Watermark (12 page)

She brought her hands to his neck, pulling him back until their lips connected. For a moment, she felt nothing at all except the happiness that lifted her lips and spread inside her. It would never have been like this with the miller.

After a moment, the artist pulled back and held her at arm’s length. “I have a wedding to attend at month’s end. Please tell me you’ll be my companion?”

Without a moment of hesitation, she nodded, and kissed the artist once more.

Auda barely made
it back to the gate of the palace in time to meet her father. He was already walking up the road, looking for her, when she ran forward to greet him.

Martin’s face split into a smile. “Auda! You look well, quite well!” He drew her into an embrace. “Come, tell me about your week while we walk home.”

She nodded, smiling back, and passed him her basket to free up her hands.
Good week
. Miming the motion of writing, she spread her hands wide.
Many letters.

“Personal or matters of court?”

Both.
Hiding the blush that crept up her neck as she thought of her own personal matter with the artist, she told him about the progress on the scriptorium, the shortage in parchment, and the letters the lady sent to all of her relatives and former ladies-in-waiting, asking them to send what rolls they could.

“At least she keeps copies of her letters on our paper,” her father said. “It’s a start.”

Auda nodded and flexed her hand against the cramping from her scribe work. Again she thought of Jaime, his pleasure over the verse she’d written for him. The blush returned.

Martin didn’t seem to notice. “Yes, scribing does take a toll.” He held up his right hand, showing her how his fingers had swelled from years of work. “We’ll get you a salve for that.”

They walked in silence the rest of the way, Auda sneaking glances into the bright daylight to look around. Everything seemed sharper, brighter, suffused with color compared to the gray stone of the palace, even to her weak eyes. Was this the filter of love, as one song she’d heard put it?

Martin nudged her as they approached their house. “Go see to the animals. I’ll be in the studio.”

Happy to be alone with her joy, Auda fed the chickens and the goats, taking eggs from one, milking the other. From the yard, she could see smoke piping into white curls from their chimney. The only time her father grew the hearth to full strength in the summer was when he was drying paper. Auda smiled as she pushed through the kitchen door.

She breathed in, taking in the sweet smell of thyme. Martin always threw a fresh bouquet of the herb on the flames when he set his papers to dry. Her mother used to do that, he’d told her, to mask the soggy odor that permeated the house. Ever since, Auda had associated the delicate fragrance with Elena.

In the week that had passed, Martin had rearranged his studio to better suit the needs of one person. The desk had been pushed aside, replaced by a table where he kept all the tools he needed at a moment’s notice. Auda sighed, saddened for a moment, and took the wrapped fish from her basket. Without her there to help him, the workshop was already in disarray.

From the doorway, she watched her father work. Dipping his mould horizontally into the pulp, Martin steadied his hand, letting the light from an overhead torch cast a shadow of the mould on the liquid’s surface. When he pulled it again,
equally level, the screen of the mould was covered with wet fibers. He reached to his side with one hand and felt for the deckle, which he slipped on top of the mould, and gave the set a shake to help the fibers felt and intermingle.

Auda thought of the watermark she’d designed for him, suddenly impatient for the gift to be ready. She felt suffused with love and wanted to share it with the whole world, in thought, in action, and most importantly, in verse.

Instead, she brought the cut of porpoise to him.

Martin looked up and smiled.

“What is this?” He unwrapped the oilcloth and beamed in pleasure. “Ah, it’s been so long since I’ve had a bite of fish. You do me well, girl! I’ve this last batch to make for Shmuel. We’ll stop after this set for the night to enjoy this bounty, and tomorrow I’ll get started on the order for the folios. The
vicomtesse
received her two extra reams?”

Auda nodded, pleased she had made her father smile.

Martin jerked his chin toward the table. “Come help me then.”

A pile of rough cloths had been stacked on the ground and she picked one up, smoothing it on the table. On the other side of the room, Martin shook the mould and deckle over the vat until no more water dripped from it. Then, sliding off the deckle, he rolled the matted wet fibers off the screen and unrolled it onto the cloth to absorb any excess water.

He nodded for Auda to hand him the fabric. He placed it on top of a stack of wet pages, each separated by a similar piece of cloth. “Just like normal, eh?” he said, transferring the stack, nearly half his own height, onto a flat wooden board on the floor and placing a similar board on top. He grinned at her. “Tell me, now, how was life in the palace?”

Auda bit her lip, considering. She reached for the tablet hanging on the wall and pressed a few lines into the wax.

Her father nodded. “I’ve heard it’s so.” He leaned his weight into the top board and a few more beads of water ballooned on the side of the stack. When he moved back, the height of the stack had shrunk, maybe by a thumb’s width. It would take him another hour to squeeze the water out, and then he’d peel each page from its cloth and hang it on drying lines.

“Your sister sent word. She wants to see you next Sunday. Meet her at St. Paul’s for your mother’s saint’s day. I reckon you’ve grown enough in these days to get there from the palace by yourself.” His voice was flat. No doubt Poncia was still angry over the miller.

“Your old nurse, Maria, sent word too, that her niece is marrying the same day.”

