Brewer's Tale, The

by Brooks, Karen

  Alyson, Tobias and I spoke for a long time, discussing what had happened here in Southwark and at Gloucester, and what we were to do, pausing occasionally as our emotions and the enormity of what we faced almost overwhelmed us. When the candles finally burned out and Adam, with the help of some valerian, slept once more, we left him in peace, Harry by his side.

  We retreated to the kitchen where the guards sat down one side of the table, Hodge and Ralph with them, ale in their hands, the remnants of bread before them.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ I asked Tobias.

  With his back to the hearth, Tobias’s face was cast in shadows and only the outline of his body was distinct. It could have been Leander standing there, only it wasn’t. ‘I was to see you safe and then return to Ashlar Place and look to the Lady Cecilia. It’s too late to leave now. I’ll have to go first thing in the morning — only … Anna …’

  ‘Only what?’

  ‘Are you safe? I mean, there are people dying above us,’ his eyes flicked to the ceiling, ‘around —’ His arm swung out to take in all of Bankside.

  I gave a dry laugh. ‘As safe as anywhere else here. Or there,’ I said, jerking my head towards London. ‘I could ask you the same question. Has the pestilence reached Ashlar Place?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware. What I do know, however, is it’s here and so are you.’

  I went to his side. ‘Your duty is to your master and his wife, Tobias. I will be all right. Betty has survived thus far. The twins too. Sir Leander entrusted you with a task — you have completed a portion, now you must see it through. Whether you remain here or not will make no difference to God’s plans.’

  ‘I know. It’s just …’

  His dark eyes met mine.

  ‘Aye.’ I whispered and rested my forehead against his. We stood like that for some time.

  One of the guards belched, and another slapped him on the back. Alyson said something caustic and ordered them outside to the mews, shoving some bedding in their arms. Grumbling, they rose. It was getting late or, rather, early. A new day was due to dawn.

  Fumbling for my hand, Tobias held it tight then released it. ‘It’s time for you to go now, too. Knowing you will be in the cellar goes some way to easing our parting.’

  While sitting around Adam’s bed, we’d reached some hard decisions. Desperate to see my babes, certain I was not infected, my only choice was to remain in the cellar until such time as it was safe to re-emerge. Alyson would stay in The Swanne.

  ‘As you must see to your babes, I must see to my mine,’ she said. ‘What’s left of them, may God assoil them.’

  Captain Stoyan and Harry would continue what they’d been doing. With a sigh, I first wrote to Leander, a note I entrusted to Tobias, and then followed the small, narrow hallway that led to the cellar stairs. Assuming Betje would accompany me, I was soon disabused of that notion.

  ‘Not me, Anna,’ she said in her soft, throaty voice as we reached the door. ‘I must be here for Adam. You go to my niece and nephew. I will be here when this is over.’

  When had my little sister grown the head and heart of her elders? Struck dumb, I simply nodded.

  And so, before the cock crowed and the sad bells of St Mary’s chimed daybreak, Captain Stoyan lifted the heavy bar off the cellar door, undid the latch and, with a farewell that refused to acknowledge how dire the circumstances, clutching first the captain, then Alyson, Tobias and Betje to my breast, trying not to think about the possible consequences of our decisions, I descended into the cellar.

  The bar slid into place behind me with a dull thud and the clang of the latch echoed. I paused on the dark steps. Sorrow, regret and a terrible, aching fear anchored me to the spot.

  It was sometime before I was able to move again. And, though my babes awaited me below, the devil’s dark humour afflicted my every step, making my descent one from which all light and hope had fled.

