Women of Wasps and War

by Madeleine D'Este

  She bustled into the Square, past the Old Man Tree and up the Avenue. When the guards ushered her straight through the gatehouse, she smiled under her veil and strode at her full height. A rat-faced guard escorted her across the bailey, through the thick arched oak doors and up the stairs into the solar.

  The sky outside the windows rippled with threatening clouds in white, silver and steel while winds battered the ancient red-brick walls. A fire crackled in the iron grate but the heat failed to spread and Froma did not remove her cloak.

  'Ah, Mistress Plesec. Please take --' the Duchess stopped short. Karolien gasped loudly and Randvi and Clawa muttered behind their hands.

  Froma tossed her head. 'I was attacked near the Alleys yesterday, my Lady. He ripped my purse from my hands and struck me across the face.'

  'How terrible,' the Duchess said, hand pressed against her breastbone.

  'I should have been more careful.' Froma shrugged. 'I'd forgotten to take care in the slums. Things have returned to normal, it appears.'

  'This is unacceptable. Has Lord Kalin been informed?'

  'I reported it immediately,' Froma lied, taking a seat on the cushioned bench. A serving girl poured her a goblet of wine but Froma kept her veil in place. 'The Shield are searching the Alleys for the culprit.'

  'Are you in pain?' the Duchess asked.

  Froma tingled as the Duchess fussed over her well-being. 'The marks will fade, my Lady. I will be fully recovered once the brute is in the dungeon.'

  'We all hope the man is arrested soon and you are quickly healed,' the Duchess said, smiling sweetly before turning back to the others.

  Gala, the fleshy grocer's wife, pursed her lips but said nothing. Froma glanced past the other Circle members, and found Sira in her usual corner, stitching. Froma had often wondered why the Duchess did not insist on full veils or at least head scarves for her servants, even the Singlewomen.

  'Very well. Let's begin. Yesterday we spoke about other ways we can help the war widows. Has anyone had any ideas?'

  The dour Karolien piped up first. 'We should ask the Scion to pray for them...'

  Froma stopped listening and turned back to Sira whose head was bowed over her needlework. She searched Sira's birth-stained face for clues. What were the sisters plotting? The Duchess's maid, all piety and constant smile, did not appear the type for conspiracy but every person held a secret beneath their chemise.

  'We need a tally of the fallen men and the families left behind,' said the Duchess.

  'Do we keep such records?' Gala asked.

  'The Seneschal will know.' Froma returned to the conversation. 'There are population numbers in the ledger for taxation. Although it is too soon after the men's return. I doubt he will have an accurate number yet.'

  'Some good-for-nothing men use war as an excuse to abandon their families,' said Gala, with a shake of her double chins. 'My aunt was left to bring up six babes in poverty. And then the old goat turned up twenty years later. Very much alive.'

  'It is the path of we women,' said Karolien, her brow furrowed. 'To suffer.'

  Froma clenched her teeth. Why were men so free to abandon their responsibilities? A woman could not stray ten steps from her home without raising suspicion and Father forbid if she spoke her mind. Her father had told her many times with her homely looks and loose tongue she'd be lucky to find a husband at all. And sometimes she wished...

  'In the eyes of the Father,' the others murmured, circling their forehead. Froma copied, covering up her blasphemous thoughts as she sighed behind her veil.

  'Your food basket idea is good, Gala. Let us hand out the first baskets as part of the Spawning,' the Duchess said, rubbing her hands together.

  'Will you speak with the Scion?' Karolien said meekly. 'For his blessing?'

  The other women nodded in agreement.

  The Duchess blinked. 'I will discuss it with the Scion. Who will join me?'

  'I will,' blurted Froma before anyone else could speak. The other Circle members narrowed their eyes at her but she smirked under her veil. One had to be quick to take advantage of favourable circumstances.

  'Wonderful, Mistress Plesec,' the Duchess said. 'We should go as soon as possible. Are you free now?'

  'Of course, my Lady,' Froma replied.

  'Excellent. I thank everyone again for coming along this morning. Gala?'

  'I'll talk with the other grocers. They'll want to help.'

