Crown of Stars

by Sophie Jaff

  Word has spread of our encounter with Blacwin’s gang, and despite the weather a steady stream of souls is eager to see the ones who defeated the bandits. Dryllis can hardly complain of the customers, but for all that she still hates us. Ayleth is just as bad, with her undercurrent of sighs and complaints. Rudd does what chores he can, lifting barrels and moving sacks, and Thomas is content to weave his fabulous story to new audiences, but I am not used to sitting by idly. My hands itch to brew or to serve or do something of use. The walls seem to close in around me.

  In the late afternoon, the innkeeper corners me once more.

  “Have you given thought to means of payment for this second night?” He makes so bold as to reach his hand out, caressing my waist, wandering up to pinch my breast.

  I slap it away. “Do not lay hands upon me again or—”

  “Or you’ll set your brother on me?” He smirks. “I think not. In daylight it is clear to me that the boy is missing his wits.” He reaches for me again.

  This time I strike his face, but he is quick to grab my wrist.

  “The she-cat has her claws out,” he croons; then his face hardens as he pulls me in closer to bite at my neck and fill my ear with his slimy tongue, the reek of foul meat on his breath. “Listen to me, you little slut—”

  “Garreth!” Somewhere, Dryllis is screeching. “Garreth, come and help me!”

  Garreth releases me, but not without giving my breast a vicious pinch.

  “Later you shall give me what you owe, or else I will fetch the sheriff and have you all thrown in the gaol. You know what they do to women in there.”

  There is no escape but the room. I crawl upon my pallet and shut my eyes tight. I listen to endless rain and pray for it to end. Tonight we will have to make our escape, rain or no.

  It seems but a moment until I am being shaken awake. It is much darker now, and from below there are echoes of loud laughter and talk. Thomas is staring at me impatiently.

  “Margaret, you must make haste and come down!”

  “Why?” I close my eyes and turn over. The last thing I wish to do is spend more time in the company of Garreth and his family, but Thomas will not let me be.

  “There are men here, the steward and his men.” He dances from foot to foot, his words tumbling over one another.

  “And what is that to us?” I keep my eyes closed, hoping that Thomas will take my hint.

  “It might be everything, according to Ayleth.”

  Faint curiosity stirs within me. “What do you mean?”

  “She did not want to tell me at first, oh, she was happy to lord it over me, but I teased and goaded her until she did!” He sounds amused.

  “Tell you what?” I am exasperated now. “Thomas, speak plain!”

  “Why, only that the lord is soon to return to his castle and they are in search of an alewife! They are calling in at all the taverns in the county.”

  “Oh?” I roll back, open my eyes, and see him grin.

  “Dryllis has put her daughter forward, but there might still be a chance for you.”

  “Oh!” I sit up.

  Thomas laughs and thumps the pallet. “In truth, you are slow! I have sung your praises while Dryllis prepares their meal, but now you must come down and present yourself.”

  There is no time to linger, so I smooth down my hair and make sure no soot stains my cheek while Thomas watches with a critical eye.

  “I suppose that will do.” He sighs.

  I have to smile, he is so different now from the terrified beaten waif I first encountered in the woods.

  “Come, come!” He grows impatient.

  As I climb down the steps I can hear the steward’s men before I even see them. They are merry, full of ale and Dryllis’s best meat. These men seem larger than the villagers, they do not look like they have ever known hunger or want. They wear tabards, fine woolen hose, and tunics of good cloth. They speak with loud, commanding voices, and laugh louder.

  Painfully aware of my unkempt appearance, my rough stained dress and my worn and muddy shoes, I advance timidly with Thomas by my side.

  “And so this is your sister you speak of?”

  It is easy to pick out the steward, for he is the hawk-like man with a curved beak of a nose and sharp, appraising eyes.

  “Yes, sir.” Thomas is meek, no sauce to him now.

  “Come closer.” It is a command. “Your brother has been speaking well of you. Of course, that is to be expected, but he claims you brew the best ale in five counties, and that you brewed for your father’s inn.”

