Watermark (13 page)

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 coun
tenance 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.”

And there it was. Auda shook her head.

“You must be clever about these things,” Poncia said. “The
vicomtesse
can help you, and you should make sure that she does. It’s a far better future she can carve out for you than anything Papa can offer you.”

Her sister had not yet forgiven their father. Or her. She might as well bring up the failed arrangement with the miller.

She leaned in closer so her sister could see her fingers.
Mar
riage. Not good.
She forced herself not to think of the artist, whom she was meeting later today.

Poncia bit her lip. “Perhaps you are right. Not all men are meant to be married.”

Auda watched her sister. Poncia was not usually so easy to sway. Something else was going on. She put her fingers on Poncia’s cheek.
What’s wrong?
Her sister’s wimple moved out of place, revealing an ugly green bruise at her temple.

Auda stared in alarm.
Hurt? Who?

Poncia’s face grew distraught. “Nothing, Auda. It’s nothing. I had too much on my mind, wasn’t paying attention. It doesn’t hurt much.”

Poncia never did lie well.

Jehan? Problems?
Perhaps it was the monks he’d been so worried over the night Auda was there. There was something off about those men. She remembered his terse words that evening, the grim look he wore after meeting them. And later one of the men had showed up at the Gypsy’s tent.

About those men he met? Their secret?

Yet as she tried to ask her sister, Poncia grabbed both of her hands. “I told you not to speak of them again. Some things are best left unknown. You never did understand that. Papa either.” She dropped Auda’s hands and clapped hers together in prayer, closing her eyes. “God hears our prayers, I know He does. But He needs to believe our words. We need to make Him believe.”

Auda wrinkled her forehead. Did He really hear? Or was He so disgusted by His children that He’d turned His face away? Was this why He let them hurt one another? Jehan had done something to her sister, she was sure of it. But what could she do? Many men beat their wives.

Poncia’s blue gaze turned upon her, soft skin drawn taut under her eyes. “The archbishop would have said the masses
himself for Maman today,” she said in the softest of whispers. “He prays for me, you know, prays for our family, and for help in getting with babe. I’ve a tonic from the herbal woman, and the simples you wrote, but perhaps I need help from the Lord Himself.” She tightened her grip on Auda’s wrists. “You need His help too.”

Why? Auda whipped her head to face her sister. Did the burnings mean something for her?

“You need help to stay under notice, away from suspicious eyes,” Poncia continued.

No, it was only Poncia being her normal fearful self. Auda sighed. The lady, even the
vicomte
himself, had no love for the Inquisition. Auda was safer under their care than anywhere else in town. And her life now seemed so much more interesting, held so much more promise than when she’d lived at home. She was using her skills, working in a way no one could have predicted. She was as close to the workings of the town as Poncia was, in her own way. And the lady had even complimented her on her wits. For once she’d not been banished to the shadows.

Poncia looked up with wide eyes. “I’ve a favor to ask of you. The archbishop is coming to say a prayer at our house on Saturday. Will you come? You and Papa?”

Auda drew back. With all that still threatened the town, inquisitors and charges of heresy, her sister thought it was safe to seek out the archbishop himself?

Poncia’s grip grew tighter. “He’s a good man, the archbishop. He’ll say naught against us. He knows us.”

How?
Auda asked, confused.

“I’ll say no more. It will make a good surprise. For you and Papa.”

Auda wrinkled her forehead in alarm.

“It’s true, we’ve taught you to stay far from men of impor
tance,” her sister said, pulling her back. “But he’ll not hurt you, I swear. He’s a special man, you’ll see. And he’s asked to see Papa specifically. Please, Auda. For me.”

Auda swallowed, trying not to react under her sister’s watchful gaze. Perhaps she should go. Perhaps it was not so dangerous. Poncia, she knew, was trying to help her. She could do this one thing for her sister.

Auda left Poncia
deep in prayer and headed outside. As soon as she pushed past the church door, she let out her breath. Shaking off the mantle of incense and judgment, Auda sought, for the first time that she could remember, the brightness of sunlight and crowds. Through her wimple, draped about her face, the summer warmed her cold skin. She felt anonymous in the crowd, safer in the masses than in the dreary church, even if the sun hurt her eyes.

