by Karen Brooks
If no one would forgive me, then I had nothing to lose.
* * *
We reopened the alehouse, but it was subdued. Though there was plenty of ale to sell and barrels of beer, custom was slow, patrons few, and coins sparse. As each day passed with only a handful of pennies and groats trickling in, I grew increasingly anxious. Lord Rainford’s monies were due in less than a month.
With just over a week to go till Easter, I pressed Master Proudfellow for any reasons (apart from the obvious) as to why folk were avoiding us. Standing outside the brewhouse, we watched Westel and Kip roll a barrel of ale out to Master Proudfellow’s cart. I was grateful for his continued support at least.
Reluctant to answer at first, Master Proudfellow finally confessed. “There be two reasons as far as I can tell, Mistress Sheldrake.” He waited till the men were out of earshot. Taking his cap off, he scratched his tufted head, squinting in the spring sunshine. It was a glorious day, the first really sunny one we’d had in weeks. Above us, the sky was a soft blue, the clouds mere wisps that garlanded the endless dome. Our chickens roosted beneath the shade of the old wych-elm, the sun, as it broke through the foliage, dappling their feathers. The pigs quietly foraged in the spent mash. Birds wheeled above us and bees hummed among the flowerbeds. With all the color and new life around, I felt better equipped to handle unpleasant news, though Master Proudfellow clearly didn’t want to be the one to deliver it. Looking around, he drank in our surroundings, as if to draw strength from their beauty.
“First, Will’s death, may God assoil him”—he crossed himself and I followed suit—“it scared many. His killer or killers not being caught simply adds to the misfortune that some say haunts the place.” He waved his cap in circles.
“The alehouse?”
“Nay, Mistress Sheldrake.” He twisted his cap into a knot. “I mean yourself.” He stared meaningfully. “They swear that fortune is not your friend. They believe God has abandoned you.”
“I see.”
“It’s not fair, I know, but then, these things aren’t, are they? Feelings, I mean. We’re a superstitious lot at the best of times and, once the rumor starts that God’s forsaken you, well, even those who don’t normally abide by such nonsense start to consider mayhap they should as well.”
I took a deep breath. Though not surprised, his words were hard to hear. “And what’s the other reason? You said there were two.”
“Eh? Oh. Aye, well . . . while I don’t like to speak ill of any of your family, there be one not helping matters.”
I cocked my head. “And who might that be, Master Proudfellow?” The way I asked indicated I knew already.
“Aye, it be Mistress Makejoy. She’s let it be known that she’s cut all ties with you—”
“Cut? She’s denied me, Master Proudfellow, just as Peter denied the good Lord. So, don’t concern yourself, you’re not speaking ill of anyone related to me.”
Master Proudfellow examined the toe of his boot. “If that’s the way the wind blows . . .” He paused. “She’s also said—” He pulled his top lip a couple of times.
“What? I would rather know than remain in ignorance. After all, if I’m to run a business, I need to know what my customers think or what they’re being told to.”
“Forgive me for repeating this, but she says you’re a stain that will spread and mark any who come into contact with you. That your ale and that sour drink—her words, Mistress Sheldrake, not mine, I’ve grown quite partial to the beer—you make is contaminated. She tells everyone who will listen and, in Elmham Lenn, there’re many.”
We fell into silence, the only sound the rumble of the wood on gravel and the grunts of the men as they hefted the barrel into the cart. A lone bird circled high above.
“There, I told you. I feel no better for having done so.” He replaced his cap, giving it a tug for good measure. “You’re not to listen to that rubbish, Mistress Sheldrake. That Mistress Makejoy’s poison—one draft and all who taste it will suffer blight.” With a huff of indignation, Master Proudfellow folded his arms.
I began to laugh.
“Begging your pardon, mistress, but I hardly see the funny side.”
“Don’t you? Oh, Master Proudfellow, according to the town, I’m a stain, and to hear you tell, my cousin is poison. Seems to me that between us, we’re an affliction worse than the pestilence.”
