Watermark

by Vanitha Sankaran

  “Who’s next?”

  “The fool of a papermaker.”

  “Oc, of course!”

  The wine seller and the milk woman headed the crowd, followed by the old lady who stopped twice monthly to see if there was washing to be done. The family duMartier who lived on the other side of the hill had also come, anxiety etched on the faces of both husband and wife.

  “Ba-pa,” she cried again.

  Martin gasped at the black-robed inquisitor who headed the crowd. Eyes flinty, he pulled Auda back into the house, wrenching the door shut behind them. He dragged her into the kitchen. “Remember what we told you, remember how we planned. The time is now.”

  He pushed away the large earthenware pot that stood in front of the hiding place Martin had built into the house. He pulled out two slats that led to a crawl space in the wall. It had been meant for Auda as a child, in case she was in danger and alone. The spot was barely big enough for one adult, no chance for two.

  “N-no,” Auda cried out.

  She pushed against him but he was too strong. He carried her up in his arms as if she were a babe and fit her into the small space. His breath caressed her cheek. “Stay quiet. Stay safe.” He gave her a gentle shove and replaced the slats, then slid the pot back into place.

  Auda sobbed in silence. Through a small crack in the slat, she saw her father open the door.

  The inquisitor marched inside. He was a tall man with blond hair and a stern face, wearing a black cappa over his white habit. The white cross emblazoned on his dark cloak was stark. Four red-and-blue-garbed church guards followed him as he entered the house, while the rest of the crowd remained outside.

  “Who here is the man Martin du papier d’Espagne?” the inquisitor began in an elegiac tone as his bright brown eyes roved around the house.

  Martin stepped forward. “I am.”

  The inquisitor pulled a parchment roll from his belt and cracked the red seal. “You are accused of consorting with heretics. I have a writ to bring you in for questioning, commissioned by His Eminence, Bernard de Farges, Archbishop of Narbonne.” Waving the roll near Martin, he nodded at the guards. “Bind the prisoner.”

  No! Auda sucked in her breath. They couldn’t take him. It was she they should be after, not Papa. He knew nothing about what he was accused of doing. Unlike her.

  Martin submitted to a guard who bound his hands behind his back.

  “Heretic!” someone outside yelled.

  Tears streamed down Auda’s face. Martin looked in her direction, his fingers moving at his side. For the first time, he used her own sign language to talk to her. Sister. Go.

  And then he was gone.

  Chapter Thirty

  Auda huddled into herself, limbs folded and cramped, and cried. She pushed against the slats that kept her hidden, but the large pot of beer blocking the exit was too heavy for her to move. Where were they taking her father? What would they do to him? She had to help him.

  She hit her shoulder against the slats, again and again, but it was no use. The pot would not budge. Through the uneven pieces of wood, she saw someone entering the house. Jaime! He was frantic, searching for her.

  “Aaaah!” she cried out as loud as she could.

  He swiveled around and cocked his head. She yelled again, and another time, until he found her. He shoved aside the pot with ease and yanked at the slats.

  “Auda,” he cried in relief, and, cradling her in his arms, lifted her out.

  “Ba-pa,” she said, not caring what she sounded like.

  He pressed his lips to her head. “I know. Word’s all over the market about your father. I didn’t stop to think, I was so worried about you. Damn self-righteous priests.”

  But she had no patience for his hatred of the Church today. She struggled against his chest.

  “Best to go to your sister,” Jaime said. He put her down but kept his hand on her shoulder. “She can keep vigil with you, and her husband may have resources we can use. Or you’ll have to take refuge in the palace. Maybe the best thing to do would be to just leave town, at least till we know they’re not coming after you too.”

  “N-no,” she said in her thick voice, struggling to push the sound out. She would not leave her father. And she had to send a message to Poncia, make her return home.

  Jaime nodded.

  They headed into the city together using the side roads. Jaime stayed by her side, shielding her from the occasional glance of others on the street, until they reached her sister’s house.

  Auda pounded on the door, and a young boy answered, peering through the open doorway with guarded eyes. Auda wedged her foot in the crack of the door.

  “She wants her sister, the lady Poncia,” Jaime said. “The lady of the house. We’ve a message for her.”

  “Ain’t here,” the boy said and tried to close the door again. Jaime slapped his hand against it.

  “Your master then.”

  The boy shifted. “He’s away s’well, gone off with hims parents to the country. There ain’t none to see you.” He glared at Jaime.

  The artist removed his hand from the door. “We need to get a message to them.” He rummaged in his belt pouch and drew out a piece of charcoal. The boy looked at Auda’s foot, but she refused to move it, even as she retrieved a wad of paper remnants from her bodice. Holding the pages against the stone wall of the house, Jaime scribbled out two messages.

  “Here,” he said, handing the folded notes to the boy. “Send one to your master, the other to your mistress.” He pulled out two deniers from his purse. “This is the first half for the messengering,” he said, dropping the coins in the boy’s expectant hand. “Return to me when the deliveries are complete and you’ll get the rest. Ask for Jaime the artist, in the Old Market.”

  The boy nodded eagerly.

