Auda nodded, pleased she had made her father smile.
Martin jerked his chin toward the table. “Come help me then.”
A pile of rough cloths had been stacked on the ground and she picked one up, smoothing it on the table. On the other side of the room, Martin shook the mould and deckle over the vat until no more water dripped from it. Then, sliding off the deckle, he rolled the matted wet fibers off the screen and unrolled it onto the cloth to absorb any excess water.
He nodded for Auda to hand him the fabric. He placed it on top of a stack of wet pages, each separated by a similar piece of cloth. “Just like normal, eh?” he said, transferring the stack, nearly half his own height, onto a flat wooden board on the floor and placing a similar board on top. He grinned at her. “Tell me, now, how was life in the palace?”
Auda bit her lip, considering. She reached for the tablet hanging on the wall and pressed a few lines into the wax.
Busy. Many people doing varied things.
The palace is like its own city.
Her father nodded. “I’ve heard it’s so.” He leaned his weight into the top board and a few more beads of water ballooned on the side of the stack. When he moved back, the height of the stack had shrunk, maybe by a thumb’s width. It would take him another hour to squeeze the water out, and then he’d peel each page from its cloth and hang it on drying lines.
“Your sister sent word. She wants to see you next Sunday. Meet her at St. Paul’s for your mother’s saint’s day. I reckon you’ve grown enough in these days to get there from the palace by yourself.” His voice was flat. No doubt Poncia was still angry over the miller.
“Your old nurse, Maria, sent word too, that her niece is marrying the same day.”
At month’s end, on Sunday, Auda had promised to go to a wedding with Jaime, probably the same one. Only nobles held weddings for one couple, most people not having the time or luxury of making too large of a fuss over such a common event. Auda would just tell her father she lingered late with Poncia over prayers for their mother. Ashamed already by the lie, she sat at the desk and massaged her fingers.
Martin rummaged through his shelves and brought out a pot with a salve of knapweed. “You made this yourself for me, remember? He rubbed the balm into each of her fingers. “You’ll get used to it in time. Just this morning I had a missive to write for the wooler, Michel. He sends to his cousin to inquire on the trade roads all the way to Paris. Seems the rains have moved north. Whole crops have been ruined. No one can afford his cloth.” He shook his fingers. “His lament went on and on.”
Auda snorted, and her father shared the other bits of gossip he’d gleaned from scribing. Most of it was useless, family matters of who had been born, who had died, who had inherited what. Martin saved the worst news for last.
“I read one letter yesterday,” he said, “from an uncle to his nephew, who hopes to join the abbey as a novice. Seems they’ve been having problems at home, in Albi and Toulouse.
“Heretics and burnings.” His voice grew grim. “The people have started rioting, and the churchmen hide in their houses of God.”
“The inquisitor Poncia told us of has released another page on his treatise on heretics and witches. He rides to Carcassonne, it’s said.”
Auda met his fearful look and remembered the vicomte’s caution.
“At least we can be thankful you are safe in the palace.”
Chapter Seventeen
Auda returned to the palace the next morning, pausing at the bridge to stare at the river. Swollen with the spate of rains and runoff from melted snow, the Aude looked like it might well overflow. Unlike the gray hue it bore all winter under an overcast sky, now the river surged brown and white, bearing sticks and rocks and bramble to the sea. She hurried past the cool breeze that wafted from its surface and tried not to think of the power of the rushing water.
When she arrived at the lady’s study, Auda found the entire table covered with documents. Two wooden boxes holding rolls and books were stacked along the wall. She waited for the vicomtesse to arrive, but after a few minutes alone couldn’t resist the temptation to rummage through the pile. All manners of documents had been collected here, from faded letters to dense contracts, liturgical writings, even some verse. Some were written in Occitan, which she knew well, others in Latin, which was harder to understand.
The rolls of parchment showed signs of disrepair. They had been stored badly, some torn and damaged by insect bites. A few had been repaired, but most would only get worse with time. Some even showed water damage, were left discolored, brittle, and wrinkled with blurred writing that Auda could barely read.
She fingered the edge of a book. The Church objected to the fragility of paper, yet parchment stored without care could disintegrate just as easily.
The vicomtesse walked into the room, her steps brisk. “I kept the letters you copied for me on paper out in the sun for a week,” she said without greeting. “Several days of full sunlight, and the material has neither bleached nor the ink faded.” She tapped her cheek with one finger. “It seems your father was right about the potential of this paper he makes. At least, it will be good enough for what I need.”
Auda nodded, eager, and the lady continued.
“I found these writings in an old storage hall. Some hail from the time of Lady Ermengarde. Verse and scripts, those are the real gems, I’m certain.”
Auda gazed at the lady, astonished. The Lady Ermengarde, a vicomtesse from two centuries ago, had been a strong patron of music, calling troubadours and jongleurs from all over the county to perform for her. Auda had read of her in a book that Tomas had wanted copied for a Narbonnaise noble. She hadn’t imagined documents from those times could survive to this day.
“I want you to start copying these, on your father’s paper. These documents are to go into the scriptorium, when it’s time, but I want my own copies. Much of Narbonne’s history is recorded here.” Her gaze was thoughtful.
