The Lady Brewer of London

by Karen Brooks

  After the cooled grain was poured into sacks, it was sent to the mill to be ground. The following day, it was returned—a coarse flour littered with chits and husks ready for the next stage.

  The milled grain was tipped into the mash tun and hot water added. As with the heat from the fire, if the water was too hot or not hot enough, the brew would be spoiled. Many brewsters destroyed their ale during this process—Mistress Margery Kempe from Bishop’s Lynn was as famous for her piety as she was for ruining brew after brew. It was hard to gauge the heat. It required experience and what Mother used to call “the touch.” Her trick was to allow the water to boil, cool it slightly, and then place her elbow just below the surface. If she could tolerate the conditions and, more importantly, the steam had dispersed enough so she could catch a glimpse of her face upon the now-still surface of the water, it was time to add the milled barley.

  Rolling up my sleeve, I did exactly as she’d always done. The water was hot but not boiling, and gazing back at me, as if about to emerge from the dark liquid, was my wide-eyed visage, tendrils of hair glued to my forehead and cheeks, as if I too were an ingredient. Mayhap I was. Using old drying sheets, Adam and Will hoisted the huge copper off the stove and slowly poured the contents into the mash tun, where the grain drank it thirstily. Grabbing the long-handled ladle, my mother’s mash paddle, I stood over the tun and worked clockwise then counterclockwise, moving around and blending the ingredients to prevent clumps of grist forming. Saskia took over when my arms grew tired. Following one of Mother’s recipes, I added cloves, some sweet gale, and bog myrtle to the mixture, sprinkling them onto the surface. Saskia stirred and I watched them whirl and settle and listened to the plashing of the liquid wort as it drained through the natural sieve of broken husks and grain into the copper underneath the tun.

  We now had the beginnings of our ale. Tomorrow, before dawn, when the house was still abed and I was certain no one could bear witness, I would perform the step I believed made my mother’s brew unique. A process no one, not Saskia, Father, or, God forbid, Hiske, knew about. It had been Mother’s secret and mine, one passed down through the de Winter women for generations. I would ensure it was kept that way, until I was ready to pass it on to Betje and my children, and she to hers.

  The thought of children of my own, let alone little Betje having any, gave me pause. Would my womb ever quicken? In order to have a child, I first had to find a husband, and that was unlikely to happen any time soon.

  Sending Will out to chop wood, Adam and I turned our attention to straining the last of the wort away from the mash. This would be done twice—the first time created a rich, full-tasting ale. The second, after we poured more water upon the mash, made a weaker small ale that would mostly be kept for the household to drink. Some brewers, including the friary, would not only add more water to their first press in order to create more volume, they would also do a second and even a third pass, producing a very thin drink, unfit, by most folk’s reckoning, for consumption. I refused to do this. I wanted to sell only my first, unless taste and demand said different, and let my reputation and fortune stand on that. Watching the honey-colored broth move through the remnants of the mash and splash into the huge copper pots that sat beneath the tun did much to elevate my spirits. We were so close.

  When Will returned, the wort-filled coppers were heaved onto the stove. It was this part that went a long way to making the ale my mother used to make different from everybody else’s. Few bothered to boil the wort—not the brewsters in Elmham Lenn nor the monks at the friary. It wasn’t economical or, many believed, necessary. Maybe not. But it did add flavor to the ale and, for some reason I didn’t understand, preserved it for longer as well. The trick was to bring it to the point where the wort roiled around the pot and then create a whirlpool with the special ladle. One hour was all that was needed. Using a marked candle, I ordered Will to light it as soon as I detected signs that the boiling point had been reached. Standing on a stool by the pot, I placed the ladle in and stirred, imagining, as I used to years ago, I was bringing the great whirlpool Charybdis, she who tried to confound the hero Odysseus, to life. Tiny ships filled with terrified sailors were tossed upon my waves . . . just like those on board the Cathaline . . .

