by Karen Brooks
While I had some misgivings about Westel, mostly brought about by what occurred with the monks long before he arrived, as the days rolled by, they diminished. Though he’d only been with us a short time, it was hard to remember the period before he came, we’d become so reliant upon him. Or rather, I’d become reliant. So reliant, I was able to make excuses for him if Will, Saskia, or the twins complained. There were even times, despite his tendency to stare, when I enjoyed his company. He didn’t feel the need to fill the silence with endless chatter, nor did he need me to direct him in his tasks, not after the first few weeks. While he still asked questions about brewing or sought my permission before doing something, I felt it was done out of respect and genuine desire to demonstrate interest, to prove his worth. Sometimes, when the wort was settling or the mash had been stirred and the grain tossed, we’d sit before the kiln and share a small ale and talk; it was at these moments I learned a little of the man upon whom I was coming to depend.
Born a bastard, Westel never knew his father and only vaguely remembered his mother, the daughter of a Norwich alderman. She died young, in childbed. Westel was reared and educated by monks, taught to read, write, and more besides, the priory the only home he knew, those within it his family. Believing his destiny lay within St. Rebecca’s, a friary known for its hospitality, ale, and wine, it wasn’t until Westel had become a novice and was confronted with the reality of making his solemn vows that he confessed to being denied a calling. He was sent away. Cast adrift, but with an excellent reference from Brother Roland le Bold (of whom Westel could not speak highly enough), but little else, he sought his way in the world, following the pilgrim trail from Norwich to Attlebridge, intending to go to London. One day, he decided to let God direct his course and, after spending hours in prayer, deviated to the coast and Elmham Lenn. Arriving far too late for the hiring fair, he instead found work with us. “God provided, as He always does.” Westel crossed himself. With the flickering flames of the kiln making his hair and eyes glimmer, he reminded me of the statue of the Archangel Gabriel in St. Stephen’s. It too wore a look that spoke of both elation and vigilance.
Knowing what it was like to have expectations dashed only to have them renewed, and feeling great sorrow that he had no one to whom he could turn, his story stirred my pity. Yet he never complained, nor did he judge the monks and find them wanting. “It’s God’s will,” he said, and guilt consumed me that I could so easily question the Almighty when Westel could embrace all His intentions with such grace and goodwill. When I expressed surprise that he felt no calling after being raised within the cloisters, he shrugged.
“I may not have had a calling in the strict sense of the word, not as a brother, but God looks out for me nonetheless. He intends a higher purpose. Of that I’ve no doubt.” He smiled. “He must, Mistress Sheldrake, He brought me to you.”
Smiling in return, I shook my head. Watching him later as he whistled over the grain, I believed I should take heart from such convictions.
Apart from the twins and Adam, I’d never spent so much time with another person. From the time the sun rose until it set, Westel and I were together in the brewery. Along with the rest of the household, we shared most meals as well.
I fell into a familiar pattern with Westel. He didn’t judge or find me wanting, and after living with Hiske, never mind Father, it was refreshing. When he entered the brewery each morning, only barely disguising his surprise that once more I was at work before him, I would greet him warmly, enjoying the way color flooded his cheeks, how his lips curled and his eyes flashed. If Iris brought food, or if Will or Adam came to report the carter had delivered water, when they left, Westel would raise an eyebrow in my direction and bend back to his task. More and more, I found my eyes drifting toward him and, more and more, I caught him watching me, swiftly turning aside to disguise a look I understood all too well.
A not unpleasant feeling would lodge beneath my breastbone.
There was a lot to be said for intrepid, dependable men who didn’t call you a whore upon first acquaintance and who respected your decisions.
Nonetheless, my thoughts would often stroll in the direction of Sir Leander and, in unguarded moments, usually as I was drifting off into an exhausted sleep, I would recall conversations we’d shared or relive evenings spent around the hearth in the main hall. Then I’d remember his apology and my entire body would quicken.
