Watermark (19 page)

Auda stared until her eyes stung. The phrases mesmerized, speaking to her as if they had their own voice, silky and unctuous. Women are no lesser than men. The thought resonated in her mind and in her verses.

She’d written the very thing that heretics believed.

Auda knew she
should consign the tract to the flames. She built the hearth fire up, watched the flames rise. But she could not bear to see the tract burn. The words would not leave her.

She wrote the simple lines on a piece of paper and stared until the words were a blur.

A knock sounded on the door. Had Poncia returned? Auda ran to her pallet and stowed the tract along with her papers and tablets. She’d have to burn the heretics’ words later. What would she do with her own?

Piling two blankets over the bed, she swung open the door. Not her sister at all, but Jaime. It was the first time he’d come to the house.

“I have something for you,” he said. “Here, you must see!”

It was a copy of her first verse. She’d scripted an extra one to keep for herself. But he had made it something magical, with drawings even more fanciful that the ones on the lady’s copy.

She caressed the tract with trembling hands. To see her words so beautifully scripted, illustrated like fine writing with such color and precision. Jaime didn’t think her words venom, treated them with the same care he treated his own work. Would he still, if he knew what she now did? Her eyes teared.

Jaime misunderstood. “I know you wanted to show your work to your father. Now you can show him a worthy expression of your gifts.”

She froze. Would her father have the same reaction as Poncia, see nothing but danger in her words? Was her sister right?

Jaime tilted his head. “You’ve not told him, have you?”

She gave him an uncertain look. She hadn’t told Martin what they were up to. It would be best to tell him only if it were a success, she’d reasoned. In truth, she’d been afraid to share her verse, afraid he’d dismiss it as frippery. Now, after Poncia’s words, she was afraid he’d read it as something worse.

Jaime swallowed. “I’ll stay with you then. I need to speak to him anyway.”

Auda flashed him an anxious look. What would Jaime have to say to her father? The realization dawned upon her. He’d want to speak of marriage.

Was that not what she’d wanted, what he’d wanted in pursuing her? Poncia would say so, but look how her marriage had gone. The troubadours and
trobairitz
would say something different, but they didn’t speak of men like Jaime. Did they?

Poncia’s advice sounded in her head. She should take this
chance. She would be happy with Jaime. And it would be safe. She could leave the
vicomtesse
’s employ, go from virgin to wife, maybe even to mother. Even as the thoughts tumbled through her head, she knew she could not give up writing what she had to say. No matter if it brought her danger.

But she could not consign Jaime to the same fate. He had to choose on his own. And now was not the time for that decision.

Not now,
she signed to Jaime. She wrote the words on her tablet to make sure he understood.

It was a poor lie, one that Jaime saw through. His lips tightened.

“The time has come, long since,” he said. “I won’t sneak about anymore.”

Dragging a chair toward the open door, he sat in silence, regarding her with flat stubbornness.

Auda held his determined look for a moment and looked away. She set a thin pottage of beef broth and bone to bubble and waited for her father to return home. Whatever he said today, she’d soon have to tell him the truth of what she learned.

Heavy footsteps at the door alerted her to her father’s arrival.

“Auda, I’ve bought pigments for the water to flatten the uneven color in the paper,” Martin said, bursting in. “Umber and rouge!” His gaze turned to Jaime. “Who is this?”

Auda curled and uncurled her fingers as she rushed to meet him.
Artist. Poncia’s stall, met
. Her gestures tumbled over each other.

“I’m called Jaime,” the artist said, dipping his head.

“What is this? Who is he?” Martin pressed a cloth to his florid forehead and blinked at his daughter.

“Monsen
, my name is—”

Martin shook his head, watching Auda sign.

Brought this.
Auda thrust the tract in his face. Martin stepped back, taking the sheet. He rubbed the paper between his thumb and forefinger, scrutinizing the page. “You’ve given him my paper?”

No.

“Sold it then? He is a minstrel?”

Auda frowned, impatience masking her nervousness. It was the first time she’d shown him her verse, the first time he would see what she wrote.
Read.

Martin squinted at the page, bringing it closer to the fire to see. “I don’t understand. It’s a jongleur’s verse. They sing tales like this all throughout the fair.”

Auda flushed.
Mine. I wrote.

Martin’s frown deepened. “Yours?”

Tale mine. Words mine.