  I withdrew the ladle in shock. How callous of me. My face burned with shame. I’d become lost in the joy of creation and wasn’t thinking, allowing the stories of old to sweep me into another world. Thank the good Lord Adam and Will seemed oblivious. I quickly replaced the paddle, my daydreaming tempered. After a while, the brewhouse walls ran with rivulets from the steam, and they seemed like tears of happiness.

  That night the boiled wort was left to cool in the troughs beneath the windows, which I left open. Sacks of grain sat by the door, the tun was gleaming, awaiting a new mash, and the malthouse floor was full of sprouting barley. Production could now begin in earnest. I tossed and turned, unable to rest despite fatigue so great it made my head throb. Anxious lest I’d lost my touch, failed both my mother’s instructions and her memory, I gave up trying to seek the oblivion of sleep and rose before the sun, throwing on some clothes and creeping downstairs, across the garden, and into the brewery.

  There were final steps to complete. One, an essential part of the process; the other, a de Winter tradition. The ale could not be drunk, let alone sold, without this arcane undertaking that made Mother’s ale distinctive and had folk returning for more. This made the “magic” of which Perkyn Miller and Captain Stoyan spoke, though they were ignorant of its origin.

  I shut the door. No one must know. No one could see. I couldn’t leave anything to chance.

  With a flaming candle resting atop an empty barrel, I examined the contents of the trough. The window above revealed the pre-dawn sky. Angry red streaks punctured the gray, promising a day of sorry weather. My breath misted as I studied the coat of soft white spume dressing the ale. The smell was overpowering. Images of rolling hills, days of sunshine, freshly turned earth, and baking bread filled my vision. My headache began to abate and a smile tugged the corners of my mouth. I could detect the wild notes of pine and winter. Shutting my eyes briefly, I also saw Mother’s sweet face. You will make it work, she whispered.

  Uncorking one of the jugs of beer Captain Stoyan had given me, I slowly tipped it into the wort, relishing the splash and gurgle as it tumbled from the spout into the trough. Until I’d been given this, I’d believed myself doomed to use the friary ale in order to add the vital ingredient, the godisgoode, the element all brewers needed, to my brew. Using the Low Countries beer, the “son of ale” as I’d heard it called, meant I not only brought some of my mother’s homeland to my recipe, but I avoided what I felt was contamination—the friary.

  Lowering my arm into the trough, I slipped through the flocculent, luscious froth. Transformed into a fleshy paddle, I divided the cool liquid, caressing it, murmuring, allowing the love I felt for my family, the hope I clung to for our future, to flow from me into the ale. I thought of the friends who supported this venture: Captain Stoyan; Masters Perkyn, Bondfield, and Proudfellow; not forgetting Adam, Saskia, Will, Blanche, Iris, Louisa, and, of course, the twins. Opaque, the now-golden water swirled as I carved a path through the creamy bubbles, back and forth, to and fro. Satisfied it parted so readily before my gentle intrusion, I began to sing, all the time my hand stroked the wort, calling the ale to life as Mother had taught me.

  When I’d finished, I removed my hand and brought it to my mouth and licked it slowly. The earthiness of malt struck the roof of my mouth, the subtle sweetness of the fluids lathed my tongue. I shut my eyes in pleasure. A wild nectar clung to my teeth while cloves raced down my throat, nestling warmly in my chest. I sucked my fingers one by one and was rewarded with the bitterness of the bog myrtle and even the faint tang of the captain’s beer. My head spun momentarily and the room expanded on itself before contracting, till there was only the beam of watery light passing through the window. Upon its shining span, I saw rows of tiny ligh
ts spinning toward me, toward the hand I held before my face. Lapping the last of the ale, reveling in the taste, the aroma, the effect, I wanted to giggle, dance, throw my arms out. I did all three, abandoning myself to the ale, to the magic created.

  Once more, Mother’s face manifested, laughing gaily, reaching for me—beyond me—with a look I hadn’t seen before. Her cheeks were now pale, her eyes dark with disbelief, fear, even. Who was she regarding in such a way?

  “Moeder,” I called quietly, slipping into her native tongue, seeking to distract her. She turned toward me, the anguish gone, and with a sweet smile, met my eyes.

