The Lady Brewer of London

by Karen Brooks

  I stayed a moment longer before deciding it was time to prepare myself. Running up the stairs, I looked at the freshly washed kirtle and tunic draped over my bed. They’d once been Mother’s. One could not serve patrons in the color of death; it was time to cast off our mourning attire. Emerald green and sapphire blue, the latter recalled to me the color of Leander Rainford’s eyes. I reached over and stroked the material. Fancy him writing to me like that. I hadn’t imagined it—he was sorry for what he called me. Recalling the pressure of his fingers, the feel of his lips, was it possible, could it be that . . . I dared to hope again.

  Extracting the letter from where I’d folded it against my bosom, I pressed it in my palm then against my mouth, before opening my chest and tucking it beneath my undergarments.

  If I could prove to Sir Leander, a man of firm convictions, I was no whore, then how hard would it be to demonstrate the same to others, alehouse or naught?

  Dipping a cloth in the water Iris had delivered to the room, I began to wash, pushing thoughts of Tobias and our angry, cruel words aside, my head filled with ocean-blue eyes and a dazzling smile.

  * * *

  Reluctant though I was to call our first evening as the Cathaline Alehouse an unbridled success, all the evidence confirmed it: the number of customers pouring through the door, their gaiety and goodwill, praise for the ale—and even the beer, which was eagerly tried, though only a few chose to drink it exclusively, preferring the taste of the familiar—never mind the coin that now rattled in the tin. Music, food, laughter, and conversation flowed along with the amber liquid from the moment we officially opened our doors until the last patron left before curfew sounded. Not only did regular buyers of our ale attend, but many curious new customers as well as travelers who had entered through the city gates from the south and encountered us as the first establishment. Pilgrims, monks, hawkers, a troupe of traveling players making their way along the east coast before heading to York, a couple of knights and their squires, even some bargemen and their wives popped in and remained a goodly while. Sitting at the tables or on the window seats, leaning against the wall, or simply standing, it didn’t take long for the room to feel crowded. The strange thing about groups of people is that they attract more, so even when some left, others quickly replaced them. Amidst them were Master Perkyn and Olive, who enveloped me in a huge hug; Hugh the baker; Simon Attenoke; Master Larkspur, briefly; and, much to my surprise, Master Allistair Gretting, the ale-conner. Of Betrix and Master Fortescue there was no sign, but I didn’t expect Betrix to come to an alehouse, even if it was run by me. Master Fortescue couldn’t endorse what the friary did not, so his absence was regrettable but understandable.

  I could barely keep up with demand, and every time I checked on the servants, either Iris and Awel were bringing more food from the kitchen or Westel was tapping another barrel. Will served drinks with great cheer and, when able, Westel roamed the tables with a brimming jug, encouraging customers to drink up. When Will brought out his flute and Adam appeared with his gittern, there was clapping, stamping, and calls for songs to be sung, poems to be recited. Lost in the atmosphere, I stood near the table from which we served the drinks, swaying to the melodies.

  By the time we closed and tidied, collecting the crushed and dirty rushes and throwing them into the ditch outside, turning over the tablecloths that couldn’t be salvaged for use another night, and taking the dirty mazers, tankards, and goblets (though many patrons had, as was usual, brought their own) to the scullery to be cleaned, I left Westel and Iris to lock the door, staunch the fire, and snuff out the candles. Will was checking the gates, while Adam was ensuring no patrons hovered outside before putting Shelby to bed and ensuring the pigs and chickens were safe. First thanking Saskia and Blanche, the Parry sisters having been escorted home before dark, I then climbed the stairs to look in on the twins. Exhausted, I was also filled with a glow of excitement, the heat of success. The alehouse had operated more smoothly and more successfully than I dreamed. Oh, Tobias, I wish you could have been here. Holding a candle aloft, I entered the nursery.

