Clawa, the wine merchant's wife-now-widow, sniffled into a white handkerchief. Agata had her own grief but she knew better than to mention her brother Taraz, the name of a traitor in the new Ambrovna. She feigned a smile and stretched out to pat Clawa's forearm.
'It was fun while it lasted,' said Jadzia with a hint of a sigh. 'What will you do now, m'Lady?'
'Babes,' said Gala, the grocer's wife, a mischievous smirk on her plump cheeks. 'Lots of babes.'
Jadzia laughed heartily while others giggled behind their hands.
'Mind your tongue,' Froma said, pulling herself to her full height. 'You cannot speak to the Duchess in such familiar tones now.'
Agata smiled. 'Thank you, Mistress Plesec. I want us to remain as friends. I have grown fond of you all over the past year. I would hate for us to part now the war is over.'
'Hear, hear,' said Gala.
'I would like us to continue our gathering. Perhaps in another form? Poor Clawa reminds us that not everyone celebrated last night. This morning I had an idea. We could help the widows and orphans. They must be looked after, given the sacrifice of their men.'
'Excellent idea,' said Froma.
'This is proper work for women,' Clawa said, dabbing at her eyes. 'We can ask the Scion. Work with the Fatherhood?'
'A Women's Circle,' Karolien said and Randvi nodded vigorously. Agata smiled through a clenched jaw. There was no escaping the Scion.
The door creaked open and a servant girl slunk over to Sira who was seated in the corner.
The Circle members rediscovered their smiles with their purpose revived. They exchanged ideas and tucked into the cakes and wine.
'I've heard rumours,' said Gala in a low voice. 'About an Allotment.'
Jadzia gasped. 'No? Now? I thought the Allotment was a fairy tale to frighten young girls.'
Agata frowned. She opened her mouth to ask Gala to explain when Sira appeared silently at her side. 'May I go to the gates for a moment, m'Lady?' she whispered in her ear. 'My sister is here to see me. The goblets are full and there are plenty of cakes. Kellma will stay in case you need anything.'
'Only for a few moments. Is something wrong?'
'Probably m'Lady,' Sira said. 'I saw that fool husband of hers in the crowd yesterday.'
'Hurry back.'
Sira nodded and slipped away. Agata bit her lip. Unlike the others, Sira was close-lipped, rarely speaking about herself and her own troubles, no matter how much Agata coaxed and probed. But over the year, she'd picked up scraps about the ne'er-do-well brother-in-law. Sira's downtrodden sister was exactly the type of woman she longed to help.
***
'Enter.' Lord Kalin looked up from his desk in his dim room inside the barbican.
His second in command, Seliv stepped inside, the burly man filling the doorway.
'Another one, m'Lord' Seliv said as he handed over a grubby piece of paper covered in ink blots and smudged penmanship. Lord Kalin held it between his fingers like a soiled handkerchief.
'Duke. I will tell.'
'It was in among the Seneschal's papers.'
'This is the second?'
'There could be more.' Seliv shrugged. 'I almost threw away the first one. What should we do, m'Lord?'
Kalin scrunched the paper into a ball and tossed the note into the fireplace. With a whoosh of flame, it was gone. 'Not worth bothering the Duke about.' Kalin rubbed his chin, silently watching the flames for a moment before shaking his head.
'Right, what else have we got today?'
'A pickpocket and a poacher, m'Lord.'
'How dull,' he sighed. 'Come on then. I suppose we should deal with them.'
He strode out of the door and into the dank dungeons, sword clanging at his hip. Seliv followed, struggling to keep up.
***
Sira's sister stood outside the iron gates, wringing her hands as the yawning guards leaned on their pikes. Rabel's dry skin stretched taut over her high cheekbones accentuated her already long reddened nose. Sira grimaced at her sister's brittle frame and sucked in her own rolls of well-fed flesh.
Rabel smiled, her eyes middle-aged before her time.
'What's wrong?' Sira frowned, her sister's bony-handed grip was like iron.
'I'm so glad you came,' Rabel said, a shake in her voice.
'The Duchess is kind but I cannot stay for long. What is the matter?'
'I'm ashamed to ask.' She bowed her head.
'Coins. What has he done this time?'
'The same as always.'
