The Lady Brewer of London

by Karen Brooks

  * * *

  As I reached the bottommost stair, I almost collided with Will, the footman. “M . . . Mistress Sheldrake,” he said. “I was just coming to get you.” He stepped back and bowed, his face hot.

  “Thank you, Will,” I said. “The office?”

  “Aye, mistress. Master Makejoy’s here . . .” he hesitated. “Mistress Jabben’s there as well.”

  Will opened the door and stepped aside.

  My father’s office always roused mixed emotions. It was a forbidden, hallowed space, long and narrow, like a tomb. Sepulchre-like, a lone candle flickered on the desk. Though he wasn’t there, my father’s presence lingered in every corner, in the ebony wood of his desk, in the stools against the walls, the folios, vellum scrolls, maps, star charts, and ledgers stacked on the shelves, the metal safe under the table, even in the cracked sill of the small, shuttered window that opened onto the shop.

  “Mistress Sheldrake.” Leonard Makejoy handled Lord Rainford’s business affairs and, by default, my father’s as well. As I entered, he clambered to his feet, and in that action banished the ghost of my father. With what passed for a smile, he came forward, one arm held out to clasp my waist, the other to take my hand, as if I were an invalid in need of assistance. “God give you good day. Come, sit down.”

  Attempting not to recoil at his touch, I raised a hand. “If it’s all right with you, Master Makejoy, I would rather stand.” His attenuated fingers retreated and instead discovered each other. Wringing them, he nodded gravely, his eyes traveling to the piece of paper unfurled on the desk.

  “Very well. But with your permission, I’ll resume my seat.”

  I nodded and he sat erect in Father’s hard-backed chair, passing a hand over his brow as though fevered. I too felt unnaturally hot. Yet the room was cold. Bitterly so. It had been over three months since a fire had been lit in here.

  “What is it, Master Makejoy? What brings you to our home so early on this chill autumn day?” I stepped closer, trying to read what it was he’d carried with him. The Rainford seal occupied the lower left corner, bold black strokes the rest of the missive. I could see our name—Sheldrake. “Is this for me?”

  “It is, Mistress Sheldrake. It’s from the most honorable and worthy Lord Hardred Rainford.” Master Makejoy glanced toward a corner. “I’ve taken the liberty of informing Mistress Jabben of the contents.”

  A quiet murmur located Hiske behind me. I looked to where she sat and acknowledged her with the barest inclination of my head. “Cousin Hiske.” Emboldened, I pressed on. “What brings you to Father’s office?”

  Hiske rose slowly, smoothing her russet tunic, and approached the desk. The flickering light transformed her face into a foreign landscape of gulfs and ravines.

  “Curiosity. I too heard the commotion Master Makejoy’s unexpected but most welcome arrival made, and wished to know the reason. Anyhow, it’s my right to be here, as you well know.”

  I pursed my lips, uncertain how to reply. While I wanted to send her away, she was correct. She had the right. Turning back to Master Makejoy, I saw a look pass between them. A flash of . . . what was it? Triumph? Understanding? A shudder ran through me.

  “Mistress Sheldrake”—he cleared his throat—“I’m afraid I’m the bearer of terrible tidings . . .”

  A frigid wave rolled in my chest. I held out my hand.

  With a look I only understood later, Master Makejoy passed me the missive. I read it slowly and, while I registered what was written, another part of me began to resist. The words swam on the page, re-forming to say something completely different. My body endured all seasons in the time it took to process the words. I stared and stared and yet nothing I did changed what was stated in stark, ebony ink.

  Raising his rheumy eyes to mine, I saw the future foretold in Master Makejoy’s miserable regard.

  “This says the Cathaline is lost at sea.” Though I whispered, my words seemed to echo.

  I felt Hiske’s shoulder brush mine. She thought to stand by me now, of all times.

  “Aye.” Master Makejoy waited for me to say more, but nothing came. His confirmation pitched around in my head before I tasted its salty bitterness, then allowed it to meet my heart, which was beating frantically in my ears.

  “Father?” My voice was dry, scratchy.

