Watermark

by Vanitha Sankaran

  The man shook his head and spoke in a lowered voice.

  “Not here.”

  Auda dropped the quill and stared at him. She recalled the peculiar conversation she’d overheard between two men and Jehan weeks back. They had been an odd pair, both dressed in tattered brown cloaks. This stranger looked like one of those men. Yes, that’s where she had seen him before.

  Donino returned. “You are fortunate, domna, to be our first customer. I can have the device for you in a week. Now for the cost—”

  The stranger wandered behind the tables and disappeared into Donino’s tent.

  “Domna?”

  Tearing her gaze from the stranger, she fished for her coin pouch. She picked out three pennies and laid them on the table. Donino laughed.

  “Ah, domna, the price for a custom design is over thrice that.”

  She put down another penny and they haggled for a few moments, settling on the price of five deniers, of which she paid two. She gestured at her father, who was still talking to his friend. Placing a finger over her lips, she shook his head.

  The Gypsy laughed. “It’s to be a surprise then?”

  Auda nodded.

  Donino bowed his head. “Don’t fret. We are known for our ability to keep secrets.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Martin escorted Auda to the palace the next day.

  “I’ll meet you here at week’s end, after my shift at the stall is over.” He kissed the top of her head. “You’ll do well, ma filla. We will celebrate when you return home in a week.”

  Auda blinked away sudden tears. She’d never been separated from her father, not for long. How would her days be without his larger-than-life talk, his wild dreams and cheer?

  An ache settled in her chest, but she nodded at him and turned to the large stone palace standing across from the skeleton of the archbishop’s new cathedral. Green flags fluttered high on the standard and twin stone cherubs, flanked by glass-encased candles, smiled at her from above the palace doorway. One cast a hopeful smile, while the other leered.

  She approached the heavy oak door with some trepidation. The guard standing beside it sized her up.

  “What is your business?”

  She handed him the wooden chit the vicomtesse had sent with her summons. Eyeing her with some suspicion, he muttered something under his breath and motioned her to walk ahead of him. He directed her along a set of long passageways marked by plain walls and flickering torches. In quick succession, he pointed out the kitchens and the room she was to live in. She struggled to keep pace. He left her in front of a large room in the lady’s wing.

  Listening to his receding footsteps, Auda stood alone in the hallway and tried to calm her mounting anxiety. She’d been so relieved to not have to marry the miller that she hadn’t worried about what a life here would be like. Until now.

  The vicomtesse’s voice spilled from the room into the corridor, crescendoing into a tirade.

  Swallowing, Auda forced herself to step forward toward the entrance and peered inside. The room itself seemed plain by castle standards, though it was richer than Auda’s entire home, with a large table bearing stacks of parchment and paper and two benches. Blue-and-yellow flowered tapestries hung on the walls, beside a painting of a vineyard framed in gilded metal. Rich yellow curtains were draped over two large windows and a trio of candles burned on each wall.

  The lady was scolding two stiff-backed maids, younger than Auda, the shorter one cowering against the taller.

  “Look at what lurks here!” The lady glared at the maids and spread a handful of the rushes from the ground across the table; mixed with the wilted foliage were bones, rocks, and dried balls of cat dung.

  “And under this yet is beer, grease, and spittle—all that is and smells foul in the world.”

  Auda trembled under the lady’s withering voice.

  The lady clapped her hands. “Off with you, then! Fresh rushes every week! And if I catch another room in a state as deplorable as this, Cook will put apples in your mouths and roast you on the spit for dinner! Now, go!”

  The girls scrambled out, rushing past Auda in the doorway as she tried to avoid attention. But the lady spied Auda and waved her in. Looking her up and down, the vicomtesse let out an explosive breath.

  “Have you not anything else to wear, girl? Or at least thought to clean this dress?”

  Auda flushed. The yellow gown Poncia had given her needed washing, reeked of sweat, but she’d worried about ruining the fabric by cleaning something so fine. Would the lady dismiss her for it?