Master Proudfellow’s lips twitched, then he too began to chuckle. “I doubt she’d see it like that. But I know which disease I’d rather catch.” We both laughed then and I rested a hand briefly on his forearm, grateful for his frankness. No matter how much I pressed Saskia and Adam whenever they returned from town, they wouldn’t tell me what was being said. When Louisa stopped taking the children to see the troupes of actors passing through on their way up the coast for Eastertide, I knew things were worse than I’d feared. Hiske and her twisted tongue I could live with—I was accustomed to her ways—but not her influence. As for superstition, I could hardly blame folk for feeling that way. Even before Father died, ill fortune dogged our family—it wasn’t until he’d passed that I understood how much.
With a sigh, I pocketed the pennies Master Proudfellow paid and, saying my farewells, set Westel to stirring the mash. I went to the office to deposit the coin in the tin and, for the umpteenth time that week, added up the ledgers.
Not even Good Friday and Easter Sunday broke what had become a daily habit: tallying up the coin, adding up the columns, hoping and praying for an increase in sales that would allay my growing fear. The figures barely changed from day to day, but so long as there was something to place into the credit column, I could persuade myself that our goal of paying the lease was coming closer, even as I knew the only person I was fooling was myself.
Just before sext on Easter Monday, I left Westel tending the boiling wort and went to the house. Saskia met me at the door to the kitchen.
“There’s a gentleman to see you.”
“Who?” I wasn’t expecting anyone.
“Sir Rainford.”
“Sir Rainford?” My hand flew to my mouth. “Why didn’t you say?” I quickly undid my apron and threw it on the bench. “Does he have refreshment? Where is he?”
“Adam is with him and, ja, he and his squire have drinks.”
Bending in front of a large upturned pot, I tried to see my reflection, straighten my kerchief, tidy my hair. My heart was beating and my throat dry. It took a moment to register Saskia’s words. “His squire? Is Tobias here too?” I swung around.
“Mistress Anneke,” said Saskia, shooing Blanche and Iris, who, seeing me so flustered, had paused in their tasks. “Anneke”—she laid her fingers against my wrist—“it’s not Sir Leander Rainford who’s here. It’s the other one.”
“The other?” I stared at her. “Who?”
“The elder brother, I believe, Sir Symond. He says he’s here on behalf of his father. Mistress”—she lowered her voice—“he told Adam he’s here to collect the lease monies. That it’s time to honor the contract.”
I stared at her in horror. “Today? But he’s at least a week early.”
Saskia bit her lip.
The blood fled from my face. “If that’s the case,” I said, my shoulders slumping, “we’re doomed.”
Twenty-Nine
Holcroft House
Easter Monday, eight days before Hocktide
The year of Our Lord 1406 in the seventh year of the reign of Henry IV
Erasing the despair from my face, I took a deep breath and entered the office. A tall man with dark hair, gray eyes, and a grossly misshapen nose rose languorously out of my father’s chair. Across his hips he wore a thick belt, and from it hung a huge scabbard from which an ornate and bejeweled hilt protruded. The size and evident seriousness of the weapon was at odds with the fashionable, almost frivolous, garments he wore. I noted the open ledger before him, the half-drunk mazer of ale. This man had made himself comfortable indeed.
In the corner stood ano
ther well-dressed, younger man.
“Sir Symond?” I asked, and bobbed a curtsy. “My lord, you are very welcome.”
“Indeed,” said Sir Symond, giving me a small bow and looking me up and down in the invasive manner particular to his family. “Sir Symond Rainford. This is my squire, Michael de Montefort.” I nodded to Master de Montefort, who barely acknowledged me, a look of disdain on his features. Shocked at such contempt from someone who was, at the least, my social equal, I turned back to Sir Symond. “And you must be Anneke Sheldrake.”
“My lord.” I lowered my head. I gestured to Adam, who stood to one side. “You’ve met Adam Barfoot, my steward.”
“I have.”
Before I could invite him, Sir Symond sat back down. I perched on the stool opposite, rearranging my tunic to cover my unease. Behind me, Adam and Master Michael stood at either end of the cold hearth. “How can I help you?” I asked.
