“Forgive me, my good Alcuin, but where is this leading? You know that the monastery has nothing to do with the chapter.”
“The Devil resides in Fulda,” Alcuin said, crossing himself. “But not Satan, or Azazel, or Asmodeus, or Belial. Lucifer does not always need princes to do his despicable work. And do not assume I speak of rituals or sacrifices: I am referring to miscreants. Subjects unfit to call themselves ministers of God who use their position of power for their own loathsome ends.”
“I still fail to understand, but by the cape of Saint Martin you are starting to worry me.”
“I am sorry, Father. Sometimes I talk without realizing that the person who is listening to me cannot hear all of my thoughts. I will try to be clear.”
“Please do.”
“A couple of months ago, Charlemagne received news of certain irregularities taking place in the monastery. As you know every abbey behaves like a small county.” Alcuin looked at the bishop who nodded, but he continued anyway to build his case. “It has lands from which the abbot obtains a monthly income, generally paid in-kind. Some tenants hand over barley for brewing, others spelt, wheat, rams, ducks, or pigs. Some pay their rent in wool, others in tools or implements, and most give their labor.”
“That’s right. Our chapter functions in a similar way. What is your point?”
“As you are well aware, here in Fulda most of the wealthy folks grow wheat, which they grind into flour at the abbey. In exchange the monastery keeps a portion as payment.”
“Go on.”
“The fact is that dozens of townsfolk have fallen ill or died recently from unknown causes.”
“And you believe the sickness is related to our mills?”
“That is what I intend to establish. At first I speculated that it might be some kind of pestilence, but now I’m suspecting otherwise.”
“Then tell me how I may assist you.”
“Thank you, Father. The truth is that I need to inspect the mills’ polyptychs from the last three years.”
“The chapter mills?”
“Actually, all three of Fulda’s mills. I already have in my possession two books from the abbey in my cell, but I need your permission for my assistant to accompany me to the episcopal scriptorium so that I may inspect the other chapter mill books.”
“You can request the polyptychs from my secretary Ludwig, but I doubt you will be able to obtain Kohl’s. That man does not record his accounts in books. He has it all in his head.”
Alcuin grimaced, for it was a setback he had not foreseen. “As for my assistant…” He omitted the fact his assistant was a woman.
“Oh, yes! Of course your assistant may accompany you. Now, if you will forgive me.”
“One last thing,” Alcuin paused for a moment to consider.
“Speak, I am in a hurry.”
“This sickness… do you remember a similar event occurring before? I mean, years ago.”
“No, not that I can recall. On a few occasions folks have died from gangrene, but as you know, regrettably that is quite common.”
Alcuin gave the bishop his thanks, a little disappointed. Then he made for the exit where Theresa was waiting for him, still staring at the hole that had been dug in the center of the square.
Alcuin informed her that they would dine in the chapter house that evening since they would continue working through the night. Theresa was surprised by the news, but did not question it. She asked for permission to return to Helga’s house for warm clothes, and they agreed to meet in the same place after the bells had rung for None.
When Theresa arrived back at Helga’s tavern, she found that the door had been barred. Surprised, she checked the rear entrance and the window shutters, which were also locked. There appeared to be no one inside, so she stayed outside for a while looking through the cracks, until suddenly she felt a tugging on her robe. She turned to see a small toothless child.
“My grandmother wants to speak to you,” he blurted out.
Theresa looked in the direction in which the boy was pointing and saw some small hands poking through a little door in a nearby house, beckoning to her. She picked up the infant and ran toward the house. The door opened, revealing the frightened face of an elderly woman, gesturing for her to hurry. As soon as Theresa entered, the old woman re-secured the door with a wooden bar.
“She’s there,” she pointed.
Despite the dark, Theresa could see Helga lying on the floor. Her eyes were closed, and her face was bloody.
“She’s sleeping now,” the old woman explained. “I went to ask for a little salt, and I found her like this. It was the same bastard as always. He’ll end up killing her.”
Theresa approached her friend, filled with dismay. There was a dreadful gash across her face, from temple to chin. She stroked her hair and told herself that it must end. She asked the old woman to look after her until the next morning and offered her a denarius for her effort, which she accepted. When she was sure there was nothing more she could do for her, she returned to the tavern, forced open the flimsiest window, and fetched her belongings.
At None she arrived at the chapter door, loaded down like a mule. On her shoulders she carried her clothes, some food, the wax tablets, and the pallet that Althar had given her before returning to the mountains. When she told Alcuin she had nowhere to go, he tried to console her.
“But you cannot stay here,” he explained.
They decided that she would sleep in the chapter stables until he found somewhere to house her. Theresa then asked him to take care of Helga the Black.
“She’s a prostitute. I can’t help her.”
She tried to persuade him that she was a good woman, that she was hurt, pregnant and in need of urgent assistance, but Alcuin remained firm.
Theresa could not contain herself. “Well, if you won’t help, I will,” she said, gathering up her possessions again.
Alcuin clenched his jaw. He could not employ another assistant without risking his discoveries being spread all over the chapter.
Cursing, he took Theresa by the arm. “I will speak to the woman in charge of the domestic service, but I cannot promise you anything. Now come, put your hood up.”
After leaving her belongings in the stables, Theresa went with Alcuin to the episcopal scriptorium, a smaller room than the one in the monastery, furnished with upholstered desks. There Alcuin unchained four volumes secured by their spines to the bookshelf. He placed them on the central table and examined their respective indices. Handing one to Theresa, he told her to look for any entry that mentioned grain transactions.
“In truth,” Alcuin admitted, “I do not know exactly what we’re searching for—but I hope to find a piece of information that reveals whether at any time the abbey, the chapter, or Kohl acquired a poisoned batch.”
“That would appear here?”