The Lady Brewer of London

by Karen Brooks

  What we were building here was a much larger business altogether, one that required me to spend every available moment overseeing every aspect of production as well as training the servants. They were fast learners and keen to earn the extra coin they received for working with me. They deserved it. The cellar wasn’t a comfortable place to be—even though the weather outside was warming, it was ofttimes cold below the bathhouse, despite the busy kiln, and quite dark. Only one small window admitted light and the battered door, sitting above the six steps that led into the courtyard, remained closed, except when there were deliveries, as did the other door that led to the kitchen. For now, our brewing wasn’t exactly legal—but neither was it against the law. As I was slowly learning, Southwark made its own rules, many in spite of London, and the locals could be both flexible and uncompromising.

  Paying poll tax and declaring my occupation as a brewer meant that I incurred not just hefty quarterage for the right, but also the attention of those who were curious as to whether or not I would succeed in my intentions. I wasn’t the only female brewer in Southwark, or Bankside for that matter, but I was the only widow and the only woman who was in partnership with a member of my own sex. There were those in authority who watched us with skeptical and ungenerous eyes, finding fault where there was none, attempting to control what I did. I paid my dues without quarrel and gave the appearance of quiet obedience. But, with Alyson’s support and encouragement, I continued to make the ale and beer my way—the way Moeder and all the de Winter women before me had.

  What I hadn’t counted on was what the additional scrutiny of my endeavors meant for Alyson. The Swanne received extra inspections from Master Fynk, who took great delight in ensuring none of the girls were being held against their will (the notorious concubinage), were pregnant, wore the apron, or had the burning sickness. Much to my astonishment, I found out that bathhouses were not supposed to serve food or ale to their customers, but, if Alyson was forced to obey this law, then other establishments would have to acquiesce too, and for all his bombast, Master Fynk knew this would be nigh on impossible. So he tolerated part of the hall being turned into a taproom, and along with visits from the bailiff, constables, watchmen, and other assorted officials, and the subsequent checking of ledgers to ensure charges for rooms and sundries weren’t too high, The Swanne became the most well-conducted bathhouse in Bankside.

  Alyson shrugged it off with more good humor than I’d expected. “Let them regulate me till their boots get worn marching here and their quills snap with all their damn record keeping. I look after my girls and my servants and they can’t help but say so.” Only then would her eyes narrow. “If they want corruption, they don’t have to look too far to find it.”

  Alyson was referring to our neighbors, “the Flemish,” as she called them, who also ran adjoining bathhouses, ones that had reputations for gambling, violence, and all sorts of wanton behavior. Measuring the worth of one of these kinds of establishments against another wasn’t something I ever thought I’d be putting my mind to, but there was a code of honor that was followed at Bankside, and those who flouted it inevitably ended up drawing the wrath of the Bishop of Winchester, and that often meant time in the notorious prison, The Clink.

  Pushing these thoughts to the back of my mind, I ran through the list of tasks I’d still to complete. Today was May Day and there were festivities aplenty planned for the evening, and the girls would do a version of the maypole dance, which Betje and I were forbidden to watch. For all that I lived and worked in a bathhouse, Alyson did her utmost to protect us from exposure to its customers and its more scandalous elements, and mostly she was successful. However, I was not completely ignorant. Aware of the occasional brawls, of drunken and sober demands that certain tastes be met, I also stumbled upon semi-clad men and women in the corridors, and had twice now been mistaken for one of the bathhouse girls. I’d quickly corrected that misconception and managed to maintain my dignity. There was an understandable assumption that any woman beneath this roof was there for one purpose only.

  Long before the sun set, I would make sure the children and I were in my room. During the day, the twins remained with the wet nurses in the attic room that had now become a permanent nursery, while my sister was, as she insisted, by my side in the brewery.

  Squatting at the base of one of the columns, Betje chatted to Harry. With only one good hand, it was difficult for her to hold an ale-stick or a rake, but she’d become adept at knowing just when the grain I still dried for beer was cooked enough to release its flavors. Able to overcome her fear of the flames, she would hover near the kiln and wait for the malted barley to dry. Just then, Adam hailed her. She rose awkwardly and limped to his side, staying out of the way until the hot tray was safely deposited on the table.