“Come, come. I think you know why I’m here, Mistress Sheldrake.” Tipping his head to one side, he smiled, but it never reached his eyes.
“Even so, to avoid confusion, I’d be very grateful if you would inform me, my lord.”
Sir Symond appraised me as I imagined he would a horse or fatted calf. I wanted to rub my arms, my neck, but I forced my hands quiescent in my lap.
“Very well. I’m here on my father’s behalf to collect the annual dues for Holcroft House and lands. It’s my understanding that you”—he dwelled upon my décolletage, which I resisted covering—“and my father have a contract which expires at Hocktide.”
I willed him to look upon my face. When he did, I answered. “This is true, my lord. However, if I may be so bold, you’re a few days early. I assumed that collection would not take place until the day itself and so have not prepared my dues.” It was hard to keep the remonstration from my tone. “I was expecting to make payment on Hocktide. By my calculation, I still have eight more days.”
“You’re mistaken, Mistress Sheldrake.”
“I do not think so, my lord. Your father—”
“Entrusted me to examine your books and collect all monies owing and that’s what I’m here to do. You have too much to say for yourself, Mistress Sheldrake. He warned me as much.” He struck the desk with the flat of his hand, the noise loud and violent in the small space. I almost leaped off my seat. A vein in Sir Symond’s temple began to throb. It was then I noticed the scar that ran down the side of his face and across the upper part of his cheek. It was white and jagged, pulling the flesh into a ravine. I wondered if he’d received it in battle or from being struck across the face for want of manners. Certainly, he didn’t possess the charm of his younger brother or, for that matter, the polish of his father. What he did possess was an awareness of his social status and an ability to make me acutely aware of where I stood.
“Good,” he said, his lips, which were also ravaged by a deep split, curving into what might have passed for a smile. “Now that you’re listening, I will say this one more time only: I’m here to collect the rent.”
“My lord.” Adam stepped from the hearth.
“Was I addressing you?” snapped Sir Symond.
“Why, no, but my lord, I—”
“Will mind your place.” Sir Symond glowered at Adam. “As much as it disturbs me to do business with a woman, I’ll not discuss these matters with a servant.”
I inhaled sharply. Anger flooded every part of my body and it took all my control not to order this man from the room. I needed his cooperation, not his irritation. I could ill afford to give offense.
Half-twisting in my chair, I gave Adam a reassuring smile, even as I burned. “It’s all right, Adam, thank you. I’m sure Sir Symond and I can settle this.”
“There’s nothing to settle.” He drawled the last word and stood. “Michael, take Master Barfoot and conduct an inspection of the premises, would you? Father wants a report on the condition of the house.” The lie was as evident as his nose, but Sir Symond didn’t care.
Adam hesitated. Propriety demanded he didn’t leave me unchaperoned. Sir Symond clearly didn’t see it as a problem. To him, I was a mere tenant and due no such courtesy.
With a slight brush against my shoulder, which Sir Symond observed with an arch of his brow, Adam ushered Michael de Montefort from the office.
Waiting till his squire closed the door behind him, Sir Symond sank back into the chair and drank. “Where were we?” He smacked his lips together. “This is uncommonly good,” he muttered. “Oh, aye, the lease.”
Taking my time, I rose from my seat and moved to the hearth. I wanted distance between us. “The facts are, my lord, I cannot pay the lease in full today. I’m short by a small amount. However, I hope that by Hocktide I’ll have the requisite monies.”
Putting down the mazer, Sir Symond rested his elbows on the table and pressed his palms together in an attitude of prayer. He possessed long, thick fingers with calluses across the palm—the hands of someone used to wielding a sword. Famous for his bravery across Elmham Lenn and beyond—how he’d ridden at the king’s side at Shrewsbury, masqueraded as our monarch to confuse the enemy, single-handedly saving him when an arrow struck him in the face—stories of how Sir Symond earned his knighthood were well known. It was rumored he was about to be endowed with a greater honor as well, reward for his courage against the Welsh and his loyalty to the House of Lancaster. This was a man accustomed to victory.