At month’s end, on Sunday, Auda had promised to go to a wedding with Jaime, probably the same one. Only nobles held weddings for one couple, most people not having the time or luxury of making too large of a fuss over such a common event. Auda would just tell her father she lingered late with Poncia over prayers for their mother. Ashamed already by the lie, she sat at the desk and massaged her fingers.

Martin rummaged through his shelves and brought out a pot with a salve of knapweed. “You made this yourself for me, remember? He rubbed the balm into each of her fingers. “You’ll get used to it in time. Just this morning I had a missive to write for the wooler, Michel. He sends to his cousin to inquire on the trade roads all the way to Paris. Seems the rains have moved north. Whole crops have been ruined. No one can afford his cloth.” He shook his fingers. “His lament went on and on.”

Auda snorted, and her father shared the other bits of gossip
he’d gleaned from scribing. Most of it was useless, family matters of who had been born, who had died, who had inherited what. Martin saved the worst news for last.

“I read one letter yesterday,” he said, “from an uncle to his nephew, who hopes to join the abbey as a novice. Seems they’ve been having problems at home, in Albi and Toulouse.

“Heretics and burnings.” His voice grew grim. “The people have started rioting, and the churchmen hide in their houses of God.”

“The inquisitor Poncia told us of has released another page on his treatise on heretics and witches. He rides to Carcassonne, it’s said.”

Auda met his fearful look and remembered the
vicomte
’s caution.

“At least we can be thankful you are safe in the palace.”

Auda returned to
the palace the next morning, pausing at the bridge to stare at the river. Swollen with the spate of rains and runoff from melted snow, the Aude looked like it might well overflow. Unlike the gray hue it bore all winter under an overcast sky, now the river surged brown and white, bearing sticks and rocks and bramble to the sea. She hurried past the cool breeze that wafted from its surface and tried not to think of the power of the rushing water.

When she arrived at the lady’s study, Auda found the entire table covered with documents. Two wooden boxes holding rolls and books were stacked along the wall. She waited for the
vicomtesse
to arrive, but after a few minutes alone couldn’t resist the temptation to rummage through the pile. All manners of documents had been collected here, from faded letters to dense contracts, liturgical writings, even some verse. Some were written in Occitan, which she knew well, others in Latin, which was harder to understand.

The rolls of parchment showed signs of disrepair. They had been stored badly, some torn and damaged by insect bites. A
few had been repaired, but most would only get worse with time. Some even showed water damage, were left discolored, brittle, and wrinkled with blurred writing that Auda could barely read.

She fingered the edge of a book. The Church objected to the fragility of paper, yet parchment stored without care could disintegrate just as easily.

The
vicomtesse
walked into the room, her steps brisk. “I kept the letters you copied for me on paper out in the sun for a week,” she said without greeting. “Several days of full sunlight, and the material has neither bleached nor the ink faded.” She tapped her cheek with one finger. “It seems your father was right about the potential of this paper he makes. At least, it will be good enough for what I need.”

Auda nodded, eager, and the lady continued.

“I found these writings in an old storage hall. Some hail from the time of Lady Ermengarde. Verse and scripts, those are the real gems, I’m certain.”

Auda gazed at the lady, astonished. The Lady Ermengarde, a
vicomtesse
from two centuries ago, had been a strong patron of music, calling troubadours and jongleurs from all over the county to perform for her. Auda had read of her in a book that Tomas had wanted copied for a Narbonnaise noble. She hadn’t imagined documents from those times could survive to this day.

“I want you to start copying these, on your father’s paper. These documents are to go into the scriptorium, when it’s time, but I want my own copies. Much of Narbonne’s history is recorded here.” Her gaze was thoughtful.

Auda bowed, trying to quell her excitement. Where would she begin?

“There are scores more crates to sort,” the lady said. “I’ll have my manservant bring them up.”

Left alone again, Auda resumed her survey of the writings. It would take years just to copy these documents, much less the additional boxes the
vicomtesse
promised. Surely the lady would be happier if Auda scribed the more interesting documents first—perhaps the verses from Lady Ermengarde’s time. She unrolled a few scrolls and read their contents. It was all written in some formal language, words she couldn’t fully understand. Still she could tell, from the style of each document, whether the writing spoke of business, with numbers and lists, or were matters of correspondence. Some bore denser writing, with a few words she recognized: love, sadness, beauty.

She sorted the parchment into four piles: lists of numbers, like some sort of accounts; court documents; documents bearing the seal of a cross or other Church sign; and everything else, whose purpose seemed less clear.

It took her several days to organize the first of the dozen boxes that accumulated in the drawing room. She requested twine and a long length of oilcloth, which she cut into pieces to fit each manuscript. After she cleaned each roll or book, she wrapped the document in the cloth and bound it, hoping to save it from further harm. The lady surely would not mind if she took pains to salvage what documents she could.

Once the sorting was done, she pushed aside the court writings, religious texts, and the lists of numbers, and concentrated on the fourth group: those rolls of text whose provenance she wasn’t fully certain of.

