Women of Wasps and War

by Madeleine D'Este

  The carts travelled across the Square and stopped outside the Temple where waiting guards opened the wooden gate. Now it made sense. The Scion's timber construction was a holding pen with high walls and a narrow entry gate.

  Agata called out across the Square, her voice bouncing off the bricks. 'What is going on?'

  A terracotta clad full-bearded guard dropped his reins and jumped down. Agata lifted her skirts and hurried to take a position between the cart and the pen.

  'I asked you a question, guard. Answer your Duchess,' she said, hands on hips as she made her slender frame as large as possible.

  The bearded guard bowed his head. 'M'Lady. Please move out of the way.' He kept his eyes on the ground as he spoke.

  'Not until you tell me what is going on?'

  'Please, m'Lady. I'm only following orders.'

  'From who.'

  'Me.' Lord Kalin and his guards approached from the rear, his peacock-blue surcoat flapping as he strode towards the pen. 'Unload them.'

  'I demand an explanation, Lord Kalin.'

  The guards unfastened the cart doors and yanked the women and children by the arms, tossing them into the pen. The Square rang with shrieks for mercy and howls of indignation. A woman in a rough hessian shift tripped and three others toppled over her. The guards laughed and elbowed one another.

  'I demand you stop at once. You're hurting them. What is going on?'

  Kalin shrugged. 'These are the orders of the Duke. The Allotment will take place tomorrow at the Spawning.'

  The women huddled together in the centre of the pen, their children clasped to their chests. A few squinted with fire in their eyes.

  'What is the Allotment?'

  Lord Kalin laughed. 'I forgot you are a stranger here. You will find out tomorrow.'

  'My Lady! My Lady!' said a familiar voice.

  'Clawa?' Agata reached through the railings as a pock-faced guard shoved the merchant's widow into the pen.

  'Help me,' she said feebly, her button-nose bloodied.

  'This woman is one of my Circle. A respectable woman.' Agata's eyes flashed.

  'A widow,' Lord Kalin said. 'With a few more child-bearing years in her. Still useful. She'll be given to a new husband by sunset tomorrow.'

  'Her husband was a Guild member. A war hero. Have you no respect? You are treating her like a goat!'

  'It could be worse. She could end up with the Unwanted.'

  'This is barbaric.'

  'I'd watch your tongue if I were you, my Lady. The Allotment keeps our town and the families strong. Perhaps traditions and unity are values you Neven people cannot understand--'

  'Where is my husband?' Agata spat.

  'With the Scion in his Cabinet. Making the last arrangements.'

  Agata ground her teeth.

  'I must go, my Lady,' Sira whispered and Agata waved her maid away.

  'I will stop this,' she said as she lifted her skirts and stomped towards the Avenue.

  'Give my regards to the Scion,' Kalin chuckled after her.

  Meanwhile, a fourth cart rolled into the Square.

  ***

  Rabel gulped as the bovine man blocked the doorway of the wig woman's stall.

  'What's goin' on?' he boomed.

  'I'm leavin',' Rabel said, pulling herself to her full height, surprised by the iron in her voice.

  'This tart is trying to back out of our deal and we don't like that. Do we, Jaco?'

  The man moved towards Rabel but she stood firm, despite her thumping heart. She glanced around, looked for another way out and pulled Aula and Jorn closer.

  'Now, be a good girl and sit down,' Jaco said.

  The wig woman gestured to a stool next to the old seamstress. 'It will only take a few moments.'

  Rabel shook her head violently. The wig woman and Jaco came towards her, closer and closer, one from the left and one from the right. The wig woman reached for Aula's head and Jaco stretched his meaty fingers for Rabel's shoulder. She swung around but there was only one way out.

  'Red death,' Rabel blurted.

  Jaco recoiled, his palms in the air.

  'What did you say?' the wig woman stuttered.

  'You don't want to touch us. We've got the red death.'

  The wig woman and Jaco exchanged frantic glances. 'Tripe,' the wig woman said, a tremor in her voice.

  Rabel shrugged. 'You don't have to believe me.'

