The Lady Brewer of London

by Karen Brooks

  “You do?” I placed my elbows on the desk. “What’s that, Westel?”

  “Well, I’ve been talking to Master Proudfellow and the other gentleman who owns the tavern down around the square—”

  “Master Peter Goddard of the Thistle and Whey?” said Adam, joining me at the desk.

  “That’s him. And it seems to me, you’ve only one choice if you want to make real money from brewing.”

  I knew what he was going to say. The same idea had been going around and around in my head for weeks.

  “You must turn the shop into an alehouse.”

  A warm, not unpleasant feeling sped through my body. “An alehouse.” There. I’d said it. I could hear Tobias’s protests; the disapproval of Hiske, Father, Mother—admonishments that beat against my fevered mind. I brushed them aside. “Go on . . .” I said, my heart pounding.

  Sitting opposite, Westel began outlining what we needed to purchase, how much extra ale would be needed to meet demand and how the household could be arranged to accommodate the new business, referring to his notes as he did.

  “Iris could serve, as could I. And while I’d be loathe to ask you to perform such a common task, Mistress Sheldrake, until folk know about it and we can afford to hire someone else, it could work in our favor.”

  “How do you know so much about this?” I asked.

  “The monks who raised me also brewed.” He shrugged. “All us orphans had to help sell what they made. Brother Roland, my mentor and friend, supervised. He taught me everything I know.” He gave me his incorrigible grin and I found myself responding.

  Adam frowned and shook his head but, caught up in the excitement that my debt to Lord Rainford might be extinguished so quickly, I ignored his doubts and, drawing closer to Westel, began to make plans. God forgive me, but pride and more blinded me that night. See, my eyes and mind sang, we trusted this man, refused to let the friary crush us, and this is how we’re rewarded for that faith. Faith in God and faith in ourselves.

  “An alehouse is very different to a brewhouse, Mistress Anneke. So is how it’s perceived—how you will be,” warned Adam. “You need to think of your reputation . . .” I shooed him away. I didn’t want to hear, not that I would have listened anyway, not once I saw what kind of profit and security such a venture could bring. Reputations, especially my own, were the least of my worries.

  Turning away to tend the fire, Adam didn’t join in the conversation, but he listened. We would open an alehouse in the new year, after Twelfth Night. I committed myself to brewing enough ale to satisfy the customers I hoped our new premises would attract. Organizing expenses for the next few weeks, a small part of me dwelled on Adam’s words. I was glad neither Tobias nor his master were there to make me heed my steward.

  Twenty-One

  Holcroft House

  The week before Christmas

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

  Christmastide was less than a week away. Learning that Captain Stoyan was back in town, I invited him to join us for supper. Not only did he bring ale from Germany, but also a large sack of hops.

  “Straight off the ship,” he said. “If you store it in a cool place, which you’ll have no trouble doing at this time of year,” he added, brushing the snow off his shoulders as he entered the house, “it will keep for months. In fact, providing it’s dried properly, sometimes the longer you leave it, the better it tastes.” He lifted the jugs of beer and placed them in Will’s arms. “But you’ll see for yourself.”

  I didn’t admit that I hadn’t yet had the chance to try the smaller sack of hops he’d given me, but was determined to try both, and soon.

  Retiring to the solar after the twins were put to bed, Captain Stoyan and I tasted the hopped brew of the Germans, and while at first I found it bitter and quite dry, after a few mouthfuls, I enjoyed it very much. The recipe would have to be adjusted for local palates, accustomed to much sweeter beverages. Captain Stoyan said beer was all that was drunk throughout the continent and, he added, was slowly growing in popularity in London.

  “Even your king enjoys a beer. Developed a taste for it when he did the reyse, that crusade of his to Lithuania.” My ears pricked up. If the king enjoyed beer . . . “But your brewers’ Mystery are fools,” continued the captain. “They insist if a brewer makes hopped ale, that must be all they produce. If they make ale, they’re limited to that as well. They want no mixing, no confusion.” He gave a spurt of mocking laughter. “No one is confused but them. After all, why can a brewer not make both?”