  Spying me, she waved and popped a piece of hot golden grain between her teeth, biting through the husk. Nodding approvingly at the taste, Betje tried another from a different part to be sure before Adam pushed the tray to one side and replaced another in the stove.

  One day, if she chose, Betje would be a fine brewer. Looking at her now, the twisted mass of flesh that cascaded down one side of her face and, I knew all too well, her body, the scant, fair hair that fell in a thin braid beneath her cap, and one functioning eye, I wondered what the future held for her . . . I wondered what it held for us all.

  A wave of exhaustion washed over me. I let out a sigh and rested a hand against the trough, glancing at the cooling wort, noting the fine, creamy head that sat upon the ale. I’d sung it to life as the cock crowed this morning, relishing the texture, the taste I’d enjoyed—there was no doubt, it would be a fine batch. But, dear Lord, I couldn’t recall ever being so weary.

  Still, there was nothing for it but to roll up my sleeves and keep going. Moaning, never mind resting, was reserved for those able to afford such luxuries. God knows, I’d done enough of the latter my first few weeks here to last a lifetime. I’d lost precious weeks and had no choice but to make it up. I grabbed the old ale-stick from where it leaned in the corner hiding the suspicious wet patch beneath, one of my libations to the corner crones (much to my relief, they had heeded my call and joined me the first day I brewed), and relieved Juliana, who, able to work without instruction, went to the troughs to drain the wort. Understanding what needed be done, Adam went to help.

  Swirling the mash, pleased with the consistency, I was able to continue my reverie. In the darkness beyond squatted the barrels Master atte Place and Harry had moved. Already passed by the ale-conners, they awaited sale. Most of the contents would be sold in The Swanne. Some of it would rely on those of Alyson’s girls willing to be hucksters—selling ale in varying quantities in the street—in their spare time. Already, this had been more successful than we’d hoped, and as soon as one of The Swanne women appeared on Maiden Lane or the High Street with the cart and barrel, so too men and women would queue with their jugs, skins, and even tankards to be filled. Still, it was not enough, not when the girls needed to be paid, and we would have to find other means of distribution if we were to make money. I still lived in hope that one of the religious houses in Southwark or one of the nobles would order their supplies from us, or that the Bishop of Winchester, who’d already praised the drink, would place orders, but none had eventuated. There was something about a brewery and a bathhouse that, while it worked so well for me, was a deterrent to others. After all, what gentleman could hold his head up at table and claim, “This fine brew was bought from the Stews”?

  There had be a way to overcome prejudice and, perhaps, I’d already found one.

  Six barrels stood aside from the rest. Containing beer I’d brewed with the last of the hops, they’d been left to ferment and were almost ready for sale. With no standing orders, I had to rely on locals to buy it, just like the ale. There were good profits to be made from beer, as it was cheaper to make, but only if drinkers sought it as a preference. Knowing the men of the Stilliard across the river would be our best customers
, and possibly also our Flemish neighbors, both of whom preferred beer to English ale, we determined to open a barrel tonight when we knew the Easterlings would sneak into Stew Lane and board wherries to Southwark. If only I still had the contracts to supply the Hanse ships, if only Captain Stoyan was once more able to act as my agent in the Low Countries . . . if only . . . if only . . .

  I caught myself.

  “If only” was the herald of despondency. But there was something I had changed in the hope it would make a difference. There wasn’t only the ale-conners’ official seal, the three Xs, emblazoned upon the barrels. I’d added something extra.

  It was a fancy, really, one Captain Stoyan inspired a long time ago, when he sat in the solar with me at Holcroft House and drank my first beer.

  “This is so good,” he’d said, smacking his lips in appreciation, “it deserves its own name.” We’d laughed heartily at the absurdity of such a notion.

  Since I’d been at The Swanne and used the last of the hops I’d brought from Elmham Lenn, the idea had taken hold. Why not name my beer? My ale for that matter, as well?