  The wig woman backed away slowly.

  'Are you thick? Listen to 'er. Let 'em go,' barked the old seamstress from the corner. 'And quick, go get some marigolds and a hen,'

  'Get out of 'ere,' the wig woman spat, her eyes flashing as Jaco disappeared through the door.

  'For my troubles, I'll take this.' Rabel grabbed a large mud-brown shawl from the table, her pulse racing. The wig woman opened her mouth to protest but said nothing once Rabel's fingers had touched the wool.

  'Thank you kindly.' Rabel wrapped it over her head, the blanket-sized shawl falling right down to her knees and covering Jorn and Aula. The children giggled. 'We're playing castles, Ma.'

  'A good game, little ones.' Rabel found herself smiling, too.

  'Out,' the wig woman snarled.

  Rabel hurried away through the flap, back into the markets, her chest tight with fresh worries.

  What if the wig woman raised the alarm?

  The guards were one problem but what would the Alleys people do to her if they thought she carried the red death? It was time to start afresh, on her own. Her sisters had done so much already. Rabel weighed up her choices. Leaving Ambrovna seemed the only way. She'd tell Sira she no longer needed her help. But first she needed coins and food. The blanket game would only distract the twins for so long.

  Finding a clear patch of ground between a stall selling wilted bunches of nettles and a woman selling wart-cures, she bent down. She splashed her hands in a puddle and smeared her face with mud and did the same to the twins. They giggled and wriggled, enjoying this new game. With the blanket covering her hair and shoulders, she kneeled with her head bowed and her hands cupped in the air.

  For so many years, she'd resisted begging, but she was out of choices. It was this or Guts Alley. She said nothing, only held out her hands with her twins by her side. Even if she wanted to speak, a boulder-sized lump in her throat held back her words.

  'Piss off out of 'ere,' said one man.

  'Dirty slut,' laughed a young boy. 'I'll pay you a copper to suck me'.

  'Get a job,' said a woman

  Head down and hands up, Rabel didn't raise her eyes until she felt the bounce of a copper hitting her shawl. 'In the eyes of the Father,' she muttered, snaffling the coin before another greedy Alleys hand beat her to it.

  'Here you go, little ones,' said a woman's voice.

  Rabel glanced up to see a rosy-cheeked woman handing over two broken oat cakes. The twins grabbed the biscuits and gobbled them down, crumbs covering their dirty faces.

  'Thank you, Goodwife,' Rabel croaked.

  'Haven't you heard what's happenin' today? It's not safe out here. They'll round you up too,' the woman said. 'Go and hide.'

  Rabel frowned.

  'Another one!'

  Rabel's eyes widened, her heart yanked from her chest as a big-eared terracotta guard pointed at her.

  'Go,' the woman said, before vanishing into the crowd.

  Rabel grabbed the twins and scrambled to her feet. 'Come on.'

  'More biscuits, Ma?' Jorn said with a pout.

  'We're goin' to get more, Jorn,' she said, her voice cracking. 'This way.'

  'Not so fast.'

  The big-eared guard blocked her path, his arms outstretched. She gripped her children's hands, her knees shaking.

  A second rodent-faced guard approached her. 'Where's your husband, woman? Have you got one?'

  'Look at her. Who'd want her?' The guard with the ears chuckled and then squeezed his nostrils. 'Will they wash them before the ceremony?'

  Rabel flitted from face to face, narro
wing her eyes.

  'You're comin' with us.'

  'Where?'

  'You'll find out.'

  She dragged her children against her bony chest. Did the guards know who she was? No one had mentioned the red death or Iwan. What was the oat-cake woman talking about? What was going on?

  The rat-faced guard grabbed her by the elbow. She tugged her arm away.

  'Are you comin' willingly? Otherwise we'll have to force you.'

  Rabel bit down on her lip and held back tears. She had nowhere left to run. She stared at the muddy ground and nodded. No point fighting. She must face her actions and accept the Father's judgement.

  She took her twins by the hands. 'Come along, little ones.'

  'Biscuit?' Jorn said, with eyes wide.

