Watermark (24 page)

It took her an hour to write the simple lines.

Regaining strength from
her resolve, Auda hobbled around her filthy cell, still shrouded in darkness. She poked two tiny holes in the layers of cloth covering her window and struggled to line the holes up.

She swore, leaning her head further to the side. The wounds in her neck throbbed in pain. She inched the top layer of the window covering into a bunch until the holes were aligned, and peered through.

She couldn’t discern much in the harsh sunlight. Someone was imprisoned in the main square, probably in stocks or a pillory. It was a woman, from the sound of the screams. Auda imagined the wooden stocks were stained with the woman’s blood; each time a passing boy threw something—a rock or dead rat—at her, the wretch wailed.

“I heard no heresy, I swear!”

Above her, a lone falcon shrieked.

Carts bearing the bones of the dead and the partial bodies of the wounded rolled through the streets. Auda craned her neck to hear. These were the warriors from the Shepherd’s Crusade, the town crier declared, fallen soldiers from a war
against France’s own Jews that neither king nor pope had sanctioned. Denied the true targets of their vengeful folly, the warriors had fallen upon each other, the crier in the square said. Blood, it seemed, was the nourishment of the day. As each cart bearing the fallen rolled by, Auda imagined she could see their vacant faces. They all bore the visage of her poor father.

Some time later, the door to the room swung open and the guard kicked in another prisoner, a hunched figure cloaked in dirty brown. The creature collapsed on the ground as the guard slammed the door shut and locked it.

“Help me,” he whispered reedily, clutching at the cloak that was drawn too tight around its neck.

Auda limped to the hooded prisoner. Her fingers fumbling over the thick knots of the cloak’s drawstrings, she unbuttoned it along the front and peeled the tattered cloth from his body.

Her eyes fell to the brown cloak, cast off like dead skin. She moved closer, picked it up and turned it in her hands. A cross of yellow cloth was sewn onto the poor material. Broad and bright, for everyone to see.

The cross of the heretic.

She gasped and moved to the man, ripping off his hood. It was René. A fresh contusion swelled on his right temple. One of his eyes had exploded, was flat and crusted in blood. Red scratches ringed the other. His skin was pale gray, hanging in folds around his eyes and the ridges of his head.

Auda pushed away her revulsion. Even after everything she had been through, the sight of her bruised friend sickened her to nausea.

She put a hand to his forehead. It was hot and sweaty.

He jerked back. “Don’t touch me,” he said in a hoarse voice. “It is not meet—”

Auda murmured a muffled sound.

“Auda?” he said, leaning closer. A faint smile managed to cross his lips. “I’d not thought to see you again.”

She propped his head in her lap, despite his protests, wishing she still had water. Even a befouled bucket of piss water such as the last one they’d brought would be welcome now.

René’s lips were parched, but he tried to speak. “I saw you when they found you. I tried to reach you, but I was too late. Someone saw me, I am sure of it. They followed me, but I got away. I went to the market a few days later, to speak to your artist. They grabbed me then. They knew to look for me. I wasn’t brought here right away, but I am glad they brought me so I could see you.”

Her cheeks burned in shame, but she made no sound. Another innocent caught because of her. And René
was
an innocent. Yes, he believed things the Church decried, but this man had never hurt another, never would. He would not lie or pretend to be something other than who he was.

His voice grew somber. “I think I have little time left on this earth. No, don’t fear for me,” he insisted when she let out a soft cry. “I go to a better place, to be in the arms of God.” A glaze came over his open eye. He blinked, then frowned.

“I must take the
consolamentum
. Please, Auda, you must help me.”

She shook her head. How could she help him?

“Please. I need an object. Something important. Something I can imbue the Spirit with.”

She cast about the room for something, anything. Her eyes fell upon the plain wooden crucifix on the wall, adorned by a simple carving of Jesus. Shifting René’s weight to the wall, she climbed on the table to retrieve it.

When he saw what she had in her hands, he shook his head. “It’s sacrilege, Auda. Jesus was not a God born on this earth.”

Puckering her lips, she twisted the carving until it came apart and threw the figure aside. She twisted a splinter off the cross and handed it to him.

René clutched the wood to his chest. “It’s the Spirit I venerate,” he said and held it closer. He moaned. “This is not right. I need the
perfecti
to give me the
consolamentum
.”

God will understand
, she thought furiously.

René jerked as if he’d heard. He closed his eyes and whispered.

“Benedicite
.
Benedicite
.
Benedicite
.”

His voice grew distinct as he chanted the Lord’s Prayer. He could barely shape the words between his bruised, swollen lips. And yet the prayer was loud and clear. He said it again and again until his voice was a croak.

“I promise never to kill, to lust, after the body or material things. I promise never to glorify the flesh, not the body of Christ on the cross, who came to this earth only in Spirit. Neither meat nor cheese nor milk nor eggs shall pass my lips henceforth. Neither shall water nor fish. Forgive my trespasses and lead me to a good end. Dear God, lead me to a good end.”

René’s voice became a whisper. It wasn’t until he grew silent that Auda turned and noticed the inquisitor watching from a shutter in the door.

