All the Ever Afters

by Danielle Teller

  Through my trials and failures, I began to understand why Alice’s brew had been so unpalatable. The ingredients for ale were not cheap, and her equipment limited her production to small batches. Since the royal assize set the price for ale so low, Alice chose to cut corners in order to increase her profit. She added oats to the barley, and she saved fuel by not boiling and skimming her wort. Then she added extra water to the grain, making three or four infusions, which she mixed together to produce a dilute ale that soured quickly.

  I decided that a new approach was needed. After the aleconner declared my drink to be fit for sale, I swept and scrubbed the alehouse, cleared out the filthy rushes, polished the flagons until they shone. I replaced the alestake and made merry garlands of holly to decorate it. I had already spent most of Fernan’s money on barley, so I decided that there was little additional harm in spending my last shillings to buy a large stack of firewood from the woodmonger and replace the rank tallow with fine beeswax candles. The plaster on the walls was still blackened and grimy, and the window could not be opened in winter because it lacked glazing, but the room was nonetheless transformed. The sight even coaxed a faint smile from Alice. “You have worked a small miracle here,” she said. “A pig would no longer feel at home!” Speaking brought on another paroxysm of coughing, and she spat dark blood onto her sleeve.

  Despite her weakness, Alice wanted to be in the thick of things as the alehouse reopened, so I bundled her in blankets and sat her by the fire. She had lost so much weight that I could lift the tiny woman as easily as I could lift a child. As time passed, I grew large and rosy with new life, while Alice dwindled. Sores appeared in those places where her sallow, sagging skin was an insufficient cover for the sharp bones beneath. Her breath smelled of rot. I did my best to make her comfortable, but I could see that she suffered.

  On the first day that the alehouse opened anew for business, I made only two sales, and I began to panic. The next morning, I brought gourds of ale and cups to nearby shops and offered free drinks to anyone who would try. Most of the townsfolk had tasted Alice’s ale previously, and they said kind things about the quality of my brew. I also visited the homes of townspeople I knew, including Henny, and I invited them for a free drink that evening. I could not afford my generosity, but I had to do something to bring in customers.

  That night, the alehouse was full to overflowing, and everyone seemed to be in the mood for a wassail. The crowd was raucous; men joked and guffawed loudly, and spirited songs broke out within and without the building, as some revelers even sat in the snow to drink their free ale. At one point, someone stumbled or was pushed into a table, and all of the flagons landed on the floor with a mighty crash, provoking uproarious laughter. Alice sat serenely by the hearth in the midst of the tumult, her eyes closed, a slight smile on her lips. The fire and the warmth of many bodies made the room so hot that I felt faint; I welcomed the blasts of cold air that swept in every time the door was opened.

  Henny and George arrived toward the end of the evening. They knew all of the townspeople, and they made a point of greeting each and every one of them heartily, infusing the room with even greater cheer.

  “We always liked to come here when poor Alice was brewing,” Henny told me, “though I confess we liked the kidney pies better than the ale.” She wrinkled her nose. “Look at this crowd! It is so nice that you have brought good ale to Old Hilgate. We will stop brewing our own now! It must be hard for you, raised as you were, to do the work of an alewife. It is good, honest work, and I greatly admire you for not being above it. It does nobody credit to be all high and mighty. Christ Himself associated with the lowliest of people. I met Mylla Ainsley on the way, and she said that you should quit your husband and go home if he is so poor and your parents are so rich. I told her she knows nothing of young love! Not to mention Christian humility. Where is that husband of yours?”

  I escaped Henny’s patter to check my stores in the brewery. Only a few gallons remained. Though I had started to charge customers after their first drink, the income was not enough to buy all of the new brewing supplies I would require. I shuddered, realizing that I would have to ask Fernan for more money.

  As though he had been conjured by my thoughts, Fernan was at the door when I exited the brewery with the last of my ale. He looked around the crowded room, startled. I grabbed a flagon and threaded my way to him.