  The rise and fall of the twins’ chests told me they were asleep before their quiet breaths and sweet, dream-sent smell did. I pulled aside the curtain and sat gingerly on the edge of the mattress. Betje rolled toward me and I lifted her back into the center. Snuggling into her brother, they slept face to face, their full, pink mouths slightly open, their silver curls peeping from beneath their sleeping caps. I tugged the furs higher and tucked them around their throats, leaving soft kisses on their cheeks. They stirred briefly, settling back into slumber. I felt the surge of protectiveness that their innocence and trust in me always aroused. It brought tears to my eyes and prayers to my lips.

  “How was it, mistress?” asked a sleepy voice from the foot of the bed. Bleary-eyed, Louisa sat up, the ends of her cap falling over one shoulder.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” I whispered, rising swiftly. “It went very well. Now, go back to sleep.”

  “God bless you, mistress. I’m so happy for you,” said Louisa, beaming at me as she lay back down. “You deserve happiness. As Mary is the Holy Mother, you do.”

  With a full heart, I took the candle and tiptoed out. As I shut the nursery door, a hand touched my shoulder. I spun around. It was Will.

  “Mis—Mistress Sheldrake! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “It’s all right, Will,” I said, waiting for my heart to return to normal. “I was . . . lost in imaginings. What is it?” I asked. Will didn’t often come to this part of the house.

  “I was wondering, Mistress Sheldrake, may I’ve a word? In private?”

  More startled by this than his sudden appearance, I gestured for Will to lead the way. “Let’s go to the solar. There’s no fire, but we won’t be disturbed.”

  “Thank you, mistress.”

  The solar was cold and dark. Taking a rug from the back of one of the chairs, I first put the candle between us and threw the blanket to Will, urging him to cover himself. Hesitating, he sat in the seat opposite, tucked the blanket around his lap and plucked at his lower lip. I found another cover and wrapped it around my legs.

  Waiting for him to speak, I rested my hands on the arms of the chair, remembering how, for a few weeks, I’d believed these pieces of furniture gone for good until Sir Leander organized their return. The thought made me smile and it was with this expression that I gave my attention to Will, even as I absentmindedly stroked the wood.

  “Now, what is it you want to speak to me about?”

  In the candlelight, Will’s sandy hair glistened and the freckles that dotted his face blurred into a golden perfection the daylight hours disallowed. “Well, mistress, I don’t like to tell tales, and this may be nothing, but when it happened again, I felt you should know.”

  “When what happened?”

  Will’s eyes flashed to the door. He wrung his hands together then leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Westel passing notes.”

  I stared at him confused. “What do you mean?”

  “I first saw it before Christmas. Westel was in the shop, helping sell ale, when a couple of men I’ve never seen before came in. They waited until Westel was free. I was busy fixing Master Larkspur with his ale and Westel was chatting to Olive. I asked him to tap a barrel, and that was when they pulled him aside.”

  “That’s not unusual, is it?”

  “It ain’t usual either, mistress, not for strangers to take such an interest. I mean, what could they be saying that couldn’t be spoken in front of me? They were whispering and waving their arms about. Anyhow, I didn’t think too much about it until, first, I heard your name mentioned—”

  “But I’m the brewster, Will.”

  “Nay, not by Westel, by one of these men. Then I saw Westel pass a note. He thought I didn’t see, he waited till I left the room, but I stopped in the corridor, hoping to discover what they were talking about and he did it then.”

  “I still don’t see why
this is important. I mean, perhaps they were people Westel knew?”

  “Oh, he knew ’em, all right. But that’s not why I’m here, not the sole reason. I mentioned it to Adam and he said I was to keep an eye on Westel, and I have been. Until tonight, I saw nothing untoward, unless I count those letters he received . . .”

  I let that slide. All the servants received correspondence. With the exception of Adam and Westel, the others required me to read it to them. It vexed Will that Westel didn’t need my services and that his letters remained private. He saw it as a personal slight.

  “Did you see those brothers what come in, mistress?”

  “I did.” It was hard to miss them with their black robes and heavy crosses. “Well, Awel was serving them when, lo and behold, just as the music starts, I see Westel pass another note. Not in an open way either. He held it beneath the trencher. I wouldn’t have seen it except the monk he gave it to had had too much to drink and it slipped from his fingers. He bent down to pick it up and I saw it clear as the ears on Father Clement’s head.” He tweaked a lobe to emphasize his point.

