The Lady Brewer of London

by Karen Brooks

  I stared at her in disbelief. “Why didn’t you say something before? Why wait until I’m on the cusp of finding somewhere else?”

  The door opened and Adam entered. Alyson shot him a questioning look. Nodding brusquely, he smiled.

  A delighted look spread across her features. “Good.”

  “Adam?” I turned to him, questions brimming.

  “It ain’t his fault,” said Alyson quickly. “If you’re going to blame anyone, blame me.”

  “For what?”

  “For waiting till now to let you know that not only can you live here, you can brew as well.”

  “Brew? But where? How—?”

  “That’s right, Mistress Anna,” said Adam, the words tumbling out of his mouth. “At Goody Alyson’s bidding, I’ve spoken to a miller and he’s agreed to supply us with grain, good stock too, and malt the barley as well. His price is reasonable and he’s a fine reputation. I’ve also managed to get two mash tuns—they’ll need some work, but Master Batayle of The Star swears by them; said a cooper can repair them in an afternoon.” He beamed at me.

  Stunned, I sat down quickly. My heart hammered and my knees quivered. “Go on.” I knew a business deal being struck when I heard one.

  Alyson continued. “Beneath where we are now is a large cellar. It’s a cold, old place. Dark with a fair bit of rubbish strewn about—or it did have. Been unused since I bought The Swanne, but, over the last few weeks, I’ve had cause to reexamine it and I’ve found it was quite to my liking. It made me think, it did. I’ve had the girls clean it. The chimney hadn’t been cleared since the house was built, by the sweep’s reckoning—should have seen the bird carcasses and rat bones.” She shuddered. “Of course, I couldn’t think to what purpose such a large, cold area with a usable hearth”—she grinned as my eyes widened and mouth dropped—“a dusty old kiln, and a floor so dry Mistress Verina would feel like she was home again could be put, until I tasted your beer. After that, I had a few long conversations with Master Adam here, didn’t I?”

  Pausing as she strutted about the solar, she smiled at Adam, then me. I couldn’t help but return it.

  How had Adam kept such discussions from me? More importantly, why?

  “You’ve a talent, girl, do you know that?” said Alyson softly.

  “I’ve been told,” I said. Betje squeezed beside me onto the chair and sought my hand. In the touch of her fingers and the tautness of her slender frame, I could feel the excitement coursing through her. In many ways, it mirrored my own.

  “As for why I haven’t said anything before, I wasn’t sure how to tell you since you were so determined to walk your own path. I respect that, you know I do. You had your heart set on going to London, doing it all yourself, and while I didn’t want to prevent you, I felt I had to warn you . . .”

  “About what?”

  She held up her hand. “I’ll get to that. But what was the point of trying to change your mind if I couldn’t offer you an alternative? If I wasn’t certain that London would be more trouble than it was worth? Well, Adam and me had some long talks, did some thinking of our own, we did.” She flashed him her toothy grin. “I had to have something to tempt you with, something to make it worthwhile staying, other than the pleasure of my company.” She winked. “Now he’s done what I asked and found you some mash tuns and a supplier for your grain. That means I can tender you an alternative to London—a good one at that. I can even do better than to offer you a place to live and a place to brew.”

  “What could be better than that?”

  Taking a deep breath, she continued. “I want to offer you a partnership, Anna de Winter. You heard me. A partnership. I’ll underwrite your initial costs in return for a small rent and a steady supply of ale and beer. I’ll put a roof over your head, your babes, Betje’s, and even old Adam’s. You can use the girls as hucksters when times are quiet and I’ll even throw in Juliana and her wages for good measure. She’s yours to train and use in the brewery. As your business grows, we can discuss more servants. Once you start making a profit, then we’ll have a natter about sharing it. Think about it, Anna . . . you wouldn’t have to move anywhere except from where you’re sitting and down some stairs.” She pointed to the floor.

  My heart fluttered and enthusiasm began to replace the dread that had taken up residence. A cellar would offer perfect conditions. Cold, dry, likely to have an even temperature most of the year. Depending how large the space, I could divide part into a brewery, the other use for storage. And if there was a good supplier who could malt and mill the grain . . .