Auda bowed, trying to quell her excitement. Where would she begin?
“There are scores more crates to sort,” the lady said. “I’ll have my manservant bring them up.”
Left alone again, Auda resumed her survey of the writings. It would take years just to copy these documents, much less the additional boxes the vicomtesse promised. Surely the lady would be happier if Auda scribed the more interesting documents first—perhaps the verses from Lady Ermengarde’s time. She unrolled a few scrolls and read their contents. It was all written in some formal language, words she couldn’t fully understand. Still she could tell, from the style of each document, whether the writing spoke of business, with numbers and lists, or were matters of correspondence. Some bore denser writing, with a few words she recognized: love, sadness, beauty.
She sorted the parchment into four piles: lists of numbers, like some sort of accounts; court documents; documents bearing the seal of a cross or other Church sign; and everything else, whose purpose seemed less clear.
It took her several days to organize the first of the dozen boxes that accumulated in the drawing room. She requested twine and a long length of oilcloth, which she cut into pieces to fit each manuscript. After she cleaned each roll or book, she wrapped the document in the cloth and bound it, hoping to save it from further harm. The lady surely would not mind if she took pains to salvage what documents she could.
Once the sorting was done, she pushed aside the court writings, religious texts, and the lists of numbers, and concentrated on the fourth group: those rolls of text whose provenance she wasn’t fully certain of.
She picked up the first one. It seemed to be some sort of verse written by one Bernart de Ventadorn. The words took time to puzzle out, but they bore a certain rhythm that made them easier to decipher.
Domna, I ask for nothing
But the chance to be your good servant
And to serve my love as lowly lord
Please relieve me of this torment.
She raised her eyebrows, intrigue
d by the song. She’d heard verse like this set to song in the market. Narbonne had once supported an abundance of music, minstrels, and jongleurs with their colorful, bawdy tunes alongside the more lyrical troubadours, whose poems succored both heart and head.
Not anymore; the era of the troubadours had passed, a book she’d borrowed from Tomas had said. Fearful of the Inquisition’s fires that spread throughout Occitania, the poets had taken their witty lyrics to safer havens. Their memory still persisted, though, along with snippets of their verse sung in the market. But never had Auda seen such words captured in writing.
She read the verse again. Did people truly speak like this, men of high station wooing their ladies? Had Jehan murmured such promises to her sister? Surely the vicomte hadn’t to his lady. She could well imagine the artist Jaime saying this to someone. Maybe even to her.
Auda put the verse aside and looked for other similar documents. Soon she had collected a small pile, each a vaunted tribute to the virtues of courtly love. Affection seemed to blossom most often between a highborn lady and a commoner, an impossible love made all the more noble for its implausibility. The love was a sensual one, somewhere between lust and chastity, a spirit that could move the body, give purpose to a life that otherwise seemed lusterless.
She read through them again and again, excited. Such tales of pure love enchanted her, so few in her world were lucky to find it. What a fine thing it would be to share this discovery with someone, but whom? Her father? Sister? She thought of Jaime and blushed.
The second week passed, each day a blur. Auda looked forward to her work when she awoke, spending sunrise to sunset among the words of strangers. During the day, she took care to start copying the official documents on paper, beginning with the court documents, whose words she did not understand. At night, she smuggled the verse to her room and made copies for herself on scraps of wrinkled paper she’d brought with her from home. Her mind ran through the fanciful words that showed how a man spoke to his lover, how his lover spoke back to him.
My love, happiness is the world’s nature
When two friends are brought together
In grief and in joy, they share
Whatever they felt with one ’nother.
Was this what she would say if she could speak to Jaime? The thought made her heart quicken.
By the end of the week, Auda had amassed a small stack of copies to show the vicomtesse. The lady looked through the piles she had sorted, nodding until she came to the last one—containing the verses.
Auda stood before her, arms clasped behind her back so the lady wouldn’t see her tremble.
“I am frankly surprised,” the lady said. “I had not expected this. I had thought you’d copy half a dozen documents, maybe more if you were motivated. But this, you’ve surpassed my expectations. You’ve found the very treasures of Narbonne’s history—her music.”
Auda flushed, aware that the lady’s words were a mixture of praise and suspicion. She wrote on her wax tablet, looking the lady in the eyes.
Beautiful words. Beautiful rhythm.
The vicomtesse nodded. “Yes, that is so. You are a clever one.” She tapped her chin. “Continue as you have. But leave these to me.” She swept up the pile of verses.
Auda was glad she’d made her own copies. Would the vicomtesse be as enthralled with the verses as she was?
“Aha,” a baritone voice cut in. “I’ve found you.”
Auda swiveled at the sound of footsteps entering the hall, watching as the vicomtesse glided over to her husband.
“You’ve returned sooner than I expected,” she said, dipping her body in a graceful curtsy. “I thought you were holding court.”
The vicomte gave her a sardonic smile. “Again, we veered off into discussions on the Church. The inquisitor in Toulouse released more of his manuscript, rails against the Good Men again. He travels back to Carcassonne this month.”
Auda swallowed. So her father had been right! She wished she could slip out, uncomfortable so near to this strange lord, but the only path out of the room took her right past him.
