Brewer's Tale, The

by Brooks, Karen

  It was some time before I could raise my head. I inhaled and let the breath out slowly. ‘Tell me, why was my father punished for your brother’s sin?’

  Leander straightened his leg with a grimace. ‘Once your mother admitted to your father she was with child, he knew it couldn’t be his. He’d been away for months and the timing was wrong. Only then did your mother confess what happened. In a rage, your father rode to Scales Hall. He confronted Symond, who didn’t deny what had happened, but the great, arrogant fool, instead of offering apologies, compensation, contrition, anything, chose to cast aspersions upon your mother’s character, called her whore and other such names.’ Leander had the grace to look abashed. ‘Your father, forgetting he was dealing with such a young man and someone — forgive me, Anneke — above his station,’ I waved a hand; it was but the truth, ‘demanded a reckoning. Already angry, he lost his temper. He gave Symond such a beating. When Symond drew his sword, your father unsheathed his dagger. He was swift, too fast for Symond. He slashed his face from here to there.’ Leander drew a line that mimicked the scar upon his brother’s face. The one I had thought earned in battle. ‘I think he would have finished him if one of the stableboys hadn’t fetched Master Evan, who told father. Had they not pulled your father from Symond, well …

  ‘Finding his eldest son in a bloody heap, unconscious, father would have demanded justice then and there, and been in the right to take it, had he not known instinctively that Symond was responsible for what had befallen him. Even at fifteen, Symond was crafty, underhanded, spoiled. Learning the truth, my father struck a deal with yours. While Symond was carried to his room and doctors sent for, father promised to provide for the child in your mother’s womb and, once he came of age, to take him into his own household. For his silence and cooperation, he promised your father recompense in the form of material comfort. But he also intended your father to be punished. The doctors didn’t think Symond would make a full recovery; they though he would suffer permanent injury.’ Gesturing to his leg, he scowled. ‘I don’t think father could cope with the notion of having two sons maimed. My father concluded that it was only just that your father suffer as well, and decided to hurt him where it would matter.’

  ‘Money.’

  Leander nodded. ‘He ordered Master Makejoy to draw up a contract. I’m not convinced your father read it properly before he signed. Realisation of what he had agreed only came later. I believe he simply wanted to put the entire episode behind him. Hence, your father settled upon an arrangement that saw your family economically secure, but only while he remained alive. Upon his death, as you know, everything reverted back to the Rainford estates.’

  I held Leander’s hand tightly. ‘Father never did put what happened to mother behind him. He wasn’t able …’

  ‘Tobias.’

  ‘He always treated him … differently. When I learned from mother a version of what happened, I believed it was because father was a cuckold and Tobias was a reminder of it that he divorced himself from the family and appeared indifferent to our fates. But it was so much more … Tobias was also a reminder of a poor business deal, of revenge failed. Of temper lost.’ I examined our entwined hands. How strange that from such hate, such bitterness, blossomed our love. ‘Didn’t your father think of the innocent in all this? After all, mother did not ask for such violence. Neither did Tobias. The twins … me.’ My voice grew smaller.

  Leander stroked my hair. ‘Truth be told, I don’t know his exact reasons, but I’ve had cause to try and reconcile them lately.’ He kissed my hand. ‘Your father threatened the Rainford family. He nearly killed the heir. He marked him for life. Father is nothing but patient. He kept his end of the bargain, gained your father’s collaboration and, when the time was right, welcomed his bastard grandson into the Rainford fold. Once your father died, there was no-one left who knew the whole story except my father and Symond — and what version were they to tell? As far as father was concerned, his liability and the threat your father posed finished upon his death. He could wipe his hands of the Sheldrakes forever, his fiscal responsibilities were concluded. That was, until you came along and offered to continue the arrangement.’

  ‘I didn’t know …’

  ‘I thought you did. I thought that, like your mother, you were offering yourself to a Rainford.’

  ‘In exchange for the house. You believed I was selling my morals, selling my family to yours …’

  ‘Can you forgive me?’

  I twisted slightly so I faced him.

