On this day I kill three more men, all of them French soldiers. I am grateful that the bow is Arduinna’s favored weapon, for it is easier for me to kill from a distance than up close, and I am glad that the sour sickness does not return to my belly with each kill.
Well, not as strongly as the first time, anyway.
We harry the French at every turn, disrupting their supply chains and forays for food, protecting the innocent when they are threatened, and recruiting the able-bodied to our cause.
Floris is right: it is a good way to release some of the pain of Matelaine’s death. It is hard work, not only physically but mentally, for it requires patience and cunning to wait out the enemy, anticipate their actions, then organize others to act, others who are undisciplined and afraid—afraid of both the French and the Arduinnites, for they are the stuff of legends.
In the following days, I kill seven more soldiers. None of them is marqued, but I do not feel the sick roiling in my gut like I did with the first one. While I never grow to love killing, I must admit that doing it before these men can harm others, whether by starving them or raping them or burning down their farms, feels justified, especially when there is no marque to guide me.
It makes it easier still when they rush to attack us, for then the killing becomes a mere reflex of self-protection.
On the tenth day, one of the Arduinnite scouts comes riding into camp and leaps from her horse before it has even come to a stop. “The Breton army has arrived!” she shouts, and a cheer goes up.
It takes them a week, but the Breton troops, flying Marshal Rieux’s flag, are able to drive the French from Vannes. It is from those Breton troops that we learn that the duchess is no longer at Guérande. Indeed, she took her entire court with her to Rennes back in February.
“Rennes,” I repeat stupidly. I could likely have reached Rennes simply by bearing directly north for three or four leagues, not even needing to worry about the bedamned French. Frustration at the futility of the wait fills me, and Floris and Tola look at me oddly.
“Then I must go to Rennes. I will leave today.”
Floris nods. “It is time.”
Seeing my surprise at her easy acquiescence, Tola leans close to murmur in my ear. “She had another vision,” she explains.
Floris lifts her head and peers off to the north. “Someone at the duchess’s palace has put out the sacred offering requesting Arduinna’s help, and we must honor it. Therefore, we will be traveling with you to Rennes.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
FLORIS, AEVA, AND TOLA ACCOMPANY me only as far as the bridge that leads to the Rennes city gates. “Tell the duchess we have heeded her call and will aid her in any way we can,” Floris says. “We will await her instructions in our camp.”
“You won’t come with me to the palace?”
“No,” Aeva says. “We avoid cities whenever possible. They are too confining.”
“We will pitch our main camp over there.” Floris points to the north, where the line of trees meets the valley. “The rest of our forces should be here in a few days.”
“How will the duchess get a message to you?”
Floris smiles. “Through you, of course. It is not as if we will be in hiding. You may come find us whenever you like.” She turns her gaze to the people entering and leaving the city, a great number of whom are soldiers. “Whenever there are this many troops around, there are sure to be innocents who need to be protected.” Her lip curls faintly in disgust. “You may be certain we will have plenty to keep us busy.”
I bid them farewell and thank them for all their help. I cannot find the words to tell them it has been so much more than simply allowing me to travel with them. I feel as if they have opened my eyes to an entirely new way of being, of existing in a group, and it has given me much to think upon.
I have grown accustomed to their company and feel nearly na**d without them as I turn Fortuna toward the city. Her hooves thud hollowly across the wooden bridge.
The city’s gray stone walls stretch out as far as the eye can see, like a mother’s arms keeping her children safe. Sentries and lookouts patrol the catwalks atop the walls, and guards stand at the gate itself. They are not stopping people going in or out, but their eyes are sharp as they scan the crowd for trouble.
As well they should, for there are people everywhere. In truth, I never imagined so many could live in one place behind one set of walls. Or that they would want to.
And Floris was right—the city appears to be overrun by soldiers. They outnumber the townspeople by five to one, at least. Most do not seem to be on duty but merely wander the streets in groups. There is a bored, restless air to the men that makes me wonder if the sentries should not train their sights on the inside of their walls rather than outside of them.
I pull my thoughts away from the soldiers and take in Rennes itself. It is large and far grander than Vannes, although I saw little enough of that town, and in the poorest of circumstances. These cobbled streets are lined with shops and brightly painted two- and three-story timbered houses. The spire of a grand cathedral rises from the middle of the city like a beacon.
My ogling draws the notice of others—well, that and my strange attire, for while I have thrown a skirt over my leggings, I am still dressed mostly in the manner of the Arduinnites. Three soldiers lounging near a smithy eye me, and I urge Fortuna down a different street before they can think to create mischief. While I would not mind fighting them, the whole place has the feel of a pile of kindling, and I do not wish to be a spark.
When I approach the sentry at the palace, he gives me a lazy grin that I meet with a cool smile. “I am here to see the abbess of Saint Mortain.”
I enjoy it more than I should when the grin drops from his face and he stands up straighter. “Your name?”
“Tell her that Annith is here.”
He nods curtly, motions a page over from the small cluster of boys who linger just inside the door, and gives him instructions. The page, a bright-eyed boy whose mischievous grin reminds me of Audri, makes a perfunctory bow, then hurries off into the interior of the castle. I am sent to the antechamber to cool my heels, and I try not to gawk and gape as if I have just rolled off the turnip cart.
Sister Beatriz told us often of the grandeur we would encounter when our duties brought us to the ducal court, but, as I have learned again and again these past weeks, there is a difference between hearing about something and experiencing it. Sister Beatriz was no poet, so her words did not come close to painting the true picture.