The Lady Brewer of London

by Karen Brooks

  By the end of June, we’d sent dozens of barrels to Ashlar Place. The last delivery accompanied Leander as he left London and headed north so he and his household, including his wife and Tobias, could join the king. I would not see Leander again until after parliament sat at Gloucester in October.

  I missed him terribly. Elegant letters, filled with stories of his travels and the castles in which he stayed and the tournaments and hunts he participated in, as well as updates of the king’s continuous poor health, did little to compensate for his absence. Nonetheless, I would lie awake at night and reread them by the cresset lamp, lingering over the words as memories of our nights together inserted their way into the accounts.

  His absence transformed our lovemaking into sweet recollections that I carefully stowed away like one does precious pieces of jewelry, taking them out to revel in their sparkle when the household slumbered or during daylight hours to ensure they hadn’t tarnished. They served to buttress me against what would be a long summer and filled me with a joy I’d thought would never be mine. Every brew I made, I imagined him drinking it, knowing that each mouthful was born of my passion for him and for what I did.

  I tried not to think of him with the Lady Cecilia but ofttimes I would picture the two of them at a magnificent banquet somewhere, sharing the same vessel, he courteously wiping the rim or passing her the most delicate cuts of meat before attending to his own needs. From there my cruel mind would lead me to other intimate moments where they might find themselves together, in her chamber, disrobed, performing those duties that wives and husbands by God’s law were obliged.

  I’d no right to resent the world in which he was a merchant nobleman, knight of the realm, and husband, with commitments he must meet and burdens he must bear. Yet I did. Now that love had been acknowledged, it flourished in my head, and my heart excused much that, in the depths of my soul, a pardoner would not. How could love be a sin?

  But I could not prevent wishing it were different, that the Lady Cecilia didn’t exist. Not that it would alter my situation. Leander could no more marry me than move the king’s court to Camelot.

  I wondered what Lady Cecilia felt when he was with me. Did she know?

  Yet I accepted this was the way it must be, for I was a sinner and must serve some penance, even if it was uneasy consideration of Lady Cecelia’s sensibilities.

  The days rolled into weeks and though I was kept busy, I was also able to enjoy the pleasures that accompanied the growth of my babes. Their tiny bodies fleshed out, their newborn down replaced by cream-colored curls of silkiness. Their noises changed from primitive cries of need to gurgles, squeals, and chuckles of curiosity, happiness, and desire thwarted. When the weather allowed and the brewery permitted a brief respite, I would place either Karel or Isabella in a sling and, with Juliana carrying the other, stroll the streets of Southwark, Harry or Adam providing an escort. We would wander to Moulstrand Dock and along Moss Alley, enjoying Banaster’s Garden, catching sight of the jongleurs and jesters performing, or walk along the river toward Winchester Palace, buying a hot pie and some small ale to sustain us and standing aside as a military cavalcade or a group of solemn pilgrims passed by. Roars from the bear garden could be heard and we even encountered the occasional staggering gentleman clutching a bulging purse, eager to spend his winnings from the bear-baiting at one of the gambling dens along Bankside.

  A few times we braved the crush of London Bridge with its press of shops and acquisitive vendors. Growing accustomed to the crowds and noise, the combination of wealth and squalor, decency and malevolence, humans and animals, I found each trip became easier and more interesting than the last. Still, I was wary of the oily-voiced vendor or the greasy-haired urchin loitering in my footsteps and would signal to Adam or Harry to make their presence known. From both kind and persnickety hawkers, I purchased everything from ribbons for Alyson and myself and a special gilt-tipped mazer for Adam, to a pretty lace cap for Betje.

  Nervous among strangers, Betje chose not to join us, until Harry persuaded me to buy a veil. Finding a piece of fabric among some remnants in a mercer’s shop, he lifted it out of the pile, drawing the fine material across the back of his hand. “Mistress! Look. You could sew this onto Betty’s cap. Hide her face, like.” He held the semi-transparent material over his own. “I can see out, but can you see who’s behind?”

  I bought the gauze for a price I knew was far too high, but didn’t care. That night, I stitched it to a cap for Betje and, the very next day, her features blurred by the pearly veil, she too joined our perambulations.

