“Please, please, it was you who opened your house to me,” the old priest said. “Truly I am fortunate to warm my creaking bones by your hearth. Come, sit.”
Poncia blushed. “It’s only a simple meal I’ve had prepared, fish, bread, and wine.”
“A meal fit for the Lord,” the archbishop said. “Though a bit of that wine would not be amiss now.”
“I’ll see to it,” Jehan said with a bow.
“And I’ll check on the meal,” Poncia added, following her husband.
As they left, the archbishop looked at Martin, seated across from him at the table. Trying to keep her face in the shadows, Auda stared at the two men in profile. Even dressed as a simple priest, the archbishop wore his piety like a rich mantle. Martin bowed his head, as though he were, in fact, some sort of penitent.
“You would be Poncia’s father then,” the archbishop said in an amiable tone. “She has spoken much of you.”
“I’d not thought that an archbishop would have time to minister at the houses of his flock,” Martin said. He met the archbishop’s soft blue eyes for a moment, then added, “Your Excellency.”
“It’s true,” the archbishop said, “normally the schedule of my office duties and prayers would not leave me time for this. But I have known Poncia since she was a child.” His voice warmed. “I was her confessor once, at Maguelone.”
“You were at Maguelone?” Martin repeated, his voice choked. Maguelone, Auda recognized, had been Elena’s favored retreat. Poncia talked about it often.
The archbishop templed his fingers. “Before my time at Rouen. Yet even after they gave me the Holy See, I visited the place. It’s truly a garden of God’s own making.” He nodded at Martin. “Poncia bears her mother’s look about her, as if God Himself created her as her mother’s own twin.”
Martin only swallowed.
The archbishop turned to Auda. “And I knew your mother when she was pregnant with you.”
Auda looked up into the archbishop’s wrinkled face. This man was a stranger to her, yet he knew her mother—not just the young wife, but the mother she’d been to Poncia. And to her. What little things did he remember about her, things that were too painful for her father and sister to share? The thought tugged at her.
“She tended the gardens then, a simple life under God’s peace. I always expected her to bring you back for a blessing, and was saddened when she did not. I am heartened to see her babe survived.” His eyes flitted to the soft cap that covered her hair, then to her pale eyes.
Despite herself, Auda tilted her face toward the lilting of his voice. He spoke with a certain familiarity, his melodious words soothing the fear in her chest. Perhaps Poncia had been wise to trust this man. Anyone their mother had trusted could not be bad.
Her sister arrived at the doorway, carrying a candle with one hand and a large jug with the other. Approaching the table, she poured red wine into each of the wooden cups.
The archbishop nodded at her. “We were just speaking of the luck I have in being able to tend to good Christians as if I were but a parish priest.” He laughed.
Poncia smiled and sat next to the archbishop, across from her sister. “The luck is ours. Had you not noticed me attending your sermon and remembered my face as Maman’s…” She turned a soft smile upon their father. “I wanted to wait for an opportune moment to share such a fine discovery.” Reaching for his hand, she squeezed his fingers, and Auda bit back a pang of jealousy at the memory they shared of Elena.
“It is God’s grace I see in this,” the archbishop said, watching Auda. “Who can help but be humbled before His magnificence?”
Bending her head, Auda braced for some words of sarcasm from her father. But none came, and when she glanced at him in her periphery, he seemed struck silent, gazing at Poncia.
The biting words, in fact, came from Jehan. “It is hard to master humility when the whole of town is burdened with taxes for new fortifications, new shops, even a new church.”
“Jehan!” Poncia shook her head. “Your Excellency, I must apologize—”
“No, no,” the archbishop said, holding up a hand.
“It’s no church but a cathedral,” Poncia said to her husband. “And the taxes are our duty.”
“Say that to those dying of starvation even as Narbonne grows in prosperity,” Jehan said, leaning both elbows on the table. “Ten more crushed last week under the crowds seeking alms at the gates of Fontfroide.”