  “Stop by the kitchen and speak to Amélie, the housekeeper…” The vicomtesse paused and frowned. “No, of course not. I’ll have one of the maids inquire. Amélie always frets that her girls cast off their costumes faster than her boys. She will have something.”

  Auda bowed in gratitude.

  The lady harrumphed. “No, just sit. Let us see how you wear this new uniform before we claim to be pleased about it.” She smoothed her gown. The lines in her pale, unpowdered skin eased for a moment. With her hair uncovered and tied in a loose braid, she looked younger, pretty in her simplicity.

  “Tell me, girl, why have you not been sent to the convent, or taken a maid’s job?” She pursed her lips, frowning. “Plenty would pay well for a maid who can’t talk back nor spread their household business. I daresay it would be difficult to find you a husband, but even that has to be a possibility among some, no?”

  It was a reasonable question, yet it rankled. Reluctantly, Auda pressed her stylus into one of her tablets.

  I work with my father, making paper.

  The vicomtesse raised her eyebrows. “It’s an ill work that takes the hands of a girl from her house. Surely your mother doesn’t consent?”

  Auda stiffened. Why did everyone assume a woman had to marry and keep house? Surely one so fine as the vicomtesse had more lofty dreams for herself.

  Lifting her chin, she wrote again.

  She died of childbed fever.

  The lady’s gaze didn’t waver, though the corners of her blue-edged eyes softened. She sat at the table and drummed her fingers on the wood.

  “Not many girls have the luck to learn their letters. Your father has vision.”

  Auda ducked her head, suddenly unsure. Did the lady mean to compliment, or criticize?

  “No, don’t look away.” The lady’s voice cracked like a switch on bare flesh. “It’s nothing to hide, knowing one’s letters. My husband has brought wise men from all over the world to this town. He’s even given money to that school for the Jews. If the Jews can learn, why not our own women?”

  Auda nodded in spite of herself.

  “It can be a dangerous world for women. Like your mother, my only sister died in childbirth. The babe died too and her husband married again.” She cleared her throat. “Let us begin. You can share now in the experience of a mother writing to her child.”

  Though the words sounded harsh, Auda heard the telltale softness in the lady’s voice when she spoke of her sister. It was exactly like the tremble in her father’s hands and eyes when her mother was mentioned.

  She bit her lip and pulled out a pair of quills and a small pot of ink from her basket. Her father had made the ink especially for her, soaking crushed gallnuts in water laced with verjuice and adding gum and iron salts. He swore the verjuice made the ink blacker, almost the color of midnight.

  She put ink and quills to the side, next to the twin stacks of parchment and paper, and took out a pair of large tablets.

  The lady clasped her hands behind and nodded at the tablet. “Address to Guillaume de Narbonne, Seigneur de Montagnac.”

  Auda pressed the letters into the red wax and waited. The lady resumed pacing, mulling over her words.

  My dearest son,

  It has been near to one year since we last heard word from you. We received news of your marriage to the daughter of Montbrun’s baron. Your father is pleased. It distresses me that you did not think to inform us,
better to invite us. No doubt the fete was enjoyed.

  Have a thought for your old mother, who frets for her second son.

  On this day, in the grace of the Lord,

  Your mother, Jeanne

  The lady took the tablet. She digested the words but changed nothing.

  Such a curt letter, Auda wondered. Was that how a mother spoke to her child?

  The lady began the next message.

  Dear brother,

  lam certain you have heard Narbonne thrives.

  The fair has come and the scriptorium is under construction, to be complete by Martinmas. Outside of Narbonne, however, the conflict rages.

  Inquisitors control much—

  The stylus slipped from Auda’s hand, clattering to the ground.

  The lady paused and sighed at the consternated frown on the girl’s face. “You worry at the mention of inquisitors.” Her voice was flat.

  Auda bowed her head, feeling the top of her ears burn.