  I was sorely tempted. To be able to remain, to start brewing and with such assistance, my first purchases already covered . . .

  “If only it were so simple, Alyson.”

  With a click of frustration, she moved away. I stood and joined her at the window. Immediately below us was the entrance to The Swanne, the busy street, the slow-moving river. Bells tolled and a flock of pigeons rose in a flurry of feathers, wheeling away to the east.

  “It’s only difficult if you make it so, Anna. Like anything in this life.”

  “But over there . . .” I nodded toward London. Spires pushed through the mist, jetties protruded over the water. Patches of sunlight revealed craft being dragged along the river. “There’s access to millers, coopers, a reasonable water supply, and everything else I need.”

  “What? Didn’t you hear Adam? Southwark’s got these as well.”

  “It’s not just mash tuns, Alyson, or grain. I need suppliers, steady trade, access to boats . . .” My voice petered out. I swallowed. “On a more practical level, I need wood and coal, measures, troughs—”

  “Aye, aye. I hear you. Now, tell me, what else are you going to make into a hurdle you won’t jump?”

  I didn’t answer. I didn’t know how.

  “I know what you need, and what we can’t get, well, we can make do until we can.” She let out a long sigh. “Anna, I’ve spoken to a client of mine, Stephen Hamme, who, it happens, owns a couple of successful brewhouses in London. Master Hamme told me some things that have me worried. I wanted to warn you . . .”

  “What did Master Hamme tell you?”

  “That you wouldn’t be welcome over there.” She jerked her head toward the city.

  I laughed. “Alyson, I’m not that naive. A wise woman once said to me that women like us aren’t welcome anywhere. She was right.”

  Alyson shook her head. “This is more serious than that. Master Hamme said they would hound you out of there faster than the gents here divest their breeches. Oh. My apologies, Miss Betty.” Her eyes twinkled. “But you get my point.”

  “I do.” I waited for her to continue.

  “In London, the laws are different. I knew that was the case for my type of business, but it’s just as bad for brewers. Why do you think there’re so many setting up over here? Because it’s so scenic? Because it’s so clean?”

  Behind me, Adam gave a bark of laughter.

  Alyson ignored him. “You think you can just stroll over the bridge, move into a suitable house, and brew to your heart’s content? I tell you this for naught, Anna, the Mystery of Brewers will see you finished quicker than a pries—” She caught my eye and, looking at Betje, changed her mind. “Damn fast, I tell you.”

  “How? If I pay my dues, if the ale-conners pass the brew, they’ll have no cause for complaint. I’m not seeking to wear the livery, I just want a chance.”

  “If. If. If.” Alyson snorted.

  “That’s all you wanted in Elmham Lenn too, mistress,” said Adam softly.

  I winced. “It’s not fair.” Now I sounded like Tobias, seven years old and being lifted onto a pony and sent to live in another household. I sat back down onto a chair. “I don’t understand.”

  “Nay,” said Alyson, “I’m not surprised. But the facts are, despite the friends you have here and what Captain Stoyan once did, you’ll find they’re not enough. They’re never enough. Master Hamme said there’s been a terrible lot o
f cheating going on of late—false measures being used, ale diluted with all manner of stuff, and it’s been the women responsible.” Alyson pulled a face. “Well, held responsible, methinks. Many from here, from Southwark, as well. Courts are full of brewsters and the coffers full of their fines. A few even get to spend time in the pillory or worse. Ever since His Grace, good King Henry, gave London charter over Southwark, it’s been ruinous for anyone from here—especially if they go over there.” She raised a finger to prevent my interjection.

  “I know you’re not from here, but in their eyes you will be. You’ll be the Southwark widow, and try telling ’em any different. Think they won’t know your story? And I know you don’t engage in such practices as gets those others in trouble. You’re not a cheat, but without a husband to speak for you, or a man of equal standing”—she cast an apologetic look at Adam, which went a long way to demonstrating her estimation of him—“you’ll be ripe for accusations and worse. Not just from the ale-conners and justices, but the other brewers. Imagine how much the women are going to love having you setting up in their midst?” She gave a harrumph and looked at the ceiling, cackling.