  “That is true, sir.” I raise my eyes to look him full in the face. “I am confident that you would not find my efforts wanting.”

  “I’m sure he would not!” Leers a large, ruddy man in the steward’s party. “I myself would be keen to taste your ale!”

  There is much laughter.

  “Be quiet,” the steward snaps, and the men, chastened, do.

  I flush and lower my eyes. I long to shrink back into the shadows, away from the hungry gaze of these men. Then I plan to murder Thomas.

  The unnatural silence alerts Dryllis that something is amiss, and she rushes in.

  “And what is this?” she cries in dismay upon seeing me at the steward’s table.

  “Another candidate for the position, mistress,” the steward responds dryly.

  “But I have already told you, sir, that Ayleth is perfect for the post!”

  “Let’s hope her brews are sweeter than her countenance,” mutters the florid-faced man.

  Agitated, Dryllis turns to the steward. “It has all been arranged,” she insists.

  Her tone seems to irk him. “Nothing is binding yet,” he retorts.

  “Sir, I beseech you, do not believe a word they say!” Dryllis is desperate now, her thick fingers clutching at her apron. “They are full of trickery and falsehood without a coin to their name, and she”—here she points—“she is nothing but a hedge-born slattern!”

  “What about a competition?” The suggestion is proffered by a thin man, also in the party. He looks leaner, more thoughtful, than his companions.

  The steward seems inclined to hear him out. “A competition?” he asks.

  “Yes, for I’m sure there are others in the county who would like to try their hand at this work. You can assume the main role of taster, sir, and judge for yourself.” He smiles. “In this way Lord de Villias will be certain of receiving the finest ale the county has to offer. After all, knights must joust to earn favor in court, so why should these women not have the chance to prove the same?”

  Dryllis’s scowl is mutinous. “That is not what we had agreed upon,” she protests, turning again to the steward, but it is in vain.

  “Nothing has yet been agreed by myself or by his lordship. Unless you do not think your daughter’s ale can be measured against others?”

  She takes a breath to protest but, seeing how the land lies, knows she has no choice but to accept the challenge on Ayleth’s behalf.

  “And you?” The steward turns to me.

  “I accept,” I say.

  “A joust, a joust, a joust of the alewives!” one man bellows, and several take up the cry.

  “It is decided. We will taste the ale in three days. We can leave it no longer, for we must be about his lordship’s business.”

  Three days? I quail, wondering what can be brewed in only three days. Dryllis is clearly fuming, but there is nothing either of us can do. The date has been set. She glares at me with pure loathing and waddles back to the kitchen. Thomas begins to count under his breath, and when in a moment I hear a loud slap and then a wail, I understand why. Of course Dryllis would vent her displeasure upon the hapless Ayleth.

  I thank the steward and pull Thomas with me into a far corner of the room, away from their table.

  “Ow!” Thomas winces and looks at me reproachfully. “I thought you meant to squeeze my hand off its joint.”

  “I still might, for I have nothing to brew in and no oa
ts nor barley, nor money to buy them, and I am certain Dryllis is not likely to lend me much!”

  “And how can you doubt our Dryllis’s warm and generous nature?”

  I spin around. Cefwin the Baker grins, for he and Alun have joined our little circle too.

  Alun also smiles. “I think we might be able to help you, at least in part. I can loan you a kettle big enough to brew in, and Cefwin can spare you the grains. Only it must be done in secret, for if Dryllis got word that we had helped you . . .” A comic look of horror comes over his face.

  “You see, this is the only tavern for miles,” Cefwin informs me solemnly, but his round face cannot suppress his natural mirth. “And yet it is such fine sport to vex Dryllis, I swear it is good for the blood.”

  “It will have to be done well away from the village, out by the wood. Will that suit?” Alun’s expression is hopeful, anxious.

  Their sudden kindnesses, Thomas’s belief in me, make me catch my breath. The task seems impossible, but for once there are those who are on my side. I am unable to speak. I nod and try to smile, for I do not wish to dismay them by crying.

