The Lady Brewer of London

by Karen Brooks

  Dedication

  This tale is for my wonderful agent and friend, Selwa Anthony, who is quite simply the best.

  It’s also, like all my books, for Stephen, without whom my life would be a very different story.

  Epigraph

  Twenty thousand years ago, it was a goddess who gave life and abundance and it was the goddess who, out of a mother’s love and pity for her fallen children, gave the gift of brew to the women of mankind. The cup of bliss, the gourd of temporary forgetfulness was filled with beer . . .

  In all the ancient societies, in the religious mythologies of all ancient cultures, beer was a gift to women from a goddess, never a male god, and women remained bonded in complex religious relationships with feminine deities who blessed the brew vessels . . .

  —Alan Eames, quoted in Stephen Harrod Buhner, Sacred and Herbal Healing Beers: The Secrets of Ancient Fermentation

  If a venture prospers, women fade from the scene.

  —Joan Thirsk, quoted in Judith M. Bennett, Ale, Beer, and Brewsters in England: Women’s Work in a Changing World, 1300–1600

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part One: The Brewer of Elmham Lenn One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Part Two: The Brewer of Southwark Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-One

  Sixty-Two

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Glossary

  About the Author

  Also by Karen Brooks

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Part One

  The Brewer of Elmham Lenn

  September 1405–June 1406

  A man that hath a sign at his door,

  And keeps good Ale to sell,

  A comely wife to please his guests,

  May thrive exceedingly well . . .

  —From “Choice of Inventions,” quoted in Judith M. Bennett, Ale, Beer, and Brewsters in England: Women’s Work in a Changing World, 1300–1600

  One

  Elmham Lenn

  Dawn, the day after Michaelmas

  The year of Our Lord 1405 in the sixth year of the reign of Henry IV

  A sharp wind slapped the sodden hem against my ankles. Clutching the cloak beneath my chin with one hand, I held the other over my brow as a shield from the stinging ocean spray and squinted to see past the curtain of angry gray mizzle drawn across the entry to the harbor. I tried to transport myself beyond the heads, imagine what lay out there; see with my mind’s eye what my physical one could not.

  Just as they had for the last three days, land and water conspired against me.

  With a protracted sigh, I turned and walked back along the dock, my mantle damp and heavy across my shoulders. Brine made the wood slick and the receding tide had strewn seaweed and other flotsam across the worn planks. Barnacles and ancient gull droppings clung to the thick timbers, resisting the endless waves. I marveled at their tenacity.

  On one side of the pier, a number of boats protested against their moorings, rocking wildly from side to side, abandoned by their crews till the weather passed. Along the pebbled shores of the bay, smaller vessels were drawn high, overturned on the grassy dunes, their owners hunkered near the harbormaster’s office at the other end of the dock, drinking ale and complaining about the unnatural weather that stole their livelihood, pretending not to be worried about those who hadn’t yet come home. I waved to them as I drew closer and a couple of the old salts raised their arms in return.

  They knew what dragged me from my warm bed and down to the harbor before the servants stirred. It was what brought any of us who dared to draw a living from the seas.

  I continued, lifting my skirts and jumping a puddle that had collected where the dock ended and the dirt track that followed the estuary into town began.

  To the toll of morning bells, I joined the procession of carts, horses, and vendors trundling into market as the sky lightened to a pearlescent hue. The rain that hovered out to sea remained both threat and promise. Ships that plied their trade across the Channel were anchored mid-river, their sails furled or taken down for repairs; their wooden decks gleaming, their ropes beautifully knotted as captains sought to keep their crews busy while the weather refused them access to the open water. Some had hired barges to transport their cargo to London, while others sold what they could to local shopkeepers or went to Norwich. Closer to the town, abutting the riverbanks, were the warehouses belonging to the Hanseatic League, their wide doors open. Bales of wool, wooden barrels, swollen sacks of grain and salt were stacked waiting to be loaded onto ships that were already overdue—ours being one of them. The workers lingered near the entry hoping to snatch some news. Like us, these men, so far from their homeland, longed to hear that their compatriots were safe. Apart from the whinny of horses, the grunt of oxen, and the grind of cartwheels, silence accompanied us for the remainder of the trip into town.

