The Lady Brewer of London

by Karen Brooks

  “Whore.” He struck me across the face again. “Make another sound and I’ll stick you with more than my cock.” He leaned over me. “Like I did Will,” he whispered.

  Bright lights danced before my eyes. I shut them but it was as if the stars spun for me alone. “It was you? You hurt Will?” My stomach churned; my mind tried to unravel Westel’s words.

  “Hurt him? Nay, you stinking rose, I killed him.” His tongue, a repulsive slug, traced my neck.

  Teeth sank into the soft flesh around my nipple. My wail was collected in his hand as he covered my mouth.

  “God, oh, my God,” he murmured, his lips suckling, hungry, fevered. Nausea rose, sickness and a terrible fear.

  Will, oh, Will . . . What monster had I brought into the house?

  I gagged, coughed, and tried to draw air, but it was rancid. Who was this man? Holy Mother, help me. I summoned another cry, this time for Adam, for Tobias, for Leander, the good men in my life. Before I could release it, Westel picked up my skirts and threw them over my head, not caring that he blocked my nose and mouth, only that it dampened my cries. He unlaced his breeches, his knees pinning my legs.

  “I gave him a chance, you know.” He spat and thrust moist fingers inside me, grunting. “Will, who sought to tell tales, turn you against me. Will who thought he was so clever, knew what I was about.” He plowed his fingers back and forth. “But he didn’t—not even when he died, when he begged me to tell him, I wouldn’t. None of you knew. Fools. You still don’t.”

  Cruel fingers gouged the soft flesh of my thighs. My thoughts spiraled and shattered into fragments. This wasn’t happening, this wasn’t real. I would awake and this would be nothing but a devil-sent dream.

  The floor became a vast wheel upon which I was turned and turned, sinking lower and lower, descending into a private hell.

  As I felt his manhood against me, hard and slick, I made one last effort to heave him away. With a roar of rage, he grabbed my head in both hands, squeezing it as he might a ball, before dashing it against the floor.

  His voice became a rhythmic, brutal accompaniment that pierced the thick fog holding my thoughts captive, my body fast.

  “You are the gate of the devil,” he chanted. “The traitor of the tree, the first deserter of Divine Law; you are she who enticed the one whom the devil dare not approach, you broke so easily the image of God, you broke this man; on account of the death you deserved, even the Son of God had to die . . . And now, it’s your turn . . .”

  * * *

  I was choking.

  A stream of liquid poured over my face, my exposed chest. I coughed, turned aside to stop the steady flow; swallowed, tasted ale, rolled, and vomited.

  “Sit up, slut.”

  Pulled upright roughly and thrown against a hard surface, I lurched to one side before more ale was thrown in my face. I raised my hand weakly. “Please . . .”

  Another slap brought me to my senses. The world compressed until it was just a flickering candle and a ream of paper thrust in my face.

  “What’s this?” asked Westel, pressing the small book hard into my cheek.

  At first, I couldn’t make out what he was compressing against me. When he moved it away and made it dance back and forth, my blurry vision solidified.

  “My . . . my ale bible.”

  The next blow was so hard, my head snapped around, my nose striking the trough.

  “You cunting whore,” he spat in my face. “I know what it is. What’s this?” Through half-closed eyes, I saw his finger stabbing the words. “What language is this?”

  He grabbed my right nipple and twisted it.

  “Please . . .” He twisted harder. “Dutch,” I cried. “It’s written in Dutch.”

  He slammed the book against my temple and clambered to his feet. “Of course it is.” He began to laugh, the sound making my skin crawl. “And to think I killed her when she could have been of use after all.”

  “Killed?” My heart almost sprang out of my chest. Will. Westel killed Will. “Who else, Westel? Who have you harmed?”

  He was beside me again, his face and mouth so very, very close. His hot breath lathed my flesh, fingers cupped my cheek ever so gently. They were wet, sticky. Blood. His fingers were covered in blood.

  “Saskia,” he purred. “I killed Saskia. She saw what I did to Karel.”

  Karel?

  The sound I made was not human.

