Watermark

by Vanitha Sankaran

  For? Auda didn’t look up as she crooked her finger in question.

  Poncia bit her lip. “A sign. Of error in thought. In words. Heresy or witchery. Auda, you haven’t seen what I have. You don’t understand how the heretics can bewitch you. They’ll come to you with honeyed words, saying they accept all men and all women as the same, that everyone is equal in the eyes of God.” She shook her head. “As if a pauper can equal a lord.”

  Auda tilted her head over the strange mixture of fear and contempt in her sister’s voice. How had Poncia learned this? She raised her hands to ask.

  The door swung open and their father walked in.

  “Papa!” Poncia ran to him.

  “Ah, Poncia! You’re looking well,” Martin said. He struggled to take off his sackcloth cloak. “It’s a garbage grave out there,” he said, shaking the rough material. He hung it on the wall and raked water out of his hair with one hand. “Rain mixed with animals mixed with shit mixed with people.”

  Auda retreated. She set three scratched wooden plates on the table, lined them with trenchers, and ladled spoons of pottage onto the stale bread. Their father liked a stout breakfast, but since he had missed his this morning, this dinner, usually lighter fare, would have to take its place.

  She ducked into the larder and brought back two cups of beer, watching her father and sister talk in easy conversation. A familiar knot of envy lodged in her chest. She pushed it down and listened. Her sister’s tone had returned to its normal merriness.

  “The country air did you good,” Martin was saying as he embraced Poncia.

  “Paris is no country town, Papa.” She laughed. “You think the king wishes to live in the burg with the peasants?”

  His wrinkled face creased into a smile. “Come, give us a story about this big city of yours.” He straddled the bench and reached for his beer. “What news?”

  “News? Nothing but the king’s taxes.” Poncia sat across from him. “I’d rather know what passes here. I return home to a town of madness.” Her voice sounded light. Auda recognized it as a ploy her sister used to disarm their father.

  “At church, they tell us to pray as we never have, and on street corners and in the markets, they preach en masse that we’ll be drowned in the flood of our sins.” Poncia picked at her plate of pottage, then pushed it aside and wiped the grease from her fingers.

  Auda turned a worried gaze on her sister. She’d assumed the rains were like this all through the land. Was something different in Narbonne?

  “Madness is the word,” Martin said, arching his brow at Auda. He drained his mug of beer. “The rain has addled their heads.”

  Auda fished the eggs, now boiled, from the pottage. Setting them on the table, she sat beside her father.

  “Madness or ill thoughts,” Poncia agreed, reaching for an egg. “They say the pope has given permission to the inquisitors in Carcassonne and Toulouse to arrest those suspected of witchcraft, anyone who’s made a ‘pact with hell.’ Carcassonne! It’s just on our doorstep.” She shuddered. “They’re speaking of it even in Paris.”

  Auda swallowed. A tremble underscored Poncia’s words. What was her sister hiding?

  “The inquisitor in Toulouse writes a manuscript,” Poncia continued. She shelled the egg and split it into quarters with her thumbs. “A treatise on the questioning of heretics. Parts of it have already passed through many hands, is the talk of kings and priests alike. This inquisitor rides south as we speak, on a mission to seek out examples for his writing.”

  Martin frowned. So the tales were true? Auda wondered, accepting the egg from her sister. The inquisitors were about?

  Poncia gathered the discarded eggshells into a pile. “It’s said he may yet stop nearby, or in Narbonne itself.”

  Fidgeting, Auda looked at her father, but Martin shrugged and ate his pottage. “The inquisitors will find nothing in Narbonne,” he said. “They’ll move on, as they always do.”

  Auda remembered the Jacobins on the bridge that morning and shivered. She ate the yolk of the egg first, savoring its richness.

  Martin placed a warm hand over Auda’s. “It has nothing to do with us. We brook no heresy.”

  Poncia raised grave eyes to him. “If only it were so simple.” She rose and rummaged through her surcoat, returning with a piece of parchment. “Listen.” She read aloud, stumbling over the words.

