The Lady Brewer of London

by Karen Brooks

  The women of The Swanne appeared one by one, emerging under arms, between shoulders, their faces stricken, their mouths downturned. They loved Alyson and to see her brought so low, publicly shamed, wouldn’t be easy. One or two cast looks in my direction, looks laden with significance. This was my fault, and not only in their eyes. I would be held accountable.

  Ordering one barrel left on the cart, the rest were swiftly removed and rolled down the muddy banks. Adam and Harry were forced to cooperate, to empty what they’d labored over into the flowing waters. On Master Fynk’s command, the bungs were knocked out. Only as the crowd grew and comments began to get louder, did he turn to me, his face lit with that peculiar glow of satisfaction only the self-righteous emit. Upon the river, men poled their barges closer to the banks, wherries drifted upon the outgoing tide, steered within hailing distance so their contempt might be added to the babble of angry voices.

  Watching the golden liquid chugging into the river, knowing the ale was good, indeed, better than anything served on the waterfront, that my measures were in order, I didn’t let Master Fynk or those now yelling insults see what a terrible blow had been struck. Nor did Alyson. We faced the river, heavy gray clouds threatening overhead, trapping the thick, warm air, and fixed our features so they revealed neither our sorrow nor our anger at this gross unfairness. Inside, I burned with impotence, shame, and no small degree of fear.

  A clod of mud struck me on the side of the face. Staggering into Alyson, nearly tipping her over, I cried out, my hand flying to my cheek. I tried to find the offender. Another missile hit, followed by another. Rotten fruit exploded against my tunic, scattered across my chest, caught in my hair and slid down my neck. There were jeers and laughter. I stood in front of Alyson, using my body as a shield, as the air filled with projectiles.

  “Slattern!”

  “Whore!”

  “Cunting bitch!”

  “Water my ale, will you?” A man pulled out his cock and began to piss all over the cobbles, his urine splashing Alyson’s skirts. There were catcalls, hoots, and cries for others to do the same. Leda, her flaxen hair unbound, went to strike the man, but Adam grabbed her hand and shook his head. Her lovely face contorted into a mask of fury.

  More fruit and vegetables were hurled.

  I wrapped my arms around Alyson.

  “For God’s sake. Do something,” shouted Master Godfried at Master Fynk.

  Signaling the constables, Master Fynk smiled as they abandoned the barrels by the water’s edge. At last, we were to be given sanctuary, taken back to the safety of The Swanne until the mob dispersed.

  Pulling me away from Alyson, the men were rough, but I turned toward them eagerly only to find my hands trussed tightly behind my back.

  “You’re hurting me.” My cry was ignored. Dragged to the edge of the crowd, I was turned and held fast.

  Standing on a large stone so he could be seen and heard above the crowd, Master Fynk spoke. “For serving improper ale by unapproved measures, Goodwife Alyson Bookbinder, you are sentenced to be doused a dozen times.”

  The rabble cheered.

  Good God.

  Carrying the last of the barrels on their shoulders, the two constables who’d brought Alyson to the riverbank paused beside her and slowly, chuckling wildly, upturned it over her head as the crowd clapped and whooped.

  When I’d last seen this done, the woman choked and vomited, almost drowning in a sea of ale. Not Goodwife Alyson. Like a flower unfolds for the sun, she turned her face and opened her mouth, greeting the golden liquid with glee.

  I gasped as she swished some in her mouth, swallowed, and then drank some more as it flattened her hair, blinking furiously as it welled in her eyes, ran in fountains of amber from her shoulders, ears, and hands. Laughing, she shook her head, a wet dog relishing an illicit swim.

  “That’s it, boys, give me some liquid gold,” she cried.

  My hands flew to my mouth, stoppering up the laughter I felt building.

  The caws and hoots slowly changed as the mob saw Alyson wasn’t cowed or frightened by what was being done; on the contrary, she was appreciating every moment.