“The lady
vicomtesse
has seen it,
monsen
,” Jaime said, stepping up. “She thinks great things of your daughter.” He lowered his head. “As do I.”

“You? Why you? What is all this?” Martin folded his arms over his chest and stared at his daughter, his voice betraying no emotion.

Auda swallowed her fear.
He said.
She gestured at Jaime.

“The
vicomtesse
has taken a liking to Auda’s verse,” Jaime explained. “The lady has a minstrel sing them in her court. I am fortunate your daughter asked me to illustrate her words.”

Martin looked at Jaime now. “These are your sketches then? You have skill.”

“My deepest thanks,
monsen
.”

“We will talk, soon. But for now, I must speak to my daughter.”

Flashing Auda the hint of a triumphant smile, Jaime bowed low and left.

“What is this about?”

Auda hesitated at her father’s rough voice.
Saw my stories, Lady. Liked. Sang aloud at court.
She summarized her meeting with the
vicomtesse
, fingers feeling thick and awkward. Just this morning her verses had been the star of the
vicomtesse
’s court. And now? How had things gotten so muddled?

“This painter?” Martin turned his back on her, rubbing his hands at the fire. “Who is he to know so much about you? That you would sit alone with him?”

From his flat tone, she could not tell what he wanted to say. Joining him by the flames, Auda put her hand on her father’s chest and pulled at his tunic until he faced her.

“You’ve fine sense,” he said, voice thoughtful. “You’ve a knack for the sly tale. People will notice you.”

Auda swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. There was that word again: sly.

“And you’ve found someone to share your vision with.” He stoked the fire with the poker.

“Perhaps if this succeeds, you can pull together your tracts into a booklet. Then we’ll speak of sewing pages, and putting together cover boards. I have the suppliers in place.”

Auda laid a cool hand on his cheek and met his gaze.
What do you think?
She waited for his condemnation, his horror that her words sounded like those of the dreaded heretics. But it didn’t come.

Instead, he looked pensive. “I’ve thought many years on how to best make a book of paper. It’s been the focus of many of my dreams, our dreams, what book our people will see
first, a philosophical work on the equality of all men and our duties in the mortal world, or perhaps a Book of Hours commissioned for minor nobility.”

His voice grew warm. “So many worry over what heresies will be committed to the page and here you assuage them, with nothing more lofty than tales of power, lust, and sex.” He broke into a smile.

“Maybe you’ve found a way to make the people see after all.”

Later that day,
Martin prepared to go back to the stall.

“I told Shmuel I would meet his customer there,” he said to Auda. “It’s an easier place for him to pick up his ten folios. I finished them last week, did you see?”

Auda nodded. She had inspected the folios that morning. They looked nearly perfect, with her father’s watermark on every sheet, the pages smooth and cleanly cut.

“Come with me,” Martin suggested. “We’ll see what kind of man has ordered the first folios with our mark.” Auda was torn between wanting to accompany him for his big sale and staying at home to burn the heretic’s tract. She hurried away from her pallet, where she hid them, and nodded.

Father and daughter headed for the market. Traffic was slower on the streets now. It was the doldrums of midsummer, when the fair had lasted long enough to lose its initial allure but still drummed up enough regular business from ladies stocking their households and artisans ferreting out bargains.

On Parchmenter’s Lane, Martin pushed open the door to the stationer’s and called out. “Tomas! I left a few items in
the stall. I’ll only be a few moments.” He spoke to Auda in a lower voice. “He should be here soon. The fifth bells are near to ring.”

Auda sat in the back of the shop next to the curtain. The words to her next verse ran through her head:

She heard voices beyond the curtain: her father’s customer had arrived.

A man spoke. “The ten books are ready then?” He sounded familiar.

“Yes, yes, all packaged up for you,” her father replied. “Here, have a look, make sure the work is to your liking.”

“No need.” Auda heard the sound of jangling coins. “Here, the ten silvers we agreed on.”

Ten silvers! It was a pittance for parchment folios, which would go for twenty times that amount, but it was more than they had ever earned before. What good fortune it was to find this customer! And if he came back for more…Yet who could he be?

Auda peeked around the curtain. Her father was packing up the folios in a small box, while his customer stood tall in front of him. She squinted against the sunlight to see better. She couldn’t make out the full details of his face, but he looked familiar. Memory of the man who’d spoken to her at the Gypsy’s tables came to mind. Yes, it was him, the man from Jehan’s house, who knew about heretics’ paper. A heretic himself who wore the cross on his back.

