Watermark (18 page)

Yet instead, she only heard the ladies clapping around her.

“Quite the tale, my lady,” Clarys-with-the-rosette said. “Has it an ending?”

The
vicomtesse
looked up, her gray eyes twinkling. “All stories do.” She gave Auda a surreptitious glance.

Auda flushed. She had written a score of other verses, trying to decide where the story would head next. At first, she had only meant to wonder what would happen if many men vied for the same girl. What would the girl choose, if the choice were hers? What would she value in the man who garnered her love, and could she even find that in these men? A lecherous
vicomte
? A man married to God who betrayed his vows? Or a knight who thought only of his needs? None of them seemed the right match.

“It’s a tease of a verse,” one woman complained. “Surely there is more you can read to us now.”

The lady shook her head. “There is plenty here to discuss. Whose suit bears the most merit? Whom would you choose, if you could? Come closer, have a look.”

Chatter hummed around the room. One woman rose and examined the tract, inviting the others to marvel at it.

“Where did you find this?” a pregnant woman dressed in earthy brown asked.

“I’ve not seen anything like it in all my years,” Esclarmonde said, peering through thin spectacles at the page. “A jongleur’s verse illuminated like a book.” She shook her head. “Such expense.”

“But it’s not, my dear Lady Esclarmonde,” the
vicomtesse
said, leaning her head in toward her elder. “This is written on paper, a new type of parchment.”

“Paper, you say?”

“Cloth parchment, if you like,” the lady explained. “It’s the fashion all over Italy, these little tales. Some have quite a collection of them.”

Was that true? Auda wondered. Her father had spoken of Italian masters whose works were captured on paper, but he’d never mentioned they were anything other than serious tomes like the ones rented from Tomas. The thought excited her, that there might be others who were interested in tales such as hers.

“There are copies here for you,” the lady announced, “illustrated, though not like mine, of course. Consider it a gift, to keep your attention.”

The
vicomtesse
passed the copies out to her ladies. A few read through the words at once; others struggled to sound out syllables.

“I don’t read well,” Clarys complained. “Will your minstrel not perform it again?”

The other ladies nodded in enthusiasm and the
vicomtesse
obliged them. Auda watched with more care, soaking in the audience’s anticipation, the audible moments of appreciation.

“But what is the story?” Clarys persisted. “Is it a tale of battle and prowess, or the enchantment of love?”

“It is, of course, of love.” The soft voice, so familiar, came from a newcomer who’d arrived just as the minstrel finished. “Or rather, the search for it.”

The ladies looked behind them at a small woman dressed in a pale blue kirtle that seemed out of place over the plain gray gown underneath. She entered the room. Her gaze flitted to Auda, standing in the back.

Clarys plaited her fingers. “My lady Poncia, you must see a
lot of novelties with your husband’s business. But how do you know what this girl’s story is?”

Auda forced herself to keep still. She hadn’t expected her sister to be present. Poncia had never mentioned the invitation, though there had been no time after the archbishop’s supper, especially with their father pushing Auda out the door at evening’s end. In truth, Auda had not wanted to see her sister. There were too many questions about the strange heretics that had visited Jehan, and Poncia’s knowledge that the heretics used paper to spread their words.

There was also the fact that since that evening, Poncia had not sought
her
out.

“It’s not a story but a lament,” Poncia remarked, “and what else would a girl know to lament over but affairs with men?” Her voice bore a brittle edge.

The ladies laughed in appreciation.

Auda tried to search out her sister’s gaze, but a quick blink from the
vicomtesse
froze her movement.

“Well, it’s no courtly love, I’ll swear,” one woman said.

Poncia tilted her face. Looking straight at the
vicomtesse
, she spoke in a quiet but firm voice. “Not all love is, I daresay. Some love even transcends the earth, though I doubt this verse has much to do with the heavens.”

The
vicomtesse
met Poncia’s stare. “You did not say, my lady,” she said, “what you thought of the work.”

Auda watched the two women in her periphery, breath caught in her throat. What would Poncia say?

“It is…a curiosity.” Her sister’s voice stayed level.

Auda let out her breath, aware that all of the other women had grown silent.

Eventually a conversation was struck up, but Auda had eyes only for her sister. Poncia met her gaze with disdain and Auda knew that her sister understood the verse was hers.

Auda returned home
that afternoon straight after court. The
vicomtesse
, pleased with the day’s success, had let her go early.

“I’m giving you an extra day and a half as reward. Be sure you use the time wisely,” the lady said, glancing at the tract that she’d replaced in its case.

Auda bowed as low as she could and raced home. Martin would not yet be back from Tomas’s stall; that would give her hours to work on the next verse. She flung open the door and came to an abrupt halt. Poncia was waiting inside. Her sister was dressed plainly in a gray dress of homespun cloth that hung limply on her and matched the poor quality of her cheap leather shoes and rough wimple. Around her neck she wore a small wooden cross hanging from a leather cord; a similar cross strung with prayer beads was sewn into her skirt at the waist.

Poncia met her gaze with eyes shot through with red. Her face was set into a rigid mask, except for the tic that pulsed at her jaw.

