by Karen Brooks
Hiske had thrown back her head, opened her lipless mouth, and laughed. Cowering, my hair gripped in one hand, I’d waited for her to finish.
“The Virgin? You stupid child! The Virgin’s hair is as untainted as yours is stained by sin. Hers is golden, like the twins’, like your silly mother’s. Nee, Cathaline meant the whore Mary. The one who was to be stoned.” Hiske dried her eyes and then appraised me. She pulled her eating knife from the folds of her tunic and came toward me. “Your hair is nothing but a reminder of women’s wanton ways. It needs to come off. It’s shameful.”
I cried out, and the sound drew my father from his study and up the stairs. Thank the Lord, it was one of the few times he’d been home. By then, the servants had gathered too. Hiske explained her intention, confident she would have Father’s support. I began to weep. God forgive my conceitedness, I imagined strands of hair falling around my ankles and the mortification of facing the townsfolk.
Father folded his arms across his chest and regarded me. As the seconds passed in silence, I raised my tear-stained face. His expression was one I’d not seen before. Even trying to recall it now, it was inscrutable. Not quite distaste, not quite sorrow.
“Put your knife away,” he said to Hiske, then spun on his heel and went back to his office.
Four days later, as he departed on another voyage, he gave me a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. “Be good for your cousin,” he ordered and, after bestowing his blessing, rested his hand against my hair a fraction longer, pulling a stray tendril with his fingers. As soon as I was aware of it, the gesture ceased and I wondered if I’d imagined it.
Cousin Hiske had been particularly vindictive after he left, so I knew I had not.
Reaching down to my hips, my hair was an unruly curtain. I pulled the comb through it, the drying sheet falling from my shoulders and onto the bed. For just a moment, cursed by the self-admiration Hiske perceived, I felt like a goddess, one of Adam’s dryads or a naiad. My breasts burst through my hair, the nipples taut from the cold air that turned my flesh into that of a goose. I ignored the drafts, staring at my pale legs and thighs, at the coiled, coarser hair at their juncture—a sinner’s body, Hiske had said, warning me to disguise it. “No good will ever come of possessing a body like that,” she’d say.
Putting down the comb, I wondered if she was right. Mother had the same physical shape, and look where that had led. Beautiful, the object of men’s desires, she’d made a good marriage and then destroyed it by succumbing to lust. Pleasure and happiness—my mother had, for the last years of her life, been denied both. Nothing could convince me that Father had enjoyed much of either, not for a long, long time. Had Mother ever loved Father? What about Lord Rainford? I couldn’t imagine anyone loving him—not even Mother. So what had driven her into his bed?
Was I to ever know love? Oh, I’d had fancies, Betrix and I had shared many a girlish daydream, and I knew some of the young men in town (and older ones) looked at me with more than passing interest, but that wasn’t love. Nor was it likely to lead to offers of wedlock. As Hiske and Master Makejoy said, not only was I more than old enough to enter a first marriage, I’d no prospects. Did that include being loved? While I understood that love and marriage didn’t necessarily follow, I harbored hope. Or was I to be denied that too?
With a long sigh at how melancholy my thoughts had become, I roused and dressed quickly, tying back my hair. I didn’t have time to feel sorry for myself. I’d work to do, people dependent upon me and the fulfillment of my plans. Forcing a smile to my lips, I went to the nursery to see how Louisa was faring, before finally, with the twins in tow, making my way downstairs for supper.
* * *
Three days later, with the brewhouse almost ready, Adam and I went to see the local miller, a jolly-faced fellow called Perkyn Miller. I’d known Master Perkyn for as long as I remembered. His wife had died of fever a few years earlier, leaving him to raise their daughter, Olive, on his own. Olive was a gentle, perpetually happy soul who, though she possessed the body of a grown woman, had a mind trapped forever in the nursery.
On our arrival, Olive, who was very tall and well-rounded, with pale blue eyes and honey-colored hair that was never combed or dressed, bolted out of the mill, three little spaniels cavorting at her heels. Flinging her arms around me, she planted a wet kiss on my cheek, before doing the same to Adam. The dogs leaped upon us, refusing to calm until they received attention.