  On the interrogation of witches and demonists

  Seek them where crops fail, where weather turns bad, and men resort to eating other men. Ask them what they know, or have known, of:

  Lost or damned souls

  Making fertile fields barren and barren women fertile

  Feeding on dead skin, nails and hair

  The condition of dead souls

  Conjuring with song

  And spells cast on infants and the unborn.

  The pale witch of heresy roams about and tempts our men to the devilry.

  Auda’s breath caught in her throat. Who had written this, and given it to her sister?

  Martin took the page and scanned it. His lips stretched thin, and white spots pulsed above his reddened cheeks. Jaw clenched, he tossed the writing back toward Poncia.

  “Rubbish.”

  “What if it’s not?” Poncia stood to face him. “Do we dare take the chance?”

  Auda looked back and forth between them.

  Martin swallowed a mouthful of egg and stood. “What choice do we have? There’s aught we can do about it.”

  Poncia flashed him a triumphant smile. “But there is. We can arrange for Auda’s safety. It’s already done.” Her voice grew solid with confidence. She turned to her sister.

  “It’s time you got married. And I have just the man for you.”

  Chapter Six

  Auda stared at her sister in confusion.

  What? she signed. Marry?

  Martin frowned. “Who is this man and what is this talk of marriage?”

  Poncia waved the questions away. “I’ll tell you all about him, Papa. But first we must decide how to move forward with this. I’ve already spoken to him—”

  Auda slammed her fists on the table with a bang, rattling the dishes and cups. The others flinched. Ask me? No!

  Martin nodded. “We’ll hear the whole of this from your sister now.” He turned a stern look on Poncia. “You had best begin at the start.”

  Poncia let out an exaggerated sigh and rolled the inquisitor’s scroll back up. “Auda, I thought you’d be pleased. He’s a good man, a friend of Jehan’s who is looking for a wife. A miller, very wealthy.”

  What foolery had her sister concocted? Why marry me?

  “He’s an older man, looking for a girl to bear him a family. He’s been married twice already, and is twice the widower.” Poncia met Auda’s glare. “All he wants is a quiet girl who’ll mind home and hearth.”

  Martin made a rumbling noise deep in his throat. “What he wants is no concern of mine. I’m not sending my girl off to live with some stranger.”

  “He’ll be no stranger if they marry,” Poncia countered.

  Ugly, fat, stupid? Auda signed in rapid succession. What manner of man would consent to marry a girl he had never even seen? Especially one like her?

  Poncia ignored her and spoke to Martin. “It’s the best plan we have, to keep Auda safe—”

  “The best plan we had,” Martin cut in, “was for her to stay here with me. She’s safe outside of the town’s notice. Besides, we are on our way to prosperity even as we speak. We’ve just received an order for paper from the palace itself!”

  Poncia narrowed her eyes. “From the palace? Who placed the order?”

  Martin shrugged. “I don’t yet know, but it doesn’t matter. Once they see our paper is as good as parchment, we’ll have our pick of whom Auda marries. If she chooses to marry.”

  Glancing back and forth between them, Auda blushed. They’d never talked about her marrying before—she’d never even thought it was a possibility.

  Poncia sho
ok her head. “Maybe so. But with this tripe from the inquisitor, we should look after every option. Any chance we can give her of a life of normalcy—”

  Auda frowned.

  Poncia turned to her, softening. “I didn’t mean it that way. But being a wife and mother will go far to show people that you are like everyone else.”

  But she wasn’t like everyone else. Hadn’t her father and sister always told her that?

  I’ll stay here. She clasped her father’s arm.

  “When Papa’s gone and you’re alone, what will you do then?” Poncia’s voice was kind. “How will you fend for yourself?”

  Paper. Scribe. Yet even as she mimed the motion, the improbability of scribing for a living was obvious to her.

  “When something goes awry, you’ll be the first person they hunt,” Poncia said in a soft tone. “You of all people should know that. A woman living alone, with no man to guide her. The white witch.”

