Alcuin realized too late how foolish he had been. Lothar would now see him as an arrogant Briton more eager to demonstrate his superiority than to concern himself with his own matters. And worst of all, he was certain that, sooner or later, their confrontation would come back to bite him.
After breakfast, he went to the kitchen to pick up a couple of apples for a midday snack. He chose them ripe and yellow, highly perfumed, just as he liked them. Then he set off for the old library located on the opposite side of the palace. They had told him that the bishop had ordered it constructed at the southern end of the building, facing the interior of the atrium, to shelter it from the wind and damp.
When he opened the door, he was surprised to find Theresa sitting on the bench that ran along the scriptorium. She wielded a pen in the air as though writing on an imaginary parchment, but she was moving it with such delicacy that, more than writing, it seemed like she was performing some sort of dance. Alcuin imagined she was practicing, but no matter what she was doing, it was clear that she undoubtedly had the skills required for the delicate art of copying.
“Good morning,” he interrupted. “I didn’t think you were coming to the chapter today.”
The young woman gave a start and dropped the pen on the desk. She looked at Alcuin openmouthed and suddenly rose as if she had been pinched on the backside. “I was… I was practicing,” she stammered. “My father says that if you practice enough, you can achieve anything.”
“That is almost always true with a great deal of practice—and I would also say with a great deal of faith. To progress, one has to believe in what one is doing. Speaking of which, do you like your trade? I mean, do you like working as a parchment-maker?”
Theresa fell silent, and her cheeks turned red. “I do not wish to seem ungrateful, but I only do it to be near books,” she finally said.
“I sense a feeling of guilt, when it should be the opposite,” he replied. “Divine Providence makes sure everyone fulfills the role that She has provided for them. And yours does not have to be that of a faultless bookbinder.”
The young woman remained with her head bowed for a moment. Suddenly her face lit up. “Reading! That’s what I love! I read whenever I can, and when I do, I feel like I am traveling to other lands, discovering other languages, and living other lives.” Her eyes were moving side-to-side as if she were picturing her words. “I don’t think there is anything quite like it. Sometimes I even imagine myself writing. But I don’t mean copying like an amanuensis, but writing down my own thoughts.” She stopped as if she had said something foolish. “I don’t know… my stepmother always told me that I have my head in the clouds, that it is not good for me to be doing a man’s work, and I should marry and have children instead.”
“You never know. Perhaps that is the path that the Lord has laid out for you. How old are you? Twenty-two? Twenty-four? Look at me. I’m sixty years old, and I’m a simple teacher. Perhaps it is not a lot, but I am content to do the tasks that God has seen fit to entrust to me.”
“So, it doesn’t depend on me? I mean… God has decided my future?”
“I see you have not yet read The City of God, for otherwise you would know what the saint from Hippo Regius illustrated with dazzling clarity in his writings: The stars, as has undoubtedly been demonstrated, hold the keys to our destiny in their alignment and movements.”
“And you can deduce what my fate will be?”
“It is not so easy. I would need to prepare your astral chart, know the precise moment of your birth, determine the position of the sun in the heavens and, of course, it would take many, many days of work.”
Theresa looked disconcerted. Suddenly she screwed up her face and sat back down. “But if what you say is true, would that not mean that the stars are more powerful than Divine Providence?”
“Not exactly. And it is not me who says so, but Saint Augustine himself, who asks what the heavenly bodies are if not mere instruments of God. His work—the heavens—a mirror of his celestial intentions. The Maker did not give us a soul in order to be slaves to one destiny. He granted us free will to differentiate us from the quadrupeds, from the wild beasts that roam this world. And this free will is the thing inside you that tells you that you must persevere with your writing. That you will better serve God by reading and writing, instead of wasting your life sewing pages and boiling leather.”
“My father always told me the same thing. With different words, of course, but more or less the same.” Then something occurred to her. “Could you teach me?”
“Teach you? Teach you what?”
“You said you are a teacher. I could learn what you teach to your students.”
At first the friar hesitated, but finally, he acquiesced. They agreed that after the day’s writing was complete, they would devote a couple of hours to studying the trivium and the cuadrivium, for she already had a good command of reading and writing. Once they had covered the basic subjects, they would move on to the Holy Scriptures.
Suddenly Alcuin rose as if he had just remembered something. “Do you feel like going for a walk?” he proposed.
“What about the writing?”
“Bring a couple of tablets with you. You’ll see what use we’ll make of them.”
14
Before departing for their walk, Alcuin told Theresa to wait for him while he discussed a matter with the bishop. The monk set off for the prelate’s chambers, where he was received by his personal secretary. After explaining his intentions, the secretary, a hunchbacked old man who seemed as if every part of his body, even his monk’s habit, was in pain, rose and disappeared behind some red curtains before returning moments later with a slow step.
“His Eminence will receive you in the evening. He is busy now with an emissary from Aquis-Granum.”
“But it is essential that I see him imminently.”
“He is busy, I tell you. What’s more, it is not a good time. It would appear he has had to postpone The Swine’s execution, and it has upset him.”
“Postpone it? I do not understand.”
“Charlemagne is approaching Fulda with a Roman legation, and knowing of his impending visit, it would be inconsiderate to deprive the king of the spectacle.”
“Perfect,” Alcuin said without hiding his satisfaction. “By the way, yesterday I broke my stylus and I need to make another. Could you tell me where I can find some goose feathers?”
“Goose feathers? I don’t know. The chamberlain takes care of such matters. He is in the square now, making final preparations for the execution. But if you go to The Cat Tavern, someone there will tell you. There are several farms with ducks and hens in the area.”