The Lady Brewer of London

by Karen Brooks

  I was dimly aware of Alyson kissing my cheek, her dry lips followed by salty wetness against my mouth, and my heart contracted. This bold and brassy goodwife was made of much softer material. Juliana and Leda brought my babes to me. Struck dumb by their beauty, their innocence, their scent, which was surely of the angels, I marveled that I could ever have believed they carried their father’s sins. Worried lest I catch glimpse of him upon their features, I saw nothing but virtue and beauty and fluffy crowns of silvery hues. Who were these beatific beings, filled only with the mystery of life and God’s wonder? Reaching out to brush their blessed cheeks, I knew Adam was right. A mother’s love—my love—would more than compensate for their father’s wickedness. I would make sure of that.

  You’ll make it work, Anneke, you always do.

  Aye, Mother. I’ve been given the chance you were denied. I will make it work.

  Thirty-Eight

  The Swanne

  Spring

  The year of Our Lord 1407 in the eighth year of the reign of Henry IV

  It was eight days since my babes had entered the world and, though I was ready to leave the bedchamber, Mistress Vetazes insisted I remain confined. Regardless, the twins’ baptism could no longer be delayed. Sensing my anxiety, Betje perched next to me as Alyson, Adam, Juliana, and Harry entered and greeted me.

  Standing at the foot of the bed, the wet nurses Mistress Vetazes hired, Emma and Constance, held the babes close. Tightly bound beneath delicate white tunics, presents from the women of The Swanne, first my daughter then my son were placed carefully into my arms. I’d not held them both at once, offering my sore and swollen breasts as an excuse, while being more than a little afraid that my initial feelings of love may prove to be temporary.

  Trembling with a mixture of emotions, I peered into their tiny faces, and wondered what they saw when they gazed into mine. Did they feel my awakening love and protectiveness? Or my guilt and horror that I could have ever wished them gone? Or did they sense the new emotion that had crept upon me—the growing fear that they might not live? They were so small and, though thriving, the certainty of their survival was little more than a winking candle. Therefore their baptism must needs proceed.

  Tears began to fill my eyes, rising from my heart to stopper my throat. I was a mother. A mother to twins.

  “What will we call them?” asked Alyson, stepping forward to take my baby girl and distract me. “Have you decided?”

  Clearing my throat, I flashed her a smile of gratitude. “I have.” I slid my daughter against Alyson’s generous breast. “This is Isabella.”

  There were sighs of pleasure and approval.

  “That be a lovely name, Mistress An . . . Anna,” said Adam as we both looked at Betje, who, playing with one of my plaits, gave her equivalent of a smile. “And the boy?”

  Passing my son to Juliana, my voice caught. “This—this was more difficult. I decided to call him . . .” My throat seized; the words were stuck; I could not say them. My eyes widened, my chest heaved . . .

  “Karel.”

  I swung in astonishment. “Betje!” I exclaimed, uncertain lest my ears were playing tricks. She released my plait swiftly, her hands pressed to her lips as if to stop herself saying anything further.

  “What did you say?” I asked again, quieter this time, taking her ruined hand and stroking the rough skin. “Please, sweetling . . .” A warm tear slid down my cheek. “Say his name again for me.”

  “Karel.” She timidly raised her chin, her eye sparkling. “His name is Karel.” Her voice was rough, unused, deep. The tone matched her experience. She gave a crooked smile and dropped her gaze.

  I regarded the room then my babes, my body tingling, hoisting Betje’s arm aloft, crying freely. “There. You heard it too. His name is Karel. This is our Karel.”

  Adam fell to his knees by the bed, weeping openly. He cupped Betje’s ravaged face in his hands, holding it lightly.

  “Oh my. How right and perfect is that?”

  Uncertain whether he referred to the name or the fact Betje chose this moment to find her voice, I nodded, my lips trembling as I reached for Betje and pulled her to me. Out of death, came life—in more ways than one.

  Adam’s face shone as he met my blurry gaze and we exchanged a long, long smile that continued until we caught Alyson, Juliana, Betje, and all those who stood witness, wiping their eyes or, as Harry was wont to do, his nose against his sleeve.