Poncia’s eyes went wide. Auda turned a curious gaze on her brother-in-law.
“The bread for the poor has increased in number,” the archbishop said, still smiling, “and though the cathedral was started under my predecessor’s rule, still I say it is a shining star for Narbonne. Consider, if in the world of men, only the simpleminded take notice of half measures and lowly efforts, then how much grander it has to be to catch the gaze of the Lord?”
“A house such as has never been seen, where all the children of God can raise their voices in prayer.” Martin’s words were soft.
Poncia swiveled at the sound of her father’s voice, tears suddenly gathering in her eyes to match his. “Mother used to say that about Maguelone. I remember.”
Auda only stared at her father and sister, trying to push back another surge of jealousy. Why had they never talked about all of this, told her stories about her mother? The subject had always been discouraged at home, yet here they were, admitting a stranger into their quiet grief.
The archbishop sipped his wine. “Tell me, have you heard the story of the pelican’s sacrifice?”
At Auda’s sharp look, the archbishop turned his gaze on her.
“Her large beak, you see, is suited for gathering fish. In times of plentitude, her young feed well off fish collected fresh from the sea. But in times of leanness, the pelican pierces her own chest to feed her blood to her younglings. Even though it kills her, the pelican is happy to do this, just as our Lord Christ is happy to nourish us when none else can or will. So much like your own mother’s sacrifice.”
She swallowed against the lump in her throat. What did he mean, her mother’s sacrifice?
Martin had always said her mother favored the pelican. Had she heard its story from this very man? What was her sacrifice?
“Jehan coughed. “It will take more than faith to fill starving bellies. This is where the heretics find their power. What sacrifice does the Church make, they ask, to nurture the souls of Her children?”
Auda widened her eyes, just as Poncia narrowed hers upon her husband. How did Jehan know all this? And to say it aloud so brazenly!
The archbishop fixed a stern stare upon Jehan. “I know of what they say.”
“Everyone knows,” Poncia agreed. “Their insidious words penetrate the market.”
The archbishop spoke in a milder tone. “Yes, there are a few who labor to bring ruin to all. But we shall find them, and those who would support them. We will care for their souls. After all, by persuasion, not by violence, is faith to be won.” The archbishop sipped from his cup slowly. “Be on guard against them. Even the ones who’ve repented and wear a cross to warn off all others may yet try to seduce you with their lies.”
Auda blinked, drawing together disjointed fragments of her memory. Those men she’d seen speaking with Jehan in his house some time ago—they’d not been priests at all, but heretics! The cross the shorter one wore on his cloak was not a symbol of piety, it was the heretic’s cross, a reminder to all that the man who wore it had strayed from God once, and could do so again. Auda closed her eyes. How could she not have realized?
The archbishop focused on Martin. “You are a bookmaker, no?”
“I make paper.”
“For people to write upon.”
Martin nodded under the old man’s emotionless stare. “That is what it’s for.”
“But what they write—” Poncia said, stopping as Auda shot her a glare. Behind her, Jehan shifted. Auda willed her father to answer with care.
“C
an be for good or evil, as the writer intends,” Martin said without looking at her.
“Yes, that is so,” the archbishop said, folding his hands on the table. “Even more reason why we must be on guard against false prophets, men who claim to know the word of God, to have read the word of God. If a man hears an evil idea, unless his mind is bent toward evil, he will not dwell on it, will forget it before long. But if that same idea is written, he will be drawn back to it, again and again. Evil has a temptation and man is bent toward it. It is born in him with his soul, writhes in ugliness against the light of God’s word. In any case, I have heard there are heretics who look for cheap means of spreading their word, that they look for men to make them paper.”
Martin spoke in a neutral voice, his face betraying no emotion. “Of course the heretics do. They look to whomever they can to spread their lies. I’ve heard they consort with jongleurs and town criers too.”
The archbishop nodded. “Then you’ve not been approached by any such as these?”
“No,” Martin answered.
“And if you were?”
