Watermark

by Vanitha Sankaran

  “Girl, stop your agitation,” the vicomtesse said in a firm voice. She turned to Martin. “Her mother ought not send her about without a shawl, what with that thin dress. It’s an ill look.”

  Martin dipped his head, but the smile pasted on his face did not waver. He clasped his hands behind his back and spread his stance wider.

  Auda evaluated the woman. What did the vicomte see in this haughty woman with high cheeks, a fine nose, and eyes that held judgment over everything? Maybe it was her power, the authority she seemed to command with a single look. Strength to match his.

  Certainly the miller wanted a wife with needs as simple as he required for himself. Auda flushed, thinking of the painter’s kiss on her wrist. What did he see when he looked at her?

  The vicomtesse turned to Martin. “Explain what you’ve brought.”

  They had packed two boxes full of cloth-wrapped papers. Martin spread them in piles across the board.

  “We have papers of all sizes here. I’ve brought them loose as you requested, but we can sew these up into folios, if you prefer.”

  “Hmm.” She went through each pile, picking up pages to finger. Her fingers lingered over one sheet in particular, a delicate stationery Martin had designed for noblemen’s wives, scented with rose petals.

  “A good thought.” The vicomtesse sniffed the page. “But I’ll wager you’ve not had much luck. The men of this town scantly know their letters, let alone the women.”

  “Yet.”

  The lady turned a shrewd gaze on him, and Martin colored. Tapping a finger against her cheek, she inspected the rest of the bundles. “I’ve seen paper before,” the lady said. “But it was coarse stuff, nothing like this. Tell me, do you command special cloths for this?”

  “No, domna,” Martin replied. “I need only the poorest of linens, cloth worthy for neither wear nor use. It takes patience to blend the pulp fine, but I have much, being a simple man with simple concerns.”

  “I see. And how does your paper compare to parchment?”

  Martin’s smile deepened. “Let us show you.”

  The lady commanded a servant to fetch a quill, ink, and a section of fresh parchment. When she handed the inked feather to Martin, he passed it to Auda. Surprise glinted in the vicomtesse’s eyes.

  Auda held her gaze for a moment without flinching. The lady looked away, selecting a sheet of paper and pushing it across the table. Auda regarded the plain sheet before her. Was it a wise idea to show the lady she could write? Perhaps she should just draw a simple design. Pride warred with good sense.

  At last, she squared her shoulders and wrote her name in bold strokes, one line at the top of the page, another in the middle, and a final line at the bottom. She repeated with the flat section of parchment.

  “So, girl, you are not as simple as you look,” the vicomtesse murmured while they waited for the words to dry.

  Auda flushed, blowing on the wet ink. She picked up both pages, holding them to the light to show the lady that the lettering on both was fine and uniform, and that the dark ink hadn’t bled greatly through the paper. Out of habit, her fingers played over the paper’s surface; she felt for lumps of pulp that hadn’t been beaten out or dimples that might suggest carelessness. But there were none.

  “It’s a comparison of the paper to the parchment,” Martin explained.

  In a swift movement, Auda brought the page to her ear and crumpled it in her fist. The lady gasped. Auda repeated the process with the parchment. The sound was the same, light and crisp. Unfolding the crushed pages, she spat on them. The moisture didn’t show through the parchment, and just barely bled through the paper.

  Stepping away, Auda waited for the lady to speak. The vicomtesse took the crumpled paper from her and examined it front and back.

  “It’s a pretty routine, that I’ll swear,” she said. “I can’t pretend it means anything.”

  “You see, their textures are the same,” Martin said. “We’ve gotten better at making certain the ink doesn’t bleed through the page, although if I were to be an honest man, I’d have to admit that, in this, parchment can be superior.”

  The lady tilted her head at him, considering.

  “I will take the four reams we discussed, plus an additional two,” she said, drawing herself up tall. “I’ll send my chamberlain for the extra when it’s ready. No doubt I will order more after my husband has seen this.”