She threaded her way through the fair toward the Gypsy’s tables. Minstrels, jokesters, and jugglers were in full abundance. The Old Market had been expanded by four streets on each side to accommodate the additional crowds. At least fifty more tents and two dozen temporary stalls had been erected, mostly for the lower-class vendors who peddled here—the farmers and millers, the wine sellers and porters, and of course harlots on every street.

Activity from the fair spilled onto the roads, with Gypsies selling flowers and tokens while jongleurs sang their latest verse. Later the fairgoers would end up merrymaking in the
local taverns, where they would be serenaded with songs about lusty women while sipping ale and throwing dice.

Auda breathed in and closed her eyes. The terror she’d felt in the palace, and again in the church, seemed faraway here.

In the market, the Gypsy Donino beamed when he saw her approach. He rummaged underneath the table and came up with a small device held on the palm of his hand. “Your piece is ready.”

She took the wire contraption by its edges. The Gypsy had done fine work, rendering the bridge in seven fluid arcs with a tiny
M
that adorned the center pier. Her mouth curved into a smile. Her father would be touched.

“Ah, the lady is happy then?” Donino beamed. “I think you’ve paid two pennies?”

She nodded and fished out a handful of deniers. Counting out the three coins she owed, she added one extra.

Donino bowed with a flourish. “Many thanks,
domna
. Look around, see if anything else catches your splendid eye.” He spread a hand over the table. “We have beads of every color and size, or perhaps the sweetest Spanish fragrance, fit for a houri, and in a fine stone bottle.”

But she shook her head in apology. She wished she could stay to ask about the Gypsy’s new paper, and the stranger from Jehan’s house who had spoken to her here. But then she’d be late to meet Jaime, and in truth, she was not sure she could suffer any more revelations today.

Sidestepping a pair of donkeys, she nearly collided with the acrobats and dancers hurtling along the gutters. A band of dirty boys brushed against her—farmhands or petty thieves, she wasn’t sure. The thud of hay bales and the din of hammered metal gave way to the chatter of haggling, followed by a racket of lows and brays. Even though the town had been cleaned from streets to shops, church to taverns for the fair,
the stench of dung and garbage rose over the savory scents of the cookshops.

She arrived at a small chapel in the bourg just in time to see the priest pound on the door, a crowd of peasants surging around him. He rapped again on the heavy wood. Anticipating the third and last knock, representing the blessing of the clergy, mirthful laughter rang out.

“Ha ha!”

“Oc!
Let’s be started, Father. The beer’s getting warm and my legs waren’t fit for standing!” someone yelled out.

“Aye, your legs haven’t been fit for much, except if you’re counting the kicks you give your wife,” another voice replied. More gales of laughter.

Auda watched in delight. She’d never been to a wedding before, other than Poncia’s which had seemed more like a somber supper, rich in décor but restrained in warmth. She pushed away thoughts of her brutalized sister.

Most marriages among peasants and poor artisans took place by a tree or hedge, with a quick exchange of vows before the couple resumed the chores of their day. But she had heard of more cheery celebrations like this, where a whole quarter planned their weddings together, the vows, and, of course, the feast afterward.

She looked around for Jaime. He was standing to the side, his lean frame relaxed against the stone wall of the chandler’s shop. The chandler himself stood beside him, holding a fat pillar candle as its tiny flame danced in the summer breeze. Jaime crossed his arms over his chest. His thin lips, stretched in an indulgent smile, curved upward even further when he spied her.

A thrill of desire shot through her.

“I was not sure you would come,” he said, holding a hand out to her. When she took his hand, his dark eyes twinkled.
She blushed at his warmth, noting how different she felt when it was Jaime and not the
vicomte
who appraised her with desire.

“This is your girl then?” the chandler asked.

Auda ducked her head, uncomfortable under the stranger’s gaze, but Jaime laughed.