She picked up the first one. It seemed to be some sort of verse written by one Bernart de Ventadorn. The words took time to puzzle out, but they bore a certain rhythm that made them easier to decipher.

She raised her eyebrows, intrigued by the song. She’d heard verse like this set to song in the market. Narbonne had once supported an abundance of music, minstrels, and jongleurs with their colorful, bawdy tunes alongside the more lyrical troubadours, whose poems succored both heart and head.

Not anymore; the era of the troubadours had passed, a book she’d borrowed from Tomas had said. Fearful of the Inquisition’s fires that spread throughout Occitania, the poets had taken their witty lyrics to safer havens. Their memory still persisted, though, along with snippets of their verse sung in the market. But never had Auda seen such words captured in writing.

She read the verse again. Did people truly speak like this, men of high station wooing their ladies? Had Jehan murmured such promises to her sister? Surely the
vicomte
hadn’t to his lady. She could well imagine the artist Jaime saying this to someone. Maybe even to her.

Auda put the verse aside and looked for other similar documents. Soon she had collected a small pile, each a vaunted tribute to the virtues of courtly love. Affection seemed to blossom most often between a highborn lady and a commoner, an impossible love made all the more noble for its implausibility. The love was a sensual one, somewhere between lust and chastity, a spirit that could move the body, give purpose to a life that otherwise seemed lusterless.

She read through them again and again, excited. Such tales of pure love enchanted her, so few in her world were lucky to find it. What a fine thing it would be to share this discovery with someone, but whom? Her father? Sister? She thought of Jaime and blushed.

The second week passed, each day a blur. Auda looked forward to her work when she awoke, spending sunrise to sunset among the words of strangers. During the day, she took care to start copying the official documents on paper, beginning with the court documents, whose words she did not understand. At night, she smuggled the verse to her room and made copies for herself on scraps of wrinkled paper she’d brought with her from home. Her mind ran through the fanciful words that showed how a man spoke to his lover, how his lover spoke back to him.

Was this what she would say if she could speak to Jaime? The thought made her heart quicken.

By the end of the week, Auda had amassed a small stack of copies to show the
vicomtesse
. The lady looked through the piles she had sorted, nodding until she came to the last one—containing the verses.

Auda stood before her, arms clasped behind her back so the lady wouldn’t see her tremble.

“I am frankly surprised,” the lady said. “I had not expected this. I had thought you’d copy half a dozen documents, maybe more if you were motivated. But this, you’ve surpassed my expectations. You’ve found the very treasures of Narbonne’s history—her music.”

Auda flushed, aware that the lady’s words were a mixture of praise and suspicion. She wrote on her wax tablet, looking the lady in the eyes.

The
vicomtesse
nodded. “Yes, that is so. You are a clever one.” She tapped her chin. “Continue as you have. But leave these to me.” She swept up the pile of verses.

Auda was glad she’d made her own copies. Would the
vicomtesse
be as enthralled with the verses as she was?

“Aha,” a baritone voice cut in. “I’ve found you.”

Auda swiveled at the sound of footsteps entering the hall, watching as the
vicomtesse
glided over to her husband.

“You’ve returned sooner than I expected,” she said, dipping her body in a graceful curtsy. “I thought you were holding court.”

The
vicomte
gave her a sardonic smile. “Again, we veered off into discussions on the Church. The inquisitor in Toulouse released more of his manuscript, rails against the Good Men again. He travels back to Carcassonne this month.”

Auda swallowed. So her father had been right! She wished she could slip out, uncomfortable so near to this strange lord, but the only path out of the room took her right past him.

“The rest of the world sends ships to discover new lands, builds new devices, learns new things,” he remarked, his voice laced with venom, “and we hover with stingers poised like swords and gad about, condemning our own with these accusations of heresy.” He closed his eyes for a moment and the lines on his pocked face smoothed. “Enough. Tell me what you are doing here. What are you and your ladies hatching?”

“The most fantastic of discoveries within our old records,” she said, looking at Auda with approval. “We’ve made quite the find here.”

Something sparked in the
vicomte
’s eyes as he turned his attention to Auda.

“And what is this?” the
vicomte
said, giving her a complicit look. “A child tinier than a bird, ready to fly?”

The lady waved him off. “My scribe. She copies documents for me, the most interesting of lyrics.”

“Ah, I remember this one. A mute girl, no?” the
vicomte
said. The flatness of his tone was belied by the coy sparkle in his eyes. “A girl who writes? Now that is an oddity.”

The intensity of his gaze made her flush. Auda realized with a start that he desired her. She lowered her face.

The
vicomtesse
’s eyes narrowed for a moment. “The girl is mute, not deaf. Don’t trouble her,” she sniffed, and turned back to the table to pick up the verses.

While his wife looked away, the
vicomte
moved closer to Auda, reaching out to stroke her left cheek. She shivered, his touch demanding—but as a lover or an accuser, she wasn’t sure.

The lady turned back to them. “Return to your work, girl,” she said. “We’ll discuss this later.”

Auda bowed, her mind reeling with relief and confusion. She heard the
vicomte
’s whisper behind her: “I look forward to it.”