  “The crones,” she murmured. “Remember the crones.” Her visage vanished and I was alone in the brewhouse as dawn broke over the county.

  With a sigh that spoke of loss and longing, I dried my hand. From what I tasted, the brew exceeded my expectations. But the process was not complete, and if we were to be ready to sell by Martinmas, I’d one more thing left to do.

  Reaching for the copper scoop that hung on a hook by the far wall, I dipped it into the trough. Collecting some wort, I went to each of the four corners of the brewhouse and tipped a portion onto the floor. Mother could be assured, I hadn’t forgotten the crones. An old Low Countries custom, I offered our ale to the corner crones who dwelled in the brewery and asked that they bless what I made. The last dregs I deposited on the threshold of the malthouse and then, bowing to each of the spirits in turn, I thanked them from the bottom of my very full heart.

  I’d just returned to the wort when Adam and Will entered, failing to notice the little wet patches in the corners or, as I imagined, the tiny old women, on hands and knees, lapping my offering up greedily.

  * * *

  And so our days passed—malting, mashing, and preparing the wort. Now that I had my own godisgoode to make the brew froth, foam, and ferment, I was able to pass the goodness on to each fresh batch. Every day, I would conduct my secret ceremony—singing the ale into life and respecting the generations of women past, the goddesses and crones who’d granted to womenkind the joy and responsibility of brewing. Gradually, we filled our barrels and even a hogshead of small ale, and the day to summon the ale-conners to taste and pass the brew for sale drew closer. The day that would test the veracity or otherwise of the abbot’s assurances to Captain Stoyan, and his to me.

  Thirteen

  Holcroft House

  Martinmas, Eleventh of November

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

  It was Martinmas, the day the last of the wheat and barley crops were planted. Livestock that couldn’t be maintained over winter were slaughtered and a huge hiring fair was held in town. Tonight, there would be much gaiety and celebration as a feast with fires, mummers, jugglers, minstrels, and dancing was held in the main square. In previous years, though we hadn’t been allowed to attend the dance (Hiske persuading Father that the strangers who poured into town at this time of year were not only dangerous, but posed a potential threat to our souls with their behavior), we’d enjoyed the fair and the festive foods, such as joints of beef, legs of mutton, and pottages full of bacon, wild onions, and herbs. Being conscious of spending this year, Blanche salted our beef and stored it away for winter, sold our mutton, and put goose on the menu for the evening instead.

  But I’d much more to keep me occupied than thoughts of fine fare, the dubious company of strangers, or dancing. Up well before dawn, by the time the bells marking prime tolled, I’d been in the brewhouse for over an hour, my ancient rites completed and the fires stoked. Moments after I’d finished, Adam and Will, brushing crumbs from their mouths, stumbled through the still-dark skies and hoary frost to join me.

  “We’re doing well, Mistress Anneke. Almost five barrels full.” Adam nodded toward where the ale was stored as he warmed his hands by the kiln.

  While I didn’t want to deflate his optimism, I also didn’t want to create false hope. “It certainly appears we’re doing well, but we won’t really know until this afternoon.”

  “That’s right,” said Will, striding over to join us, slapping the side of the first barrel on his way past. It made a dull sound. “Not until we taste the brew!” He sidled in beside Adam, letting the heat strike his back. “Well, not until the ale-conners do.”

  We all regarded each other solemnly. Blanche always said the proof was in the tasting. So it would be with the ale. Confident that what I’d tried each morning was good, something the others had confirmed when they’d had a sip, I didn’t want to say too much lest we’d grossly misjudged. After all, some of the brew had been fermenting in the barrels for well over a week now, and a great deal could go awry that had nothing to do with the ale-conners, bribes, or the abbot.