The guards ushered
René and Auda out of the room, each in a separate direction. She stretched out a hand toward René, but the guard slapped her back. Where were they taking him?

The guard prodded her outside toward the holding cell. Daylight, though filtered through the shroud of heavy rain clouds, pierced her eyes.

The sores on her neck broke and bled. A thick paste covered the welts, but still she cried when the guard shoved her into an open prison crammed with people. The cell was above ground, in the main square, near the Giles keep. Normally only half filled with petty criminals and the poor who hadn’t paid their tenant fees and tithes, the cell was now full to burst. Prisoners teemed toward the bars separating them from freedom, sticking their hands out to grasp what could be theirs, pleading with family and friends to pay their release.

Auda crawled to the front and knelt in the shade to see outside. From the cell she could see the whole of the square. It had been a woman held prisoner in the square. They’d nailed her by her ears to a pillory, no doubt for repeating ill words she’d
heard somewhere. A crowd had gathered, quiet and apprehensive. Their words were hushed, their movements muted. Where was René?

The clang of chains caught her attention. A procession of men and some women walked across the stage, led by three pairs of guards, each armed with a halberd. Some of the prisoners tripped, while others lagged against the rusty chains binding their arms and legs. The clink sounded like bones rattling against each other. Auda shuddered.

The guards stopped the condemned midway across the stage and the archbishop stepped onto the dais, flanked by clergymen, dressed all in white, and the inquisitor, all in black. The archbishop was the first to speak.

“For crimes of heresy and thoughts against our Church,” he began, “the condemned who have repented are forthwith instructed to wear the yellow cross of the heretic upon their clothes at all times, so all may know their crimes and trust or mistrust their words and deeds as is just. The cross must never be taken off or punishment of trial by fire. The Lord will be watching.” He brandished a parchment roll and read off names followed by crimes in his sonorous voice. Relief rose in cries after each name.

Auda watched the archbishop’s mouth move. More than ever, he seemed like a puppet. Did he truly believe all these people guilty? Or had he condemned them because the inquisitor expected it? Were they all puppets of some grander scheme, players with no choice?

“For more grievous sins, the Church condemns the following to life imprisoned.” Again he read a list of names and crimes, and this time there was no relief in the moans.

“Guillaume Martis, guilty of housing two heretics, giving them food and comfort. Simon de Montbleu, guilty of errone
ous thought and desecration of the Mass. Tibout d’Orion—” The list seemed endless.

Finally the archbishop finished. He seemed to droop, as though his bones grew waxen and melted. Yet perhaps it was a trick of the light, for when he spoke, it was in the same rich voice.

“Bring the prisoner.”

The guards who had herded in the chained procession now ushered them out quickly. They returned with a single man, shackled at the ankles and wrists. A thick, coarse sack covered his face.

A guard ripped the cloth from the prisoner’s head, revealing a bruised face, an eye that squinted against the diffuse afternoon light, lips that quivered without sound. He tripped, nearly falling. The crowd jeered in unison.

“René Lacis, you are brought here for thoughts and deeds of heresy, for schooling others against our Holy Church and the teachings of God and His Son,” the archbishop said. “Evidence against you has been heard by a jury of law experts and judges, consuls of the
vicomte
, noblemen, myself, and the inquisitor of Carcassonne. For the last time, do you repent your sins?”

The crowd was hushed, but René said nothing. Of course he wouldn’t. Auda’s heart sank.

The archbishop sighed. “The Church has no recourse but to declare you a heretic, and relax you to the secular arm. May God have mercy on your soul.”

The
vicomte
, looking like a stranger in a strange scene, rose to the dais in jerky movements. His voice shook when he spoke. “For the sin of heresy, René Lacis is sentenced to death by burning.”

Auda sagged against the wall. She closed her eyes and lifted
her face to heaven. The heretics had it right after all—people did bear a duality, but it was not in their spirits and bodies. It was all in their psyches, the push between competing wills. The
vicomte
with his love of his town that lived alongside his debauchery; the archbishop with his love for his flock’s souls that blinded him to the truth; even the inquisitor, who saw things only in terms of good and evil, never in nuances or mistakes.

And Auda, who never believed she was truly in danger, but who had brought danger to everyone around her.

The crowd rustled in anticipation. Auda blinked, unable to see clearly. But she couldn’t look away.

The guards bound her friend’s torso and legs to the pole with thick ropes, and his head and neck with a chain. Someone pulled on the chain until he choked. Auda cried out over the jeers that filled the air.

Other guards on the platform piled dry faggots around him, until the wood was heaped nearly to his chin. Still René did nothing. Auda pushed against the prisoners in the cell who were crowding her so they could see better. She screamed at them all until, frightened, they moved aside.

At last, two executioners came forward and lit the dry wood. The blaze caught immediately. René coughed on the swirls of smoke. His eyes were too far away to read.

The smell of the burning flesh hit her before René’s screams. It was an oily stench that roiled out of the flames in black columns of smoke, thick and greasy under the acrid reek of burned hair. Her throat grew hoarse as she cried for her friend, her keening rising as his shrieks faded. Long after his screams stopped and his slumped head was shrouded in haze, her lament hung on the fat-soaked air.