These recollections would force me into wakefulness. Pressing my hands to my burning cheeks, I would sometimes indulge in whimsy, like a younger and more foolish woman—one who believed in knights who rescued damsels from burning castles, or launched a thousand ships to save them from brazen princes dwelling in walled cities; one who believed in love . . .
I would doze off to sleep, a lump of sadness in my throat that fortunately would dissolve by morning.
Westel and I brewed continually, just keeping up with the growing demands of our customers. The extra production meant more coin and thus I was able to employ two extra girls. Delyth and Awel Parry were the daughters of the best farrier in town. Keen to earn a wage, they’d heard I was hiring over Christmastide and found Saskia at the market one day. With their dark, twinkling eyes and smiling mouths they were persuasive. Every morning except Sunday they’d arrive as the sun rose and leave before it set each night, Will or Westel escorting them home. Throughout the day, they chatted nonstop and flirted outrageously with Westel, who would lower his head and focus on his work, answering them with few words and wary smiles. Both were a boon and additional female company. Their presence meant Saskia was freed to supervise the running of the house and monitor sales throughout the day. Thus Adam was able to leave the shop to Saskia and focus solely on the upkeep of Holcroft House and care of our tenant farmers. Will was also able to perform his regular tasks—assisting Adam, chopping wood, managing the pigs and chickens, changing the rushes in the shop, running errands for Saskia and Blanche. I still used him to fetch the water carter when Westel couldn’t be spared and to deliver malt to Master Perkyn—Shelby was used to him and Will enjoyed taking the cart out.
Overall, we relaxed into an arrangement that meant each day was much the same as the next. After all the upheavals we’d experienced, I drew comfort from this. Betje and Karel were happily distracted with Louisa and, as Christmas drew closer, she’d take them into town to watch the troupes of players who came from all over, most on their way to either London or Norwich for the season. They’d return before evensong, full of stories about King Herod’s treachery, the Three Wise Men, fire-eaters, jugglers, and humming unfamiliar but catchy refrains.
With Tobias and Sir Leander gone, Master Makejoy maintained a weekly check on business so he could provide a monthly report to Lord Rainford and his son, Sir Symond.
Arriving after tierce on Adam and Eve’s Day, Master Makejoy didn’t even remove his cloak, but promptly checked the figures and scribbled some notes. I sat near the fire as he worked, lost in my own world, enjoying the all-too-brief reprieve from the brewhouse. Adam waited patiently, ready to answer any queries Master Makejoy might have.
“Everything seems to be in order,” said the clerk after a few minutes. Keen to leave, he placed his cap back on his head and packed up his few belongings. “I won’t be required to do those for a while, Mistress Sheldrake,” he said, jerking his head toward the ledgers. “I received a note from Sir Leander. He’ll be back for Christmastide, so no doubt he’ll wish to check the figures himself next time.”
God help me, but my heart kindled.
Westel appeared and I asked him to escort Master Makejoy to the door, Will being on an errand for Blanche. Exchanging blessings for Christmas, I suppose it was unchristian of me not to ask these be extended to Hiske. Master Makejoy made no sign he was offended, bestowing very warm felicitations upon me, and Adam, indeed. Feeling the tiniest bit guilty as he departed, I went to the desk and turned the ledger toward me to see if Master Makejoy had made many annotations. I was about to ask Adam to explain
a note in one column, when Westel reappeared.
“Did I hear that Sir Leander will be joining us, mistress?” he asked, peering around the door, his smile very bright. “Lord Rainford’s youngest son?”
A hand stole to my cheek and wrapped itself around the back of my neck. My face was warm. The figures on the page momentarily blurred. Without looking up, I answered, “I believe Master Makejoy did make mention.” I glanced at Adam. “That means Tobias might be home for Christmas!”
Adam smiled at me. “Indeed he might. Your mother would be pleased to have you all together for this time of year.”