'I thought you'd paid off his debts?'
'I was so close. A few more months and it would have been gone. I didn't miss a payment. But I forgot and then Sabet came this mornin' and I had nothin'.'
Her sister's life was straight from the Teachings. 'A woman's life is filled with suffering'. The path all women must endure. Sira sighed. 'How much do you need?'
'Thirty-three coppers.'
Sira's eyebrows jolted skyward. 'That is the payment? How much did he lose?'
'You don't want to know.' Rabel shook her head. 'Sabet is a shrewd one.'
'She makes short work of stupid men like Iwan.' Sira pursed her lips. 'What are you going to do about him?'
'I don't know,' Rabel choked. 'I don't know.'
'I am sorry.' Sira's chest tightened. 'All the coins of the Duchy went to the war. Our payments were stopped.'
Rabel nodded, tears in her eyes.
Sira lowered her voice. 'But I do have a silver hidden away. I can give it to you.'
'Thank you, sister.' A tear escaped down her face. 'I hope it's enough.'
'No tears. Please. Do you have food?'
Rabel shook her head, her eyes downcast.
'I can help with that, too. Go now. I will meet you under the Old Man Tree.'
'Thank you, but please hurry, I have to pay Sabet before the midday bells.'
The sisters embraced. Rabel's hard ribs poking through her coarse tunic. Her children were not the only ones in need of a meal.
Sira slumped inside the gates. If only she could do more. But no one listened to a Singlewoman, especially one who dared to interfere with a man and his wife. Offering food and a few coppers seemed so small and hollow and did nothing to quieten the crushing feeling that she'd failed her sister. Again.
Crossing the main bailey, she passed guards joking and arguing. Groups of men inspected wheels, braying horses and armoury stocks. The Seneschal scowled and pointed with his long-nobbled finger before scribing in his thick ledger. A boy up a ladder poked at a nest in the eaves while three men bellowed instructions from below.
Sira winced. She had forgotten how noisy the world of men could be. She stepped through the kitchen door into a wall of heat. An enormous fire roared in the hearth at the far end. A kitchen girl turned hunks of roasting meat on spits while another frantically swatted away a buzzing wasp with a cloth. More girls darted from the domed baking oven to the long dented wooden tables, sweaty hair pasted against their foreheads. Sira smiled. Theirs was a life she knew well. Her time in the kitchens had started soon after her first bleeding when her Pa decided a life in service was the best Sira could expect with her stained face. His words still rang in her ears. 'Never forget, my girl. Without the Duchess's charity, you'd be back there hidden away with the rest of the Unwanted.'
Sira crossed the gleaming grey flagstones to a tiny red-headed woman who was tossing a handful of salt into an earthenware bowl big enough to bathe in. 'I need a basket of yesterday's food.'
'Given to the pigs already.' Majvi shrugged then barked at one of the scurrying kitchen girls. 'Get me the juniper.'
'You must have something,' Sira said.
'Didn't you get enough almond cakes in there with the other ladies?'
Sira rolled her eyes and Majvi winked. 'You're lucky. The men were too busy drinkin' to eat all the food last night. Let me guess. Rabel? Take some cold goat and a bit of cheese. If you're quick, you might catch Wintrud for some stale bread before she feeds the geese.'
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Sira nodded. The cook tutted, giving Sira's plump arm a quick squeeze before she turned back to her pot and licked sauce from the spoon.
Rabel's trouble had begun one Sunday luncheon after midday service many years ago. Sira had been shelling peas with her Ma on her free afternoon and catching up on the babes, deaths and betrothals of the street when Pa burst in the front door, dragging Rabel by the elbow.
'Rabel,' Ma gasped, darting from her seat as Pa threw her to the floor.
'Leave her,' said Pa and Ma stopped short. 'I caught her with that fisherman. Again.'
'Rabel. You must listen to your Pa,' Ma said, shaking her head and wringing her hands. Sira sat, her mouth open, not moving or saying a word as Rabel lay face down, her brown hair strewn like a carpet on the floor, her skinny back heaving as she sobbed.
'How many times have I warned you? Yet you disobey me again and again,' Pa bellowed. 'I should've known three daughters and no sons would bring me nothin' but trouble. I saw you touchin' him like a harlot. For all of Ambrovna to see! This is the last time you disrespect me and the Father. I won't have you in my house any longer.'
