Brewer's Tale, The

by Brooks, Karen

  ‘It will be all right, liebchen. Forget the abbot, forget the friary and go make some liquid magic.’

  ‘I will,’ I said. But as I waved farewell, I knew that for the next few days, if not weeks, I would be looking over my shoulder. Despite the captain’s reassurances, I couldn’t forget the abbot so easily.

  TWELVE

  HOLCROFT HOUSE

  Late October to three days past the Nones of November

  The year of Our Lord 1405 in the sixth and seventh years of the reign of Henry IV

  Making sure the haircloth that lined the bottom of the kiln was in place before loading more coal, Adam stood back and wiped his hands on his apron. ‘Perforce, this is hot work,’ he said, grinning to indicate he took no displeasure in the task. It was a cold, dreary day and the brewhouse, with its raging kiln and crackling stove, was a most agreeable space.

  I flashed him a smile, my eyes fixed on glowing coals and the newly sprouted barley we’d painstakingly collected off the malthouse floor, laid upon large perforated trays and slid into the kiln so they could be dried. Over the past few days, tray after tray of moist grain had been slowly and carefully fired. The latest sat upon a table nearby, golden, divested of its little green shoots, the steamy haze surrounding it dissolving as the cool air grabbed the heat and swallowed it. Tasting the grain to ensure it was cured correctly, I found the buttery, nutty flavour lingered pleasantly in my mouth. Before long it would be cool enough to pour into sacks to go to the mill for grinding.

  Louisa and Blanche had collected heather from the moors behind the church, and I picked some up. First shaking the white powder from the fronds onto a piece of fabric so I could save it to use as an additive later, I threw it in the flames. The kiln smoked fiercely for a few seconds, forcing Adam and me to back away. Fast consumed, the dry heather released a sharp smell that caught in the back of the throat. Turning slightly to cough into my fist, it struck me how the brewhouse, now a veritable hive of activity, was unrecognisable from the bleak space it had been only weeks earlier.

  Adam, Will, Iris when she could be spared, Saskia and I, and even Louisa and the twins, had done nothing but work from dawn until dusk for days. Making larger quantities of ale required more hands than had once made the household’s supply. What I also discovered was that six years is a long time between brews. Unpractised with the stages, determined to follow my mother’s recipes lest I make a mistake, I commenced slowly. Flopping into bed at night exhausted and filled with self-doubt, I prayed to not only the Virgin and my Lord Jesus Christ, but also (may God forgive me) to the goddess of brewing, Ninkasi.

  Ninkasi was a beautiful goddess from ancient times, and Mother had taught me the hymn brewsters in the Low Countries, Germany and other parts of the continent sang to her to ensure the ale became yeasty and rich. Sometimes we’d even call upon Hathor, the Egyptian goddess of drunkenness, but Mother warned we were only to invoke her for very special occasions. I wondered if our first ale would warrant Hathor’s help and decided it would, so, when the opportunity presented itself, I summoned her presence as well.

  Barely stopping for meals, throwing down a piece of bread, some cold rabbit or eel, depending on the day of the week, the entire household committed fully. We had to — our livelihoods and the roof over our heads depended on it. There was an undertow of desperation to all we did, an unspoken fear of failure.

  By the end of the first two weeks, when the first batch of grain was dried and ready to go to the mill, we had found a rhythm. Preparing the malt became a matter, over ten days, of tossing the grain across the now clean and better-lit floor of the malthouse and watching it fall like a brief shower of rain. Soaking the barley in the crystal waters we’d drawn from the nearby stream, the Nene, it spread over the floor, a slow-moving marsh settling against its earthen banks. Bare-footed engineers, we’d lean on our tools and watch our muddy demesne form around our ankles. As the hours and days passed, we used the rakes and shovels to prevent the roots from fastening to the floor and each other, our backs and shoulders aching. Keeping the kiln and stove burning constantly, within days a fresh field of tiny green shoots sprouted and we became farmers rejoicing in our crop. Scooping up the new life, we layered it onto the large trays that went into the kiln. This was the point at which the previous hard work could easily come undone. If the temperature was too high and the grains burned, the ale was ruined before it was made. Likewise if the heat was too low. Mother had taught me how to ensure the fire burned slowly but consistently, waiting until the grains transformed into a mixture of amber or the colour of the sandstone rocks that swept the bay, before swiftly removing them.

