Watermark

by Vanitha Sankaran

  Her father usually used his favored mould and deckle set, acquired from his apprenticeship in Spain, but over the years he’d collected many others. There was the large set for making receipt books for the moneylenders, the long, narrow set meant to duplicate the feel of scrolls, and another for palm-leaf books. Stacked to the side were the lesser used sets—the one made of stitched bamboo reeds bought from an Oriental at the fair in Barcelona, another made from thin strips of flattened wood shavings that her uncle Guerau had given him, even one made of grass and animal hair.

  Martin took out a small hammer and began tapping at his deckle, fixing it so it would fit more flatly atop its companion mould. He glanced at her for a moment but said nothing.

  Walking over to him, she picked up one of the moulds and drifted her fingers over the screen. How would that watermark the Gypsy spoke of fit into the process of papermaking? Was the wire supposed to be attached to the mould? Or pressed into the paper after it had dried?

  What did it matter? She dropped the mould back on the table. In a few weeks, at the most a month, she’d be steeped in another family’s matters with nothing to connect her to reading, writing, or paper.

  “Best cut some quills,” her father said, still watching her, “so we can test the paper properly. This new batch has to be perfect. Nothing but the best for the palace.”

  Auda nodded. She rummaged through her basket of quills sitting on the desk and picked out the broken shafts to burn later.

  She spread the bedraggled feathers saved from yesterday’s chicken across the desk. It had been hard for her and Martin to get any meat at all from the butcher, despite the fact Poncia had bought from him every week for years. Under the torrent that had waterlogged the whole town, every last scrap of fat and remnant suddenly had a price. They had taken the smallest chicken to get these feathers—eight deniers for a scrawny carcass that shouldn’t have cost more than six. When they’d stopped the butcher from plucking the bird, he hesitated like a gambler told to tithe his winnings.

  “T’were for the abbey,” he said. “On account of the rains.”

  Martin had clenched his jaw and added another penny to the pile. The butcher mumbled about the goodwill of priests. A penny more.

  Auda picked up the feathers, wiping blood and dirt off each one. She dumped them in a tall pail of rainwater, nibs down. The feathers clung together in a bundle. Stowing the pail under the workbench, she took out another bucket holding feathers that had been soaking for a full day. Their shafts, clear when dry, swelled milky white and flexible now. She dried each with a soft cloth and picked up her knife.

  “Heat those before you cut them,” her father said. “We’ve nothing to waste, so take care.” He took a bucket of sand from the shelf and placed it on the fire where the vat of pulp had stood before. Ten score sheets would be sieved with the mould and deckle, then pressed and dried in the barn. It would be another week before the fermenting linens in the barrels would be ready to be made into the next batch of pulp. In the meantime, the finished sheets had to be smoothed and tested. Most would be boxed loose into quires of fifty, but some would be sewn into folios.

  Martin plunged his fingers into the sand. “Wait till it’s warm to the touch.”

  Prepare quills. Know how. She twitched her lips.

  He said nothing.

  She crouched by the bucket, checking the temperature of the sand. When it grew lukewarm, she took the bucket off the fire and propped the quills inside. Minutes later, when they’d cooled, their shafts had returned to their original transparency, tougher, smaller, and tempered.

  She cut tips on each of the quills, shavings from the shaft curling on the floor. How many more times would she cut quills for her father before they sent her away? How often would she see her father? When would she ever work in his studio again?

  Martin cleared his throat, still watching her.

  “Those will be fine for our regular work. But we need thicker nibs for the new ink. Goose feathers will do us better. Could be we’ll find some in Carcassonne tomorrow.”

  She whipped her head around. We?

  He shrugged, voice still nonchalant. “I’ve business to attend, if you want to join me.”

  Is it safe?

  “Safe enough, I should think. And I want to keep you with me.” His smile was laced with sadness.

  Her only reply was to jump up and embrace him.

