Brewer's Tale, The

by Brooks, Karen

  ‘Will this take long?’ grumbled Master Gretting. ‘My wife said she was cooking goose tonight, but it will be mine she’ll be attending to if I’m late.’

  ‘Aye,’ grunted Master Beecham, folding his rangy arms across his chest and casting sombre looks around the room. ‘Let’s be tasting, not talking.’ He sniffed loudly.

  ‘May I take your cloaks, gentlemen?’ I asked.

  ‘That won’t be necessary, mistress,’ said Master Gretting, raising a huge hand. ‘This part won’t take long. Being here is more or less a formality.’

  That was what I feared most — that the men wouldn’t take long because their minds were already made up, whether or not the ale passed the quality test. But Captain Stoyan was certain his warning had been heeded … I watched Adam pour the rich foaming ale into mazers for the men to try.

  ‘What’s going on, Anneke?’ With a catch in my breath, I spun around.

  Tobias stood in the doorway flanked by Sir Leander.

  My heart sank. ‘It’s all right, Tobias.’ I shot him a look that he chose to ignore. ‘It’s the ale-conners.’

  ‘S… Sir L… Leander,’ said Master Constable, his eyes widening and his face colouring as he saw the taller man. He gave a swift bow, shooting a look at the two other ale-conners who mumbled uncomfortably. They shuffled till their backs were against the wall. ‘We wasn’t told — I mean, we didn’t expect to see you here, my lord.’

  ‘I confess, I didn’t expect to be here, Master Constable.’

  ‘Perhaps we can do this another time,’ said Master Constable, waving away the mazers Adam was holding.

  ‘Please —’ I began, raising my hands in protest.

  ‘Don’t let us stop you,’ said Sir Leander, leaning against the doorframe that led back inside the house. ‘Please, continue. Not only does my father have a vested interest in this, but I’ve always been curious to know on what basis ale-conners make their decisions, haven’t you, Tobias?’ he cocked his head towards my brother.

  ‘I have, indeed. Often, my lord,’ lied Tobias.

  The ale-conners shared another look, clearly ill at ease.

  ‘Very well,’ said Master Constable finally. ‘Let’s get on with it.’

  Adam solemnly passed mazers to the two men.

  My heart was beating so violently, I was sure the front of my tunic must be quivering. While I wanted more than anything for the ale to be passed, I also wanted it to be because the ale had earned it, not because of Captain Stoyan’s threats. But neither did I want to fail because an abbot said I must.

  Master Gretting and Master Beecham stared at the contents of their mazers before rotating the wooden cups so the ale formed a gentle whirlpool. They held their noses over it and inhaled noisily. Neither revealed anything in their expressions. I glanced at Master Constable, who was busy scratching more notes; why, I was uncertain. I sent a swift prayer to the goddesses and the crones.

  Holding the handles, first Master Gretting then Master Beecham tilted the cups and took a mouthful. Swilling the ale around in his cheeks a few times, Master Gretting’s eyes widened, then he swallowed, before quickly taking another sip. Smacking his lips, he licked them slowly then pursed them tightly, nodding, but whether in approval or to confirm a doubt, I didn’t know.

  Master Beecham’s cheeks bulged and he shut his eyes. Tipping back his head, he gargled and then gulped, his Adam’s apple moving up and down the way a bird’s did when it warbled. Then he bent his head until his nose disappeared into the vessel and drew in a breath deeply and noisily. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Tobias shove a fist against his mouth. Sir Leander coughed. I was too nervous to find anything funny. Too much was dependent on the outcome of this mummery.

  ‘The verdict?’ asked Master Constable shortly in a resigned voice, after the men had a few more mouthfuls and spent additional time sniffing and breathing in the fumes.

  Both were frowning, their eyes hard. They looked at each other, shrugged, and then turned back to Master Constable.

  There was nothing amusing about them now.

  ‘I know what we’ve been told,’ began Master Beecham cautiously, his eyes sliding towards me. ‘And I know it passed the quality test, but, I can’t ignore me oath, nor me obligation to the town. I’ve never tasted anything like it before.’ He screwed up his face in what could only be read as displeasure.

  ‘Me neither,’ said Master Gretting. ‘On the one hand, it’s very different,’ he looked meaningfully at Master Constable, ‘but on the other, that means it doesn’t meet the standards to which we’ve grown accustomed either.’