  After the cooled grain was poured into sacks, it was sent to the mill to be ground. The following day, it was returned — a coarse flour littered with chits and husks ready for the next stage.

  The milled grain was tipped into the mash tun and hot water added. As with the heat from the fire, if the water was too hot or not hot enough, the brew would be spoiled. Many brewsters destroyed their ale during this ­process — Mistress Margery Kempe from Bishop’s Lynn was as famous for her piety as she was for ruining brew after brew. It was hard to gauge the heat. It required experience and what Mother used to call ‘the touch’. Her trick was to allow the water to boil, cool it slightly and then place her elbow just below the surface. If she could tolerate the conditions and, more importantly, the steam had dispersed enough so she could catch glimpse of her face upon the now still surface of the water, it was time to add the milled barley.

  Rolling up my sleeve, I did exactly as she’d always done. The water was hot but not boiling, and gazing back at me, as if about to emerge from the dark liquid, was my wide-eyed visage, tendrils of hair glued to my forehead and cheeks, as if I too were an ingredient. Mayhap I was. Using old drying sheets, Adam and Will hoisted the huge copper off the stove and slowly poured the contents into the mash tun, where the grain drank it thirstily. Grabbing the long-handled ladle, my mother’s mash paddle, I stood over the tun and worked clockwise then counter-clockwise, moving around and blending the ingredients to prevent clumps of grist forming. Saskia took over when my arms grew tired. Following one of Mother’s recipes, I added cloves, some sweet gale and bog myrtle to the mixture, sprinkling them onto the surface. Saskia stirred and I watched them whirl and settle and listened to the plashing of the liquid wort as it drained through the natural sieve of broken husks and grain into the copper underneath the tun.

  We now had the beginnings of our ale. Tomorrow, before dawn, when the house was still abed and I was certain no-one could bear witness, I would perform the step I believed made my mother’s brew unique. A process no-one, not Saskia, Father or, God forbid, Hiske, knew about. It had been Mother’s secret and mine, one passed down through the de Winter women for generations. I would ensure it was kept that way, until I was ready to pass it onto Betje and my children, and she to hers.

  The thought of children of my own, let alone little Betje having any, gave me pause. Would my womb ever quicken? In order to have a child, I first had to find a husband and that was unlikely to happen any time soon.

  Sending Will out to chop wood, Adam and I turned our attention to straining the last of the wort away from the mash. This would be done twice — the first time created a rich, full-tasting ale. The second, after we poured more water upon the mash, made a weaker small ale that would mostly be kept for the household to drink. Some brewers, including the friary, would not only add more water to their first press in order to create more volume, they would also do a second and even a third pass, producing a very thin drink, unfit, by most folk’s reckoning, for consumption. I refused to do this. I wanted to sell only my first, unless taste and demand said different, and let my reputation and fortune stand on that. Watching the honey-coloured broth move through the remnants of the mash and splash into the huge copper pots that sat beneath the tun did much to elevate my spirits. We were so close.

  When Will returned, the wort-filled coppers were heaved onto
the stove. It was this part that went a long way to making the ale my mother used to make different from everybody else’s. Few bothered to boil the wort — not the brewsters in Elmham Lenn nor the monks at the friary. It wasn’t economical or, many believed, necessary. Maybe not. But it did add flavour to the ale and, for some reason I didn’t understand, preserved it for longer as well. The trick was to bring it to the point where the wort roiled around the pot and then create a whirlpool with the special ladle. One hour was all that was needed. Using a marked candle, I ordered Will to light it as soon as I detected signs that boiling point had been reached. Standing on a stool by the pot, I placed the ladle in and stirred, imagining, as I used to years ago, I was bringing the great whirlpool Charybdis, she who tried to confound the hero Odysseus, to life. Tiny ships filled with terrified sailors were tossed upon my waves … Just like those on board the Cathaline …

  I withdrew the ladle in shock. How callous of me. My face burned with shame. I’d become lost in the joy of creation and wasn’t thinking, allowing the stories of old to sweep me into another world. Thank the good Lord Adam and Will seemed oblivious. I quickly replaced the paddle, my day-dreaming tempered. After a while, the brewhouse walls ran with rivulets from the steam, and they seemed like tears of happiness.

