Helga, for her part, aptly demonstrated her culinary skills that first evening by preparing a delicious stew of celery and carrots using the leftovers from the midday meal. Favila enjoyed the casserole and before she had finished eating, the two women were celebrating the result as if they had known each other all their lives.
That night while Theresa made herself comfortable in the straw, she was glad that she had helped Helga the Black. Then she remembered Hoos and a pleasant shiver ran down her neck, back, and legs. She imagined the vigor of his strong, hard body, the taste of his warm lips. She felt guilty that she desired him to be inside her and longed for time to pass so that she would no longer have to sin in his absence. She missed him so much that she thought if he did not return, she would go find him wherever he was. Then she realized she had thought of nothing else since the day of his departure.
JANUARY
17
Helga the Black was not accustomed to rising with the lark, nor used to going to bed early, so when she woke, she rinsed her face and swapped her flamboyant dress from the night before for a dark serge, one that would not cling to her figure. Then she left the storeroom where they had allowed her to sleep and went into the kitchens, which were still empty. She threw a piece of cheese into her mouth and started to clean, singing softly to herself and stroking her belly. When Favila arrived, she found Helga so neat and tidy, with her hair gathered up, and not reeking of sickly sweet perfume, that she thought she was an entirely different woman. The scar across her cheek was the only giveaway that she was the same woman.
Theresa appeared as breakfast was being served, with straw still in her hair, but managed to remove it before Favila and Helga could make fun of her.
“If you’re going to help, follow Helga’s example. She was already cooking before dawn,” Favila reproached Theresa.
Theresa was just glad the cook was beginning to discover all her friend’s virtues.
Before going to Lothar’s chambers, Alcuin asked God to forgive him for his conduct with the bishop. He regretted having poisoned him, but he had been unable to find another way to prevent the execution of The Swine, who, in his mind, was guilty only of low intelligence. However, now, to alleviate Lothar’s symptoms, he had to counteract the effects of the toxin with a syrup of agrimony. He shook the vial vigorously so that the tincture would mix with the thinner. When he entered, he found the prelate stretched out on his four-poster bed. He was breathing heavily, with bags the size of kidney beans under his eyes. When Lothar asked him for his opinion, Alcuin pretended not to know anything. Nevertheless, Lothar accepted the medicine without reservation.
Soon after drinking it, he felt some improvement.
“I suppose you were pleased by the setback,” he suggested as he sat up in bed. “But I can assure you that The Swine will meet his death all the same.”
“If that is God’s will,” Alcuin conceded without stating his opinion on the matter. “Tell me—how are you feeling?”
“A bit better now. It’s fortunate that you know medicine, especially now that we have no physician. Are you sure you don’t know the cause of my indisposition?”
“It might have been something you ate.”
“I will speak to the cook. She is the only person who touches my food,” he responded irritably.
“Or perhaps something you drank,” he said, trying to exonerate Favila.
At that moment Favila waddled in accompanied by a boy with a tray full of food. Lothar looked at the woman without accusation, and his eyes widened when he saw the assortment of delicacies on the menu. Before beginning to eat he looked toward Alcuin and though he found his expression wary, he eagerly dived into the pigeon casserole anyway with Favila proudly standing by to await his verdict. As Lothar picked at the little bones, Alcuin informed him of the situation with Helga the Black.
“A prostitute? Here in the chapter? How dare you!” he sputtered over himself.
“She was desperate. A man attacked her.”
“Well, they can employ her somewhere else. By God! We have to set an example here.” And he stuffed another pigeon into his mouth.
“That woman can change,” the cook interjected. “Not all harlots are the same.”
Hearing her speak, Lothar choked. He pulled a bone from his mouth and spat the rest onto the tray. “Of course they are not all the same! There are the prostibulae, who ply their trade wherever they can… the ambulatarae, who work the streets… the lupae, who offer themselves in forests… and even the bastuariae, who fornicate in cemeteries. They are all different, but all of them make money in the same way,” he said, clutching his groin.
“She does not have to be employed in the clerics’ kitchen. She could work here in the palace,” Alcuin suggested.
“With these delicious pigeons that Favila makes, why would I need more servants?”
“It wasn’t me who cooked them. It was her,” the woman explained.
Lothar looked at the plate of pigeon and then at the apple cake, which he surmised must also be the work of Helga the Black since Favila had never prepared it before. He tried it cautiously, and found it sublime.
Hesitating, he muttered, “Very well. But she mustn’t leave the kitchen.”
Favila turned and left, barely able to contain her smile. When she had gone, the bishop rose to empty his bladder, which he did in front of Alcuin as he rambled on about forgiveness and indulgence.
At the end of the lecture, Alcuin inquired about the chapter’s polyptychs, and by then Lothar had lost his energy to wax eloquent. He informed him that he was still a new bishop and so wasn’t acquainted with the details of previous food transactions. However, he referred the monk to his official treasurer for the information he needed.
Alcuin spent the rest of the morning organizing his notes in his cell. He was about go over them again when Theresa appeared, a little before their agreed upon time.
“I wanted to thank you for helping Helga,” she said. “From my heart.”
Alcuin didn’t respond. Instead, he asked her to approach and share in his ruminations. The young woman gave him her full attention. After listening to Alcuin’s thoughts, she said, “So, if I understand correctly, the person responsible for the Plague is one of these men.”
“For the deaths caused by the sickness. And do not forget that the girl’s murderer is also at large.”
Theresa went over Alcuin’s list. First there was Kohl: The contaminated grain was at his mill, which made him the prime suspect. Then there was Rothaart, the red-haired miller on Kohl’s payroll who possessed objects too valuable for a man of his status. And finally there was The Swine—because even if he did not kill the girl, he still drove the cart.
“Are you not forgetting someone?” Theresa asked.
“Of course. But the abbot in charge of the abbey at the time of the Magdeburg Plague died a couple of years ago, so we are left with whoever corrected the polyptych, but all we know about him is that he must be versed in the trade of a scribe.”