Ducks and hens, thought Alcuin with disdain. They already had ducks and hens in the kitchen’s coop! Did nobody in the chapter know that only goose feathers are suitable for writing? He then remembered that it was not the first time he had heard of The Cat Tavern. In fact, it must be a pretty popular place, for even the bishop himself was quick to recommend the delicious mead that they served at the inn. Alcuin thanked the secretary and went to rejoin Theresa.
Together they left for The Cat Tavern, encountering a light drizzle as soon as they stepped out of the palace. The friar covered his head before descending the stairs, where the group joined the crowd thronging the cathedral square since the early hours. Theresa trailed behind Alcuin. She admired the myriad of narrow streets, abuzz with folks laden with bundles of goods, livestock traders herding animals, merchants desperate to find a space for themselves among the mass of people, and street urchins fleeing the vendors they had just stolen from—all of this amid the throng of stalls offering all manner of wares.
Alcuin took the opportunity to buy a dozen walnuts, the shells of which, he explained to Theresa, would make an excellent ink after he burned and mixed them with a quart of oil. He cracked one open and tipped it into his mouth. Then they made for the blacksmiths’ street, where they would find the famous tavern.
A pleasant smell of fresh bread accompanied by a lively cacophony of voices confirmed they had found the right inn. It was located in a large house of reddish timber, with two tiny windows and a door consisting of a brightly colored blanket. As they were about to enter, the blanket parted and a woman with bare breasts appeared, stumbling and stinking of wine. Seeing Alcuin, she gave him an idiotic smile as she pushed her nipples back into the men’s jerkin she wore. She apologized and ran down the road gibbering nonsense. Alcuin crossed himself, told Theresa to cover herself well, and walked decisively into the tavern.
Inside, Theresa blushed as she witnessed a spectacle like a scene from hell. An obscene mishmash of men and women with pottage and drink were giving themselves to gluttony and lust in equal measure. At the back, the blind man who was playing a wind pipe and baring his gums indecently sat barricaded behind a pair of barrels that served as a counter.
The monk lowered his gaze and walked toward a man with a bushy beard and greasy arms who appeared to be the landlord. Theresa followed him, albeit at a distance.
“Tell me, brother, what can I get for you?” asked the innkeeper as he dispensed a round of ale to some other customers.
“I come from the chapter. The bishop’s secretary sends me.”
“I’m sorry but we’ve run out of mead. Come back at the end of the day, if you will. By then we’ll have had a delivery.”
Alcuin presumed the clergy went there to stock up on drink. When he explained that he did not require mead, but geese, the man guffawed. “You’ll find what you need at the farms by the river. Are you preparing a feast at the chapter?”
But before he could respond, there was a loud clamor. Alcuin and the innkeeper turned in surprise to see that everyone had formed a ring around a table and denarii were flitting from hand to hand.
“Fight to first blood!” cried the landlord as he ran toward the crowd.
Alcuin went over to where Theresa stood watching the events, fully engrossed. A fight to first blood. She had heard about them. She had even seen youth playfully pretend at them, but she had never witnessed a real one. As far as she knew, it was a contest of skill that ended when one of the fighters seriously injured the other with a sharp weapon. Alcuin suggested she take note of what she saw.
By then the customers had made space for the contenders: One was a ball of fat with tree trunks for forearms—and his opponent was a red-haired man who looked like he had drunk all the wine in the tavern. They paced about each other like wolves stalking their prey. The onlookers roared and cheered as the fighters stabbed at each other furiously with their blades.
Despite his corpulence, the fat one brandished his scramasax with great spirit, forcing the red-haired man to retreat, switching his knife from hand to hand. Theresa scribbled something on her tablet, believing that the contest would soon end, but neither man was able to deal the deciding blow.
Finally, the stout one lunged at his opponent in a flurry of thrusts, forcing him to withdraw to a corner. It looked like he would run him through at any moment, but the red-haired man remained calm as if, instead of fighting for his life, he were playing with a child. He limited himself to simply stepping back and feinting. Meanwhile the bets continued to flow.
The stout one started to sweat and move more slowly. He must have thought that cornering his opponent would gain him an advantage, so he pushed a table into his path. But the redheaded fighter jumped clear over it. At that moment the fat man managed to grasp his opponent’s weapon-wielding arm by the wrist, but in response he received the same treatment, so they were locked in a standstill.
The red-haired one resisted for a while, the veins on his arms swelling like earthworms. The crowd kept cheering and urging them on, but suddenly the stout man’s hand made a crunching sound, and the onlookers fell quiet—as though the Devil himself stood before them. The red-haired man screamed something incomprehensible, made a feint, and then his knife flashed from one hand to the other. In the blink of an eye he had attacked the fat one and then stepped back and straightened his posture as if nothing had happened.
The fat man stood still, looking at his opponent as though he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Suddenly a jet of blood spouted from his belly, and the man collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut. The redhead howled in triumph and spat on the fallen body, while onlookers ran to tend to the wounded man. Some men cursed their bad luck, while the more fortunate ones rushed to squander their winnings with prostitutes. The red-haired man took a seat at a table away from the crowds and calmly combed his hair, laughing with contempt as he watched them take the fat man out back. He picked up a tankard and drank from it until it was empty, then served himself some bread and sausage and ordered a round of ale for all.
Alcuin told Theresa to wait for him. He approached the winning fighter with a jug of wine he’d found unattended on a nearby table.
“An impressive display. May I offer you a drink?” said Alcuin, sitting down without waiting for a response.
The redhead looked him up and down before grasping the tankard and downing every last drop. “Spare me your sermons, monk. If you’re after alms, go into the middle of the room there, grab a blade, and may God protect you.” The man turned his attention to the table and started counting the coins that a friend had just delivered as part of his winnings.
“To be honest, I thought the stout fellow would do away with you, but your mastery of the dagger proved to be the stuff of legends,” Alcuin said obligingly.
“Listen, I’ve already told you I don’t give alms, so clear off before I tire of you.”
Alcuin decided to be more direct. “In truth I did not want to speak to you about the fight. Rather, I am interested in the another matter: the mill.”
“The mill? What about the mill?”
“You work there, do you not?”