  Auda stifled a tremble, remembering the vicomte’s thoughtful gaze upon her. The warmth of the memory mingled with the painter’s kiss.

  Not noticing her tense beside him, Martin bowed and began packing up the remainder of his wares.

  If they had a watermark, Auda thought, they could design paper specially for the lady, with her own design upon it. A woman of such pride would relish the idea. She’d have to tell her father later.

  Before they were dismissed to leave, the vicomtesse spoke again. “I do, also,” she said, “have need of a scribe. If this paper holds up, as you say, it will mean months, perhaps years, of work. Will a regular scribe, maybe an apprentice from the abbey, be able to work with this paper?”

  Auda’s eyes widened. To think that Martin could scribe for the lady—could write for the nobility, instead of at the stationer’s cramped stall!

  Martin bowed again. “There is no special trick to scribing on paper, my lady, though it takes time to grow accustomed to the surface. I’d scribe for you myself, but I know someone who could do it better.”

  Auda gaped at him, not understanding. Why was he not jumping at this chance?

  The vicomtesse shook her head. “I’ve a tight budget, good man. If you think to help a friend, I’d best tell you now I can afford no Church scribe.”

  “Not a Church scribe.” Her father shook her head. “A girl. My daughter.”

  Auda reeled back. What was he doing?

  The vicomtesse regarded her, uncertain. “A girl as a scribe?”

  “She is no normal girl.” Her father gave Auda a pointed look and she bowed her head.

  The vicomtesse slowly nodded. “Yes, she does have a fine hand. Well then, what wages will you have me set?”

  “If you keep her here with room and board,” Martin said after a moment, “I’ll take three deniers each week, with Sunday free as a holy day.”

  Auda bit back a gasp. He was setting terms with the lady?

  “Done.” The lady sounded satisfied. “I’ll send for her when I am ready. When the rains are over.”

  Auda kept her eyes averted as she helped Martin pack the rest of his wares, excitement and confusion working themselves out in her head. The servants showed them out into the yard. Only once they were out of the palace did she turn to face her father.

  Why me? Why don’t you scribe? He’d given away the best opportunity he’d ever had, to her!

  Martin was silent for a moment. Auda could see he was trembling. “Better the safety of the vicomtesse than to trust in a stranger whose motives we don’t know. Anyway, this chance was made for you. You’re smarter than I, quicker in wit. You’ll do great things. Just promise me,” he added in a sad tone, “that you’ll share them with me when you return home.”

  Auda took her father’s hand in both of hers and held on tight. Lifting her face to the sky, she waited for the rain to wash away her budding tears. But all she saw was the sun’s emerging light and its warmth, so long forgotten, wide across her face.

  As the heretics cannot defend themselves against the truth of faith by strength, reason or authorities, they quickly resort to sophistries, deceit and verbal trickery to avoid detection.

  —Bernardo Gui,

  Practica inquisitionis heretice pravitatis

  Part II

  Summer 1320

  Chapter Thirteen

  In Narbonne, summer came on with a vengeance.

  Since the rains had ended, weeks ago, the sun had come out every day, baking the moisture from the waterlogged town. Priests in town called it a miracle and Narbonne fêted its fortu
ne for days.

  As the villagers celebrated their turn in luck, summons came from the palace that Auda was to report to the vicomtesse in one week. She looked again at the creamy roll of parchment bearing the lady’s writ and seal, still amazed at her fortune. She wished he could speak to her sister about it. Auda hadn’t seen her since the morning after her ill-fated meeting with Edouard, but Martin had gone to tell Poncia in person that Auda would be taking employment with the lady and was not free for marriage. Auda didn’t know what words passed between them, but Martin came home that evening with a grim set about his mouth. He drank an entire flagon of wine without so much as uttering a word.

  Now her father followed her gaze to the lady’s summons. He nodded, pleased. “It looks like we’re just in time, ma filla,” he said, winking at Auda. “The Gypsies arrived this morning so we’ll have a chance to see them before you leave.”

