Brewer's Tale, The

by Brooks, Karen

  Aware of his glance falling upon me, I could scarcely think. If I’d not been so eager to send Captain Stoyan upon his way, I could have sent word to Leander of our visitor, confirming I had not been mistaken. Alas, it was too late and now I had to endure his company and fret about his intentions. Westel had crossed this threshold for a reason, and it did not bode well for any of us. I didn’t have to wait long to find out.

  All gallantry and affability, he demanded a tour of the brewery, arranging it so that I alone would escort him. In itself this was not unusual, and caused no comment among the servants, though Alyson did offer a meek protest and Betje clung to my side.

  ‘It is all right, sweetling, I will show his grace the brewery and be back before you can say ten paternosters.’ It was what Adam used to say to comfort me as a child and I saw in his eyes he understood. Betje did as well and released me with reluctance, joining the wet nurses and taking Isabelle.

  Aware of Westel upon my heels, his hot breath against my neck, I was at first relieved to see the brewery all hustle and bustle. A combination of steam and smoke filled the air. Rose and Golda stood over the mash tuns, the new girl, Margaret, keeping a firm eye on them while tasting some freshly cooked grain. Master atte Place hoisted another huge tray into the oven. Beyond them, Rupert sorted barrels, rolling some, hefting others. Whistling a well-known air, he was lost in daydreams. Over by the troughs, Harry was tapping ale into a barrel, while Thomas was poised to lend a hand.

  Before I could say anything, offer introductions or any kind of explanation as to what was going on, Westel called out from the stairs.

  ‘Begone, all of you.’

  Glancing up, amusement on their faces, it took the servants only a moment to understand this was no prank, that a high-ranking churchman was in their midst. I nodded curtly.

  ‘Leave your tools. Master atte Place, I will look to the grain. Go and enjoy the fire and a small ale.’ Warily, the girls put down their mash sticks; Ralph righted a barrel with a thud and stomped past, crossing himself, while Thomas came forward and bowed to Westel before dashing up the stairs. One by one, they ascended. Only Harry remained, defiant, pretending not to notice us; that he didn’t hear.

  Touching him upon the shoulder, I whispered. ‘Go, Harry, please.’

  ‘But mistress,’ he flashed a look at Westel over my shoulder. The bishop had left the stairs and was staring into a mash tun. ‘I don’t like the look of him.’

  Bless him.

  ‘Looks can be deceiving.’

  ‘Only sometimes,’ said Harry and, unhappy at my insistence, pushed out his chest and, giving a small huff in Westel’s direction, left.

  Once the door had shut, Westel lifted his face. Even through the curtain of steam, it was apparent he hadn’t changed that much. Still pale, a little fuller around the cheeks, a neatly trimmed fringe of hair revealed it was still that wondrous silver colour that reminded me so much of Mother’s, Karel’s and Betje’s too. Now my babes possessed it but I could reassure myself that the legacy was not Westel’s alone. Returning my gaze, his mouth turned up at the ends. Not for me the huge smiles and repetitive flashing of teeth that I once mistook as an obsequious desire to please. This was a triumphant leer. A man who oozed self-possession and the arrogance of achieving goals at any cost had replaced the old Westel. Godliness was not a part of his mien and I marvelled that I’d ever likened it to that of angels. As I’d told Harry, looks could be deceiving.

  I’d no doubt my Godsent retribution, that I’d spent almost a year anticipating, was before me.

  ‘Well,’ said Westel, coming around the tun, closing the space between us, ‘here we are, God be praised.’

  He paused on one side of the table. I circled until I was directly opposite. Pushing a bung out of the way, I placed my hands, palms flat on the top, relieved they weren’t shaking.

  ‘What do you want, Westel?’ I asked.

  ‘I am “your grace” now.’

  I didn’t respond. Westel gave a bark of laughter. ‘Still stubborn, I see.’

  ‘Haven’t you taken enough? Aren’t you satisfied? Did you see what you did to Betje? You murdered my brother, you murdered Will, Saskia and Louisa.’ The names struck with all the force of a feather. He did not even blink. ‘People who trusted you, welcomed you into their lives.’