  “Oh, Lord. As for the ale-conners . . . they’ll pretend to assess you the same as the rest, but your brews will be scrutinized in ways others aren’t. You’ll have fines levied so often and for no sensible reason; you’ll have no money to pay the rent, let alone the tax. And what about the poll tax once you’ve become a citizen? What about that? In other words, anything and everything you do will attract fees and earn scorn and envy. You’ll be regarded as a slattern, dragged before the courts for offenses that a mummer couldn’t invent, and arouse local ire for simply existing. It won’t matter what kind of household you run, what kind of business you build, Anna, you’re a woman and a brewer. You’ll be seen as disorderly, as a threat to goodness and godliness—a sinner—and as such you’ll be cast out.”

  Holding in a sigh, I suddenly felt weary, worn. Echoes of Westel’s cruel words rang in my mind. “I’ve dealt with worse.”

  “In Elmham Lenn, aye. But this is London we’re talking about. This is different. You met Master Fynk, yet he can’t hold a candle to those over the bridge. Not when it comes to pedantry, cruelty, or the smug self-satisfaction certain men take in wielding authority—particularly over someone like you. Someone young and beautiful. I know.”

  A tremor ran through me.

  She began to stride around the room again. “And you’ll not be able to brew both ale and beer, have you thought of that, heh? It’ll be one or the other—mark my words.”

  “And will it be any better here?”

  Alyson threw back her head and laughed. “Of course not! In some ways, it’ll be worse, because since King Henry changed the charter, the laws of London apply here—well, when they’re enforced. But here you’ll have friends.” She stopped mid-stride. “Here, you’ll have us.”

  In her face it was clear: You’ll have me.

  “You have a choice, Anna, between dealing with corrupt and overzealous tasters, as well as jealous brewsters and guild members who don’t give a God’s wink about you, Betje, the twins, or anything other than keeping the guild and law courts happy and profiting from you any way they can”—she rubbed her thumb and forefinger together—“all by yourself—or you can stay here with me and we’ll face ’em together. Brew for The Swanne for starters. Master Hamme reckons if your brew’s as good as what he tasted—aye, he was here the night of the babes’ christening—then you’ll have no trouble selling to the alehouses in Horselydown Lane, or even along the High Street. Happens I know the owner of The Crown, down in Tooley Street, very well.” She tapped the side of her nose. “Reckon we might be able to do some business there. Once some of the nobles or religious houses discover your ale and beer, the orders will fly in.” Unfolding her arms, she came and knelt at my feet. Taking my hands from my lap, Betje’s twined around one, she held us tightly.

  “What do you say, Anna de Winter? How about we go into business together and show the folk of Southwark, and London as well, how real ale and beer tastes, hey?”

  I could not credit what Alyson was saying, the proposition she was making. It was beyond what I had ever dreamed . . . Was it too good? Did disaster loom around the corner? Not just for me, Betje, the twins, and Adam but, if we joined forces, for Alyson, Harry, Master atte Place, and The Swanne’s girls? I couldn’t bear the thought that somehow I was a harbinger of doom. Alyson deserved better. They all did.

  “Anna,” said Alyson in dismay when I didn’t answer, letting go of my hands and pulling herself up with grunts and groans using the chair next to mine, “why are you being so resistant? Is it because this is a bathhouse? Or is it that you fear your true identity will be discovered? That Sir Leander will find you?”

  My head, full of ideas, galloping with possibility, was suddenly wiped clean as a child’s slate.

  The knowledge and understanding in her steady brown gaze undid me. I glanced at Adam. “Nay,” she said, “Adam never breathed a word. You may not remember, but the day the twins were born you spoke of him, Anna. A great deal. Him and that murderous scoundrel, Westel Calkin. Aye, you weren’t in your right mind, you weren’t aware. That’s why I’ve kept my mouth shut—till now.”

  I nodded, unsurprised that even helpless, my heart had conspired against me.

  Alyson cocked her head to one side. “Would it be so bad if he did?”