She opened her mouth to cry out, but before she could make
a sound, Tomas pulled her away from the curtain. “Have I not told you never to interfere with the stall?” He scolded her in a loud voice.

Auda squirmed out of his grasp and raced out of the shop. She shaded her eyes from the light. The customer was nowhere in sight. Was it truly him? Had Martin sold his folios to a heretic? She could hear her father calling out to her but she couldn’t stop. She had to be sure.

She ran through the dazzling sunlight, clutching her wimple tight over her face and ran toward the road where the Gypsies had camped. A flurry of activity surrounded their tables. A trio of dark-skinned men roved in and out of the large dirty tent, each picking up various wonders from the tables and trying to attract passersby with loud, honeyed invitations.

“A look, just a look!”

“Make me an offer. One sou, two sous—something for all!”

Around them, the women barked out orders, directing children carrying crates from the tent out onto the cobblestone road. Where was Donino?

An old man with dark wrinkles had set up across from the sprawl. Sitting cross-legged on a tattered piece of old red cloth, he strummed a trapezoidal psaltery and sang a song of war and betrayal. It wasn’t a typical tune, but rather a meandering of sharp notes picked on the gut strings. The soft-skinned man crooned along in ululated tones.

“We took up the cross and beat them back; they drank our blood and became stronger.”

Auda sidestepped him. Other men rushed around her with hands full of trinkets—glass baubles, clay bricks with foreign symbols, a suit of white feathers—but she shook her head and strode to the entrance of the tent, bumping straight into Donino.

“Ah,
domna
.” His expansive words were underscored by a brittle anxiety. “You liked your watermark and have come, perhaps, for another?”

Fidgeting, she looked past him for the heretic she’d seen here the last time. She mimed the motion of writing. This time the gypsy brought her a wax tablet.

Donino moved back. He pushed her away with his palms held up. “No, no. I thought you were going to draw me a design, not words I cannot read. Take anything you like,” he said. “I’ll make you a good price. We have to leave, other business. It is your last chance.” His smile was tight.

No, she had to know of the heretic. Had he come back? Had he come here? She shook her head and pointed at the tablet, knowing from their long association that the Gypsy could read.

“There is no time for this.” Donino shed his smile. He gathered the glass baubles in front of him into a pile.

She pointed again at the tablet, and moved around the table toward the large tent. Donino leaned forward and gripped her thin shoulder.

“There’s no one there, little girl. Understand?” With a final frown, Donino disappeared into the tent.

“Pay him no mind,” the old singer said beside her. “He is uneasy. Trouble in the city.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Heresy, they say.” He shrugged, plucking a few notes. “Always heresy.” He jerked his head toward the main fair, where a crowd surrounded a lone crier.

A sudden fear seized her. The crier was being pushed back
into the message post. A creamy cut of parchment bearing the archbishop’s seal had been nailed high above.

“Oyez! Oyez!
Safety from sin! Inspections to begin this day.”

“He’s just hiding his tail behind fancy words, that one,” someone said in an angry mutter. Voices next to him chimed in agreement.

“Too bad he don’t run away to his uncle for help.”

“That fancy-fucking-French pope.”

Auda craned her neck toward the parchment.

Auda sucked in her breath. Inspectors? Inquisitors? Had he released more of his infernal manuscript on heretics and witches?

Narbonne had always resisted the local inquisitors by allowing the Jacobins to hold courts on Church justice when necessary. They’d come to town during the rains, but she had not seen them since then. They’d never caused the town any real trouble before…Had Poncia been right after all?

People collected, pushing and surging around her. “Devils and heretics? We ain’t got any.”

“More so the woe for the innocent then. Someone’s got to burn.”

“Just look at them all up in Carcassonne.”

Carcassonne. Where the inquisitor had planned to go. Where the heretics now burned.

Auda shoved her way out of the crowd and rushed back to
their house. They had to leave, both of them, before the inquisitors found the heretic and traced him back to her father. But first she had to prepare. Bursting through the front door, she ran for her papers on the table; the basket she had left was missing. She rushed to her pallet and reached under the hay. Her fingers felt around, but nothing was there. She began tearing the mattress. Damn her soul, where were her pages? She hunted through each of her discarded pages. Her illustrated verse—the one Jaime had made for her specially—was gone. So were her newer snippets.

Along with the heretic’s tract.