  Rabel nodded weakly and with her head bowed, she followed the uniforms through the market, wondering what was in store for them.

  'Stop.'

  Rabel's heart jumped once more but this time she smiled.

  'It's the Duchess's ugly maid,' hissed the big-eared guard.

  'Seliv is looking for you two.' Sira pushed through the crowd towards them. 'I don't know what you've done. But he's fuming.'

  The guards grimaced at each other.

  'He's in the Square.'

  'What have you done now?' the rat-faced guard asked his companion.

  'I didn't do nothin'.' The other guard flung his hands in the air. 'Maybe it was you.'

  'You better hurry,' Sira warned.

  With eyes narrowed at each other, the guards turned and pushed their way back through the crowd. 'Get out of our way.'

  'Sira,' Rabel breathed once they were gone.

  'Come. Now. Before they find out I'm lying.'

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Agata barged through the Cabinet door, her blood like fire under her skin.

  'There you are, my dear. I was going to send for you.' The Duke said as he sat at his carved desk, a warm smile on his lips.

  She pointed at the lead-lined window and spat out her words before she could temper herself. 'My Lord. What is going on out there? Women in pens?'

  His smile evaporated, his face turning as hard as the brick walls. 'The Allotment is a tradition.'

  'Here in Ambrovna we believe in the sanctity of the family,' the Scion said. Agata spun around with a scowl, finding the bald Scion and his two Cousins standing behind her.

  Agata glanced at her husband, but he nodded with his hands steepled on the desk. 'My father ordered the same after the last Civil War.'

  'It is obvious the adherence to the Teachings is lax in Tramissa,' the Scion continued.

  'Thank you for your concern about my education, Scion Zavis.' Agata straightened her spine and drew in a breath through her nostrils. 'However, I know my Teachings well. There is nothing in the text about treating your subjects like livestock.'

  'It is an old way, not often used but referenced in the ancient versions of the Teachings.' The Scion swept past her and stood at the Duke's shoulder. 'After the last war, the old Duke and I thought it was the best approach. The needs of the greater family were at stake.'

  'Please, sit and rest, my dear. You seem rather overwrought. The preparations for the Spawning Festival must be putting a strain on you. Fetch the Duchess some wine.' The Duke waved at a serving boy.

  Agata narrowed her eyes.

  'You do not need to concern yourself with these matters.'

  'But while the men were at war, we women proved ourselves capable. You must agree that the town is in an acceptable state, my Lord? These women are more than goats at market.'

  'Stability is needed. The family must be upheld. Homes must be headed by a man. The Scion came to me and I thought it was an excellent idea.'

  Agata's cheeks burned, her fists bunched by her sides.

  'The Allotment allows men to take multiple wives. Good breeding stock should never be wasted,' the Scion continued. 'Particularly brothers who are prepared to take their sisters-in-law. The older ones are useless, only good to join the Unwanted. The Allotment turned out well last time, strengthened the town. And it shows our commitment to the Father and his Teachings. Proving Ambrovna is a pious town.'

  'But the women have no say,' Agata blurted.

  'It is for their benefit. And the benefit of their children. The Fatherhood knows best. I'm sure the Duke will agree.'

  The Duke nodded. 'And the people will enjoy the ceremony. A happy celebration of the family.'

  'But the women should be able to make this choice for themselves. They have brains, they have hearts.'

  'If they do not have husbands, they will starve. Who will employ them? There are more than enough washerwomen and seamstresses. I cannot allow my people to starve.'

  'Your people are starving now, my Lord.' Agata's voice wavered as her words poured out unfiltered. 'When did you last visit to the Alleys and see the way they live?'

  'You wish to allow these women to remain in poverty when we have a way for them to live a better life?' Her husband stared back with emotionless grey eyes.

  'You appear surprised?' The Scion tilted his head. 'Did you have any say in the selection of the Duke as your husband?'

  Agata pressed her lips. The politics of the Kingdom and the Five River Clans had taken precedence over a young girl's wishes. She had been lucky with her father's selection. She could have easily been handed over to some cruel but important noble, old enough to be her grandfather.