  I shot her a tired look. It was the question I hadn’t dared to ask myself.

  “I don’t know. Sweet Mother Mary, I don’t know.”

  Alyson let out a long sigh. “Mayhap that’s as well. I often think if we knew what God intended before it happened, we’d be too afraid to clamber out of bed most mornings.”

  Collapsing on the chair next to mine, she reached over and gripped my thigh. “Let me put it this way. I’ve shared my bed with five different men as their wife, but I’ve never asked anyone to share my business as partner. I’m asking you, Anna de Winter, I’m asking you.”

  A thousand reasons not to accept Alyson’s offer leaped through my head. My ears were filled with “nays” and “naughts.” I could see Father’s furious visage looming over me, rage burning in his eyes; there was Tobias, shouting; Cousin Hiske and all manner of people from my past letting me know I was finally living up to their low expectations: brewing in a bathhouse. Only Mother’s face, as it drifted before me, tears streaming down her cheeks, offered a small smile of hope. You can make it work, Anneke, you always do.

  Nay, Moeder, I don’t. I didn’t.

  But this time you will.

  I rose, brushing against Alyson as I returned to the window, drawn to gaze across the river toward the bustling city. Watery sunshine struck the gray-brown surface, transforming it into something sparkling and inviting. London too became a patchwork of color and shadow, smoke and greenery, golden opportunity and dark failure.

  Below the sill, the cobbles were slick, the ditch that ran down the center of the road a sludge of straw, animal and human refuse, and all manner of rubbish. Dogs and pigs snuffled in the soaking stench, while chickens clucked and squawked like clumsy balls of feathers among the vendors and pedestrians, unlike the urchins who darted about with practiced ease. Hawkers cried their wares and women wearing yellow hoods wandered between them, inviting customers to consider another kind of purchase. Alyson wouldn’t be happy that her business was being encroached upon. The smell of a nearby fullers drifted in the open window while to my left, I could just see the edge of one of the watermills churning upstream. I wondered if that was the one Adam had visited.

  What if Mother had been right? What if this time I really could make it work? Not over there, in the city, but here? Perhaps here my status wouldn’t be such a burden, not with Alyson as my patron; indeed, as my partner. The risk was as much hers as mine.

  “The risk is as much mine as yours,” said a voice in my ear. I jumped. Alyson had joined me at the window, reading my thoughts. “It’s a dirty
old place, isn’t it? Bankside, Southwark . . . Look at all that shit.” She laughed. “But as God is my witness, it’s my dirty old place.”

  “Nay,” I said, turning to face her.

  Squinting in the sunlight, she raised a brow. “Oh? And why do you say that, you cheeky chick?”

  “Because it’s our dirty old place.”

  It took her a moment to get my meaning. Then, with a small cry, she pulled me against her. Betje joined us moments later. Adam stood beside us, one hand on Alyson’s shoulder, the other upon mine, as together we stared at our grubby demesne.

  Forty-Two

  The Swanne

  May Day

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

  I’d been at The Swanne now for almost three months, yet every time I descended the worn steps to the cellar and entered the brewery, I was newly astonished by what we’d accomplished and the transformation that had been wrought. Tying an apron around my tunic, I wandered between the bubbling mash tuns, nodding God’s good day to Juliana and Yolande, who were stirring the contents and inhaling its rich, almost buttery smell. Steam rose to the ceiling before falling like a constant lament down the walls. Nearby, a fire roared in the huge old kiln, trays of grain browning within, Adam keeping a watchful eye.

  “How are the twins, mistress?” he asked as I approached.

  “Slumbering as only the innocent can,” I replied.

  Behind one of the columns and on a slightly lower level, Harry, who’d become an apprentice of sorts—at least when he could be spared—was helping Master atte Place shift some barrels. Ofttimes, I would catch Harry out of the corner of my eye and my heart would seize as an unwelcome memory overrode the reality and another taller, older man took his place. As the days passed, this happened less often. Harry was nothing like Westel and, indeed, the brewery we’d created beneath The Swanne was nothing like my small concern at Holcroft House.