  Auda shook her head, stubborn despite her fear.

  “I was fortunate to hear about the miller early. We can arrange this before others come forward with their suits.” Poncia fixed a resolute gaze on her sister. “I am hosting a supper for some men of importance in a few days. You can meet him then.”

  And what of Papa? she signed, gesturing at their father. Did Poncia mean to leave him alone while his daughters both sought better fortunes? She tried to catch her father’s gaze, but he only looked down.

  “He can care for himself, Auda. The miller knows about your…condition, and says it matters not a whit to him.”

  Auda shook her head and reached for her father’s arm again, this time more desperately.

  He looked reluctant. “It leaves me ill at ease, the thought of Auda so far from home. I need her here.”

  “The miller lives in town, not far at all,” Poncia said in the same patient tone. “Papa, be reasonable. You didn’t think Auda would stay at home forever?”

  Why not, Auda asked, not safe? She sat back and crossed her arms over her chest. Her father’s mouth turned down.

  “Safer than this,” Poncia said, addressing Martin again. “Marriage and a normal life is better protection than anything else you can give her. The things that I have seen—” Her voice faltered.

  Martin’s gaze grew troubled. “The madness of men…we know it well. But that Auda should marry—it’s something that bears more thought. I don’t want to keep her from having something she might want.”

  Auda clenched her jaw. Don’t want to marry.

  “It’s what Maman would want,” Poncia said in a soft voice.

  Martin flinched. He pressed his hands against his temples and bowed his head. Auda glowered at her sister.

  “Things are changing, Papa, for all of us,” Poncia said, a light sadness lacing her voice. “Think on that when you decide what to do.” She grabbed her cloak from the wall and stopped to squeeze her sister around her shoulders, but Auda shrugged her off.

  Poncia’s hand hovered over Auda for a moment. She dropped it and left, looking back only once. The scent of rose and citrus lingered in her wake.

  Without a word, Martin retreated into his studio and slammed the door behind him. Auda stayed at the table, tears pricking at her eyes.

  It’s what Maman would want.

  Yes, their mother would no doubt have wanted what safety she could give her children, what good fortune. And it was a good chance that Poncia had arranged for her. But surely fate had something else in mind; she had only to see her reflection to know.

  An image of herself working side by side with her father flashed in Auda’s mind. They were poised to do great things together, she was sure of it. She sighed in bitterness. As if what she wanted mattered in the face of such terror as the inquisitor could bring upon them.

  She swallowed, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. Mind reeling, she rose to scrape Poncia’s uneaten meal back into the pot, and took the dishes to wash in the barrel of rainwater out back. She was just returning inside when she caught sight of the woman who sold old rags ambling up the road. The door to her father’s workshop remained shut. She’d have to take care of the woman herself.

  The ragpicker stood on the doorstep until Auda waved her in. Glancing askance at her, the woman dumped a basket of old linens at her feet. Most of the women who came to see her father—the wine seller, the fur seller, and the lady chandler—were used to her silent presence, even smiled at her. This woman was new, had moved to town only a year ago. She had come by a few times to make eyes at Martin and unload her remnants, torn cloth fit for little else but the paper pulp. It made a living, but probably only just. The woman’s husband had taken the cross and joined the war, she told everyone, but others whispered that he had run off with the kitchen maid. Her story would make for good song.

  “Five deniers for the lot,” the woman said in a loud voice. She stepped back as Auda moved near.

  Auda bent to sort through the pile. Most of the rags were torn and dirty, and sported holes ringed with bare threads. A few might be salvaged for bandage dressings. She would wash and darn them later to sell to the physickers in town for a denier.

  The ragpicker rubbed a thick finger inside her mouth. The click of her nail against her teeth was erratic. Auda stood and held up three fingers; the woman countered with four.

  “Your father?” the woman said without looking at her.

  Auda dropped the pennies onto the ragpicker’s dirt-lined palm. She shrugged and pointed at the closed door to the workshop.

