Women of Wasps and War

by Madeleine D'Este

  'Pies. Pies. A copper a pie,' a wrinkled almond-eyed woman said as she offered her tray of golden-topped meat pies.

  Rabel's stomach rumbled loud enough for others to hear but she'd had plenty of practice setting aside her hunger. She knew she might need the few coppers jangling in her pocket for something else. Swatting away an inquisitive wasp, Rabel continued past tinkers selling dented saucepans, second-hand boots and poor-quality candles, holding her nose against the reek of piss from the tanneries.

  'New shawl. New shawl.' A black moustached man grabbed at her arm, almost pulling her off her feet. 'Good price. Real mohair.'

  'Get off.' She wrenched away from him and crashed into another woman.

  'Beautiful children,' the woman said, her scabby fingers reaching for Aula.

  'Don't touch.' Rabel clutched her twins close to her chest.

  'Such beautiful 'air,' she said, her grin too wide. 'The colour of 'oney.'

  'I said don't touch!'

  'I'll give you fifteen coppers for the hair,' she said. 'Both of them. Baby 'air. So soft. So pretty. It'd make a fine wig for some rich bitch.'

  'No.' Rabel covered their heads with her hands.

  'Fifteen coppers. Easy coins. A good deal,' the woman said, pointing to a covered stall. 'Just come through 'ere, I'll cut it myself. They're young. It'll grow back quick.'

  Rabel shook her head and hurried towards the smell of the sea.

  'Alright. Twenty,' the woman called after her.

  As Rabel hurried around the next dog-leg corner, she spotted two terracotta uniforms up ahead. They'd stopped another woman with a similar build to her own, whose shoulders were hunched and her eyes wide as they spoke quietly, their fingers poking at her collarbone.

  Rabel gulped and backtracked, her heart walloping. The wig woman stood in the same spot with the same unnatural smile.

  'Changed your mind?'

  'Twenty coppers? Let's go.'

  The woman ushered her through another curtain into a windowless room. A prune-like grey-haired woman sat perched on a small stool, sewing chunks of hair onto a fabric cap, a large mound of chestnut brown hair at her feet. The seamstress hummed an old folk song about the mermaid and the fishermen with the golden net as she stitched without looking up.

  'How much for my hair?' Rabel said as she sat down on a stool and balanced the twins on her knees, gripping them so tight, they squirmed.

  The woman wheezed a sigh. 'That wasn't the deal.' She lit a pipe and sucked in hard. 'But show me.'

  Rabel unfurled her shawl and unbraided her hair.

  The wig woman cackled and coughed. 'No one would buy that!'

  Rabel's heart sank. As a girl she'd had fine hair the colour of cedar, but now it was brittle and shot with grey.

  'Only the babes.'

  Rabel stroked Aula's honey coloured hair. Twenty coppers was enough to buy passage on a boat out of Ambrovna. She couldn't, could she?

  'Let go, Ma.' Aula wriggled.

  'I want walk,' said Jorn, slipping out of her arms.

  'No. Be good for Mama.'

  'Hungry.'

  'Soon. I'll get some food in a minute.' Rabel scooped up her grumbling children and stood.

  'Not so fast. We 'ad an agreement.'

  'I changed my mind.'

  'I don't like people who go back on their word.'

  'What are you going to do?' Rabel sneered, looking at the skinny woman and the old lady.

  The wig woman raised an eyebrow. 'Jaco!'

  The door flap flew open and a bald man, the size of a bull, filled the doorway.

  Rabel took a step back away from the door.

  The wig woman smiled.

  ***

  'The mushroom?'

  Froma nodded. 'One small thing is all I ask. A little favour in return.'

  Agata blinked. 'You mean to kill someone?'

  'You are shocked?' Froma said, lifting an eyebrow, her goblet to her lips.

  'You know the consequences?'

  'Am I so different to Rabel?'

  Agata covered her mouth with her hand. Who did Froma have in her sights?

  'This is my offer.' Froma shrugged. 'I will harbour Rabel if I can have what she has. I am putting myself in danger for you, my Lady. It is only fair.'

  Agata stared across the solar and rubbed her forehead. Another death on her hands?

  'I do not have it,' she stuttered. 'I am not sure there is any left.'