  They left the next morning, renting passage on a merchant cart heading west across a carpet of green grass and vineyards. Auda huddled in her cloak and peered into the misty rain, but seeing only blurs of color, she settled back in the wet straw. Despite the muddy ruts in the roads that made their wheels stick, she dozed until they arrived, early in the evening.

  Carcassonne was surrounded by a stone wall lined with turrets and arrow loops for archers. Seven large towers stood on the front side of the walls. The tops of further towers loomed behind the city like a studded crown atop the knoll.

  “Narbonne looks like a bunch of huts from here,” her father said, but Auda couldn’t discern the town from the vineyards far on the horizon.

  Martin pointed to their right. “The old Roman amphitheater. And beyond that, the Aude.”

  Squinting through the drizzle, she searched for the fat snake of gray that was her namesake. Their cart wound up the hill and stopped at the double drawbridge lowered over a full moat. Martin nudged her.

  Gathering her sack, which contained a heel of bread and a flagon of wine, she jumped off the cart and followed him across a set of bridges. She stepped quickly through wooden doors in the outer and inner walls and ducked under the hanging iron portcullis.

  Martin motioned for her to keep moving. “Stay near.”

  Larger than Narbonne and built on a hill to separate the nobles on high from their poorer neighbors, Carcassonne was still peopled with the usual vendors, Gypsies, and noblemen jostling each other in mutual chaos. Painted signs with colorful pictures hung above the shops, the odd torch burning inside some, hinting at an inner vivacity. But mostly the city’s luster was dampened by the same gloom that shrouded Narbonne, the same patter of rain.

  As at home, the clergy perched on trestles, chanting prayers to passersby amidst the heavy clanging of bells. A pair of priests shepherded chained penitents past Auda and Martin, followed by a column of self-flagellants carrying thick whips they used against their own bloodied flesh. Nearby cries heralded the sight of more prisoners, naked save for their loincloths and reeking of fear, prodded forward by guards with sharpened pikes.

  Auda turned her head. This was nothing like she’d expected. She heard the cruel snap of a switch hitting bare skin and hid her face.

  “It’s never been like this before,” Martin said, grim. He picked up the pace and led her along the narrow promenades, pointing out various artisan streets and the giant well where the lower city inhabitants drew their water. Prayer tokens and crosses hung on nearly every door.

  They arrived at a house squeezed between two others on Parchmenter’s Lane. Through the milky animal skin covering the window, a bulky figure moved.

  Martin knocked. “Arnaud,” he called out, knocking again. A slot in the door opened and a pair of large eyes, rheumy with suspicion, appeared in the crack.

  “Martin!” The gray eyes softened and the door swung wide. A large man clasped hands with her father and showed them in. The house was small, not much larger than their own hearth room, but cozy and warm, exuding the faint scent of cooked meat.

  The man looked her over. His gaze lingered on her eyes, but he said nothing.

  Auda returned his look with sadness. Was this how it would always be for her, even among friends? Would anything change if she did marry the miller? Maybe she’d be better accepted then, if only for the wealth she married into.

  “Arnaud,” Martin said, “this is my youngest daughter, Auda. Auda, Arnaud and I have been friends for many years.”

  Arnaud dipped his head in greeting. His face was kind and craggy, cr
owned with thick white hair that shot out in all directions. He held out a wrinkled hand. “Come, sit by the fire. It’s a cold beast that hunts this evening.”

  They hung their cloaks to dry near the fire. Martin pulled the wineskin and brown bread from their bag while Arnaud added water to the pot on the hearth and spooned out the broth into coarse wooden bowls. He garnished it with shavings of bacon.

  “Not much, but it fills the belly,” Arnaud said between sips. “Prices have gone up everywhere and people hoard what they have.” He snorted. “The only one doing well these rain-infested days is the Church. She has her mercenaries on every corner, preaching to the poor on what their sins have visited upon us all.”

  Martin tore off a chunk of bread and handed it to Auda. “It’s the same in Narbonne.”

  Arnaud shook his head. “No, it can’t be. Surely you’ve seen the penitents and prisoners suffering on the road. Narbonne will never resort to such ugly displays.”