Auda hung back, unsure what to say. Poncia spoke first.

“What are you doing, Auda? Do you even know?” Her voice quivered at the last.

Auda hung back. The tone of her sister’s voice was a mixture of suspicion, anger, and regret.
It’s good
, she signed after a moment.
The vicomtesse
—she made the sign of a crown—
thinks so.

Poncia spoke as if to herself. “You are in such danger, I wonder if you understand.” She shook her head. “How could you, Auda? That verse, those disgusting words of a priest courting a girl…”

Thought you would not want to know.
The truth, however simple it sounded.

Poncia’s face hardened. “At least you’re honest about it. Unfortunate that you weren’t that forthright before you let me sit in that woman’s solar while she paraded your words.” Her lips curled up. “The things you wrote, disgusting things about a holy priest chasing a girl with such lust. Oh yes,” she said to Auda’s expression of surprise. “I’ve seen what else you wrote.” She picked up one of the wax tablets scattered on the table.

Poncia tossed aside the first tablet and read from the second.

Auda had fought with herself before putting pen to the page to say this. A woman could certainly want a handsome knight or a powerful lord. Could she also tempt a priest away from
God? Many had. It was a common complaint she’d heard in the market, how the servants of God were no better than men in a brothel. Why would a woman try to compete with the Lord? Did she do it to see if she had the ultimate power over a man’s fate? The thought shocked even Auda, and she’d almost melted the words smooth. Instead, she’d showed them to the
vicomtesse
.

“Delicious,” the lady had said, licking her top lip. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me how it ends.”

Auda stared before smiling.

And the lady had actually laughed.

Poncia’s voice grew loud. “Did you think I wouldn’t recognize your sly words and clever jokes? Did you truly think me that naïve?”

The words stung. She hadn’t known that Poncia would be there. Never had her sister called her sly, pronounced her clever with that sneer of judgment. Auda didn’t have to keep the bit about the priest, but surely Poncia could see some good in the rest of the tale.
Didn’t know, you—

Poncia clenched her hands. “How did it feel to be the lady’s favored pet?”

Auda sucked in her breath. Was it not possible that Auda possessed a skill that had caught the lady’s notice?

Poncia came toward in a rush, grabbing Auda by the shoulders. “You think she helps you? Out of what, kindness? Pity? It’s a trifle to her.”

Auda broke out of her sister’s grip.
Important to her, me also.

“And when the Church takes notice of what you’ve written, will she help you then?”

Auda clenched her jaw.
Everyone sings. Of church and priests.

“But you’ve written it down,” Poncia cried. “In your hand! For all to read. Can you not see the difference?” Her words
were a harsh whisper. “Do you think any of those ladies, your admirers who clutch your words within their sweaty grasp, care one mote of dust for you? What do you think they’d do if the Church came for you? What would they sacrifice to preserve your words? Would they argue for you when you were thrown in the dungeon? Storm the platform when you were set afire?” Her eyes narrowed. “No, they’ll show up to cheer and jeer. And then they’ll forget you.”

Auda raised her hands to retort but then dropped them, unsure what to say. Her sister was right. They would never come to help her. Even so, did that matter? Were these not questions that needed to be asked? Everyone searched for love, and it didn’t seem anyone outside of their lonely father and dead mother had found it. Elena would not have wondered why her daughter asked these questions now. Auda was certain of it.

“You tread dangerous ground, Auda, and I fear your soul will burn for it.” A muted cry slipped through Poncia’s lips. “They’ve burned people for less. Much less.”

Auda remembered the spring months, the frenzied fear of the town, and the hands that had grabbed and tore at her in Carcassonne. She shuddered. They’d thought her a witch, a heretic. Like those friends of Jehan.

Her sister welcomed heretics in her home and then castigated Auda for words?

What of the men who met with Jehan? Heretics.
She made the sign of an upside-down cross.

Poncia nodded in resignation. “I knew you would not let that go. Yes, they are heretics, like his wretched parents. Half the money we made went for bribes to hide them. Jehan was too weak to right their wrongs. We argued over it incessantly. For them he would do anything, then come home to beat me when I told him what a fool he was.”

Auda stared, confused.

Poncia sniffled once. Auda reached for her sister with ink-stained fingers, unsurprised to see the cuts and bruises on Poncia’s hands. She pulled back, opening Poncia’s fist and turning it over to look at her sister’s swollen knuckles, the pools of blood darkening under the skin.

Poncia wobbled on her feet, closing her eyes against Auda’s frenetic fingers.

Jehan? Did something? Tell me!
She pulled at Poncia’s wimple, tied under her chin, and gasped. The right side of Poncia’s face was swollen and discolored. She’d been hit, several times, and the blows had split her skin. Poncia pushed her off.

Auda slapped her hand against the wall.
Come, tell Papa.

“No, Auda.” Her voice firmed. “No.”

Why? Papa? Me?
Auda’s eyes widened. What had this savage beat her sister for?

