Women of Wasps and War

by Madeleine D'Este

  'It will be a new era,' she had said, her Neven Clan accent labouring every "r". 'The Duke will be ever so pleased with the state of the Duchy. I expect he will invite me into the Advisory Council permanently. Won't it be wonderful, Sira? Women and men working together on important matters and making use of all our talents. Ambrovna will be the greater for it.'

  Sira had said nothing, waiting as she always did, as steady and still as the silver suits of armour in the Great Hall. Ambrovna would return to normal, back to the way the town was and always would be. Women and men, nobles and merchants, fishermen and farmers, goat-herders and servants, all in their proper place, like the Sun in the sky and the sea in the East.

  The Duchess spent too many long winter nights huddled over dusty pages in the Cabinet. She had offered to teach her to read but education seemed like a curse to Sira. All those words and thoughts brought her mistress needless misery. The Scion's sermons taught her all she needed to know.

  'I wish you would speak your mind, Sira,' the Duchess had said, a line she repeated often.

  'I don't know what I think, m'Lady,' Sira replied, blinking. 'In the eyes of the Father.'

  'Nonsense. Of course, you do.'

  Sira had shrugged with her servant's smile but the Duchess was right. Sira knew exactly what she thought about many things, including the Duchess herself. But twenty years of boxed ears under the old Duchess had taught Sira more than how to pronounce her words properly. She knew her place, and as the Scion said, it was more pious to say nothing and smile.

  'Never speak with tarnished thoughts. A true follower of the Father knows their words are gold.'

  The young Duchess had done a better job than Sira expected, for a woman. At first, she had been fearful of a town without men. Who would protect them? How could they manage alone? The corridors of the castle and the town were so empty and quiet without them. But as the weeks and months passed, Sira enjoyed walking the cobbled streets at night as a Singlewoman without the fear of strange hands grabbing her from the shadows. She never dared say it aloud but she almost preferred the new Ambrovna.

  But the freedom couldn't last.

  The Duke was home, back on his throne where he should be, his wife by his side. Despite her high-born position, the Duchess shouldered the same expectations of married women that had existed since the Sun first rose. As the Scion taught, a woman's only purpose was as a vessel for life. It was her duty to produce heirs and nothing more.

  From her place at the edge of the dais where she always stood, Sira watched the drink flow. As the songs grew bawdier, she spied a familiar face chugging down a tankard. Her breath caught in her windpipe and slumped. Everything was returning to normal. The bad was back along with the good.

  ***

  The Duke settled back into his chair with a chuckle and another sip of rich red wine. For the hundredth time in the past hour, he thanked the Father for his return home but not everyone was as joyful. He caught glimpse of a hollow-eyed woman leaning up against the Old Man Tree, tears streaming down her face.

  He beckoned to Lord Kalin. 'Find out how many war widows are left.'

  Lord Kalin nodded and whispered into the ear of his squire.

  The Duke returned to watching his people make merry. There were more veiled faces than he remembered. Goodwives often wore kerchiefs or scarves secured under the chin, although Agata followed the bare-headed fashions of the ladies in the capital court of Sulun, but only the truly pious covered their noses and mouths with a veil. Commitment to the Father must have strengthened during the war, the women obeying the Scion's every word to ensure the protection of their husbands and sons. He turned to comment to Agata, when he recognised a face in the crowd.

  The Duke froze. His goblet slipped from his fingers. Wine splashed across the wooden dais like a splatter of blood. Him? Here in Ambrovna?

  'Clumsy,' he said, forcing a laugh. Within moments his valet appeared with a replenished cup.

  'Are you ill, my Lord?' Agata said, biting at her lip.

  'It has been a tiring year.' He faked a smile.

  She nodded. 'But you are home now.'

  He smiled again but under his tunic, his heart galloped, and he scoured the Square for the face again. But the man was gone, lost among the throng.

  Was he ill? His eyes tricked by the light or the wine or the long journey home?

  The Duke dropped his smile, deep in his marrow he knew it was true.

  Even in his worst nightmares about that day, he'd never considered the man was Ambrovnan. One of his own subjects? This meant the man knew precisely who he was and he'd known all along.

