Garrido, Antonio - The Scribe

A grotesque smile spread across the freckled man’s face as Theresa’s stomach was exposed in the glow of the embers. He admired how her pale flesh contrasted with the triangle that crowned the top her legs and felt desire ferociously gnawing at him. He spat on his member, rubbed it, and guided it toward Theresa.

The young woman cried out and struggled furiously. She cursed them over and over and, somehow amidst her thrashing about, managed to free herself, taking the opportunity to run toward the pile of logs. Frantically she groped for the stylus she had in her bag, thinking she might have a chance if she could find it. But her hands rummaged in the dim light, seemingly in vain.

Just as the freckled one was about to jump on her, Theresa grasped her father’s stylus and held it out in front of her, hands trembling. The skinny man stopped, the implement just a hand’s width from his face.

The big man looked on in astonishment, waiting like a dog for his master’s command, but the freckled one said nothing and merely burst into laughter. Then he picked up a jug and drank until the liquid streamed down his chin over his clothes. Without letting go of the jug, he slapped Theresa with his other hand, making the stylus fly through the air.

Theresa suddenly found herself lying on the clog-covered bench, with the Saxon on top of her drooling over her face. The smell of alcohol filled her nostrils. Fevered from the wine, the Saxon fumbled for his organ, pinning Theresa’s arms down above her head. Theresa tried to close her legs, but the man pulled them violently apart. At that moment she noticed that her assailant’s right hand was resting under the gigantic blade. He was so drunk he hadn’t even realized. If she could just get her arms free for an instant… She lifted her head and kissed the Saxon on the mouth, taking him by surprise.

Theresa took advantage of his confusion. In an instant, she pushed away the support under the guillotine, making it drop down onto the Saxon’s hand with such violence that his fingers flew through the air, blood gushing as they were severed clean off.

Theresa took her chance and ran for the door while the wounded man rolled around like a hog. She would have escaped were it not for the big one, who stood in her path. She tried to sidestep him, but with unexpected speed the man grabbed her by the hair and raised his knife.

Theresa closed her eyes and screamed. Yet, right when she expected to feel the Saxon’s killer blow, he instead let out a strange groan. His eyes turned white and he began to stagger, falling to his knees right in front of Theresa, before collapsing face-first onto the floor. In the bandit’s back, she saw a large dagger. And behind him, young Hoos Larsson offered her his hand.

Hoos took her safely outside, then went back into the house from where Theresa heard more gut-wrenching screams. Before long he returned, his hands bloody. He went to Theresa and wrapped her in his woolen cloak.

“It’s all over now,” he said awkwardly.

She looked at him with tears in her eyes. Then she realized that she was half-naked and flushed. She covered herself up as best she could, and Hoos helped her.

Hoos Larsson looked more attractive than she remembered. A bit too stout, perhaps, but with an honest face and restrained manner. She had not heard anything about him for some time, though it had not bothered her. She was grateful to him for saving her, even if he would surely now take her to Würzburg to hand her over to the authorities. But she no longer cared. All she wanted was for her father to forgive her.

“We should go in. We’ll freeze out here,” he said.

Theresa looked over to the house and shook her head.

“You have nothing to fear. They’re dead.”

She shook her head again. She would rather die of cold than go back in there.

“By God!” said Hoos gruffly. “Then let’s go to the shed. There’s no fire there, but at least we can get out of the rain.”

Without giving her time to respond, he took the young woman in his arms and carried her to the shed. There he arranged some straw on the ground with his feet and gently laid Theresa down on it.

“I must take care of those bodies,” he told her.

“Please, don’t go.”

“I can’t leave them. The blood will attract the wolves.”

“What will you do with them?”

“Bury them, I suppose.”

“Bury those murderers? You should cast them in the river,” she suggested with a frown.

Hoos burst into laughter. But on seeing the look of reproach on Theresa’s face, he tried to contain himself. “Sorry for laughing, but I don’t think that’s a good idea. The river’s so frozen I’d need a pick first in order to make a hole to throw them through.”

Theresa went quiet with embarrassment. The fact is she knew a fair bit about parchments, but almost naught about anything else.

“And even if the water was flowing,” he added, “throwing them into the river wouldn’t solve the problem. No doubt those men were part of a scouting party, and sooner or later the river might carry the bodies to their companions.”

“There are more Saxons?” she asked in fright.

“Just a small band—but fierce as wild animals. To be honest, I don’t know how they got through, but the passes are infested with them. In fact, I lost three days skirting the mountains to avoid them.”

Skirting the mountains… that could only mean Hoos had come from Fulda, so he wouldn’t know what had happened in Würzburg. She gave a sigh of relief. “Anyway, your arrival was heaven-sent,” she said, watching Hoos clean the blood from his hands by rubbing them on the snow.

“Well, the truth is I’ve been here for a couple of days,” he replied. “Yesterday, I had decided to spend the night in the kiln, but as I approached the site, I noticed light in the house and saw that it was those Saxons. I didn’t want any trouble, so I thought I would sleep in the shed instead and just wait for them to leave. When I awoke this morning they had gone. However, I searched the forest to make sure. After a while, I decided to head back home and that was when I saw that they’d caught you.”

“They must have gone out to hunt. They came in with squirrels.”

“Probably. But tell me… what were you doing in the house?”

Theresa blushed. She hadn’t expected that question.

“I was near the kiln when the storm took me by surprise.” She cleared her throat. “I remembered the house and I went to take shelter there. Then those men came out of nowhere.”

Hoos furrowed his brow. He still could not understand what a young woman was doing alone in these parts.

“What will we do now?” she asked, trying to change the subject.

“I need to start digging. As for you,” he suggested, “you should take care of that bruise on your face.”

Theresa watched Hoos go back into the house. She had not seen him for some time, and though his face had hardened, he still had his curly hair and kind countenance. Hoos was the Larsson widow’s only son to give up the trade of quarryman. She knew this because the woman was constantly boasting about his appointment as fortior of King Charlemagne, a position she knew nothing about, except for its strange name. She estimated that Hoos was around thirty years old. At that age a man would normally have fathered a couple of offspring. But she had never heard the Larsson widow mention any grandchildren.

Hoos eventually returned to the shed with the spade he had used to dig up the earth. With a weary gesture he threw it to the ground beside Theresa. “Those men won’t be causing us any more problems,” he said.

“You’re soaked.”

“Yes, the rain’s pouring down out there.”

She screwed up her face but didn’t know what to say.