The Lady Brewer of London

by Karen Brooks

  “Perhaps he’s a spy.” I scoffed at the notion.

  “I thought they were supposed to fit in, not draw attention to themselves by flashing their teeth all the time and calling upon God. If he’s a spy, I’m the Queen of the Muscovites,” she said, and chuckled at the very thought.

  For a couple of days, I found myself watching Westel and indeed he did frown and mutter prayers a great deal, crossing himself, smiling and then muttering some more. It was as if he were conversing with the Holy Spirit or debating with his conscience. But when he caught me looking at him, he’d always give me a huge grin. I took to locking the office door but, as the days grew longer and other thoughts occupied me, I forgot and I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary again.

  Though within the brewhouse it was another matter . . .

  * * *

  The twins thrived as the weather grew warmer, and Louisa would take them for walks along the Nene, down to the bay and to visit Master Perkyn and Olive. Karel underwent a growth spurt and I sent Saskia to the mercers for cloth for trousers and a new shirt, acutely aware the time for both the twins to leave the nursery was fast approaching. Pushing those thoughts to the back of my mind, it was Master Makejoy who forced me to consider the implications of having two growing children under my roof.

  Not long after Whitsunday, one day late in May, he was preparing to leave after checking the books when Karel, with nary a knock or by your leave, burst into the office.

  “There you are, Anneke!” he exclaimed. “You should see the harbor; why, it’s full of—” He stopped when he caught sight of Master Makejoy. “Forgive me, sir,” he said quickly and, doffing his cap, bowed. “I didn’t know we had a guest. God give you good welcome.”

  Master Makejoy nodded agreeably. Though his wife abjured the family he was forced to reckon with, he was always pleasant, especially since the incident with Sir Symond. “That’s all right, lad. Master Karel, isn’t it? My, you’ve grown, haven’t you?”

  Karel puffed out his chest, the laces on his shirt pulled to their ends. “I’m seven now,” said Karel.

  “Seven! We’ll have to put you to work then, won’t we?” Master Makejoy leaned over and ruffled his hair.

  Taken aback, I stared at Karel as if with fresh eyes. Tobias had been squired at seven; all the tenant farmers’ children were out in the fields by this age. Master Makejoy was right, it was time to consider Karel’s future. But surely, I thought, looking at the way he smoothed down the hair Master Makejoy had disturbed, noting the dimples on the backs of his hands where his knuckles would one day protrude, not yet. There was time for Karel and Betje to just be children, surely? Ushering him out with promises I would come and see what delighted him so—a fleet of caravels, as it turned out—I closed the door upon him, just as I did the disturbing thoughts Master Makejoy’s observations aroused.

  Two days later I was obliged to muse over them again when a note arrived from Master Makejoy offering to negotiate an apprenticeship for Karel as a clerk with a Master Muire. Master Muire was a law clerk who had an excellent reputation and worked with the Justice of the Peace, which meant the likelihood of him one day securing that role for himself was very high indeed. Looking at the neat script, the care taken with the writing, the offer itself, my immediate instinct to burn it was checked. Master Makejoy meant only kindness, and it was evident from the terms and conditions he outlined that he was serious. I wondered if his wife knew. Was he trying to make amends for the damage Hiske’s vicious tongue had caused?

  An apprentice clerk may not have been what Mother or Father intended for him, nor I, but it was not something I could readily cast aside, not anymore. Karel was quick and clever, and as Master Muire’s apprentice, he could not only remain living at Holcroft House, but the possibility of a sound career in London was not out of reach either.

  Pondering what to do, the following day saw another letter from Sir Leander arrive. It had come all the way from Venice. Lingering over Leander’s long missive, I laughed at his description of the boats the Venetians used—long, sleek craft called gondolas. In great detail he described Tobias’s efforts to stand in one like a native. From Tobias, there was not a word. He’d not yet forgiven me. Saddened, Sir Leander’s letters went some way to compensating and I grew to anticipate these missives that arrived almost weekly. That Sir Leander made the effort to write touched me deeply, stirring feelings I pretended didn’t exist. A tale of how Tobias managed, after bartering at a market, to walk away not with bolts of cloth as he’d intended but two pet monkeys, had me falling about in helpless giggles, wondering how the animals would settle into sea life and whether I’d ever see them.