  FIFTY-ONE

  THE SWANNE

  Late October to Christmastide

  The year of Our Lord 1407 in the ninth year of the reign of Henry IV

  One person’s calamity is another’s fortune, I’d heard say, and that was certainly the case with the pestilence. The day we emerged from the cellar after it had passed, having ravaged the population like a fire through a field, we were fearful of what we’d find. Clinging to faith and the power of our prayers, despite evidence to the contrary, we entered the world with fresh eyes and renewed hope and vigour. For though we’d lost a great many to its deadly grip, we’d not suffered the losses of our neighbours who’d lacked Adam and Captain Stoyan’s foresight and had instead seen The Swanne’s closing as an opportunity to take custom. All the women of the Cardinal’s Hatte had perished along with their master, as had the folk who owned and worked at the Boar’s Head. Seven alehouses in the area would never reopen their doors, nor would two large taverns.

  One of the first things we did was go to church, braving the snow and gusts of ice-driven wind. Father Kenton, who had also survived, said it was the freezing conditions that had driven the pestilence from our shores and, while it would produce its own kind of hardship, God was benevolent. In the candles we lit for the souls of the dead and the prayers whispered heavenwards, we gave our shivering thanks.

  It was only once that initial wondrous rush of relief passed that we understood what the loss of so many signified. Of the women of The Swanne, only three girls survived: Rose, Golda and Mary, and that was due to the tireless ministrations of Alyson, Captain Stoyan, Harry and Betje. The only customers to endure were a brother from St Thomas (who sang the praises of Alyson and Captain Stoyan), and the son of Lord Chester: the latter, very badly scarred, swore that his father would seek vengeance upon Adam and the captain for forcing him to remain.

  Ever with an eye to business, Alyson chose to cease trading as a bathhouse for the time being and turn everyone to helping in the brewery. After all, she reasoned, we had the king’s order to fulfil. Captain Stoyan was sent to buy another mash tun and a trough, as well as barrels, butts, measures, bungs and any other equipment I needed from premises whose owners would never again craft a brew. Guilt-ridden that we could purchase the extra equipment we needed so cheaply and swiftly, I was also grateful that we could offer coin and even work to some of those who were left with nothing.

  Not even those who lived on the river escaped the pestilence. Not wanting to profit from other’s misery, but needing to do something useful and wanting to remain on the water, with the money he’d saved Captain Stoyan bought a barge from a widow who’d lost her husband and baby. Ferrying cargo and passengers across the Thames, giving priority to The Swanne’s brewing business, he became a regular sight on the cold waters.

  Alyson predicted our orders would increase once word of the Crown trade got around, and she was right. What augmented this was the shortage of other brewers to meet the needs of common folk and richer ones. Once again, local brewsters run out of business by the bigger alehouses and taverns (and the machinations of Master Fynk) were able not only to re-enter the market, but yield coin from trading. On market days, hucksters and brewsters started parading around the square and up and down the side streets, along London Bridge, selling jugs and skins of their home brews. Whereas once they would have been competition, they were welcome as they enabled us to focus on the larger orders. Some of the alehouses on St Margaret’s Hill and along the High Street that had lost their brewers also placed orders with us.

  Travellers and troubadours would often call by and, for an ale or two, exchange tales and poems, songs and music. Thus we learned that the pestilence had mainly stayed within London and Southwark, though the port towns of Bishop’s Lynn, Dover and even Norwich and York had experienced losses as well. Itinerant workers, who had waited out the worst in Rochester, Canterbury and other towns, made their way through Southwark en route to London in search of employment. The need for able men and trades had increased. Some called and requested work from us, especially young women who were orp
haned by the plague and without a roof or skills. We took on a few, the cleaner and better spoken among them. Over time, The Swanne family was slowly restored to its former numbers and Alyson prepared to open for regular business after the Feast of the Epiphany.

  Working from dawn to dusk, we filled our barrels, hogsheads, kilderkins, firkins, jugs and skins. Every day, Master atte Place and Harry would load up either Shelby or the larger cart we’d taken to Gloucester and which Leander had generously sent back to us with barrels to be filled for the monks of St Thomas, Winchester Palace and even the great houses of West London, though Captain Stoyan transported these. Every day, we added more barrels of beer to the king’s order, stacking them one atop the other in the mews, where they would await the approval and branding of the ale-conners. As November segued into December and Christmastide approached, we began to brew the king’s ale as well.