  Auda smiled. Her father had gone to the market every day to check for the Gypsies. The caravans came early and left early, depending on the success of their sales. Some years, when they had other, bigger fairs to attend, they would only stay in town for a week. But the fair this year was the largest Narbonne had ever held.

  Now Martin smiled at his daughter. “I’ve already told Tomas I will be late tomorrow. We can go in the morning.”

  She nodded, eager to see if the Gypsies could tell her anything more of watermarks.

  Auda woke well before the break of dawn. It would be a bright day today. She hadn’t been outside since the rains had ended, and the burgeoning sunlight was already hurting her eyes. After she had finished dressing, she returned to her room for a final piece of cloth hanging on the wall. It was a covering Poncia had designed for her, a headcap with extra cloth that hung on the sides and over her forehead to be used as a shield against the sun. Auda tied it over a tighter wimple that hid her pale hair. Opening the door, she winced against the bright sunlight.

  They left just after the bells rang for Matins. The whole town was stirring as if just brought back to life. Lifting her face into the warm breeze, Auda smelled the scents of threshed grass and baked dung in the streets. All of Narbonne was immersed in the business of sowing crops, seeding gardens, and making cheese and bread. The work would last through the Great Fair, which would arrive the following week and last through the harvest.

  Auda thought about the Gypsy she’d seen in Tomas’s shop this past winter. Such a servile creature, dirty and cringing—nothing like the Gypsies she and Martin had befriended at the fair. Still, the shabby man had introduced the watermark to her. Hopefully she would learn more about it today.

  As they neared the market, traffic along the Via Domitia grew heavy with merchants transporting their wares into the stalls. A skinny boy stood in the center of the bustle, crying out the day’s news. He rapped on a thick drum suspended around his neck.

  “Oyez! Oyez! Market spaces to be extended for duration of the fair. See the Consul’s Office to apply.” He drummed again. “Bridge tolls to be raised on the new week! Penitents attending the masses exempt!”

  A band of young children darted between the mules and peddlers on the road. One small boy, running to catch a ball, bumped into her. Auda turned away her face, not wanting the child to see her pale face and watery eyes.

  Martin reached for her hand. “Just the folly of a child. The priests have been silenced. The Jacobins have left. It was as I told you. They found nothing here.”

  Yet Auda couldn’t forget the terror of the past months, the feel of strange hands trying to carry her away, condemning her as a witch. It seemed to her that a darkness still lingered. And she hadn’t forgotten about the inquisitor who wrote about witches and heresy.

  They headed toward the center of the Bourg, where merchants and artisans were readying for the Great Fair with a frenzied pitch. Auda ducked between the strangers crowding every cranny of the marketplace. Part of her thrilled at the idea of finding her artist among them. She glanced at her father. What would she do if she did find Jaime?

  The scent of meat pies, sweet and spicy, wafted over the tangy smell of sweat and ale. Martin smiled and hailed the itinerant vendor. Giving the man two pennies, he passed a beef pie soaked in wine and mixed with nuts and currants to Auda. The spiced meat, kept hot by glowing coals in the vendor’s cart, seared her tongue-stump and slid down her throat, warm and filling.

  Martin finished his pie in quick swallows. “Ahh, nothing like the first bite of fair food!”

  He led her to the outskirts of the market, where a small shabby tent had been pitched just outside the fairgrounds. Patches of orange and brown cloth had been sewn over the opening like a curtain and two small tables stood in front of the tent. A dozen men and women hovered around them, piling their wares for display. They barked at a gang of young boys who hung by the tent, laughing and chatting.

  Someone carted a wagon full of brass lamps in front of her, nearly trodding on her feet. Auda stepped back, eyeing the tables. Miracles abounded here, stoppered in jars or hidden under dark cloths. There was the south-pointing spoon for lost travelers, glass that reflected like shined metal, even a game of kings and armies played on a checkered board with a handful of carved chits. But she only had an eye for one thing, and she hadn’t found it yet.

