient fort. He remembered the rain-soaked land, an eternally damp place, but fresh, where every morning he would wake to the smell of dew and salt, and the sound of waves in constant battle.