  The Duke closed his eyes, a lifetime of worship taught him the Father never rewarded weakness.

  Chapter Six

  'Where's Pa?' said Teo as Rabel laid the stew pot and hard bread on the table.

  After the Duke's speech, Rabel had dragged Teo and the twins back to the shack. Rented from the stable master, it was a single, windowless wooden room with a leaky thatched roof, legions of fleas and the persistent stink of horses from next door. With the whole town rejoicing, there was no one else to watch over her small ones and anyway, she did not feel like dancing. Once night fell, it was better to be off the streets. No good came to a woman alone in the Alleys at night, even a Goodwife.

  'With the other men. Celebratin',' she said, wiping Aula's nose with her apron.

  'I thought he'd be home for dinner,' Teo said, slumping on the bench.

  Rabel shrugged and spooned the watery fish-head and turnip stew into a wooden bowl. Even before the war, Iwan was rarely home for dinner.

  'I wanted to hear his stories.' He pouted in between shovels of stew.

  'Plenty of time for war stories. Your Pa is home now,' she said, holding back a sigh. 'Forever.'

  Jorn yanked his sister's hair and Aula shrieked, smacking her pudgy fist into his chest. Jorn wailed and Rabel pushed the twins apart while Teo sat eating, lost in his own thoughts.

  The door burst open, striking the wall with a crash and Iwan staggered into the room.

  'What a racket.' He grimaced as he strode over and grabbed Rabel's bony bottom. 'Here's somethin' nicer for a man to come home to.'

  She pulled away with a frown. 'Leave off.'

  'I've been on the battlefield for a year,' he said, leaning over her with his sour breath. 'A husband deserves better treatment.'

  'Pa. Tell me about the war. Did you kill lots of Hende and Sopter Clansmen? How big was your sword?' Teo said with wide gleaming eyes.

  'Later, son. Where's my grub, woman?'

  Iwan pushed little Jorn out of the way and took his seat at the table.

  'I'll serve up,' Teo said.

  'What's your Ma been teachin' you while I've been away? Women do the servin'. Woman?'

  Rabel gritted her teeth and pushed a bowl of stew, followed by a hunk of yesterday's bread, across the table.

  Iwan took a greedy slurp. He stopped, his mouth twisted in disgust and sprayed soup across the table.

  'What's this muck?' he sneered.

  'Fish stew.'

  'Worse than army food. What kind of homecoming is this?'

  Rabel shrugged. 'All we could afford.'

  Iwan narrowed his eyes. He cupped the bowl in his hand, and pulled his arm back to throw. Rabel cowered, waiting for the splash of hot liquid.

  She waited and waited, but nothing. She lifted her eyes to see his contorted smile. He placed the bowl down gently with a snort and dunked his bread in the stew.

  'Where's the kitty?' he said with his mouth full.

  'I don't have anythin',' she stuttered.

  'Don't lie to me, woman. I know you.' He slammed his fist on the table and got to his feet. Aula began to cry and Rabel clutched her girl to her breast.

  'Believe me, there's nothin'.'

  'I've known you since you were fifteen summers old, woman,' he scoffed. 'You've got coins somewhere. You always do.'

  'No,' she said.

  He knocked all the bowls an
d empty jars from the make-shift shelf onto the dirt floor. Rabel flinched and Aula wailed louder.

  'Shut that thing up,' Iwan said.

  'Please stop cryin', little one,' Rabel said, her voice raspy and shaking but Aula kept blubbering, snot and tears trickling down her face.

  'Bloody useless mother. Control your babes. Or I'll shut 'em up myself,' he snarled and crossed the room. He rifled through the blankets and winter cloaks, throwing them everywhere. 'Where is it?'

  'Please, Iwan,' she said between Aula's sobs. 'There's nothin'.'

  He turned back to the broom and a clay pot in the corner. Rabel held her breath as he picked up the pot.

  'Liar,' he said with a wallop and the pot shattered across the table. The startled twins whimpered as Iwan sifted through the broken pottery shards. Empty handed, he moved on with a huff. He stood, hands on hips in the middle of the room, eyes narrowed and Rabel gulped.