  ‘You blame me for their deaths?’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘Why, you’ve created a monster, haven’t you? How convenient. A novel way to salve a pricking conscience.’ Picking up a measure and turning it in those long fingers, he continued. ‘Nay, Anneke Sheldrake, I didn’t murder your brother or your servants. They were, sadly, tragically, killed by fire. It was, may God assoil them, a terrible accident. Or, as some might argue, God’s will. What have you done to incur such wrath? Such a burning lesson?’ He gave a harrumph of delight at his wit.

  ‘Will was no accident. That was not the Lord’s decree, but yours.’

  He put down the measure carefully. ‘Your family doesn’t do well among the elements, does it? First your father drowns, then your so-called husband, while the rest perish in flames.’

  ‘What do you want, Westel?’

  His laugh was genuine now. ‘It’s not Westel. Westel never existed. I am and always have been Roland le Bold.’

  It struck me then where I knew the name. Westel had claimed him as his mentor. It was le Bold who wrote the glowing reference, the papers Westel presented me that day at Holcroft house and upon which I’d based his employment. I bowed my head and shook it slowly.

  ‘I see you’ve worked it out.’

  I gulped. ‘Are you also Abbot Hubbard’s son?’

  ‘Aye, but he too is dead.’ He feigned being crestfallen. ‘Something he drank didn’t agree with him.’

  ‘That doesn’t explain why you’re here.’

  Roland let out a long, deep sigh and, flicking the measure one last time, began to strut around the brewery. ‘Why do you think, Anneke?’

  ‘It’s Anna now, Roland.’

  Halting for a moment, he cocked a brow before continuing his study of the room. ‘So I’ve heard — from every cursed mouth since I arrived in this Godforsaken place. Anna de Winter this, Anna de Winter that. You’ve developed quite a reputation …’ His eyes scoured my body, slowly, menacingly, as if he were touching me. I remained still, though the urge to recoil was almost more than I could bear. He moistened his lips. ‘… for brewing. Even the king sings your praises.’ He chuckled. ‘It never occurred to me that the woman from Southwark who brewed fit for the king’s table was none other than my obstinate little brewer from Elmham Lenn — the one who wouldn’t surrender her recipes. The one who would not die. I thought you gone from my life for good. When I saw you in Gloucester, I could scarce believe my eyes.’

  He wasn’t the only one.

  ‘I tried to persuade myself it wasn’t so, that you were a spirit come to haunt me just when I was on the cusp of achieving what I’ve worked so hard for.’

  ‘Mayhap it was God’s will?’

  ‘Mayhap it was.’ Roland’s eyes narrowed to slits, protecting a secret. ‘It took only a few discreet questions, some stories over wine, for your history to come out.’ He began to laugh. ‘You are quite the inventor, are you not? A dead husband, a new family and name — very clever.’

  ‘Not clever enough. You found me.’

  ‘And with a word here or there, the right ones in the right ears, so can others.’

  My body became numb. Here it comes. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There was quite a hue and cry raised over you; over the destruction at Elmham Lenn.’

  ‘Only because you were believed dead.’

  ‘Oh, but Anneke … Anna,’ he gave a sly smile and held out his arms, ‘I still am. You see, as far as anyone but a few of your servants and family are concerned, Westel Calkin never existed. Even my own father denied me.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘It would not take much to prove you did exist — that you still do.’

  He
shrugged. ‘But it will take a good deal more to convince anyone that Roland le Bold, the man who, God be praised, transformed brewing at St Jude’s, who through trial and error, through creativity and talent, making an ordinary drink a remarkable one, was anything but a humble, selfless monk. I made St Jude’s both solvent and wealthy, Elmham Lenn as well, Anna. Aye, me — your monster. Using your mother’s marvellous recipes, I am a hero of the church. The Archbishop cannot do enough; after all, it was under my patronage that St Jude’s was able to enhance the king’s purse, fund his relentless wars and skirmishes and prevent the treasury becoming bankrupt. Being given this bishopric and carte blanche to transform it is my reward. Imagine, if I could turn a place like St Jude’s into a growing concern what I can do here. Especially with the Lady Brewer — isn’t that what they call you? — upon my doorstep, the first woman to receive Crown trade, and for her beer as well as ale. What is it you call that foreign drink?’ He glanced around, his gaze alighting on the barrels. ‘That’s it. Son of Ale.’

