CHAPTER 463: CHAPTER 441: THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN THE 2 SAINTESSES IS A BIT STRAINED

Four chestnut horses pulled a black lacquered, white-edged, enclosed four-wheeled carriage adorned with white emblems on country roads. Surrounding the carriage, Holy Gun Cavalry soldiers with short capes and gendarmes wearing leather-studded helmets were positioned.

This arrangement was the result of Horn outsourcing the uniforms of the Child Soldiers to Lady Isolde of Joan of Arc Castle.

Lady Isolde adhered to the ancient traditions of the El Kingdom, using helmet decorations to distinguish different affiliations.

For instance, the gendarme’s helmet spikes took on the shape of a vertical shield, the Night Watcher helmets had hook spears, and the Cheka helmets featured a vertical eye, though they seldom wore them.

In this luxurious carriage sat the current notable figures of Rapids City: two cardinal-level Saintesses and the Pope’s Holy Grandson himself.

However, the two Saintesses currently did not appear very presentable.

Jeanne sat with a tense expression, remaining silent, her white arms marked with several small bruises in purple and red, and her close-fitting white shirt had a few tears.

Catherine sat diagonally across from Jeanne, her head turned towards the window, with a section of her previously smooth and sleek long hair singed and emitting a rotten egg smell.

Originally, Horn was seated next to Jeanne, but seeing her unapproachable demeanor, he did not dare to approach. Instead, Catherine beckoned him over.

"Your Eminence, could you help me trim my hair? It’s all stuck together."

Catherine deliberately reached back to cut her hair, completely exposing the curves of her chest.

Horn hesitated for a moment but eventually moved over, taking a small pair of scissors, he carefully cut away the singed locks of Catherine’s hair.

"So sweet," Jeanne chuckled, eyes squinted with joy, "Am I interrupting? Should I leave?"

"No, no," Horn quickly set down the scissors, returned to Jeanne’s side, and said with a smile, "What sweetness? Just lending a helping hand."

"Yes, go help her, she’s damaged so many strands of hair."

Where did you learn to speak like this? I’ve never heard you say anything like it before. How is it that when you have long complex sentences to write for assignments, you can’t manage?

Due to the heat, beads of sweat appeared on Horn’s nose and cheeks. He used the back of his hand to wipe away the sweat rolling down his nose and philtrum: "It’s quite hot today, let me sit here instead."

Returning to Jeanne’s side, Horn took out some herbs and forcibly grabbed Jeanne’s hand, applying the green ointment to her swollen wounds.

"How is it, does it still hurt?"

"It doesn’t hurt. Seeing you two so sweet together, I feel like I’ve eaten honey, I don’t feel the pain anymore."

"It hurts, it hurts, alright?" Horn resigned himself to his fate, applying the cooling ointment slowly.

"Mulier stulta et barbara [Ancient Aier language: Foolish and barbaric woman]," Catherine hummed in a voice not too loud but audible to Jeanne, as she gazed at the rushing woods and fields outside the window.

Jeanne’s earlier slight smirk immediately turned into a furrowed frown as she stood up, only to bump her head against the ceiling of the carriage.

Biting the bullet, Horn quickly tugged at Jeanne’s sleeve, pulling her to sit back down: "Do you know what she’s saying? It’s not directed at you."

"Young ladies of wealthy families..." Without much education, Jeanne bit back her words, returning to her seat.

These merchants were the people she hated almost as much as the nobles.

Look at their pretentious postures, wearing shamelessly garish clothes—just like them, no different from ordinary folk, yet trying to mimic the nobles.

Aren’t they just the nobility’s lackeys? In Jeanne’s opinion, these merchants shouldn’t exist; artisans and laborers could sell things themselves. Why involve them at all?

"What was she saying earlier? Do you know?" Jeanne tightly pressed her lips, smilingly gazing at Horn.

"I don’t know, how could I know?" In truth, Ancient Aier was one of the required subjects for a priest. Although Horn wasn’t as proficient as Catherine, he grasped such simple sentences.

But he couldn’t just say it outright, the two of them were still in the carriage, and before, when they were at the testing ground, they nearly got into a fight under the pretense of a "variance."

If any more conflict were to arise, wouldn’t it just blow up the carriage?

Horn really couldn’t understand how things had deteriorated so much between these two in the short span of three or five days since their initial polite introduction to each other.

Perhaps his conscious efforts to draw closer to Catherine played a part; after all, the Witch was a strategic asset, and they inexplicably got along—the decision-making layer should naturally aim to unify.

"Stulta [Ancient Aier language: Fool]," Catherine murmured.

"What are you muttering about again?" Jeanne said coldly.

Having finished applying the ointment on Jeanne, Horn sat back down next to Catherine, picking up the scissors to continue trimming her hair, whispering, "Say less. We still have to meet with the Falan delegates later."

Catherine’s lips curled like ripples on a water’s surface, turning gently as she took the scissors from Horn: "Then you’d better get some rest; otherwise, with the noise from the carriage, it wouldn’t be good to disrupt the meeting later."

Jeanne stared at Catherine’s face for a while. Though she sensed Catherine was mocking her, she couldn’t find any evidence.

From her waist, Catherine pulled out a feather fan, unfurled it with a quick brush to conceal her chuckle. Her watery eyes, through the glasses, gazed at Horn: "You are such an intelligent and learned person. Isn’t it difficult to be around silly people?"

Jeanne leaned back, smiling sweetly at Horn.

"To serve the believers," Horn said, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe away the fine sweat beads from his forehead, "I’m hungry. I’ll go down to get some water, you both stay here."

"Oh hang on, I have water, no need to get off the carriage," Catherine said, pulling out a water bag from who knows where, handing it to Horn.

The leather water pouch was elegantly encased in silk embroidery with a silver band at the spout, undoubtedly expensive.

Horn coughed lightly, took the water bag, drank a hearty gulp before returning it to Catherine: "Thank you."

Catherine picked up the water pouch without even wiping it, staring directly at Jeanne while taking a sip.

"What are you looking at, Jeanne? Do you want a drink?"

"Old woman! I wouldn’t drink."

Horn could clearly see Jeanne’s twitching mouth, and as the hair on his arm stood on end, he sensed faint, invisible lightning forming in the air.

Beside him, Catherine didn’t lag behind. At the moment the words "old woman" sounded, tiny shoots of blood-sucking vines sprouted between her fingers.

As the tension inside the carriage reached a peak, it finally came to a halt.

In deathly silence, Horn sat upright, forcing a smile.

"Knock knock knock—"

The sound of Armand knocking on the door outside the carriage: "Your Eminence, we’ve arrived at Rapids City, and the Falan delegates have just settled in."

"Great." Horn swiftly opened the carriage door, not even using a small stool, he jumped straight down, "Where are they right now?"

Horn’s hasty demeanor puzzled Armand—after all, they were just a few Falan delegates, why the rush?

"Currently arranged to stay at a countryside villa outside the city. You can summon them whenever you wish to meet."

"No time like the present, let’s do it today." Horn quickly settled on the time, "Invite them to a private dinner tonight, and discuss whatever needs to be talked about at the dining table."