Martin did not blink. “I would turn him away.”
The archbishop smiled and nodded at Poncia, who looked relieved. “I am glad to hear it, my son. If one such as this does come your way, be sure you let me know. Tell me, in your trade, do you come across many books?”
Martin nodded. “As expected.”
“Have you read any of the works by St. Thomas Aquinas, or better, by his inspiration, St. Augustine?” He looked into Martin’s face without expression.
Martin did not flinch. “I am no learned man to make sense of such words.”
The archbishop leaned forward, his voice silken. “Then let me educate you on his words. He says, ‘Why should not the Church use force in compelling her lost sons to return, if the lost sons compelled others to their destruction?’ And why not, I agree. For ‘there is no salvation outside the Church.’”
The words hung in the air as servants entered with trays of fish and bread.
“To the beauty of God,” the archbishop intoned at last, gracing each of them with a thin smile. “In God’s eyes we are all beautiful. When we arrive at heaven’s door, we too will share in His vision.” His gaze ended on Auda. “Let us pray.”
He bowed his head, clasping Poncia’s hand on one side and Auda’s on the other. The words he uttered held no meaning for Auda—she had thoughts only for her mother.
Later that night, when they had returned home, she turned to her father.
Mother? she signed. Sacrifice?
Martin shook his head. “He meant nothing by it, I’m sure—”
But this time Auda did not let the question go. Cupping his face with her hands, she forced him to look at her.
At last Martin sighed. “We knew the birth wouldn’t be easy, early when she carried you. There was a risk, the midwife said.” His voice grew rough. “She had to make a choice, to let them cut you out while she still lived, or let both of you die.” He turned eyes gleaming with tears on her. “She made a choice, a sacrifice, for whom and what she loved.”
“You.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Auda sat before the hearth, eyes reddened and swollen with tears. Yet she couldn’t shed a single one.
How could they have kept this from her, father and sister? Her mother had given her life for Auda, and she had never even known. They hadn’t wanted her to bear the guilt, Martin said. Yet what about the burden of not knowing if her mother had ever loved her?
Auda had been saved for a purpose, just like her father had always said. She was not just a girl born badly, cursed, the death of her mother, but a girl her mother had loved, had saved. But for what?
Surely not to be chattel for a man like the miller. Nor to be trapped in a marriage with a man who beat his frustrations out on her. Nor to be cuckolded by her own husband. Auda could do, could imagine, could write so much more than that. She could bring back the poems of love, only her verses would tell a different story. Hers would tell the truth of love.
Her father walked down the stairs, staring at her for a moment. “She loved you,” he said at last. “As I do.” He handed her a sheaf of papers. “I made the first batch of paper with your new watermark. All of my new sheets will bear the mark now.”
The pages looked beautiful, creamy sheets marked by the faintest of imprints. The bridge of Narbonne stared back at her, replete with the tiny M that made this paper her father’s. Hers.
Auda turned teary eyes to her father and hugged him as hard as she could. She felt his own tears hot upon the back of her neck.
She pulled back abruptly. Have to go. She needed to talk to someone—but not her father. She needed to see Jaime.
The artist had told her he lived in a rented room above a certain brothel near the western edge of the extended market. She’d never been to such a place before and felt apprehensive the moment she walked in. The bar was crowded today, full of people who’d wanted a respite before either succumbing to the smoldering embrace of some half-dressed woman or heading back out to join the fair.
Auda threaded her way around sweaty customers trading bawdy jokes, curses, and laughter. A brawl erupted two tables from her, a man kicking back his stool and knocking over a cup of ale. The clay shattered on the ground.
“What’d you say? D’you take me for a lying Churchman?” he said, drawing out a dagger. The crowd roared in raucous encouragement. The other man took a swing.
Auda jumped back, hearing laughter behind her. She hurried up the stairs toward the back, into a dim hallway reeking of urine and ale. Four doors lined one side, three lined the other. The door nearest to Auda opened and a girl dressed in a transparent tan shift emerged. Auda gasped. It was Rubea, Na Maria’s niece.
