Watermark

by Vanitha Sankaran

  Auda nodded, heart still racing.

  The vicomte smiled, a smile that didn’t seem entirely unkind. “You will be safe here. As safe as any of us.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Each day at the palace started well before dawn. The bustle outside Auda’s door came in spurts: first the hurried step of the maidservants off to build the hearths up in the large building, then the cooks’ assistants scrambling to the kitchen to bake the bread needed to feed the palace inhabitants. Just as the bells rang for Matins, the guards would change shift. Auda rose to the measured rhythm of their march in the hallways.

  The privy for the servants was often crowded in the morning, so she made a habit of taking her breakfast in the servants’ kitchen immediately after she dressed. The dress the vicomtesse had arranged for her arrived, a gown of pale linen, the softest thing she had ever worn. It hung loose on her frame, but still she felt grand walking through the hallways with the skirt swishing about her ankles.

  Everyone in the palace was required to attend a morning Mass. The palace priest was a kind man, who spoke in a warm tone and kept the prayers to a minimum. As soon as he rang the bell to dismiss them, Auda headed into the courtyard for her only chance to catch the morning air. The sun was shielded by the large guard tower to the east, so in these early hours she could raise her face to the sky and feel the summer warmth.

  The courtyard bustled with activity. At one end, the smith worked at his massive forge while his apprentices labored beside him to smooth out horseshoes and shape nails. At the other end, the palace laundress washed and hung buckets full of sheets, tablecloths, and towels, forever scolding her troupe of maids in her strident voice.

  “Be quick now! There’s still an army to clothe!”

  Grooms passed by carrying hay into the stables, while maids emptied chamber pots into a gutter that ran into the river.

  Auda felt bewildered among such commotion. Each day, she hurried through the courtyard to the lady’s wing of the palace. With her head down to avoid the crowds, she couldn’t tell if people stared at her.

  The vicomtesse met Auda in the study every morning at the second bell. The lady had Auda compose a lengthy message on her wax tablet, and for the next few days Auda made dozens of copies of the missive to the vicomtesse’s family and friends. It was a plea for help requesting extra rolls of parchment for the new scriptorium. The rains had decimated the cattle and the price of hides had gone up by a full silver. The Church hoarded its own shares of rolls, offering only a fraction for sale and then at twice the regular cost.

  Each night, Auda hurried from the drawing room to her own bed, eyes down, hoping not to be caught by the Lord Vicomte, whose odd interest troubled her. She spent her evenings alone, eschewing the evening prayer when she could, sometimes even supper. Her room became her haven. It was scarcely larger than her own pallet under the loft at home, decorated only by a small wooden crucifix on the wall, but the bed was firm and the blankets clean. By habit, Auda kept her papers, and an extra wax tablet, hidden under the hay.

  Most nights she went to bed thinking about her father, worrying about how he was managing on his own. Or sometimes, as she prepared to sleep, she remembered the artist and his sketches, wondering what he’d thought when he’d made them. She took out her tablet and wrote about his fisherwoman. Though her fingers cramped, unused to writing so much and with such care, she could not help but be moved by memory of his sketch. The eyes of the hideous woman had tales to tell.

  That first week seemed to last an eternity. The morning her father was supposed to take her home, Auda woke before sunrise. She still had a few hours before Martin had planned to meet her. Though he meant for her to wait in the palace, Auda couldn’t resist her first chance to go out in the town alone. With her first wages in her pocket, she had something she wanted to do.

  Auda slipped out of the palace early. The morning air was fresh and new, but activity was already high in the streets. The fair would officially open today, and the roads were crammed with vendors hawking services and performers singing and acting with flamboyant gestures. She turned away from the main grounds, heading instead toward the river. On her first day back home to her father, she wanted to bring him something special.

  She walked toward the eastern end of the river, where a series of docks were anchored to the riverbank and fishmongers were busy offloading their catch for the market day. The river was running high today. People said the hot summer was melting snow in the mountains; they worked hard to build heaps of sand and dirt into an embankment to protect the town. Every year the river seemed to grow higher, but this year the difference was larger than Auda had ever seen.