  ‘Aye. It’s too different, mayhap,’ added Master Beecham.

  Master Constable put down his pages and rubbed his face. ‘That’s your verdict then? It be less good than what’s reasonable to pass?’

  The two men looked into the mazers then shrugged again and nodded.

  ‘If that be your honest opinion, then there’s nothing more to be done.’ With a long, weary sigh, Master Constable began to pack up his quill and ink, his phlegmatic demeanour transformed into one of haste. ‘While some might be unhappy with this result, there are others who will find justice in it,’ he muttered, swinging around, urging his men to return their cups.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said, tugging gently at Master Constable’s sleeve. ‘While “others” might know what’s just happened, I’m afraid I do not. “Different” is not the same as “less good”? Less good than what? Surely, it’s not undrinkable?’ I gestured to the two men draining their mazers.

  Master Constable wouldn’t meet my eyes. ‘I thought it was more than clear. The ale-conners have spoken, Mistress Sheldrake. The brew cannot be sold. It’s so different there’s nothing against which we can judge it.’

  Disappointment and fury rose, transforming into bitter tears that threatened to spill. All my plans and hopes unravelled before me. I tried to find the right words to reason with these men, to prevent them leaving and change their minds. This was a fine brew. Different, but with good reason.

  I jutted out my chin and straightened my spine. I wouldn’t let them see how much this upset … indeed, devastated me. What could I do? What recourse did I have? I was one woman against not just these three men but, if the rumours were right, an entire friary and those they’d suborned. I took a step towards Master Constable, but before I could speak, Sir Leander’s voice rang out.

  ‘Let’s not be so hasty, gentlemen,’ he said, binding them to the spot.

  I swung around, my eyes ablaze, my cheeks red. ‘This has nothing to do with you,’ I hissed.

  He ignored me. ‘If I may ask a question, Master Constable?’

  Master Constable smirked at me. ‘For certes, my lord.’

  I spun around to glare at Tobias. He’d brought Leander Rainford here; he was responsible for this. What was the man up to? Why couldn’t he just leave things be? Was he deliberately trying to make this harder? I wanted them all gone. Now. Tobias fumbled at my side, finding my hand and giving it a squeeze. I wanted to snatch it away. He didn’t know how hard we’d toiled, what we’d sacrificed for this moment. And now his Godforsaken master was going to make everything worse.

  ‘Watch,’ said Tobias so softly, I thought I’d misheard.

  ‘Master Adam, can you pour another round for the ale-conners please?’ asked Sir Leander.

  ‘The decision’s made, my lord, drinking more won’t change that —’ Master Constable shook his jowls.

  ‘Fetch a drink for Master Constable too, would you, Adam?’ added Sir Leander. Master Constable began to bluster. ‘This isn’t an official tasting, Constable. This is merely something to wet your lips while we discuss why and how this decision was reached before you retire for the evening.’

  One didn’t disobey a lord’s son, especially not a Rainford. ‘So long as we’re clear it’s not official,’ said Master Constable gruffly.

  Sir Leander’s blue eyes twinkled. ‘Not officially. Though, I can’t help but feel, since these two fine ale-co
nners concluded that they’ve never tasted anything like this brew before, that it’s so different there’s nothing against which to measure it, there’s also the slight possibility that rather than “less good”, as these fine gentlemen suppose, it might actually be “more good”. But,’ he added hastily, before Master Constable could interrupt, ‘this would require someone with greater experience and knowledge to determine; with a more refined taste. In my humble opinion, there’s only one person appropriate for that task —’

  Everyone looked in Master Constable’s direction. He opened his mouth to argue, then, realising it would be to his detriment, shut it again. I swear his chest expanded. I returned Tobias’s grip and waited.

  Adam finished pouring fresh drinks.

  ‘As far as I can recall,’ continued Sir Leander, ‘these fine ale-conners didn’t even consider the possibility it might be more good. So, drink up, man, and tell us what you determine.’ Sir Leander struck his cane against a stool. ‘Let us hear the opinion of an expert.’

  Master Constable sniffed the contents of his beaker suspiciously. ‘This is not how a tasting is supposed to be conducted, my lord.’