  “Would you care for a drink?” I did my best to smile flirtatiously.

  “What is this?”

  “An alehouse.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  “We spoke about this. I got the license. I thought you would be pleased to see me earn a few shillings.”

  A slow smile spread across his face. “Really? Is that so?” He tipped the flagon as though examining the contents. “Let me taste your wares, then.” He drained the flagon in one long draught. “Not bad! Not bad at all. A refill!” He handed me the empty flagon and pushed even closer to me than was necessary in the crowded room. “You look lovely tonight. A little plumpness suits you.” He patted my round belly.

  I hurried to fetch more ale. When I turned away other requests, explaining that the stock had been drained, the alehouse began to empty. I kept Fernan’s cup full, however. Henny was kind enough to put Alice to bed, and George clapped Fernan on the back before leaving, declaring Fernan to be a right lucky fellow.

  There was much cleaning to be done, but I left it for morning so that I could go with Fernan to bed. I brought up one of the new beeswax candles and helped Fernan to undress. He sighed as I stroked his back. “How much money do you expect to make from your new enterprise?” he asked.

  “If I sell my regular ale at two pence per gallon and spiced ale at three, I could make two or three shillings each day easily. It costs twelve pence for a bushel of malted barley, but I can malt my own come summer. After I pay for firewood and sundries, I could earn more than a crown each week.” I was making most of this up, because I did not know how much I would sell each day, nor whether I could continue to get away with charging more than the one and a half pence for ale allowed by law.

  Fernan whistled between his teeth. “That is a tidy sum. How much did you make tonight?”

  I would have to ask for more money eventually, and he was in a good mood. I decided to seize an opportune moment. “I had to give drink away in order to get word out about the alehouse. I need to brew even faster, and I am almost out of barley. I shall need another couple of shillings, but I promise that this will be the last time.”

  The words had hardly left my lips when his fist slammed into the side of my head. The floor tilted ominously. I had not regained my balance when he hit me again, and I fell to the floor. There was a loud ringing in my ear, and though he shouted something at me, I could not make out the words. I crawled to the door, and he did not try to stop me.

  I spent the night by the hearth in the alehouse. At dawn, the clomp of Fernan’s boots on the stairs woke me. He was dressed in his cloak, and he carried his satchel. I feigned sleep, so when his footsteps stopped near me, I do not know whether he looked down at me or merely paused to adjust the strap of his satchel. After I heard the door slam, I rose and began the long task of cleaning up from the night before.

  I managed to borrow enough money from Henny to get me through the next week, and after that, I did not have to ask for money again. I created new spiced ales, using combinations of juniper, apples, laurel, cinnamon, and lavender, and these were enormously popular. Increasingly, townspeople bought their home supplies from me rather than brewing ale themselves, and I had trouble keeping up with demand. I hired a girl to help with cleaning and serving so that I could devote all of my time to brewing. I knew that soon I would have to find ways to increase my production. I would also have to think about what would happen when Alice died. I could not afford to buy the alehouse from her, and as Alice had no living kin, Ellis Abbey would repossess the alehouse, and I would be without a home or source of income.

  The ne
xt time Fernan came home, he acted as though nothing had happened between us. He had, after all, merely disciplined his wife. He did leave me an allowance when he departed, so perhaps he meant to make amends, but I did not want his offering of peace. I bided my time, and when I had saved enough money, I filled two bags with coins and placed these, along with the unopened sac he had given me, on a trencher meant for his supper. The alehouse was busy that evening, and some eyebrows rose when I placed a plate full of money in front of my husband. Fernan said nothing about it, but he never offered me another penny of allowance.

  11

  Motherhood

  As weeks passed, I became increasingly aware of the babe that grew inside me. When I lay still, I felt a queer fluttering, as though a creature covered in softest eiderdown were circling, trying to settle itself for sleep in my belly. In those quiet moments, joy would thrill in little waves from my heart to my fingertips, sweeping away foreboding about the birth. A restless excitement grew in me too. For the first time in my life, it seemed that something important would belong to me.