  “He found me in your room fetching this.” He thrust the ale bible in my face. “I had to silence the devil’s spawn lest he rouse the lot. But I was too late. That cow, Saskia, saw me. Doesn’t anyone in this Godforsaken house ever sleep? She’ll not tell a soul what she witnessed, not anymore.”

  Saskia, my loyal, loving Saskia . . . My heart was beating so fast. Think. Think. “What did you do to Karel?”

  “Karel? Just a little shove. He fell, struck his head. I placed him in the chest in your room. God was with me for that’s where I finally found this.” He held the ale bible aloft. “Do you know how long I’ve been searching for it? I thought you kept it in the office. But it wasn’t there, was it? You’d tease me with it, though, bring it to the brewhouse, talk about your secret little recipes. Then you’d hide it and I couldn’t find it. There was only one place left it could be. When I saw you creeping out tonight, I knew my luck had changed.” He pushed back his cap and scratched his forehead, chuckling.

  I wiped the blood out of my eyes. Karel. Saskia. I had to get to Karel. I groaned and retched, the noise loud in the quietness of the brewhouse. “You bastard.” I tried to rise. “You’ll hang for this—”

  His foot shot out, connecting with my ribs, and I fell, panting. I tried to scream, the sound was ragged, pathetic; all the wind had been knocked from my lungs, all the courage, my faith, was leaching from my body.

  “Scream all you like; it doesn’t matter anymore.” He shoved the ale bible down the front of his pants. “They’ll not heed you, there’s too much else to occupy them.”

  Pressing my hands against my ribs, I panted. “What do you mean?”

  Westel stared out the window above me, and I swear I could see the fires of purgatory dancing in his eyes. “You’ll see.”

  Reaching for his coat, which had been flung across the table, Westel shrugged it on. With all my remaining might, I wished him dead. But death was not something you could will; it came of its own or another’s volition. I would be that other. I searched for a weapon, something to wield against him. Around me was a litter of broken tools, an upturned mash tun, bent trays. My hand scrabbled across the floor.

  “Why?” I asked him, shuffling forward slightly, trying not to make my actions obvious. “Why, Westel? Why Karel? Why Saskia? Why Will?” I gestured to the remnants of my gown, to my dignity that was spilled on the floor, pressed into the bruises, blood and his seed on my thighs. “Why me?” My voice was tiny.

  “Why, why, why?” he mocked me in a mewling tone. “Why not? You deliberately flaunt God’s laws and man’s and believe there won’t be a price to pay? You set out to steal business away from us, from God, and think a cost won’t be extracted? Oh, the vanity and evil of women knows no bounds.” He crossed himself. “Even now, you don’t understand justice when it’s been served.”

  “This is about the ale?” Nothing would come into focus, not properly. Breathing deeply, there was a familiar tang in the air; I couldn’t quite identify it, my nose was slightly blocked, the smell of blood and my own fear dominated but they also gave me a sudden clarity. “You’re from St. Jude’s.”

  “Aye. I am.”

  It all made sense now. What I’d always believed to be his growing baldness was actually a tonsure growing out. The constant praying, his ability to read and write, the cap that never came off . . . his endless curiosity and willingness to help with the ale.

  “Everything you told me was a lie.”

  “Not everything. I was raised by monks—that part was true. It’s just that, as the son of Abbot Hubbard, I could never
be denied a calling. After all, I was born to heed my Lord.”

  Abbot Hubbard’s son? Oh dear God, help me.

  “I don’t understand.” I tried to distract him with questions, all the while searching for a weapon, something with which to protect myself. “The alehouse was your idea.”

  “Aye, it was and you adopted it, just as I hoped.”

  “You intended me to fail all along.”

  “Such is your pride and vanity you assumed you were going to succeed.”

  “I was.”

  Westel shook his head in disbelief. The light from outside was growing, the smell getting stronger. A steady roar, like the ocean in a storm, grew louder, forcing Westel to raise his voice to be heard.

  “You were warned, Anneke Sheldrake; we gave you notice time and time again, but you chose to ignore us. Instead, you sounded the clarion, recruited more soldiers, and marched to meet your destiny. Tonight you face it.”

  Before I could anticipate him, he lifted the ale-stick away from the wall and in one swift action, raised it above his head. In the undulating light pouring in from outside, Westel was an avenging angel come to wreak a terrible justice.