My eyes softened. “She would, wouldn’t she?” Memories of past Christmases, of Mother making sure Tobias found the bean in the pie so he was king for the day, of singing carols in Dutch, German, and English with Saskia, handing out presents to us all on St. Stephen’s and New Year’s Day, the delight on her face when she recorded our happiness. Westel cleared his throat. Immersed in reverie, I’d quite forgotten him. “Oh, Westel. Forgive me. Did you want me?”
An odd expression flashed across his face before it was gone again. “You asked me to let you know when the wort came to the boil. It would have been for a few minutes now.”
“Thank you. If you could ensure it remains that way, I’ll come shortly.”
Westel gave a small bow and left. Waiting till I could no longer hear him, I swung to Adam. “And?” I asked, looking pointedly toward the books. “What’s the verdict?”
Adam glanced at the figures. The frown that drew his brows together disappeared and his eyes sparkled. “Let’s just say, Mistress Anneke, the Lord’s blessed us with a fine Christmas.”
I threw my arms around him and planted a kiss on his cheek. “We’re in profit?”
“That we are.” He laughed. “Just. Sales are slowly rising, but we’re still a way off meeting costs once wages are paid and we subtract any lease monies. The good news is, we’ve almost doubled what we were making from last month. That’s what Makejoy noted.” Closing the book, a finger rested on the cover. He sighed. “It’s a good result. Mayhap you might rethink the alehouse?”
Folding my arms under my breasts, I frowned. “Adam, we’ve discussed this. I’m going ahead. After all, it’s not like I have a reputation to protect—just ask Cousin Hiske.”
Adam took my chin in his hand and peered at me earnestly. “Anytime Makejoy appears, his wife’s words trail after him, don’t they?”
I lowered my gaze. “I’m most cross with myself that I allow them to bother me still . . .”
“Don’t let that harridan disturb you so, Mistress Anneke,” said Adam, aware of my thoughts. “Your mother and, may God assoil him, your father, would be proud of you, alehouse or naught. You’ve made something from nothing and achieved what many of us, including me, thought you could not.”
“What’s that, Adam?”
“Kept us together, and for that, Mistress Anneke, I’ll be forever grateful.” His hand fell away. “Only . . .” He looked aside, releasing me at the same time.
“What?” I asked softly.
“Be careful, Mistress Anneke.” He bit his lower lip. “We’re so worried about the friary, we forget those much closer can cause a different sort of harm. There are people in town prepared to believe the worst, ready to accept lies even when the truth is standing before them.”
I knew what was being said about me throughout Elmham Lenn. My intention to open an alehouse had reached the farthest parts of town, attracting the kind of talk I’d been warned to expect. Anticipating it was not the same as experiencing it, and I found the cruel assumptions of those who’d once regarded me very differently hurt deeply. Whispers followed me at the market like an unwelcome shadow. The servants heard a great deal as well, friendly warnings, jibes, and unkind observations from hawkers and other servants as well, and while they were at pains never to repeat anything lest it cause me injury, I would hear them discussing it.
That Hiske was behind a great deal of the rumormongering was certain. The woman took pride in drawing attention to my shortcomings and let all who came into her sphere know about them.
“Aye, well . . .” I stroked the ledger’s cover, my fingertip resting on the calfskin. “I don’t know what to do about it, Adam. Worse, I don’t think there’s anything I can do. There are always going to be detractors, especially when we’re talking about ale and alehouses. On top of everything, I’m an unmarried woman who has chosen not to seek a union, or take up the position of companion”—I grunted—“with my cousin, but to tie herself to a business that’s perceived as less than worthy—more so, because I’m female.” Adam opened his mouth to argue, but I lay a hand on top of his. “It’s all right. You warned me of this and you were right. My choices mean I’ll always attract this sort of gossip. I have to learn to live with it.” I applied pressure to his hand. “You know what makes it easier to bear? You. You, the twins, Saskia, Blanche, and everyone else.” The sweep of my arm encompassed the entire house. “You know the truth. You know me. And that’s all that matters.”
It has to be.
Adam’s eyes looked glassy in the firelight. “That we do. And I thank the Lord for it. Every day.”