  As our procession spilled through the old wooden gates, dirty-faced urchins leaped onto the path, offering rooms, food, and other less savory fare, tugging at cloaks, pulling at mantles. Avoiding the children, I steered around the visiting merchants and traveling hawkers who paused to pay tolls and slipped past the packhorses and carts to head toward the town center. Jostled by the farmers with their corn and livestock, apprentices wearing leather aprons and earnest expressions, the way was slow. Before I’d passed the well, the bells of St. Stephen’s began to toll, announcing the official opening of the market. Around me, shop shutters sprang open, their bleary-eyed owners waving customers forth. “Hot pottage,” “Baked sheep’s cheek,” “Venetian silk,” “Copper pans going cheap”; their cries mingled and were soon drowned in the discordant symphony of market day. Catching a glimpse of our housekeeper, Saskia, among the crowd, I darted down the lane near St. Nichols and increased my pace. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Saskia—on the contrary, as one of my mother’s countrywomen, a constant presence since I was a baby, I loved her dearly. I just wanted to enjoy a few more minutes of my own company, without questions or making decisions or, what I was really avoiding, the suffocating weight of the unspoken. I also wanted to make it home before Hiske knew where I’d been or the twins escaped the nu
rsery. If she spied me, Saskia, with the familiarity of a valued servant, would suborn me to her will. I needed to dry myself and change my gown. More importantly, I had to erase the worry from my face and voice. Why I insisted on doing this, going to the seaside these last few days, I was uncertain. It was a compulsion I couldn’t resist. It gave me purpose, prevented me from feeling quite so helpless. I thought about what I’d tell the twins today, how I would distract them. I rounded the corner back onto Market Street, the main road that led to the gate at the other end of town. Walking against the tide of people, I drew my hood, quickened my step, and entered the alley that ran beside my home. I unlatched the garden gate and squeezed through.

  Passing our scant vegetable patch, I hugged the outside wall of the old stables, plucking at the laces at my throat and pulling my cloak off my shoulders and my hood from my head, still hoping I wouldn’t be spotted from upstairs. I was relieved to note Patroclus and Achilles, our two wolfhounds, were absent. Adam Barfoot, the steward, must be walking them—a task he’d performed for years now, ever since we’d let go of the servants Hiske persuaded Father we no longer needed. I tossed the two bones I’d carried in my pockets as a bribe for their peace toward the kennels. The dogs could enjoy them on their return. Perhaps my early-morning vigil would go undetected after all.

  Folding my cloak and hood over my arm and adopting nonchalance, as if it was always my custom to stroll in the gardens at dawn, I crossed the courtyard, passing the disused brewhouse.

  “God give you good day, Mistress Sheldrake.”

  My hand flew to my breast.

  The chambermaid, Doreen, appeared carrying a basket of eggs over her arm. “About early again?” Her sharp eyes looked me up and down, taking in my windswept hair, damp clothes, and muddy boots. “And alone, I see.” She sniffed her disapproval.

  With a sinking heart, I knew she’d report me to Hiske. If Hiske knew, so too would Father. I sighed. There was no point denying what her eyes, the state of my clothes, and my chest, heaving from rushing, clearly told her.

  “As you can see, Doreen, I am. Again,” I added defiantly, my cheeks flaming, then swept past her, almost knocking the basket from her forearm.

  I entered the kitchen with as much equanimity as I could muster. The heat of the stove and the smell of baking bread made me aware of how chilled I was—and hungry. My mouth watered as I greeted the cook, Blanche, who stopped what she was doing and studied me, eyebrows arched.

  “Mistress Anneke, you haven’t been,” she began, but paused as Doreen appeared behind me, “enjoying the fresh air and rain again?” she asked with false gaiety. “I’ll have some hot water and a tray sent to your room, shall I? We don’t want you catching your death.”

  “Mistress Jabben is expecting Mistress Sheldrake to join her in the hall, Mistress Blanche—” Doreen was getting bolder by the day.

  Ignoring Doreen, I turned to the cook. “Thank you, Blanche.” My gratitude was in my smile. “That would be perfect.” Avoiding Doreen’s pursed lips and cold stare, I scurried through the hall before Hiske, who was sitting at the far end, close to the hearth, saw me. Thrusting aside my dignity, I bunched my tunic and shot up the stairs two at a time.

  Walking through Tobias’s old room, I threw aside the curtain that divided our chambers and flung my cloak and hood across the chest that held my clothes and other belongings. Though I could have taken down the curtain and adopted my brother’s room as my own, giving myself more space, I’d chosen to maintain what I’d always had and keep Tobias’s bedroom as it was. Hiske disapproved, saying shrines were for God only and I was making a false idol of my brother. I wasn’t so foolish. Content with what I had, I was also happy knowing that Tobias had a place to lay his head should he ever require one.

  I opened the shutters, and ashen light poured in, along with a cold draft tinted with more rain. Stripping off my tunic and kirtle, I stood shivering in my underclothes and undid my braid. Lifting a used drying sheet from the small table abutting my bed, I quickly toweled my body and then focused on my hair, ears pricked for sound—for Hiske. How ridiculous that, at my age, I snuck about the house like a thief in the night.

  Blanche was true to her promise, and the kitchen maid, Iris, arrived with a bowl of steaming water and a fresh drying sheet, taking away my used one. Minutes later, she reappeared with a tray holding a trencher of bread, a lump of yellow cheese, and a small beaker of ale. Curtsying, she left me to tend myself as was my wont.

  Washed and dressed in a clean, dry kirtle and tunic, my hair tidied, I was picking at the cheese when I heard the clatter of boots and loud whispers. Karel and Betje burst through the curtain, followed by their apologetic nurse, Louisa.

