I miss Fortuna already, not simply because riding her was faster than walking, but because she has been my one constant through these past few weeks. I hold on to half a hope that I might come upon her in the woods, that she might have run herself out and is now patiently waiting for me to find her. But there is no sign of her dappled gray bulk anywhere.
I have been walking nearly an hour when I hear it—a distinctive snuffling sound that is all too familiar from my recent dream. I glance behind me but see nothing. I cannot outrun a boar, but perhaps I can appear harmless enough that it will not charge. Just in case, I look to the surrounding trees for another branch I can use to pull myself to safety, but there is none within reach.
At the rustle of leaves just behind me, my heart begins beating so frantically I fear it will break one of my ribs. I quicken my pace, but if I go any faster, I will be running, and that will only inflame the creature.
In front of me, from what I estimate to be the direction of the road, I hear riders approaching. Judging from the sound, there are only four—no, three—of them, not an entire pack. And they are coming from the road. Not hellequin, then, but simple travelers. Travelers I may attach myself to until the next town.
I cannot help myself; I run, stumbling over roots, rocks, and my own feet so that I nearly tumble down the embankment to the road below. I stop, breathless, in front of the riders. We all stare at one another in a long moment of surprise.
They are women, although it is hard to tell at first for they wear no traditional garb. Their arms and legs are encased in tight leather, and their overgowns are of rough brown fur. Each has a quiver of arrows at her shoulder and a knife in her belt. There are three of them, and they rein in their mounts. “Greetings,” the middle rider says. She appears to be the oldest, as her light brown hair is shot through with gray. Her bearing is as erect and regal as if she were wearing a crown.
Before I can return the greeting, I see that they are leading a fourth horse—a dappled gray. “Fortuna!” I dodge around the others, deftly avoiding their horses’ hooves, and reach Fortuna’s side. I pat her neck and check her over for signs of injury.
“I take it you know each other?”
“She is my horse.”
“It is poor thanks to such a noble creature, to let her wander loose and riderless so that she might trip on her reins.” The speaker is tall, taller than the others and nearly as tall as Sister Thomine, who is the tallest woman I have ever met. She wears her hair in a long dark brown braid that swings as she dismounts. In that moment I realize they must be followers of Arduinna. And even though they are known to be protectors of women, this knowledge does not comfort me.
“I did not do that on purpose.” I do not try to hide my indignation. “And I did tie her reins off so she wouldn’t trip on them. But truly, I had no choice.”
The tall woman tilts her head. “What happened to you that you must abandon your horse in such a way and travel on foot?”
I stare at her, trying to decide what to tell them. Arduinnites are scarcer than hen’s teeth and I have seen one only once, and that was by accident. We’d been riding with Sister Widona on the mainland near a forest and caught a glimpse of a strange-looking woman—although we did not know it was a woman at first. Sister Widona nodded a curt greeting, then hurried us away. Once we were out of earshot, she explained that those who follow Arduinna bear no love for those of us who follow Mortain, since it was He who had robbed Arduinna of her sister.
Sister Widona’s words clang in my head like a great loud bell and I mentally kick myself that I did not think to ask just how deep that animosity went.
So what, then, do I tell her? Which is worse, being a daughter of Mortain or being some headstrong maiden who has behaved in a foolish manner? The uncomfortable thought occurs to me that I could be both.
The youngest of them dismounts and begins to approach me. I am assailed by the smell of leather and fur, and the tang of blood. “Are you all right?” she asks. “Have you been hurt?”
“I . . . no.”
The tallest one looks me over with haughty eyes. “You show no signs of a struggle.”
Judgment drips heavily from her words, and at first I find myself wishing I had injured myself more thoroughly as I climbed out of that bedamned tree. But then a small spark of anger ignites within me. I do not deserve her censure. I shrug my cloak away from my body, flash my daggers at her. “Perhaps it is because my pursuers were put off by these.”
