Watermark

by Vanitha Sankaran

  Auda twisted to get out of the man’s grasp. She could only see a blur of hands and faces as the man spirited her through crooked alleys. She thrashed against his hold, but the man only clenched her with a tighter grip.

  “Shh! I’m trying to help you.” His voice was a warm whisper in her ear. She smelled meat and vinegar on his breath.

  She listened for her father, a heavy breath or grunt to know he was close, but she was pulled so quickly that she couldn’t even look behind her. Where was this man taking her?

  Finally the voices of the crowd grew distant and the man stopped running. He let her down gently. Auda pulled away, ducking her head. They were in a cemetery behind an old church. She had only regained her bearing when Martin ran up to her, and, sobbing, Auda let herself fall into his embrace. Martin squeezed her back, and then they both turned to address the stranger.

  It was the man from the square, the same man whom she had noticed listening to the piper. He stood tall and lean, dark-haired and dark-eyed, garbed in fraying clothes.

  “My thanks, sir,” her father said, dipping his head. “You saved us both.” Through her shaky tears, Auda tried to smile at this handsome stranger who’d saved her.

  But the stranger only held up a hand. “The crowds can be rough. And the Church is quick to condemn, slow to protect.” His voice grew bitter. “Best hide here for a while, till the mob finds another prey.” Letting out a mirthless chuckle, he dipped his head and disappeared down the street.

  From the town, the voices in the crowd grew louder. Martin and Auda sprinted across the shaded grounds, until at last they hid themselves behind a large wooden cross by the church door.

  Bringing her knees to her chest, Auda huddled next to her father. She tried not to think of the corpses whose graves they trod upon. Closing her eyes, she mouthed the Lord’s Prayer, and her mother’s face came to mind, Elena’s smile soothing her daughter’s nerves.

  Shouts of warning cut through the rainfall.

  “Over here!”

  “No, I saw them head this way!”

  Slowly, the voices grew distant.

  Martin and Auda hid in the cemetery until the bells for afternoon prayer sounded. Only after Mass was sounded and the crowds in nearby streets thinned out did they sneak through the driving rain to the town gates to await the cart that would take them home.

  In the wagon, neither made a sound as they settled among three other passengers shrouded in damp cloaks. But even as they rattled farther away from Carcassonne, Auda couldn’t calm her terror. She huddled into her cloak and tried to slow her breathing. It wasn’t until their companions had fallen asleep much later that Auda noticed her father’s empty hands. She nudged him with her elbow.

  She drew a rectangle in the air and mimed gripping the handle. Where is the case?

  His eyes were tired. “Lost in the square.”

  Months of painstaking work, gone in an instant.

  But Martin’s voice sounded of relief.

  “I’d thought Poncia was wrong, that maybe she’d just seen something on her trip that had scared her. But she knows the truth of it. And thank God we weren’t too late to see it too.”

  She shook her head vehemently, but he’d already closed his eyes.

  The wagon left them at their home late that night. Auda looked around, nervous that someone would have tracked them to the house and be waiting in the shadows. Even after her father lit a torch and opened up the house, she couldn’t breathe. She remembered the strange man’s warm arms around her and relaxed a fraction.

  Heading for the stairs, Martin reached into his cloak and pulled out a parcel wrapped in cloth. He threw it on the table and ascended to the loft.

  She waited until his footsteps subsided before she picked the parcel up. Untying the twine, she pulled back the cloth. Inside was a bundle of a dozen large goose feathers, each of them stiff and spotted with dried blood.

  Chapter Eight

  The inquisitor reached with a gloved hand for the woman strapped in the chair. He caressed her cheek. She whimpered and knuckled her hands atop the pregnant belly bulging through her billowing white gown. Auda ran toward the black-clad man standing over his prisoner under a charcoal tree in the darkened valley of the woods. She sprinted across the clearing under the starless night sky. Twigs and rocks bruised the soles of her feet. Spying the face of the prisoner, she skidded to a stop.

  It was her mother. Elena’s pale face gleamed with a ghostly glow.