  'And I'll speak to Anarr,' said Jadzia. 'The fishermen follow anything he says.'

  'Let us meet again tomorrow at the same time and, Father willing, we will have everything ready for the widows at the Spawning.' The Duchess gently clapped her hands and grinned.

  The women left their seats and, with a rustling of tunics, tossed cloaks over their shoulders. The less mannered of the Circle drained their goblets and wolfed down a few more almond cakes before departing for their own chores.

  The Duchess stood by the door, farewelling each Circle member one by one. As she comforted Clawa, the new widow, Froma grabbed her chance and headed for Sira in the corner.

  'I have a message for you,' Froma said, her voice low. 'From Rabel.'

  Sira glanced up from her needlework with wide eyes.

  'She asked me to tell you. She agrees.'

  Blinking, Sira calmly put down her needle and rested her hands in her lap, Froma scrutinised her face as her eyelids flickered. The Duchess's maid nodded slowly.

  'What is it, Sira?' the Duchess said as she closed the door and the three women were alone. 'You look quite pale.'

  'Only a headache, m'Lady,' Sira said as she stood and tidied away her needlework. 'No cause for your concern.'

  'I will decide what is my concern.' The Duchess frowned and Froma pursed her lips.

  'It is nothing, m'Lady.' Sira bowed her head, her right cheek now as red as her left.

  'Do not lie to me, Sira.' The Duchess folded her arms. 'I will not put up with disobedience.'

  'No, m'Lady,' Sira said, her eyes downcast, her face blank.

  She flicked her hand with a huff. 'Go to the Seneschal and tell him I want to see him after luncheon. Mistress Plesec and I will visit the Scion now.'

  'As you wish, m'Lady.' Sira scuttled out of the room and the Duchess flopped into a chair with a sigh.

  'Servants can be very frustrating,' Froma said but the Duchess's attention was lost outside the window.

  Froma thought the naive Duchess was too soft-hearted. She would never tolerate such cheek from Irina. Perhaps the Neven treated their servants differently.

  'I cannot abide lies and deception,' the Duchess muttered.

  'Perhaps she does not want to involve you,' said Froma. 'And perhaps this is wise, my Lady. You do not want to be involved,'

  The Duchess recoiled. 'What do you know?'

  'I do not want to break any confidences,' Froma said, smirking under her veil.

  'Please tell me.' The Duchess fiddled with her necklace.

  'I only know a little.'

  The Duchess leaned in and placed a hand on Froma's arm.

  'Her sister asked me to pass on a message to Sira.'

  'And? What did she say?'

  'It was quite a riddle. Something about Rabel agreeing.'

  The Duchess's face creased. 'To what?'

  'I do not know, my Lady. Sira said nothing when I passed it on.'

  'Is that all? Was that the whole message?'

  'Did you hear the gossip?' Froma asked. She asked Irina what gossip there was of Rabel after she left and her sulky kitchen maid had been only too willing to oblige. 'Her husband tried to sell their daughter.'

  'My stars!' the Duchess said. 'To who?'

  'I do not know. But there are many wicked people in Ambrovna. I shudder to think what such sinners would do with a young girl.'

  The Duchess's face drained. 'Thank you for confiding in me. There is more depravity in this town than I ever realised.'

  'Left without guidance, people are no better than animals,' Froma said. '
In the eyes of the Father.'

  'Poor Rabel,' the Duchess sighed. 'How can we help?'

  This time, Froma grasped the Duchess's hand. 'May I give you some advice, my Lady. Do not get involved. This could be dangerous. You are the Duchess and the rules are quite different for you.'

  The Duchess blinked and pressing her lips together in a weak smile. 'It pains me to sit by idly, but you are wise, Mistress Plesec,' she said. 'Please tell me if you hear any more. I need to know if my servants are in trouble. I feel a responsibility towards them.'

  Froma nodded.

  'But we have another matter to attend to.' She rose and smoothed her braids. 'I am so glad you offered to accompany me...'

  The Duchess looped her arm through Froma's as they headed out the door. Froma grinned. Her veil had so many uses.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sira's face softened into a secret smile when she left the solar. Rabel had agreed. Sira hurried along the corridors towards the Seneschal's room as butterflies swarmed in her belly. It was now up to her.