  Iwan slapped his open palm on the table next to Teo. 'Where does your Ma keep her coins?'

  'I-I-I,' he stuttered.

  'Leave him alone.' Rabel put Aula down. She moved around the table to shield her son.

  'Are you going to lie to your Pa, too? Like a woman.'

  Teo's eyes darted towards his mother.

  'Where are your loyalties, boy?'

  Teo swallowed hard and Rabel pressed her lips together.

  'Come on,' pressed Iwan.

  'There's a hiding place...' Teo bowed his head as he pointed towards the wall stud. 'Over there.'

  Iwan hurried over and reached into the gap between the stud and the thin wooden wall.

  'Ha.' He pulled out a felt purse and shook it in the air.

  He squinted as he tipped the contents onto the table and a handful of coppers rolled out.

  'We need it,' Rabel pleaded.

  Iwan lunged and grabbed her by the chin. She flinched, her lip trembling as his fingers crushed her jaw.

  'This is the way you treat a man back from war. Your own husband.' He shoved her head away. She stumbled backwards over the bench, cracking against the edge of the wooden table.

  Pocketing the coins, Iwan stormed away, slamming the door behind him. The flimsy door rattled on its hinges.

  With a sigh, Rabel squeezed her eyes tight.

  'I'm sorry, Ma.' Teo reached out his hand, his cheeks wet.

  'It's not your fault,' Rabel sighed.

  'He's my Pa,' Teo said, his young forehead wrinkling. 'I didn't know what...' Teo rested his head against her breast.

  'I know.' She patted his hair.

  'Why is he so mean to you?'

  Rabel smiled wearily and wrapped him in her arms.

  Rabel's shack was silent for the rest of the night while all around Ambrovna, the streets echoed with shouts of joy and laughter.

  ***

  Froma sat tall at one end of the long dining table dressed in her finest tunic, a pine-green silk with gold embroidered neck and cuffs. Candles flickered from the centre of the table and shadows danced over the dark wood-panelled walls. 'Are you glad to be home, husband?' she said, interrupting the quiet chewing and scraping of knives.

  Danis grunted from the opposite end and poured himself another goblet.

  'I am glad to have you home. Fit and well. Unlike the poor Duke.'

  Danis nodded his big red head and wiped his mouth. 'The Duke is an example to us all.'

  He reached for another hunk of roast goat as Froma picked at her plate. She had a bird-like appetite despite her ample figure. Her roiling belly had improved a great deal over the past year but tonight the pangs were back with a vengeance.

  'I hope you will be pleased when you look over the ledgers tomorrow,' Froma said with a smile. 'I used to help Papa with his accounts. He always said I had a knack for the abacus.'

  Danis narrowed his eyes and kept chewing.

  'While you were away, I worked very closely with the Duchess. I was a member of her Interim Committee. We became close friends. I even helped her with matters of administration and trade. To keep the town going. Some of the Seneschal's tasks.' Froma smoothed her hair.

  Danis laughed a short bark and shook his head. 'Women running the town.'

  'We did our best, given the circumstances.' Froma pursed her lips. 'The town is in a good state. Don't you think, husband?'

  'But now the men have returned. And you will go back to embroidery or whatever you spend your days doing. Spending my money,' he said with a sneer. 'Not giving me heirs.'

  'I was hoping...' she said, placing down her fork. 'I could continue to help you with the business. I have a few ideas on how to expand into different grades of--'

  'Enough.' Danis slammed his goblet down on the tabletop. The candlestick and plates jumped. Froma closed her mouth and held her breath as a wave of heat rolled from the other end of the table. 'I don't care what you think.'

  'But I...'

  'No more of this talk. I am back. This is my house. My business. I don't listen to women. I would get more sense from this jug.'

  Froma opened her mouth. 'I have...'

  The empty wine jug hit the wall, porcelain shattering all over the floor. Froma flinched as red liquid splattered her walls.

  'Irina. Fetch more wine for your master,' Froma said through tight lips.

  The pasty girl appeared from a dark corner with a new jug and as soon as his goblet was replenished, Danis poured the contents straight down his throat. His face was almost as scarlet as the wine as once again, he held out his empty goblet for more.