  With all my remaining strength, I screamed, raising my arms above my head. At the same time, I levered myself partly under the trough. The ale-stick swung. It hit the edge of the wood and my shoulder at the same time as my head struck the metal leg. I fell back into blessed shadows and lay completely still.

  With a grunt, Westel cast the ale-stick aside and prodded my body with his boot. I fought the blackness creeping into my mind, the agony that roared through my shoulder, head, and heart. Nay, nay. Karel . . . Betje. Oh sweet Jesù, please don’t forsake me . . .

  Conscious of a commotion swelling beyond, of the door to the brewhouse opening, a blast of smoke-filled air entering, I tried not to let murky relief claim me, but my injuries were too great, my soul and body too sore. I shut my eyes, intending to rise, to run to the house, find Karel, see what caused such smoke and raging light, but before I could, I lost this battle as well.

  Thirty-Four

  Holcroft House

  Midsummer’s Day

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

  Eventually the blackness receded and, holding what remained of my dress together, I staggered out of the brewhouse, fell onto my hands and knees, and retched. Over and over, I spewed forth nothing but noise, nothing but the empty horror of what Westel had done, had said. Pain cleaved my head, traveled across my breasts, shoulder, arms, and thighs. Doubled over, vile images leaped into my mind, paraded before my eyes until they faded enough to allow me to raise my chin.

  Time telescoped until it was nothing more than a raging fire, heat, ash, and smoke engulfing the upper floors of my home.

  Holcroft House was aflame.

  “Nay.” Soft black rain fell around me. Timbers cracked and crackled. “Nay, nay. Dear God, nay.” I began to crawl forward, one arm held before me, the other protecting my modesty. “Karel! Betje!” I shouted and staggered to my feet.

  Outside, Blanche and Iris held each other, wailing and screaming, pointing.

  Ignoring them, I stumbled past. “Karel! Betje!”

  Bursting through the kitchen door, I collided with Adam. His face was black, his clothes too. Thick gray powder coated his hair, falling in a cascade across his cheeks. “It’s no good.” He grabbed me around the waist to prevent me from running further into the house. “You’ll not get to them that way. The fire’s taken the stairs.”

  “What then?” I found my voice. “What?” I screeched. My head was a ball of white-hot agony; terror for the twins overcame my need to stop, to lie down.

  “Anneke!” Adam’s eyes widened as he took in my appearance. “By God. What happened to you, lass?”

  I glanced down. Lord knew what my face must look like, but my dress barely covered me. Spattered with blood, my arms were cut, bruised, my chest as well. “Not now,” I said.

  Adam removed his coat and wrapped it around me.

  “Adam . . .” My teeth were chattering so severely, it was hard to form words. “The children. Karel, he’s hurt . . . Westel . . .”

  Questions brimming in his eyes, Adam said, “This way.”

  Grabbing his hand, I started to run, but dizziness overcame me. Adam wrapped an arm about my waist and half-carried me outside and to the other end of the house.

  Men poured through the open back gates, the fire drawing people as a candle did moths. They milled in the garden, black silhouettes against the golden fire, wielding hooks with which they pulled down the burning thatch. Others heaved brimming buckets, throwing the contents as high as they could. When the water struck the flames, they fizzled momentarily before flashing to life again. A line ran out the gate, down the lane. Some tended to Shelby, leading the petrified horse from the stables and out into the street. Four men pulled the cart to safety. Neighbors gathered, whether to help, be spectators, or to better gauge the safety of their own property, I was uncertain. I didn’t care. I wanted the children.

  We staggered toward the mews, pushing anyone foolish enough to hinder us out of the way.

  “There. Look!” cried Adam.

  Standing at the window of the nursery were Louisa and Betje. I sobbed with relief. Both were crying and coughing, Betje’s little arms reaching out through the open space. Thick, angry smoke billowed around them. Betje spotted me.

  “Anneke! Anneke! Help!”

  I swallowed. Despair tried to take me, but I clamped it down. “I will, sweet one,” I called, cupping my mouth in order to be heard. The fire bellowed in an effort to drown out my reassurances.