The brown-haired girl looked just as shocked, though she recovered in a moment. Her full lips opened into a laugh. Patting her ample hips, she ran a hand over her frizzy braid and winked.
“S’ma third week here. You?” The scent of old sex wafted about her.
Auda flushed and dashed past.
“You’ll get used to it,” the girl called out, her laughter mocking.
Desperate to get away, Auda scurried to Jaime’s door, which would be the last one on the right. Luckily, he’d left it cracked open. She pushed inside and slammed it shut behind her. Only a short time as newlyweds. Had Rubea’s husband already left her? Or was this a plan they’d hatched together to earn a little more wealth?
Jaime sat at the end of the small room behind an easel by the open window. He brightened as she entered.
“What are you doing here? Never mind. Have a seat, I’m almost done.” He waved her near.
The room was functional, furnished with a thin straw pallet, a low table, two stools, and an easel. Canvases of all sizes were stacked along the walls, and a bag stuffed with clothes had been shoved in one corner. Pigments lay scattered in boxes and cups on the table, along with bottles of inks and clear liquids.
Auda forced herself to smile back and waved at him to keep working.
“No, I am finished,” he said. Reaching for a multicolored rag, he wiped his charcoal-stained fingers. “It was not a bad day. I sold two drawings of Fontfroide’s mill.” He shrugged. “The man wanted one of the monks, even offered to pay me to paint one in portraiture.” He gave her a dark look.
She made a cross with her fingers and looked pointedly toward his canvas. Not many people had the money to spend on art for their own tastes. Most likely he’d find his customers among the wealthy, those who favored religious subjects and wanted to display piety before God’s suspicious Church.
His frown deepened into a look of disgust. “I know. They come, they look, they tsk, they leave. One man asked me if I’d pay him to sit as model for the Christ. Can you imagine, a dirty wooler as the face of the Lord?”
Auda moved closer. Peering around the side of his canvas, she caught her breath. Like most of his work, this one depicted a simple scene, a series
of hills painted in vibrant shades of green and brown and a tan road snaking through. But in the foreground Jaime had drawn a naked boy lying across the road, his body pale, his lips and fingers a bloodless blue. The boy’s eyes were closed, and his limbs twisted, each in a different direction. A small furrow creased the boy’s brow before deepening down his body into a dark crevice that ended between his legs.
She breathed out. Anger drove this picture, anger and sadness. Jaime wanted to disturb with this scene. It was the first time she’d seen anything like this done by his hand. Who would buy such a cruel depiction, a marker of melancholy and doom?
This hadn’t been drawn for any customer.
Jaime tossed a cloth over the canvas.
“My brother.” He smoothed the fabric with trembling hands. She knew those hands, had grasped and kissed them—his callused palms that smelled of charcoal and paint, his bitten nails, his stiff fingers, curled as if around a brush. She had not expected they could create this.
“It seems in this world, there are things you can control, and things that control you.” His voice was matter-of-fact. “That idiot who wanted me to paint him as Christ—him I could say no to, but this…” His voice wavered as he caressed his painting. “This won’t let go of me.”
Her mind conjured an image of her mother lying eviscerated on the floor. Yes, some things wouldn’t let go of you, no matter what the consequences.
Moving around the easel to face him, she tucked her hand into his. He closed his eyes, face tightening and lips turning down, but didn’t pull away. Silent for a moment, he opened his eyes and with a quick squeeze of her hand, spoke with false interest.
“I’m glad you came to see me today.”
Auda dropped his hand and plaited her fingers, then sat on a stool in front of him.
Jaime reached out to touch her fingers. “Some days are more difficult than others, aren’t they?”
Auda let her head fall so low her chin almost touched her chest. He understood; of course he did, even through the lack of words.
She took a piece of paper from her pouch. It was another verse about his fisherwoman. She had played with it for weeks, but only this morning had the final meaning become clear.
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