  He cast a critical eye over my equipment. The smile left his face. ‘You want to know why I’m here? I’ll tell you. You stood in my way once. I won’t allow you to again. This is my stepping stone to the court, to Rome. I’m not going to let some brewster, a cunting whore like you, ruin my chances.’

  This time, I laughed. ‘You? Rome? What, as a cardinal or are you aiming higher? The bastard son of an abbot?’ His face began to redden, but I didn’t care. ‘A man who murders at whim, who rapes women, deceives, lies, corrupts? Who fathers children —’

  ‘I was right. They’re mine then? Those two whelps upstairs?’

  My heart pounded. There was no point lying. He would learn the truth soon enough if he didn’t already possess it. ‘They are yours.’

  He stared at me, then nodded slowly. ‘I wouldn’t be the first monk to father children, nor the last.’

  ‘It’s how you fathered them that might be of interest — to the court, to Rome.’

  Westel … Roland’s eyes turned into agate slits in his face. Then he threw back his head and guffawed. ‘You really think to use that against me? You think anyone cares what a whore like you says? Don’t feign surprise. I know of Sir Leander. If you spread your legs for him, it’s not a stretch,’ he chuckled, ‘for anyone to assume you’d do the same for someone else. After all, you’re a very beautiful woman, Anna.’ He glided towards me, his fingers outstretched. Lifting a lock of hair from my breast, he slowly twined it around his finger. ‘A very, very beautiful woman. Beauty such as yours is only good for one thing — a man’s delectation, in whatever way he chooses. How could anyone, let alone a naive young monk, resist you?’

  Tugging my hair hard, he released it. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of crying out, though tears sprang to my eyes. I forced them back as he strode past the mash tuns, striking one with his fist. ‘For Godsakes, you live in a whorehouse, you’re only doing what your kind are born to — tempt better men to sin, poison hearts and souls with your body and lascivious ways.’ He spun around. ‘Even now, you’re thinking about it aren’t you? Ways of seducing me. What for? My silence? My cooperation?’

  I stared at him. By God, the man belonged in bedlam.

  ‘Even if I confessed to everything, Anna, do you think I’d be denied a papal indulgence? Me, who is now regarded as a master craftsman, whose gift from God he shares with all? A favourite of the church, of court?’ He strode back to the table and, leaning across, lifted my hands, studying them, running his thumbs over the back. ‘They’re not as lovely as they once were. Reddened, calloused, like a washerwoman’s. You work hard, don’t you? You’ve achieved so much with so little and against such odds. Your deformed sister, your servant little more than an animated vegetable and yet, here you are, the toast of King Henry’s dinners, lover of one his finest merchant-knights, and a woman of means.’

  ‘Indeed, Roland. We’ve both accomplished much since Elmham Lenn. But you still haven’t told me why you’re here. If I cannot harm you by revealing the truth about the twins, about what you did to me, to the others, why do you see me as a threat? Surely, I am the least of your concerns.’

  ‘God’s truth, this is so. But even the least of them deserves attention lest they grow into bigger ones. I’m a great believer in excising the poison, removing the rot, stamping out a problem before it’s beyond my control.’ Behind him, the kiln began to smoke and the odour of charcoal filled the air. Screwing up his nose, Roland continued. ‘You know what it’s like to lose everything, the lengths you’d go to keep hold of what you have, don’t you?’

  I tried to pull my hands away, but he wouldn’t release them. I’d forgotten that strength. A metallic taste filled my mouth; huge birds flapped their wings inside my chest making breathing difficult.

  ‘Then we have something in common.’ Dropping my hands, he folded his arms. ‘Understand this, Anneke Sheldrake, Anna de Winter. It matters not what you call yourself because the consequences if you do not heed my words will be the same.’ He pointed it at me, his finger a dagger ready to strike. ‘If you should reveal who I am to anyone, mention that we once worked together … If you breathe a word about your mother’s recipes —’

  They were still in his possession.

  ‘— then I will not only reveal who you are and from whence you came, I will ruin everything you’ve built for yourself here. I will destroy this brewery and the bathhouse. I will see your children sent to a nunnery — your sister, Betty you call her now? — on the streets. Imagine what life would be like for her the way she looks? Imagine your beloved Adam without a roof, or patron.’ He walked around the table until he was so close, I could smell his cassock, feel the ermine that lined the edges against my arm, see the sheen on his ashen flesh, the way the light from the kiln made his hair glint and gave life to his colourless eyes. ‘Imagine what I could to your lover, Leander Rainford.’ I stepped back. ‘Imagine what I could do to your brother … though I’d heard tell he’s only half yours.’