  Since the pestilence vanished much in the manner it appeared, quietly, without fanfare or warning, leaving us humbled but not broken in its wake, I’d written to Leander several times and received correspondence in return — letters that lifted my spirits and did much to revive me when the magnitude of our losses and the number of orders overwhelmed me.

  My earlier missives had been full of death and sorrow, but of late I’d been able to write in a more positive vein, about the growth of the twins, improvements in Adam’s speech and movement, and Betje’s remarkable abilities as both healer and brewer. Displaying gifts that were not apparent when I was her age, I was excited by the promise she showed. With each response I received, his concern for me and the well-being of my family leapt off the paper, even though he did his best to disguise this with amusing tales of parliament and the great debate concerning the Thirty-One articles, to which the council, tired of the commons and the debts they never met, objected. He reported the goings-on at the abbey, and the gossip at the king’s table. Of his wife, he made no mention. His words, whatever their subject, never failed to make my heart stop and my breath quicken. Giddy as girl around a maypole, I would hear the cry of the courier and the stamp of hooves and wait with barely suppressed excitement for Ralph or Hodge to call out that there was a letter.

  There were two communiqués, however, only days apart and just before Christmastide, that upset the stability Leander’s words generally restored. The first arrived on the Feast of St Nicholas, just as Harry came into the cellar to show us the bishop’s costume he would wearing that evening when he presided over our merrymaking. Gathering around him in excitement, there were oohs, ahs and laughter aplenty. Thus I missed the sounds of the courier and knew nothing of his arrival until Hodge came downstairs and placed a missive in my hand. Slipping away from the group, I sat atop a barrel and read what Leander had written.

  Whether it was serendipity or some perverse Godly quirk, Leander’s note was also about bishops — a bishop and a monk.

  My well-beloved Anneke, I do commend myself to you, wishing with all my heart that you are as well as your last letter described.

  Writing that he would be spending Christmastide at Eltham Palace, he also made mention that he hoped to be in London before then, as the king had spoken of how much he was anticipating more of my ale and beer over Christmas. Leander offered to accompany the order to Eltham and was granted permission. The sole reason for his proposal, he confessed, was to see me. I paused and held the letter against my heart.

  It then went on to describe the closing stages of parliament and the shocking news of the murder of King Henry’s sworn enemy, the Duke of Orléans. While this was most unsettling to read, how such a great man could be so brutally dispatched, it was the last part of his letter which disturbed me the most.

  Since you departed Gloucester with such haste and without the prospect of discovering the identity of the monk who bore an uncanny resemblance to the rogue Westel Calkin, I have, as promised, sought to discover who this man might be. Upon describing his eyes and the colour of his hair to the prior of Gloucester Abbey, he was able to identify the man immediately.

  My stomach did a somersault.

  Rest assured, my well-beloved, the man you saw is not Westel Calkin who, as we confirmed, perished in the flames of Holcroft House well over twelve months ago.

  I paused. Was it really so long ago that we fled Elmham Lenn? That it was. So much had happened … The past had become like a vague dream or an opaque curtain that I sometimes had to push aside to glimpse what lay behind it, only to find the borders had become indistinct, the colours muted. The capacity it had to throw me into despair or melancholy had lessened somewhat. Recognising this had a peculiar effect. Ambivalence warred within me — relief the power that thoughts of Westel and his wicked deeds had to upset me was no longer so immediate, but also sadness that Karel’s sweet face could no longer be recalled with the ease and passion it once could. Indeed, my Karel, as he grew and changed, was beginning not to replace my brother, but to merge with memories of him. With a sigh, I understood that the passage of time was a one-way journey and, while we could look back over our shoulders and reckon where we’d been and what we’d achieved, we could no more return to that place or change the impression we left than prevent the sun from rising.

