by Karen Brooks
“I don’t imagine you would have spent the day this way where you came from. It must feel strange . . . wrong?”
“Not wrong. Not exactly.” Westel gazed at the floor. “It’s not what I’m accustomed to, that’s all.”
Interpreting that as another thanks, I patted the back of his hand where it dangled above the floor. “You’re very welcome.” I smiled. “I hope you’re with us for a long time, and that you will always enjoy the fruits of your labor.”
“Oh, I intend to, Mistress Sheldrake. Always. No matter how hard or long I’ve to work.”
There was something in his tone that gave me pause, but then he flashed that smile. I nodded and returned it. “May God bless you!” I lifted my cup toward him, inviting him to touch it with his own.
Our cups clicked and for a fleeting second, I saw something in his eyes that reminded me of the icicles that formed over the lintel to the shop. I shrugged the notion off and, in companionable silence, Westel and I watched the dancing.
Little did I know as the music played, the floor thrummed, and my mind settled into a comfortable haze, that this would be the last time I would know real happiness.
Twenty-Four
Holcroft House
St. Stephen’s Day
The year of Our Lord 1405 in the seventh year of the reign of Henry IV
Tipping his comb so the wattle beneath was exposed, the rooster stood atop the stone wall and crowed as I crossed the yard. Wrapping my shawl tightly and striding quickly, my breath was a stream of pearlescence against the coming dawn. The ground crunched, each footstep loud in the still air. As I neared the coop, the soft clucks of the chickens disturbed the peace, followed by snuffling pigs who began to trail my path, searching for something edible where my heel cracked the white mantle of snow. I missed the hounds’ enthusiastic welcome, but assumed Adam must have risen early to walk them.
Pushing open the brewery door and inhaling the rich malty scent that clung to the place the way woodsmoke does clothes, I lit the candles, stoked the kiln, and, as I did every time a brew was ready to be barreled, sang the ale to life.
Lowering my arm into the cold mixture, I sucked the air in through my teeth. Before long, I’d shucked off my tiredness and relished the way the liquid caressed my flesh, adhered to my arm, covering me in a protective layer. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I fancied the fluid grew warm with each verse. Out the window, the sky slowly transformed, the gray swallowed by a whispering palette of rosy pinks and soft yellows before a band of gold fired the horizon. Lost in reverie as I sang, my mind drifted back to last night and the moment Sir Leander kissed me.
It had been so unexpected, and yet, as his lips touched mine, it was as if I too had been sung into life.
A sweet feeling blossomed in my core, my song deepening as I relived the sensations summoned from my body. I remembered the taste of cloves and wine upon his warm, firm lips, his liquid tongue . . . Oh dear Lord, his tongue . . . The scent of pine, the comforting odor of velvet, and something that I couldn’t identify, something that belonged just to him clinging to his doublet. I recalled the silky feel of his hair sweeping my cheek as we closed the distance between us and, earlier, as we moved across the floor, united in our dance in a way that we could never be in life. A tremble shook me. Shutting my eyes, I allowed one arm to drift in the now-tepid ale, while the other tightened around my middle, imagining that it was Sir Leander holding me once more.
A shout brought me back to my senses. My eyes flew open and, finishing the song as quickly as I dared, I withdrew my arm, studying the pale ale, fancying that it wasn’t the sunlight stealing through the window alone making it glow, but the heat and ridiculous hope roiling in my soul.
If my offering to the corner crones and goddess was not as measured as usual, I knew they’d forgive me. The house was astir and the call I’d heard earlier now echoed about the yard. Frowning, I wiped my arm and hands on a cloth and went to the door. I was about to pull it open when it was wrenched from my hands.
“Morning, Mistress Sheldrake.” Sleep-tousled and rather heavy-eyed, Westel flashed me his customary grin, touched his ever-present cap, and, tucking in his shirt, staggered down the stairs and wended past the tuns and troughs to the malthouse.
“Good morning, Westel.” I peered around the door. Dressed in cloaks, Adam, Saskia, and Iris were shouting for the hounds. “Is everything all right?”