  Martin spotted an old friend setting up in the back, a Gypsy who often brought paper tracts and pamphlets for Martin.

  “Auda, don’t go far. I’ll be right back.”

  She nodded and wandered around to the front of the table. Donino, the man in charge of the stall, flashed her a smile of bright white teeth against sun-darkened skin. She nodded shyly. As long as she could remember, Donino had brought his caravans to the fair. She’d thought him a magician once, and in a way, still did. At his invitation, she moved closer to the table, seeing many more items crowded on the wooden board. Some, like the seeing-eye glass and cakes of carved soap, she’d seen before.

  A stout man wearing a lopsided red cross on his tunic called out to passersby:

  “Join the Shepherds’ Crusade! Fight for the Holy Spirit against Jews and infidels, and be forgiven your sins, forgiven your debts.”

  Auda frowned, edging closer to Donino’s table to get away from the man’s righteous harangue.

  Her gaze fixed upon a piece of wire bent into the pattern of a stylized cross edged with hooks on the four corners. She smiled.

  “You’ve a good eye, domna,” the Gypsy said, pulling out of his conversation with another customer. “That piece is all the fashion in Italy. It’s called a watermark, perfect for your trade. It makes a pattern in the paper, like this.”

  He drew out a sheet from under the table and held it near a torch. “Do you see?”

  She squinted against the bright flame. There was a faint design in the paper, just like the wandering Gypsy had said there would be. Just like the heretic’s tract her uncle had brought with him bore. She took the page and inspected both sides, then examined the wire device. Frowning, she placed the watermark against the paper and held them up.

  Donino laughed. “You attach it to the screen of your mould before you dip it in the pulp, like this.” Reaching under the table again, he drew out a small scrap of screen. He hooked the watermark onto the thin metal grid and handed it to her.

  “Voilà,” he said with a flourish of his thick hands. “The pattern dries into the paper just like that.” He winked. “And a superior sheet of paper it is, yes?”

  Auda caressed the faint mark on the paper. So that was how it worked. The heavier wire of the watermark would emboss its design into the wet paper pulp. When the paper dried, it seemed the watermark would show through. She nodded, appreciating the cleverness of the idea.

  “It’s only three pennies for that one. But I have others.” He opened a wooden box filled with a dozen different wire pieces.

  Auda put the page down and picked through the box, examining each piece. Donino had collected many intricate designs of other crosses, crowns, keys, even some with complex herald
ry. Her father would be enchanted with such an item, but nothing here spoke of him.

  “You want something else? We can make a new pattern.” He cleared a space on the table and placed an inked quill in her hand. “Show me.”

  Gripping the quill, she pondered for a moment. What symbol could capture her father? What could define his trade? After a moment, she sketched a clumsy drawing of lines and curves on his sheet of paper.

  “Ah,” Donino nodded, “the famed bridge of Narbonne, yes. I can do this for you.” He turned and barked in a foreign tongue to someone in the back.

  Auda fingered the paper. The watermark was certainly a wonder, but even the Gypsy’s paper was different. Shinier. Smoother. Donino had been selling paper for years, as others in the fair did, but his wares had always been coarse, and unfinished. Nothing like this. Where had he gotten it?

  “There’s a trick to it,” a voice said to her.

  Auda stepped back, reaching to pull her wimple closer to her face. It was the customer Donino had been speaking with earlier. Auda squinted at him. He was a tall man with a round ruddy face that matched his plain brown tunic, and he looked familiar. Reaching for the paper, he pointed at her crude sketch, then flipped it to the backside. “The ink doesn’t bleed. The page has been sized, you see.”

  She shook her head, wrinkling her brow.

  “Stiffened, coated, if you will, dipped in a jelly made of hide cuttings, hoof shavings, powdered bones and the like.” The stranger gave her a conspiratorial wink.

  Auda tilted her head. He spoke with a local accent, though she didn’t recognize him. How did he know this? She jerked her chin toward his smiling face, but when he said no more, she took the paper from him and picked up the quill to ask.