The Lady Brewer of London

by Karen Brooks

  Adam also found a purpose at The Swanne. Overcoming his initial aversion for the situation in which we found ourselves, he discovered that many of the girls who lived beneath The Swanne’s sprawling roof were not the evil temptresses and slatterns he’d assumed. Many were simple country lasses, or city widows and orphans who, having no way of providing for themselves and nowhere to go, were left with no choice but to either sell their bodies or seek work among those who did. Many had children they’d left with relatives. Ashamed, yet aware that their families must know, it was a dark secret that bound them all.

  Only in confession and prayer would they admit to selling their flesh and pay the penance their constant sinning required. Just as she insisted on daily washing of faces and hands, Alyson made sure that every Sunday and many other mornings besides, the girls would stroll to Father Kenton’s church and hear the mass—ensuring their souls were as pristine as their bodies.

  All those who worked in the bathhouse felt a great deal of loyalty to Alyson.

  “We be blessed with Goody Alyson” was a statement Adam heard over and over and which he repeated to me. Whether it was the freckled maid with the crooked nose and huge blue eyes called Yolande, who cleaned the grate each morning and stacked fresh kindling, or the tall, rather morose woman named Oriel, who would take away my chamber pot and ensure there was clean water in my basin, or the lovely Leda with her long, straw-colored hair, all those who dwelled within the bathhouse were steadfast toward the goodwife who gave them shelter, food, and ale and didn’t try and cheat them. The same could not be said for others who ran similar businesses in the area.

  “I admit, mistress, I had my reservations when we first met,” Adam said one night, speaking quietly over an ale in the light of the crackling hearth, “but she be a good woman, Alyson.”

  From below us came the sounds of music and chatter that were a constant accompaniment to our conversations, to the many plans we assembled for the future. Sometimes there’d be low groans, chuckles, or squeals of delight. I would grow uncomfortably warm and found I was unable to look at Adam. He would simply talk louder. Once, there was an ear-splitting shout followed by a slamming door, running feet, and shrill cries. Adam leaped up and raced from the room, returning shortly to explain that one of the clients tried to leave without paying but was quickly prevented not only by the looming presence of Master atte Place, a general servant and sometime guard, but Alyson herself.

  “As God is my witness, Mistress Anna, she stood before this young gentleman, who was still struggling to tie his breeches, her face dark as a storm upon the bay, and insisted he pay. When he swore he couldn’t, said his purse had been stolen and accused the young woman he’d been with of taking it, Alyson first scolded him then reached over and grabbed his arm. Before he could snatch it away, she hailed Harry to her side and bid him remove the gentleman’s ring.” Adam sat on the stool, leaning against the wall, chuckling. “I’ve never seen the like. Daring as a demon’s strut.”

  “What did he do?”

  “What could he do with Master atte Place glowering, Harry and Alyson holding him firm, and those women not . . . er . . . um . . . occupied blocking his escape. He conceded, apologized as well. Promised he’d be back on the morrow with what he owed, providing his ring is returned.”

  “You think he’ll honor that?”

  “Oh, aye. I think his father would be most upset his son lost a ring bearing the Tiptoft seal, don’t you?”

  “The man was a Tiptoft? The royal treasurer’s son?”

  “More a boy, really. Still had spots.” Adam jabbed his chin and forehead a few times. “And a remarkable inability to tie his purse strings properly.”

  “And those of his breeches, from what you say.” We both laughed heartily.

  After that, Adam suggested to Alyson that the gentlemen callers to The Swanne be made to pay before they enjoyed the ladies. At first Alyson was resistant, concerned it would drive custom to the other bathhouses, but when Adam explained if the girls asked for the coin once they were alone with the men, then it would be very difficult for the customers to refuse.

  Alyson inclined her head and regarded Adam seriously. “Are you sure you’ve never done this sort of work before?”

  Adam grinned. “Nay. But a household is a household and a business”—he shrugged—“is a business, and I understand how best to work both.”

  After that, Alyson sought Adam’s advice on many issues, including one that concerned me. Though I only learned that later.