  Auda removed her foot as the door slammed shut. She looked at Jaime with tear-filled eyes. Father. She hiccupped over a sob.

  “We’ll do what we can,” he said, gathering her close to him.

  What now? Why hadn’t she ever taught him her signs?

  Jaime stared at her hands and heaved out a sigh. “I don’t know what you want to do, Auda. It’s not safe to be out. Not for you.”

  She gestured toward the city center. Father, go see. She had to know what was happening to him.

  Jaime looked in the direction she was pointing. “No, no.” He shook his head. “We don’t even know who has him, where he’s being held, except that a Jacobin guards him. We need more news.” He held up a hand. “I promise, I’ll go myself to find out what I can, when I know you’re safe.”

  Auda clenched her jaw and nodded, letting Jaime escort her back to his room through the outskirts of town. “Lock the door,” he said when she was inside. “Stay away from the window and don’t open the door for anyone but me.”

  Auda paced in the growing darkness, neither lighting a torch nor venturing near the window. Unfamiliar sounds made her start at every turn: the crack of a floorboard, a laugh, a whisper in the hallway. Jaime returned after what felt like hours.

  What?

  He faced her without blinking. “Your father’s in the archbishop’s care. He’s been arrested for selling to heretics. They have proof he knows their words. I think they mean to make an example of him.”

  Proof, what proof? Auda’s body crumpled. It was no less than she’d expected. But what evidence had they against him? So he sold folios to some man—they were blank! The heretic’s tract, if they had it, was troublesome, but she could explain. If only Poncia were here to talk to the archbishop. They could tell him about the strange customer, search for him instead.

  “It will be best for you if you return to the palace,” Jaime said.

  She shook her head but he held out his hand. “I’ll escort you myself. But first, you must eat.”

  Closing the door behind him, he went downstairs to the bar, returning with two cups of wine and a slab of brown bread with cheese.

  Yet Auda couldn’t manage a s
ingle morsel. The very smell of the wine nauseated her. After Jaime ate, she lay on his pallet and closed her eyes, inviting the tired fog that tugged at her thoughts take over her mind. When she awoke, the evening had already grown into night.

  Jaime was sleeping, slumped in the small chair by the window, his chest rising and falling in slow rhythm, his breath a gentle wheeze. Deep asleep, he looked defenseless. His eyes were shut and shrouded by long lashes, his hands crossed over his chest. He woke and, blinking, reached for her.

  “We will save him,” he murmured, pulling her against him. “We will.”

  She wished she could believe.

  They walked toward the palace hand-in-hand, strolling in leisure like a young couple in love. Auda strained against their slow pace. She wanted to run to the vicomtesse, beg her help. But Jaime was right, it was best not to draw any attention to themselves.

  At this time of night, the bourg was quiet and empty. Merchants and customers had retreated into their homes, as if after emptying their vitriol on the papermaker’s arrest they now needed to immerse themselves in the righteous love of family.

  They arrived at the palace. Jaime placed a kiss on her forehead. “I won’t be far. Go now.”

  She walked to the front gate, noticing a single light flickering in a window on the top floor. With one last look at Jaime, she entered the palace. Rushing up the stairs, Auda made her way to the drawing room, then the lady’s solar, and finally the lady’s bedchamber. The room with the flickering light. She had never been here before.

  The vicomtesse’s personal maid was not standing by the door, which was cracked open. The vicomte’s words were loud with anger. “It was you who brought this scourge into my palace.” Auda heard the smack of a palm against a wooden surface. “Never forget that!”

  “We’ve done nothing to yell over,” the lady replied in a frosty voice. “It is the archbishop you’re to blame. If he hadn’t blundered and let the inquisitor overrule him—”

  “It was one thing to use this paper to copy old documents and something else entirely to tell tales upon it. You think I haven’t read them, watched you and your clever scribe? We’ll all be implicated now.”

  Auda gulped at his rough voice.

  The lady sniffed. “Surely you don’t think our womanly gatherings are going to draw the ire of the archbishop. He has more important worries, now that the inquisitors control his domain.”

  “And if these tales written for your gatherings come out?”

  The vicomtesse’s answer was immediate. “Courtly games for bored women.”

  Auda could bear no more. She shoved the door open and stepped inside. The couple stopped mid-argument, turning to stare at her.

  “Auda!” The vicomtesse sounded confused and anxious at once. “What in the world are you doing here?”

  “Returned to the scene of the crime, I should say.” The vicomte stared at her with a mixture of anger and naked desire.

  She looked down, glad when he turned, and handed the lady a wax tablet bearing the words she’d written in Jaime’s home.

  My father arrested. Help him.

  Talk to the archbishop. Please.

  The lady read her note and looked up with pity. “Yes, dear, we know.”

  “Of course we know,” the vicomte cut in. “It’s his own fault your father is in the inquisitor’s clutches. Selling to heretics and then pleading ignorance. Such idiocy!”

  The vicomtesse shot him an icy glare. “Leave her be. She worries over her father.” She turned back to Auda. “I will ask my maid to see if there’s any news. Wait here.”

  Placing Auda’s message on the desk, the vicomtesse lifted her skirts and hurried out of the room.