  Master Makejoy stood unsteadily and I saw the empty mazer of ale and the jug beside the letter; Hiske had attended quickly to our guest.

  “I’m afraid, like the rest of the crew and cargo, he too is unaccounted for. Lord Rainford”—he gestured to the parchment—“as you have read, presumes him drowned. No one could have survived such a storm, the wreckage . . .”

  Darkness collected at the edge of my vision and then sped to steal my sight. I swayed. Master Makejoy said something and Hiske’s fingers gripped my arm. A stool was dragged over the floor. I was pushed none too gently onto it. There was a gurgle and splash of liquid.

  “Here, drink this,” said Hiske, shoving the mazer into my hands. I refused. “Drink it,” she insisted.

  Ignoring her, I turned to Master Makejoy. Melancholy etched his features, the lines of his long years forming deep furrows. “What about Tobias?”

  “There’s no word, yet,” sighed Master Makejoy. “But thank the good Lord, he’s with Sir Leander Rainford, on the Sealhope.”

  “It survived?”

  “Along with the rest of Lord Rainford’s fleet, it never left Bruges. Sir Leander is . . . more cautious . . .” He held up his hands as if to ward off my protests, though I made none. “You know your father. He would have taken the weather warnings as a personal challenge.” Reaching over, he removed the mazer and, placing it gently on the desk, took my fingers. His flesh was papery, dry, his eyes moist and cloudy.

  “Father is dead.” I said it like a vow.

  In reply, he squeezed my hands tighter.

  I sat there, lumpen, solid, waiting for the tears, the grief I knew should overcome me. Instead there was silence. Silence broken only by the spit of the candle, the wheeze of Hiske’s breathing, Master Makejoy’s swallowed belch, and the stench of burning tallow. My head was bowed, my eyes fixed on the floor.

  Father is dead.

  The past telescoped until all that remained were these last few seconds where I was propped in Father’s room, a lifeless doll holding the hand of this husk of a man, one who knew the world only in terms of debits and credits and had announced what was to be my lot today: loss.

  I thought of all the other ways this description fitted—my father would be spoken of as lost at sea, his children as losing their father, as if we’d carelessly misplaced him. There would be condolences offered for our loss, prayers, sorrow, tears.

  A thud above forced my thoughts to fly upstairs. The twins! Oh dear Lord, the twins. How would I tell them? They loved their father, in spite of everything . . .

  My heart became a thick, swollen mass that pinned me to the seat. It had finally filled, and the pain was indescribable, at once exquisite and deadly. Tears spilled, rolling down my cheeks, dripping onto my hands, onto Master Makejoy’s. A sob tore from my throat, a bark that would have done our hounds proud.

  With a click of pity, Master Makejoy stood and brought me to my feet. Unpracticed, awkward, he folded his arms around me, pinning my head against his bony shoulder. As the rain beat against the house, the invisible waves beyond surged and hungered, and the heavy clouds slumped above us, God help me, I cried my own torrent—not so much for Father, but for what I knew in my heart his loss augured.

  Two

  Elmham Lenn

  The day after Michaelmas

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

  Sorrow, guilt, and, if I searched deeply enough, a sense of relief warred within me in equal measure, prolonging my weeping until Hiske’s next words abruptly checked it.

  “Tell her the rest, Master Makejoy.”

  The rest? What else was there?

  A handkerchief was t
hrust into my palm. Master Makejoy’s arms withdrew and, once more, I sank onto the stool.

  There was the brush of material against my thigh. Cousin Hiske pressed closer to me. “She must needs know. After all, it changes everything.”

  As if Father’s death didn’t . . . I raised my swollen face.

  “Despite his lordship’s instructions, it’s too soon,” said Master Makejoy, examining the lip of the beaker before downing a good swallow. “Let the poor girl, the family, mourn. They need time.”

  “That’s a luxury they can ill afford,” said Hiske, gesturing at the parchment. “Mourning isn’t helped by time or tears, Master Makejoy. It only makes sorrow grow. Grief needs to be checked as soon as possible lest we overindulge in it.” She sniffed. I twisted and saw in her eyes a peculiar glimmer. “Anyway,” she said, flashing her teeth in what passed for a smile, “there are decisions to be made. You must not be seen to thwart his lordship’s intentions.”