  ‘But, as you pointed out, this isn’t official, is it?’ Sir Leander gave him what I even had to admit was a charming smile. ‘Indulge me, good sir.’

  ‘Smells strange,’ Master Constable hesitated.

  ‘Drink,’ urged Sir Leander.

  Master Constable did. All eyes were fixed upon him as he swallowed.

  ‘Is it too sweet?’ asked Sir Leander. ‘Or sour?’

  The ale-conner considered what he’d just tasted. ‘Nay … nay … It’s not too sweet …’ Taking another swill he added. ‘Nor sour.’

  ‘What is it then?’ asked Sir Leander.

  Master Constable gulped some more. ‘It’s like the lads said: different.’ Finishing the contents, Master Constable smacked his lips together. ‘Aye. There’s something unusual about this brew, for certes.’

  ‘Unusual? Different? Is that grounds for failing it? Is the standard that’s been set so pleasing that a new one can’t be?’ Sir Leander asked quietly and I knew then he was familiar with the friary’s ale. ‘Because I’d be reluctant to pronounce such a verdict if I wasn’t confident it would hold up to scrutiny.’

  ‘What kind?’ Master Constable puffed out his chest defensively.

  ‘The Hanse kind,’ I added, finding my voice as I observed this masquerade.

  The room fell silent. The ale-conners looked to Master Constable, who stared thoughtfully into his mazer. Outside, the rain became a light patter and the shriek of gulls could be heard overhead as they chased the evening light across the bay. In Father’s office, a log shifted and the welcome crackle and snap produced a sudden flare of light. Shadows shuddered along the wall.

  Master Constable let out a long sigh. ‘I know I’m going to regret this, but I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t admit this is uncommonly good ale, Mistress Sheldrake.’

  Masters Gretting and Beecham glanced at each other and, with audible noises of relief, swung back to Master Constable, nodding. ‘Aye, that it is,’ they chorused. ‘Excellent,’ added Master Beecham and asked Adam to pour him another.

  ‘I think the word you’re looking for is incomparable,’ added Sir Leander, and the men readily agreed.

  It was only as the men’s cups were being refilled that my success was brought home.

  ‘You did it, Anneke.’ Tobias gave me a small smile and tightened his grip on my hand before releasing it.

  Adam quickly found some decent tankards and, filling them with ale, handed them to Sir Leander, Tobias and me. Only after he had one in his hand, did we raise our cups in a toast.

  Over the next five minutes, the paperwork was finished and I paid my dues. The measures were marked with the official seal and the kegs stamped with the three xs that denoted their full flavour. Adam escorted Master Gretting to the brewhouse in order that the other barrels would also bear the sign and our hogshead the two xs for small ale. The price was set. It was better than I could have hoped, as was the tax levied on us. Flushed with accomplishment, my breathing came easier now.

  Adam and Master Gretting returned, brushing the rain from their shoulders and stomping warmth back into their limbs. Emptying his cup, Master Constable found his cloak and tied it under his chin.

  ‘For better or worse, our job here is done, gentlemen — time for us to return home before dark falls and the rain gets worse.’ He turned towards me. ‘You can put your bushel out now, Mistress Sheldrake.’

  Wrenching open the door and admitting a cold blast of air, Adam stood to one side, but before the ale-conners could leave, a body pushed past.

  ‘About time, Emory Constable,’ cried a familiar voice. ‘It’s freezing out here and we’re thirstier than a pack of barking dogs!’ It was Mervin Proudfellow, the local innkeeper. ‘Good evening, Mistress Sheldrake.’ He pulled off his cap and bowed. ‘Come to fetch a barrel as promised. I’ve the cart and some customers with me.’ He gestured to the street.

  Beyond the small halo of light being cast from the shop, a line of lanterns could be discerned. Standing outside were at least a dozen people, skins, jugs and mazers in their hands. Atop a cart, an old horse in its shafts, was Kip, Master Proudfellow’s son. On spying me from beneath his sodden cape, he gave a jolly wave.

  With muttered farewells and looks of surprise and concern on their faces, the ale-conners sidled past those entering. I wondered briefly what price they’d pay for honouring their oaths tonight.