“My Lady Anneke, Master Adam!” Olive’s sweet face was shining. “It’s been a long, long time since you’ve visited Olive.” She looped her arms through ours and dragged us forward. “Papa! Look who Olive found! My Lady Anneke and Master Adam.”
Accustomed to Olive and her ways, we smiled at Master Perkyn as he appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands on a towel. “Olive, I’ve told you, you need to be saying Mistress Sheldrake—”
“It’s all right, Master Perkyn, really,” I assured him. Ever since Olive’s mother had told her a story about a dragon and a princess with long auburn hair, Olive had decided I was the heroine in a fairy tale. I didn’t mind. Olive had nicknames for most of the townsfolk—some less generous than others. She referred to Cousin Hiske as “the chicken neck”; there was nothing we could do to deter her either.
Drawing us inside, Master Perkyn poured some small ale and invited us to sit.
Olive latched herself to my side, her head on my shoulder.
“I just want to say, Mistress Sheldrake, I’m very sorry for your loss,” began Master Perkyn, staring at me earnestly. “Your father was a man who . . . who wasn’t inclined to go the ways of others. He trod his own path.” He looked down at his drink, searching for more to say. Honesty prevailed and he gave me a small, sympathetic smile instead.
“Thank you,” I said.
“My mother died once,” said Olive sadly.
“I know,” I replied softly. “Mine too.”
“We heard what your cousin did,” said Master Perkyn. “Shameful, that was.”
My eyebrows rose.
Master Perkyn cleared his throat. “Excuse me liberties, Mistress Sheldrake, but the whole town knows. Not much escapes notice, as you can imagine and, with Mistress Jabben being a foreigner and marrying that Master Makejoy, well, it was the talk for many a day. As was you not calling the sheriff. There was a few wished you had and then some.” He took a gulp of his ale. “Let’s just say, I don’t think she should show her face around here for a while.”
Olive started making little clucking noises and bobbing her head. I had to repress a smile.
“It hadn’t occurred to me others would know . . .” I appealed to Adam. I didn’t really want to discuss it; Hiske’s actions still upset me.
Sitting up straight, Adam cleared his throat. “Look, Perkyn, the reason we’re here is that Mistress Sheldrake’s reopening the brewhouse at Holcroft House, only this time with the intention to make larger quantities of ale for sale in town. I’ve spoken to Master Bondfield, and he’s able to give us a regular supply of barley, but we also need someone to grind the grain once it’s malted and dried. Do you think you can help?”
I had to force my hands to remain still.
Perkyn Miller lowered his beaker to the crude table. “Do the monks out St. Jude’s know ’bout your plans?”
I shook my head. “Apart from a few people in town, no one does—” I saw the look on Master Perkyn’s face and remembered Hiske. “Oh . . . which is the same as saying everyone.”
Master Perkyn gave a sympathetic half-smile and nodded. “’Fraid so, Mistress Sheldrake. Even me. But I just wonder how the monks will feel ’bout it considering they’ve practically tied up the business in Elmham Lenn and, if rumors be true, Bishop’s Lynn, Cromer, and beyond. They’re not inclined to welcome competition.”
“Competition? As much as I would like to be, I’m hardly that. If they sell their ale so widely, why would they worry about a small business like mine?”
Master Perkyn exchanged a concerned look with
Adam. “You don’t know much ’bout the abbot, do you?”
“Abbot Hubbard?” I took a sip of the ale. Master Perkyn made his own. Though it was a small ale, from a second press, it was still rich, foamy, and quite dark. “Not really. Just . . . rumors . . .”
“You don’t want to get on the wrong side of him, mistress,” said Master Perkyn.
“I’ve no plans in that direction, Master Perkyn, but thank you for your concern. I don’t think he’ll even notice I’m trading.”
“Oh, he’ll notice, all right.” He studied me. “He has eyes and ears everywhere. Just when you think you’ve got away with something, one of his brothers will be around to lecture you and ask for coin in penance. And that’s for a minor sin. Not sure how he’ll take to you brewing. He barely tolerates the goodwives producing for their families and neighbors. Why, only a month back, old Peckman and his missus who live out near the east gate—you know them, don’t you? Well, their little brewhouse was burned to the ground—and when we had all those rains. Then there was Goodwife Doyle and the incident with the ale-conners.”