  Impatient to be away from them, to get to the twins, I blew my nose in a most unladylike manner. “Too soon or not”—I struggled not to glare at Hiske—“I’d best know what is being referred to, good sir. What does his lordship want?”

  Master Makejoy sighed. His eyes lingered on me before he glanced at Hiske and shrugged.

  “Very well.” Dragging the candle closer, he rolled out another, larger piece of parchment. This was not offered to me. It looked like a deed. Clearing his throat, Master Makejoy used the beaker to hold the parchment flat. “Lord Rainford asked that”—he gave Hiske a reproachful glance—“in due time, I draw your attention to this. I’m not sure how much you know of your father’s affairs, Mistress Sheldrake, but over the years, in order to consolidate his business, Master Sheldrake entered into an arrangement with his lordship, one that saw Lord Rainford underwrite all your father’s ventures.”

  “I was aware of that.” Not because of Father, but because of Adam Barfoot and Tobias. Master Makejoy didn’t need to know that detail.

  Master Makejoy arched a bushy brow. “Really?” He cleared his throat again. “Well, what you may not know is that upon your father’s death, any business dealings with Lord Rainford are revoked.”

  Frowning, I stared at Master Makejoy. “Revoked? What does that mean?”

  Master Makejoy gave me the sort of indulgent smile one does a very young child. “Dear Mistress Sheldrake. Your father’s death, never mind the sinking of the Cathaline, means that any agreements your father had are now invalid; they no longer apply.” His tone changed, became businesslike. “You can thank our Maker for Lord Rainford’s generosity in appointing Tobias his youngest son’s squire. Thus his future is assured. One less Sheldrake to worry about. But as for everything else . . . well . . .” He waved a hand in the air.

  “Well, what? To what agreements are you referring?” Darkness made a slow passage from the back of my mind, tarnishing my ability to think clearly.

  Master Makejoy leaned back in Father’s chair and laced his hands together, the index fingers forming a pyramid that pointed toward the ceiling. “Quite simply, your father’s interests in the fleet, his dealings with the Hanseatic League, any merchandise awaiting export and import. Concern for all this now passes back to Lord Rainford, who, of course, will find someone else to manage his mercantile affairs. The good news is that this includes any debts, and believe me when I tell you, the sinking of the Cathaline will incur a great many. The business agreement struck between your father and Lord Rainford spares you this at least—these debts are not your responsibility. The bad news is”—he hesitated—“while you don’t have any debts to discharge, you no longer possess any assets either.”

  “None?” I forced my hands still. “But . . . I don’t understand.”

  “It’s very simple, Mistress Sheldrake. You have . . . nothing.”

  I stared at Master Makejoy, aghast. “But how is this possible? Father is . . . was a man of means. We have wanted for very little.” I looked to Hiske for confirmation. She regarded me steadily, no inkling of her thoughts evident in those cold eyes. “The shop,” I continued, gesturing toward it. “We have a business. Yesterday, there were customers. And the warehouse”—my arm indicated the opposite end of the house, where the goods Father traded, had traded, were stored—“there are bales of fabric, wool, spices, some wine—not much, I know, we were awaiting Father’s return to replenish . . . but surely they’re ours to sell and—”

  “Not anymore, I’m afraid. Neither are”—he leaned over and referred to the parchment, his finger trailing down the page—“the control of the remaining ships for which your father bore responsibility. Including the Cathaline, there were four in total. There are also the lands abutting this house, which incorporates three holdings, the orchard, and other interests. These were all managed by your father on his lordship’s behalf, and for this, your father was paid a fee. Naturally, they now return to the original owner: Lord Rainford.” Master Makejoy frowned and his eyes drifted back to the page. “Once they’re sold or leased again, there’s always the possibility they’ll not come anywhere near compensating Lord Rainford for his original investment.” He wasn’t addressing me but indulging in some imminent conversation with his employer.

  “But I always thought that his lordship and Father were business partners. What you’re saying implies that their relationship was unequal, that Father was akin to a . . . bondsman . . .” My voice petered out.