  She swung her arm and pointed at her daughter. “A wife! A mother! You?” Her laughter was bitter.

  Seething, the inquisitor turned toward Auda. He held up a thick silver cross and began advancing toward her.

  Auda screamed and bolted upright in her pallet, knocking over the pitcher of water by her bed. Her entire body was filmed in sweat. Just a dream, only a dream. Her mother’s harsh voice still rang in her ears. No, not her mother—her mother had been kind and doting, not this specter of fright. She clenched her fists to stop the tremble in her hands.

  Martin hurried downstairs. “What was it?” he asked in alarm.

  Inquisitor, Mother, was all she could sign with shaking fingers.

  Her father sat beside her. “Only a dream, no doubt on account of your sister’s supper,” he said.

  Auda set her jaw. Poncia had sent word that her supper was that evening.

  Not going, she signed.

  Martin rose and picked up the shattered pottery. “It’s not for you to decide.”

  Auda flinched at his cold voice.

  Martin escorted Auda to Poncia’s house himself. Garbed in a thick linen dress with her sackcloth cloak wrapped over it, she wore both a cap to cover her hair and a wimple to shroud her face. No doubt she looked for all the world like a leper binding her body parts so they would not fall off. Well, better a leper than a witch, she thought bitterly, following her silent father through the misty rain. At least lepers had the protection of the Church.

  Poncia’s new house stood on the north side of the river, in the prosperous quarter of the merchant dwellings. Auda paused on the bridge, surprised to see her father stop as well. He looked down at the river, whose waters ran gray and chaotic under the drizzle. He bowed his head for a mere moment and resumed walking. Auda let out a heavy breath and followed.

  They passed the ornate water gate into the city center, where Narbonne hid its ancient Roman heart, buried under the roads. A torch blazed near the unfinished cathedral, which was covered in a grid of scaffolding. Behind the building, carts of mud and debris protected a circle of roughly hewn sculptures—biblical scenes, demons, and allegories. It was the perfect backdrop for the priests and peddlers who scurried through the square, proffering harbor against the devil.

  “A prayer for your soul!” one yelled at the people jostling each other on the busy road.

  Martin hurried Auda past the man.

  “A charm for your salvation!” another followed.

  Such a funereal song blanketed the town now, a cacophony of Latin hymns sung to the incessant ringing of prayer bells, hand bells, even the church bells. Who could smile, even breathe, under a dirge such as this?

  They slipped out of the main traffic and hastened along the side of the road until the loud voices of piety faded and Poncia’s house came into sight. The stone behemoth stood a full story above neighboring post-and-beam dwellings, the largest on its road in the northwest quarter of the city. At its sight, moisture welled in Auda’s eyes.

  “Go on,” Martin said, nudging her toward the door. He wiped the tears that rolled down her face with one thumb and pushed her again.

  Steeling herself, Auda knocked on her sister’s door, but no one answered. She rubbed her chilled hands together and waited. The rain picked up strength, pelting her wet face with sharp drops. She looked back at her father.

  “Knock again.”

  She knocked twice more, but still no one came. Finally, she tested the handle and the door opened by itself. With a final reluctant nod to
her father, she stepped inside. Where were the servants? She’d only visited the immense house once, before the wedding. A single hallway led away from the anteroom, probably to some sort of workshop or office. Jehan kept living quarters on an upper level, if she remembered correctly.

  Shaking the rain from her cloak, Auda ascended the steep flight until she arrived at the solar. A fire blazed under the hood of the chimney and oil lamps hung from the ceiling over a long wooden table. Fresh rushes covered the floor, while hanging embroidered tapestries kept the warmth from dissipating into the walls. Auda walked past the table and the cupboard holding the silverware and fine plates, maneuvering around the low buffet that held the pewter utensils for everyday use.

  Muffled shouts sounded from the nearby kitchen. Auda peeked in. The large room was crowded with spoons and hanging foodstuffs, and a cook with a troupe of servants who bustled in between. A rack bearing a dozen kettles and pots stood beside a great vat of rainwater and a shelf that held spoons, scoops, pincers, spits, skewers, and a long-handled fork. A thick stew bubbled on a fire near a large fish tank that lined the back wall.