  Growing more confident under Harry’s care, Betje’s quiet grieving for Karel was slowly exchanged for the comforting presence of her new friend. Watching Harry with my sister, I felt my faith renewed in the goodness of people. He cared for her, without a doubt, and in Harry, Betje found a solace that my presence alone nor the twins could provide.

  What I could do was guarantee that Betje, Karel, and Isabella had a secure future. To that end, I continued making ale and beer even though our sales were few and orders, with the exception of that which went to Ashlar Place and Leander, when he was attending the king, nonexistent. This was despite praise for the exceptional quality and fine taste from all who drank it. I despaired. All it would take to alter the situation was for other nobles to place orders for their households, for a few of the borough’s many churches to do the same.

  Pushing aside my worries, I labored over the mash tuns and the wort and experimented with the beer. With each batch of ale or beer, the ale-conners were summoned. The first few times, the process was smooth. The ale and beer were passed, my measures sealed, and the barrels marked accordingly. I paid the tax and all was well. Relieved, I’d heard of other brewers in Bankside being charged for a range of offenses. Since I scrupulously followed the rules and did nothing to jeopardize my meager sales or the continuance of Leander’s order, I believed this wouldn’t happen to me.

  You would think after my experiences in Elmham Lenn, I wouldn’t be so callow.

  * * *

  Midsummer arrived and quarterage was once more paid to the Borough of Southwark and the bishop’s liberty. Whether it was the warmer weather, longer days, or a combination of both, thirsty patrons began to fill the taproom each evening and sales slowly increased. Word spread throughout Bankside and beyond the liberty—the boundaries that denoted where one jurisdiction ended and another’s began—and folk we’d not entertained before came to try our ale. Newly arrived Easterlings, learning that beer just like that drunk at home was available, flouted the Stilliard’s rules that banned its members from the licentiousness of bathhouses, and became frequent guests. After vespers, when the first stars were twinkling in the firmament, they’d pour into The Swanne, downing tankards and mazers and filling jugs before curfew sent them scuttling back over the river.

  Even the hucksters roaming close to the bridge and over by the pillory near Bermondsey Street returned to The Swanne earlier each day, their supplies having been sold. Praise for the ale was plentiful and even the beer was being tasted, though some men swore “it’d ne’er replace our ale.”

  “Reason you named it ‘Son,’” said one patron to Alyson, “is that you know the father is the better man.”

  Despite the slight resistance to beer, hope that fortune was at last favoring us flowered in our hearts and, as the days passed and we worked hard to replace what was drunk, grew.

  Summer’s arrival also heralded less propitious experiences—namely, the return of Master Fynk. As a bailiff, he was within his rights to inspect the bathhouse whenever the mood took him or his suspicions were aroused. Since the latter was a constant, he frequently crossed the threshold. Ever since the day he’d accused me of being a pregnant whore and suspected I was not the widow I claimed to be, he’d made a point of observing The Swanne. Forcing Alyson to submit to the thirty-five questions of the ordinances, which meant asking dozens extra of me and the other women as well, he became almost a fixture—an unwel
come one. Ensuring we left the bathhouse for the required hours on holy days and that no woman wore an apron or was kept against her will, Master Fynk hovered over us the way a bat does a belfry.

  Disappointed that despite his vigilance, no cucking stool was required or fines could be levied, he would satisfy himself by beating a few of the girls with a stick. While I would be spared this sadistic venting of his frustration, Alyson was not. After he departed, I would find her in the solar and tend to her hurts. Terrible bruises would mar her face, arms, and thighs, and she’d ache and limp about the place for days afterward. The midwife’s husband, the Moor and apothecary Marcian Vetazes, was called twice and left potions for her to drink. Refusing to go to the sheriff, she tolerated what a lesser person would not. I feared her fortitude was for my sake.

  “Nay, not for you, Anna, though I’d take that and more besides. I tolerate this”—she pushed up her sleeve to expose a violet bruise—“for us all. Master Fynk needs to be the victor. If he can’t achieve that one way, he finds another. For the moment, his beatings suffice.” She regarded me steadily. “They won’t always.”

  God forgive me, my hatred toward the bailiff built to an impotent fury that I could do nothing except be grateful that, for the time being, I avoided the worst of his retribution. Aye, we endured. Rather than staunching his anger, however, or transforming it to something gentler, our obedience prodded Master Fynk to more pernicious actions.

  So it was that finally, as I knew he would, he sought to discredit my brew.