  That night the boiled wort was left to cool in the troughs beneath the windows, which I left open. Sacks of grain sat by the door, the tun was gleaming, awaiting a new mash, and the malthouse floor was full of sprouting barley. Production could now begin in earnest. I tossed and turned, unable to rest despite fatigue so great it made my head throb. Anxious lest I’d lost my touch, failed both my mother’s instructions and her memory, I gave up trying to seek the oblivion of sleep and rose before the sun, throwing on some clothes and creeping downstairs, across the garden and into the brewery.

  There were final steps to complete. One, an essential part of the process; the other, a de Winter tradition. The ale could not be drunk, let alone sold, without this arcane undertaking that made Mother’s ale distinctive and had folk returning for more. This made the ‘magic’ of which Perkyn Miller and Captain Stoyan spoke, though they were ignorant of its origin.

  I shut the door. No-one must know. No-one could see. I couldn’t leave anything to chance.

  With a flaming candle resting atop an empty barrel, I examined the contents of the trough. The window above revealed the pre-dawn sky. Angry red streaks punctured the grey, promising a day of sorry weather. My breath misted as I studied the coat of soft white spume dressing the ale. The smell was overpowering. Images of rolling hills, days of sunshine, freshly turned earth and baking bread filled my vision. My headache began to abate and a smile tugged the corners of my mouth. I could detect the wild notes of pine and winter. Shutting my eyes briefly, I also saw Mother’s sweet face. You will make it work, she whispered.

  Uncorking one of the jugs of beer Captain Stoyan had given me, I slowly tipped it into the wort, relishing the splash and gurgle as it tumbled from the spout into the trough. Until I’d been given this, I’d believed myself doomed to use the friary ale in order to add the vital ingredient, the godisgoode, the element all brewers needed, to my brew. Using the Low Countries beer, the ‘son of ale’ as I’d heard it called, meant I not only brought some of my mother’s homeland to my recipe, but I avoided what I felt was contamination — the friary.

  Lowering my arm into the trough, I slipped through the flocculent, luscious froth. Transformed into a fleshy paddle, I divided the cool liquid, caressing it, murmuring, allowing the love I felt for my family, the hope I clung to for our future, to flow from me into the ale. I thought of the friends who supported this venture: Captain Stoyan, Masters Perkyn, Bondfield and Proudfellow, not forgetting Adam, Saskia, Will, Blanche, Iris, Louisa and, of course, the twins. Opaque, the now golden water swirled as I carved a path through the creamy bubbles, back and forth, to and fro. Satisfied it parted so readily before my gentle intrusion, I began to sing, all the time my hand stroked the wort, calling the ale to life as Mother had taught me.

  When I’d finished, I removed my hand and brought it to my mouth and licked it slowly. The earthiness of malt struck the roof of my mouth, the subtle sweetness of the fluids lathed my tongue. I shut my eyes in pleasure. A wild nectar clung to my teeth while cloves raced down my throat, nestling warmly in my chest. I sucked my fingers one by one and was rewarded with the bitterness of the bog myrtle and even the faint tang of the captain’s beer. My head spun momentarily and the room expanded on itself before contracting till there was only the beam of watery light passing through the window. Upon its shining span, I saw rows of tiny lights spinning towards me, towards the hand I held before my face. Lapping the last of the ale, revelling in the taste, the aroma, the affect, I wanted to giggle, dance, throw my arms out. I did all three, abandoning myself to the ale, to the magic created.

  Once more, Mother’s face manifested, laughing gaily, reaching for me — beyond me — with a look I hadn’t seen before. Her cheeks were now pale, her eyes dark with disbelief, fear, even. Who was she regarding in such a way?

  ‘Moeder,’ I called quietly, slipping into her native tongue, seeking to distract her. She turned towards me, the anguish gone and with a sweet smile, met my eyes.

  ‘The crones,’ she murmured. ‘Remember the crones.’ Her visage vanished and I was alone in the brewhouse as dawn broke over the county.

  With a sigh that spoke of loss and longing, I dried my hand. From what I tasted, the brew exceeded my expectations. But the process was not complete and, if we were to be ready to sell by Martinmas, I’d one more thing left to do.