  I wanted to reassure Will there was nothing to be concerned about, but passing a note to monks—especially Benedictines—didn’t sit comfortably with me. What possible reason would Westel have to do that? Having them in my establishment was cause enough for concern and I’d been careful to ensure they were served swiftly. I’d no doubt they were there to spy on me. So why would Westel be passing notes? Mayhap they weren’t from St. Jude’s but were old friends from the friary in Norwich. That must be it.

  Will was watching me with wary eyes. “Sometimes, mistress, he also wanders the house at night. I wake and he’s not in our room. I don’t always hear him come back, but when I do, I know he’s been gone a while.” I wasn’t sure what to say. There could be a perfectly reasonable explanation for that as well.

  “I didn’t want to worry you, but I thought you should know.”

  “Thank you, Will, thank you. I appreciate it.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Do?” I stood up, folding the blanket and placing it on the seat. “What any rational person does in these situations—seek the truth.”

  Will neatly folded his rug and laid it across the stool.

  “I’ll ask Westel.”

  The expression on Will’s face caught me unawares. There was a flash of what I can only describe as concern before it changed into a mask of obedience.

  “Aye, mistress,” he said and, with a small bow, went to leave. As he reached the door, he turned, one hand on the frame. “Only, be careful, won’t you? I don’t think Westel is what you think he is.”

  “What do you think he is, Will?”

  The darkness between us tightened.

  “Dangerous.”

  Twenty-Six

  Holcroft House

  Approaching Lent

  The year of Our Lord 1406 in the seventh year of the reign of Henry IV

  Over a week passed before I’d a chance to speak to Westel and, when I did, it was in the brewery, where we were both occupied, as the mash tun, malt, and wort took precedence. Nonetheless, Westel wasn’t upset by my question.

  “It was a chance for me to let Brother Roland know I’m in fine hands,” he said, pausing over a tray of dried malt, the steam from the hot grain moistening his face. Pushing his hair off his forehead, his eyes crinkled at the corners.

  “I’m happy you think so, Westel.” I paused. “So, you wrote a message to Brother Roland?”

  “Aye, and asked the monks to carry it. Is there a problem, Mistress Sheldrake?”

  I’d never spoken to Westel about the brothers, Abbot Hubbard, or his threats to undermine my efforts. Talk among the servants and in the town would mean he wasn’t completely ignorant. I decided it was time to tell him. Briefly, I spoke of what happened—Brother Osbert’s visits, his offers and my refusal to sell, the damage done to Master Perkyn’s place, and even my misgivings about the dogs’ disappearance, that it too was an attempt to warn me away from ale-making. Westel listened, his large eyes growing rounder.

  “How dare they,” he said between clamped teeth. “As God is my witness, the monks of St. Rebecca’s would never condone such practices, such tactics. Oh, mistress, no wonder you were worried about the notes. I’m so very sorry. If it will reassure you, I’ll never speak to them again.”

  I looked at his earnest face. “Nay. Nay, Westel, there’s no problem.” The man was entitled to speak and write to whom he wanted. I’d allowed my prejudice and Will’s to gnaw at me.

  Holding my gaze a moment, he gave a nod and returned to work. I watched him a little longer. Hefting the tray to the table to cool, he went about his tasks, picking up the shovel and entering the malthouse. His relaxed manner and readiness to explain banished the last of any suspicions I’d been harboring.

  Turning back to the mash, I didn’t raise the issue of wandering about the house; after all, there was probably a perfectly reasonable and private explanation for this as well. And what did it matter anyway? In my own mind, I put Will’s concern down to jealousy. There was no doubt that since Westel’s arrival, the attention Will once received from the female servants, and probably me as well, had been reduced. No longer was he the only young man in the house. Furthermore, they shared a room. I hadn’t considered it before today, but the more deeply I thought, I could see the jealousy—the disdainful glances Will would flash, how he’d roll his eyes or mutter under his breath if Westel spoke, often exchanging a meaningful look with Adam. I didn’t have time to pander to Will’s pride and thought that learning to live and work with another man would teach Will some valuable lessons in both cooperation and humility. I determined to speak to Adam about this and enlist his support. I did not want my servants at loggerheads.