  For the next three days, I toil in a secluded thicket out on the edge of the wood. Alun brings his kettle, and Cefwin brings me what he can. At the King’s Head I could purchase what I wanted at the town market, and inspect the goods firsthand, but now I am reliant on others. A handful of oats here and there some malted barley. I search for wild pepper and blue ginger and sage. I must try and work out what proportions to use, how to build strength and draw out flavor. I mash and stir and strain as Thomas and Rudd fetch pails of brook water and stoke the fire under the kettle.

  I do not return to the Black Ewe. There is no rest or safety to be had for me there, nor could I pay. I am only grateful the rain has stopped, as I will be a little cold, but not wet through. Alun gives me a blanket and Cefwin gives me bread. It will not be for much longer, one way or another. A neighbor of Alun and Cefwin, Abel the Miller, has entered into the spirit of the joust and has offered to house Thomas and Rudd in his barn for the remaining days. Thomas assures me they are quite comfortable and have all they need. He flits back and forth to bring me news.

  “Dryllis is in a foul mood, and woe betide anyone who gets in her way. She has done little else than stir and shout orders. Ayleth makes for a sad ghost, alternating weeping and sighing, and pretending that her mother is only aiding her.”

  Late in the evening of the third day, Thomas comes for the final time. Word of the contest has spread through the county, and many will be coming on the morrow to taste and judge for themselves.

  “How does it go?” he asks hopefully.

  I shake my head. I do not want to dash his hopes, but I fear the worst. After he has gone, I taste my ale again. It’s no good, weak and sour.

  If it falls short, and it will, our one means of escape, of survival, will be gone.

  As despair overwhelms me, I sit on a stump beside the kettle and think about my mother, who brewed the ale that first made the King’s Head famous. I close my eyes and try to conjure up what memories I have. She knew the art of brewing, but I was still so young when she died. There was so much more I could have learned from her.

  “Mother,” I implore. “Mother, what would you do?”

  Her answer comes in the sigh of the wind whispering through the branches of the thicket.

  Sing. I would sing, my Margaret.

  “But what must I sing?” My chest is tight with the ache for her.

  Let the song come to you.

  My tune weaves and dips, trembling at first before finding itself and then gaining strength. I sing of the flowering summer, the smell of the earth under the warm sun, and then the ripening of autumn, when the green turns into golden grain. I sing of malt and the pale oats. I sing of sweet honey, humming bees, and the churning brook. I sing of growth and fermenting and of full cups brimming with plenty.

  Then a great weariness overtakes me. I curl up next to the kettle. I have done my best, and cannot do more.

  I sleep.

  The sun has not yet reached its peak when I see Thomas and Rudd cresting the hill, cups in hand. Thomas is almost skipping. I wish I shared his confidence.

  They are closely followed by Alun and Cefwin and then most of the locals from the Black Ewe, but there are soon many faces that I do not recognize, a seemingly endless parade of villagers from around the county toting their cups and bowls and tankards. There is an air of a festival, even among the men rolling the barrels. They groan, complaining about the weight, but all seem to be in good humor. I spy Dryllis walking next to the men who roll her oaken barrel. She barks instructions at the men who lug it here for her, while Garreth and Ayleth look on sourly, sulking. Finally the steward’s party arrive, full of vigor and bearing cups too. It is fine for them, I think with sudden anger, for they have nothing to lose and everything to drink. They play with our lives as if this were a game of fivestones.

  I watch as the growing procession makes its way over to us. I can only wonder what I must look like, emerging from the woods as a wild creature in my one worn green dress that will never be clean again, its ripped hem now stained with dew my hair long and tangled. I have done the best that I can, but I know I fall woefully short. We stand in line, waiting to serve. The crowd cheers and then falls silent as the steward announces he wishes to begin.

  He first tastes the ale offered by an old woman who calls herself Mistress Edda. She is bent with whiskers upon her chin. The steward dips his cup, sips. Then he purses his lips, spits, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand in disgust.