  Reaching for the copper scoop that hung on a hook by the far wall, I dipped it into the trough. Collecting some wort, I went to each of the four corners of the brewhouse and tipped a portion onto the floor. Mother could be assured, I hadn’t forgotten the crones. An old Low Countries custom, I offered our ale to the corner crones who dwelled in the brewery and asked that they bless what I made. The last dregs I deposited on the threshold of the malthouse and then, bowing to each of the spirits in turn, I thanked them from the bottom of my very full heart.

  I’d just returned to the wort when Adam and Will entered, failing to notice the little wet patches in the corners or, as I imagined, the tiny old women, on hands and knees, lapping my offering up greedily.

  And so our days passed — malting, mashing and preparing the wort. Now I had my own godisgoode to make the brew froth, foam and ferment, I was able to pass the goodness on to each fresh batch. Every day, I would conduct my secret ceremony — singing the ale into life and respecting the generations of women past, the goddesses and crones who’d granted to womenkind the joy and responsibility of brewing. Gradually, we filled our barrels and even a hogshead of small ale, and the day to summon the ale-conners to taste and pass the brew for sale drew closer. The day that would test the veracity or otherwise of the abbot’s assurances to Captain Stoyan, and his to me.

  THIRTEEN

  HOLCROFT HOUSE

  Martinmas, 11th November

  The year of Our Lord 1405 in the seventh year of the reign of Henry IV

  It was Martinmas, the day the last of the wheat and barley crops were planted. Livestock that couldn’t be maintained over winter were slaughtered and a huge hiring fair was held in town. Tonight, there would be much gaiety and celebration as a feast with fires, mummers, jugglers, minstrels and dancing was held in the main square. In previous years, though we hadn’t been allowed to attend the dance (Hiske persuading Father that the strangers who poured into town at this time of year were not only dangerous, but posed a potential threat to our souls with their behaviour), we’d enjoyed the fair and the festive foods, such as joints of beef, legs of mutton and pottages full of bacon, wild onions and herbs. Being conscious of spending this year, Blanche salted our beef and stored it away for winter, sold our mutton and put goose on the menu for the evening instead.

  But I’d much more to keep me occupied than thoughts of fine fare, th
e dubious company of strangers or dancing. Up well before dawn, by the time the bells marking prime tolled, I’d been in the brewhouse for over an hour, my ancient rites completed and the fires stoked. Moments after I’d finished, Adam and Will, brushing crumbs from their mouths, stumbled through the still dark skies and hoary frost to join me.

  ‘We’re doing well, Mistress Anneke. Almost five barrels full.’ Adam nodded towards where the ale was stored as he warmed his hands by the kiln.

  While I didn’t want to deflate his optimism, I also didn’t want to create false hope. ‘It certainly appears we’re doing well, but we won’t really know until this afternoon.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Will, striding over to join us, slapping the side of the first barrel on his way past. It made a dull sound. ‘Not until we taste the brew!’ He sidled in beside Adam, letting the heat strike his back. ‘Well, not until the ale-conners do.’

  We all regarded each other solemnly. Blanche always said the proof was in the tasting. So it would be with the ale. Confident that what I’d tried each morning was good, something the others had confirmed when they’d had a sip, I didn’t want to say too much lest we’d grossly misjudged. After all, some of the brew had been fermenting in the barrels for well over a week now, and a great deal could go awry that had nothing to do with the ale-conners, bribes or the abbot.

  Though the day passed much like the others, this one carried the weight of expectation. It hovered over our activities and conversations like a threatening storm cloud. Today marked the threshold moment when our future as commercial brewers would be decided — not by our customers, not at first, but by the official town tasters, the supposedly impartial ale-conners. Required by law to test every fresh brew for sale, to assess the quality, check our measures and set the price, nothing could be sold until the elected men approved it. Just as they could allow sales to proceed, they could equally order a brewer to tip the entire barrel into the earth and then fine them heavily for the privilege. According to gossip in the marketplace and generously passed on by those who knew what we were doing, including Betrix, that had been happening more than usual of late. Inspired by my efforts, women who’d previously lost brews or been fined because of the friary’s intervention were making fresh ones. Whether they were too hasty in going to sale, didn’t allow the ale to ferment long enough, or because the abbot still had his way, their efforts had been for naught.