  Alone in the office, I held his letter under my nose. The paper smelled of other places, other times. Imagining Sir Leander sitting at a table aboard ship or in a foreign inn, the paper laid before him, drawing the candle near, dipping his quill, his face a study in the flickering light, I closed my eyes to contemplate the picture. I saw his broad shoulders, the dark, disorderly hair, and his leg stretched out to one side to alleviate discomfort. His cane was resting against the edge of the table, a mere handspan away, his scabbard unbuckled and lying on the other side of the tabletop. His shirt was open at the neck, his coat discarded. I wondered if he thought of me reading his words as he wrote, choosing what to relay and what to omit, knowing I would want to learn of Tobias but including the information in a way that was sensitive to our siblings dispute. Settling back in the chair, I became conscious of the beat of my heart, how the mere idea of Sir Leander made it quicken so. What was this I felt? Dare I name it? It was affection, no more . . . no less either . . . I laughed at myself and quickly quashed the other memories that surfaced when I indulged this daydream—his firm, warm lips capturing mine, the scour of his unshaven cheek against my flesh, the way the tip of his tongue explored my lips and teeth as I opened them to receive more . . .

  Sitting up, eyes open, I admonished myself, using the paper to fan away the heat flooding my cheeks and making my bodice suddenly very tight. Resting the paper against my bosom, allowing the uneven edges to stroke the exposed skin, I began to compose a reply in my head, thinking how to respond to Sir Leander’s questions, but what to include to amuse him as well. I would relay his brother’s visit (how unalike they were!), Westel’s odd behavior, and my growing disquiet for certes. I would also tell him of our success with the Hanse in Elmham Lenn and in Flanders and Germany. I decided I would also ask his advice on Karel’s future. My purpose, I confess, was twofold. In announcing Master Makejoy’s offer and expressing my doubts, Sir Leander would be able to either reassure me or, as I hoped, counter with a better offer for my little brother.

  A response would take a while, so in the meantime, I wrote to Master Makejoy as well, asking him to give me some time to consider his most generous offer. A gracious reply arrived the following day, inviting me to take all the time I needed.

  And so I did. May segued into June and preparations for midsummer began in earnest. Beyond the town gates, farmers sheared sheep and kept anxious eyes upon the weather. They weren’t the only ones. For a few years now, unseasonal rain had ruined crops and driven up prices. The days grew longer; our little hatchlings developed into strutting chickens and the piglets doubled in size every week. So, it seemed, did the twins, but, while the brewery kept me busy, I refused to make a decision about Karel, indulging both him and Betje, allowing them to spend at least this summer together before the world of work tore them apart.

  The twins were not the only ones changing, nor were they the only members of the house to preoccupy me. Ever since Saskia and I spoke of Westel, I noticed differences in him. Gone was the ebullient man who strolled into the yard seeking work last year. In his place was someone I often caught gazing into space or praying almost obsessively under his breath. His quick smile and eagerness to please were no longer so apparent, though they surfaced occasionally. Nonetheless, his work was always done and without complaint. Whereas once he sought tasks even o
n his day off, ever since Will died he would leave the premises every Sunday, satchel slung over his shoulder, cap upon those pale locks, and not return until curfew. I knew from Father Clement that he often attended more than one service at St. Bartholomew’s, but where he chose to spend the rest of the day, I did not know. I imagined him wandering through the woods or down to the harbor, seeking the solitude the shared space of Holcroft House mostly denied him.

  As the weeks went by, he grew quieter, more intense. We all grieved for Will in our own way, but Westel, who had found the body, appeared to have been unhinged. Not even the passage of time could appease his sorrow.

  I didn’t know what to do about it and decided to seek the advice of Sir Leander, who I was becoming increasingly reliant upon as a sounding board for my troubles. I wrote to him that night.