  All that was left, when I managed to regain myself, was to announce the twins’ godparents. How the others would feel about my choices, I was about to discover.

  “Isabella needs two godmothers and one godfather as the church decrees.” I turned to Alyson, clearing my throat. “My wish is that you, Alyson, and dear Juliana here will accept that role.”

  Juliana gasped, her hand flying to her heart. “Me, mistress? Why, I never . . . I mean . . . I am but a servant.”

  “We’re all God’s servants, Juliana.”

  She shook her head in disbelief, her face shining. “That we are.” Her beaming smile said it all. “Wait till I tell the others.”

  I looked meaningfully at Alyson, who regarded me primly.

  “If you hadn’t asked me, I’d have been mighty offended,” she said before bursting into a delighted chortle, flashing her gap-toothed smile, and bent over to plant a wet kiss upon my cheek, making sure no one else saw the swift carriage of handkerchief from décolletage to eyes.

  “Furthermore, Alyson,” I said, “I wish to celebrate the twins’ birth by providing The Swanne with a barrel of beer.” Alyson went to object as I knew she would. “Please, Alyson,” I said, raising a hand, “I’ve my pride too. You’ve done so much for me, for us”—my hand encompassed my family—“let me give a modicum in return.”

  I’d spent the days since the birth wondering at the events that brought me to The Swanne and into Alyson’s world. Fate decreed that Goodwife Alyson and I had not merely crossed paths, but found a burgeoning friendship. Grateful beyond words, I’d discussed with Adam giving Alyson a barrel of beer as payment for our lodging. Considering our initial agreement was to remain but a night, we’d abused her hospitality in ways we hadn’t foreseen and received only kindness and generosity in return.

  Shaking her head and sighing, she placed a hand on her hip, Isabella resting on the other. “Aye, you’ve more pride than a king’s mistress.” She gave a wicked chuckle. “And I can respect that. So instead of objecting, I thank you.” She glared at Adam. “No doubt you had something to do with this?”

  Adam shrugged and looked to me for support.

  “Adam, my dear and most loyal friend.” I waited for him to note the word; I’d publicly accorded him a status to which, as a servant, he would feel he’d no right. But over and over, Adam had proved himself to be more than a servant. He had remained true for as long as I could remember. “This is what God put me on this good earth to do,” he’d say, and indicate that there was to be no further discussion.

  Adam Barfoot may be a servant, but he was someone I trusted not only with my own life, but that of my sister and my children.

  I looked to him. “Would you do me the honor of being Isabella’s godfather?”

  Adam colored and shuffled his feet. “I . . . I . . . don’t deserve such trust, mistress, such an honor. But,” he continued quickly, “as God is my witness, I will do my duty and more besides.”

  “I know.”

  His eyes as he turned them upon Isabella were filled with such protectiveness and love, I learned anew I’d chosen well. Alyson slapped his back soundly and gave me a look of approval.

  “As for Karel, it’s my wish that Captain Stoyan be his godfather.” There were more murmurs.

  I’d sent a letter to the Hanse three days ago. The captain could be anywhere—the last time I saw him was in Dover, when he was about to head to London. I’d half-expected him to turn up at The Swanne but as yet there’d been no sign. I assumed he was somewhere upon the vast seas.

&nbs
p; “Presuming he accepts, and I feel confident he will, I ask that someone stand in for him during the ceremony.”

  “I could ask Master Godric, my cobbler,” said Alyson. “A goodly man who’s inclined toward us here.”

  I smiled. “Give him my thanks. As for the second godfather . . .” I hesitated and pretended to consider deeply a matter I had already decided. My mother and father would turn in their graves at what I was about to do. “I need someone dependable, someone who can be there for Karel when the captain cannot; who can teach him to navigate this world with humor and courage; who can ensure he learns what it means to have God’s good grace. I need someone who doesn’t judge people by their words or appearance, but by their actions and souls. I need someone he can call a friend.”