  Sira hoped she had diverted Mistress Plesec from their plan. She grimaced and hoped she'd not been too disrespectful. The Duchess's anger had been part of the act. If only Rabel had chosen a more trustworthy person to pass on her message. Sira knew the haughty wool merchant's wife would betray their confidence the moment Sira left the room.

  With each step along the corridor, Sira's plan and their sin became as real as the bricks below her feet. She shivered, picturing the Father's wrath. The butterflies turned to stones in her stomach.

  All her life she'd been taught to fear the Land of Eternal Darkness, a place in the coldest depths of the bottom of the sea where no light or hope could reach. It was the realm of the worst sinners where thousands were free to satisfy their every wicked desire. A place where screams would never be heard.

  But Sira's plan observed the Teachings. Didn't the Scion say "a woman always places her family first in all her words and actions"? As a Singlewoman with her Pa and Ma long cold, Rabel was her only kin. She was helping her family. Shouldn't the Father approve?

  Sira knocked on the Seneschal's thick wooden door.

  'Enter.'

  She blinked and shivered as she stepped inside the gloomy room. Weak candlelight strained over three broad tables covered in leather-bound ledgers. The twig-like Seneschal stooped over a large book, a quill in his hand, and a young boy on a ladder slotted books into the shelves behind him.

  'What do you want?' He scowled, a deep divot running between his eyebrows.

  'The Duchess would like to see you after luncheon, Sir.'

  'What does she want?' He continued scribing. 'These ledgers were left in a disgraceful state by some damned fool woman.'

  'She wants the count of war widows left in Ambrovna.'

  The Seneschal snorted. 'Good luck. Taxation is not due until the end of the Spawning season. And even then, she will need the Duke's permission.'

  'I'm sure he will be forthcoming, sir,' Sira said.

  'I will talk to her once the Duke has granted permission and not before. Such matters are not her concern. Now, out.'

  He flicked his fingers. Sira lowered her head and backed out of the room.

  'Wait. Now you have interrupted my work you can make yourself useful. Bring me some ale and cakes.'

  Sira gritted her teeth but plastered on a smile. 'Yes, sir.'

  Sira headed for the kitchens through the bailey, ignoring the hubbub of rowdy men all around her. Was there another way? Could she speak to a Cousin on Rabel's behalf? Ask for his assistance with Iwan? She exhaled and shook her head. A Cousin would only tell Rabel to persevere. Sira chewed her lip. How much would it cost to hire an Alleys thug to give Iwan his comeuppance? She sighed. Her last silver coin was already in Sabet's filthy hands.

  Sira had made a promise to her sister and according to the Scion, a promise was golden. In the eyes of the Father.

  'Ale and cakes for the Seneschal,' Sira said as she passed the row of bare-armed kitchen girls rolling out sheets of white dough.

  'More?' said Majvi, wiping her hands on her apron and reaching for the thick brass key swinging from her neck. 'Greedy old goat.'

  Sira chuckled as the tiny cook stood on tip-toes and unlocked the spice cabinet. Her body always softened in Majvi's company.

  'Remember Mida,' Sira said as Majvi shaved a nugget of nutmeg into her large bowl.

  'That's goin' back years.'

  'She used to say some strange things.'

  Mida, a charwoman with three teeth left in her head, would ramble into young Sira's ears. 'See 'em spices,' she'd point to the very same spice cabinet and then to the bushels of crispy leaves hanging from the rafters. 'And them 'erbs. They got more uses than makin' cakes taste good.'

  Sira would shrug nervously and continue her turnip peeling.

  'No one wants to listen anymore but the cunning lives on. People shoo away the wasp but she brings much more than a sting.' Mida tapped the side of her nose. 'When the world was young, the wasp brought fire to the people. She stole it from the sun and brought it down to earth. But you don't want to anger her. A wasp can sting more than once.'

  Majvi tested her batter with a slurp from her spoon. 'I never listened. She was one of them. Wasn't she?'

  Sira shrugged.