  My family had found a place and purpose here, except for me. I would have to unhouse them once more and take them across the river, to London.

  Standing by the window, I gazed across the busy Thames and toward the city. Smoke billowed from crooked chimneys; men pushed carts, loaded and unloaded the punts full of goods while wherries disgorged people, as they moved in and out of the fog. Cogs lay at anchor on the jetties not far to the east, and I could just see pennants flapping atop the Tower. Voices carried across the water, coarse and deep, and I knew without doubt that my purpose lay somewhere in that muddle of misty streets. The time for us to leave was approaching; two evenings ago I’d broached the subject with Alyson and she greeted my announcement with just a resigned look that gave away little. Reassuring her of constant friendship, of the bond created between us when I made her, Harry, and Juliana godparents to my twins, she regarded me with ambivalence. Discussing what we’d do and where we’d go with Adam and Alyson over supper again last night, I was assured of their support and knew the small amount of coin I still carried, plus what Captain Stoyan held in safekeeping for me from sales of my beer in Flanders, would help us to secure a place from which to commence our business.

  All I’d brought from Elmham Lenn and Dover, apart from a few clothes that Mother Joanna had given me, Betje, and Adam, were a few remaining barrels of beer, the ale-stick, and some of the instruments that I couldn’t bear to leave behind. God knew, it wasn’t much, but it was a start. Mother’s recipe book may have been no more, but I felt confident I could re-create every single one from memory.

  Before we could depart, we needed somewhere to live—a place that could accommodate not just me, Betje, the twins, the wet nurses, Adam, and, in time, additional servants, but also a rudimentary brewery.

  Securing premises was something that back in Dover, Captain Stoyan had said he would arrange. However, the lack of contact from the captain had begun to alarm me. Having lost Papa to the might of the sea, I wondered if Captain Stoyan had met the same fate.

  I determined to write to Captain Stoyan once more, before we finalized our plans. The next day, Adam delivered the letter to the metal walls of the Hanse, declaring he wouldn’t leave until he learned something of Captain Stoyan’s whereabouts. Recognizing the stubbornness in his words, the porter disappeared only to return with a large, stocky man of rank in tow.

  “Ja?” said the man with a booming voice, his beard bristling, his blue eyes cold. Adam described the cut of his dark jacket, the way the seams of the sleeves of his surcoat pulled as if they could barely contain the hard flesh beneath. “I’m Captain Geise,” the man said. “I’m told you are seeking information about Captain Stoyan, ja?”

  Introducing himself, Adam explained what he could. Captain Geise listened, his face revealing nothing. When he’d finished, Adam waited. Behind the captain, the sounds of industry carried. There was the ring of hammers, the clunk and grind of ropes and heavy objects being levered into place. Constant chatter in thick German and the singsong of Flemish formed a counterpoint to the irregular noises. Smoke billowed above the fortified walls, while over the captain’s shoulders, Adam could see at least four hulls in dry dock being caulked. The smell of tar infused the air.

  Denied an invitation to enter, or to sit upon the bench just inside the confines of the yard, Adam knew what he was about to hear would not bode well.

  Captain Geise’s heavily hooded eyes narrowed and his arms folded across his burly chest. “I know who
you are and your mistress too. You have not told me everything.”

  At his tone, Adam’s heart sank. Captain Geise did not mince his words.

  “Aye,” said Adam, “this is true.” Like Captain Stoyan, this man would brook no falsehoods.

  With a grunt, whether of approval or disdain Adam was unable to fathom, Captain Geise spoke. In short, sharp sentences, liberally littered with German, he told Adam why we hadn’t heard from Captain Stoyan and why we wouldn’t in the future either.

  What happened in Elmham Lenn and the captain’s association with me, with my beer, had brought the Hanse into disrepute. The hue and cry sent to capture me had altered the Kontor in Colchester, one of their major centers, and word had spread from there to London. The generous rights the king granted the Hanse meant they earned the wrath and suspicion of my countrymen at the best of times. Captain Geise explained that if it was discovered that Captain Stoyan was helping a felon in any way, that he’d harbored a fugitive aboard his vessel, let alone found her accommodation so she could brew again, the outcome for him, personally, didn’t bear thinking about. It would also, potentially, create trouble for the Hanse that they could well do without.