  'I am sure you can get hold of it. Or more if you need. I have faith in you, my Lady. If anyone can obtain it, you can.' Froma's eyes were steady.

  Agata chewed on her lip. This deal would have deadly consequences.

  'Do we have an agreement?' Froma said, slowly and precisely. 'My Lady.'

  'Yes,' Agata spluttered, regretting the words as soon as they left her lips.

  'Good. It is settled. Bring me the item and I'll prepare a place for Rabel.'

  Agata rose to her feet, the floor and walls undulating as she stood. She clutched the back of the chair until her vision cleared. 'Thank you for seeing me so unexpectedly.'

  'Thank you for visiting my humble home, my Lady. I only hope my hospitality was adequate at such short notice.'

  'Your hospitality was without fault. The cakes were delightful, Mistress Plesec,' Agata said, the walls of formality rising between them once again.

  'Will I see you again today?'

  She shook her head. 'I shall send Sira.'

  Froma nodded. 'I will make the arrangements.'

  Agata wrapped her face and headed out into the late morning. She drifted through the throngs of people. This misadventure was spreading like a vine, snaking and creeping out of her control, wrapping around her chest and squeezing her ribs until she could barely breathe.

  In the Square, carpenters hammered and sawed, finalising the stage for the mummers and troubadours to entertain the town as Ambrovna celebrated the coming Eel season. In front of the Temple, more men laid out long planks of wood. Agata squinted. She recalling nothing about a dais near the Temple in the Festival plans. What was the Scion up to?

  Under the Old Man Tree, a woman kneeled with her head bowed and hands cupped, two snotty-faced babes sitting alongside her. Another war widow. Agata fumbled in her pocket but she did not carry coins and a smile of pity was useless to the woman. Two young terracotta guards loomed over the woman and she glanced up at them glumly. Agata paused to watch. Should she intervene? Then she remembered her disguise. A group of Cousins walked towards her, among them the single-browed Cousin who yesterday prevented her from seeing the Scion.

  She bowed her head to hide her face and with clenched fists, she turned away and continued up the Avenue, vowing to speak with her husband about the welfare of the town's widows before luncheon. After she'd spoken with Sira.

  She unwrapped her face and straightened her posture as she approached the castle gates. The sullen pot-bellied guard looked puzzled as she swept through the gatehouse but he did not stop her.

  She hesitated as she passed him. 'What is the construction outside the Temple? Who authorised it?'

  'It's for the Allotment, m'Lady,' he replied. 'Lord Kalin.'

  Agata narrowed her eyes. She remembered Gala and Jadzia talking about an Allotment. The word seemed familiar. She chewed her lip. There had been a passing reference to an Allotment in the History of Ambrovna, a book on the shelves of the Duke's Cabinet. Here was yet another reason to visit her husband.

  She strode across the inner bailey towards the keep, her belly knotting as she recalled Froma's bargain. This mess was all her doing and if she did not agree to Froma's demands, what would become of Rabel? Agata wrung her hands as she continued to her chambers.

  'My Lady.'

  Agata jumped.

  The furrows in Lord Sylwin's brow were as deep as moats. 'Are you well?'

  Agata smile and reached for his hand. 'Yes, my Lord.'

  'You are pale, my Lady. Should I call for the physician?'

  'I am not ill, my Lord. Mer
ely busy. There is much to do for tomorrow's festivities. Have you seen Sira?'

  'I saw her in the outer bailey a few minutes ago. Bustling about from step to stair. I said she must have a very demanding mistress.' Sylwin grinned.

  'I must go.'

  'Wait.' Sylwin placed his hand on her arm. 'You seem troubled, my dear. Is it the Duke? Should I be concerned about his health? Is it what we talked about?'

  Perhaps she'd forgotten another friend. The kindly old great uncle had been her counsel and support during the year of war. She glanced up and down the brick-walled corridor, checking for any big-eared guards or servants.

  She sighed. 'I appear to be in an...interesting...position.'

  He pulled her aside, his voice low. 'You know you can trust me, my Lady.'

  She nodded.

  'Are you in trouble?'

  She chewed her lip. 'What would you do if you had to hurt one person to help another?'

  He leaned in, his white eyebrows knitting together. 'A difficult matter indeed. If you spoke to the Scion, he would say a good act does not erase a sin.'