  * * *

  First days, then weeks went by in a flurry of activity and, before I knew it, it was spring and Lent with all its strict observances arrived—observances that were occasionally overlooked within the confines of the alehouse. From dawn until the alehouse closed just before curfew, I was consumed by all things brewing. And when I wasn’t preoccupied with boiling wort; making sure the right quantities of additives, including hops, were placed in the vat; or getting to the brewhouse before anyone stirred so I could sing the ale and now beer to life; or serving what I’d made, I was toting up figures, paying creditors, ordering barley, making certain requisitions were filled and customers satisfied.

  The only interruption to my otherwise steady routine occurred in the mornings. For some time, I’d been unable to shake the impression I was being observed. Rising early and going to the brewery had become such a solitary and accustomed habit, it took me a while to pay attention to my feelings. Without the dogs to warn me if someone was coming, I was more conscious of listening out for Westel or the Parry sisters’ arrival. I pricked my ears but not, initially, my other senses. When I did, I felt as if I was wading in cobwebs; as if invisible fingers were caressing my flesh, tugging at the roots of my hair. I was certain I was being spied upon.

  Yet, though I kept the doors closed and one eye on the window when performing the ancient rites, the feeling remained. The displeasure of the corner crones, who didn’t like our customs to be seen, was palpable. I worked hard to appease them and yet . . . no matter what precautions I took, no matter how careful I was to check no one else was about, I couldn’t shake the notion I was being watched.

  But if I was, why could I see no one?

  When Westel stumbled in some time after the sun rose, rubbing his face and stifling yawns, I’d ask him if anyone was about.

  “Nay, Mistress Sheldrake,” he’d say, scratching his head. “It’s just you and me.” Then he’d flash that broad smile and I’d try to dismiss my worries.

  After a while, it became a game to him. “Feel any eyes upon you this morning, Mistress Sheldrake?” he’d ask as he entered the brewery.

  With a hollow laugh, I would shrug and feel more than a little foolish and, after
a time, the sensation dulled or, as I suspected, I became accustomed to it. Nonetheless, though the days lengthened, I took to rising even earlier and satisfying the crones and the needs of the ale while it was still dark.

  Whenever possible, I’d spend time with the twins. Often, in the middle of the day, I’d leave the brewery and alehouse to the others and accompany Louisa and the children on a walk along the bay or in the woods behind the church. Sometimes, Father Clement would join us and it was on these occasions I could put aside my concerns and lose myself in the joy of the children as they kicked rivulets in the melting snow, chased a daring rabbit, spied a robin or lark, and, as springtime blossomed, happened upon birds’ nests and eggs. If we strolled by the ocean, we’d cast pebbles into the water, pass the time counting the number of caravels drifting in the harbor, or collect shells to bring home.

  While Tobias’s prediction that the alehouse would become a den of vice didn’t eventuate, I could no longer ignore how my reputation in town had suffered as a consequence. Though we’d only been open a few months, there was a distinct shift in the manner of the vendors in town. Where once the men would treat me with a deference due to my position as a Sheldrake, some took to gazing at me boldly as I handed over coin or argued about the price of a coney, halibut, or spices. It was as if they wanted to say something else but didn’t yet dare. Whether it was the presence of Adam or Westel by my side, I never knew, but I sensed the change, and though I continued to behave as I’d always done, something important had been lost.

  Women were more obvious. Some whom I’d known well when my mother was alive, and who, in the past, had visited our solar, sat at our table, or invited us to theirs, turned away on sighting me. But it wasn’t until Betrix and her mother made a point of changing direction when they saw me as I was leaving Master Proudfellow’s one day that I knew for certain those small differences I’d detected in people’s behavior were real. Betrix didn’t even look over her shoulder; there was no reassuring glance or smile, just the back of her ruby mantle and the kick of her hem as her leather boots scurried out of sight. After that, I searched for excuses to avoid going to town, sending a servant in my stead.