The oldest one, still on her horse, speaks. “Do not take offense. It is our way, to help maids in distress or those who have been hurt or dishonored.”
“I do not know that casting doubts upon their honor is a way to win their trust,” I mutter, still ruffled by the tall one’s manner.
“You expect us to believe that a lone maid held off pursuers with a handful of knives?”
“Well, that and I disappeared up a tree.”
The eldest one’s lips twitch, and the youngest one smiles outright. “How do you come to be traveling on the road alone?” she asks.
“I have business in Guérande.”
“And you travel with no attendant or guard?” the tall one asks, disbelief still heavy in her voice.
The youngest one steps in front of me protectively. “Why don’t we ensure she is unharmed before we begin questioning her.” She is slighter than the others. Her voice sounds young to my ears, and I place her at a year or two younger than myself.
The tall one continues to study me with narrowed eyes and I wonder what I have done to raise her ire. “She has already said she was fine.” She begins walking toward me. When she reaches my side, she stops walking, leans her head forward, and sniffs. “You reek of man.”
“Aeva!” the younger one protests. Then, almost as if unable to help herself, she too sniffs, then frowns. “You smell of death as well,” she says, puzzled.
“Death?” I ask, both annoyed and startled.
The tall one—Aeva, she was called—wrinkles her nose in distaste. “It is the stench of the hellequin that clings to her.”
She can smell them? “That would be because it was the hellequin who were pursuing me.”
The youngest one’s lips part in surprise, but Aeva simply sneers. “Are you certain you were pursued and you are not simply a hellequin’s lightskirt?”
Even if I could not hear the thick contempt in her voice, the worried look on the youngest girl’s face would have alerted me that it was far better to be the victim of a hellequin than his lightskirt. It is not the least bit difficult to sound insulted, for I am sorely irked by their manner. “I am no one’s lightskirt.” Although not for want of trying, I realize, and I am suddenly ashamed by my actions. At the convent, we are not taught that it is wrong to lie with a man, but surely it is wrong to lie with one merely to avoid an unwanted fate.
“Then why do you reek of death?”
“I did not say I had not been close to one, only that I was not his lightskirt.” At my words, the tension in her body relaxes somewhat. “But neither was I his victim, for I escaped just before dawn and waited high in a tree for daybreak. And then I found you.”
“It was only the guidance of the Great White Boar herself that brought us here,” the oldest one says.
“I dreamed of her,” I tell them.
Aeva’s head whips around. “You lie.”
“I do not lie. I dreamed of a great boar, and that she was . . .” I cannot bring myself to say she kissed me with her great white snout, nor am I certain that is even what happened. “And she was protecting me.”
The three women exchange glances and the youngest looks pointedly at Aeva. “That does match Floris’s vision.”
My interest sharpens. “Is Floris your seeress?”
“No,” the oldest one says. “I am Floris, one of Arduinna’s priestesses. I too saw the Great White Boar last night, and she led me to you.”
Aeva studies me most skeptically, as if she is still trying to sort out how I came
to be in their midst. “Did you make an offering to Arduinna?” she asks.
“No. The idea never occurred to me, as I have not been raised to be familiar with her ways.”
“No matter.” The youngest one reaches out and squeezes my arm. “It is a most auspicious omen. What is your name? I am called Tola.”
She is so friendly and her blue eyes dance so cheerfully that I cannot help but smile back. “I am Annith.”
“Well, Annith,” Floris says, “we are pleased to hear that you are unharmed, and even more pleased to hear that the Great White Boar has taken you under her protection, for indeed, it will be perilous going from here. You will have to postpone your trip to Guérande, I’m afraid.”
“What?” All the goodwill I had been feeling toward these women in the past few seconds evaporates. “You cannot stop me from traveling on my business.”
