by Karen Brooks
All eyes were upon it.
“We’ve chosen not to pursue their bad faith through the sheriff or the courts. Instead, we wish to improve what we make. For that reason, we wish to buy your recipes. The ones you use to make this ale and any others besides.”
I sat up. Whatever offer I’d been expecting them to make, it certainly wasn’t this.
“My recipes?”
“Come now, Mistress Sheldrake, don’t be coy. We know you follow a recipe or a number of them.” Brother Osbert gave me the sort of smile you might give a contrary child. “There are quite a few people who can attest to this.”
“You misunderstand, brother. I do not seek to hide the fact I follow recipes, from the Low Countries, no less; I’m just surprised you would wish to buy them.”
“You call yourself a businesswoman”—he could have been discussing chamber pots—“and yet you express surprise that the major competitor in your trade wishes to reduce the effect your product is having on their profits by creating something similar? Why, this happens all the time! A dyer notes another’s shade and how popular it’s become and immediately emulates it. Tailors and cobblers spy the latest fashions and do likewise. Does trade stop for one or the other? On the contrary, they share in the profits. That’s what we wish to do, share the profits that are coming your way.”
I stared at Brother Osbert, unable to credit what I was hearing. Not only did I find it hard to believe that in just a few weeks of trade I was impacting on the friary’s profits to such an extent they sought to copy what I did, but that they were so open about it. The idea they’d been following my progress made Master Perkyn and Captain Stoyan’s warnings seem like clarions. These brothers took their brewing—and the consequent coin—very seriously.
Well, so did I.
“So, will you sell us your recipes? We’re prepared to pay a fair price.”
Aware of Adam and Father Clement’s eyes upon me, I took my time answering.
“First of all, can I just say I’m honored to be so approached and by the greatest brewers in Norfolk.” Brother Osbert’s look said even he knew flattery when he heard it. “I feel humbled and blessed by the good Lord that you would make such a proposal.” I drew my shoulders back and placed my hands flat on the table, my arms straight. “But, I’m afraid my recipes are not for sale.”
Brother Osbert gave a bark of laughter. “I don’t think I heard aright.”
“Forgive me, brother, but you did. With all due respect, the recipes are not for sale.”
“You have not even heard our offer.”
“I do not need to. It won’t change my response.”
Standing in one swift movement, the brother rocked the table, spilling ale across the surface. Brother Marcus rose to his feet and so did I. Father Clement remained seated, his hands clenching his tankard like a lifeline.
“You would deny the friary? Abbot Hubbard?”
“You made the observation yourself, Brother Osbert; you wondered that I call myself a businesswoman. Well, I do. That and more besides. I’m responsible for my family, for their welfare, and for that, I need good coin. If I sell you my recipes, then not only will you be able to produce my ale, but you would also be able to make it in greater quantities and thus sell it at a cheaper price. Your comparison to dyers, tailors, and cobblers is a just one, good brother, but only if they are the same size business. We are not. You’re a large producer, I’m simply a humble alewife seeking to gather loyal custom.”
Brother Osbert’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, you’re attracting more custom than an alewife, Mistress Sheldrake, and it’s disingenuous of you to pretend otherwise.”
“Perhaps,” I said with a small smile. “But it’s disingenuous of you, good brother, to pretend that selling my recipes won’t affect my trade. It will end it and I cannot afford that. However,” I continued as his face reddened and a vein on his forehead pulsed, “the friary can afford to be magnanimous. There’s room in Elmham Lenn for both of us and, if I may be so bold, more besides.”
He drew back, a cat about to pounce, then stilled. Turning to Brother Marcus, he snapped, “Fetch our mantles, brother.”
Snatching his from the smaller brother, Brother Osbert swung it across his shoulders, knocking his mazer over, nodding in satisfaction as what remained of his ale gurgled into the rushes. Gazing pointedly at the waste, he gave a crooked smile.
“Is that your final word, Mistress Sheldrake? Do I tell the abbot you refused his generosity? His effort to reconcile our competing businesses?”
Adam stood up, hands balled by his sides.