  I bit my lip to stop a cry escaping. How did he know that?

  Running his hand down my face, he gave a soft smile. ‘Talk is cheap in Elmham Lenn and there was much of it at Holcroft House. Will, whom you believe to be some saint, and Louisa, who did nothing but gossip, were eager to share the stories and rumours that beset the house of Sheldrake. I might have doubted them once, but seeing your brother with Sir Leander, his paternity was obvious. He’s a Rainford through and through.’ His fingers dropped from my face to trail down my neck and zigzag across my chest until they rested atop my breast. Drumming them gently over my flesh, he watched them a while. ‘What do you pay Father Kenton to absolve your sins? Or do you prefer a pardoner? For God does not take kindly to consanguinity, yet you perform it over and over.’ Capturing my breast in his hand, he grasped the nipple between two fingers, twisting it through my tunic.

  ‘Enough.’ I struck his hand and backed away, once again putting the table between us. ‘Enough, Westel, Roland —’

  ‘Your grace. I will settle for nothing less than your grace.’

  Bile rose. ‘Your grace.’

  Roland flashed those even teeth.

  Raising my palm to prevent him coming closer, I was panting. The air was close, thick. ‘I understand what you’re saying.’

  ‘Saying?’ He came closer. ‘Anna, I’m not saying anything. I’m not even threatening. I’m telling you what will happen should you speak one word about the past, of what’s been said down here today; if you should reveal the truth of my brewing success —’ He lunged and grabbed my hair, using it like a rope to bind me to him.

  Refusing to cry out, to give him the satisfaction, I gritted my teeth.

  Twining the thick strands around my neck, he brought my face to his. His lips were almost upon mine. The cellar disappeared to be replaced by the brewery at Elmham Lenn. It was night-time; I was reeling against a table, blood pouring from a wound on my head.

  Snatches of conversation came back to me. You are the gate of th
e devil. Traitor of the tree. There was pain, terrible pain and knowledge of imminent death, of life ending, brutality. Shadows filled my head, clouded my vision. I began to shake; my will to defy deserted me.

  ‘As God is my witness and Saviour,’ he growled in my ear, ‘I will crush you and everyone and thing you love. Do you understand?’

  I couldn’t speak; the hair was so tight around my neck. I half-nodded.

  ‘Good. Now, on your knees.’ With brute force, he pushed me to the floor. Whimpering, I didn’t resist. Terror had me in its clutches and would not let go.

  ‘Let us seal our deal with a blessing, shall we?’

  Crowning my head with his hand, he held me fast. His manhood strained against the fabric of his cassock. Swallowing, I raised my face, my eyes burning. ‘A blessing?’

  ‘Believe me, the seed of a holy man is indeed blessed. You will imbibe, my poisonous rose, my sweet harlot and, together, we will both feel God.’

  Sending prayers to Mother Mary, the crones, Ninkasi, anyone who would listen, I shut my eyes and opened them again. Roland was hoisting his cassock, gathering it in the crook of an arm. His white knees were exposed, his milky thighs with the dusting of fine hair. I could smell urine and sweat.

  Pulling me towards him, towards the weeping, stiff paleness that filled my vision, he began to pray.

  ‘Pater noster qui es in caelis sanctificetur nomen tuum …’

  The door at the top of the steps burst open. Roland dropped his cassock and turned around, rearranging himself.

  Thanks be to sweet Mother Mary, the crones, Ninkasi and all the female saints that they answered my prayers. Harry, Betje, Alyson and Master atte Place came tumbling into the cellar, the other two monks in their wake.

  I hauled myself up by the table, hoping no-one had seen my humiliation.

  ‘Anna!’ said Alyson, beaming with such ferocity she was fit to burst. ‘Your grace,’ she gave Roland a small nod. ‘We were worried. You were down here quite some time and we couldn’t risk the mash becoming spoiled or the grains burning. Appears we were just in time.’ She fixed Roland with a look.