  Adam’s face split into a huge grin as he realized to whom I was referring.

  “There’s one person I know who can do all that.”

  Looking meaningfully at the young boy leaning on the end of the bed, reaching over Juliana’s crooked arm to gently touch Karel’s cheek, I waited. All eyes followed mine until Harry, aware of the attention he’d attracted, paused, and glanced around.

  “What?” he said, withdrawing his hand quickly. “I wasn’t doing nothing wrong.”

  “Nay, you weren’t.” I chuckled. “Only right, as you have from the moment we arrived. That’s why I would like you, Master Harry Frowyk, to be Karel’s second godfather.”

  Lost for words, the boy simply straightened and stood. It was the only time I was ever to see Harry dumbstruck.

  As I announced Betje’s role as Karel’s godmother, warmth crept through my body and wrapped a comforting cocoon around my heart. Aye, I thought, gazing upon my choices, it was unconventional—a bathhouse owner, an absent sea captain, an urchin, my sister, and servants—all entrusted with the spiritual well-being of my babes. Nothing about this was within the rules. But it felt right.

  And so it was, the following morning, I stood at the window as a merry party left The Swanne for St. Saviour’s Church near Pepper Alley in Southwark. The priest, a Father Kenton, had been most glad to receive the twins for blessing. Whether he’d have felt that way knowing the mother’s true circumstances was moot. However, donning the mantle of widowhood cast a net of sympathy over my condition and that of my babies.

  The festivities that followed their return from church were only matched by the party Alyson threw three weeks later, when I was officially deemed clean by the church and could attend a mass to mark the occasion. I wasn’t yet fully healed and still tired easily, but the prayers I offered to my Lord and his Blessed Mother among the many burning candles and smoking incense were heartfelt and grateful, and the ale I downed back at The Swanne was most welcome.

  Sitting in a corner of the main hall as evening fell, I watched the dancing. The way in which the young and not so young held each other, clapped, stomped, sang, and drank was a cheerful sight. The twins were safely tucked upstairs with the wet nurses; Betje snuggled upon Adam’s lap, a dainty hood disguising the worst of her burns. Dressed in a tunic of burgundy with a neckline so low it was almost indecent, only the frothy lace sewn at the borders protecting what remained of her modesty, Alyson was in her element. Roaming the room, discreetly encouraging her women to absent themselves with a client, and moving from Adam and Betje (and the ever-present Harry) to me, she ensured everyone had drink and food as well as conversation. Amid her attentions, she proffered more toasts than a nobleman’s wedding.

  The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on me. Here I was, a merchant’s daughter, destined for an enviable life with a husband of more than average means, a former alehouse owner and brewer, mother of two, living in a brothel. I’d never felt more comfortable anywhere in my life. I could only begin to imagine what Cousin Hiske would say—or Tobias.

  What Sir Leander would think was something I didn’t want to contemplate. But like a child with the pox, I found myself unable to resist scratching that particular itch. Ofttimes when I’d lain in bed with nothing but my thoughts for company, I relived our moments together, the letters we’d exchanged, and invented fresh scenarios where we weren’t beholden to propriety or society or a wife. Foolishly, I relished these imaginings, woven from nothing more than a kiss, a few warm looks, and words upon a page, words that still had the ability to fire my heart and fan my ridiculous longings. Try as I might, I could not forget Sir Leander or the hunger he awoke in me. I would castigate myself and think how appropriate it was that I was living in a brothel, when clearly I was the most immoral of women. At these moments, my thoughts would drift to Mother and her terrible indiscretion, and I wondered if it was the doom of de Winter women to be forever captivated by Rainford men.

  Though trepidation that Sir Leander might discover our whereabouts hovered over me, the shadow it cast also made my body grow warm. Was I so very sinful that a small part of me held out hope that Sir Leander might discover our location? That I could see his face, even if it was shaped by scorn or disapproval, just one last time . . .

  “A penny for your thoughts,” said Adam. Betje leaned against me.

  Placing a hand upon her arm, I smiled at them both. “My thoughts are worth more than that, Adam. They’re priceless.”