  Auda fidgeted. She didn’t want to be left alone with the vicomte. But neither could she leave without word of her father.

  The lord shook his head at her. “I warned you, little bird. I told you not to court trouble.”

  She looked him in the eyes and shook her head.

  He curled his hands into fists. “Oh yes. You are innocent, your father is innocent, the whole damned town is innocent.” He turned away, his voice resigned. “A whole town in danger of burning, all for one man and his fragile daughter.”

  Auda stepped back, struck. It was true. The whole town would be in danger. If one heretic was found, they would not stop till they found more. It did not matter who was innocent, did not matter what was written on her father’s condemned papers. People would burn. Just like in Carcassonne.

  But the vicomte could not give up now. She couldn’t let him.

  She scurried around him. With shaking hands, she reached for him, not knowing where to grasp. Images of the girl she’d caught him with outside the lady’s solar flashed through her head. Yes, Auda too could trade for what she wanted, what she needed. She stood on the tips of her toes and put her lips to his.

  His eyes widened and his arms came around her, drawing her near.

  She struggled not to squirm under his touch. His breath came hot and fast, on her lips, her face, her throat. She felt cheap and dirty, his kisses degrading instead of glorifying. Only weeks before she’d be willing to give her entire self to Jaime—if only she had, so she would have known real love before she learned this. But it was too late for regrets.

  She kissed him once more, and led his hands to her breasts. He fondled her curves, flicked his fingers over her nipples.

  And then he pulled away. Auda moved closer, confused. Denial merged with betrayed arousal in her veins. She could not let him refuse her.

  “No,” he shook his head. “It’s not right. Not like this.” He looked over her head.

  Auda reached for him again, stopping as she saw the lady, waiting at the door. How long had she been watching?

  A mixture of anger, loathing, and regret shined from the lady’s eyes. She had been watching long enough.

  “Get out.” The vicomtesse’s voice was a hash whisper.

  Auda ran out the door, down the hallway and outside, heading toward the river. She hurried out the back gates and headed toward the river. Its roar felt like a sympathetic caress; she longed for its coolness, its cleanliness. She glided, like a ghost, toward the water, her bare feet sinking into warm mud, and let the river wash her tears away.

  The heretics affirm that all visible and material things were not created by God the heavenly Father, whom they call the good god, but by the devil, Satan, the evil, malevolent god, as they say, the god and prince of this world. Thus they distinguish two creators, God and the devil, one of things unseen and non-material and the other of visible and material things.

  —Bernardo Gui,

  Practica inquisitionis heretice pravitatis

  Part III

  Midsummer 1320

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Auda returned to Jaime’s room, telling him only that she was no longer welcome in the palace. He seemed shocked to see her, outraged that the vicomtesse had let her leave without even an escort to protect her.

  “So much for Christian charity and the divine right to rule,” he muttered, even when she shook her head against his dark words.

  She could not bear to tell him any more, could not lie either. Instead she retreated into the silence that kept her alone. For three days she hid, waiting for Jaime to come back to her with news. Each day the verdict grew bleaker.

  “The public sentiment turns against the Jacobins.” He crumpled his lean frame into a chair beside her. “The Church has threatened to bring in more inquisitors if the demonstrations don’t settle. They’ll come anyway.”

  She recoiled and turned her face, trying to recall at what point it had all gone so wrong. She was the only one who knew it all—the heretics, their writing, even what she’d tried to do with the vicomte. She and God.

  Jaime sighed. “There’ve been riots in other cities—Toulouse and Aix—and the people have had enough of the burnings in Carcassonne. People talk in whispers here. They won’t see Narbonne burn. Narbonne is different, they say
. But they do nothing.”

  Of course. The people were fickle. With their acceptance and their anger.

  Jaime motioned for her to pour him a cup of wine as he reached for a pear on the table. “I have seen your father.”

  Auda stared at him.

  “You have Jehan to thank for it, I think. He’s spoken to people in the Church and the Guild. And the vicomte himself has taken up your father’s cause, but unless something is done soon…”

  She flinched at the mention of the vicomte.

  “Auda,” Jaime started, then paused. “If the vicomte works to save your father, why then won’t he keep you from harm in his palace?”

  What could she possibly tell him? She made gestures he wouldn’t understand, shaking her head as he searched for her tablet. Vicomte will save whom he can.

  Sighing, he cut a section of the pear and handed it to her. Its sweet scent felt cloying. What did her father eat in his prison cell? Did they feed him at all?

  Someone rapped on the door. Jaime traded a tense look with her.

  “Who goes?” he called out.

  A soft voice answered. “It’s me, Poncia.”

  Auda leapt from her chair and ran to the door. She swung it open and fell into her sister’s arms, sobbing. The scent of frankincense and apple blossoms swirled around her. Auda pulled back, breathing in her own sour odor of deceit and despair. Her sister’s smile seemed too bright to look at.

  The older girl led her to Jaime’s bed and they sat. “Auda, I’ve thought only about you and Papa since I got your message.” She hugged Auda about her shoulders. “It was hard, so hard.”

  Auda nodded, swallowing a lump in her throat, and lay her head in her sister’s lap. Poncia caressed her hair.