'Pa,' cried Ma.
'No. Not Rabel too,' Sira said.
Rabel stopped bawling and lifted her head, her eyes round and wet.
'You heard me. I want you gone. Let him have you. You are no daughter of mine.'
Sira desperately wanted to rush in and stop the fighting but her feet were stuck to the floor. When she daydreamed of Sunday family luncheons as she peeled parsnips and scrubbed the kitchen flagstones, there were no banishments and arguments. Her family would sit together happily as the Father wanted. Sira did not move to stop her Pa. Instead, she covered her ears with her hands and stared down at the ground between her elbows.
'I love him,' Rabel said, her eyes flashing with defiance.
'See.' He pointed to Ma, his hands flying up in dismay. 'She admits it.'
'And I am with his child.'
Ma's knees buckled, her face in her hands.
Pa's cheeks blazed as he loomed over Rabel. 'After all the years I worked to clothe, feed and house you and you repay me with sin. I always knew I was cursed with three daughters. And two of them Fatherless harlots. Now I only have one.' He flung open the front door and shoved Rabel onto the street with a kick of his boot.
'Pa,' Sira said, finally finding her tongue but her voice was thin and feeble. She looked to her Ma whose eyes were glassy, her hands clutched at her chest and fat tears filled the bags under her eyes.
'Good riddance,' Pa said, slamming the door. 'I don't want to hear her name again in this house. Understood?'
Sira nodded but inside her unvoiced protests were like knives in her belly.
'Let's eat.'
Obediently, they returned to the table in silence.
Each time Rabel asked for help, Sira relived that day. If only she'd intervened as an older sister should have. If only Rabel had chosen Juok instead of Iwan. If only. But all the wishes, gifts and daydreams couldn't change the past or make amends. When it mattered, Sira had done nothing.
With a basket of kitchen leftovers on her elbow, Sira hurried inside the castle keep and up the well-worn servants' stairs to her small room adjoining the Duchess's bower on the top floor. The tiny room had two doors, one leading to the service stairs, the other into the Duchess's room. Sira thanked the Father every time she closed her door, grateful for the day she was chosen as the Duchess's personal servant. The private room was more precious than any coin. Although the Father would not wholly approve, she'd won the heart of the Duchess through her hair-braiding skills, her nimble fingers well practised from years of pastry plaiting and lace-making.
Sira lifted her straw bed, revealing the floor beneath. She prised out a loose brick and grabbed a grey-velvet pouch containing a single silver coin and a thin chain, her only remaining keepsake of her Ma.
The Duchess's bower door burst open.
'There you are--'
Sira jumped, dropping the pouch and swiftly shoving her foot over the hiding place in the floor. She plastered a smile on her face and stood as still as stone. 'M'Lady.'
'Why is this food here?' The Duchess pointed to the basket.
'I am helping out the needy. As you suggested, m'Lady,' Sira said.
'Your sister?' The Duchess folded her arms.
'Yes, m'Lady.' Sira bowed her head. 'Her children go hungry.'
'And the pouch?'
For a moment, Sira dropped her mask and grimaced. The Duchess was more observant than she realised.
'She needs coins, m'Lady. I must go to her. She's waiting for me.'
'You cannot keep helping her like this, Sira,' the Duchess said.
'What else can I do? I am the only one she can turn to. Even when my Ma and Pa were alive, there was only me. They disowned her.'
'There has to be another way.'
Sira shook her head. 'She cannot leave him. Under the old Duke, deserting wives were flogged in the town Square.'
'But he is dead. Surely we are not so barbaric these days.'
Sira half-shrugged. 'This is our way. It's what the Father teaches. Suffering.'
'And how is this fair?'
Sira sighed. 'If only he had not returned from war.' She flinched and circled her forehead. 'In the eyes of the Father. He has laid a thorny path for Rabel. This is what she must endure.'
Her mistress tilted her head. 'I could talk to Lord Kalin? If Rabel's husband is as bad as you say, he will be up to other wickedness.'
'Could you, m'Lady?' Sira sparked up, picturing the guards dragging Iwan away to the dungeon, but then she shook her head. 'She would still have to pay for his upkeep. And how long could they hold him?