I looked at Adam, who shrugged.
“I don’t think Mistress Sheldrake needs to hear all this.”
Shaking his head, Master Perkyn stared at Adam, then me, and then into his beaker. “Mayhap you’re right. But mayhap she does as well. Needs to know who she’s up against by starting trade. He might be God’s man, but that abbot’s slimier than a Gayfleet eel. Has his ways, and I don’t think they always accord with what the good Lord would do, if you know what I mean . . .” He touched the side of his nose and glanced over his shoulder.
“I’m afraid I don’t.” I followed the direction of his gaze. All I could see was the great wheel of the mill turning against the sky.
Master Perkyn leaned closer. “And hopefully, you never will.” He pushed himself away from the table. “Can I ask why you’re doing this, Mistress Sheldrake?” His voice was gentle. Olive tightened her hold on my arm.
“Because I’ve no choice, Master Perkyn. Not if I want my family to stay together.” I reached over and patted Adam’s hand, which was resting on the tabletop.
Master Perkyn noted my gesture and his eyes traveled to Olive. “Aye, well, there’s no better reason, is there. I’d be happy to help. As it happens, Abbot Hubbard no longer uses my services or Bondfield’s—now, he’ll be glad you went a-calling. For a few years now the friary has been growing its own barley and milling it on site, so it’s no longer any of the abbot’s business who we supply or grind for, despite what he might think.”
Adam looked at him in surprise. “He makes it his business to know who the farmers and millers supply as well?”
“Oh, aye. I told you. He knows everything. The friary has a pretty enterprise going with the ale. Turns a tidy profit, despite the fact it tastes like laundress’s piss.”
Olive burst into peals of laughter and snorted. I stifled a giggle and felt my cheeks color, but not as much as Master Perkyn’s. He stared at me in horror.
“Oh, Mistress Sheldrake,” he said, climbing to his feet and bowing. “Forgive my crude ways, my fast tongue. I wasn’t thinking. I don’t see many ladies and . . .” He began to mumble.
“Please, Master Perkyn, sit down. All is forgiven.” I waved him back to his stool.
Adam frowned at the abashed miller as the poor man slowly retook his seat. “Olive, that’s enough,” her father said sharply. Olive stopped laughing and, snuggling into my side, shoved her thumb in her mouth.
“What were you saying?” I asked.
Master Perkyn brightened. “Oh, aye, well, not only does the abbot know who’s supplying who and with what grain, it’s rumored he’s put the ale-conners on a wage so they turn a blind eye when it comes to tasting the quality of the brew. I mean, how else can that filthy pond water be explained?” Master Perkyn lowered his voice, forcing Adam and me to lean toward him to hear. “It’s said he’s paying ’em, the ale-conners that is, to claim the brewsters in town’s ale isn’t to standard. Forcing everyone, from Proudfellow to the other innkeepers and even the hucksters in the market, to buy their ale from the friary. When they told Goodwife Doyle her ale wasn’t fit to sell, she made a scene and said she’d go to the sheriff, further if necessary. The next day, the brothers came to talk her out of it. They couldn’t. The day after, she found her cat—he’d his neck broken. The next time she sold a brew, her horse was nobbled.” He paused long enough to let his words sink in. “We all know who did it.”
“That’s a serious accusation, Perkyn,” said Adam.
“Aye, it is. But I only tell you to warn you. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of the abbot. Goody Doyle understood. She withdrew her complaint. Ask Mistress Amwell if you don’t believe me; Mistress Scot too. They’ve all but stopped producing and won’t think of selling to the taverns or inns again, not since the brothers or their hired hands visited them.”
Master Perkyn grunted and folded his arms across his chest. “The first thing his grace will do when he finds out you’re intending to sell is get in the ears of the ale-conners and force ’em to say your brew’s soured or make you destroy it like he did those women. If that don’t work, mayhap he’ll have ’em fine you for your measures, even if they’re exact. Or he might appeal to a guild. If that fails, then he’ll do whatever it takes. He doesn’t like being thwarted and especially by a woman.”