  I played with names like Anna’s Ale and Southwark Superior and laughed at my audacity. For certes, Alyson was having an influence upon me. Weeks went by and while I hadn’t decided on a name for the ale or beer, we gradually became referred to as the Bathhouse Brewery. I knew then that a name for my beer and ale would disguise its origins and, perhaps, make purchasing it more palatable for some households. One morning after I’d served the corner crones, the name came to me. It was so simple and meaningful. I’d heard this name being given to beer by some of the English sailors in Elmham Lenn who’d served abroad in the king’s forces. To me, it signified more than simply a point of difference to ale and to The Swanne. In naming the beer, I felt I was also honoring my brother Karel’s memory—after all, was he not a son of one of the finest brewers? One to whom I owed my talents?

  I found some charcoal and, kneeling before each barrel of beer, inscribed on the wood in neat black letters, Son of Ale.

  Heavy grief but also a sense of wonder tinged with rightness accompanied my naming, my effort to include Karel in our endeavors. I prayed to the Holy Mother and my Savior that what I’d created in my brother’s name would indeed pay tribute to his all-too-brief life.

  That I also included the goddess Ninkasi in these prayers was between my crones and me. And Mother. Always Moeder.

  Westel may have sought to steal her gift, but he’d not succeeded. The de Winter women’s traditions were forever emblazoned in my memory. It had not been difficult to re-create the recipes I’d used with such success in Elmham Lenn. I’d even dared to embellish them, sourcing local herbs, spices, and woods for smoking, to add flavor.

  Footsteps echoed above me and I cast my eyes in their direction. Alyson was supervising the cleaning and restocking of The Swanne. The muted cries of vendors arriving at the kitchen door occasionally carried, as did tantalizing smells, reminding us that we were soon to break fast. The cook had been particularly busy over the last two days. Juliana cast a longing look toward the stairs and I knew I wasn’t the only one feeling the stirrings of hunger. A barrel of small ale had been taken upstairs for the servants.

  As I stirred the mash, I ran through the other tasks I had to accomplish today. Betje and Harry must revise their letters. Then there were the little smocks I was sewing for the twins to wear when the weather was warm enough. Keen to see how they measured against their growing bodies, I hoped to be able to spend extra time with them. I also had to ensure the coal and wood merchants delivered, and ask Adam to remind the miller, Master Backster, that we were still waiting on our last batch of ground malt. Charging reasonable prices, Master Backster also had a tendency to preference the orders of other brewers, such as Master Falstof of the Boar’s Head on High Street, before mine. Three times already, our brew had been held up because of a late delivery. If this continued, we’d have to seek an alternate miller and that could be hard—they were farther away and the cartage would add another cost I could ill afford. There was also the cooper to see, the ironmonger to pay, Mistress Simister the seamstress to call upon about the new tunic for Betje, and, finally, the farrier to organize.

  Wiping a hand across my brow, I grimaced at the thought of what lay ahead with the bells for sext due to sound. Yet, for all my fatigue, my exertions were nothing to what they could have been. Though each brew, the maintenance of the equipment, and the tasks allotted to each servant were my responsibility, I didn’t have to concern myself with such mundane tasks as cooking food or finding the money for rent or for the constant supplies required to brew in the quantities I demanded. Here at The Swanne so many of these duties were either shared or taken from me altogether. I’d not appreciated how much easier it would make the whole experience, nor what having a legitimate business partner entailed. Typically generous, Alyson gave me whoever she could spare to help—the only caveat was that I trained them. Juliana and Yolande both showed an interest and were thus assigned to me exclusively, and replacements found to take over their work upstairs. Harry spent at least half his day with us and Leda and Mabel came when we needed extra hands. Even Master atte Place, who usually only appeared sometime between sext and none, started to arrive earlier, his clothes creased, what remained of his hair disheveled, offering to fetch the water, lug sacks of coal and faggots of wood into the cellar, and roll sealed barrels out into the courtyard and into the storage room at the back of The Swanne, ready to be tapped. In fact, any task that required strength, he took over. All he asked was that he be allowed to enjoy a quiet tankard or two of ale as reward.

  For all the help I was given, it still wasn’t enough.