  ‘All is forgiven. This had naught to do with you, with us. Dear God, what our families did to appease damaged esteem, to prevent God’s justice taking its course. If only the truth had been told in the first place.’

  ‘Sometimes, a lie serves everyone better, beloved. You know that more than most.’

  He was right. I did.

  ‘Can you forgive me that I doubted you? Not once, but many times over the last months.’

  Leander took me in his arms and lowered me to the bed. ‘I will tell you the answer to that in the morning …’

  SIXTY-ONE

  THE SWANNE, SOUTHWARK, AND THE SWANNE, CORNHILL STREET, LONDON

  July

  The year of Our Lord 1408 in the ninth year of the reign of Henry IV

  We woke to shocking news. As he was being transported across the Thames to the Tower the previous evening, Roland le Bold had escaped. Seems he had friends after all and, where he lacked them, he had the funds to purchase allegiance. Archbishop Arundel’s men delivered the tidings, along with orders for Leander and Tobias to join the search. A hue and cry had been raised and, as I watched Leander dress, I could hear the sound of horses corralling in the street, shouts and whistles, soldiers going from bathhouse to bathhouse, inn to inn.

  The poise I’d so recently reclaimed dissolved in an instant.

  ‘Must you go?’

  ‘I must.’ Holding my shoulders, careful not to press the parts where the skin was reddened or blistered, he kissed me with such love and gentleness that in spite of my fear, my body responded. As he drew away and I looked in those eyes, a premonition grabbed hold of me, stealing my breath away.

  ‘What it is, Anneke?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing,’ I gasped, not wanting to release him. ‘You’ll be careful, won’t you? Roland is dangerous, cunning. If he can have his revenge, he will.’

  ‘He’ll not get far, Anneke. Of that you have my word.’

  How could I explain what crept into my head and compressed my heart? I remained motionless as he left the room, weighed with the burden of prescient knowledge. When Tobias knocked and entered to say farewell, I was still in the same spot.

  ‘Take care, Tobias, of yourself, of Leander,’ I whispered as I held him close.

  ‘Always.’ With a grin, Tobias left as well.

  I knew without a modicum of doubt that I was never going to see either of them again.

  Bidding Blanche, Iris, Master Perkyn and Father Kenton goodbye late that morning, giving them a letter for Mother Joanna and promising to write to them all, a shadow was cast over our farewell. Once more, Roland le Bold hovered over my days, colouring all that I did and thought. His phantom presence was a leech I couldn’t pry loose no matter what.

  During the evening, a message came from Leander. He and Tobias were ordered to remain at Ashlar Place and resume the search the following day. The Archbishop and Duke of Clarence were there as well. There had been initial sightings and, Leander assured me, Roland would be found and the sentence carried out.

  God’s truth.

  The next day was our last in Southwark. While I’d been in The Clink, Betje and Harry, along with Thomas and the girls, had barrelled the remaining brew, sending the bulk across the river and only keeping enough for household consumption. The rest of the equipment was stowed and ready for transport. Alyson suggested delaying our move until le Bold was caught, but after all we’d been through, I didn’t want to remain in The Swanne a day longer than we must
. Though I loved the old building, and I was very fond of Southwark and its loyal folk and the support they’d given me, the notion of starting afresh appealed very strongly.

  And I refused to let Roland le Bold interfere with my life again. We would go ahead and move to London as planned.

  Mayhap, I felt I had to maintain a brave face for Betje and the twins, for Harry, Alyson and Adam as well, but as the afternoon wore on and there was still no news of Roland or any sign of Leander, I took the twins for a walk along the river. Since the girls who wanted to continue working in a bathhouse had left, finding employ elsewhere, and the brewery and bathhouse were all but packed away, there wasn’t much for Alyson, Betje or Harry to do. Along with Emma and Constance, they accompanied me.

  When we commenced our walk, moving in the direction of Moulstrand Dock from where, if there was no mist, we could see Westminster, the weather was mild. Weak sunlight pierced the clouds, throwing shafts of pastel light upon the river and warming our bodies. Westminster was a large, golden building in the distance, surrounded by forests at the rear and a large dock at the front. More buildings were being erected along the banks between London’s walls and the king’s residence, the city expanding almost daily. I should have been excited by the business prospects more noble and wealthy merchant houses presented, but I was too caught up with other matters.

