Garrido, Antonio - The Scribe

“Are you hungry?” asked Hoos.

She nodded. She could have happily eaten a whole cow.

“I lost my mount crossing a gorge,” he grumbled. “The horse and my supplies are gone, but in there,” he said, pointing at the house, “I’ve seen a brace of squirrels that could ease our hunger, so you decide. Either we go back in the house, get warm, and fill our bellies, or we stay out here until the cold takes us to our graves.”

Theresa pursed her lips. She did not want to go back into the cabin, but Hoos was right: They would not last much longer in that shed. She stood and followed him to the house, but at the front door she stopped in her tracks as a shiver ran down her spine.

Hoos looked at her out of the corner of his eye. He felt sorry for her but didn’t want her to notice. Kicking open the door, he showed her the empty room. Then he put his arm over her shoulders and they walked in together.

The warmth from the firewood comforted them like a hot broth. Hoos added an armful of logs to the fire, which was spluttering away lighting the room with a soft glow. The fragrance of hot chestnuts filled her lungs and the smell of roasting meat piqued her appetite. Theresa looked at the tidied belongings and blanket near the hearth. For the first time since the fire, she felt safe.

She hadn’t yet fully settled in before Hoos had the squirrels and chestnuts ready. “Those men knew where to look for food,” he said. “Wait a minute.” He went off and soon returned with some clothes. “I took them from the Saxons before burying them. Take a look. There might be something you could use.”

Theresa wolfed down some food before turning her attention to the garments. She examined them closely before choosing a scruffy-looking dark woolen coat, which she used to cover her legs. Hoos chided her for discarding a thicker fur because it had bloodstains on it, but he was pleased that she decided to keep the knife that the big Saxon had tried to stab her with.

When they finished eating, they fell silent for a while, listening to the rat-a-tat of the rain on the wattle roof. Then Hoos went to peer through a crack in the wall. He guessed that it would be night soon, though a gray darkness had already settled over the heavens some time ago.

“If the weather keeps getting worse, the Saxons will stay in their hideouts.”

She nodded.

“Aren’t you the scribe’s daughter? Your name is…”

“Theresa.”

“That’s it. Theresa. You would come to the kiln sometimes to collect lime for tanning parchments. I remember the last time I saw you. You had so many pimples on your face you looked like a bilberry cake. You’ve changed a lot. Do you still work as an apprentice at the parchment-maker’s workshop?”

Theresa’s face hardened, annoyed at being compared to a cake. “Yes. But I’m not an apprentice anymore,” she lied. “I took the examination to become craftswoman.”

“A woman in such a position? Good God! Is that possible?”

Theresa fell silent. She was accustomed to talking to laborers whose greatest talent was pelting dogs with stones, so she merely lowered her head and curled up under the coat. After a while, she slowly stood up again and looked at Hoos more intently. From close up, it was apparent that he was taller than she had first thought. Perhaps even a full head taller than any of the laborers she could remember. He seemed strong and sinewy, probably from his work in the quarry. As Hoos continued to look out through the crack in the wall, she imagined him as one of those great shaggy dogs that lick children affectionately, enduring their mischief with patience, but then could tear anyone to pieces in an instant if they tried to lay a finger on him.

“And what do you do?” she asked. “Your mother boasts about your position in the court.”

“Well,” he smiled, “you know what mothers are like when they talk about their sons. You would be wise to believe only half of what they say. Give them some words of admiration, and then quickly dismiss the other half.”

Theresa laughed. Her father spoke so highly of her that she would redden with embarrassment.

“Three years ago,” Hoos continued, “as fortune would have it I did well in one of the military campaigns undertaken by Charlemagne. The news reached him, and on my return, he offered me the chance to swear an oath. Which many see as a great privilege.”

“And what does that mean?”

“Well, to put it simply, it means being a vassal of the king. A trusted soldier. Someone to turn to at any time.”

“A soldier? Like those of the praefectus of Würzburg?”

“Not exactly,” he laughed. “Those men are poor devils who have to obey orders without so much as a murmur for a paltry day’s pay. But I have my own land.”

“I didn’t think soldiers owned land,” she said with surprise.

“Let me see if I can explain. When the king takes your oath, you pledge to serve him loyally, but the oath establishes a mutual agreement which the king usually honors generously. I received twenty arpents of farmland, another fifteen of vines, and forty more of uncultivated land that I will soon begin to plough, so in reality, my life is not so different to that of a comfortable landowner.”

“And on top of that, you must go to war.”

“That’s right. Though generally the levies only go into combat when summer arrives, after the harvest. That’s when I get my gear ready, summon those who will accompany me on the campaign, and respond to the king’s call to arms.”

“And you have serfs, too?” she asked with surprise.

“No, not serfs. Tenant farmers, freedmen, or mancipia , call them what you will, but they are not serfs. They are free men, numbering twenty or so, including men and women. Obviously, I could not work the land alone. Fortunately, Aquis-Granum is overrun with dispossessed folks from every corner of the kingdom: Aquitanians, Neustrians, Austrasians, and Lombards… They come to the court believing they will make their fortune and end up destitute, begging for a crust of bread to ease their hunger. With so many, all you have to do is use your best judgment determining who to lease the land to.”

“So, you’re rich?”

“Good Lord, no. I wish!” he laughed. “The tenant farmers are humble folks. As payment for their use of the land, they give me part of the harvest, plus certain weekly corvées: you know, clearing paths, repairing fences and such. Sometimes they help me plough the lands that I keep for my own use, but as I was saying, it’s not much compensation. My wealth is not even close to that of a king’s antrustion .”

“Tell me, Hoos, is Aquis-Granum as beautiful as they say?”

“It certainly is! As beautiful as a great bazaar to anyone with enough denarii. I can tell you that on just one street in Aquis-Granum there are more people crowded together than in all Würzburg. So many people that you will lose yourself among them. At each step there are traders selling meat or harnessing buckles or stews. Beside them stalls are filled with fabrics and silk, and pressed between these—where there is barely space for a rug—you’ll find merchants offering everything from jars of honey to a still-bloody swords.”

He told her how the streets wind their way round like a tangle of old threads woven by trembling hands, intertwining a mesh of hovels, taverns, and brothels; how crowds would gather in small squares with countless nooks and crannies, where pickpockets and cripples competed with drunks, outsiders, and animals—all looking for the best place to do their business; and about how all the alleys finally converge upon a boulevard that a mounted regiment could ride along. At the end of this avenue, beside the great basilica, an imposing black brick building stands majestically: King Charlemagne’s palace.