  What should she buy? she wondered. Eel pie was one of Martin’s favorites. Talk in the palace said all manners of fish were showing up in the nets these days, coming in by boatloads and closer to shore, perhaps on account of the rains.

  Drawing her wimple closer to her face, Auda looked around. Fisherman’s Alley was crowded with long tables heaped with fillets and finless bodies of different colors and flavors, all mingling in a slight rotten stench. Leaning in to inspect one table, Auda just missed being hit across the cheek by the flat side of a large brown fish. Wiping watery drops of brine from her face, she dared to raise her head and glare at him.

  “Out of the way then!” he yelled at her, not even looking at her.

  She shook her fist at him and turned to another table. Across the way, one vendor was speaking to a group of potential customers. “This here’s a fish from far north. Very, very popular in England, most ’specially at court. Herring—the white ones are salted, the red ones cured. Strong fish with a strong taste.”

  Another merchant creaked his cart past them. “Barbels and mullets for Fish Day!”

  Still another vendor sold sea eel, corb, and rockfish, followed by one selling whiting and porpoise. “Pudding of porpoise,” he was saying to his customers. “Take his blood and grease, mix into oatmeal with salt and pepper, ginger if y’have it. Gut ’im and stuff ’im full of it, then boil a good while. Lay him on the fire, if ye’ve a quick hand. Till he blisters, no more. Cut him to the plate with onions and verjuice. Mmmmm.” He held up a generous cut.

  Finally Auda made her pick, and the merchant wrapped the fish in oilcloth. Her father would be pleased. One errand done—another to go.

  Leaving the fish market behind, she walked across to the far side of the market: the artisan’s corner. She passed covered stalls stacked with helmets and swords brought back from the never-ending war with the Moslems, tables heaped with handwoven rugs and tapestries, and scores of stacked candle lamps. Finally, she caught sight of what she was looking for.

  Drawing up her courage, she pushed back the drape of her wimple and entered a cramped tent filled with drawings and paintings. Sketches of fisher folk and peasants were stacked alongside bright paintings of angelic Madonnas.

  “Come in, domna. Take a good look, enjoy what you see, and leave with what you like.”

  She turned toward the drawling voice, surprised to see a thin, grease-spotted man standing in the corner, watching her. He bit into a half-eaten chicken leg, his gaze roving over her clean dress and new round-toed shoes. He drew back when he saw her face. Fear flitted in his eyes before they filmed over in pretended boredom.

  “Frightful one, aren’t you?” he shrugged, wiping his fingers on his blue doublet. “Well, if you can pay, I can sell. Looking for something special?”

  She looked around. Where was the painter Jaime?

  The stranger took another bite. “Look well then. I’ve sold portraitures to the consuls’ families themselves. I’ve a great selection of ready-made works as well, from our own churches in Narbonne to a lovely one of our Mother Mary in the Holy Papal City.” He chuckled. “Whichever city you like.”

  “Mmmm,” she managed, ignoring the tired barb at their French pope. Conscious of the man’s eyes upon her, she made a show of looking through the paintings. Even among walls of bright scenes f
eaturing angels and saints, she could tell which had been painted by her artist. He tended to add minor details—a smile lurking at the corner of a shepherd’s mouth, or the reflection of a blooming flower in a cherub’s eye, like prizes for the discerning viewer. But what truly interested her were his sketches of commoners. In the tent, he’d displayed only two, of children playing in the mud.

  “Ugly pieces, no?” the man remarked, coming up behind her. “They’re not mine, thanks be to God. My partner does them. I can’t figure on why the man picks sour women and dirty children to draw.” The man laughed, spreading his arms wide. “If we wanted to see the ugliness in the world, I say just look around.” His gaze lingered on her, before he continued. “Strange man with strange tastes. It was his idea to share the stall. Said there wasn’t a point to paying twice for the same lousy bit of market.” He picked at his scraggly brown beard. “Only thing he’s been right about so far.”