  Drawing the bushel out from under the trestle table, Adam quickly went outside and attached it to the end of the stake. We were now officially open for business. Cheers filtered into the shop.

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ said Master Proudfellow, ‘I’ve thirsty people waiting back at the inn for this.’ Between them, Adam and Master Proudfellow rolled a barrel outside and I had the pleasure of seeing our first coins drop into the small tin.

  As soon as the barrel was out of the way, the customers (customers!) pushed their way inside. There was old Mistress Birkett, the widow of Sailor Errol; Simon Attenoke, one of the local fishermen; Brandon Franks, the old sea salt; Janekyn Shoemaker and his wife, Ruth; Velda Avison, the local midwife, and her son Phineas, also entered. More came in with their own mazers, placing coin down to not merely cart ale away, but drink on the premises — all brave souls who, for tonight at least, were prepared to defy the friary and support my venture. Adam was frantically tapping the barrel to fill orders; Tobias was catching up with townsfolk he hadn’t seen in a long time. Sir Leander was caught between Master Attenoke and Phineas. I ran back into the house to fetch Saskia and Iris, so excited I could barely speak. They were waiting for me in the corridor; they couldn’t remain in ignorance in the main hall and had been running back and forth reporting events to the others.

  ‘You did it, Mistress Anneke,’ said Saskia, a huge smile upon her face.

  I hugged her tightly. ‘We did it.’ I turned to face Louisa, Blanche, Iris, Will, and the twins, who’d all crept into the corridor, my eyes shining, my hands clasped in an attitude of prayer. Sensing my mood, the dogs barked and jumped around me. I rubbed their ears in the gesture I’d seen Sir Leander use earlier, and in that moment, it occurred to me the only reason my ale was selling tonight instead of being absorbed into the earth was because of him.

  If that man hadn’t intervened and persuaded Master Constable to try the ale, hadn’t suggested that the process was not being done correctly, there would have been a very different outcome. While I’d perhaps helped Master Constable resolve his conscience by reminding him of the Hanse, it was Sir Leander who ensured I was in a position to do that. As much as I hated to admit it, I owed him gratitude, at least.

  I had to thank him. The sooner the better. Then he could leave and I would make sure any future meetings were kept to a minimum. One Rainford in my life was more than enough. I made up my mind then and there that if I did naught else tonight, I wou
ld do my duty and express a proper and heartfelt thanks to Sir Leander Rainford, the man who, for reasons unbeknownst to me, called me whore.

  SIXTEEN

  HOLCROFT HOUSE

  Martinmas evening

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

  The last of the customers left and, after tidying up swiftly and securing the front door, we retreated to the warmth of the hall and to the repast that, according to Blanche as she flapped her apron, had already awaited us too long.

  That was hours ago. Empty trenchers and bone-scattered platters covered the stained tablecloth. For just a moment, I considered the cost and then pushed such pernickety considerations to the back of my mind. It was Martinmas, my brew had passed. After weeks of accounting for every groat and penny, it was time to celebrate. I grasped the cup of brimming ale and drank again, sending a swift prayer of thanks to the Blessed Virgin and the goddess Ninkasi.

  From the bench by the fire, I gazed around, filled with hazy thoughts. Peals of laughter and the warmth of conversation washed over me. What a day — from the anxiety of awaiting the ale-conners, to the unexpected arrival of Tobias, my emotions had been in turmoil. God forgive my vanity, but it was the praise of my neighbours as they tasted the brew, even the small ale, upon which I lingered; the astonishment writ upon their features before words of delight and surprise — and orders for more — spilled from their lips.

  The only shadow was Leander Rainford. Try as I might, I was unable to ignore him. As the ale sold and my neighbours crammed into the shop with their empty firkins and skins to be filled, I sought an opportunity to thank him for encouraging Master Constable to reconsider his original verdict, but the chance never came. Keen to acknowledge their overlord’s son, either to make themselves known or renew acquaintance, the townsfolk’s interest didn’t seem to trouble him. On the contrary, he appeared to enjoy it and, as twilight surrendered to nightfall, even sought to detain some of them for further conversation. That I heard my name mentioned a couple of times wasn’t the only reason I found myself drawn to where he stood again and again; nor was it the simple fact of his height, bearing, or the quality of his clothes. The man drew eyes the way the ocean did the hungry gull.