Westel shrugged. “It’s the dogs, mistress. They’re missing. Adam thinks something’s happened to them.” He scratched his head. “They probably became fed up with waiting and took themselves for a walk; it’s well after prime.”
Frowning at Westel, who shrugged, heaved off his boots, picked up the shovel, and descended to the malthouse, I glanced back outside. There was an urgency to Adam’s stride as he marched around the yard, to the way he cupped his hands about his mouth and shouted.
“I’ll be back shortly,” I said to Westel. “Can you stir the mash as well, please?” I ran outside.
There was no sign of Iris, and Adam slipped out the church gate before I could reach him. Spinning around helplessly, I saw Saskia. She was ignoring the pigs grunting at her feet, her eyes screwed up against the sun, her mouth grim.
“Oh, Mistress Anneke.” She wrung her hands. “The hounds have gone. Normally, that wouldn’t be such a worry, but their rope’s been cut and the gate’s open.” She pointed toward the alley.
I half-ran to the stables where the dogs were secured each night and bent down to inspect their bindings. Saskia followed.
“See?” She pointed at the neatly severed ends of rope. “That’s been done by a knife, and a sharp one at that.” I glanced over my shoulder toward the gates. One was ajar—just wide enough for the dogs to slip through. “Someone’s taken them . . .”
“But they wouldn’t go with just anyone,” I protested. “The gate’s been left open plenty of times and the dogs have slipped their rope before. Someone had to have lured them out of the yard.” I studied the ground. Fresh snow had fallen overnight. There were no prints except for the scuffed marks of boots—ours. “Or forced them out . . .”
“That’s what Adam thinks,” said Saskia. “He’s taken Will and they’ve gone into the woods. He said they’ll come back along the bay. Iris is combing the nearby streets.”
In the distance, I could hear their voices. Images of my two great shaggy hounds, their wiry coats, their gentle brown eyes and lolling tongues, rose in my mind. Please, God, don’t let anything have happened to them. But hounds like Patroclus and Achilles were valuable—good hunting dogs, they’d sell in a market. Not here in Elmham Lenn, where everyone knew who owned them, but the markets at Bishop’s Lynn and Norwich were not out of the question.
“If Adam returns, tell him I’ve gone to search as well—only, I’ll go into town. You never know. Someone may have seen them.” Or who took them. “I’ll head straight for the square and then come back past St. Nichols and up Gold Street. If he finds them, please send someone to fetch me; I’ll send word should I be so fortunate.”
Saskia held my arm. “Mistress Anneke, leave it to Adam and Will. What if—” She left the thought unsaid.
“I have to, Saskia. They were Adam’s gift after Mother’s death. They too are family.”
Saskia nodded. Though she’d often complain about the beasts, their noise and smell, I knew she loved them. With a sigh, she released me.
“When the twins wake, don’t tell them what’s happened.” Re-plaiting my hair, I tucked it firmly beneath my kerchief. “Once we find them, they’ll be none the wiser.”
Saskia bit her lip.
I clutched her hands and then turned to leave.
“Wait! You can’t go on your own,” she called as I raced toward the house to grab extra layers.
“I’ll take Westel,” I shouted back. “He’ll need a cloak and gloves. Tell him he’ll find me out front on Market Street.”
With a brisk nod, Saskia raced to the brewery.
&n
bsp; * * *
We never found a trace of the hounds that day or in the ones that followed. It was as if they’d melted away like spring snow. Westel and I searched until nightfall, our voices hoarse, our steps ragged, the brewhouse forgotten as I grew more distraught with each passing hour. If it hadn’t been for Westel, I would have given up long before, but he encouraged me to keep searching, to hope. Fetching a drink when I thirsted, buying a pie from a street vendor that he insisted I share with him, he was a good and loyal companion that day and I would not easily forget that.
Finding me in town, Tobias and Sir Leander joined the hunt as well, entering darker alleys, questioning the women and men who lolled in corners and on stoops, but to no avail.
We were a subdued household that night. Not even the twins’ delighted squeals as they received and gave gifts could penetrate the mantle of gloom that settled over my heart. My eyes continued to stray to where the dogs used to lie, close to Adam, and the way his hand dropped to his side, his caress meeting only empty air, was a cruel reminder our hounds were gone.