  Determined to enjoy myself, I banished Sir Leander from my head. This was a night to celebrate. Churched and thus cleansed of the stain of birth, I was on the cusp of fresh horizons.

  As I sipped my beer and tapped my foot to the rhythms of tabor and flute, it occurred to me that here in Southwark, among these warm and earthy folk, I’d been given more than a second chance: I’d been granted a new life, and I didn’t intend to waste a moment of it.

  Thirty-Nine

  The Swanne

  Lent

  The year of Our Lord 1407 in the eighth year of the reign of Henry IV

  After the fear and pain of childbirth, and the circumstances surrounding my journey from Elmham Lenn, I dwelled for a time in a fool’s paradise and was thus unprepared to receive my first, and most unwelcome, visitor, who brought with him a taste of the laws that governed not only the city I wished to call home, but the Borough of Southwark; a place that, according to this man, was nothing more than a suppurating barnacle on the backside of the realm. Master Lewis Fynk, Officer of the Crown, shattered my fantasies and more.

  On this particular day, a dull, cold, soggy one where mist lingered in tattered ribbons, I was in my room enjoying my children, discussing their enchanting habits with the wet nurses. After an hour, the women returned the babes to the nursery and, encouraged by Alyson, I took the chance to lay my head down awhile. I’d burrowed into the feather mattress, pulling the covers around me, chuckling inwardly that I was like an old woman who, nearing the end of her days, reversed the usual patterns of slumber and wakefulness, when the door to my room burst open.

  Sitting up as quickly as I was able I lifted the furs more as a reflex than for the purposes of modesty, for I was all but fully clothed, when in stormed four men, followed quickly by Alyson and Adam.

  “There she is!” exclaimed a red-faced gentleman, pointing at me with a knobbly finger. He was tall and thin, his cheeks sunken and the hair beneath his cap a thick, chestnut mop. His pale eyes sparkled with triumph and his long, narrow mouth was curved in satisfaction. His clothing denoted him a bailiff; of the three men accompanying him, one was an escheator, the other two constables.

  I grew cold. It was difficult to breathe. For certes, I was discovered. Prayers collected in my head and I tried to rise. Alyson pushed past the men and placed a hand on my shoulder, forcing me to remain where I was.

  “Master Fynk!” she boomed, causing the other men to stumble over one another. “How dare you. You cannot simply enter the private areas of my residence, let alone this lady’s bedroom.”

  “Lady?” sniggered Master Fynk, standing over us both, looking down his prominent nose at Alyson. “According to the king, if I think you’re breaking the law, I may enter wherever I wish. Lady’s room or naught.
” Raising his hand, he flipped it toward me. “Methinks naught.”

  Narrowing his eyes, Master Fynk smiled. There was no humor in his expression, just righteousness. “And I do dare, Mistress of Disorder and Ill Repute”—he didn’t deign to look at Alyson as he spoke—“Widow of Purity and Godliness, by all that is holy and good, I dare.”

  His words and aggression brought to mind a man I thought banished. The voice, the wild accusations, the violent utterances as he thrust inside me all returned with a blast that took my breath away. I recoiled from Master Fynk and in the flicker of his eyes, I saw the pleasure my reaction gave him.

  “And there is my evidence, gentlemen.” Master Fynk encouraged his companions forward. “This . . . this . . . woman.” All Eve’s daughters became something filthy in that single utterance. Anger stirred within me. Alyson drew herself up to her full height and placed herself squarely between the bailiff and me.

  “You see. I told you. Goodwife Alyson does keep a pregnant woman beneath her roof.” He gave a hollow laugh. “You’ll not merely receive a fine for this—the court’ll see you cucked and imprisoned, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  For the time it took God’s name to form on my tongue, I understood that the presence of the law had nothing to do with the events at Elmham Lenn and everything with my presence in the bathhouse. My initial fear returned one thousandfold: If this man could so threaten a mother, what would he do to innocent children?

  The shade in Alyson’s cheeks matched her scarlet tunic as she faced him, folding her arms over her bosom.