  Auda had read in one of Tomas’s history books that back in the days of heresy, the days of the Good Men, all of south France had burned except for Narbonne. The one time the town had been threatened with destruction on account of her heretics, her guardians—the archbishop and the vicomte—had sold all of the town’s gold in exchange for the safety of the people. Rumors suggested that perhaps some within the Church—not to mention the old vicomte—had succumbed to the allure of heresy themselves.

  What was this heresy that scared the Church so? she wondered. She knew that the heretics shunned all physical things, including their own bodies, as evil creations of the devil. Only the soul was pure, they said, created by God. Her sister once said that the heretics defiled their own bodies with buggery and mortification.

  Yet whatever this heresy was, it gave its people uncommon will to survive. They seemed indefatigable.

  “Narbonne is no longer the haven it once was,” Martin said and looked at Auda.

  “Maybe,” Arnaud allowed. “But if it’s that bad in Narbonne, imagine how much worse it must be everywhere else.”

  Martin’s mouth turned down in worry. “Perhaps it was not the best time to come here. I had thought it might be better than at home.”

  Arnaud shrugged. “Madness is afoot. The worst is the Inquisition. The bastards have brought out two score of condemned in the past month. The only thing keeping them from burning is this wretched rain.” He spat out a piece of chewed fat and examined it. “If you listen to the priests, all the heretics in the whole of France have flocked here. The inquisitors won’t be satisfied until half the town is drowned or burned to cinders and ashes.”

  Better this town than her own, Auda thought, then flushed at her lack of charity. She mouthed a short prayer for the penitents they’d passed on the road.

  “Well then.” Arnaud turned to Martin. “Have you come to tell me you’ve given up this nonsense with paper?”

  Martin snorted. “And what, turn to parchment? I’ve no call to be the Church’s whore. At least they still let me sell my paper, even if they won’t give me a stall of my own in the market.”

  “Why struggle so hard? Parchmenters make a living same as you.”

  “Aaarch.” Martin set his cup down. “Many trades make a living. In fact, I’ve come to meet with a bookseller who says he may have need of paper books.”

  Auda looked up. Why hadn’t he told her of this customer?

  “I’ve brought the best of my papers to show to him,” Martin continued. “You’ve a fine hand and a good eye for colors, Arnaud. Come, illustrate my paper for me. We’ll make books for the people and split the profits as brothers, half to each.”

  Auda shot her father a look of betrayal. She’d not yet even gone from his home and already he was conspiring to work with another.

  But Arnaud only looked askance at Martin. “And whose whore will we be then? You fool yourself.” He waved a hand as Martin started to speak. “Paper will be no different.”

  “It will be the great equalizer, surely you see that. If learning and letters are no longer the province of the Church and nobles alone—”

  “You assume that people wish to learn, Martin.” Arnaud leaned in. “Sometimes the seed falls upon the path and is trampled under the feet of ignorance.”

  “Then, old friend, we shall drag up the depths of our society, lurking as they are in their hovels and their own shit. I’ve seen it in my own hometown—works of genius committed to paper by men who might not otherwise have a means to share their words.”

  Auda nodded, feeling a familiar thrill, and Martin gave her a sidelong glance.

  Arnaud followed his gaze. “You’ve heard what the inquisitors write on heresy and witchery?” he asked.

  Martin did not answer. Auda tensed beside him, remembering the frightening words Poncia had shared with them.

  Arnaud sighed. “When fools learn to care about reading and writing, it will be the hope and the bane of us all.”

  The next morning, Martin left Auda at the door to the Basilica of St. Nazaire.

  “Heed Arnaud’s words,” he told Auda. “Stay in the church, in the back.”

  Touching her cap, she nodded.

  Martin clutched his case and slipped into the flow of pedestrians, carts, and animals on the street.

  Watching him disappear into the crowd, Auda drew her arms close about her. The sky was gray and melancholy this dawn. A fat raindrop splattered against the ground in front of her, followed by several more that turned into a steady patter. She heard the plucking of notes nearby and smiled. It wouldn’t hurt to hear a bit of music. Not for a few moments.