  Aware that this was a huge undertaking, Alyson would visit at least once a day, casting a discerning and generally approving eye over our work. Most evenings, when the shadows grew, the candles were lit, the fires stoked, the children abed, and the girls of The Swanne entertaining their clients, we would sit in her solar, Adam working on the ledgers, and discuss our plans to turn over a profit.

  God forgive me, patience was not one of my virtues. I couldn’t help but be reminded of how difficult it had been in Elmham Lenn and how, until Captain Stoyan managed to create a network of customers for us overseas, it didn’t matter how many patrons we’d attracted or mazers and tankards of ale, let alone barrels and firkins, we filled, we’d floundered.

  “If only I could find a market somewhere—someone who’d buy large quantities.”

  “Aye,” said Alyson, frowning as one of the girls let out a playful shriek. “Pity about your captain.”

  It was. It wasn’t just because of the orders he’d found. I missed Captain Stoyan in so many ways. Adam looked up from where he was annotating the books.

  “You may not be able to rely on Captain Stoyan, mistress. But don’t you worry, someone will come along.”

  Alyson grunted. “Listen to Master Adam. Do you think some other merchant prepared to take your brew to the Low Countries will just appear like the Holy Grail to a knight? God knows, we get enough of ’em here and all it takes is for one of them to see a sound business proposition . . . but they may as well be blind for all the good it has done us.”

  Over the last couple of weeks, she’d tried to persuade a few of her more regular clients, successful merchants, to gamble on exporting the beer. Not prepared to buy the brew outright and risk a loss, even when she’d offered to let them take it on credit, they’d balked. Nothing Alyson did or said could move them. What was unsaid was their reluctance to do business with women.

  “They’ll trust us with their cocks but not their purses,” she’d grumbled. “We just have to hope that as word gets around about the quality of your brew, more of the bathhouses will start to buy their supplies from us. Otherwise, we’re going to have more barrels than the king’s army, only without their thirst to quench.” She glared into her mazer a moment before lifting her head and fixing us with a forced smile. “Summer is all but upon us a
nd with the warmer weather and more daylight, what do people find more time to do?”

  She looked at Adam and me brightly, but I was too despondent to answer.

  “Why, you addle-headed pair. Drink, of course.” She rose to her feet and went to watch the moon haul itself over the horizon. “We’ll be fine,” she mumbled, her back to us. “All we need is a little more time. All we need is one bastard to place his trust in us . . .”

  It was the closest Alyson had come to acknowledging she was troubled, which meant we were in a worse state than she was prepared to admit.

  Adam met my anxious look with his own. We both knew time was our enemy here—time and the stubborn merchants of London and Southwark who preferred the watery, diluted ale of the other brewers to the richer, tastier, and stronger kind produced by a female brewer.

  God knew, if we couldn’t find buyers in Southwark, which was filled with alehouses and the homes of nobles that needed stocking, we never would.

  * * *

  At first I wasn’t sure what woke me. A soft tinkle, like a chime in the breeze, that was quickly followed by an explosion of shattering glass, shouts, and shrill cries. Diving out of bed and reaching for a shawl, I ran into the corridor, my first instinct to check on Betje and the twins. The door to the nursery above was shut and I prayed it remained that way. Positioning myself at the foot of the stairs so I might protect them, I tried to discover the source of the growing commotion.

  As I leaned over the railing, I was able to see the floor below. Torches blazed in sconces, casting a mottled light onto the wide corridor. All the doors were currently shut. A scream as loud as a smashed plate made me jump, and two half-naked men, who were twined around each other, burst through one of the doors, splintering the wood and tearing it from the frame, their fists flying, arms flailing, legs pumping, teeth bared, and blood flowing. Grunting and swearing fit to rouse the devil, the men punched, kicked, and bit each other. Other doors opened and men in various stages of dress and undress gathered to watch; some tried to separate the brawlers while others urged them to more violence. Not even the fight in the Cathaline Alehouse the day Will was killed compared. Unable to tear myself away, I watched as one man, his breeches falling, his buttocks on display, tried to wrestle a younger, taller one who looked vaguely familiar, back to the floor.