by Karen Brooks
Panting, one hand on the door, I faced him. He leaned against the wall, rubbing his wrist, unconcerned by my actions.
“Just as I cannot change the terms, neither can you. Lord Rainford and I agreed that rent would be due at Hocktide. That, my lord, means Tuesday next week. By my reckoning, and by the terms of the contract, I have just over a week in which to pay.” I grasped the door handle, staring at him defiantly.
“Listen, you slattern, you don’t dictate terms to me. I’m the lord here, I’m the one who gives orders.”
“Ah, my lord, you misunderstand. I’m not dictating terms. I’m merely following the ones that you’ve been at great pains to point out to me your father insisted you reinforce and I follow. If anything, I’m being your most humble and obedient servant.”
Pure fury swept over his face. “Why, you little bitch,” he began, raising his hand.
Wrenching open the door as fast as I could, I all but fell into the hall, heart pounding.
“Mistress Anneke.” Adam ran toward me. Following him at a more leisurely pace was Michael de Montefort, boredom personified. Relief swept over me. “Adam. Please escort Sir Symond to the door. Our business is concluded.”
“For today,” said a slow, deep voice behind me. “But understand this, Mistress Sheldrake. I’ll be back in a week and, if you want to keep this place, I will take what’s due. In one form”—his eyes slid over me—“or another.”
Along with his squire, he left through the shop.
I followed cautiously, remaining out of sight. As he mounted his large destrier, all I could think was that I had one week, one week before Holcroft House and what remained of my independence and my dignity were lost to me for good.
Thirty
Holcroft House
The week following Eastertide
The year of Our Lord 1406 in the seventh year of the reign of Henry IV
Over the next week, we worked relentlessly, even, God forgive me, eschewing mass in an effort to claw back time. But it didn’t seem to matter how much ale or beer we made or how low I dropped the prices in the alehouse, except for our stalwart regulars, a few pilgrims, sailors, and a couple of passing merchants, trade barely resumed. Adam went to the Saturday market to spread the word that our ale was half its usual price and the beer even less. Prepared to be inundated, nothing changed.
Determined not to let the others see how desperate the situation had become, I decided that on the morrow, taking Adam with me, I would load up the cart and head into Bishop’s Lynn. The bigger alehouses and taverns would open their doors on Sunday, the most sacred of days; folk still drank and would be searching for a cheap supply. As an unknown huckster, if I avoided the authorities, I could trade. It was a madcap scheme, but choices were diminishing.
* * *
With the bells marking the closing of the city gates about to ring, Simon Attenoke and the Millers dragged themselves off their stools and out into the setting sun. Once they left, there was no one remaining in the alehouse for whom I had to stay cheerful. It was all I could do not to sink into despair and wallow. Turning to mundane tasks to keep my mind busy, I insisted on sweeping the hearth and collecting the few used mazers, one eye on the door in the hope that custom might still come our way before curfew. Adam and Iris attended to the tables and floor. Taking the vessels from me, Iris followed Adam back to the kitchen. About to open the door and check the streets for signs of passersby, I was startled when Captain Stoyan entered.
“Good evening, Mistress Anneke,” he said, crossing the threshold and whipping off his cap. “Forgive me for coming so late, but I was trying to hire a cart until it occurred to me that you have one.”
“Good evening, Captain.” I closed the door behind him and, accepting no one else would follow, secured the latch. “I don’t mind how late you arrive, you’re always welcome.”
The captain smiled and, taking my hands, kissed my cheek. His brow furrowed. “You’re looking pale, liebchen.” He looked me up and down. “You’re fading away before my eyes.”
“I doubt that.” I released his fingers, but not before giving them a squeeze, and went to pour him a drink. “Beer or ale?”
He rubbed his chin. “What have you ready?”
A sigh escaped before I could prevent it. “Both. And lots of it. Which would you prefer?”
The captain slid onto one of the stools. “To drink now, ale. But, to take with me to Flanders, I’d like beer—not even your ale keeps for as long as I’d wish. I want as much beer as you can spare.”