  “So, you tell your mistress, if she cares about Hatto as much as I think she does, if she cares about the Englischer wool and trade, then she won’t try and contact him again.”

  “What about the letter I left weeks ago? It contained a very personal request.” Adam hadn’t even bothered to remove my latest one from his surcoat.

  “It was never sent.”

  “Can I ask where Captain Stoyan is now? If he is well?”

  “Ja. You may.”

  After a minute of silence, the captain’s blue eyes boring into his, Adam lowered his head. The interview was over. There was little point arguing.

  “One last thing,” said the captain, spinning on the heel of his shiny boots. “Tell your mistress she makes a fine beer. Some was brought to me from Elmham Lenn. Was gut, ja.”

  With that, the porter shut the gate and Adam was left to return to the wherry he’d hired to cross the river.

  Knowing Captain Stoyan would not be able to help was a blow from which I thought we’d not recover. I hadn’t realized how much I’d counted upon his advice, help, and contacts to make a difficult transition easier. While I knew Alyson would help secure us lodgings over the bridge if I asked, I felt she’d already done so much, I could not impose upon her goodwill any longer.

  Realization I was on my own, as I hadn’t been before, dawned. I stood staring over the river toward London, understanding, for the first time in weeks, that this was it: all the decisions from here on in were mine to make alone.

  I needed to think. To clear my head. Fortify not just plans, but my bruised spirit. Others were depending on me and I swore I wouldn’t let them down.

  Forty-One

  The Swanne

  After Hocktide

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

  It was the first day of spring; the day for me to search for accommodation in London had arrived. Gray and cold with a persistent thick fog low in the sky, it wasn’t an auspicious beginning.

  Learning that Captain Stoyan was banned from corresponding, let alone associating, with me spurred me to do what I’d delayed for too long. Widowhood, which had lent me an air of respectability and prevented the likes of Master Fynk fining Alyson and administering punishment, might well work against me in the city—especially when it was understood a business was to be part of the leasing arrangement I sought. Dressing slowly, savoring my last minutes in my room, I reflected upon my invented state and how easily I’d adapted to its nuances.

  Over the weeks, with all the inquiries and solicitation I’d received following the twins’ birth, my imagined dead spouse had developed a form any real man would be hard-pressed to emulate. From his great height to his broad shoulders, wicked smile, hard work, and determination to succeed, to his utmost consideration and rare temper, he was a paragon of virtue. Until I realized that in many ways, the man I described was Sir Leander. Yet I persisted and trembled lest the original appear and charge me a murderous slattern.

  There, I admitted it. Why did I believe so firmly that this would be his response? Why could I not bring myself to imagine a different outcome? Was it because he now possessed a wife? His duty was to her, so he would not, could not, give me a moment of his time. Yet, I would argue with myself, he went to Elmham Lenn, he followed me to Dover, surely that counted for something?

  But what?

  That Sir Leander would no longer regard me as he once had—with great tenderness—was the real source of my anxiety. I was afraid, above all else, that he would see me once more as a whore. Not so much because I dwelled beneath the roof of a bathhouse (though that would not help), but because I was now a mother without a husband—even a dead one.

  How could I explain what had happened without losing his high opinion? My deception, in pretending to be a widow, would simply confirm the worst. At least if I left the confines of the bathhouse, if we did encounter each other and I begged his forgiveness (and that of his father) for the destruction of the property, told him what had eventuated, he might not only absolve me but, as he once did, admire my enterprise as I sought to work and support my family.

  On Tobias, I chose not to dwell. I could guess what he would say about my situation. No doubt in his eyes I was responsible for the death of our brother, and for Betje’s sorry condition. I had fallen from a respectable woman to an outlaw.

  Today, I determined to place this fretting behind me. Today, I would complete the journey started all those months ago in Elmham Lenn. Today, the phoenix would rise from the ashes of Holcroft House and fly to London.