  “Indeed, that’s an apt analogy, Mistress Sheldrake. The original contract was signed over sixteen years ago, and both your father and Lord Rainford have enjoyed many successes, have profited in all sorts of ways from their joint ventures.” Master Makejoy pushed back the chair and rose, his fingers dusting the metal astrolabe sitting on the desk. “But this doesn’t concern you any longer and, in legal terms, a contract is a contract.” Reaching over the desk, he opened the shutters, allowing air and light to spill into the room. From where I was sitting, I could see a portion of the shop and, past the large, battered sea chest that I knew contained spools of fabric and lace from Venice and Bruges, as well as dyed rolls of wool from Florence, the outside window admitted views of the street. It was still early, the rain falling more heavily now, and, with the shutters open, I could hear the howl of the wind.

  “In an effort to try and recoup previous losses and to compensate for the steady decline in trade that these endless wars with France and Wales have brought about, your father risked everything on this voyage. Some might say too much.” Master Makejoy’s eyes flickered to Hiske. “It was, he said, to be the making of him.”

  I looked around the bleak space of the office, stared into the shop. I saw it through different eyes. The empty shelves, the lonely jars and barrels, a sad reel of ribbon, a bolt of ruby cloth, the spaces where nothing sat but flattened rushes. “Is there nothing left for us?” My voice was too quiet, too small.

  “For you and your siblings?” Master Makejoy shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mistress Sheldrake, apart from a meager sum, there’s not.”

  No one spoke. The wind whistled and the trees across the road danced. Adam Barfoot came into view, his head bowed against the wind. His hood had fallen back and he held his cloak together at his throat. Achilles and Patroclus bounded past, their great shaggy coats pressed against their lean frames. At the sight of them, my throat tightened and I felt the prick of tears. I blinked them back.

  “There is not,” I repeated.

  “Not even the house,” added Hiske, so softly I almost didn’t hear.

  “I beg your pardon?” I swung toward her.

  “Not even the house.” She slowly enunciated every word.

  “Is that true?” I asked Master Makejoy, almost rising to my feet. I could hear Achilles and Patroclus barking as they ran down the alley and toward the back gate. Our back gate.

  Master Makejoy frowned at Hiske. “It is. I was going to get to that, but since Mistress Jabben has seen fit to raise it . . .” Disapproval tinged his tone as he swept the second piece of p
archment into his hand. “His lordship granted your father a life-interest in this house and its commercial premises. It was very generous. It included the servants, wages, food, and drink in return for Master Sheldrake’s services as master of the fleet, his connections with the Hanseatic League, and those he developed throughout the Low Countries and Germany.”

  I struggled to get my thoughts together. I tried to understand what it was Master Makejoy was saying. “In other words, Papa doesn’t own this house . . . he never has. Like everything else, it belongs to Lord Rainford.”

  “That’s correct.”

  An image of my father—his stern face, iron eyes, and unsmiling mouth—came into my head. I heard his stentorian tone as he questioned me over dinner in the hall about my day’s lessons, what the nuns had taught me. I’d always thought him hard, demanding, implacable, and, worse, cold. Later, I thought I knew why. But I couldn’t forgive him for his inflexibility, his lack of affection—not so much toward me or Tobias, but the twins . . . This new knowledge made me see him in a different light, as a man anxious about his prospects, his family; about his obligations. Tears welled as a sense of injustice and contrition rose.

  Pushing back my sorrow to examine it later, I looked from Master Makejoy to Hiske. “But, surely, now that Papa’s dead, Lord Rainford wouldn’t force us onto the street, would he? Not after everything my father has done for him? We have some time to make alternative arrangements?”

  “What your father has done?” snapped Hiske. “Child! Haven’t you been listening? He’s incurred a massive debt, one that would ruin a lesser man. Lord Rainford is simply staking his rightful claim; recouping his losses.”

  “His losses? How can you defend him? You live here too. Papa’s death affects you as well.” Indignation propelled me to my feet. I was gratified to see Hiske step back.

  “Ja, it does, Cousin Anneke. And you would do well to remember that.”