  She walked past a series of paintings depicting Christ in the manger and nodded toward the empty stool by the drawings.

  “Oh, you’re looking for him?” Now the painter smirked. “Who knows where he is? Maybe the church. Maybe the privy. Maybe the room he’s rented in the whorehouse. You know, drink a little ale, rub a little skin, find his inspiration.” He leered. “So no manger fresco for you then, domna?”

  Auda fidgeted, drawing the hanging cloth of her wimple back over her face. It had been a mistake to come, and now she only wanted to get away from this coarse man. She nodded farewell and turned, bumping straight into Jaime.

  He wore the same short black tunic with the patched brown trousers, and the same crooked smile. His leanness brought out the darkness in his high cheekbones, the sleepy circles under his dark eyes.

  “You’ve come,” was all he said.

  The sound of his voice thrilled her.

  The painter, seated in his corner, took another bite of his chicken and watched. With a frown in his direction, Jaime took Auda by the arm and escorted her out of the stall.

  “Follow me,” he said, leading her alongside a procession of goats and children into the main square. He paused near a shuttered shop along the crowded Via Domitia. Carts rattled past them, one close after another.

  Auda cast her eyes down, the sun’s brightness bleeding through her wimple. Her mouth went dry.

  “I was hoping to see you again,” he admitted, his voice warm and low. “I went back to the spice stall the day after we met.”

  Auda shook her head, as though unable to believe him, and he laughed.

  “I went there every morning for five days straight. I finally found the courage to ask about you, but they would tell me nothing.” He bowed. “So it is my good fortune that you found me.”

  Nodding, she rubbed her damp palms against her dress. She’d planned this meeting in her head, but now that she was here she remembered nothing. She fingered the folded sheet of paper in her belt pouch. Looking up into his encouraging smile, she pulled the paper out and offered it to him.

  His eyebrows arched in surprise. Taking the page, he unwrapped it and read aloud.

  Down at the docks, not far from here,

  There toils a tired fisherwoman,

  Who, dawn to dusk, sits a stool

  In her poor husband’s home.

  Clutching cleaver to his lean catch

  She chop-chop-chops meat from bone,

  And remembers memories of old

  When both were so much in love.

  His flow’rs, now dead flow’rs, saved and dried

  Hang the wall near wooden Cross,

  Sad tokens of a life once lived,

  Sad tokens of a life once loved.

  “This warn’t the life I wanted!

  This warn’t the life he promised.!”

  She screams and cuts, screams and then cuts,

  Her curses screech out like a song.

  She takes up her once-prized cleaver

  Tosses it down and stomps it dead.

  “I shan’t cut me no fish no more,”

  She says, and goes to lie in her bed.

  “O Wife! Come close!” her husband cries.

  “Behold this Bounty we’re given.!”

  She sees him with two bags a’full,

  Two more on the dock are wrigglin’.

  “Thanks, all our thanks, O Lord,” he weeps.

  She kneels and weeps ’longside too.

  Not for him, his fish, or their life

  But for her dead dented blade.

  Her poor dead dented blade.

  His voice trailed off at the last.

  Auda bit her lip, watching him for a further reaction. Drops of sweat collected at her neck. She’d spent her evenings agonizing over the verse. Had she missed something in the rhythm? Should she have included another detail? Discarded bits of verse ran through her mind. He hadn’t said a word yet, was still staring at the page. She should never have given it to him.

  At last Jaime looked up, blinking. “You move me with your work. You give life to my lady.” Not disdain at all in his voice, but appreciation.

  A smile tugged at the corners of her lips. She grinned, giddy, as if she had just traded a naughty joke with her sister.

  He drew closer, as if to embrace her, and lowered his head to hers. She swallowed, unable to breathe as his lips came near to hers. What was she to do? Could she kiss a man without her tongue?