Deep in my heart, I knew who was to blame. Brother Osbert’s warning echoed through me.
After the twins went to bed, I found it hard to settle. The false jollity of Louisa, Iris, and Westel, even the efforts of Tobias and Sir Leander, both of whom had tirelessly searched and were now simply attempting to divert the rest of us with their songs and stories, irritated me. Rather than spoil their kindness, I excused myself and went to the office. I was in no mood for music or even food. My appetite had fled along with my goodwill toward men. I needed a diversion, something upon which to focus, something I could control. Prodding the fire back to life and illuming a couple of rushlights, I pulled out the piece of paper upon which I had calculated how much ale and beer needed to be sold to ensure a profit when I opened the alehouse.
But I wasn’t in the right frame of mind for figures and facts either. Pushing the document away, I opened the shutters between the office and the shop, leaning on the lintel. As my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, I began to picture the space as an alehouse. To imagine how it would look and feel when it was filled with people buying and drinking not only my ale, but beer as well. I knew I was playing with the laws, that like London brewers, I should be choosing to sell one or the other but, until my patrons decided whether they’d like beer, until I knew whether it was worth my while, there was no point trying to sell it alone in Elmham Lenn. A tankard or mazer, even a jug in an alehouse, however, was viable. When it came to new products, caution was a sound business partner.
Already there were two low tables and a few stools in the middle of the room, and a long bench tucked under the large table I used to conduct transactions. I would only need a few more seats and tables to create the right kind of atmosphere. The logs we’d used as stools after Hiske left would suffice until I had the funds to purchase proper ones. Likewise, we could move a couple of the small tables from the hall into the tavern. Sconces were screwed into the walls and, once torches burned in these, a good light would be cast. The hearth on the north wall was usable again since the chimney sweep had cleared it of the gulls’ nests and rodents. Altogether, it wasn’t a big room, but it was adequate for my purposes. I began to plan how I would notify folk that an alehouse was in operation. A poster in the square on market days, a word in a few traders’ ears, and, of course, a sign. Master Proudfellow would let his patrons know, especially as I intended to give him additional ale for the service, while a couple of the nearby inns might also point some customers in our direction, for the right price. Dipping the quill in the ink, I began to design how I would arrange the tables, exactly how many more I would need. I drew benches, stools, and a service area behind which the drinks would be poured and mazers, tankards, and wooden trenchers for basic food could be stored. I began to tally up how many trenchers I would need, how much, if any, wine I would purchase, the number of goblets, napkins, and spoons I’d require. Delyth and Awel had already expressed an interest in serving; Will and Iris as well. Westel would do anything I asked. The thought made me smile. Able to push aside my misery, I wasn’t aware the office door had opened until Tobias leaned over my shoulder.
“What’s this?” he asked.
I leapt in fright, my hand gripping my chest. The wisp of rushlight flickered and almost went out. “Tobias!”
He gave a laugh and placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I was worried. You looked so melancholy back there.” He jerked his head toward the hall. “I guessed you wanted time alone, but I wanted to say goodbye. Leander does as well. We sail to Gascony tomorrow.” He glanced through the open shutters. “It’s dark outside and no doubt we’ll be accosted by the night’s watch and asked to explain why we’re abroad.”
“Let me fetch you a lantern,” I said, not moving. Without intending to, I released a long sigh.
“What’s bothering you, Anneke? It’s not only the dogs, is it? I don’t have to be on my way just yet . . .” Slipping onto the stool opposite me, he rested his elbows on the desk, regarding me earnestly.
“Oh, Tobias. It’s just—” I shrugged, then shook my head, staring into the flames. “I know to some people they’re only dogs, but they’re more than that—in so many ways.” I searched for the right way to explain. “It’s what their absence means that’s affecting me most of all. They’re another loss, aren’t they?” I used my fingers as a tally. “Mother loses all those babies, then she dies. Father is lost at sea, we lose the rights to his business, and, just when I’m getting to know you all over again, I’m about to lose you too . . . Oh, I know I’m being silly, that you have a life, you’re a squire to a merchant knight, you travel all the time. It’s just . . . well”—my eyes flickered to the corridor—“who knows when I’ll see you again?” I dropped my hands into my lap, blinking fast. “I sometimes wonder if that’s to be our destiny, or, at least, my fate. To always lose things . . . people . . .”