  “That makes no sense to me either,” I said. “Surely, offering customers choice and quality is what we should be concerned with. Why would the Mystery even worry themselves over such trifles?”

  Captain Stoyan rubbed the tips of his fingers together. “There’s only one reason—the same reason parliament became involved in the concerns of ale-makers in the first place. Money.”

  The captain was right. Though I’d only been brewing a few months, I was shocked at how much of our profits went to pay this tax and that official. Restricting what someone could brew so charges could be levied was just another way for pockets to be lined—the pockets of anyone but the brewers. Leaning back in the chair, I stared into my mazer, swirling the amber ale around.

  “It would be so easy to make both—to sell both.”

  “Why don’t you?” said Captain Stoyan, leaning forward, the candlelight making his eyes glimmer. “At least, until the Mystery find out what you’re doing.”

  I stared at him thoughtfully, ignoring the creasing of Adam’s brow. The captain had a point: Why didn’t I? As an unmarried woman, let alone a small producer, no guild would admit me. They’d take my hard-earned coin in taxes and other tithes, send the ale-conners and monitor my sales, but they would never acknowledge me as an official member. What obligation did I carry to follow their rules? Sitting up straight, my heart beating hard, my fingers became restless. I put down the mazer. Why didn’t I sell ale and beer? At least that way, if the beer failed to appeal to customers, I still had the ale to fall back on. I didn’t need to make too much to start with, just a firkin or two. Opening an alehouse provided the perfect opportunity to test the beer, introduce it to customers, allow word to spread. Plans began to form in my head. Nothing was stopping me doing this—not directly . . . not yet.

  Staring out the window into the blustery night, watching the snow strike the pane and stick to the glass like thin little hands, I determined to revisit my mother’s recipes and, as soon as possible, learn how and in what quantities to add hops to the wort.

  “You’re right, Captain Stoyan.” I raised my cup to him. “There’s no reason not to—no good one, anyhow. So, here’s to hops . . .”

  “To fine ale and beer,” added Captain Stoyan.

  Reluctantly, Adam lifted his cup.

  * * *

  With excitement and some nerves on my part, the very next day, as the wort was boiling, I added hops to the mixture. The sharp aroma of mint fused with sour notes of wild grass enveloped me. It was heady, strong, wild. My mother also recommended, as a way of offsetting the bitterness, that honey be included. I added some dried elecampane as well. While I knew apothecaries recommended it to assist with eyesight, Mother always said there was something wholesome and honest about the plant and the flavor it released was sweet and pleasing.

  Watching me from the doorway of the malthouse was Westel. I sensed he was annoyed that I hadn’t asked him to help make the beer. Bombarding me with questions when he discovered I intended to use hops, his interest was at first gratifying, but, after the umpteenth inquiry, grew tiresome. Preferring to keep my experiments to myself, I set him a task that would remove him from the brewery for a time. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him, not exactly; it was simply that there were some aspects of making ale I wasn’t yet ready to share with anyone, not even Adam. Having finished fetching wood, Westel, barefoot from wading through the malt, now loitered nearby.

/>   Passing me the elecampane, Adam hesitated. “Are you sure you want this, Mistress Anneke? Legend says this only grows where tears fall.”

  My hand paused. “Tears don’t only mean sorrow, Adam. They can also fall for joy.”

  Westel made a noise, but whether of agreement or dissent I was uncertain, and when I turned to ask him, he was back in the malthouse, bent over the rake.

  Before I could change my mind, I took the elecampane, broke it between my fingers and threw it in.

  “Let’s hope you’re right,” muttered Adam.

  A few days before Christmas, we tapped the troughs and filled two firkins and, much to my surprise and delight, a hogshead with beer. Adding hops meant that we didn’t need to use as much malt as we did when making ale, and so produced more than twice as much for less grain. Though we used more wood, this was more than offset by the saving in malt. Due to lack of storage space, we were forced to place the barrels atop the central table. I couldn’t go past them without stroking the aging wood, sending a swift prayer to the goddesses that they bless this new enterprise.