  The cook took one, two, then three spices from a cupboard jammed with pots and dried herbs. He threw a liberal amount of the medley into the kettle and the sweet scents of rosemary and marjoram filled the room.

  “Oc,” he said and nodded, licking a taste of stew off his fingers. He sprinkled more of the blend into the meal. Looking up, he spied Auda.

  “Girl, did Fabrisse send you up with the bacon from the larder? Don’t just stand there like the dunce’s bride. Where is it?”

  The dunce’s bride. The label stuck in her craw.

  Faltering, Auda shook her head and retreated to the hall. Seeing a door cracked ajar on the other side of the staircase, she moved closer. Voices echoed within. She peered through the slit of the doorjamb.

  Jehan stood inside with two men dressed in plain brown cloaks and bearing cropped hair. Sewn to the cloak of the shorter man were two large yellow crosses, one on the front and the other wide across his back. The three men huddled over a patched leather satchel opened across the table.

  She drew an anxious breath. Who were these men who spoke in whispers to her brother-in-law? Priests? Had Jehan summoned them on account of her? He must know Poncia was arranging a marriage with one of his friends. Was he angry her sister traded on his fortune for her own family? The suspicious looks she’d gotten the last few days stood stark in her mind.

  Yet these men seemed poor and weary with stained, thread-bare clothes and fingers bereft of fine jewels. Nothing at all like the priest at St. Paul’s. What did her sister’s new husband want with these impoverished men of the cloth? She strained to hear their speech.

  “My thanks for helping my parents journey inland,” Jehan said with a light laugh, stroking his beard. “It’s for the best, until this lunacy is over, you understand.” His forehead creased and his smile disappeared. “You haven’t come with news about them?”

  His parents? Jehan’s parents had looked as plain as these two, spoke little at the wedding, and cast disapproving frowns at Poncia, the fine cloth, food and wine—everything displayed in full abundance. They left soon after on a long pilgrimage they took every year, Jehan explained, and said nothing more about them.

  “No, there’s much else to be discussed,” the shorter one said, sitting at the table. He rubbed a hand over his balding head.

  Jehan lowered his voice. “Do you need food? Other provisions? It must be days since you’ve eaten.”

  “We’ll take some with us when we leave,” the man said. “Fish, if you can spare it. And watered wine.”

  The tall man shook his head. “Leave it for later. We came to ask you for aid.”

  Was it her imagination or did fear just flash through Jehan’s black eyes?

  “Now is not the best time,” Jehan said. “I need a few months.”

  “It’s never a good time,” the thin man said. “Particularly for us, among all this superstition. There are many who need to be taught. We need new folios.”

  Folios? Auda bent in to hear better. Was Jehan courting business for her father? Poncia hadn’t spoken of it. Who were these two men? Brothers from some small monastery? Monks seeking wisdom as cheaply as it could be had?

  She tried to lean closer, but just then footsteps sounded on the stairs and a short maidservant descended from the third floor. Auda scurried away from the door, looking around as if lost.

  The maid sniffed. “You must be domna’s sister. What are you doing up here? Come with me.” She continued down the stairs.

  Auda lagged, throwing a last glance at the small room. She turned away from the mysterious conversation and followed the servant girl to find her sister.

  Na Maria, Poncia’s personal maid, fussed over Auda.

  “You’ve grown like the king’s own rosebush, girl!” she said, pulling a long shift over Auda’s head. Maria had been Auda’s wet nurse years ago, even though the injured babe could barely take suck. Over time, Martin had paid the woman a few coins to care for his girls whenever he traveled, though not in many years.

  Maria clucked at her. “And into a body to look at, no less.”

  Blushing, Auda turned her head. No one had seen her naked since she was a child, much less thought to pay her appearance a compliment. What would the miller think when he saw her on their wedding night? The thought made her uneasy.

  “Almost ready. Though you’re pale as a ghost.” Maria pinched Auda’s cheeks. “No matter. We’ll dress you as a lady, though not one so fine as to give herself airs.”

