by Karen Brooks
Below us, a young woman scurried out of one of the rooms, laughing, her hair falling down her back, her tunic falling off one shoulder. A portly old monk followed, lifting his robes and skipping along the corridor, giggling.
Tobias pulled a disapproving face.
“Don’t be so quick to judge what you think you see, Tobias. Learn to look below the surface, and understand the truth of those you would be so ready to reject, to despise.”
“You’re not just talking about Betje, are you?”
“That’s for you to decide.”
Tobias turned to me. “Leander told me much the same thing.”
“Then he is wise.”
Tobias’s eyebrows arched. “Which is the same as saying you are.”
“Is it?” I smiled, and we walked back to join the others.
Once I returned to the comfort of the solar I learned the real reason for Leander’s timely presence. Oh, I’d caught snatches of conversation, of the excitement in his tone when he spoke to Alyson, and it was evident something had changed Tobias’s opinion of my circumstances.
Leander and Alyson were discussing Master Fynk, who, after his mortification at her hands and Leander’s intervention, found his pride could only be salved through coin. Leander, after some resistance, harsh words, and warnings, relented, paying him a sum that made my eyes widen.
“But that wasn’t what convinced him to capitulate and allow you to brew again,” added Leander, shooting me a look that made my heart flip. He parted the rushes with his cane.
“Tell her,” said Alyson, rising and pouring another round of ale into everyone’s vessels. She was much recovered from her ordeal and earlier that evening had enjoyed keeping clients and the girls spellbound as she recounted her tale over and over. Each new customer insisted on hearing it and Alyson obliged. Thanks to Master Fynk, The Swanne had little to offer except beer (to our good fortune, in his eagerness Master Fynk had overlooked the barrels stored behind the mews). Whereas before the men would have turned up their noses at such a drink, God’s grace (and, I liked to believe, sense of irony) smiled upon us, and those who’d once been reluctant to try our beer were keener than ever thanks to Alyson’s performance—and Master Fynk.
“I’ll have me some of that Son of Ale” was a constant request, according to Adam. “Lords, monks, commoners, didn’t matter,” he said.
Aware of Alyson hovering over my empty mazer, I snapped back to the present.
“Sir Leander has brought some exciting news.”
“My lord.” I lifted my brimming mazer. “I would very much like to hear it.” My tone was formal. Unspoken between Leander and myself was that our relationship would remain a secret from Tobias. As far as my brother was concerned, it was pure luck that led Leander to The Swanne and my ale some weeks ago—a product his master already knew from drinking it in Elmham Lenn.
“When I heard about a brew of surpassing quality, I had to go to the source. Much to my surprise, it also led me to your sisters,” he’d explained. Tobias appeared happy with that.
Leander put down his drink now and drew himself forward in his chair. “I’m very pleased to be the bearer of excellent tidings. The king has sent me here to place an order on his behalf for your ale and beer.”
My mouth dropped open. I stared at Leander. Did he jest? “I’m to trade with the Crown? Is this true?”
Leander gave a laugh. “Aye, mistress, it’s true. His Grace wishes to purchase supplies to help quench the thirst of the king’s household during the next sitting of parliament. In Gloucester. Tobias has the order in his safekeeping.” Tobias promptly patted a pocket in his surcoat. “Three dozen barrels of ale and beer are to be delivered to Gloucester Abbey before the twenty-fourth of October.” At the expression on my face, he gave a snort of amusement. “Did you doubt my assurance that the king himself would drink from my supplies? That he would taste your ale and beer?”
“I did.” I clasped my hands. “But not now. To think he enjoyed it so much His Grace would like more.”
“A great deal more. I should warn you, royal favor is a fickle thing. Once bestowed it can also be swiftly retracted. Despite today’s setback, you must reap what you’ve sown.”
My mind reeled. Three dozen barrels.
Leander rose and stood with his back to the open shutters. Strains of music from the street below wafted in on the warm evening air. There were some shouts followed by raucous laughter and a resounding splash.