Attending to his drink, I didn’t comprehend his meaning immediately, but continued to pour. “Excuse me?” I ceased what I was doing and turned as calmly as I was able, taking in his grin, the twinkle in those gray eyes. Placing a beaker of foaming ale before him, I sat down opposite, my eyes never leaving his face. “Did I hear you aright? You wish to take beer to Flanders? My beer?”
“Ja. To Flanders, Ypres, and in the months to come, farther afield again—wherever the ships of my Kontor sail. Four barrels for the time being, if you have that. The sailors in the fleet gain a mighty thirst at sea and it seems they’ve developed a preference for your beer.”
Unable to believe my ears, my mouth opened and shut so often I could have been sold for a fish.
“Why else did you think I needed a cart?” added the captain, raising his beaker toward me.
I did what any woman in my situation would at that point. I launched myself over the table, into his arms, and promptly burst into tears.
* * *
Insisting Captain Stoyan sup with us, my intended venture to Bishop’s Lynn was canceled and Adam, the captain, and I organized the barrels to be delivered to the Kontor as soon as the town gates opened Monday morn. Leaving for Flanders with the dawn tides Tuesday gave the captain plenty of time to load them on his ship. When the captain decided to head back to his rooms, Adam insisted on escorting him, taking a lamp.
“The nightwatch know me,” said Adam, silencing Captain Stoyan’s protests. “Anyway, it’s the least I can do. It’s the first time in weeks I’ve seen Mistress Anneke relax, let alone smile.”
“I do smile.” I forced one to my face as proof.
“Aye, with your mouth,” said Adam, “but it hasn’t reached here”—he touched a place below his eye—“or here”—he rested a hand over his heart—“for weeks.”
He was right.
Bidding Captain Stoyan farewell, I first checked on the twins and then fell into bed, exhausted in the way someone who uses excessive labor and seeks aching limbs to hasten forgetfulness would, something we’d all done these last weeks since Will died. But it was only as I pondered Adam’s words that I finally understood that while I’d kept my body occupied, my spirit had been neglected. Something Sir Leander had prayed wouldn’t happen . . .
Lying back on the pillow, my arms folded behind my head, I listened to the evening trill of crickets and frogs in full song, watched the play of changing light upon my walls as darkness descended and wondered at my sudden good fortune, daring for the first time to imagine what it would be like to hand over the full amount of rent, knowing we were secure for another six months.
Gratitude toward the captain filled my veins. Though I’d believed his act to be prompted by charity, he’d reassured me it wasn’t.
“I cannot afford to be charitable,” he said. When I reminded him about the barley he regularly supplied and his other gestures of kindness, he demurred. “Have you so swiftly forgotten? This is a business arrangement, Mistress Anneke. I’ll be as demanding as Sir Symond and Lord Rainford if required.” He grinned to soften his threat. “I expect a percentage—held over until such time as you can afford it,” he added quickly. “I’d be failing as a captain if I didn’t provide my men with the best on offer and I’d be useless as a merchant trader if I didn’t take this opportunity to introduce the fine beer you’ve made to the continent. I once told you there were opportunities there for a good English supplier. Well, I’ve finally found her.�
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For some reason, Will’s words from months ago echoed in my mind.
“As God is my witness,” he’d said, “Mistress Sheldrake will be the finest brewer in all of England.”
Around me, the house settled, its regular conversation between timber and thatch comforting. Karel coughed once or twice and I heard Louisa rise to him. The door to the barn squeaked. Adam had returned and was ascending to his bed in the loft. The great oak brushed the sides of the house, its leaves rustling in the gentle winds.
Daring to hope, I curled under my furs and shut my eyes. Before I knew it, a dreamless sleep claimed me.
Thirty-One
Holcroft House
The day before Hocktide
The year of Our Lord 1406 in the seventh year of the reign of Henry IV
As a household, we attended the early mass, stifling yawns. Entering the coolness of St. Bartholomew’s as the cock crowed, Father Clement’s welcoming smile and the rhythmic chanting of the novices warmed us from within.