  “By God’s good grace,” she called in her booming, deep voice, her tongue lathing her mouth. “I am the luckiest goodwife alive. This Son of Ale is the only kind I want rising in me.”

  There was a great roar of laughter followed by exultant cheers. Adam, who’d been taut as a bow, swung to me and grinned. The women from The Swanne began to applaud, Leda jumping up and down on the spot. Soon, a chant started. “Goody Goody Alyson. Goody Goody Alyson. Son of Ale. Son of Ale.”

  As the waterfall of liquid became a trickle, the constables eased the barrel down. Only then did I glance at Master Fynk. In the wonder of Alyson’s bravura performance, I’d quite forgotten about him. One look now and Alyson’s words flew back to me.

  He’s a dangerous man.

  In two strides, Master Fynk reached Alyson’s side. Raising his hand, his fist curled and, along with a red-faced cry of utter ferocity, dropped.

  I ran forward, slapping away Adam’s hands. Before I could reach the bailiff someone else did.

  “Nay,” barked a deep, rough voice. “Your point is made. That is enough now.”

  It was Leander.

  I stopped in my tracks. My heart filled. Leander. Why he was here, I cared not. His timing was perfect, his manner imperious. With his embroidered linen surcoat, silky dark hair, shining boots, flashing eyes, and beringed hands, he fairly blazed authority.

  “M-my lord,” stammered Master Fynk. He tried to pull his hand from Leander’s grasp, but could not.

  Holding him fast, Leander nodded to the constables.

  “See this crowd back to their work.” He waved his cane about.

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Milord.”

  “You”—Leander nodded toward Master Godfried—“untie the goodwife.”

  “Be my pleasure, me lord.”

  As he fumbled with the knots, I stepped forward and helped the mercer. I wanted Leander to acknowledge my presence while at the same time I prayed he did not. I didn’t want Master Fynk to have yet another reason to dislike me.

  It took all my willpower to ignore Leander, but I did, turning my back upon him and the man he held fast, holding the drenched Alyson in a warm hug as she found her feet again.

  “You were marvelous,” I whispered. “So very brave.”

  “Bloody foolish.”

  I held her at arm’s length before pressing her back to my bosom. “Aye, that too.”

  With an arm around her shoulders, I started to walk back toward The Swanne. Leander would see to Master Fynk, of that I was certain. I did not need to see the man browbeaten, as much as I would like to. Alyson had achieved that and so much more.

  The scattering crowd parted before us, many going out of their way to pat Alyson on her back, mutter at how unjust Fynk’s accusations had been, and congratulate her. Others stood back and shook their heads, mostly in admiration at her daring, but not yet ready to be seen aligning themselves with such scandalous behavior. If Leander hadn’t stepped in when he did, Alyson could have been grievously hurt. Time in prison was still not out of the question. There were many charges Master Fynk could lay at her door, scold being the least of them, and much depended on what happened now between him and Leander.

  Remaining in Master Fynk’s sight would have only served to remind him of his humiliation and weaken Leander’s position. Taking Alyson back to The Swanne accomplished many purposes. I could attend to her needs, start another brew, and, between times, make myself presentable. For had not my love returned?

  As we reached the path leading to the door, I noted two horses being held by an urchin. There was Leander’s black destrier and another, smaller stallion that also bore the Rainford livery.

  Before I’d time to fathom to whom the beast belonged, a familiar figure appeared in the doorway, Betje by his side.

  My heart lurched and I tripped.
>
  It was Tobias.

  Forty-Seven

  The Swanne

  High summer to early autumn

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

  As I lay in bed late that night, sleep was elusive as the events of the day preoccupied me. For certes, Alyson was brave. I marveled at her audacity, her bold defiance, and thanked the good Lord that Leander arrived when he did. If that hadn’t been enough to deal with, Tobias and our awkward reunion also kept my thoughts whirling.