  By the time we headed back to The Swanne over an hour later, grey clouds had replaced their paler cousins and a light rain began to fall that quickly became heavier. Running ahead, Emma and Constance promised to have hot sheets and ale ready. The twins pleaded to remain with us. Karel walked between Alyson and me; Isabelle between me and Harry. We held hands, a garland of humans. The twins would point excitedly at dogs, cats, boats and people, giving them names — not always the right ones — trying to outdo each other in speed and volume. When they grew bored with that, they insisted on being swung over rapidly filling puddles and the ditch. Their giggles were infectious, so even though we were soaked and tired once we reached The Swanne, we were prepared to enjoy last drinks and a small celebration as well.

  Retiring to the solar after donning a clean tunic (the one I’d put aside for tomorrow, when I’d take possession of the other Swanne), I sank into a chair and sipped my ale. I’d overestimated my strength and found exhaustion settling over me.

  A few drinks and much reminiscing later, weariness was forgotten and we were a rowdy bunch, the twins adding to the noise with their squeals as Betje coaxed them onto Harry’s back for rides. Outside, a storm raged, the rain lashing the shutters, thunder growling between flashes of white lightning. Even nature expressed both its fury and its desire to cleanse and renew. Enjoying my family and friends, it was easy to forget Roland le Bold, though every sound I heard through the wind and rain made my heart leap lest it was Leander returning.

  It was well after vespers before the twins went to bed. Carrying a sleepy Isabelle upstairs, followed by Constance with Karel, I tucked them in and said prayers, asking that God bless them and our venture and keep them safer in London than they’d been here.

  Returning downstairs I was about to open the door to the solar when I hesitated. The music had started once more and everyone was enjoying themselves. I would not be missed a short while and there was something I wanted to do. Solicitous of my well-being and fearful that le Bold remained at large, since I’d been rescued there was always someone by my side and I’d not a moment to myself. I would take one now and do what was needed.

  Lighting a cresset, I opened the brewery door and descended like a queen at a coronation, slowly, with dignity, inhaling the lingering scent of hops, barley and the comforting smell of burned wood. Pausing a few steps from the bottom, I surveyed my domain and liked what I saw. Little more than silhouettes, the tuns, troughs, and even the kiln that was now emptied of its ashes, were a busy landscape of soft curves and sharp angles. Reaching the floor, I wandered between the tuns, around the table adorned with neatly tied packages containing measures, weights, bungs and mallets. As I roamed, I began to sing. Though there was no ale to pour, my final song was one of thanks — to the ale and beer that had been born here and to the corner crones for making it possible.

  Finding the last remaining barrel, still quite full and its lid askew, I searched for a tankard. Finding one on the hook above, I scooped it in the ale. Moving from corner to corner, I offered the crones my final libation. In my mind’s eye, I saw them, with their bent backs, long noses, kind, wise faces, the wrinkles fanning from their eyes as they smiled and cackled at this last offering, knowing the best was yet to come. Then, their expressions changed. Without finishing what I’d poured, they retreated back into the shadows, melted into the walls, muttering ominously.

  Unsettled, I looked over my shoulder, frowning when only the darkness greeted me. Mayhap they didn’t want to leave yet and were showing their displeasure. God and Ninkasi knew, the crones could be mercurial creatures. I retraced my steps, the cresset in one hand, tankard in the other. I lifted the tankard to drain the dregs and join the crones, when something struck me on the back of the head.

  I fell forward, only narrowly missing the table, dropping the cresset, the breath knocked out of my lungs. Rolling over onto my back, the light winked dimly, revealing a dark figure who, before I could cry out, leapt astride me and covered my mouth.

  ‘God give you good death, Anneke Sheldrake.’

  Roland le Bold.

  The crones knew. They’d tried to warn me.