Returning to the house before tierce, I downed a small ale and headed into the brewhouse when Adam caught up with me, announcing we had guests.
It was Sir Symond Rainford and his squire.
Astounded the man had the gall to come to the house so early, I was more shocked to discover he was here to demand payment of the rent. Why, he was still a day early. Flustered, I scurried across the garden, untying my apron and dumping it unceremoniously on the kitchen table. It wasn’t until I stood outside the office, forcing myself to take deep breaths and collect my thoughts, that it occurred to me this was quite deliberate. Sir Symond had done this with the intention to teach me a lesson. Unable to stomach that I’d managed to outwit him at our first meeting by making him adhere to the original terms of the contract, he sought to turn the tables. He thought to catch me unprepared.
Well, he was about to be disappointed.
Entering the office, Adam on my heels, I found Sir Symond seated behind the desk, his squire and, to my surprise, Master Makejoy hovering on the other side. Sir Symond rose as I came in and, in what was intended to appear an act of gallantry, bowed and kissed my hand. I resisted the urge to wipe it on my tunic.
Pleasantries were stiffly exchanged, poor Master Makejoy having been dragged away from church, clearly wanting to be anywhere but Holcroft House this fine morning. I could hear him uttering prayers under his breath and the cross he carried in his pocket was transferred to his palm.
“Forgive our intrusion so early,” said Sir Symond, towering over me, “but a contract, as you pointed out the last time we met, is a contract.”
“It is, my lord. And you are a day early.”
“It isn’t convenient for me to attend on Hocktide. It has to be today.”
“I see. And is it also inconvenient for Master Makejoy, who’s obliged to collect rents from Lord Rainford’s other tenants on Hocktide?”
The look on Master Makejoy’s face revealed he’d made the same argument.
Sir Symond gave a dismissive flick of his wrist. “I’m making an exception for you.”
Of me, I thought, but did not express this aloud. “Then it’s just as well I’m exceptional, is it not, my lord?”
Without further ado, I opened the cupboard by the hearth and from a small safe within, extracted a hessian bag, placing it before him on the desk. “Consider the terms of my contract met.” I gave a small curtsy.
Sporting an expression of disbelief, Sir Symond nudged the bag toward Master Makejoy. Taking a seat, Master Makejoy sighed and, untying the knot I’d securely fastened only the evening before, tipped the coins onto the wood. A few rolled away, Master Makejoy’s long fingers grasping them before they collided with Sir Symond’s silk-clad elbow or fell on the floor. Taking his time, Master Makejoy counted them, stacking them one atop the other in small piles. Once he’d finished, he gestured the squire over to check his calculations. I couldn’t conceal my smile when, finally, Master de Montefort announced, “It’s all here, my lord.”
“All?” said Sir Symond, looking down his misshapen nose at the crooked towers of coins, coins that represented over five months of our endeavors, months of heartache and grief as well. Barely able to conceal his astonishment, he simply stared.
“Every last noble and groat,” said Master Makejoy, recording the amount in the book he’d brought. Pulling a piece of parchment out of his satchel, with a wink he handed me a quill and pointed to a space on the bottom for me to sign. It was a receipt.
I looked at Adam in triumph, returning the quill to Master Makejoy, who quickly made a copy. Adam folded his arms and flashed me a grin.
Sir Symond gestured toward the money. Master de Montefort scraped the coins back into the pouch. “Well, well, well, Mistress Sheldrake. There’s more to you than meets the eye, as delightful as that might be.”
“There’s enough, my lord.” I deliberately misunderstood him, concentrating on folding the receipt and tucking it in a pocket. I would put it with my other documents later. “What is owed—no more, no less.” I fixed a bright smile. “Now, if you’ll forgive me, I’ve work to do. Adam will escort you to the door.” I dropped another curtsy.
