The Lady Brewer of London

by Karen Brooks

  “But what if he’s in town or at court, mistress?”

  The thought had occurred to me. The king had retreated to Hereford after his efforts to subdue the Welsh failed, so chances were Lord Rainford would be by his side. Regardless, I had to try. “I’m praying it’s not so but, if he’s not in residence, return and I will find another way to reach him.”

  Will’s eyes widened and his chest puffed at being trusted with such an important task. “You can count on me.” He turned and almost ran from the room.

  From the office, I heard his boots echo across the hall. I smiled wistfully. “I am, Will Heymonger. I’m counting on you and a man all my instincts tell me not to.”

  Five

  Scales Hall

  The following day

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

  Early the next morning, I set out for Scales Hall. Lord Rainford’s reply had been swift and precise:

  His Right, Worshipful, Lord Rainford, will meet with Mistress Anneke Sheldrake on the morrow, no later than sext. May the blessed Trinity keep you.

  Hiske’s response to my request for an audience with Lord Rainford was mocking, her confidence that my plans would fail unshakable, but that only reinforced my determination.

  The Rainford estate lay just over two hours away, toward Norwich. Ensuring we had plenty of time, we left just after the bells for tierce sounded. Dressed in my new kirtle and black tunic, with a clean woolen cloak, gloves, and my long hair tied neatly at the nape, a modest scarf wrapped around my head to prevent the wind making my locks too disheveled, I perched beside Adam on the cart and waved farewell to the twins, Saskia, Blanche, Iris, and Louisa, trying not to laugh as Will restrained the hounds, who barked their indignation that they weren’t accompanying us, almost pulling him off his feet. Of Hiske and Doreen there was no sign.

  The gray, storm-tossed days that had dominated the past month had finally surrendered. The sea, for weeks a churning mass that would have made Aeneas balk, was a sparkling viridian platter, dotted with fishing vessels and, beyond the heads, the occasional cog and caravel, their sails brighter than angels’ wings. Trade had resumed. Crisp and cool, it was a glorious autumn day. The sky arced above us in a never-ending palette of blues and dusty white clouds. Gulls winged overhead, their cheeky caws echoing as they swooped toward the waters.

  Exiting through the city gates, we crossed the bridge where the Gayfleet flowed into the sea, turning our backs on the coast and following the river. Adam began to whistle. As far as memory stretched, there was Adam. A mellow soul, I’d known him since I was a babe. It was Adam who, when I should have been in the nursery, would take me with him to visit the tenants, walking through the woods, pointing out not just the names and properties of various plants, but the real nature of the sea-blown trees in which, he would whisper, dwelt beautiful dryads. He would hoist me onto his shoulders as we trekked along the river so my boots wouldn’t muddy. There he would tell of the wild naiads who swam in the watery depths and had weed and moss for hair, and dulcet voices that could lure men and women to their deaths with silvery singsong promises.

  It was Adam who, after Mother died, brought home Achilles and Patroclus, determined a ray of joy would pierce the pall of sadness hanging over our lives.

  In many ways, he came to replace Father, who was absent so often, and whose name in the years after Tobias’s birth instilled a fear that had the power to command obedience from my brother and me. There was no doubt that whenever Father returned after being away for months at sea, the mood of the house changed. It was as if the very fabric of the building altered—the wood, stone, and rushes darkened, retreated into themselves, much as the servants did. There was no talking at meals, no walks with Adam, no bedtime stories or reading by the fire during the day. The servants were banished from the hall, my brother to the nursery and me to the nuns for lessons, and Mother would withdraw either to the solar to read or to the brewhouse to make ale.