My heart sank. This was an obstacle I hadn’t thought to reckon with.
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Master Perkyn became thoughtful. “It’s a pity you don’t have someone to vouch for you, someone the ale-conners and guild, never mind the abbot, would be concerned about crossing . . .”
Master Perkyn was right. If there was someone I could ask to help, someone with status . . . Then it occurred to me. Of course. There was someone, someone from an organization who wielded such great influence that I knew the abbot didn’t have the power to touch him.
While Adam and Master Perkyn discussed the quantities of barley we’d need and debated prices, some of which would be paid in ale (if it passed the ale-conners’ standards), I thought about how I’d approach Captain Stoyan. I’d had a brief note from him in response to mine telling him of Father’s death. Short, but no less warm for its brevity, he’d written that if I needed anything to let him know.
These sorts of platitudes were often uttered in times of tragedy, I was sensible enough to know that. But Hatto Stoyan was different. And I would test his statement at first light tomorrow.
From Master Perkyn’s warnings, if I was to have even a chance of succeeding, I needed all the friends I could muster.
Nine
Elmham Lenn and Holcroft House
The following day
The year of Our Lord 1405 in the sixth year of the reign of Henry IV
Adam and I stayed in earnest discussion well into the evening, locked away in the office. Master Perkyn’s words had affected us both deeply. While they made Adam want to dissuade me from proceeding, they had the opposite effect upon me. If anything, they strengthened my resolve. Perhaps it was foolish, but the injustices Master Perkyn described fired me. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I thought I could change everything, that if I defied the abbot and sold my ale, then others, like Mistress Amwell, would be able to as well.
Mollifying Adam’s worries about my stubborn refusal to relinquish my plans by agreeing to be chaperoned when I went to the Hanse was no hardship, and Will was delighted to escape his usual tasks.
The next morning, Adam harnessed Shelby to the cart, so instead of walking through town and along the estuary to the bay, Will and I rode, joining other folk on their way to market and going about their daily business.
The mornings were getting colder, tacit reminders of the winter fast approaching. Though the sun was climbing over the horizon, it battled its way through a thick mist, beams of tepid light striking the damp road and gently melting the frost. Grateful for my fur-lined coat and woolen gloves, I nonetheless
enjoyed the crispness of the air and noted how it turned Will’s cheeks and the end of his nose bright pink. I imagined mine looked the same.
Merchants and market vendors doffed their caps to me as we passed. Those who’d also lost loved ones aboard the Cathaline met my eyes sadly. It was distressing to see the depth of anguish among the townsfolk, the constant reminders of loss. Melancholy, I stared out to sea, surprised I felt no resentment, no anger toward the element that had claimed so many.
Both the bay and the river were filled with traffic. Now the storms had called a truce, ships that had been confined to the North and Baltic Seas were able to make their way into port and unload men and cargoes before reloading and returning to the Cinque Ports, Calais, Germany, and Flanders. The Wash was crammed with galleys and barges navigating the inland waterways. Even at this time of the morning, the air rang with shouts, whistles, and the hum of activity. A few ships were in dry dock, held tightly in wooden scaffolding so their hulls could be caulked. The smells of tar and pitch joined those of fish, smoke, spices, and cooking, all mingling with the ever-present tang of the sea and the musty odor of old seagull nests.
Leaving Will and the cart at the end of the track before it surrendered to the pier, I gave him coin so he could purchase some breakfast from one of the vendors that catered to sailors and shipwrights.
My step quickened as I passed warehouses filled with salt, wool, silks, yarns, tin, and other produce. Up ahead, a familiar figure stepped onto the dock. Captain Hatto Stoyan stood outside the Kontor, arms folded, legs apart, as if he was riding a canting deck, and watched me approach. Short and stout with the broadest of shoulders, he had an unruly thatch of graying chestnut hair, a neat, trimmed beard, and the face of a man who’d spent most of his life squinting into the sun. Lines crisscrossed his darkened skin, which only threw the clarity of his pale blue eyes into stark relief. They were the kind of eyes dishonest men could not hold for long.