  Whether it was my imagination or the peculiar mist that hovered about the yard, wrapping the brewhouse in spectral fingers as I entered before dawn each day, I thought I heard and felt something respond. Raising my head to peer through the window at the gray skies and watching the flurries of snow strike the panes, I smiled and shut my eyes before thoughts of the abbot and an image of Brother Osbert intruded: Hubris is a sin, and by your very existence, you have made it a mortal one. Your day of reckoning will come, mistress.

  “Mistress Anneke, are you all right?”

  My eyes flew open and in my fright, I slipped on some liquid spilled near the trough. If Westel hadn’t caught me, I would have fallen. Waiting for me to find my balance, he kept his arms around me. I became aware of him in a way I hadn’t before. The hardness of his body, the way his mouth curved, making two lines on either side of his cheeks; I noticed how straight his teeth were, how clear his eyes, eyes that revealed, even as they bore into mine, so very little. If they were mirrors to the soul, why could I not fathom Westel’s?

  “I . . . I’m fine, thank you, Westel,” I said and found my feet, unsettled by his cold gaze, his warm flesh.

  He released me slowly, his smile broadening, and I hoped that he couldn’t tell how fast my heart beat or how uneasy I suddenly felt.

  “You startled me. I lost my footing,” I said, my voice weak.

  “I know.”

  We stared at each other a moment longer.

  “What needs doing?” he asked.

  Studying his hands where they rested against the brewhouse wall, I hadn’t noticed before how feminine they were. Long, tapered fingers, a narrow palm. The ink that had stained them when he first came had long been washed away. Yet they were also deceptively strong; he’d held me as if I weighed no more than a mazer. His arms were sinewy, more rugged than I realized, dusted with that ice-white hair, so different to Sir Leander’s. They reminded me of the silvery beech by the river, the one in which a highwayman had been hanged years earlier and left to the carrion birds until he was only bones and sinew.

  A shiver ran through me.

  Westel was watching me, his mouth curled in a question. My cheeks flamed and I pushed past him to hide my discomfort. Something akin to foreboding shot through my chest and made me catch my breath. The vision of the dead robber had made me giddy. Foolish thoughts were bobbing in my head.

  Westel followed. I didn’t turn, but I was aware.

  Saskia chose that moment to enter. Sensing something at odds, she began talking as if we were mid-conversation.

  “I think Westel should attend to customers this afternoon, Mistress Anneke. He can take Iris if Blanche has finished with her by then. It looks like everything is under control in here.” She gave Westel a curt nod.

  I scanned the brewhouse. Saskia was right. Everything was under control—so much so, I’d be able to send Adam to town to purchase extra mazers, despite the ale-stake being hoisted to ensure the ale-conners knew to be here before the bells tolled none.

  I turned to Westel, driving my earlier dread deep inside. Westel was such a boon, I was lucky to have him. Think where you’d be if he hadn’t missed the hiring fair or hadn’t possessed the wherewithal to ask Father Clement if he knew of work . . . or if you’d dismissed him believing him to be in service to Abbot Hubbard . . .

  “You can make sure the tables are clean and there’s enough stools, and that the barrels are tapped and ready for pouring.” Westel nodded and went to leave. “Oh, and fetch the tin from the office. We’ll need coin.”

  “Very good, Mistress Sheldrake.” Westel bowed and, with one last look around, strode off, patting his head to ensure his cap was in place. The cap, a worn woolen accessory of faded blue, rarely left his head. I began checking the malting trays.

  Saskia rested her elbow on the ladle. “Do you think you might be placing too much faith in him, Mistress Anneke?”

  “Too much?” I relieved Saskia of the ladle and began to stir the mash. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know . . . He hasn’t been here very long and here you are, letting him wander into the office without supervision, giving him free rein in here . . . allowing him to plant ideas in your head . . .” Like Adam, Saskia was of two minds about the alehouse and, while I assured her it was a notion I’d been toying with for some time, she credited the decision to Westel. “Have you forgotten? He’s meant to be on trial.”