  * * *

  The church cat surprised us one day after an absence of a few weeks by introducing us to her litter of kittens. Scrappy bundles of fur, the children went into paroxysms of ecstasy when they saw them, calling me from the brewhouse to meet the little creatures.

  “Can we keep one?” asked Betje, her eyes wide and hopeful.

  “Each?” begged Karel, clutching a tiny ginger life to his cheek.

  How could this lad be ready for work?

  “You’ll have to ask Father Clement,” I said, surrendering to the twins’ pleas rather than my better judgment. They tore off to find the priest, Louisa chasing after them.

  I watched them disappear through the gate, shaking my head.

  “I like cats.”

  “Westel.” I swung around. I hadn’t heard him approach.

  Nodding toward the rest of the kittens, their mother trailing after those the twins had taken, Westel wiped his hands on his apron. “Aye, they’re creatures who serve no one, not really. They only appear to.”

  “What an odd thing to say.” I frowned, noting that his eyes seemed colorless, like the puddles of rain that collected on the roadway or clouds that presaged a storm. I gave a half-laugh and the day seemed to dim. “Cats are like most of us,” I added. “Happy to be fed, have a roof over their heads, and someone to pay them attention.”

  Westel met my eyes. “We don’t ask for much, do we?”

  “We don’t need much. Not really.” I studied him a moment longer, trying to ignore the unease that crept up my spine. “Come, we’ve two more barrels to fill before sext.” I let him precede me into the brewery and, as I watched his slump-shouldered walk, made up my mind that before the summer was over, I would ask him to leave. Saskia was right. There was something not right about him. Will’s death had affected him badly and it was cruel to have him stay. I would broach it with him shortly and give him plenty of time to become accustomed to the idea. I would ensure he had good references and enough coin to tide him over until he found employment.

  I followed him inside, my mood and body lighter than it had been for a while.

  That night, I asked Westel to accompany me to the office and told him of my decision that he would leave before the end of summer.

  At first, he said nothing, just stared at the floor.

  “Are you all right, Westel? I hope you understand, I’m very happy with you and your work and it will be hard to let you go, but I think that, in light of what’s happened, it’s for the best, don’t you?”

  Surprising me with a dazzling smile, Westel nodded. “Oh, aye, mistress. It’s for the best. In fact, you took a difficult decision out of my hands and for that, the good Lord knows, I’m very grateful.”

  Thirty-Two

  Holcroft House

  Midsummer’s Eve

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

  Much to my delight, the steady seas and Midsummer’s Eve brought a reply to my letter to Sir Leander and, to my shock, one from Tobias as well. Too busy to read them at first, I tucked them in my bodice, intending to read Tobias’s later and, like a fine repast, savor every word his master had written.

  Midsummer’s Eve was a time for celebration and yet, as was our wont of late, we eschewed the town’s festivities to create our own. Even so, all day long people arrived at the church to set the bonfire that would blaze long into the night. Minstrels, jesters, and other mummers who would perform appeared in the neighboring yard, their colorful costumes, loud hails and cheers, as well as music, adding jollity to our day. There would be food, dancing, and much merrymaking, all of which meant the alehouse was extraordinarily busy.

  Perhaps to make up for missing the public festivities, Blanche outdid herself, preparing venison pie, baked sturgeon, cheese tarts, lamprey, and custard swimming with almond milk, as well as beautifully shaped marchpane for us to relish. We ate late in the afternoon, around none, Father Clement briefly joining us, his efforts to persuade us next door unsuccessful. We took it in turns to tend the alehouse. Conversation flowed, and laughter. It wasn’t until Father Clement left to honor vespers, the servants closed the alehouse and began to clear away dinner, and Louisa took the twins to the nursery that I had the opportunity to retire to the solar and read my letters undisturbed.

  Outside, the flames from the bonfire licked the sky, the smoke spiraling into the evening. Laughter, song, and good cheer accompanied me as, tempering the tiny thrills that raced through my chest, I broke the seal on Sir Leander’s missive carefully.