  One week after Tobias’s seventh birthday, Father sent him away. Instead of being assigned as one of Father’s apprentices, destined for a merchant’s life and the sea, he was squired to Lord Rainford’s youngest son, Leander Rainford. We’d barely time to register that Tobias was leaving, let alone to say goodbye, when he was gone. Images of Tobias’s brave little face as he mounted the horse in front of a strange man dressed in the Rainford livery haunted my every waking moment. Mother tried to ease my sorrow by reassuring me that becoming the squire of someone as important as the son of Lord Rainford was an honor, that our family was viewed as favored and fortunate by the townsfolk. I didn’t care. Not when all the Rainford name conjured was the bereft face of my mother as she stood in the yard, touching Tobias as if to imprint him on her memory. The indifferent visage of my father, who offered no final word of advice or farewell, but spun on his heel and returned to business before Tobias had even left the yard, remained with me.

  I missed Tobias so much at first. After a while, however, I barely remembered what it was like to have him about. His letters were few and news of his progress scarce. He was alive, well, and, if he served the Rainfords valiantly and became adept at the longbow he now used and attended to his other lessons, on the brink of opportunity. According to Father, that was all that mattered. He rarely spoke Tobias’s name again.

  The distant strains of monks chanting ended my reverie. The Gayfleet widened at this point and laden barges appeared upon its swift-flowing surface, both going to and coming from Norwich. Trees lined the banks, and through their spindly branches I was able to see the Friary of St. Jude. Above the high stone walls the twin spires of the church rose, and I could spy the thatched roof of the huge buildings in which the Benedictine monks lived, and the topmost boughs of their orchard.

  It took us a good while to ride past the friary, so large were the grounds, like a miniature city itself with merchants, farmers, knights, travelers, and pilgrims arriving by river, road, and foot.

  We rode for another hour, until finally the walls of the Rainford manor house came into view, and the small town that had grown up before it. Smoke curled from chimneys, the local bakers’ ovens roared, and a malty smell filled the air, reminding me of not just freshly baked bread but of the hours Mother and I spent in the brewhouse making ale. The smell was almost the same—it had that rich, loamy quality that made me think of Yuletide, sunshine, Blanche’s apron, and Adam’s laughter all at once.

  That ended when Mother died. The moment Cousin Hiske crossed our threshold, she stopped me making ale, declaring it to be the work of a sloven, not the daughter of a high-ranked merchant. I’d argued, of course I had, but as with all the other debates I fruitlessly entered into with Hiske, I lost that one as well. When Father returned home after one of his voyages, I complained, but he upheld Hiske’s order, as he did any new rules my mother’s cousin introduced. After that, like most of the townsfolk, we purchased our ale from the friary. Occasionally, if the monks were slow to deliver or the road to the friary impassable, we’d buy from one of the brewsters in town. None of it ever tasted as good as Mother’s ale.

  The gates to the manor house were open and we entered slowly, Shelby’s hooves crunching across the gravel that covered the large open space between the outer walls and the entrance to the house. I’d been here once before, when I was much younger, but there was little I recalled. More like a castle than a house, it rose three stories and had turrets at the north and south ends, a battlement with crenellations and arrow loops joining them. Liveried servants ran forward to take Shelby’s head.

  The massive front door stood open and a tall, smoke-haired man with a fine dark tunic, bright hose, and pointed shoes stepped forward. Helped from the cart by one of the younger men, I waited as the older one descended the steps. Behind me, Adam was given directions for the cart and invited to dine in the servant’s hall. Glancing over my shoulder, I gave him a reassuring smile. He nodded slowly, his eyes reminding me he was only a short distance away sho
uld I need him.

  “God bid you welcome. Are you Mistress Anneke Sheldrake?” said the older man with a bow.

  “I am.”

  “I’m Evan Underwood, his lordship’s seneschal. If you would follow me, Mistress Sheldrake, his lordship attends you in the solar.” Without waiting for a reply, Master Underwood turned and strode into the house.

  Taking a deep breath, I followed, trying not to let the grand facade with its gray stone blocks, towering chimneys, long mullioned windows, and knotted wooden doors intimidate me the way they must surely have done when I was a child. Nonetheless, my heart was racing as I stepped inside the imposing entrance.

  Master Underwood waited for me at the base of a large staircase and I fell into step behind him as we ascended. The air grew warmer as we climbed, and the scent of lemon and honey enveloped us.