“Before you leave, Mistress Sheldrake.” Sir Symond was on his feet and in two strides blocked the doorway.
“My lord?”
Leaning so his mouth was close to my face, he tipped his head slightly. “I’m not certain how you managed to do this, but I’ve an idea. You won’t always be so lucky. If you find yourself unable to meet the Michaelmas rents, I want you to know there’s always a bargain to be made with another Rainford.” He moved closer. The odor of sour wine enveloped me. “That way, we keep it in the family.” His eyes glinted, his meaning unmistakable.
Adam gasped and Master Makejoy cleared his throat.
“A bargain? With you?” I stepped away, my back against the door. Really, this man was insufferable.
“You’ll find me much more agreeable than my father or my cripple of a brother.”
I drew my breath in sharply and, fumbling for the handle, swung the door open, making it a barrier that came between us. “I would rather deal with the devil.” With that, I swept from the room.
* * *
Making the rent monies as well as what I owed in arrears had a remarkably liberating effect—not just upon me, but the entire house. We went from despair to exhilaration, from anxiety to confidence, the latter helped by Captain Stoyan placing additional orders, meaning I was now to supply any of his fleet leaving from Elmham Lenn with beer. He also sent me a note announcing my beer had been well received in Flanders and that he would require more barrels to take on his next voyage there. I was ecstatic. Though business had slowly picked up in the Cathaline Alehouse, I’d no longer any need to rely on it exclusively for income. Freed from the urgency to bring in custom, it’s a rich irony that patrons then came. As it was wont to do, word spread that not only were the foreign sailors swallowing my beer like drowning men do the sea, but I was exporting the drink as well. Not wanting to miss out on what those on the other side of the sea, “the damn Dutch,” were clearly enjoying meant that not only the curious but also the indignant chose to frequent my establishment.
The weeks flew by and as the tragedy of Will’s death became less immediately painful, my visits to his gravesite became more an act of honor and remembering than a desperate desire to seek atonement. The entire house fell back into old rhythms that suggested normalcy had once more taken roost in Holcroft House. The only discord in an otherwise peaceful time involved the office and the brewery. Just as the feeling of being watched as I performed the ancient rites would not leave me, so too when I entered the office each afternoon, the sense that the ledgers and books had been disturbed grew daily. There was nothing obvious—a sheet of paper askew, the ink bottle moved, a book placed where I was sure it hadn’t been a day earlier. When I asked Adam about it, he shook his head. “Perhaps you should lock the door?” Loathe to do this because of the lack of trust it sug
gested between me and the servants, I waited for the right moment to ask the others if they’d entered. They all denied it.
Only Saskia, when I mentioned it to her, studied me over the hem she was lowering. “Strange that you should notice such a thing after Will mentioned Westel’s habit of sneaking about the house when we’re abed.”
“Why on earth would Westel slink into the office? For what purpose? He sees the ledgers weekly. He enters the office regularly. I oft request he fetch something for me. Secrecy isn’t necessary.”
Saskia shrugged. “I don’t know. The same reason he’s always sneaked about. I’ve heard him too. I told you, you allow him too much leeway, Mistress Anneke. You have from the moment he came into this house. I just hope you don’t live to regret it.”
“You’ve never liked him. Why, you even said he smiles too much.”
“He does.” She paused. “I don’t like him. Nay, that’s not right. It’s that I don’t trust him. And to make matters worse, he’s replaced all that smiling with prayers. Have you noticed? Always muttering and asking the Lord for this and that God forgive him that. There’s something wrong with Westel. That behavior isn’t normal for a layperson.”
I had noticed. How could I not? “A commoner raised in a priory.” Yet again, I defended him.
Saskia sighed.
“What do you suggest I do about it?”
“Do? If it were up to me, I’d pay him for his services and send him on his way. I know, I know, you can ill afford to do that. He’s a good worker and God knows, with the Parry girls gone and others too scared to work here, we need all the hands we can get. But if I were you, I’d keep a closer eye on him than ever. He’s up to something, mark my words.”
