Sandreena rolled her eyes, but said nothing. The bed was probably filled with straw and bugs. Well, it was better than sleeping on the ground next to her horse in the run-in. ‘You have any fresh hay or grain for my horse?’
‘When my husband gets here,’ was the reply. ‘He went to buy supplies. We were running low on many things.’ There was a hint of concern in the woman’s otherwise stern tone and Sandreena wondered why, especially since she had been assured her husband was close to arriving safely. Sandreena had been in dozens of villages like this one over the years and had developed a good sense of when things were normal and when they were not. Something was very out of place here, and she wondered if it was related to her mission.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’m for a quick rinse. Will you ask one of your boys to see to my horse when they get here?’
‘That will cost extra,’ said the woman without hesitation.
‘Why am I not surprised?’ muttered Sandreena. She took another silver coin out of her purse and put it on the counter. ‘I may be here for two or three days. If there are more costs, let me know.’
She walked out of the building and past the shed. She retrieved a bundle from her saddle kit and moved through the small southern meadow. No one had to tell her where the creek was as she had been north of the stream for the last five miles along the road into town.
She quickly found it and noticed with some satisfaction it was isolated and private. She removed her cloak, and the Order’s tabard, letting them both fall to the ground. She removed her heavy leather gauntlets and tossed them onto the cloak. Taking off her helm, she set it down on the ground next to the cloak. The coif and mail shirt were annoying to untie alone, and she knew she must look ridiculous bending at the waist and shaking them off. There was one advantage to being a Temple knight rather than a Knight-Adamant, and that was having a squire at hand to help you. Some errant knights had squires, just as some mendicant friars of her order had begging acolytes, but she preferred her solitude.
Stripping off her head covering, tunic, trousers and underclothes, she waded into the stream.
Each time she bathed outside, Sandreena was revisited by the conflicts and contradictions her body raised within her. At the cloistered Temple baths, or in the privacy of a tub in an inn, she felt confined and protected from them, but outside she felt more exposed, yet more fundamental and almost primitive in nature.
She enjoyed being a woman, yet she always felt it to be a burden. She despised the men who had used her when she was young, but occasionally she longed for a gentle man’s hands on her body. She knew men found her beautiful, so she hid under armour and arms, rejecting the allures of her former trade. Gone were the unguents and colours, the soft silks and jewellery. Her face remained hidden behind a faceplate, and her body under armour and tabard.
She sighed as she scrubbed at her hair with the very costly Keshian soap she had purchased the year before. She paused and luxuriated as much as possible in the cool breeze and the faint scent of lilacs that the soap maker had instilled in his product. The bar was almost gone; she resolved to purchase another on her way back to Krondor; it was her only indulgence in an otherwise austere existence.
Feeling an unexpected twinge of sadness, she wondered if her life would end in bloodshed and pain, or if she might find another life after this one, perhaps with a good man, and children. She shook her head in frustration and pushed aside the familiar feeling of futility. The Goddess often tested her faithfulness and doubt was to be expected; the priests and priestesses had prepared her for these moments, yet it was difficult.
She put aside her worries and set about pounding her trail-dirty clothing on a flat rock, using the method Brother Mathias had taught her: thoroughly soak the article, twist it as much as she could into a rope, and slam that twisted cloth as hard as she could against the rock; keep soaking, twisting and pounding until the garment was clean. She had no idea why her clothes ended up cleaner for it, but they did. Then she conceded that she was equally ignorant of how soap cleaned anything, she was content to just accept that it did. She spent a few more minutes pounding, then hung her clothes to drip on a nearby tree branch.
Sandreena ignored the breeze off the mountain raising goose-flesh on her body, and waited patiently to dry enough to don fresh clothing. This was the part she hated most, for now she could do nothing but let the air caress her. She wished for a towel and realized she really would have preferred being sent somewhere with at least a tub and hot water.
Finally, she climbed into her clean underclothes and pulled on a fresh tunic, some leggings, trousers, and wrapped a clean head covering under her mail coif to keep her hair from becoming tangled in the metal links.