And so I do. Next, Tola offers to braid my hair. I sit on a nearby log and toss my hair over my shoulders so she can more easily reach it. As her fingers busy themselves making rows and rows of small braids, she chatters about which horse is her favorite and of her excitement about our mission. Suddenly, she stops and is quiet for a long moment. “What?” I finally ask. “What is it?”
She traces her finger down along the nape of my neck, just below the hairline. “Where did you get this mark?”
“What mark?”
“You did not know that you had it?”
“No. What does it look like?”
“It is nothing, never mind. It must just be a birthmark of some sort.” And then she resumes braiding my hair.
Chapter Twenty-Two
EVEN WHEN THEY ARE in such a large encampment, the Arduinnites stick to small groups, or clans, as they call them, of anywhere from three women to a dozen. Campfires decorate the ground like the fireflies of summer, their flames twinkling yellow and orange in the encroaching night.
As I draw near our campfire, Tola and Floris stop their conversation and turn to me. Tola beams as proudly as a new mother, and I feel suddenly shy in my new attire. Floris smiles warmly, and even Aeva gives a begrudging grunt of—could it be?—approval. Four quail are on a spit over the fire, and my mouth waters at the scent of roasting meat.
Floris and Tola, while always friendly enough, seem especially relaxed in my presence tonight. Perhaps that is simply because they are surrounded by such a large number of their sisters. Whatever the reason, I welcome it, for I have questions I wish to ask, and it will be much easier if I do not have to wade through suspicion or hostility.
Once we are eating and all their attention is turned to their food, I begin. “Floris, you said that you are a priestess of Arduinna. How are her priestesses chosen?” I cut a quick glance at Aeva, bracing myself for a protest, but none comes.
“Followers of Arduinna can choose to be priestesses if they are willing to submit to the required nine years of training. Once they have mastered that, they take turns serving the goddess at different times of the year, then resume their normal duties when they are not.” She tilts her head curiously. “Is that not how your convent does it?”
“No, we are fashioned more in accordance with the offices of the new church. We have an abbess who oversees all, and then a seeress who helps us interpret Mortain’s will.” Before she can think to wonder how our seeresses are chosen, I hurry to ask my next question. “Who rules over all of you? With so very many groups, surely you must need some way to settle disagreements.”
Floris tosses the last of the quail bones into the fire and leans back, making herself comfortable. “Of course. If it cannot be settled by the clan leader, it is taken up with the high priestess and her council of priestesses on duty.”
“And if that does not solve it? Say, if the priestesses could not all agree, or if they were overruled by the high priestess? What recourse would be available to the others?”
Floris studies me closely. “Then we would put it to a vote and all of us would have a voice in the matter.” I ignore the dozen of questions shining in her eyes and turn my attention to my dinner. While I regret having to hint that there might be disagreement at our convent, it is most helpful to learn how others who follow the Nine solve such disputes.
Over fifty of us ride out to engage the French, but in small groups of four or five each. Arduinna’s work is not about full-scale battle, but rather about protecting the innocents and the lowly that others are all too quick to destroy in the process of war.
My heart is heavy that I am not doing my own god’s work, even as my spirits lift at the thought of finally putting my skills to use in the service of a god.
I am also pleased that I fit right in with the Arduinnites who ride at my side. An observer would never know I was not one of them, or even the newest among them. Floris is leading our group, and besides me it contains Aeva, Tola, and another Arduinnite, Odila, who is nearly as old as Floris. Fortuna too fits right in with these mounts, the only difference being in the style of saddles used.
We are not venturing into the city proper today. Instead, we are going to approach the outlying farms and homes in the hopes of protecting them from further scavenging and raids.
The farmer whose cart Tola and Aeva returned said that the French had arrived four days ago and that yesterday was the first time they had come in search of food. It is our hope that other farms have not yet been ransacked.
The first farm we pass is abandoned. Closest to the town, the family who lived here did not waste any time packing up all their belongings and livestock and moving on.
The second farm is inhabited by a more stubborn fellow; he greets us with a pitchfork in one hand and a club of wood in the other. “Peace,” Floris says, holding up her hand. “We come only to be certain you are safe from the French.”
“Just let them try and take my sheep. I didn’t keep them all through the winter to feed a bunch of French pigs.”
Floris manages, just barely, not to smile. “We are glad to hear it. However, there are hundreds of them and only one of you, so if you have family you can go stay wi—”
He spits off to the side. “I’ll not be chased off my own land. Who sent you?”
“Arduinna, the patron saint of innocents.”
“If that man is innocent, I’ll eat my bow,” mutters Aeva.
In the end, we cannot convince him to go elsewhere, but at least he has no wife or children who can be harmed.
As we draw closer to the French checkpoint, Floris motions Aeva and Odila to dismount. They leave their horses with us and creep forward, quickly disappearing in the brush beside the road. Tola nearly quivers in anticipation. Floris glances her way. “It will be your turn next time.”
We listen carefully but hear nothing. Good. That means the soldiers will not hear them either. Nearly a quarter of an hour later, two muffled thumps disturb the silence, and a host of birds takes panicked flight. When no more sounds follow, Floris gives a nod of approval.
It is not enjoyable, this crawling around in the brush, sneaking up on people unaware, and ambushing them. I much prefer how we who serve Mortain do it—by facing our victims and being certain they know full well they are being held to account. But this is war, and war has its own set of rules, for all that I did not study them.
The next day our mission proves harder, for word of our ambush has been reported back to the French, and they have tripled the manpower at their checkpoints. But they do more than increase their sentries—they begin pillaging the countryside in earnest. We spot four different groups riding out in all directions, eager to find whatever food and provender they can before we block off their access.