  Older, taller, possessing the bronzed skin that marked him a sea merchant, he wore a sword at his hip and fine clothes on his back. My throat caught at the sight of him and my heart began to beat fast, as if it wasn’t my own flesh and blood upon The Swanne’s steps, but a stranger. Betje stood next to him, a bemused expression on her face and I noted that, unlike Leander, Tobias hadn’t taken Betje’s hand. In fact, the way he fixed his eyes upon me suggested he couldn’t bear to look upon her.

  In the fleeting time it took for me to leap to that conclusion, anger flooded my body and my steps faltered. Alyson, who I was still supporting, unaware of who waited on the threshold, raised her head.

  “God give you good day,” she hailed Tobias. “I’ll be with you momentarily, fine sir. Please, make yourself comfortable.” She waved him back into the bathhouse. “This be a mere setback.” Tobias followed the direction of her hand and frowned. “Leda!” she cried, a finger pointing to the heavens. “Leda,” she repeated in a quieter tone. “She will do for this handsome one.” Pulling me forward, she increased the pace.

  Resisting, I dug my heels in, forcing us to pause. “That handsome one is my brother,” I murmured.

  Alyson looked from me to Tobias. “That’s Tobias? The sanctimonious son of a—”

  “Tobias,” I said loudly, releasing Alyson and striding past before she could make the situation worse. Leda replaced me by Alyson’s side and, scrutinizing Tobias as she passed, helped her mistress into The Swanne. Alyson’s voice carried as she demanded wine, a footstool, drying sheets, and a blanket. The other women slowly returned to work, all of them casting curious glances at Tobias as they came through the door.

  There’d be much to explain . . . if I chose, that was. With his face averted, I couldn’t read what Tobias was thinking, but I could imagine. Here was his sister, not only living in a bathhouse and conducting her business on its premises, but she called the owner friend.

  Waiting till the last of the women entered, and Betje tactfully closed the door, sealing the women and the few men who’d bounded after them inside, I mounted the steps.

  “Are you all right?” I asked Betje, taking her hand.

  She squeezed mine back and regarded me steadily. “Aye. Are you?”

  I was not. But I summoned a smile. “Of course.”

  “Tobias is here, Anna,” she said, gesturing to him with her disfigured hand, her tone cautious.

  What did my little sister sense? What did she know?

  Without flinching, I swung to Tobias. “God give you good day, brother. I confess I didn’t expect to see you, but it does my heart good to see you so well.”

  Formal, but no less sincere.

  Tobias didn’t answer immediately and I saw his mouth working strangely. I began to prepare myself for the tirade I assumed must follow, for the accusations, the self-righteous appraisal of my lowly circumstances.

  I was about to suggest we retire to the solar so words could be exchanged in private, when Tobias, with a peculiar noise, flung himself in my arms.

  “Oh, Anneke, how I’ve missed you,” he said and began to sob.

  * * *

  Only much later, after we were comfortable in the solar, and Tobias and I were able to secrete ourselves in a corner as Leander, Alyson, and Adam made plans, did he explain what had happened since our last correspondence.

  Shocked by what he’d seen at Elmham Lenn and by the brutality of Karel’s death, and of Louisa’s and Saskia’s, Tobias’s first reaction was to blame me. After all, he reasoned, if I hadn’t started the brewery, it wouldn’t have attracted the ire of the monks or what followed in Westel Calkin’s wake. As he confessed this to me, Tobias had the grace to look shamefaced. But his thoughts were no worse than my own; nothing could punish me more than one glance at Betje or the memory of Karel. It was only once they were back in London that Leander told Tobias the rest of the sorry tale, what Westel Calkin had done to me. When Leander discovered my whereabouts, he learned about my children.

  “Anneke . . . I mean, Anna.” He gave a tremulous smile and went to reach for my hand but pulled back, uncertain. I took his and held it fast. He nodded and smiled more broadly. “I don’t know what to say. There’s nothing I can say, is there?”

  “Only one thing, Tobias.”

  His chin flew up, a puzzled expression on his face. “Oh,” he said. “Aye, I’m sorry, Anneke. You cannot begin to know how sorry I am.”