I swallowed, feigning indifference to his bold gaze.
“Despite what Father and Leander told me”—his voice was quiet, amused—“you’re not what I expected.”
Leander had spoken of me to his brother? I knotted my fingers together. “I’m sorry to disappoint.”
“Disappoint?” Pushing back his chair, he stood and came around to the other side of the desk, the mazer small in his huge hand. “On the contrary, that’s not the word I’d have used. You’re nothing like your mother, not really . . .”
He knew my mother? His eyes were the color of the sea as it lapped the ships in port. I lowered mine. The conversation was heading down a dangerous path.
“The facts are, my lord”—I took a step toward the door, keeping my voice businesslike, trying not to let this man see how much he unnerved me—“as I wrote to your father and brother, we had an . . . an incident here. A tragedy, actually. One of my servants, Will Heymonger, was—”
“Murdered,” finished Sir Symond. “I was informed. I’m not sure why you see fit to raise it, Mistress Sheldrake, or why you wasted time appraising Father or Leander. It’s irrelevant. A contract is a contract and must be honored regardless of any inconvenience.”
My cheeks grew hot.
“Aye, my servant’s death was most inconvenient.” I spat the word and was rewarded with a flicker of those hard eyes. “It’s meant that not only have we been a hand short, but due to superstition and fear, custom has all but dried up and the monies I’d anticipated receiving have failed to materialize. In light of what’s happened, I’d hoped . . . rather, I’d intended to ask your father if I might change the terms of our contract.”
I’d never considered this. I was simply clutching at straws, thinking on the wing.
“Change them? Mistress Sheldrake, you’re clearly unfamiliar with—”
I swept on as if he hadn’t spoken.
“I intended to ask if I might pay Lord Rainford for the months already owed now and the months I owe in advance at a later date.” I ducked behind the desk and swung the ledger around to underline my point.
Sir Symond turned slowly, his face suffused with color. I pretended not to see.
“If you will look here, my lord, you will see that I can readily pay—”
“I’m afraid that will not do, Mistress Sheldrake. The terms of the contract are clear.” Placing down the drink, he reached into a coat pocket and produced a copy of the original, tossing it upon the desk and gesturing for me to read. “I suggest you familiarize yourself with what you and my father agreed upon once more.” O
ne side of his mouth curled, the contract becoming something vile.
I quickly unfurled and reread the parchment, glancing at my signature, thinking how foolish I’d been not to bargain harder, insist on more time. But then, I’d been in no position to ask for anything. Just as I wasn’t now . . .
Leaning over the desk, Sir Symond brought his face to within inches of mine. I could smell the ale on his breath, the sweat of his body, see the fine weave of his amber coat. “This states it’s all or nothing.” He jabbed the parchment. “It’s clear. As is your signature.” He ground my name into the vellum.
The terms were unambiguous. My heart sank until something caught my eye.
“You’re right, my lord.” I straightened, taking my hands away from the parchment and watching it twirl into a cylinder again. “We must abide by that upon which we sign our name. A contract is binding, is it not?”
“It is . . .” His words propelled him to the other side of the desk. Too late, I was trapped between the wall and Sir Symond. The only way to escape was to go over or under the desk. I was a fox cornered by a large, unpredictable hound. I determined not to show fear.
He put his thick, hot hand over mine where it rested on the desk and ran it up my arm, spreading his fingers so his thumb brushed against my breast. “You agreed to serve my father should you fail to make lease, serve him and his family at Scales Hall, the Rainford home that, in the very near future, will be mine . . .” Every part of me rebelled. I wanted to push him away, swipe his fingers from my body, leave his presence and never return. But I had one last card left to play.
I stopped his hand at my shoulder, lifting it away. “Aye, I did. And, should it come to that, I will honor my agreement. After all, as you say, we cannot change a contract to suit ourselves, not once it’s signed.” Pushing past him, I twisted his arm so he could not grab me, shoving him away, bumping the desk hard in my eagerness to be free.