  At the height of summer, as two new ale-conners were appointed, Master Fynk chose to accompany them to their first tasting at The Swanne.

  Already the bathhouse was filled with customers and while not all were there for drink alone, the ale was flowing freely. The ale-stake had only just been raised when Master Fynk, flanked by four constables and the ale-conners, arrived, ignoring invitations from the women and descending straight to the cellar.

  Introducing himself, the chief ale-conner, Master Godfried, a mercer from Churchway by the bishop’s palace, was an amiable but serious sort of man. He shucked off his surcoat, quickly donned his leather breeches, and, with nervous glances toward Master Fynk and the constables, accepted a brimming tankard from Adam with a mumbled thank-you. Pouring some of the contents on the bench, he settled himself while his companion checked our measures. Ordering the constables to stay at the foot of the stairs, Master Fynk wandered around the brewery, peering into the tuns, staring at the wort, the crease between his brows deepening. Sniffing, he roamed from station to station, examining everything with a gleam in his eyes. My heart began to sink.

  Adam, Juliana, Harry, and Betje kept working, all of them casting anxious looks over their shoulders. Yolande remained by my side, a drying sheet in her arms ready to offer the ale-conners, along with a mazer of good ale.

  Nobody spoke. The wort bubbled, the kiln spat, and the mash tuns gurgled. A couple of the constables cleared their throats, one nervously tapping his foot upon the bottommost stair.

  I felt confident we’d pass as we’d always done. Drawn from upstream and boiled repeatedly, the quality of the water was without question. The wort had also been boiled, and the ale was not sour, despite the heat. The beer had been in the barrels for almost two weeks and was at its best for drinking. The cellar kept the temperature even, the liquid cool. What was being drunk upstairs and enjoyed was no different to what these men were about to taste.

  After the testing period expired, Master Godfried rose with a deep groan, bringing the bench with him.

  “Adjudging by my breeches, this be a good brew, mistress.”

  “Here, Master Godfried,” I said, passing him a mazer of ale. I passed another to the other ale-conner. At least one constable licked his lips. “Time to be sure.”

  Watching the ale-conners’ faces as they drank, I was pleased to see their countenances change from wariness to pleasure. Downing his mazer in two gulps, Master Godfried smacked his lips together. “This be—”

  “I would like to try some as well.” Like a cloud over the sun, Master Fynk drifted across proceedings.

  “You’ll be trying something worth tasting then,” said the other ale-conner, raising his empty mazer to receive more.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” snapped Master Fynk.

  My heart shrank into a hard lump of coal, anger filling the space it had once occupied. It was all I could do not to throw the remainder of the jug in Master Fynk’s face. Instead, I bit my tongue, poured him a drink, and waited. Why, I don’t know. I knew what was about to unfold. I’d become an actor in a Christmastide farce, doomed to perform my part, say my lines, knowing how the final scene would play.

  It was Elmham Lenn all over again.

  Only this time, there was no one to whom I could turn. Other brewers would be grateful Master Fynk’s attention was not focused upon them. If it meant he would remove me as competition, so much the better. Worse, I was a woman without a man to lend legitimacy to my name and what I did. That I was the business partner of the owner of a bathhouse, another woman besides, undermined everything in Master Fynk’s triumphant eyes.

  Raising the mazer to his lips, Master Fynk made a show of drinking the ale.

  “Faugh!” He spat it onto the floor. “What’s this? You’re serving pig’s piss!” He held the mazer toward the constables, as if it was proof of his outrageous claim.

  “Steady now, Master Fynk,” began Master Godfried. “This be qual—”

  As the mazer was struck from Master Godfried’s hand, we watched it hit the floor and the contents stain the stones. “It be piss, I tell you.” Master Fynk pushed his face into Master Godfried’s. “Piss.”

  The shorter man recoiled and lowered his eyes. Shaking his head, he didn’t dare correct the bailiff. Spinning to face the other ale-conner, Master Fynk applied his glacial gaze until he too looked away, red-faced, placing his mazer upon the table without taking another drink.

  Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, Master Fynk laughed. “You know the penalty for selling watered ale, Mistress de Winter? For adjusting legally tendered measures?” His leg shot out and he kicked the offending barrel. Before I could answer, he did. “Most of it gets tipped into the river.” He paused, a huge smile forming as he saw my face pale. I knew what happened to alewives and brewsters accused of fiddling with their brews. “Most . . . As for the rest, I cannot tell you what pleasure I’m going to get from tipping it over—”

  “Lewis Fynk,” boomed a voice. Alyson marched down the steps, her tunic raised to reveal her ankles. “I’ll not allow you to do that. You can do what you like to me, but I’ll not have you harming a hair on her head.”

  The marks of Master Fynk’s last beating were still evident on Alyson’s face as she strode up to him, unafraid, hands on hips, chin raised defiantly.

  “Fine,” said Master Fynk indifferently, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Then it will be your head that bears the consequences of this cunting whore’s deceit.” Before anyone could react, he grabbed Alyson by the arms and, twisting them around her back, shoved her toward two of the constables. “Take her to the river. The rest of you, get those barrels down there.” His eyes swept the cellar. “All of them.”

  I cried out. “Nay! Not the beer. You haven’t tasted it. It hasn’t been assessed, you can’t.”

  “Can’t?” Master Fynk grabbed a handful of my hair and snatched me to his chest. I screamed. Betje leaped to my defense but Harry held her fast. Juliana and Yolande had the sense to stop Adam.

  Master Fynk drew my face to his. I could smell his breath, see the little red veins in his eyes, the dirt in his pores. I clawed uselessly at his fingers, but they were bands of metal that tightened, no matter how I scratched and pried.

  “When are you going to learn, Mistress of Shit and Piss, Lady Liar, I can do whatever I want.” Running his nose alongside my neck and cheek, he inhaled loudly then flung me away so hard, I struck the table and tumbled to the floor. Yolande and
Juliana couldn’t hold Adam. Helping me to my feet, I could feel him shaking with rage.

  “You.”

  It was a moment before we understood Master Fynk was addressing Adam and the ale-conners.

  “Help my men get those barrels to the river. You too, you little bastard.” This to Harry.

  I nodded for them to help. There was no point doing anything else. All I wanted was to reach Alyson.

  With one last victorious look, Master Fynk left the cellar.

  “Mistress,” said Master Godfried, his cap screwed into an unrecognizable shape in his hands. “God knows, I’m so sorry. I don’t understand what’s happening. Your ale—it was fine. More than fine. I—”

  “Can bear no blame for the deeds of others. This has naught to do with you, Master Godfried, or you,” I said to the other ale-conner. “I don’t think it even has anything to do with my brew. This is about something else altogether.” I touched my neck and stared at the spot where Master Fynk last stood.

  Waiting until the constables had cleared the barrels away from the door, I scrambled into the courtyard. The women and Betje followed me.

  “Juliana, Betje, go to the nursery. Make sure the twins are all right.” Betje stared at me. “Please, Betje. I need to know you and the children are safe.”

  “Don’t worry, mistress,” said Juliana. “I’ll take care of them.” Grabbing Betje by the hand, they ran to one of the external staircases.

  “Bolt the door behind you,” I called. Juliana waved.

  Waiting till they were on the first landing, I signaled to Yolande. “Come, let’s see to Alyson.”

  Quite a crowd had gathered by the river: fishmongers; butchers; the farrier; Master Ironside and his son, John; the mercer, Master Cheyner, and his family; the local fuller, wiping his hands upon his stinking apron before pointing to where the barrels sat atop the cart trundling toward the water. Yolande and I forged a path through all these to the river’s edge.

  There, upon a stool, her hands tied behind her back, her hair falling over her shoulders, sat Alyson, cussing and swearing at those who shouted at her, their fingers jabbing, their tongues wagging, accusing, cursing. I looked around and saw those we called neighbors, some friends even. Whispering behind their hands, shouting insults, indictment was writ on their faces. Even our laundress and her ruddy-cheeked daughters, the tailor, shoemaker, dyer, and many more besides, were not above hurling abuse at a woman they drank with, took coin from, bid God’s good day. The owners of the neighboring bathhouses and alehouses, along with their women, pressed forward, agog, no doubt grateful it wasn’t their ale about to be sacrificed to the green waters. While cheating was overlooked in many a craft, a brewer who deceived customers was regarded as the greatest of curs and treated as a pariah. Master Fynk could not have picked a more public way of ensuring Alyson’s and my disgrace; from here on in, we would be considered outcasts. The small inroads we’d made with the brew and Alyson with her customers would be meaningless.