  The woman clacked her teeth and picked up her empty basket. Casting a last scornful look at Auda, she headed out.

  “Masco.” Her accusation was no louder than a whisper.

  Auda stared in shock at the ragpicker’s retreating back. Had she heard correctly? The woman had called her a witch, an omen of darkness.

  She slammed the door shut and carried the rags into the workshop. She dropped the cloths on the ground in front of the vat, where Martin stood stirring the pulp.

  Seeing her come in, Martin laid down his mallet. “You shouldn’t be imprisoned here, in this room and this house,” he began. “You should have the life your sister has.”

  Auda let out a sigh. I don’t want, she signed, shaking her head, all the while wondering if that were true.

  It wasn’t like her to smile as brightly as Poncia, to bat her eyes and speak in coy tones, to catch a man at the height of love. Maybe if there were a man who knew her, who could understand her as well as her family did. She banished the thought. No such man existed in her world, certainly not this old miller. Why should she trade the joy of working with her father for life with a stranger?

  Her father watched her but said nothing. She walked to him and laid a kiss on his sweaty head.

  Stay here, Papa, she signed, staring into his eyes.

  Martin’s shoulders drooped. “If this inquisitor does turn his eye on Narbonne…”

  Auda touched his cheek but he moved away.

  “Wife of a miller could bring good fortune. You would have wealth, at least. And with wealth you can do many other things. Perhaps this is the chance we waited for.”

  It didn’t seem like any good chance at all. Auda scowled, trying not to give in to tears.

  Make my own chance.

  Martin’s voice grew gravelly. He laid a heavy hand on Auda’s shoulder. “I don’t know what to advise. But your sister was right about one thing.” He dropped his hand and turned away. “It’s what your mother would want.”

  Chapter Seven

  Auda climbed the ladder to the loft where her father slept and let herself sink into the hay bed beside the window. Loneliness solidified into a lump between her shoulders.

  The impressions she had of her mother were few, either imagined or given to her by Poncia. Had she lived, how would Elena look today? Martin rarely spoke of his beautiful wife who had died so young. Auda imagined that she must have looked just like Poncia.

  Would things have been different had she lived?
What had her mother’s last thoughts been? Were they for the baby she carried, a prayer for the life she might have taken to the grave? Or perhaps she’d been angry at this mewling ‘it’ that clawed inside her, blamed it for tearing through her. Perhaps she’d held her breath and shut her legs, had never wanted Auda to be born, died to keep it from happening.

  Uncharitable thoughts, Auda realized. She should be blaming herself for taking her mother from her sister and father. She wondered, not for the first time, on the circumstances of her birth. Neither father nor sister would speak of it, except to say her mother loved her.

  Yet whoever she’d been, whatever she’d thought, Elena had taken a piece of her daughter with her. Not just the lack of color that had left Auda an unsightly specter, nor the flesh cut from her living body. Something deeper. Tears collected in the corners of Auda’s eyes.

  Maman, help me if you can, she prayed. She meant to ask for her mother’s guidance: was Poncia right to insist Auda should move to a strange home with a strange man away from her family? Who would take care of her father? Yet other thoughts invaded instead.

  Please, Maman, am I to find someone who loves me as Papa loved you? Will he want to know me, know what I think and what I write? A darker thought surfaced—would he even let her write?

  Her father and sister had never talked to her about such things. Martin only spoke of books and writing, and gossip he learned while scribing. Poncia had not spoken much of love to Auda either, never shared dreams of the future. She just worried over Auda’s safety.

  So how then was Auda to know what to hope for?

  Sighing, she drifted back down to the studio. Martin had brought out his mould and deckle, the basic tools of his trade, for cleaning. Each mould consisted of a wire sieve mounted in a wooden frame that would be dipped into the paper vat to filter the pulp slurry. A larger wooden rim, the deckle, fit on top of the mould, creating a tray that both kept the pulp from sliding back into the vat and defined the edges of the sheet. The fibers left after the water dripped through the wire screen would be pressed and dried, and cut into pages.