  “Good.” She nodded her approval. “Most everyone else in town believes the inquisitors and their scrutiny have vanished with the rains.” The wrinkles around her mouth creased. “No, the inquisitors have not left, nor turned their eyes from our town. Even now one writes a treatise on how to ferret out the heretics who most surely have gone into hiding.”

  Auda blinked. The inquisitor Poncia had warned her of was still about? Had he released more of his writing on how to search for heretics and witches? She crossed herself, shuddering.

  The lady cast a shrewd glance at her. “They will strike when the town least expects it, I suppose. If they wait for a lull, people may get careless. We will see.”

  The fear returned to the pit of Auda’s stomach.

  Instructing Auda to pick up her stylus, the lady continued her narration.

  Outside of Narbonne, however, the conflict rages.

  Inquisitors control much and too many flee to Narbonne for safety. Their care costs a good deal. Pages smuggled from a nearby abbey speak of a guide to root out heretics.

  The words are harsh and ugly.

  Your position at the abbey may be of use in keeping our town intact. Please advise us what to do.

  In God’s Love,

  Your sister

  The vicomtesse read the message and nodded, gesturing back at the desk.

  “Make two copies, if you will. The parchment rolls are for the letters to be sent. My copies can be written on paper. “She arched a brow. “We shall see how this material of yours fares. There will be more letters to pen tomorrow.” Without another word, she swept out of the room.

  Auda sat at the desk to copy out the messages. It took longer than she expected to script them on the creamy parchment. Used to writing on paper, she had to slow her movements and press deeper with her quill. But her excitement at hearing about the scriptorium couldn’t be tamped—such news to tell her father! She spread a handful of light sand across the page when she finished to absorb any excess ink—an inconvenience avoided with the more absorbent paper.

  Massaging her cramped hand, Auda stowed her tools in her basket and looked around the palace corridor. How was she to find her room? She chose a random path, taking only right turns as she floundered for a familiar sight. Instead she found herself at a dead end, in a small musty room lit only by a narrow row of candles. The stained pattern of the glass window stayed dark against a dark sky. Reds and blues winked among the shadows, mute without the sun. A chill in the room covered the faded scent of incense, and dust filmed the three dark wooden pews. They faced a bay in the wall that held a statue of the blessed Mary cradling the baby Jesus. La Vierge de Fontfroide.

  Auda knelt. Though she had never felt comfortable in church, with the priest accusing everyone of sin, she’d always felt a special warmth for the Virgin Mother who had birthed the Lord. She had seen paintings of the famed statue in the market, the lady Mary who sat amidst her voluminous robes while clasping her babe on one knee. Mary’s hand rested on her paunch, the bulge so ample it might have belonged to an old drunkard. Auda recalled the Virgin’s peaceful smile from the paintings, though she couldn’t discern the statue’s details with her hazy eyesight. She squinted at the statue and mouthed the words of the Lord’s Prayer in gratitude for their changes in fortune.

  As she finished the prayer, footsteps sounded behind her. Auda crossed herself and stood, suddenly wondering if she was not allowed in here. She turned around, expecting a servant to hurry her away, and came face-to-face with the vicomte.

  He nodded at her, unsurprised to see her. “So you prayed for the grace of the Lady.” She stayed still as he walked up to the statue and reached to touch its cheeks, then brought his fingers to Auda’s chin.

  Blinking, she tried not to squirm, nor to meet his gaze. His fingers felt hot on her skin.

  “She’s a bleak woman, no? Such sorrow. How much different she would look with the hint of life painted on her cheeks and lips. My sister and I used to talk of it when we were young. Sacrilege to touch the Lady, though we didn’t know it then, with hands that grasp in sex and lust, that hurt and kill. But we did it.” His voice turned flat.

  Auda caught her breath and eyed him.

  “Red for her cheeks, black for her lips. We left her eyes blank.” A tic began throbbing at his left temple. “My father was furious, of course. He paid reparations to the abbey, and beat me himself. From then on, the tutors came here. I never returned.” He dropped his hand. “Come with me.”