  Time could be both a cruel mistress and kind. Today, her torments were many as I could recall Westel and his actions far more readily than I could the visages of those I loved. Though I didn’t want to, I’d no choice but to continue reading, my throat constricted with the dry dust of unshed tears.

  This monk is the recently appointed prior of St Jude’s, and is known as Roland le Bold ….

  I frowned. Roland le Bold. Where had I heard that name?

  Though I did not spy nor speak to the man directly and thus was unable to satisfy myself as he had recently (for reasons not known to me) quit Gloucester, he is regarded as clever and Godly. The talk is that the king intends to confer upon him the Bishopric of Winchester.

  Dear God. If this was so, Roland le Bold would one day soon be our neighbour.

  My greatest hope is that these tidings do not cause you grief, my well-beloved, though a man who does so resemble your tormentor, your evil adversary, may shortly be dwelling in Southwark. I believe your great good sense will allow you to understand that a physical likeness to a dead enemy does not a living character define. Le Bold is not Westel Calkin and, from discussions I’ve had with those who know him well, seems a fit and worthy successor to the current bishop. Rumours do surround this man and what they claim is that in the short time since he replaced the rogue, Abbot Hubbard, he has made St Jude’s prosper even further and overturned its sullied reputation. The wealth they accrue, mostly from brewing, is shared with Elmham Lenn and surrounding villages, making le Bold a figure of regard both among common folk and the church. For certes, his name was oft-mentioned.

  My intention here is to allay your fears and I hope with all my heart this is what I have achieved. I will send you further news from this part of the world as soon as I am able. Unless, God willing, I may deliver it myself. May the Holy Trinity have you in its keeping.

  Written on the second day of December.

  He signed with his usual flourish.

  It may have been Leander’s intention to reassure me, but my inability to place the name Roland le Bold troubled me deeply. So did the news that St Jude’s was doing well from brewing. Was that because they’d removed the competition? That evening, I read the letter to Alyson, Betje, Harry, Adam and Captain Stoyan.

  ‘There,’ said Alyson, clapping her hands together, ‘you’ve nothing to worry ’bout, as we said all along.’

  ‘Betty,’ I turned to my sister, who was rubbing Adam’s hand with a special liniment Mother Joanna had taught us to make, ‘does that name mean anything to you?’

  Betje paused and screwed up her brow. ‘Not le Bold.’ The look she gave me finished her thought. Only Calkin.

  With a sigh, I folded the letter, noting Adam in a state of great agitation. ‘What is it?’ His arm flailed and he thumped the ch
air. Betje was forced drop his other hand and to lean out of the way.

  Adam stared at me, blinking rapidly.

  ‘You know the name?’

  Adam made a noise that we knew to mean ‘aye’, and, though I pressed and asked all manner of questions, no further information could be gleaned. Frustrated, we ceased trying. Adam slumped in his chair and refused to look at me.

  My sleep was interrupted that night, filled with flames and vile words delivered on sprays of spit. I tossed and turned, listening to the wind for what seemed like hours before finally drifting off into a broken slumber.

  Two days later, a letter arrived that cast other thoughts aside — this time delivered by special courier.

  It was Tobias.

  Called into the yard, I first thought my brother had come in Leander’s stead to accompany the king’s order to Eltham, but when I saw the look on his face, I froze mid-stride and my heart, which clamoured to see him, beat ferociously. Pain flowered in my neck, pricked the back of my eyes and stopped any words leaving my mouth.

  Dressed in fine livery, with a heavy, ermine-lined cape, he dismounted from his horse and in four steps was by my side.

  ‘Anna …’ No longer did Tobias stammer over my new name. We were slates wiped clean and wrote our own stories now. Tobias was about to deliver the next chapter.

  ‘Sir Leander?’ The name was but a whimper on my trembling mouth.

  ‘He’s in good health.’ Frowning, Tobias handed me a scroll sealed with wax and bearing the Rainford mark. ‘He bade me give you this.’