Auda spotted Poncia
through tear-stained eyes just as the older girl saw her. Poncia rushed to the metal bars, reaching for her. Auda sidled to the far end of the cell, where fewer prisoners crowded the gate. Her sister looked well, dressed in warm finery.

Poncia drew in her breath in horror. “What have they done to you?” Her fingers trailed over the scars under Auda’s chin and along her neck.

Auda shrugged, willing away her own tears just as they spilled from her sister’s eyes. After so much scorn and abuse, Poncia’s gentleness hurt to bear.

Poncia’s hands caressed Auda’s dirtied face, fluttered over her greasy hair and swollen lips. She rubbed her own face against Auda’s rough palms.

“I can’t believe I’ve found you. I’ve been looking for you each day! They’ve told us nothing about you. Someone said on burning days, they bring the prisoners out here. It’s God’s will that I found you.”

Auda’s fingers stumbled over themselves?
Papa? Jaime?
She had to be certain they were safe.

But Poncia rushed on to other things.

“What do you need? What can I give to you? Wait—” She looked around, noting the guard patrolling the road in front of the prison. The other prisoners stared at them with fear. When the guard looked away, she handed Auda a linen bag.

“Tuck it under your skirt,” she whispered, glaring at the nearby prisoners. “Just things from the market—a round of cheese, a mince pie, some nuts and dried fruit.”

Hiding the treasures in the dirty folds of her dress, Auda reached for her sister’s warm hands again. Poncia drew Auda’s fingers into the warmth of her coat, resting them on her belly.

“Auda, I—”

Auda interrupted.
Papa. Tell me. Well?

“Papa. Auda—” Poncia’s blue eyes brimmed again.

What? Tell!
Her fingers felt clumsy.

“Heaven will keep him for us.”

Auda reeled back. No, her sister had to be mistaken. So many people had been working for his release. What had happened?

A fat tear rolled down her cheek.
How? When?

“He was sick, so ill with fever and infection. I wish—” Poncia hiccupped on a sob. “I didn’t mean for it to happen this way. It was an accident.”

What?
What had her sister said?

Poncia didn’t look up. “The tract, Auda. Why did you keep it?”

Auda’s hands froze in the middle of repeating her question.

“Why?” Poncia’s words were halted, edged with sobs. “I gave it to you to see the error of your ways, so you’d know firsthand the danger you courted. Why did you not just burn it?”

Auda stared at her. So she had been right. But why had Poncia done it, given the archbishop her writings?

Poncia’s face paled, twisting away from Auda’s glare. “I didn’t mean to. I took those things from the house to save you! I meant to burn them as soon as I was alone. But Jehan surprised me. He wanted to make amends for beating me. He came with the archbishop.” Her voice broke.

“The archbishop saw that I was reading and asked to see what captivated my attention so. When he realized,” again her voice skipped, “it was too late. I had to tell him. I could have told them the truth, that I had gotten the tract from Jehan’s parents and the rest was the rubbish of a wild imagination. But I was so scared. There was too much evidence that could be found against Jehan and his family. And me. And Father had nothing to blacken his name. I thought they would just release him.” She pleaded with her eyes for Auda to understand.

Auda wanted to spit at her sister’s feet but she could not make herself move.

“I asked the archbishop to help Papa, help you. Papa was an innocent, I know. The archbishop knew it too. But then the inquisitor came.” Poncia trembled as her hands caressed her belly. “God saw my efforts to save you, at least.”

Auda closed her eyes. They had all stumbled into danger, their father, Auda, her sister. Poncia was the only one so quick to absolve herself.

“Papa is gone,” Poncia repeated in a quivering voice. “But at least his soul is safe, at peace now. He is with Maman.”

Sucking in her breath, Auda slashed at her sister’s perfect face with ragged nails.

Poncia stumbled backward, bringing her own hand up to the three thin scratches in her cheek that slowly welled with blood.

Behind her, Jehan moved closer to caress his wife’s shoulders, whispering to her. “Auda—” Jehan started.

Auda glared at him. She dropped Poncia’s sack of food, moving away so other prisoners could fight over it. The restless crowd was dispersing now that the burning was over. It could have been her father up there. Or her. It still could be.

Jehan shook his head. “She didn’t want darkness to touch her family,” he mumbled. “She didn’t see what I did in the Church, didn’t see its rotting core. And I did too little to help. Oh, I didn’t turn the Good Men to your father but they found him anyway. I should have warned him.” His shoulders sagged. “Have pity on her. It has been difficult, hiding my parents, and seeing you and your father on the same road. She thought with her heart.”

Auda turned away, her breath wavering. The anger welling in her chest had nowhere to go.

“Please, Auda. Can you not show her any mercy?” He turned an anguished gaze toward the crowd where Poncia was waiting, still wracked with sobs. “She is with child. She is your family. And you are all the family she has left. She loves you.”

Auda stared at her sister. Reaching into her bodice, she pulled out the verse she’d written and pressed it into Jehan’s hands, jerking her chin at her sister. Whether he gave the verse to Poncia or not, whether her sister even read it or understood, didn’t matter anymore.