  The door to the solar was open and Master Underwood announced my presence as he stepped aside and, with a half-bow and sweep of his arm, invited me to enter.

  I gulped, my throat dry. I walked into the solar.

  * * *

  Two things struck me. The first was how big the room was compared to our humble solar at home, and how richly yet tastefully decorated. There were rugs on the walls and wooden floors, and chests and cabinets displayed objects both familiar and strange—ornate boxes, jeweled bowls, shining handled daggers in decorated sheaths, as well as instruments better suited to a ship or guild master’s office. I recognized a brass astrolabe. Servants stood around the room, awaiting their master’s whim. In the center, facing the windows, were three huge chairs and two beautifully carved stools. From the largest chair rose Lord Rainford.

  Tall and lean, he had a head of thick, dark brown hair streaked with silver. As I drew closer, he made no attempt to hide his attention and I felt my face burn. I raised my chin and, while I knew I should have lowered it modestly, decided to offer his person the same sort of examination. His doublet was a deep blue with a high white collar and was inlaid with pearls. His legs were encased in vermilion hose and his boots were of soft brown leather. Altogether, he gave the appearance of wealth and artlessness, but I knew the trouble, let alone expense, that would have gone into his ensemble.

  As I studied his lordship’s face, a second realization occurred. If ever I’d held any doubts about what my mother had told me the night she died, they were instantly dismissed. In Lord Rainford’s dark gray eyes, high cheekbones, and prominent nose, I saw my brother forty years hence. Even in the way his hair grew from his forehead. Anger flooded my body as I thought how this man had so callously discarded our family—especially now I knew for certain that the connection between us was more intimate and complicated than business alone.

  Standing before him, I curtsied, making sure I showed due respect. Apart from the servants, we were alone. Unconventional, but then, my chaperone was in the kitchens and Lord Rainford either didn’t think to supply one or thought it unnecessary. I knew he was a widower, the third Lady Rainford having died, like my mother, in childbirth. Provided with three sons from his previous two wives, his succession was assured.

  Taking my hand as I straightened, his eyes narrowed. “Mistress Sheldrake. I must say, apart from the hair, you’re very like your mother. You have her eyes . . .”

  I drew my breath in sharply and resisted the urge to touch my face. “Many who knew her make a similar observation, your lordship.”

  Releasing my hand, he grunted and indicated I should take the chair next to his. He waved a footman over and offered me a goblet of wine. I thought to refuse, simply because I wanted a clear head, but knew it might be construed badly, so took it reluctantly.

  His lordship gestured, his many rings catching the light. “It’s watered.”

  I took a sip. It was sweet, soothing on my throat. I felt his lordship’s eyes upon me again.

  “I confess, Mistress Sheldrake, that your letter aroused my curiosity, something that has not been stirred for a very long time.” A finger stroked the rim of his wine cup absentmindedly. “But before we get to the reason for your visit, let me offer you my sincere condolences for your loss. Your father was a hardworking man and it will be very difficult to replace him.”

  The lack of compassion in his tone took me aback, but I remembered my manners. “Thank you,” I said, feeling tears prick the back of my eyes. They came from a place of injustice, not grief, and I worked hard not to let them fall. How dare this man acknowledge my father’s value yet be so swift to leave us destitute?

  “You said in your missive that you wished to discuss a business proposition with me,” said his lordship. “I’m trusting your note wasn’t simply a ruse to get in the door and throw yourself on my tender mercies. Because that will not work with me, Mistress Sheldrake. Others have tried and they always fail.”

  I drew in my breath. This man did not waste time. Neither would I. “I’ve not come here under false pretenses, your lordship. Master Makejoy has made clear the nature of your business relationship with my father.” My tone was cold, distant. I’d the distinct feeling that if I showed my emotions, my proposition would be rejected outright. “I wish to talk to you about Holcroft House and its lands, which, I understand, along with his—I mean your—ships, Papa leased as part of your agreement.” I reached over and set down the heavy goblet. I needed my wits about me.