  Fernan spent more time at the alehouse as the baby’s time drew near; he seemed intrigued about the idea of becoming a father. I had not forgiven him, but I decided that it would be better for me to keep him close than to push him away. I fed him, washed his feet, encouraged his self-pride, and made myself available and receptive to him in the night. He began to tease me sometimes as he used to do, and he joked about how strong our son would be—for he was sure the child was a boy—given the mighty kicks he could feel when he rested his hand on my belly.

  Despite his more frequent visits, Fernan was away the evening my lying-in began. When the cramping started, I wondered if I had eaten something gone foul, but at the iron-fisted grip of the first real pain, I knew to send the neighbor to fetch the midwife.

  The midwife arrived at dusk to find me crouched in a corner, gasping with each new paroxysm of pain. She was a frail woman with a stooped back and chilblains on her crooked fingers, and I wondered if she was fit for the task. She got me into bed, gave me vinegar and sugar to drink, and opened the window to let in the frigid air. I was grateful for the cold, as it took my mind away from the pain. When I lay back in bed, I felt a warm gush of fluid on my legs and cried out with fear. The old woman clucked and brought some rags.

  “This is good, very good. Now that the water has broken, things will go quickly.”

  “How quickly?” I squeezed my eyes shut as another wave of pain flowed over me.

  “Who is to say, dear girl? It is up to Saint Margaret. Before sunrise, I am sure. Let us say a prayer to Saint Margaret now.”

  She placed an amulet on my belly and began to murmur and chant. I closed my eyes between the pains. When she finished her prayers, she rubbed my flanks with strongly scented rose oil. My throat constricted as the image of the rose garden at the abbey floated unbidden to my mind, but a fresh wave of cramping overpowered the remembrance.

  The midwife’s granddaughter arrived near the middle of the night and started a fire to heat some water. The midwife napped in a chair as her granddaughter took over the vigil. She was a pretty girl, younger than me, but obviously used to attending at births. She tried to get me to drink more vinegar with sugar, but I could not. I felt as though a beast had clamped its jaws around my middle and was shaking me, trying to tear me in two. Just when I thought I could bear it no longer, the girl called to her grandmother. The old woman sprang up surprisingly swiftly.

  “Is the babe come to meet us finally?”

  The girl pointed to what must have been the evidence between my legs.

  “Bring more rags, and warm the water. Good, good. I can see the head. Your babe is behaved. Coming out just right. It will be over soon, and you can rest.”

  There was a slither and another rush of fluid, and then the midwife held a slimy, dark creature in her hands. She deftly flipped it over her forearm and swept her finger in its mouth. A loud wail ensued, and the midwife heaved a sigh of pleasure. “You have a big, healthy baby girl, dearheart. Thank Saint Catherine. She is a dark one, but babies lighten up. I bet this one will turn out as fair as my Maggie here.”

  The midwife severed the cord, and then she helped her granddaughter to wash and swaddle the baby snugly in strips of linen. She set the cocooned bundle on my chest and busied herself between my trembling legs with a new mess of sticky afterbirth.

  The babe’s eyes were shut behind swollen lids, and her black hair was matted to the top of her skull, where her skin fluttered and pulsed. She seemed alien, a pupa that had pushed her way out of her casing. I lifted her so that I could see her face better and found that my arms were shaking too. Though her skin was flush with blood, I could tell that her complexion was nut brown, like Fernan’s. Her lips were a delicate bow, tiny and perfect. I traced her mouth with my finger, and she opened her eyes, little slits filled with the softest glisten of black, a gaze that was placid, wise, distant. She stared at me as though she could see through me, or as though she knew me entirely. I could scarcely believe that this strange creature belonged to me.