  Agata swallowed. 'What if you had no choice?'

  'This would not be an excuse in the eyes of the Father. You must have the strength to do what is right.'

  'But what is right?' Agata said in a faraway voice.

  'Now you have me worried, my Lady. But you are stronger than you think. Unfortunately, I must rush. Your husband has called me to his Cabinet but please come to talk with me this afternoon.'

  'Yes, my Lord,' Agata said with a tiny smile. The tight band across her chest loosened a notch as the old man squeezed her hand. Agata hurried towards her chambers where Sira was waiting by the window, wringing her hands.

  'M'Lady?' She clutched a hand to her bosom.

  'We have a problem,' Agata said.

  Sira's shoulders sank. 'She wouldn't help.'

  Agata shook her head. 'She will. But with one condition.'

  'What does she want?' Sira frowned.

  'Do you have any of the poison left?'

  Sira tutted. 'Of course. Rabel is not the only one who suffers. Master Plesec always had a terrible temper. You've seen her face.'

  'She said it was robbers!'

  'You need to spend more time in the laundry, m'Lady,' Sira said. 'To learn the truth about life in Ambrovna.'

  'We cannot help her.'

  Sira's cheeks blazed. 'What of Rabel?'

  'We cannot be complicit in another man's death.'

  'I already have two on my conscience.' Sira's shoulders slumped. 'I'm already bound for the Land of Eternal Darkness.'

  'I won't allow it.'

  'You are innocent so far, m'Lady. If this helps my sister, I am willing.'

  'I don't feel innocent,' Agata said, tugging at the tassel around her waist.

  'What Mistress Plesec does is not my concern. I only care about my family.'

  'But you know what she will do. We cannot trade lives.'

  'I am at peace with my sins.' Sira held her head high.

  'I will have no more deaths. There must be another way.'

  'But, m'Lady. Think of the little ones,' Sira said, her voice thick with tears as she grasped Agata's arm with desperate fingers.

  'I can't,' Agata said, patting Sira's hand.

  Sira pursed her lips, a spark of anger flashing in her eyes.

  'I understand your sister means everything to you but this is my final answer. It must end here.' Agata's heart tore as she watched Sira's downcast face.

  'As you wish, m'Lady,' Sira said, her voice turning as cold as a winter wind. 'May I leave? I must go and find her. Before the guards do.'

  'Be quick.'

  'Thank you, m'Lady.' Sira's blank servant's smile was once again in place as she curtseyed. 'Is there anything else you need?'

  Agata pinched the bridge of her nose and squeezed her eyes shut, the decision weighing heavily on her chest. She drifted to the window, overlooking the Square.

  'Before you go. Explain to me about the Allotment. Is this part of the Spawning Festival? We didn't do it last year.'

  Sira gasped, eyes bulging. 'Sorry, m'Lady. Did you say Allotment?'

  'The Scion mentioned it a few days ago and I read a reference to an Allotment in a history chronicle. There are men in the Square preparing for it. Down there in front of the Temple.'

  Sira ran to her side by the window. 'Oh no.'

  'What is it?'

  'They're coming.' Sira pointed to a row of carts entering the Square. 'You must stop it.'

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Froma knocked on Clawa's door and waited, smoothing her veil as she tapped her foot. A mousy serving girl eventually answered.

  'Is your mistress in?' Froma said.

  'Yes, Mistress, but...' the girl replied, her eyes lowered.

  'But what?' Froma frowned. I am here on business from the Duchess.' She never tired of saying these words.

  'My Mistress is not well. The news of our Master's death has hit her hard and today is worse than yesterday.'

  'Of course but she will see me. Mistress Plesec.'

  Froma barged past the girl, through the doorway into Clawa's house. She needed to be quick, she did not want to miss Sira and her delivery from the Duchess.

  She followed the light into a well-appointed hall with gleaming wooden furniture and rich tapestries rivalling her own. Clawa was sitting at a long table, stirring a spoonful of honey into her porridge and staring glassy-eyed into the bowl.

  'Mistress Plesec to see you, Mistress?' the serving girl said.

  Clawa nodded without looking up. 'Hagnis wouldn't approve,' she muttered, her lip trembling as she continued to stir. 'He insisted porridge should only be eaten with salt.'