“Ah, to be young again,” the chandler said, gesturing with the blue candle at the ceremony by the church door.

The priest, dressed in a white surplice belted with rope over a long black gown, held his hands up for silence. He bowed his head, the locks of matted brown hair ringing his tonsure falling over his face. Saying a quiet prayer in front of the closed door, he crossed himself and addressed the crowd.

“Most worshipful friends, we are here under the gaze of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit to combine these good souls in the unity of the sacrament of holy matrimony. Come, the men who would be husbands; come, the women who would be wives. Let all eyes be upon you as you seek the Lord’s blessing.”

Among the assembly of ladies in starched dresses, girls with flowers in their hair, and smiling men, the couples stood out, happy players in the ceremony. The grooms wore varying shades of blue and gray, some with tunics matched with dyed shoes, others in their work garb, wrinkled but clean.

The brides wore light blue dresses belted with flowers, matching crowns of ivy and hyacinths in their hair. Each clutched a bouquet of herbs and blossoms in both hands, and stared through a dark blue veil fluttering in the breeze. Auda sighted Na Maria’s niece, Rubea, standing beside Jaime’s painting partner from the stall.

Under the portico of the church, the priest held up a heavy, gilt-edged Bible and flipped to a marked page. Beside the wed
ding party, a cluster of jongleurs broke out in melody to the accompaniment of a harpist, piper, and drummer.

“And now the ceremony begins, ta-da ta-dum…”

Again, laughter rose among the crowd.

Frowning, the priest spoke in a loud, deep voice.

“O Eternal God, Creator and Preserver of mankind, send Thy blessings upon Thy servants, this man and this woman whom we bless in Thy name. May they surely perform and keep the vow and covenant betwixt them according to Thy laws. Let us pray.”

The priest bent his head, his entire face except his beakish nose disappearing behind brown locks. A hush fell over the congregation, broken only by the scuffling of children underfoot. The priest cleared his throat, clasping his hands, and turned to the couples.

“Each of you seeking the Lord’s blessing today, be honest in your words. Are you of an age?”

“An age to what?” came a voice from the back. “Marry or—?”

“Best it be marriage, else they’re in trouble!”

Auda giggled. She’d never seen such an impudent crowd. It reminded her of a jongleur’s verse, songs of unlikely heroes and interfering wives. Nothing at all like the lofty lyrics of a troubadour.

“Enough!” declared the priest as other responses piped up and laughter again ensued. Glaring, he repeated his question and the couples, still smirking, murmured their assent.

“Are you free to marry?”

“Oc
.”

“Not bound by kinship?”

“No.”

“Then it’s time for the plighting of troth and exchange of
vows. Men, will you have your woman to be your wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Will you love her, comfort her, keep only unto her, so long as both of you live?”

“I will,” came the mismatched chorus of deep voices.

“And women, will you have your man to be your wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Will you obey him, serve him, be bonny and buxom at bed and at board, keep only unto him, so long as both of you live?”

“I will.” Rubea’s crisp voice rang out above the others. Auda gave Jaime a sidelong glance, surprised to see a wistful smile playing over his lips.

A murmur rose up among the crowd as the ceremony came to an end. The priest joined each couple’s right hands and selected a few family members to accompany them into the church.

“And that’ll be that,” the chandler said, winking out the candle between blackened fingertips. He unbolted the lock to his shop. “Pity I can’t make the celebration. I hear they’ve been cooking for days.”

As the crowd dispersed around them, Auda stared at the church door, which had shut behind the wedding party. Now the couples were receiving instruction and advice about marriage from the priest in the House of God. What would they hear? she wondered. Promises of love and fidelity, to keep each other safe, healthy, and whole? The thought of her sister, bruised and weary, saddened her.

“Shall we head to the house and await them?” Jaime asked. “All that’s left to witness is the exchange of dowry. And to hear the wisdom
God
has given them.” He rolled his eyes.

Auda pretended not to see, though she was a little shocked at his defiance.

