“What activity is this?” the monarch asked.
“I spoke to Gus after Rothaart’s death at length over a couple of tankards of beer. After lamenting the loss of his friend, he told me that Rothaart obtained wheat from somewhere, which he ground at Kohl’s mill on Sundays when the mill owner was attending High Mass. Once it had been milled, he transported the cereal to a clandestine storeroom where he kept it until it was ready to be sold.”
“And Gus told you all of this, just like that?” asked the king.
“Well, it was easy to convince him that I already knew about his schemes. He was also shaken by the unexpected death of his friend Rothaart, which naturally I attributed to divine justice, and then there was the considerable amount of beer that I purchased for him to drink. So it is no surprise that he confessed to what at any rate he didn’t consider a sin. Bear in mind that Gus was being deceived, and made to work for little more than some wine and a paltry sum of money.”
“Gus, a drunk, and Rothaart, a murderer. Well, perhaps they were! But what does that have to do with me?” Lothar asked, incensed.
“Have patience, I’ve nearly finished. As I have already explained, I deduced that the sickness came from the grain due to the similarity of the symptoms I observed in victims during the famine in my native York. That was why I asked Lothar for the bishopric’s polyptychs: to find an entry perhaps related to contaminated rye. Surprisingly, neither Theresa nor I could find any direct mention of contaminated wheat, but there was a scraped and amended page containing the information we sought. As if by magic, it strongly suggested that a shipment of wheat had been transported from Magdeburg to Fulda. A deadly shipment of wheat that was likely bought at a discounted price or traded for no cost at all by the previous abbot.”
“So what are you talking about? Go to the cemetery then and accuse the late abbot,” Lothar said, red in the face.
“I would have done that, were it not for the fact that I always suspect the living, particularly since I discovered that you were plowing uncultivated land, preparing for something to be sowed in the middle of January. Tell me, Lothar, since when is wheat sown in winter?”
“What rubbish! That land belongs to me, and I can do whatever I please with it. And I will say more. I am sick of your unfounded accusations and your eagerness to show how wise you are. You speak nothing but blather without a shred of evidence. You accuse Rothaart, yet he is dead. You speak of The Swine, but he is both demented and mute. You mention the old Abbot of Fulda, yet his body has been lying in his grave for several years. And finally, you claim that there is a polyptych that reveals secrets through some act of witchcraft, on a page that nobody has seen, let alone verified. Very well. Do you have this polyptych? Show it to us once—or rescind your accusations.”
Alcuin tensed. He had assumed that Lothar would crumble under the weight of his arguments, but he had risen to the challenge. Now, without solid proof, it would be difficult to gain Charlemagne’s support. He looked at the king, who shook his head disapprovingly.
Alcuin was about to speak up when Theresa stood and walked toward Charlemagne.
“I have that proof,” she announced in a firm voice, taking from her bag a crumpled sheet.
Everyone fell silent.
Standing before the king, Theresa unfurled the page from the polyptych that she had managed to tear from the volume moments before Lothar had cast it into the fire. Alcuin looked at her in astonishment.
The king took the page from her and examined it closely. Then he showed it to Lothar, who could not believe his eyes.
“Damned witch! Where did you get this?”
The king moved the sheet away from Lothar before he could snatch it from him. Then he gave it to Alcuin. Theresa handed him some ash so he could repeat the process of rubbing, slowly in the reverse direction, before everyone present. When the hidden text emerged, the king read it out loud.
But Lothar fought back. “And who says I had a hand in it? That text was written two years ago by the previous abbot. He was in charge of all the polyptychs. Ask anyone.”
Several monks confirmed Lothar’s claims.
Theresa boldly intervened. “That’s right. The original text that the ash reveals was written by the abbot, but the subsequent scraping and the new text that covers it was written by you, by your hand. You wrote it thinking that it would conceal the only proof that linked the wheat to the Plague.”
“I never wrote that text!” Lothar cried in fury.
“Yes, you did,” the young woman insisted. “I confirmed it myself by checking it against your letters. In nomine Pater.”
“Ha! What letters, you pathetic liar?” he said, giving her a slap in the face that echoed in the church. “There are no letters. There are no documents.”
Theresa looked impotently at Alcuin, realizing that Lothar would have time to destroy any documents that could incriminate him.
However, Charlemagne stood. “Let us test her claims,” he said, removing a sealed scroll that he had been keeping close to his chest. He broke the seal and carefully unrolled it. “Do you recall this epistle, Lothar? It is the missive you dispatched to me yesterday, a copy of the message you were planning to send to the rest of the bishops. You submitted it to me as evidence of your forthright Christian conduct, I suppose, as a preliminary step before requesting a higher position.”
Charlemagne’s eyes fell on the words: In nomine Pater. The handwriting was identical to the text written on the palimpsest, down to the last detail.
“Do you have anything to say?” the king asked Lothar.
The bishop was speechless with rage. Suddenly he turned toward Theresa and tried to hit her, but Alcuin stood in the way. Lothar tried again, but the monk stopped him, knocking him down with a punch.
“I have been wanting to do that for a long time,” he murmured as he massaged his fist.
Four days later, Alcuin told Theresa that Lothar had been arrested and taken to a cell where he would stay until his trial. He said it had not yet been revealed when the bishop discovered the wheat was contaminated, but it was clear that, despite being aware of it, he had continued to sell the grain as if nothing had happened. Kohl was freed after it was determined his involvement in the plot wasn’t intentional, as was The Swine. Although, unfortunately, his spirit was as broken and battered as a frightened puppy.
“Will they execute the bishop?” Theresa asked as she tidied away some manuscripts.
“To be honest, I don’t think so. Considering Lothar is a relative of the king, and he will continue to hold the position of bishop, I fear that sooner or later he will evade his punishment.”
Theresa continued to stack the codices she had been using all morning. It was the first time she had returned to the abbey scriptorium since Lothar’s guilt had been uncovered.