  Though the day passed much like the others, this one carried the weight of expectation. It hovered over our activities and conversations like a threatening storm cloud. Today marked the threshold moment when our future as commercial brewers would be decided—not by our customers, not at first, but by the official town tasters, the supposedly impartial ale-conners. Required by law to test every fresh brew for sale, to assess the quality, check our measures, and set the price, nothing could be sold until the elected men approved it. Just as they could allow sales to proceed, they could equally order a brewer to tip the entire barrel into the earth and then fine them heavily for the privilege. According to gossip in the marketplace and generously passed on by those who knew what we were doing, including Betrix, that had been happening more than usual of late. Inspired by my efforts, women who’d previously lost brews or been fined because of the friary’s intervention were making fresh ones. Whether they were too hasty in going to sale, didn’t allow the ale to ferment long enough, or because the abbot still had his way, their efforts had been for naught.

  Yet again, Mistress Amwell and Mistress Scot lost brews to the soil and received unusually hefty fines, Mistress Scot enduring a dunking for her efforts, making their continuance as independents in the trade all but impossible. They would now become hucksters, selling on ale from the friary like others before them. Two of the taverns in town and even more of the inns had been prevented from selling their own ale and forced to buy from the friary because what they produced didn’t meet the ale-conners fickle standards. There was much discontent in town and murmurings about money changing hands, but no proof. Master Perkyn’s warnings played on my mind. Whatever bribe the abbot offered, shouldn’t quality speak for itself? All these other brewers failing—women and men—was more than a coincidence, surely? Captain Stoyan may have warned the abbot away from me, but were his words heeded? Would I be the exception to the brewing rule? Or had I made things worse for others by being so insistent I could do this?

  “Is the ale-wand out, Will?” I asked finally when, by midday, there was still no sign of the ale-conners. The ale-wand or ale-stake was what announced a brew was ready to taste. Not that it was required—not the way rumor spread in Elmham Lenn. It was highly likely the conners would have known my brew was mature before I did. From what I’d heard, these men had an uncanny knack of arriving at a prospective brewer’s house or inn before they’d even been summoned.

  Though not, it appeared, today.

  “Aye, mistress. I put it out first thing this morning. You’d have to be blind or drunk not to see it—or both. What with it being the fair, and all the people in town and us on a main road and all.” Will frowned and craned his neck to peer out the window. “I would have thought they’d be here by now.”

  I followed the direction of his gaze. Long shadows crossed the courtyard; with winter almost upon us, the days grew shorter. A light rain struck the window. The ashen skies of the morning darkened until great bruised clouds sagged overhead. There was a mighty storm waiting to break.

  “Me too,” I said. “Perhaps they’re busy with their other duties?”

  “Mayhap,” said Adam gruffly. “But I think a message is being sent and it might be one to which we’re yet forced to listen
. Captain Stoyan and Master Perkyn were right to be concerned about the friary. No one is able to go into competition with them—not anymore, the abbot won’t allow it. Captain Stoyan may believe he’s forced the abbot’s hand, but he also told us he’s cunning, and what’s more cunning than the ale-conners failing to show? How can the abbot be held accountable for that?”

  I paused over the mash tun, leaning against the stirrer, looking at Adam in horror. “Sweet Jesù, Adam. I fear you may be right.” Wiping the back of my hand across my brow, I searched for reassurance. “Surely the conners wouldn’t break their oath? It’s not to be taken lightly. I’ve read it myself: ‘So soon as you shall be required to taste any ale of a brewer or brewster, shall be ready to do the same . . .’” I released a huge sigh. “They’re failing in their duties if they don’t appear when summoned and can be charged.”

  All I wanted, all I needed, was a chance, but if the ale-conners didn’t come, all our work would be for naught. My spirits began to flag, my shoulders drooped. I looked at the hogshead towering over its smaller wooden brethren. Orders from our neighbors had already arrived, and I was keen to sell what we didn’t need; anything to make rent. But nothing could happen until officialdom gave permission.

  “Come on,” I said finally, leaving the paddle in the mash. “I can’t stand around waiting. I’ve ale to sell. Let’s move those barrels into the shop. If the ale-conners haven’t come by the time we’ve shifted them, then Will, you go and fetch them.”

  Throwing some more coal into the kiln and stove, Adam brushed his hands against his jerkin and, with a nod to Will, cleared a space to roll the first of the barrels out.