“Well, that is a matter of dispute,” she says, sounding faintly amused. “But it is not we who have caused the delay. The French troops have landed at Vannes and taken the city. These shores are crawling with them like fleas on a hound. In truth, that is who we thought to rescue you from—French soldiers.”
Chapter Twenty-One
IT IS EASY ENOUGH to fall in with them. At least for now. They will offer me protection from the invading French, and although they dislike the daughters of Mortain, they despise the hellequin even more. That hatred of the hellequin makes them the perfect ones to offer me protection.
Surely the sudden appearance of Arduinna’s followers on the road in my time of need is no accident. Indeed, it feels as if Mortain is placing small steppingstones at my feet, one at a time, so that I may have a chance to wrest my own fate out of the abbess’s greedy hands.
Even so, I must resist the urge to keep looking over my shoulder. The hellequin do not hunt in the daylight, I remind myself at least a dozen times. The others make note of my unease but say nothing, and I hope that it gives the stamp of truth to my story.
We have not been on the road but two hours before we come upon a cart. Two hedge priests sit in the front, and it is draped in black. Our group moves to the side to give them room to pass. As they do, I cannot help but look into the back of it, wondering who has made their final journey into death. Perhaps it is the first of the French soldiers’ victims.
But at the sight of the bright red hair spread out against the black sheeting, my stomach curls into a tight ball of dread. “Stop!” The word springs out of my mouth before I even realize I have spoken. Surprised by the command of my voice, the hedge priests reluctantly halt, then scowl at me while the Arduinnites shoot me curious glances. I dismount from Fortuna and toss the reins at Tola, who catches them easily.
As I draw near the bone cart, time seems to slow as if it is trapped in a thick slog of mud. Please not Matelaine. Please, please, please. The prayer hammers through my body with every heartbeat.
At last, I reach the side of the cart and look down. The girl’s face is covered by a shroud. Slowly, I reach for the edge of the black linen.
“Don’t touch her!” one of the hedge priests says in outrage, but I do not even pause. I grip the fine linen and pull it away from her face.
Matelaine’s face.
At the sight of her, I feel as if a shard of glass has wedged itself into my heart. She is still and whiter than bone, her face stark against the black shroud and red hair. Her hands have been laid upon her chest, and in the right one she clutches an ivory chess piece. “Where are you taking her?” My voice sounds dull and hollow, even to my own ears.
“Back to the convent of Saint Mortain. Do you know her?” the second hedge priest asks more gently.
I nod, my eyes never leaving her face. “She is my sister.” As I stare down at her, the pain from that shard of glass spreads out, filling my lungs, my chest, my arms with such a sense of wrongness that it is all I can do not to throw back my head and howl with rage and fury. She should never have been sent out.
And the abbess knew it. The abbess has betrayed the very tenets of the convent. The nuns are meant to foster and care for His daughters as they would their own, sending them out only when they are truly ready.
It is also, I realize with a sour sickness in my belly, my fault as well, for whatever the reason the abbess has held me back, it is at the root of her decision to send Matelaine. If I had been stronger, faster, more determined, argued my case better, I could have prevented this. I turn on the priest. “What happened?”
The kinder one answers. “We do not know. We were only given the body to transport back to the island.”
I feel a hand on my shoulder and spin around in surprise. It is the oldest of the Arduinnites—Floris. “Is she your sister?” Her brown eyes are full of compassion.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“What do you wish to do?”
Her question reminds me that I have choices. Part of me wishes to crawl into the cart and hold Matelaine close for the entire journey back to the convent. To whisper all the words of friendship in her ear that I was too busy to utter in real life. To present her body to the nuns who are still there and scream at them, See what you have done? By your silence, your compliance? The unspoken words in my throat are as hot and painful as red coals from a fire.
My own plans and ambitions crumble like winter’s first frost under a heavy boot. A choking anger continues to build inside me, and rage spreads so quickly through my body that it is a wonder I do not erupt into flames.