  I cannot say what happened to alter the attachment I felt growing between myself and Sir Leander, but as I read the first few lines of his letter, the light of anticipation burning inside me all day was swiftly doused. The brevity of his note merely enhanced this. With a sinking heart, I read.

  I send my greetings and God’s blessing and mine to you, Mistress Sheldrake (Why the formality when I believed us exempt from such things?). I’ve given some thought to young Karel’s situation and feel it would be in everyone’s best interests if you accepted Muire’s most generous offer. If Karel should excel as a clerk, which I’m in no doubt he will, then being apprenticed to the likes of Muire, with his connection to the Justiciars, means a career in law is not out of the question. Tobias informs me your father began in law before turning to a merchant’s life, so legal blood may yet be proven to flow in Karel’s veins. While this might go against your better judgment, to take help from the husband of someone who has caused you grievous injury, it’s to the future that you must look no matter what the past may have seemed to promise.

  May God have you in his keeping and give you the grace to do as well as you know I would want.

  Leander Rainford.

  I froze, my back straight, my face unmoving, the letter utterly still in my rigid fingers. What was this? Where was the warmth? Our mutual understanding? Our mutual admiration? Or had that been a figment of my colorful imaginings? What happened to “I am yours to command”? Or, “All it would take is your expressed need”? It was as if the friendship I believed we’d nurtured had somehow wasted away. What had I done? My chest became heavy, solid. I know it was unreasonable, but until that exact moment, I didn’t know how much I depended on Sir Leander to offer me hope—and not just over Karel. I confess, I’d secretly longed for another solution to Karel’s situation, one that Sir Leander would provide and for which I’d be most grateful. But instead, he pushed me toward a course that filled me with despair, as it announced to the world that our standing had forever changed. Allowing Karel to become an apprentice to one of Master Makejoy’s acquaintances confirmed how far we’d fallen on the social scale.

  I put Sir Leander’s letter aside and opened Tobias’s. It was a few pages and my eyes flew across the untidy words.

  Greetings, dear sister,

  I trust this finds you and the twins well and in God’s good graces. Sir Leander told me of Will Heymonger’s death and you have my deepest sympathy. It would be remiss of me, Anneke, if I did not remind you that I warned of what might happen if you ignored the advice of those who know better and proceeded with the alehouse. It is therefore God’s judgment that you no
w bear the consequences of your willful sins and foolish decisions, and I hope you’re doing this with good grace and many prayers. I expect that if you’ve not already relocated to Cousin Hiske’s that you will have done so by the time we next meet. Understand, Anneke, there’s no shame in companionship, not even to one such as our cousin and, over time, memories of what you did and what your poor choices led to will be forgotten. For certes, if from this day forth you demonstrate the good sense and modesty that I know resides within you, they will be forgotten by me.

  If Tobias had been before me at this moment, I think, God forgive me, I would have slapped him again. The self-righteousness, the smugness, was more than I could bear. I scanned the rest of the letter quickly. He wrote about his travels along the Dalmatian Coast, the islands they encountered, the people. Lacking Sir Leander’s playfulness and eye for detail, his tales didn’t hold my interest, not when he held such a poor opinion of me.

  Disheartened and about to toss it aside, the last few paragraphs caught my eye.

  I also write to inform you that though we’d hoped to return to Elmham Lenn before the end of summer, another pleasure has been afforded us. Sir Leander and I will be docking in London, where, in the first week of August, my master will fulfill long-held plans of marrying his betrothed, the Lady Cecilia, widow of the former Chancellor of the Exchequer, Sir Walter Barnham . . .

  My vision became distorted. The roaring in my ears grew. Marrying? Cecilia Barnham? Long-held plans? I tried to place the name, conjure a face. Why, she was a very wealthy widow, but old . . . so old . . . My eyes dropped back to the letter.

  Good King Henry arranged this excellent match as a favor to Sir Leander’s father for, as you can imagine, being the youngest son and carrying an affliction as my lord does, a suitable union was difficult to arrange. But, typical of my master, who does not let that which would defeat a lesser man discommode him, he manages not only to find an heiress, but a noble one as well.