“It’s my final word, Brother Osbert, but while I will not hand over my recipes, I do extend my goodwill and wishes for God’s many blessings to the abbot and the brothers of St. Jude’s.”
Brother Osbert held my eyes for a long moment before striding out of the shop, striking the latch off the door as he did. Brother Marcus flashed a look of disgust mingled with regret.
“Don’t bother following,” he said to Father Clement. “It’s evident where your loyalties lie,” he spat.
“My loyalties are, first and foremost, with God,” said Father Clement, stumbling to his feet. Brother Marcus sneered before he followed the sub-prior. The wind caught the door as they exited, slamming it against the frame.
We watched them storm off as snow began to fall. They looked like crows with their black capes and mantles flying out behind them.
I sank back onto the bench. Only now did I fill my mazer and drink.
Adam and Father Clement returned to their seats and tossed back what remained in their cups. Adam poured a generous amount for us all.
“You did well, Mistress Anneke, standing your ground against them.”
“You’re right, Adam,” said Father Clement. “If you’d sold them the recipes, Mistress Anneke, it would have spelled the end of your brewing. They’d have undercut you.”
I stared out the window, the image of the brothers’ righteous indignation in my mind. It was clear they thought their proposal would be readily embraced, that they would not be denied. Yet like Peter the apostle, three times I’d denied them. My head sank into my hands. From where did such courage or foolhardiness come?
“Even if they had the recipes, they couldn’t make the ale the way I do . . . they don’t understand. But I couldn’t give over Mother’s recipes. I just couldn’t. Not to them, not to anyone. They’re for the family, no one else.”
Adam touched the back of my hand gently. “It’s all right, mistress, it will be all right.”
“Will it?” I asked, raising my head. Again, my eyes followed their angry tracks in the muddy snow. “I’m not so sure. If I didn’t have an enemy before, I do now.”
Nineteen
Holcroft House
Late November to early December
The year of Our Lord 1405 in the seventh year of the reign of Henry IV
Just over a week later, we had another unexpected visit, this time from Master Perkyn and Olive. A soft snow was spiraling from the heavens, the pale morning light still trying to force its way through thick clouds. I was in the brewhouse and had only completed the ceremony to the goddess and crones moments before there was a knock on the door. When I saw the Millers and took in the expression on their faces and Olive’s poor swollen eyes, I let out an exclamation and ushered them into the warm, bringing them close to the kiln.
“What is it? What’s happened?” I asked. They didn’t speak, but stared at the floor, the snowflakes on their capes melting in the heat.
“It’s broken, Lady Anneke, it’s all broken,” wailed Olive finally, throwing an arm up over her eyes, resisting her father’s efforts to comfort her.
I looked to Master Perkyn, confused and concerned as I untied Olive’s cape and stroked her arms.
“Broken? What do you mean?” I quickly checked the young woman for injury.
“Aye,” said her father with a heavy heart. “She’s right, mistress. It’s the mill. Some bastard’s gone and tak
en an axe to it, ain’t they? That and more besides.”
Oh dear God.
“Forgive me, mistress,” said Master Perkyn, “I didn’t know where else to go.”
“You did the right thing coming here. I’m glad you did.” I threw Olive’s cape over the table and scrambled for a kerchief, dabbing at her cheeks as best I could while her face remained buried in the crook of her elbow, immovable. “When did this happen? Thank the good Lord you’re both all right. We’ll get to the bottom of this.” Words tumbled out of me. I felt at a loss to know how to comfort them. They needed to talk, but they also needed something to warm them, they were both shaking with cold and shock. “Do you want to come to the house with me or wait here? I’m going to fetch some warm wine and blankets.”
Master Perkyn looked at Olive. “If it be all right with you, mistress, I’d as soon stay here. Olive, you see, it’s been—” He couldn’t finish.
I squeezed his arm in understanding and pushed the kerchief into Olive’s fist. Her fingers tightened around it and she lowered her arm to peep at me.
“I’ll be as quick as I can.” Swinging my shawl around my shoulders, I ran to the kitchen, set the servants to pouring drinks and finding blankets, and then searched for Adam. He was in the shop. I quickly told him what had happened. Dropping the paper on which he’d been recording our sales, he followed me back to the brewery.