Slowly, I turn to face Floris. “I wish to travel on and avenge her death by confronting those who have done this to her.”
She holds my gaze for a long moment, and I see a measure of approval in them. “Are you also a daughter of Mortain?”
I look away. “Yes. I am sorry I did not tell you. I know there is a history of animosity between us. I will no longer travel with you if you’d prefer.”
“If you are avenging this girl, then you are on Arduinna’s business now, so you are welcome to travel with us. Plus, a lone woman is too easy to harass; a group of four women who are warriors and assassins, less so.”
We make camp just before nightfall. I suggest we spend the night near a church so we can be assured of the protection of consecrated ground, but they refuse, and Aeva outright laughs. “We have no love of or use for the Church.”
“But the hellequin claimed they would hunt me forever,” I explain. “I do not wish to bring their vengeance down upon you as well.” Not to mention incite some sort of civil war among the gods and their minions.
“They could not know you would find shelter with us,” Floris says. “And even if they did, the hellequin will not dare approach the followers of Arduinna.”
“But just to be certain, we will ward our camp,” Tola adds cheerfully.
Aeva turns on her, eyes sparking with annoyance. “You talk too much of things that are for our ears only.” When Tola simply shrugs, Aeva reaches for a handful of kindling and flings it onto the fire. “If you have so little care for the secrets that lie between her god and ours, why not simply get down at her feet and rub yourself against her ankles like an overfriendly cat?”
“Enough!” It is the first time I have heard Floris raise her voice. “It is Tola’s choice who she makes friends with, not yours.”
Unable to help myself, I glance over at the older woman. “You do not forbid it?”
She shakes her head at my question. “It is not ours to forbid. Every one of us must decide for herself.”
After another long moment of silence, I speak again. “Why is there so much animosity between Mortain and Arduinna?” I ask. “As the old stories tell it, Arduinna gave her blessing to Mortain and Amourna’s pairing.”
Aeva shoots me a scornful glance, and my hand itches to slap the look off her face. “We who serve Arduinna are made, not chosen and showered with otherworldly gifts like the daughters of Mortain. Every skill we possess, every feat we master, we acquire through our own sweat and determination. Not because we were sired by a g
od.”
I lean forward, wishing we were standing so I could back her up against a tree to shake her arrogance. “First, you will be comforted to learn that not all daughters of Mortain are blessed with His unique gifts and talents. I am one of those who have been given none, and have had to work hard for every skill I’ve acquired—often at great personal cost.” Our gazes hold for a long moment, then she looks away. I take a deep breath to calm myself, then turn to Floris. “How do followers come to serve Arduinna if they are not her children?” Although as soon as I utter the words, I realize how foolish that sounds, for no woman, not even a goddess, can give birth to hundreds of daughters. Not to mention she is reported to be a virgin goddess at that.
Floris stands up to add another branch to the fire. “When a woman feels love’s painful bite, that is when she prays to Arduinna. Every heart that has been broken, every lover who has been jilted, every soul that has been twisted by jealousy belongs to her. All girl children born of such a union—whether the jealous vindictive side of love or the heart-wrenching unrequited side—are Arduinna’s own daughters. They may never know it, but she does, and she watches over them. If they choose to dedicate themselves to her service, they are welcomed with open arms.
“And to answer your original question on the animosity between our gods, it is because your god played our goddess false,” she says softly.
The silence that follows grows thick, and they all exchange glances while I stare stupidly at her. Aeva looks smug. “Ah, you’ve not heard that story, have you?”
“No, I have not.”
“Well, you will not hear it from us.” Aeva sends the others such a searing gaze that even Floris does not contradict her. Then she rises to her feet in disgust. “I am going to do something useful, like hunt for our dinner, instead of huddling around and gossiping with our enemies.”
I raise my eyebrows and turn to Floris. “I apologize. I did not realize I was an enemy. I have no desire to put any of you in an uncomfortable—”
Mortal Heart Page 15