  Auda let out her breath. The back of her neck tingled but she didn’t look back, not even at the Virgin. What did the vicomte want with her?

  The hallways seemed a maze, confined and cold with dark corners and a warren of narrow corridors. Torches illuminated short sections of the passage with their flickering orange light, leaving a signature of soot and grime on the walls.

  The vicomte ushered her into a small room that looked like an office. The air smelled like stale breath, even with the open window that faced the rushing river. The room was furnished with a cushioned chair that sat behind a desk covered in rolls of parchment, a thin rug on the stone floor, and a wooden bench lining the longest wall. A white greyhound lay on its back in front of a strong fire, its paws twitching.

  The vicomte motioned toward the bench and sat next to her, close but not touching. He followed her gaze to the stacks of parchment littering the floor by his desk. Such wealth in this room, measured in books and scrolls.

  “It’s a never-ending business, protecting this town from itself,” he said.

  She nodded. What power this man commanded, writs and decrees that he could issue from this small room. His path had been decided at birth. A nobleman, an eldest son, a vicomte’s heir. Perhaps everyone’s fate was decided at birth, before birth even.

  Had anyone decided a fate for her?

  The vicomte reached for a large canvas roll. It was a map of Narbonne, city and bourg, bisected by the Aude. Half of the city and most of the bourg were inked in red, province of the Lord Archbishop.

  “This town is mine,” he remarked. “Did you know we held it all at one time? Church and palace. For decades, this land has been in my family—my kin, comtes of Toulouse and Foix, held court in this backwater. They held on to it, didn’t trade it for riches, or give it away in dowry. Why?”

  She shivered at the passion in his tone. Why was he telling her this? Had he brought her here for a history lesson? And yet she couldn’t turn away from the seductiveness of his voice.

  The vicomte rose, tapping his polished fingernail on the Roman roads that led to and from Narbonne, and to the path out to the sea. “This town, she’s poised to be something big, something great. But now the Church takes over like a pestilence. I would restore the glory my family brought to Narbonne. If only I could.”

  She found herself nodding again, entranced. To create a thing of beauty—was that not what everyone wanted? Poncia with hopes for a child, Martin with his paper. And Auda? All she had ever wanted was to find her voice.


  The vicomte’s lips curved and his voice turned soft. “These are difficult times. You’ve traded for your fortune well. Under my roof, in my home,” he said. His breath wafted over her. “At least here you are safe from the inquisitors. They search for those such as you.”

  Her eyes widened at the implied threat.

  “The papermaker’s fragile daughter. Yes, fragile. The white witch.”

  She started at the mention of the phrase the inquisitor had used in his treatise.

  “Safety comes at a price, my dear.”

  Auda’s heart quickened. What did this man want, this powerful, dangerous man, who could suffocate her life on a whim?

  “You are so unlike the others. Any other.” He leaned in. “A starling poised for full flight. Any other born like you might have withered. But you, you thrive.”

  His thigh brushed against hers and she shivered, jerking back. What did he want? A quick tumble with a white witch? Unlikely, for this man. He could have a virgin every night, if that was his taste.

  Their eyes connected and he stretched out a single finger to caress her neck. Her cheeks burned again.

  “You are beautiful, I don’t suppose you know. Has anyone ever told you, little bird?”

  She trembled.

  “Such a puzzle, the voiceless daughter of a man who works a trade of letters and words.” He dropped his hand. “Yes, the pope himself would be pleased to know of one such as you. Such favor I could curry, delivering you into the care of his favorite inquisitor.”

  Auda shut her eyes, imagining the dark face of a black-robed inquisitor watching her from within the depths of his cowl. He raised his hand, in her mind’s eye, in judgment over her and her father. She whimpered.

  “But I won’t,” the vicomte said.

  Her eyes flew open.

  “Discovery of a witch, even an imagined one, will only bring the inspection of the Church further into town. I will not have my people harassed for the delight of the archbishop. Bide your job and stay out of notice, understand, little bird?”