Tobias knelt at my feet and took my hands into his own. “How can you think such a thing?”
I raised miserable eyes to his. “If truth be told, with small effort, Tobias. The proof is all around me.” I choked back a sob.
He tightened his fingers around mine, rose and placed an arm about my shoulders. “But, Anneke,” he said, his chin resting on top of my head, “you’ve also gained so much. Look at your business, it’s doing very well. You managed to secure a loan from Lord Rainford and, to hear Leander talk, that’s nigh on a miracle.” I bit back a laugh. “That’s more like it! And you’ve won the respect of the locals—why, Father Clement can’t say enough good things about you, neither can Captain Stoyan, Hugh Baker, Peter Goddard, Master Larkspur, and Master Proudfellow, never mind Master Miller and Olive.” He lowered his lips to my hair. “Even Sir Leander thinks you’re worthy of esteem and that’s no small concession coming from him.”
I raised watery eyes to my brother. “Sir Leander?” I made a harrumphing noise. “I doubt that.”
“Aye, the very one. He speaks very highly of you and that’s rare, Anneke. He’s not one to engage in flattery.”
“Oh, I know.” I twisted so Tobias was forced to drop his arm, release my hands. “Do you know the first time he met me, he called me a whore?”
“He what?” Tobias’s mouth fell open. He leaned back. “Well, that explains . . . Never!”
“He did.”
Tobias ran his fingers through his dark hair. “I believe you, it’s just . . . well, unfair.” There was a false note in his rather glib response. I tried to meet his eyes, but he was evasive. I felt his weight shift where his body still touched mine. “So, what is this you’re doing?” He dragged the drawing I’d been working on toward the light.
“Oh.” I glanced over. “Some ideas for the alehouse.”
It wasn’t the cold silence that followed my statement that warned me, rather it was as if the air both chilled and contracted.
“The what?” Tobias’s words reverberated like
the toll of a bell.
Oh dear Lord. I laughed nervously. “The alehouse. Remember? I told you last night. In order to make enough money to pay Lord Rainford, I’ve decided to—”
“Are you completely mad?” Tobias’s voice was a whip that cracked between us. He pushed the parchment away, placed one arm on the back of my chair and the other on the desk, trapping me. He lowered his head so his face was only inches from mine. “Through the fug of wine and ale, I thought you were jesting. But you’re serious, aren’t you? You can’t open an alehouse, Anneke! What on God’s earth are you thinking? Has brewing gone to your head?”
“Of course not. It’s just we’re not making enough money to cover the wages and the lease. If I was able to sell direct to customers as well as distribute larger quantities, I’ve worked out I will make more than enough to cover expenses and increase profits at least fivefold.”
Tobias shook his head, repugnance transforming his features. Pinning the paper to the desk with a heavy finger, he frowned. “Brewing is one thing, but turning this house, our home”—he waved his arms—“into an alehouse that any knave can enter is something altogether different. I won’t have it, Anneke. You’re to discard this foolish notion. I tolerated the brewing; after all, Mother used to do it. It’s not entirely disreputable, despite what Cousin Hiske says. But an alehouse? That’s completely different.”
Standing abruptly, I knocked his arms away, pushed past him, and stood before the fire. I’d expected resistance, but not another assertion of brotherly authority. Bitterness and injustice warred within me. I knew I should remind him of his promise to trust my judgment, to support me, but fury wouldn’t allow for compromise.
“I’m not turning my home into anything. I’m simply using the commercial part to trade in a different business. You of all people should understand that. As for worrying about who might frequent an alehouse, you’ve been listening to too many stories, or the wrong sort. Master Proudfellow, not to mention his wife, Jocelyn, have no such complaints and they’ve been running a tavern for years. And what about Mistress Amwell and Mistress Scot? They’ve had no cause—”