  Jaime stiffened, his gaze suddenly unsure, and dropped his arms. In that moment, Auda glimpsed the blue sky and the sun-dappled pattern on his cheeks. She smelled the dust from the nearby bustle, the warmth of nearby pastry shops, the honest fragrance of wildflowers and fresh fruit above the warm scent of garlic pork lingering on the artist’s lips. What was the purpose of life if not to grab at beautiful moments like this?

  She brought her hands to his neck, pulling him back until their lips connected. For a moment, she felt nothing at all except the happiness that lifted her lips and spread inside her. It would never have been like this with the miller.

  After a moment, the artist pulled back and held her at arm’s length. “I have a wedding to attend at month’s end. Please tell me you’ll be my companion?”

  Without a moment of hesitation, she nodded, and kissed the artist once more.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Auda barely made it back to the gate of the palace in time to meet her father. He was already walking up the road, looking for her, when she ran forward to greet him.

  Martin’s face split into a smile. “Auda! You look well, quite well!” He drew her into an embrace. “Come, tell me about your week while we walk home.”

  She nodded, smiling back, and passed him her basket to free up her hands. Good week. Miming the motion of writing, she spread her hands wide. Many letters.

  “Personal or matters of court?”

  Both. Hiding the blush that crept up her neck as she thought of her own personal matter with the artist, she told him about the progress on the scriptorium, the shortage in parchment, and the letters the lady sent to all of her relatives and former ladies-in-waiting, asking them to send what rolls they could.

  “At least she keeps copies of her letters on our paper,” her father said. “It’s a start.”

  Auda nodded and flexed her hand against the cramping from her scribe work. Again she thought of Jaime, his pleasure over the verse she’d written for him. The blush returned.

  Martin didn’t seem to notice. “Yes, scribing does take a toll.” He held up his right hand, showing her how his fingers had swelled from years of work. “We’ll get you a salve for that.”

  They walked in silence the rest of the way, Auda sneaking glances into the bright daylight to look around. Everything seemed sharper, brighter, suffused with color compared to the gray stone of the palace, even to her weak eyes. Was this the filter of love, as one song she’d heard put it?

  Martin nudged her as they approached their house. “Go see to the animals. I’ll be in the studio.”

  Happy to be alon
e with her joy, Auda fed the chickens and the goats, taking eggs from one, milking the other. From the yard, she could see smoke piping into white curls from their chimney. The only time her father grew the hearth to full strength in the summer was when he was drying paper. Auda smiled as she pushed through the kitchen door.

  She breathed in, taking in the sweet smell of thyme. Martin always threw a fresh bouquet of the herb on the flames when he set his papers to dry. Her mother used to do that, he’d told her, to mask the soggy odor that permeated the house. Ever since, Auda had associated the delicate fragrance with Elena.

  In the week that had passed, Martin had rearranged his studio to better suit the needs of one person. The desk had been pushed aside, replaced by a table where he kept all the tools he needed at a moment’s notice. Auda sighed, saddened for a moment, and took the wrapped fish from her basket. Without her there to help him, the workshop was already in disarray.

  From the doorway, she watched her father work. Dipping his mould horizontally into the pulp, Martin steadied his hand, letting the light from an overhead torch cast a shadow of the mould on the liquid’s surface. When he pulled it again, equally level, the screen of the mould was covered with wet fibers. He reached to his side with one hand and felt for the deckle, which he slipped on top of the mould, and gave the set a shake to help the fibers felt and intermingle.

  Auda thought of the watermark she’d designed for him, suddenly impatient for the gift to be ready. She felt suffused with love and wanted to share it with the whole world, in thought, in action, and most importantly, in verse.

  Instead, she brought the cut of porpoise to him.

  Martin looked up and smiled.

  “What is this?” He unwrapped the oilcloth and beamed in pleasure. “Ah, it’s been so long since I’ve had a bite of fish. You do me well, girl! I’ve this last batch to make for Shmuel. We’ll stop after this set for the night to enjoy this bounty, and tomorrow I’ll get started on the order for the folios. The vicomtesse received her two extra reams?”