“The rest of the world sends ships to discover new lands, builds new devices, learns new things,” he remarked, his voice laced with venom, “and we hover with stingers poised like swords and gad about, condemning our own with these accusations of heresy.” He closed his eyes for a moment and the lines on his pocked face smoothed. “Enough. Tell me what you are doing here. What are you and your ladies hatching?”
“The most fantastic of discoveries within our old records,” she said, looking at Auda with approval. “We’ve made quite the find here.”
Something sparked in the vicomte’s eyes as he turned his attention to Auda.
“And what is this?” the vicomte said, giving her a complicit look. “A child tinier than a bird, ready to fly?”
The lady waved him off. “My scribe. She copies documents for me, the most interesting of lyrics.”
“Ah, I remember this one. A mute girl, no?” the vicomte said. The flatness of his tone was belied by the coy sparkle in his eyes. “A girl who writes? Now that is an oddity.”
The intensity of his gaze made her flush. Auda realized with a start that he desired her. She lowered her face.
The vicomtesse’s eyes narrowed for a moment. “The girl is mute, not deaf. Don’t trouble her,” she sniffed, and turned back to the table to pick up the verses.
While his wife looked away, the vicomte moved closer to Auda, reaching out to stroke her left cheek. She shivered, his touch demanding—but as a lover or an accuser, she wasn’t sure.
The lady turned back to them. “Return to your work, girl,” she said. “We’ll discuss this later.”
Auda bowed, her mind reeling with relief and confusion. She heard the vicomte’s whisper behind her: “I look forward to it.”
Chapter Eighteen
The next morning, Auda left early to meet her sister at the Basilica of St. Paul-Serge. She had slept poorly, dreaming of the handsome artist she was to meet, and the vicomte whom she wished she could get away from. But today was their mother’s saint day, and the girls always went to the church at dawn to say their prayers for Elena’s soul. It would be another beautiful day, bright and warm with a light breeze that smelled of the sea and of the promise of summer. Yet on the horizon, near Carcassonne, a thick greasy smoke lingered. What was burning? Surely the grass was not dry enough yet to catch fire.
She walked down the main road from city to bourg, past hungover revelers and early-bird merchants. The church looked dark and abandoned this morning. People attended sermons less often in the summer, when the fair and the harvest took most of their attention. The priests constantly threatened hellfire and damnation to anyone avoiding the Lord’s words, but few paid attention these days.
Auda made a hasty genuflection at the font and hurried toward her sister, who was already perched on her knees in the nave. Poncia didn’t open her eyes when Auda knelt beside her.
The floors of the church, made of stone quarried from nearby mountains, felt cold under Auda’s flesh. She struggled to suppress the image of the bones beneath them, ancient priests interred in their dark crypts.
“Amen,” Poncia murmured, opening her eyes. “You’re late.”
Auda lowered her head in apology. Poncia, as always, had bought masses for their mother.
“This time I bought double the prayers,” her sister said without preamble. “Not just for Maman, but for the wretched souls still awaiting judgment by the inquisitor. May God forgive them and move them to repent.” Poncia swallowed. “May He also hear our piety.”
Auda glanced up at her sister. Who?
Poncia looked at her in sad surprise. “Surely you heard. They’re burning heretics in Carcassonne.”
Auda swallowed her nausea. So that was the smoke she had seen. The inquisitors had come back. She shuddered, wondering how the condemned prisoners felt as they burned. Could they smell the stench of their own hair and flesh melted by the
flames? Did their eyes water, their screams echo? Such terrible pains that humans could devise for each other, and some would still say it was a mercy compared to the wrath of God. Auda didn’t know what to believe.
She shivered, frigid in this basilica. The priest, a young man she didn’t know, walked down the aisle with a gold ciborium covered in pristine white silk, followed by an acolyte bearing a vessel puffing incense. Auda twisted her head so the spicy smoke wouldn’t settle upon her, holding her breath as the white swirls rose up. The soul of Christ was now mixed with those names heralded in the masses. How could God countenance the burning of His people? Surely not all were lost souls?
Poncia grasped her arm, and Auda inhaled an inadvertent breath of the passing incense. She struggled to cough the smoke out. Eyes raised in alarm, she begged forgiveness of the souls whose essence she’d trapped.
Poncia’s tone grew light. “I tried the recipe for a hot ale posset last night,” she said. It was a draught their nurse Na Maria had made when Poncia was younger and her monthly period came irregularly, if at all.
“Guards against the suffocation of your womb,” Na Maria had said to a blushing Poncia while Auda looked on with interest.
Her sister caressed her stomach. “You will have to tell me about that physicking book you made for me. It says lady’s mantle is good for getting child, but I don’t know how it’s to be prepared. I’ve ordered two sacks, to arrive on the next boat.”
Auda wrinkled her nose. The sermon would surely come now; Poncia had never been one to hide her emotions.
“You give good advice in that book, easy recipes you’ve written out with clarity. You should spend more time with that, maybe make draughts for those who can’t afford a proper physician. Perhaps the vicomtesse can advise you. It’s a proper trade for a woman, and steady work.”
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