  Froma nodded as she sat down. She watched Clawa closely, studying her grief. Even the discussion of porridge brought fresh tears to the widow's eyes. A merchant's wife should show more restraint. She locked away the observation in her mind. She may need it very soon.

  'I am terribly sorry for your loss, Clawa. But I am here about --.'

  'The house is so empty without him,' Clawa said with a sniff. 'And my Bergdis is shut up in her chamber. The poor child. Her bad news was two-fold.'

  'Your daughter?'

  'Her father and her betrothed. Both killed in the war.'

  'Oh, the poor girl. In the eyes of the Father.' Froma circled her forehead.

  'No father, no husband and barely sixteen years old.'

  Someone thumped at the side door but Clawa didn't raise her head, she kept stirring and mumbling. The person knocked again, this time twice as loud.

  The serving girl scurried down the hallway and opened the door to yelling. Heavy boots clumped inside. Clawa lifted her head and Froma's eyes widened as three terracotta guards stormed into the room.

  'Clawa Gunde?' asked the largest of the three, his face covered by a thick beard.

  'Yes,' she squeaked.

  A blond guard and one with hair like a hedgehog grabbed Clawa by the elbows, sending her chair clattering backwards and lifting her to her feet.

  'Take your hands off her,' Froma said, shooting up from her chair as the guards dragged Clawa towards the door.

  'Quiet,' the bearded guard snapped. He approached Clawa, her eyes round and wet. 'Where can I find Bergdis Gunde?'

  'S-s-she's not here,' Clawa stuttered. 'She is away. In Ledvor.'

  The bearded man backhanded Clawa across the face. 'Liar. Where is your daughter?'

  Bloody spit dribbled onto Clawa's tunic as she shook her head.

  'How dare you!' Froma said, grabbing the bearded guard by the arm. 'Mistress Clawa is a respectable woman--'

  'I told you to be quiet,' the guard said, wrenching his hand out of Froma's grasp and jabbing his finger into her face. 'This is none of your business. Unless you want to come too.'

  She stood her ground, her hands on her hips. 'How dare you speak to me in this manner. I shall report you to the Duchess.'

  'Go ahead. This is an or
der from the Duke himself.'

  Clawa gasped. 'The Allotment?'

  The big guard grinned. 'Where is your daughter?'

  Clawa shook her head and he raised his big hand once more.

  'Upstairs!' the serving girl yelped.

  The big man nodded to the blond guard who rushed out of the room and thumped up the stairs.

  'What is going on, Clawa? What is an Allotment?' Froma asked.

  'Bergdis!' Clawa shouted. 'Leave her alone.' She moaned as the guards tied her hands behind her back.

  'Another word and we'll gag you,' the big guard growled.

  Froma stood frozen and nauseous, glancing from the guards to Clawa and back again.

  Sounds of screaming, banging and crashing floated down the stairs.

  Clawa shrieked. 'Don't hurt her...please. Go to my husband's room. Take all the coins you want. Or wine? Take the wine. Anything you want.'

  The blond guard appeared in the doorway with Bergdis flung over his shoulder, her long walnut-coloured hair covering her face, her bare toes kicking him in the back. 'Put me down, you churl.'

  Froma pushed past Clawa and the guards and rushed to the hallway, blocking the blond guard’s path. 'I demand you put her down. Now.'

  The blond guard rammed into Froma, shoving her aside like a skittle. The bearded guard laughed as she crashed into the wall with a groan.

  'Take them both to the cart.'

  ***

  'Hurry,' Sira panted as they rushed down the steep Avenue.

  'What is it?' Agata shaded her eyes against the midday sun as three carts rumbled into the Square. 'Tell me.'

  The carpenters fell silent, their hammers hanging in mid-air. The boys playing in the Old Man Tree stopped laughing as everyone pointed and stared. A hush descended over Ambrovna as the carts rolled in.

  Agata's jaw dropped open.

  Rather than livestock, the three horse-drawn carts were filled with women. Young and middle-aged, tall and small, stout and slim. In coarse tunics with dirty faces, in veils, in finely embroidered silk. Some cried, some stared blankly, others squeezed their eyes firmly shut, but all were ashen-faced. The women were not alone. They came with newborns in their arms, toddlers at their feet and children, some taller than their mothers.