  “Anneke!” they squealed, as if they hadn’t seen me the night before. Dropping to my knees, I hugged them fiercely, inhaling scents of rosewater and lavender. Holding first Betje, then Karel, at arm’s length, admiring their sturdy arms and legs, pink cheeks, and gapped teeth, I released them and stood, laughing. How could anyone be gloomy with these two around? Sinking onto the window seat, I watched them taunt Louisa, who tried and failed to prevent Karel jumping on the bed. Giving up, she attempted to tame Betje’s hair. A riot of silvery curls, it refused to remain in the plaits Louisa insisted upon weaving.

  “Anneke, tell Betje,” said Karel, almost falling off the bed, waving his arms in circles to regain his balance. “Tell Betje . . .” he tried again, then gave up trying to talk and bounce at the same time and instead sat heavily on the end of the mattress, swinging his legs. His energy was something palpable, infectious. “Papa’s coming home today, isn’t he?”

  “And Tobias,” added Betje, twisting toward her brother, exclaiming when her hair was pulled. “Don’t forget him. You always leave him out.”

  “I do not!”

  “You do so. Just because he doesn’t live here doesn’t mean we shouldn’t worry about him as well.” Betje glared at Karel then spun back, rubbing her head. “Is it today, Anneke?” Betje’s large gray eyes alighted on mine, her little brow puckered. “Will Papa be coming home?”

  Louisa and I exchanged a look.

  “Perhaps,” I answered cautiously. “Now remain still and let Louisa finish,” I admonished gently, cupping her cheeks briefly.

  “Perhaps! You said that yesterday.” Karel pouted.

  “And the day before,” added Betje.

  “And perhaps I will say it tomorrow.” They both groaned. “The fact is, I don’t know.” I shrugged, affecting a lightness I didn’t feel. “No one does.” I sat back down and looked outside. A squall rattled the panes. The trees in the churchyard next door were buffeted by winds, stubborn autumn leaves clinging to the branches. They looked like hungry fingers reaching, grasping . . . I stared beyond the garden wall, past the church, the road, toward the wide, white-capped bay and into the vast ashen void. Somewhere across that raging sea were the Netherlands, Flanders, Rotterdam, Ghent, and my mother’s home, Maastricht, and all the places Father sailed, as did Tobias with his master. I imagined Father looking back at me, frowning, his thin lips disappearing as he prepared to scold me for allowing emotions to govern common sense. They voyaged in this kind of weather all the time, a trader’s life was built on risk, he would remind me—and not only those offered by the oceans.

  But this time is different . . . They should be home by now . . . Papa, at least . . . I bit my lip. As for Tobias, he belonged to another family now, called another place home. It didn’t stop me claiming him still or, as Betje said, any of us worrying.

  Betje climbed onto my lap. I shifted to accommodate her and wrapped my arms around her tightly.

  Snuggling against my breast, she tilted her head back. “We won’t be able to do this anymore once Papa is home, will we?”

  “We’ll have to stay in the nursery again, won’t we?” said Karel quietly from the bed, staring at the toe of his boot.

  “We won’t, my sweetlings, and,” I said softly to Karel, “you will. Papa is a very busy man. He doesn�
�t like to be disturbed.”

  “But we want to disturb you, not him,” said Karel.

  I bit back a smile.

  “Papa doesn’t like a lot of things,” said Betje, with the innocence of childish observation. She stared out the window.

  No one replied.

  “The sky is angry,” she said in an awed voice. “That means God is as well, doesn’t it?”

  I followed her gaze and it struck me, as the rain fell, steady enough to form rivulets on the thick glass, that if God was expressing any emotion, it was sadness. I kissed the top of Betje’s head, preparing a reassurance, when something attracted my attention.

  Betje saw it too. “Look!” She sat up and pointed. “There’s a rider.”

  The messenger tore by the church walls, his slender mare churning the road. With a lurch, I recognized the livery and wondered what was so important he should be abroad on such a day.

  Karel bolted from the bed and squeezed beside us. “Where?” he demanded, his head swiveling until he spotted him. “Look, there’s someone else with him as well. They’re stopping. Right outside our house!” He pressed his face against the window, the glass turning opaque where his breath struck.

  “Let me see,” complained Betje, trying to shove her brother out of the way.

  Karel was right. The men talked urgently, walking their horses toward the front of the house.

  “Oh my,” added Louisa from behind. “Mistress—” Apprehension inflected her tone.

  I rose, lifting Betje from my lap, eyes fixed on the figure tethering his horse, waiting for the black-robed gentleman beside him to dismount before they strode out of sight. “Louisa, take the children back to the nursery, would you?”

  “But Anneke . . .” they chorused.

  “Come now,” said Louisa, authoritarian. “You heard what your sister said. Out with you.”

  Once I heard the nursery door close, I checked my hair, straightened my tunic, and, taking a deep breath, went back downstairs.