  Beside her, Louisa whimpered, her face dark with soot and heat; only her eyes showed, wide and white and terrified. “Louisa,” I yelled. “It will be all right. I promise.”

  I continued to talk, trying to distract them. Ladders were brought, but they weren’t long enough. The drop was dangerously high. The ground hard. They couldn’t leap, the risk was too great . . . not unless . . .

  I spun around. “Adam, grab a blanket, something Betje can jump into, quickly!” Adam ran into the stables. He emerged again seconds later with a large blanket—Shelby’s—and began organizing men to hold it.

  “Louisa!” I stood beneath the window, squinting into the rain of molten ash, ignoring the way it spiraled around me, singed my flesh, my hair, my lungs. The fire growled, the hounds of hell, their fiery jaws snapping, consuming.

  “Mistress, oh, mistress, hurry, hurry.” Tears fell down her blackened face, causing paler runnels to emerge. “Please, save us.”

  “Listen. Betje, when I tell you, I want you to stand on the sill and jump, all right? Then you, Louisa, the men will catch you.”

  “Aye, mistress,” said Louisa between sobs. “God help us.” She crossed herself. Betje did too, hiccuping, nodding.

  The blanket was so small, the men so big, I prayed it would hold, for it was so far to fall. I glanced up again.

  “Adam.” I grabbed his shirt. “Karel . . . He’s . . . in my room. The chest. You must save him.”

  Pressing his lips together grimly, Adam looked across at my window. Flames danced around the shutters, making the thatch above glow eerily.

  “Here, take this.” Adam passed his side of the blanket to another burly man; it was Master Blakesmith, the ironmonger. “I’ll fetch him, don’t you worry.” He threw buckets of water over himself then crossed the yard and, ignoring the choking plumes of smoke, ran back in the house. I wanted to follow, but knew if Betje was to be safe, I had to remain where I was.

  Standing next to the blanket, beneath the window, I fastened my eyes onto hers. Filled with doubt, scared witless at what I was about to ask her to do, I was more frightened by what would happen if she didn’t obey.

  “Betje, hold on to Louisa and stand on the sill.” My voice barely carried, the noise was so great, the fire so loud and filled with fury. Betje wailed and shook her head. “You must, sweet o
ne.” I tried to sound calm, authoritative.

  Louisa bent and said something. Betje nodded and, clutching Louisa’s hand, oh so slowly climbed onto the sill.

  Holding my breath, I watched her clamber onto the narrow strip of wood. It was then I realized she held her doll, Tansy.

  “Good girl! Now, stand up.”

  Betje cried out and shook her head again.

  “You must, Betje.”

  She trembled like a wet cat, locked in fear.

  “Betje.” I had an idea. “Tansy wants to jump first. All right? Throw Tansy onto the blanket.”

  Crouched on the sill, Betje looked at me. Holding Louisa tightly, she glanced at her doll then, with a sudden flick of her hand, threw the toy into the air. Against the sparks and whirling ash, the doll descended, limbs splayed, woolen hair flying. She landed in the middle of the blanket. The men cheered as if this rag was a real person.

  Fire began to lick the thatch above the window. Betje screamed, so did Louisa. The smoke was like another barrier, a smothering blanket that prepared to engulf them.

  “Now! Betje, now.” She didn’t move. “For Godsakes, Louisa,” I cried as there was another explosion and part of the roof collapsed. “Push her!”

  A ball of fire erupted through the window, engulfing Louisa and Betje. Screams and yells burst from everyone below.

  Falling from the window was a small arrow of flame, a living comet shrieking to the earth.

  It tumbled through the night and we all watched in horror until it sizzled onto the blanket where the men, mesmerized, nonetheless still managed to catch it.

  They used the wool to swiftly douse the flames. Smoke rose, escaping from the sudden rents, the blackened holes. The smell was sickening, the caterwauling from within worse.

  Then, from above us, came a piercing wail.

  All eyes flew to the sill. Louisa! Though Betje’s fall had been mere seconds, already it was too late for Louisa.

  Forever frozen at the window, Louisa became an animated piece of kindling, a Roman candle. We stared helpless, shocked into silence as she was consumed. Her high-pitched screams only ceased when the roof caved, crushing her, silencing her.