  She held up a pale linen dress embroidered with lace at the sleeves and hem. The cuffs were ringed with dirt and the bodice stained with grease. Still, it was finer than anything Auda, an artisan’s daughter consigned by law to wear only drab browns and grays in public, had ever owned.

  Maria gestured at her niece Rubea, whom she’d summoned for help. A short girl as wide as her aunt, Rubea had curly brown hair and eyes sharp like a vulture’s on a fresh carcass.

  “Go back and get some mint. Out in the verge.”

  After Rubea returned with two large stems from the kitchen garden, Maria rubbed a sprig on the inside of the yellow dress and handed another to Auda, who wadded it in her mouth.

  “What d’you work here for anymore?” Rubea said to her aunt, glancing sidelong at Auda. “You ain’t had enough of this odd folk?”

  Auda sucked in her breath and turned to glare at Rubea.

  Yet Maria only patted her auburn mane, which had escaped its braid into a crow’s nest about her head. She smiled, wrinkles ridging up at her lips, eyes, and forehead.

  “She’s nothing to fear at. Her and her sister, they ain’t bad girls. Her papa’s a fine man, and fine lookin’ too. Pity he never got over that wife of his. Must have been some beauty, that one.” She laughed again and applied a liberal amount of red salve to Auda’s cheeks and lips.

  Auda’s pulse quickened at the mention of her mother. But Maria hadn’t known her, couldn’t tell Auda what her mother had been like, why Elena had married her father.

  She took a sprig of mint from Maria and chewed it, trying to hide her sadness and worry by focusing on the taste of the herb. Maria brushed out Auda’s white hair and bound it tightly under a yellow cap, then sniffed at Auda’s neck.

  “Pity there’s no orange water for sprinklin’. Be still, child. It’s a queen’s work getting you ready for a meal such as this.”

  Did everyone know what was in store for her this evening but her? A sudden alarm twinged in her mind. This life Poncia had married into was finer than anything they’d had as children. Well enough for her sister, who had always coveted such wealth and had pursued Jehan with sweet words and learned manners. From what Auda saw, the two were besotted with each other and the fine life they luxuriated in.

  Not so for Auda. Whatever she was to do in her life, surely it would not come in the guise of wifery and motherhood. And now it seemed to all depend on the na
ture of this miller. Perhaps he was of a sort like her father, who would support Martin’s dreams to see paper become a common household good, reading and writing a common skill. She and this miller could teach their own children letters and fund a school to instruct others. And she could still write. Perhaps, as her sister believed, it would turn out just fine.

  Maria kissed the top of Auda’s head and ushered Rubea out to finish their chores. The church bells chimed Vespers. Auda shifted from one foot to the other. Her dress held too tight in the front and the lace carried bits of wire that itched worse than sackcloth.

  The bells rang again and Poncia appeared, breathless, at the door. She embraced Auda, and then pulled back, looking her sister up and down in approval.

  “Maria did well. It’s a fancy supper this evening, but only for other merchants and guildsmen,” she said, fluffing her fur-trimmed gown. Auda cast her an uncertain glance and her sister frowned.

  “Don’t fret, Auda. It gives you an ill look.” Her tone softened. “I know you worry over what will happen tonight. But don’t fear.” She gave Auda’s hand a quick squeeze. “I’ll be right there with you.”

  Auda tried to quell the anxiety that fluttered in her stomach. For the hundredth time, she wished Poncia had just let her be, a quiet girl living a quiet life with her father. Reading, writing, and staying out of notice. She closed her eyes, remembering their trip to Carcassonne. Staying out of notice was only going to get harder.

  Her sister led her into the hallway to a pair of dark wooden doors where Jehan strode up to them. He was a sizeable man, both wide in girth and taller than most. He’d trimmed his thick black beard and moustache to match the short cut of his straight black hair in the current fashion of the nobles. His eyes flickered at Auda, and she stared back in frank curiosity. Was his meeting over? Would he tell them about it?

  He drew Poncia aside. “It’s not a good time for this,” he said, echoing his earlier words to the strange monks.