“No. No, Auda.” Poncia bowed her head, her voice teary. She seemed deflated. “All men beat their wives. Good men too. It’s hard to be married, hard to…” She stuttered. “He didn’t mean to. He brought the best doctor in town to treat me.”

Auda spat to the side. Was this what it meant to marry, to trust one’s future to another person’s whim? So much for declarations of love and promise if this was how it ended. She stood and turned toward the door.

Find Papa.

“No!”
Poncia ran to face Auda. “You don’t understand, you never have. Life isn’t the silly tales you make of it. Marriage is no fine thing built in perfection. If you had accepted the miller, you would have seen that.”

Auda shook her head. Was that tremble in her sister’s voice caused by Auda’s poor choice, or Poncia’s?

Why marry then?
It seemed a losing proposition.

“There is good and there is bad.” Poncia’s voice was gentle.

Auda shook her head.
What good, this?
She jutted her chin at Poncia’s bruises.

The skin around her sister’s eyes tightened. “He did the best he could, and so did I. I used his remorse, his regret for beating me, to help you, to help Papa, and yes to help myself. It is the sacrifice you make, to get what you want.”

Auda felt saddened. Some choices shouldn’t require sacrifice.

Poncia fixed her red eyes on Auda. “Come with me. I’m going to Maguelone on pilgrimage. The cart has been hired; I leave in an hour. Come, let us find solace together. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for me.”

Auda wiped away nascent tears against the back of her hand. Maguelone was a place of fantasy to her. She’d heard that her mother had traveled there every year after the dawn of spring to give thanks for and cherish the birth of new life. And yet how could she leave? What would she tell the
vicomtesse
? Would the lady take her displeasure out on their father?

“It’s a beautiful place, rich soils for growing food, and waters filled with fish,” Poncia told Auda. Poncia had gone on pilgrimage once with their mother as a child, and often regaled Auda with lush descriptions of the church grounds.

One day, Auda had sworn, she would see the place for herself.

“Nothing touches the place. The waters are so clean and blue. Not even the birds dare disturb it. They hide in the pines and sing praise of our Lord.”

Now her gaze focused on Auda. “You would like it there. The church is small and bare, with only a few statues to adorn it, not even a bench to pray at. Even the windows are plain, just rippled pieces of glass. Nothing like the greens and blues and reds of our own church windows. But so beautiful, you’ll see.”

“On a summer day, you can almost hear the bees buzz from flower to flower, just over the waves on the beach. The rector holds morning and afternoon Mass; otherwise, there’s naught to do but ponder God’s beauty on earth and think to one’s self. Come, Auda. We’ll find our answers together.”

It was so tempting—to visit her mother’s retreat, to walk the paths she had walked on, to ruminate over the same patch of ocean, tend the same roses, sit under the same trees. And yet, she could not leave. Not her father, not Jaime. Not her writing.

She looked around the room, at the table with her half-written verse, and the quires of papers her father had left on the stool to be smoothed. His paper, her words, their mark. Hadn’t she always dreamed about this?

And then there was Jaime. For the first time, she’d found someone who looked past her ruined body, tried to speak with her instead of at her. Someone who thought her ideas had merit, wanted to help them come to fruition. She had finally stepped out of her hiding place, had found a way to express her voice. How could she leave that?

She looked again at Poncia, her poor bloodied sister who had trusted in marriage, and for what? Did she bear more bruises under her dress, in her heart? Maybe Auda could be her salvation, instead of the other way around. She reached for her sister.

But Poncia wrenched herself from Auda’s grasp, stepping back. “Promise me. Promise me you’ll come with me.”

Auda dropped her arms, staring at the gap between them that was only growing larger. She shook her head sadly.
Can’t. Want. Can’t.

A quiver flickered across Poncia’s forehead. Her speech, when she spoke, was clipped. “We gave you too much, coddled too much. You never lacked anything you cared for, never had
to sacrifice anything to have the life you wanted. It was a mistake.”

Auda let out a soft cry, but Poncia only reached into her bodice and drew out a small trifolded square.

“Here are the godforsaken answers you want. Maybe now you will see.” She threw the square at her sister and swept out of the house, leaving Auda blinking away tears.

She picked up the folded wad that had fallen to the ground. It was a piece of paper. Not their father’s. This paper was smoother and more uniform in color. Like the Gypsy’s paper.

The front panel was empty. Auda moved to the fire in the hearth and held the paper up against it. The page bore a watermark! It was a crude design, of a ladder leading up to a star, not nearly as fine as the design she’d bought for her father.

With trembling fingers, she flipped to the next panel. It was covered with elegant script, and by habit she turned it over to see the back. The ink had not bled through, not even in an isolated spot or line.

She skimmed the rest of the panel, disappointed; it read like the rules from a sermon. What did Poncia wish her to see? A declaration that fish was the food of Jesus and that disease was rot of the soul, to be treated through spiritual means? What was it that had frightened Poncia? Her eyes idled over the neat
writing scripted on the other two panels of the tract. It wasn’t until the end that a surge of fear returned.

Auda stumbled over the words.

Dear God. This
was
a heretic’s tract—it had to be.