  “He did. It’s a long-standing arrangement, Mistress Sheldrake, one that goes back over sixteen years. It protected me and ensured that your family was comfortable and your father’s . . . compliance. Since he is now dead, I no longer need to assure myself of that, do I?”

  I drew my breath in sharply. Compliance? So much for suppressing my agitation.

  “But I do need to acquit the losses your father’s”—he searched for the right word—“recklessness has caused. I cannot afford to be charitable. Business is business, and one cannot manage estates the extent of mine, nor fulfill obligations to king and country, if we allow the passing of a worker, even a valued one, to impact upon processes. Your father agreed to these terms. I’m simply abiding by them as well. Do you understand?”

  “I wouldn’t be my father’s daughter if I didn’t,” I lied. I wanted to clench my fists, protest, use the heat of my fury to melt his coldness. I forced my breathing into a slow rhythm.

  “Good. We understand each other then.” He drained his cup and indicated the footman should refill it. I wasn’t offered any more and understood I’d but a short time left to present my suit. He waved his hand, prompting me to continue.

  “My proposition is very simple, your lordship. What I ask is that you lease Holcroft House to me.”

  Lord Rainford slowly took the goblet away from his mouth. “I beg your pardon?” Laughter infused his tone.

  “I ask, my lord, that you lease the home you leased to my father, Holcroft House, to me.”

  Lord Rainford held out his goblet for the footman to take. “I thought that’s what you said.” He shook his head. “You certainly have my attention now.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, resting his elbow on its wooden arm and holding his chin between thumb and fingers. “It’s not common practice to lease to a woman, certainly not an unmarried one; someone so untutored in life, in business.” In any other context, his look would be an insult. That his words rang with truth did not salve my feelings. “Pray, how do you intend to meet the obligations that come with such a lease? It does not come cheaply.”

  “Of that I am aware. Along with my steward, Adam Barfoot, I’ve studied the ledgers and I believe that, given time, I can meet the costs—at least, I would like the opportunity to attempt to do so.”

  “Ah.” Lord Rainford nodded. “There it is.”

  “Your lordship?”

  “The flaw in your proposal.” He released his chin. “You’re simply clutching at straws and have found one with ‘time’ etched onto its stalk. You piqued my interest, Mistress Sheldrake—for a moment. As it is, you’re the same as any number of the villeins and laborers who
come to see me. What you really want is a loan. After all, time costs money but since you have none, it’s me who will be bearing the expense of your suggestion. It’s me who will be paying for this time you’re requesting.”

  “That’s true, my lord. But what if I said to you that I’m not asking for it for nothing. I intend to buy this time from you.” Lord Rainford opened his mouth, but I continued. “I know I’ve no funds with which to pay you now, but given the chance, I’ll not only repay in full, but with interest.”

  “You think I’ve not had these kinds of promises made to me before?” He took another drink and deposited his goblet heavily on the table. “How do you intend to do that?” His voice was flat, disinterested.

  I took a deep breath. “By starting a business myself.”

  That he did not laugh in my face went some way to mollifying my anger. “Really? What sort?” There was something in his tone that made me color again.

  “I intend to brew ale, my lord.”

  Lord Rainford studied me in silence. I endured his scrutiny, refusing to look away. So much depended on him believing me capable.

  “I’ve been told by a reliable source that your future was assured, that you and your younger brother and sister were to be taken care of,” he said quietly. “That leaving the house would not be a hardship.”

  An unasked question answered.

  I dipped my chin. “In one sense, this is true. Mistress Jabben and Master Makejoy have offered me a position in their household after they wed. Me and my siblings.”

  Lord Rainford reclined further. “And you don’t wish to avail yourself of this generous”—his mouth twitched—“offer?”

  “Not unless I’m left with no choice.”

  He uncrossed his legs. I noticed the elegant buckles that decorated his boots. “I see. And that, I assume, now depends on me.”

  I inclined my head.