  “That might be true, but you can start by telling me.”

  And so, over the course of the next hour, Tobias and I were reconciled. Trying to take the blame for what happened, reasoning that if he’d been present, the monks, let alone Westel, wouldn’t have dared act, I rid him of that foolish notion.

  “Nay, Tobias, Westel was not in his right mind. Your presence at Holcroft House would have made no difference. He believed he had God on his side and therefore nothing he did was sinful or wrong. The monks did not condone his actions. He was set on a course and nothing and no one was going to steer him from what he believed was a righteous path.”

  Tobias shook his head in sorrow. “If only he’d never darkened your door, you would—”

  “Still be brewing in Elmham Lenn, Karel would be alive, Betje”—I glanced in her direction where she sat playing with Tansy—“would not be so disfigured, and Saskia, Louisa, and Will would still be with us. If you only knew how many times I’ve thought that, said it, dreamed it. It achieves nothing except to sharpen the wound, color the memories of those I love in malevolent hues. I owe them better than that—we all do. The facts are that Betje is scarred for life and the others are dead. Nothing I do or say, no one I blame, can change that.” I took a deep breath. “I’m here now, in Southwark, and a brewer once more. Aye, I’ve played this game a thousand times and still lose. The only way I can make good of the evil that occurred is to succeed, Tobias, to make my brewing work and ensure a good life for my children. For Betje.”

  Tobias stared at me. “You’ll make it work, Anneke. You always do.”

  We held each other a long time after that.

  Our relationship would never have the warmth and easiness it once possessed; he couldn’t reconcile my brewing, or the bathhouse, with his sense of what his sister should be doing, who I should be, but he understood my choices were limited. Unhappy, he nonetheless didn’t fault-find as he once would. This was a lesson I believed Leander taught him. What he did to encourage such a transformation, I know not. But it did make the situation easier and meant I could drop my guard.

  “Would you like to meet your niece and nephew?” I asked.

  Tobias frowned then his face cleared. “I’d not thought of them in that way, but I would like to, very much.”

  Betje accompanied us up the stairs and, once again, I noticed the difficulty Tobias had looking at her face, how he didn’t take her hand or, once beside the crib, encourage her into his lap the way he used to. Betje’s shoulders slumped and I saw the hopeful looks she cast in her brother’s direction even if he didn’t.

  Admiring the slumbering babes for a while, we bid Betje good night and left her with Juliana. As we descended back to the solar, I asked about his manner around Betje.

  Stopping at the bottom of the stairs, he sighed, locking his eyes onto the torch that burned on the far wall. “I could not credit what I saw when she first emerged from the bathhouse. I thought, who is this little monster leering at me so? Once I understood it was Betje, that my little sister was so transformed,
I . . . I didn’t know what to do, what to say . . .” He swallowed and it was a moment before he found his voice again. “She is unrecognizable. Her skin, her eye, her beautiful hair . . .” He gripped the railing like a drowning man. In the light of the sconces, his face was pained. “I cannot look at her lest she sees what I do. What future does she have? She cannot hope for a husband, friends, or an ordinary life looking like that. She will endure constant mockery and cruelty. Dear Lord, forgive me, but it would have been kinder if she died.”

  I drew in a sharp breath and waited till the anger abated. “She’s God’s creature, Tobias. Her life or death is for Him only to decide, not you.”

  “Aye, but—”

  “You do not know what her life is like. Betje has real friends here—those who love and protect her—apart from me.”

  He lifted his eyes from the floor.

  “Aye, she does. Here, in this bathhouse, this place I know you only tolerate because your master bids you must. Your discomfort is apparent, but hear this—everyone beneath this roof, from servants to owner, has shown her nothing but kindness, and do you know how? By treating her as if she were no different to any other eight-year-old. She works, plays, eats, sleeps, and dreams. Here, she found hope again—so did I.” I let that sink in for a moment.