Ignoring the tear that trickled down Adam’s cheek, I blinked back my own. I was blessed. Despite what Hiske said, what the townsfolk wanted to think, I knew differently. In my heart, in my soul—and God did too. Surely, that’s all that counted? Westel believed that; I must as well, despite Brother Osbert’s threats. Let Him be my judge, not some wretched idle women or greedy monks.
“Come then”—I gave Adam’s hand a final squeeze—“let’s go and tell Saskia and Blanche the good news.”
“About the profits?” Adam was most perplexed I’d discuss these openly.
“About Tobias. Let them know there’ll be an extra mouth to feed.”
Dragging him forward, I doused the cresset lamp and extinguished the candles on the way out. “Come along, I can’t dally, I’ve beer to make.”
“Two mouths,” he added as we entered the hall.
“What?” Using the doorframe as a pivot, I spun around. “What did you say?”
“You can’t forget Sir Leander,” said Adam.
I held his gaze a moment longer, before walking slowly down the passage to the kitchen, the spring gone from my step.
Adam was right. As much as I might try. Damn him, I could not.
Twenty-Three
Holcroft House
Christmas Day
The year of Our Lord 1405 in the seventh year of the reign of Henry IV
The day that followed was one of great joy and perplexity. After attending mass at St. Bartholomew’s and making sure the tenant farmers received their allotted fish, meat, and vegetables for their table, we spent the rest of the morning preparing for our Christmastide feast, one which we would all, including Father Clement and Captain Stoyan, share. For years, Father Clement had joined our family in celebrating Christ’s birth and I didn’t want this year to be any different.
At midday, we left Blanche in the kitchen and walked into town to St. Stephen’s to hear Abbot Hubbard give the mass. The church was so full many had to stand in the snow outside. Westel and Will ran ahead and reserved us places, so we were able to squeeze our way through the crowd and between the columns toward the area allocated to wealthier townsfolk. Curt nods and frowns greeted our arrival, followed by murmurs of disapproval and some louder-than-necessary sniffs. My cheeks grew hot and Betje’s grip on my hand tightened. Not far ahead of us, I saw Betrix with her parents. The mayor stood with a gentleman I recognized as Master Underwood, Lord Rainford’s seneschal. Lord Rainford was spending Christmas with the king at Westminster.
As the abbot ascended the pulpit, the crowd grew quiet. The chandeliers smoked, as did the censors swinging from the rafters, dusting us all with their opaque scent, though it was not enough to completely mask the other odors so many people huddled together produced. Above me, the stone pillars disappeared into the vaulte
d ceiling, and I imagined colonies of cherubs sitting in the corners, chuckling at the humans compressed so tightly together to worship their Father on this bitterly cold day. Muffled coughs and a wave of movement that pushed me forward brought my thoughts back to earth. Behind me someone sneezed. A child giggled and was quickly hushed. In front of the parishioners, the altar glowed in the flickering lights of candles and cresset lamps: golden goblets, crosses, the bejeweled container carrying the host, and the huge open Bible sat upon the white linen. The deacons and other brothers from St. Jude’s and surrounding parishes took up their positions. Among them were Brothers Osbert and Marcus, their benign spiritual roles belying my previous encounters with them. Outside, the snow fell steadily; the uneven gray light coming through the stained glass refracted into tiny, precious rainbows of color, which fell upon the heads of those around me.
As Abbot Hubbard’s dulcet tones took wing among the soaring columns and curving arches, I found myself curious about this tall, well-fed man with pale, almost silver hair who spoke with both authority and barely repressed indifference about the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ. Chopping the air with his hand, Abbot Hubbard stared through one of the stained-glass windows, his mind seeming to drift away from us. Once, he might have been described as handsome; remnants of his beauty were evident in his fine nose and high cheekbones, but age and good living had added jowls and heavily pouched eyes. As the choir sang and he broke the bread and supped upon Christ’s blood, I prayed to my Lord to forgive me what the abbot could not.
A sudden movement from behind jolted me. Thrust forward, I collided with Will.