  With a strength born of the malevolence I knew he possessed and which froze me into submission, Roland hauled me to my feet, covering my mouth again once I was upright. My inertness lasted only till then. I thought of the fight I’d witnessed in the courtyard at Winchester Palace, of the lives that had been risked and lost. I thought of my friends who’d travelled across the country to ensure my freedom, to ensure justice was served. I thought of all Leander had done, Tobias as well. They hadn’t failed me. I would not fail them.

  Damn you, Roland le Bold.

  He would not cow me again. If I was to die this night, I would resist with my last breath. Biting his hand till I drew blood, his hold only firmed.

  He laughed. I kicked him, drew the tankard I still clutched and struck him in the temple. His grip loosened and I took the chance to flee.

  Catching my hair, he yanked me back into his arms; vice-like, they banded my torso, squashing my breasts, pulling my arms into my sides. I threw my head back and heard something crack. There was a loud groan and then the smell of blood.

  ‘You devil’s bitch, you cunting slattern.’ His tone was different, muffled. ‘Did you think I’d go quietly, that your lover would triumph? Nay. Nay. Nay.’ With each nay, he slammed my head into the barrel.

  Dizzy, I became limp in his arms.

  ‘That’s the way, my hellish rose, my perfume of hell.’

  Bending me over the barrel, he pushed my face into the ale, his hand holding the back of my head down. At first, I gulped and gagged, but the ale refreshed me, cast off the light-headedness. I bucked and stamped, but he thrust me deeper into the barrel. Ale bubbled around me. I tried to hold my breath, to fend him off, but the ale, my own brew, recognising its mother, its creator, sought to envelop me. It entered my nose, my ears and all the time, it gurgled into my mouth.

  I would not end this way. I would not. Ale was my life. Not my death.

  There was a loosening, the hands upon me were gone. My head flew up and I gasped for air, my hair arcing like a whip to slap my back, before I was thrown to one side.

  ‘I said, get off her, you dirty bastard.’

  Alyson stood, broken jugs in her hands, ale dripping from the shards.

  I scrambled to my feet, panting, wiping my face, my heart pounding.

  Looking up at us from the floor, Roland grinned through bloodied teeth. His temples streamed blood, his nose was bent at an odd angle, his upper lip engorged. ‘You’ll not escape justice this time,’ said Alyson and before Roland could
move, broke the remainder of the jugs over his head.

  Roland slumped to one side.

  ‘Quick, Anna, help,’ she said, grabbing him under the arms, nodding for me to take his feet.

  God forgive me, I hesitated only a second before lifting him by the ankles. He was heavy, but so was the burden he’d forced me to carry, the fear he’d instilled since I first set eyes upon him.

  ‘Into the barrel with him,’ barked Alyson and heaved him to the edge.

  With a roar, I lifted him higher, rolling him into the amber liquid head first.

  At first, Roland didn’t react, he didn’t move and I thought perhaps he was already dead. Then, like a fish fighting its hook, he thrashed and kicked, dislodging one of my hands, his foot striking the floor before trying to connect with my hips, chest, head. He pulled himself up, took a huge lungful of air before Alyson struck him with the lamp and he fell forwards once more. I grabbed his legs, my fingers digging into his flesh forcing him down, down.

  One of his hands managed to grab the edges of the barrel, trying to raise himself back to the surface. Another hand appeared, the fingers curling around the lip. He freed his hips and began to drag the barrel towards him. He was going to tip it over. I let go of his legs and, leaning heavily on the barrel to prevent it inclining further, began to prise his fingers loose.

  I managed to get one hand free. Alyson worked upon the other. ‘Get his feet,’ she roared. ‘Push him back in.’

  Sinking her teeth into his fingers, Alyson held one arm above her head, an ankle clutched in her hand. Finally, with a last violent jerk of his leg, his hand let go. We held him fast, pushing him deeper into the ale.

  God forgive me, I didn’t let go of his feet; Alyson, her hands submerged, pushed down on his back.

  Whether it was the struggle he’d already put up or he just resigned himself to fate, it didn’t take long for Roland le Bold to die.

  Feeling his body go flaccid, I released him slowly, carefully. In silence, we watched him sink, face first, his legs twisted above the water. The ale gurgled and belched. Bubbles exploded on the surface before it grew still.