  Froma pressed her hands against her stomach. She knew she was walking along a precipice but she could not stop herself. She'd worked hard, spent long nights understanding and protecting his interests. Other men would be grateful for such a dedicated wife.

  'I did my best to ensure your business was returned to you in good shape...'

  'Stop.'

  This time he threw the full goblet at her. Red wine splashed across her face as the goblet bounced off her forearms and smashed against the tabletop. She cowered.

  'You think you are better than me.' He grabbed the curved carving knife from the platter of meat and stepped towards her, his eyes hard, his thick lips wet with saliva. Froma's heart thudded against her ribs.

  'Do I need to teach you some respect?'

  'I have every respect for you, husband,' Froma stuttered.

  'I was at war for a year,' he bellowed. 'And this is how you welcome me? Wittering on with your empty-headed woman thoughts. This is my house. My business. I do as I please. You do not get a say.'

  He thrust the knife deep into the table and stomped away. 'Irina, bring more wine to my cabinet.'

  Froma's hands shook as she wiped the drops from her face. Tomorrow after he slept off the wine and checked the ledger, he would change his mind. He would even be proud. The figures would prove she was a capable wife and not the useless burden he claimed. She smoothed her hair and forced a smile to her lips. Tomorrow he would thank her.

  Chapter Seven

  Agata was alone in her chamber as she had been every night for more than almost two years.

  She gazed over the slate and thatched roofs of Ambrovna and out towards the hills blanketed in darkness, the moon lounging lazily in the sky. One by one, the town lights extinguished until only two torches burned brightly in the Square, illuminating a handful of rowdy stragglers.

  Agata paced up and down the rug-covered brick floor barefoot, her black hair hanging loosely down the back of her chemise. She'd dismissed Sira hours ago, in readiness for her long-awaited reunion with her husband. But where was he?

  Her ears rang with the Scion's undermining words and her husband's quick yielding to his demands. She sighed at the lifetime of empty days stretching ahead of her filled with needlework and watercolours. She could do so much more. Feed and clothe the children, reform the poor women of Guts Alley, flatten and rebuild the festering passageways.

  With each step, she vowed she would be stronger next time. That whatever the Scion or Sira said,
the world did not need to return to the old ways. The past year had taught her one lesson: she and the Scion rarely saw eye to eye.

  A fierce storm had hit Ambrovna at the tail end of the previous winter. All night Agata had lain awake, listening to the groaning winds, the hammering hail and the savage sea, worrying about her subjects in their flimsy shacks. The next day dawned with an icy blue sky and an eerie stillness, and there were many bleary eyes around the ancient High Table in the Great Hall of the Eel.

  'Let's begin,' Agata had said to Lord Sylwin and the six women of the Interim Committee, all wives of prominent members of the Merchant and Craft Guilds. She took her chair at the head of the High Table in the Great Hall, the walls behind her covered in polished swords and armour. This was a place where decisions were made, alliances forged and feasts celebrated. Portraits of past Dukes of Ambrovna hung on the wall, row after row of disapproving male faces looking down on her. The Duke's throne had remained vacant, another reminder that Agata's position was only temporary.

  'My Lady, the Scion is not here,' Lord Sylwin said.

  'We shall start without him,' Agata had said firmly. Two of the Interim Committee members pursed their lips and shared a disapproving glance. 'We cannot wait. What is the damage, Lord Sylwin?'

  Sylwin cleared his throat, his eyes yellow and rheumy. 'Four fishing boats were dragged out to sea.'

  'We told the wives on numerous occasions to move the boats further inland,' tutted Gala, the full-figured grocer's wife.

  Agata was the only noblewoman at the table after Lady Reyna and Lady Ashka condescendingly declined to join. At the time, their snub had offended Agata but now, as she looked around the six eager faces, she was glad.

  'Where were they supposed to move them?' said Jadzia, a shipwright's wife, crossing her slender arms. 'It's not as easy as you think. These women have now lost their livelihoods. And what will the men do when they return?'

  'Are you suggesting compensation?' Froma said with a raised brow. The wife of a mohair merchant, Froma had an unfortunately bent nose and the frame of a man.