  “That he is. So, what’s he done to deserve such suspicions? He’s been reliable, hardworking, and, thus far, has done everything to earn our trust.”

  Saskia frowned. “Ja. True. So far . . .”

  “Then surely it’s better to have faith than deny it without proof?” Was I reminding Saskia or myself?

  Saskia stared at the spot where Westel had just been standing. “Of course . . . you’re right, mistress. It’s just . . .”

  A thread of anticipation tugged the base of my neck. “What is it, Saskia?” I stopped stirring. “Tell me.”

  Saskia dashed a hand across her forehead. “Nothing, really. I don’t know . . . I shouldn’t be saying this, but there’s something about him that unsettles me—”

  “What?” I released the ladle and drew closer.

  “You’ll think me foolish, but have you noticed the way the hounds never go near him, except to growl?”

  I cast my mind back to the times I’d seen Westel near the dogs. Saskia was right, they would circle him like wolves before retreating, snarling, their tails between their legs. Both Adam and I had thrown them out of the hall so their grumblings didn’t disturb us.

  “That’s nothing,” I reasoned. “He’s still a stranger. Give them time. How can we trust their judgment? They adored Cousin Hiske.”

  Saskia guffawed. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m being silly. But he does smile too much. I don’t trust anyone who’s always smiling. It’s not natural.”

  I snorted. “That’s hardly fair. I would rather someone who smiles too much than otherwise.” But when that smile doesn’t reach their eyes . . . An image of Sir Leander drifted across my mind, the way his deep blue eyes sparkled when he was amused, the warmth that could infuse them when he forgot to guard his expression . . . The way he stroked my hand . . .

  Together we gazed into the gray-cream sludge in the mash tun. The smell was pungent, smoky. I slipped an arm around Saskia’s waist and rested my head on her shoulder. Still preoccupied, I murmured, “Louisa says he can’t take his eyes off me.”

  “For that, I don’t blame Westel.”

  I grew very still. I hadn’t meant Westel . . .

  Saskia dropped a kiss on top of my head. “Louisa’s right. He stares at you all the time. But that’s another thing. It’s the way he looks at you that makes me uneasy.”

  “How’s that?” I asked, relieved she wasn’t aware of my slip, enjoying the roundness of her shoulder, the malty smell that emanated from her
tunic and apron.

  She paused, then whispered, “Like a hungry animal. Like he wants to devour you.”

  I raised my head and stared at her as a shudder wracked my body—but whether it was of excitement or foreboding, I couldn’t tell. I recalled his grip, the vise-like fingers, the hard frame; the way he exuded . . . what was it? Power?

  I levered myself away from her. “You’re exaggerating, Saskia. Anyway, he was raised among monks. He’s not used to women, that’s all.” That was it.

  Saskia looked at me as if I’d grown scales. “If you think monks aren’t used to women, then you’re more naive than one your age has a right to be.”

  Coloring, I turned and stooped to add kindling to the fire. She was right. The number of bastards Abbot Hubbard sired, let alone those of half the monks at St. Jude’s, was local legend. Why would the men of St. Rebecca’s be any different? Westel admitted he’d no calling to the priesthood. Could women have been his downfall? It wouldn’t be the first time, only most monks chose penance and kept wearing the cassock, enjoying the influence and privileges that came with being part of God’s work on earth. If that was his reason, at least Westel had had the strength to admit it. Could that explain the hungry, lingering looks?

  As I threw more wood into the kiln, all I knew was that Sir Leander was banished from my thoughts and in his place was Westel Calkin, smiling, hovering, watching . . .

  Twenty-Two

  Holcroft House

  Adam and Eve’s Day, the day before Christmas

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

  Before we knew it, Advent was over and preparations for Christmastide began in earnest. The remnants of last year’s Yule log was found and placed on the hearth beside the new one Adam had cut in the woods; holly and ivy were hung from the beams and draped across the chests and cabinets. Iris fashioned some extra candles, while Blanche began making humble pies and collecting the ingredients for frumenty. Each day brought new smells, sounds, and sights into the house. Blanche outdid herself.