The celebrations were already underway by the time they reached Na Maria’s house. A gray sackcloth tent had been erected in the field behind the small wooden dwelling, with snippets of ribbon and dried herb bouquets screwed into the willow branch lattice protecting the house from wind and rain. New daub made of mud, cow dung, and reeds patched up holes from the winter storms.

Inside the tent, a long board held gifts for each of the newlyweds—mostly wooden tools and utensils they would need for their new life. Another board outside was laden with enough food to feed a small army. The feast centered around a sheep’s head soused in ale and curds, surrounded by platters of lagoon mussels and sea crickets poached in beer, vinegar, and rosemary. At one end of the board sat a large bowl filled with a
sallat
of scallions, marigolds, and radish roots, dressed in an oil of parsley and pepper. On the other end stood a clay pot filled with a warm stew of leeks, nuts, and salt pork. Bread flavored with ale was passed around on trays. It seemed as though an entire village had cooked for this day, and it probably had. With each family bringing a colorful dish, soon a feast would be assembled to rival that of the
vicomte
’s own supper board.

In the yard, a circle of young girls surrounded a lone minstrel in a dance, laughing as he sang a love song to the tune of his psaltery. Behind them, a troupe of actors fussed with their costumes for a performance of the legend of St. George and the Dragon. St. George himself was clad in a gray tunic emblazoned with a red cross and equipped with a wooden helmet, sword, and shield, but the six playing the dragon seemed a more hapless bunch, entangled in shreds of green rags and topped by a large horned head streaming with green and black ribbon.

“The dragon I be!” boomed a hollow voice from inside the mask, and the four players comprising the dragon’s body
wobbled. The rear actor swung his wooden tail. Auda laughed at the awkward movement.

“What do you bring?” St. George replied, adjusting his helmet.

“Not peace,” came the reply from some onlookers.

“Not love,” chanted another.

“Not hope,” someone else said.

The helmeted St. George tripped over his sword and fell into a sprawl on the ground, and the crowd lapsed into laughter.

Jaime sat on the covered ground beside Auda, holding a stiff trencher filled with pork meatballs crusted with nuts, fish pastries, and a shiny heap of
sallat
. He chuckled as the body of the dragon ran past its head.

“In the last wedding I was at, St. George was bested by the dragon and half the guests left in protest.”

Auda covered her mouth, laughing. Jaime edged closer so that the trencher rested on both of their knees, until his warmth bled through his clothes into her skin. She picked up a handful of the
sallat
with trembling fingers. Sweet and peppery, still it was hard to swallow, and she coughed against the foreign texture.

“Here,” Jaime said, handing her the mug at his side.

Auda took a deep swallow of the wine mixed with honey, egg, cinnamon, and clove burning her throat. She returned the drink and smiled at Jaime, wishing she could speak, even using her fingers, with him. Yet she could always share her happiness with a kiss. She pressed his fingers to her cheek, smelling charcoal and pigment. A contented sigh escaped her lips.

“Auda!” a voice rang out.

She dropped Jaime’s hand and looked up. It was Na Maria, dressed in a long gown of grayish blue and purple flowers in her tight but frizzy braid, balancing a large wine jug on her ample hip.

“Girl,” she said with a bright smile. “It’s so good of you to come. Rubea is a cheery bride, don’t you think? I meant to come by and tell you in person, but it all happened so fast. Has your father come too?”

Auda shook her head, shy.

Maria grinned at Jaime and winked. “No, of course. Sly girl, just like her Papa.”

Reaching into a pocket under her belt, Auda pulled out a denier. It was a small gift, but all that she had left from the coins Martin had given her to spend at the fair. Maria’s smile cut further into her doughy face.

“I’ll see they get this,” she said, tucking the penny in her bodice. “I’ve my own for them.” She showed Auda two halves of a penny. It was a common gift; each half of the couple would carry one half of a coin that only had worth when joined together. “There wasn’t coin for rings, so I found the best penny I had and traded a kiss to the blacksmith for some quick work.”

Auda blushed, and Maria laughed again. An actor ran past them, chasing the dragon head with a torch blazing above his head.