  She sought out the sound, focusing on the clear notes. A musician had set up not far from her, a flutist with a thick wooden pipe that he unwrapped from layers of cloth. Laying the dark fabric out for coins, he stood under the rafters of a closed stand and began to play.

  The musician piped a familiar melody, an old troubadour song about troubled love. She remembered the lyrics.

  Plunged into great distress am I,

  More than the knight who woos me.

  Handsome and earnest, perfect, in truth,

  He loves but does not see me.

  Auda nodded her head in time. The piper was a thin man with wet, patched clothes. He seemed young, though his face bore wrinkles of worry and his shoulders were weighted down by weariness. Yet as he played, his fatigue seemed to lift, carrying with it the city’s sunken spirit.

  A group of guards passed them, splashing through the puddles. Auda moved closer to the piper and he resumed playing, as though especially to her. Crowds passed, but she noticed only one other person listening: a tall olive-skinned man who lingered nearby. He dropped a coin onto the flutist’s cloth and stayed close to the piper, but his gray eyes were fixed on the crowd gathering near a large stage in the center of the square. The damning words of priests and preachers rose above the city prattle, drowning out the piper’s melody.

  She had better get inside.

  But before she could withdraw the bells rang for Prime, and Martin appeared suddenly, his cloak flapping about him. He blinked when he caught sight of her. Why had he come back so soon? He’d barely been gone an hour. The audience by the stage had grown thicker even though the rain had grown stronger.

  “What are you doing outside? Never mind. We must leave now,” her father said, pulling her away from the square. His face looked ruddy and worn, and sweat stained the sides of his tunic.

  The vestiges of the piercing melody melted away. Behind her father, the growing crowd engulfed the piper. Tension creased the corners of her father’s eyes and mouth. Had his meeting gone awry?

  What happened?

  He grabbed her with one hand, gripping his case with the other. “It was a mistake to come here. We must leave.”

  He tried to lead her out of the square, but the people streaming out of the basilica crowded the square from all directions. Father and daughter were pushed back with the masses jeering at the stage.

  “The hour of the h
eretics is at hand,” someone yelled.

  Auda sucked in her breath and strained to look around. A small group of penitents huddled together on the tall stage, surrounded by guards. Their heads were shaven and their faces were dirty. People were throwing rocks and rotten vegetables at their bodies, and Auda winced as the hard clumps smacked their bruised flesh.

  Behind them, a tall black-robed priest nodded in approval. An inquisitor? She tried to breathe but the flesh of her tongue stump caught in her mouth.

  “Eyes to the ground and move forward.” Her father’s voice was low and close to her ear.

  Auda forced her feet to move as the crowd jostled around her. A man wrapped in sackcloth stumbled into her side. Pain shot through her. Crushed between strangers, she struggled to regain her balance but slipped on the wet cobblestones.

  “Damned crowds,” the man said, twisting his head. Their eyes connected, a handspan from each other. Auda smelled his sour breath on her face.

  He pushed her away with both hands. “God save us!” he blurted out.

  Martin pulled her up, but the man had already begun screaming.

  “It’s a witch!” he yelled, making a sign of the cross. He waved his arms at the crowd. “She’s one of them. Right here!”

  He reached toward her, still shouting. Someone else pulled her arm; another grabbed at her head and shoulders. Her wimple was torn away and her long white hair tumbled free, exposed. On the dais, the inquisitor turned toward the commotion.

  “Ahherr,” she tried to say.

  Someone screamed. “The devil walks among us, we have a witch!” More hands tugged at her clothing. Someone tripped; others fell. Suddenly she felt herself scooped up under someone’s cloak and pulled forward by strong arms.

  “The devil, hideous devil!”

  “Ahhh,” she moaned and struggled, but she couldn’t break away.

  “Let her go,” her father yelled.

  Yet the man carrying her away only held her closer to his chest. “Be quiet,” he hissed. “Just follow.”