A couple of hours and some wine, ale, and bread later, Saskia, Adam, and I had the story from the Millers. Huddled around the kiln, Olive snuggling into me like a cold cat before a fire, her father told us what happened.
During the night, the dogs had woken them, barking fit to wake the dead. Not able to see anything in the dark, and hearing nothing himself, Master Perkyn went back to bed. It was snowing heavily and bitterly cold outside and he could see no reason to venture out.
“But I should of, curse my lazy bones,” he said. “For when I went to the mill this morning, it was to find the door shattered, my stone smashed, and the ropes cut. To add insult, some bastard pissed—and worse—in the grain that was stored there, and that includes yours, Mistress Sheldrake. I’m afraid your next crop of barley is ruined.” He buried his head in his hands. “Ah, of all the boils on Satan’s bony arse . . .”
Adam and I exchanged a long, level look. Saskia patted his back helplessly.
What would motivate someone to damage the mill? The Millers were not only popular in town, but hurting them affected so many other lives, not just mine . . .
My hand flew to my mouth. Could it be? Surely not. Was Abbot Hubbard behind this? The friary? After all, everyone knew Master Perkyn ground my malt. The monks wouldn’t do this, would they? It was so . . . so ungodly. But then, Master Perkyn himself had warned me about the abbot, Captain Stoyan too. Brother Osbert had intimated I’d regret denying him. Adam’s face confirmed my suspicion.
After tierce, I left Saskia to manage the brewhouse while Adam and I returned to the Millers’ to examine the damage. The door to the mill was a shredded mess. The odor of urine and excrement was overwhelming. The slashed sacks of grain, their insides spilling over the floor, evoked the aftermath of a battle or, more accurately, murder. A fine dust of flour floated in the air, coating everything, including us. But the worst by far was the sight of the great millstone hacked about until its shape was distorted so as to render it useless. The thick ropes that helped turn the waterwheel were severed. The spaniels, who’d been locked in the house, ran around sniffing in the corners, growling, their tails down. We watched them for a moment in silence. A cold draft blew around us.
“I think you’d better fetch the sheriff, Perkyn. See if he can locate the culprits—more than one person was involved, for certes.” Adam paced around the stone, shaking his head, pointing at a set of footprints in the flour. “Someone wanted to make sure you were out of business.”
“That they did and, if my suspicions be right,” said Master Perkyn, sinking onto a stool, “they wanted to make sure you were too.”
“You think this was the work of the friary?” I asked.
“Aye, and so do you, if I be reading those looks you’ve been exchanging with Adam here and the way you’re worrying your lip. I believe the abbot paid someone to make sure you couldn’t get your malt ground.” He rubbed his hand across the stone and particles fell onto the dirt floor. “He may have promised your captain he wouldn’t interfere with you direct, mistress, but I’m guessing that makes me and anyone else who associates with you fair game. After this, no one will dare touch your malt, no matter how much you offer to pay them. And without your malt, you can’t brew.”
“We’ll do whatever we can to help you, Master Perkyn,” I said. “It’s the least we can do.”
“I knew you would,” said Olive, giving me one of her radiant smiles.
Master Perkyn wagged a finger at me. “I appreciate the offer, mistress, and I’m not too proud to accept. But this ain’t your fault, and I won’t have you taking blame for such vile deeds.” He sighed. “I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to help you, and while this is a setback, I can’t say I’m sorry.”
“You can’t?”
Master Perkyn turned to me, a twinkle in his eye. “Think about it.” His arm described an arc. “This . . . this destruction means your ale is affecting the friary’s sales; you’re getting under their skin worse than a hairshirt and what with all that blustering, praying, and self-righteousness, things must be mighty uncomfortable over there.”
I couldn’t help it; I smiled. “Are you going to convey your suspicions to the sheriff?” I asked. “About the abbot?”