  “It has not yet had its full growth,” whines Mistress Edda as his reaction unfolds.

  “That may be, but it should be put to death before it grows legs and slays us all.”

  There is much laughter at this, and the audience readies itself for his next tasting. I begin to sweat under the unrelenting sun. The next two barrels are none too bad, and from the corner of my eye I can see Ayleth fidgeting, sighing heavily. Dryliss does not seem worried, only bored.

  The fourth cask is pronounced intolerable and the fifth, passable. I try to keep my hands busy stirring my kettle so they will not wring each other for the terror of it. I croon softly to myself, snippets of my song from the evening before.

  Grown from the earth,

  Golden in worth,

  Barley and wheat,

  Belly full sweet.

  Thomas looks up at me, curious.

  “A snatch of verse my mother once sang,” I confide, for I cannot tell him the whole story.

  Thomas nods. “Perhaps it will bring us luck,” he says.

  “Perhaps,” I answer, but we can no longer meet each other’s eyes.

  It is now Ayleth’s turn to be judged, and a hush falls over the expectant crowd. Dryllis stands at attention, her ample breasts and stomach jut forth, her simpering face red and round. Ayleth’s complexion is that of moldy cheese, but she stands rigid like her mother, only the pinch of her nostrils shows that she breathes.

  The steward dips his cup and drinks. He drinks again and smiles, and in a loud voice he proclaims, “The best by far! The most fit for my lordship’s table.”

  Ayleth crows with glee, and Dryllis’s vastness visibly swells.

  “Thank you, sir,” she twitters. “You do the house of the Black Ewe great credit.”

  The villagers, including Alun and Cefwin, cheer, for however much they may dislike Ayleth, it is a source of pride that the Black Ewe’s ale has been marked with distinction. They will be able to boast that one of their own will brew for Lord de Villias himself, that they will drink the same ale as his lordship.

  My heart sinks as the steward turns away. Thomas bites his lip. How can we hope to match this praise? Will the steward even bother to keep tasting?

  “Wait!” It is the lean, clever man who first suggested the competition. “Sir, with greatest respect, I trust you will not proclaim a victor before tasting all the brews?”

  D
ryllis opens her mouth. “Surely there is no competition here. Master Steward knows what he wants and likes!”

  The villagers already lined up, cup in hand, to drink the winning brew nod vigorously, but the steward is shaking his head.

  “You are right, Landon, and you speak the truth. It would not be fair, although I cannot conceive of any ale that could match that which I have just tasted.”

  Dryllis’s stare is one of pure, hateful triumph. Ayleth smirks.

  I swallow, for there is nothing I can do now but pray.

  He walks slowly to where I stand by the kettle. “Well, mistress, do you still offer me a drink?” he asks. “Or do you forfeit?”

  In answer I take his cup, dip it into the kettle, and hold it out to him. He takes it and sips. A strange expression passes over his face.

  “My God.” He sips again. He clears his throat, and when he speaks his voice is husky, almost a whisper. “One summer morning, when I was a boy, I ran away from my duties and spent the whole day fishing. I caught a huge trout, and though I was beaten for my willfulness, that night we ate well.”

  He laughs, and indeed for a moment his face is the face of a boy again, glowing with mischief and gleeful pride. His musing is quiet enough, but each word carries to the now-silent crowd. “It is as if I can hear the sound of the river, see the sunlight upon the water, feel the weight of the fish in my arms as I carried it home.”

  With these words he drains his cup to the last drop, then holds it out to me. “Again,” he orders. “And fill it to the brim.”

  The Man in the Woods

  You watch as she stumbles into the clearing before bursting into an angry torrent of tears. Her one chance is gone, stolen away by a stranger. Now it will be that slattern who brews his lordship’s ale. No matter that Ayleth cannot herself brew; she and her mother would have settled it somehow. The fact is that she must stay here in the village, a slave to her mother and a burden to her father. Unwanted, unwelcome, and unloved.