The Duchess pulled at her bottom lip, her eyes far away. 'Yes. Something more lasting.'
Sometimes Sira did not understand her mistress's Neven ways but today her words made sense. Bread and coins were not enough. Someone needed to put an end to Rabel's troubles. Sira shuddered as an answer flitted through her mind like a dark moth. She shooed away the thought with a vow to attend today's midday service.
'May I go, m'Lady?' Sira said, edging towards the door. 'She is waiting. I will hurry back. Please do not concern yourself with my problems. The Father will provide an answer.'
Her mistress nodded with a frown and absent-mindedly waved Sira away as she exited through her bower door. Sira grabbed the pouch and basket and rushed down the servant's stairs. With each step, she circled her forehead and repeated 'in the eyes of the Father' under her breath.
Chapter Nine
Froma bustled home, her head bubbling with ideas to help the war widows. She smirked, convinced she'd return to the castle with the finest suggestion.
A strong friendship with the Duchess would serve her very well and silence that Lady Reyna. Froma had few friends. Most women in Ambrovna were too common or too dull. The Duchess was refined and graceful but she was an outsider after all and could not claim all of Lady Reyna's airs and graces. With King Absalom settled on the throne in Sulun and the Vorosy Clan back in control, the Duchess's position was even more tenuous. And then there were the vicious rumours about her brother.
Froma clutched at her belly, the almond cake tossing inside. The best remedy was a nip of plum brandy and luckily she was already on her doorstep. Her lip curled as she spotted rust on the front door hinges. The iron gnawed by the insidious sea air.
The bell tinkled as she entered the shop and headed towards the residence at the back. She walked past bushels of white mohair, bales of dyed woven cloth, skeins of yarn and sample cloaks. Her first task was to find Irina and send her out to scrape away the rust with a wire brush.
A voice cried out from the other side of the shop.
'Mistress Plesec. There you are!' Vinko, a trader from the neighbouring port of Guelen, stood by a bushel of second-grade mohair. Danis was beside him with a tuft of fluffy white wool in his hand. 'I was disappointed you were not here to greet me when I first arrived.'
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'Master Vinko. How fortunate we are to have you back.'
Vinko, his thinning hair scraped across his age-spotted head, took Froma's hand and kissed it with a slurp. Froma smiled calmly. He was one of their best customers after all.
'I was just telling your husband what an asset you are to him. And what a hard bargain you drive.' Vinko barked out a phlegmy laugh.
'The price was fair, Master Vinko.'
Vinko swatted her away with his hand. 'Will you join us? I would like to hear your opinion on this season's yield. Is it as good as last?'
Froma smirked and stepped towards the bale. 'Of course, Master Vinko. While the waft is not as thick as last year, the strength is far superior--' She glanced up and noticed her husband's tightly held jaw. She immediately closed her mouth.
'Please excuse my wife, Master Vinko,' Danis said, stepping between them. 'She has many other errands to attend to. Don't you, Wife?'
His stare was as hot as a branding iron and Froma fought the urge to narrow her eyes. Instead, she dropped her head and nodded.
'Running a home is a never-ending task. Or so my wife tells me.' Vinko laughed and his guffaws turned into coughs and splutters.
This time Danis chuckled with him and waved his hand. 'Fetch us some brandy, Wife.'
Froma forced a smile and hurried through the side door into the residence, gritting her teeth.
'Irina. Irina!' Froma threw her head scarf down on the dining table.
The scrawny Irina skulked into the room. 'Yes, Mistress.'
'Brandy. Three glasses.'
Irina scuttled out the door and rushed back with three goblets and a decanter on a tray.
'Sugared plums?' Froma said, raising an eyebrow.
'Oh yes, Mistress,' Irina said, placing the tray on the table.
'You are an idiot, girl.' Froma boxed at her ears but she was already out of reach, as she rushed out towards the kitchen.
Froma's veins thumped in her neck and her belly churned. She poured herself a small dram of brandy. The liquor oozed down her throat, soothing her anger and her queasiness. She sighed.
Danis burst through the door. 'Where is this damned brandy, woman?'
Women of Wasps and War Page 5