  “There now, mostly clean. Give your bantling aught to drink. We are going to get some sleep, but Maggie will come back at sunrise. Here is a pitcher of ale and a bowl of fresh water. Maggie, dearheart, close the window and bank the fire.”

  “I have already finished with the fire, Grandmother!” Maggie pulled the shutters closed, and they departed.

  I had seen women feeding their babies in the village, but I felt awkward and uncertain. I pulled up my shift and held it bunched around my armpits, exposing my breasts to the cold air, and I brought the baby’s face toward one of my puckered nipples. Immediately she parted her lips and clamped her warm velvet mouth on my breast. Her dark cheek pressed into my pale gooseflesh; she sucked with controlled urgency, as though drinking were the only thing in life that mattered, and she was the master of this important task. It was a marvel that she knew exactly what to do. I was not expecting the shock of pleasure, nor the wonder I felt then. After some time, her rhythm slowed, and the grip of her mouth loosened. Her lips made a soft smacking sound as she released, and all of the tension left her little body. Her head lolled back as sleep overcame her.

  As I watched her drowse, tears filled my eyes. I was seized with the fear that she would die, that I would lose her. Angels are not meant to dwell in the world of men. I was never meant to have anything so good.

  Through the night, the baby woke me with her cries, and each time I pulled her close, I felt a queer sorrowful joy. She was a piece of me that had broken free to become her own person, a stranger. We did not know each other, and yet in the instant I first beheld her, she became everything to me. As long as we both lived, I would never truly be alone again.

  When Maggie came again the next morning, she was as cheerful and energetic as she had been the night before. She brought with her a cradle that she had borrowed from the Dryver family; it had been well used by their six babies, but Sara Dryver was not expecting another soon. Maggie fed me bread and milk, and I felt well enough to get up. I was tired and sore, but much of my strength had already returned.

  Fortunately, I remained healthy, and I went back to brewing and cooking. Though new motherhood prevented me from sleeping well at night, my heart and my step were light. I swaddled the baby and carried her everywhere with me. When I had to serve drinks in the alehouse, she stayed in her cradle by the hearth. Customers took turns picking her up when she fussed, even a few of the men. Some commented on her dark complexion, but most just cooed and smiled.

  I looked up every time the door let in a gust of cold air, hoping that Fernan had returned and we could have the baby christened. When he finally did arrive, he was in a foul mood, for he had heard from one of the townspeople that the baby was a girl. It was evening, and the alehouse was crowded. In winter, there was little to do after the sun set, and the men liked to gather together by the fire and drink spiced ale. Fernan took off his cloak and found a spot on one of the
benches nearest the door. I brought him a tankard, and the fleshmonger sitting next to him made a joke about new parents. Fernan just scowled and swallowed a long draught. He thumped the tankard on the board and did not meet my eye.

  Later that night, I brought the baby to him and placed her in his arms. Fernan did not smile, but his expression softened. He put his smallest finger in her mouth, and she sucked eagerly for a moment before she realized that there was no milk to be had. She cried and waved her arms in wide, uncoordinated jerks until her tiny paw found Fernan’s finger, and then she settled again.

  “We have to choose godparents and have her christened.”

  Fernan shrugged irritably. “You choose.”

  “I want my sister to be the godmother.”

  “Don’t be stupid. A peasant sister would ruin your story. Anyway, I shan’t travel half a day for a christening. You should ask Henny and George to be godparents.”

  I knew that he was right. It was impossible for my sister to be the godmother. Even if it were not for the fiction I had created about my life, it would have been an unwise choice, because Lottie had nothing to offer our daughter, whereas Henny and George had wealth and influence in Old Hilgate. I longed for my sister though. The bonds that had closed around my heart when I left the abbey had sprung open again at the birth of my daughter, and I felt the ache of Lottie’s absence as though for the first time.

  “We can make George and Henny godparents, but I want to name her after my sister, not after Henny.”