  While no one dared mention them, the old ways were not truly lost. There was one place, one person who still knew. A person who could be trusted to keep a secret. But twenty years had passed since Sira last saw her younger sister.

  Even as a child, Wisia was like a ghost, slim and ethereal, dancing lightly over the world. She said the sparrows spoke to her and the bricked walls of their house hummed lullabies. Even before her first bleeding, she'd disappear from home for days on end, returning only with a mysterious smile.

  The last time she saw her sister, Wisia was standing over her bed. Somehow she had bypassed the guards and locked castle gates and slipped into Sira's sleeping quarters without waking the other snoring serving women. Although bone-tired servants usually slept like the dead.

  'I must go, dear sister. They don't understand,' Wisia had said.

  'They love you in their hearts but they are too scared to admit it. They only know the Teachings.'

  'They're weak. They put the Father before us. But I'm strong.'

  'Where will you go?'

  'The hills. A place only you can find me.'

  'The Shimmering Spring?'

  'It'll make me a fine home.'

  'I will visit you.'

  'No. You know what they say about me. I don't want to tarnish you.'

  Sira had wished she could disagree, but Wisia was right. Their parents were not the only weak ones.

  'Only come to me if you must. Life or death.'

  'But...'

  'Promise?'

  'I promise.'

  'Don't worry about me. The hills and the forest'll look after me. There is nothing for me here in this town of the Father.'

  With these words, her sister disappeared into the shadows. For twenty years Sira had kept her word. But now the moment of life and death had arrived.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The small procession of three crossed the town Square and headed towards the Temple, Agata in her terracotta dress, Froma in her veil and a weak-chinned guard with the eel sigil on his chest. Agata was glad for Froma's company. The merchant's wife was quite the formidable sight, towering over her.

  In the early days, Agata had found Froma's airs and strong opinions intimidating and thorny. But she was loyal and her keen mind invaluable and now Agata was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt, and in truth, she had no one else.

  It was the hour before the midday service and the market Square was deserted. A lone peddler hawked pies half-heartedly and the wind whipped the tattered terracotta pennants tangled in the Old Man Tree. The stoic Tree snubbed its nose at the stiff breeze while two men sat underneath, heads close together plotting or philosophising. It was hard to tell at a d
istance and often there was little difference anyway.

  As her toes touched the first steps into the Temple, Agata hoisted herself to her full noble posture, bracing for an interaction with the Scion. The weak-chinned guard followed the Duchess and Froma, as close and as silent as a shadow. The Temple walls were built from the same local red brick as the castle, but the interior was painted buttermilk yellow and the bricks underfoot were worn to a rosy pink. Outside, the Square was quiet but inside the hefty arched doors, there was not a breath of sound. Agata felt she was disturbing the Father with her mere presence.

  'My Lady, what a pleasant surprise,' said a Cousin. His hands were folded away inside his simple bronze-coloured cotton gown, his dark eyebrows met in the centre. 'Are you here for midday service? You are early. But you are very welcome to wait in the Temple. It's always an honour to receive the wife of our Duke.'

  The Cousin gestured through the open doorway where a thousand tiny candles twinkled underneath the circular symbol of the Father etched into the wall.

  'I am here to see the Scion.'

  'He is quite busy, my Lady. As always. The work of the Father is never complete.'

  'I am sure he can find time to see the Duchess,' said Froma.

  'Perhaps,' the Cousin said. He beckoned to a younger Cousin and whispered in his ear before sending him away. 'Would you like to wait in the Temple, my Lady? I am available to hear your sins if you feel the need to unburden your soul to the Father?'

  'We will wait,' Agata said with a patient smile.

  She missed her childhood Scion, a rotund man with deep wrinkles from a lifetime of smiling. Scion Geitor had preached of a wise and kindly Father, a grandfatherly figure who bathed his people with the golden light of his love. Ambrovna's pale yellow paint could not remove the chill from the Temple air.

  Agata paced the length of the antechamber, her boot heels clattering against the bricks. When she reached the far end of the entrance, she noticed a doorway. The Cousin rushed in front of her with a sweep of his tunic, blocking her path before she finished her first step towards it.