Master Perkyn gave a gruff laugh. “Nay, mistress. It wouldn’t do any good if I did. Remember what I told you? Sir Grantham, well, he’d fuss around for a few days, maybe raise a hue and cry, but in the end, it’d be for naught. The friary is untouchable, isn’t it? Sir Grantham and the abbot go back a-ways, don’t they? Whatever we may wish, the brothers don’t answer to the likes of you or me. They answer only to the highest authority.” He pointed toward the ceiling. He cast one more look around. The cheeky grin he’d worn briefly dissolved, replaced by a look of utter misery. The damage and the smell were more than he could bear. He lowered his head and studied the space between his boots. Olive stood next to him, swaying, one of the spaniels in her arms.
I found Master Perkyn’s hands and clutched them in mine. “God is on our side too, you mustn’t forget that.”
Master Perkyn raised weary eyes to mine. “Is He, mistress? At the moment, it feels as if He’s deserted us all.”
* * *
God didn’t forget us, despite Master Perkyn’s misgivings. Less than a week later, Master Perkyn appeared at the brewhouse door again, this time equipped with a huge smile and a cart.
“God give you good day, Master Perkyn.” I emerged wiping my hands. The last few days, Adam had been working with him trying to source somewhere to mill our malted barley. Master Perkyn’s suspicions had been correct: thus far, no matter how much we offered to pay, we’d been turned away. Down to the last of our milled grain and with sacks of malt ready to be ground, I was sick with worry. If it wasn’t milled soon, I would be forced to sell it to someone else, and the only other brewer in the area who could afford to buy the quantities I possessed was the friary. Stubbornly, I refused to be beholden to them.
“What brings you here?” I asked, wiping my hands and waving to Olive, who ran toward me.
As she threw herself into my arms and planted a wet kiss on my cheek, I was delighted to note her radiance had returned. Not that it ever stayed away long.
“We have a stone, Lady Anneke! We have a new stone.”
“Is this true?” I looked to Master Perkyn, who was tying the horse to the post outside the mews.
“Aye, mistress, it be true.” He strode across the yard, his boots slicing through the newly fallen snow. His twinkling eyes and his gap-toothed grin lifted my heart. “I’ve come to pick up your malt and take it with me. You are the first
of my customers. Actually, you are the last as well—you’re the only one.” He jerked a thumb back toward the cart. “The others won’t deal with me. Won’t say why, but I know. Can’t say I blame ’em either.”
“But a stone? How?”
“Perkyn,” said a deep voice beside me, “I see you’re back in business.”
“Adam,” said Master Perkyn, nodding. “I am indeed. Seems our talk with Master Baker wasn’t a waste after all. After we left, Hugh had a think and came to see me after dark. Turns out, he had a spare. It’s smaller than what I’m accustomed to, and has a few chips in it, but it’ll do. We fitted it yesterday, on the quiet, like. And I managed to buy some ropes from your friend, the captain at the Hanse. They’re not as thick as those we had, but again, they’ll do until such times as I can replace everything properly.”
Olive enfolded me in a huge hug that I returned. “Oh, Master Perkyn, this is wonderful.” I turned a shining face to Adam. “See, I told you. If we all just work together, if we show we won’t be defeated, work around the obstacles he throws at us, the abbot cannot quash us.”
Adam and Master Perkyn looked at each other, then at me.
“Well, Mistress Sheldrake, it’s nice to hear your optimism, but I’d still proceed with caution. Let the friary wonder how your ale is still reaching customers. Let’s not be too hasty recounting tales of triumph to further anger the abbot, hey? I promised Hugh no one but you would know where the stone came from.”
I nodded. “Of course. You’re right.” I smiled at them uncertainly. “Come on then, let’s get those sacks on the cart. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last few days it’s that no matter how hard I might wish, it doesn’t mill itself.”
* * *
As if to affirm our triumph, sales of ale steadily increased as Christmastide grew near. We could barely keep up, limited as we were by the size of the brewhouse and our equipment, and how many of us were free to make it. Additional hands were now a priority. But just as more coin poured into the little tin, so too household expenses grew as the weather became colder and the days shorter. After he left us, I discovered Sir Leander had ordered and paid for enough wood to last us the entire winter, telling Adam that if he was to continue to enjoy our hospitality, then he too wanted to be warm. He also ensured we had a ready store of meat, fish, and grain, organizing supplies from Scales Hall to be delivered whenever possible.