  Finishing my toilet and satisfied I was suitably dressed, I closed the shutters against the fetid wind that blew off the river and tossed the mist around, and rearranged my tunic and kirtle, the same ones I’d worn before my burgeoning womb forced me to find more suitable apparel. Surprised to find they hung loosely upon me, I couldn’t credit that it had been two months since the twins were born, time I’d spent at unaccustomed leisure. I found it didn’t suit me. A piece of polished metal propped against the bureau revealed to me what I’d guessed to be the truth—I’d become gaunt and pale. Not usually vain, I ran my fingers down my rather prominent cheekbones and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. Well, there was no help for the way I looked. As for the loss of some flesh, it was to be expected. It was nothing a few good meals and some ale wouldn’t replace, unlike the other losses that were never far from my thoughts.

  Unbidden, an image of Karel replaced my own in the metal. Distorted, stretched slightly, his mouth was twisted in a grimace, his eyes wide with . . . what was it? Fear? Anticipation? I shut my eyes briefly, seeking not so much to banish him but to become accustomed to what now must haunt me. If I’d learned one thing over the last few weeks, it was that the dead didn’t depart this world, not really. They were the tears in the well of the heart, drawn in a heavy pail and tipped into the eyes. They were fragments of dreams left upon a pillow; they were the secret ache of which no one spoke, but which remained in the soul.

  When I opened my eyes, Karel was gone. But I knew if it wasn’t him making an appearance, it would be Saskia, Louisa, Will, or even Westel. I didn’t resent their visits. On the contrary, I drew comfort from them—often, a cold comfort. The only exception was Westel, who roused nothing but hatred, guilt, and apprehension . . . but he was my penance; I deserved to feel all those things and, sweet Mother Mary knew, so much more as well. As for the others, there was some succor in knowing they’d not yet abandoned me . . . abandoned us.

  The faint wail of a hungry babe disturbed my reverie and, throwing a shawl around my shoulders, I cast a final look around the room that had been my haven. It was the place in which my life had changed in so many ways and I would leave it with no small regret.

  But we’d imposed upon Alyson long enough. In orde
r to make any headway, I must move. With a huff of amusement, I took a step toward the door.

  “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” I wrenched it open and strode into the corridor.

  * * *

  I stood in the solar of The Swanne, a beautifully appointed room on the first floor of the bathhouse where Alyson conducted business and received only her most special and private of guests. Betje was beside me. My heart was heavy as I explained to Alyson I was traveling to London to seek accommodation. She wasn’t making it any easier, sitting in a high-backed chair, her face indifferent, her lips pursed. As she turned to regard me, a wicked twinkle gleamed in her eye, as if she carried some secret.

  “Alyson”—I reached for her hand, which remained limp and sorry in mine—“you’ve already been so welcoming, so generous. If not for you, well, I doubt the twins and I would have survived—”

  “For God’s sake, Anna,” she said with a harrumph of disgust, extracting her fingers with force. I backed away. “Don’t go maudlin on me. Not you!”

  Putting down the mazer from which she’d been enjoying a small ale, Alyson heaved herself out of the chair, walked around the table, and came slowly, inexorably toward me. She wore her favorite scarlet tunic; her kirtle was of the best fabric. Yet, for all her finery, she appeared tired, distracted.

  “What if I told you, you don’t need to go to London—not today, not any day?”

  “Pardon?”

  “What if I said, since you be so willing to give it away”—she flung an arm out—“I’ll take your coin and provide you with what you need.”

  “Forgive me, Alyson, are you suggesting I remain here?”

  Alyson rolled her eyes. Betje giggled. “Aye, she’s quick all right, your sister, ain’t she?” Lunging forward she grabbed my shoulders and gave them a shake. “Of course that’s what I’m suggesting, you daft beauty.” Releasing me, she paced across the solar. “I know this is a bathhouse and not the kind of establishment in which you ever thought to be living, or raising children in, but you have called it home the last few weeks, and I thought you might like to continue to do so.”