  The Scion stared at her unblinking.

  'The ceremony will take place tomorrow during the Spawning Festival,' the Duke continued. 'Arrangements must be made for a mass betrothal as part of the festivities. The Scion will lead the vows, obviously. But I need you to gather the veils and posies, whatever things women need.'

  Agata gritted her teeth.

  'The tinsmith is working on a number of rings but many of the women are widows. We shall use their old betrothal bands.'

  Agata found herself twisting her own band of gold.

  'Mid-morning is the best time for a betrothal,' said the Scion. 'While the sun is coming up in the sky.'

  'Are my instructions clear, my Lady?' the Duke said.

  Agata swallowed, wanting to say so much more.

  'My decision has been made. Please commence preparations. You may not understand, but it is your duty. As the Duchess of Ambrovna.'

  'Do you understand what it is like? To have no say over your own life? Your own husband? Your own body?' Agata grumbled. 'Of course, you don't.'

  'You are not yourself. Boy, call the physician.'

  Leaning over the desk, Agata stared into her husband's face. 'You are not listening to me. I am not ill. I am angry. Angry at the way you treat women. Including me.' She jabbed a finger into her own chest.

  'You are not making any sense. Go and rest, my dear. The stress of the last few days must be taking its toll on you.'

  'Because I am speaking my mind for the first time?'

  'Enough.' He folded his arms tightly across his chest, red blotches on his cheeks. 'I understand you are upset but there is no need to be so shrill. I should have known this would happen in my absence. You have become too emotionally attached to the townswomen. Go now. Calm yourself. There is much work to be done.'

  Agata lowered her head. She would not waste another breath. 'Yes, my Lord,' she said.

  If the Scion had eyebrows, he would have raised one. A glimmer of a smile passed over his lips.

  'I will see you for the Blessing of the Spawn at dusk,' the Duke said with a wave of his hand.

  With a curtsey, she left the Cabinet room but paused in the doorway.

  'Call together my Women's Circle,' she said to the guard with the widow's peak. 'Bring them here. Now. Preparations must be made on the Duke's orders.'

  'Yes, m'Lady.' The guard bowed and hurried away.

  Agata chewed her lip. He was right. There was much to be done and little time to stop the Allotment.

  ***

  Pacing her bedchamber, Froma s
queezed her upper arms as she waited for the knock at the side door. She smiled at her luck, the solution to her misfortune had fallen right into her lap.

  As soon as the Duchess had left, Froma had marched out to inspect the stables and clambered up a ladder to find a perfect hiding place among the hay bales. The snuffles and squawks of the livestock in the neighbouring shed would mask any sign of people. As long as the children kept quiet.

  Irina only had eyes for Danis. She'd relish any chance to stir up trouble between them.

  A rap sounded at the door and Froma's heart leapt. She rushed downstairs two steps at a time, holding her breath as Irina answered the door.

  'Is Mistress Plesec receiving company?'

  Froma licked her lips and stepped out from her eavesdropping spot. 'Good morning Sira. Come into the hall,' she said.

  The Duchess's maid nodded, her stained face bland. An experienced servant hid every thought.

  'Irina, leave us. Your Master will be expecting his luncheon.'

  They entered the hall but did not sit down. Froma waited until Irina was safely out of the main house before she spoke.

  'Do you have it?'

  Without a word, Sira handed over a Square of grey-brown fur. Froma snatched the pouch and plunged it deep into her pocket.

  'There is one small piece left but it is more than enough, Mistress,' Sira said flatly. 'Are you prepared for her?'

  'Do I simply add it to the food?'

  'I am told it is tasteless. Where should I send Rabel?'

  'How long does it take?'

  'If you use it soon, it should work by nightfall.'

  Froma's heart thundered in her chest. By morning, she'd be free.

  'Mistress Plesec?' Sira's brow furrowed. 'Rabel?'

  'Yes. Yes. I have a place for her. As long as she is quiet.'

  'She is waiting in the next alleyway.'

  'Meet me at the back gate but she must be discreet. No one can know she is here.'

  'I am so grateful.'