“Someone’s either in the trough or river,” sighed Alyson, sitting back down and, despite the heat, pulling a blanket around her legs. She was entitled to play the invalid. For certes, she rejected the role of heroine.
“I’ve been giving the matter of your induction into royal trade some consideration, mistress,” began Leander, glancing into his mazer, swirling the liquid around. “In light of what happened today, I think it would be a good idea if you, Goodwife Alyson, and you, Mistress Anna, accompanied the delivery.”
“To Lancashire?” I asked.
“Nay. To Gloucester. I’ll arrange a driver, accommodation, and guards to accompany you west. Unfortunately, I have to return to the king’s side before you’ll be ready to leave.” Placing an elbow on the sill, he leaned back, his cane dangling from his forearm. “I don’t trust Fynk not to act against you as soon as my back is turned or, worse, when I’m out of the city. If you absent yourself for a while and leave the running of the brewery and the bathhouse to others for a few weeks, it will give him time to recover his injured pride and for the people here to forget what happened. It might also force him to focus his attentions elsewhere.”
I flashed a look at Alyson. She was seriously considering the proposition.
“There’s another reason. I think the king would very much like to meet the woman who, of his own admission, brews the finest drop he’s tasted.”
“His Grace said that?”
“He did.”
Tobias nodded. “He did, Anneke, he really did.”
I couldn’t help it. I began to laugh. From having my brew tipped into the Thames and all over Alyson, being shamed and discredited before the folk of Bankside, Southwark, this morning, here I was, hours later, being told that the greatest man in the land rated my brew the best.
Sometimes more happened in a day than in a lifetime.
Hence, my thoughts refused to settle as I lay down to sleep. Through the open window, clouds glided across the moon, stealing its silvery light and plunging the room into darkness before, like a curtain before a performing troupe, parting and spreading a lunar glow across the bed.
Understanding the sense in Leander’s proposal, my only concerns were leaving Betje, the babes, and the brewery—in that order. A few weeks was not long, but as I knew all too well, so much could happen even in a short time. Fate oft possessed a peculiar sense of humor that meant you could not place too much trust in well-laid plans, or reassurances that things would run smoothly—destiny would likely intervene to prick such conceit.
Presenting my worries to the group, I was reassured that Betje would be cared for by Adam, Harry, and Juliana. The twins had Emma and Constance and, as for the brewery, had I not been training apprentices these last months?
Alyson looked at me wryly. “Do you doubt those you taught yourself?”
“Nay,” I said slowly. How could I explain that there was more to my brewing than malt, water, and hops?
It was only as Leander departed (much to my disappointment, but he could hardly send Tobias back to Ashlar Place while he remained), his hands lingering daringly on mine, sending shafts of pleasure along my arms to congregate in my center, that he added a caveat. “I’ll be heading north in two weeks,” he said. “The Lady Cecilia will remain in London. I should warn you, until I leave, I will be a regular presence.” A smile drifted across his mouth. “The king has asked I report on your progress.”
From the look Tobias flashed him, it was evident that wasn’t quite true. But I understood the private message
behind his words. He would ensure we had time together, even if it was to be brief.
It would have to be—a month was not much time to make the quantities the king required, especially since Master Fynk, and the thirsty patrons that evening, so kindly depleted our stores. But if we worked hard and employed some extra staff, it was enough. Concern about funds for purchasing the extra barley, water, wood, and coal, never mind the additional barrels that would be needed, was allayed when Leander gave Alyson a heavy purse. Only later did I learn the coins were Leander’s own. This didn’t detract from my excitement at the opportunity being offered, nor did it still the strange sense of foreboding that accompanied such good news.
Tossing and turning, running over everything I had to do, the moon waned and the sky transformed to an ashen cupola before sleep finally claimed me. Dreams crammed one on top of the other, populated by crowds of Master Fynks leering, jeering, and pulling my hair until it came out in long, ruby clumps. There were numerous Alysons, tossing back their heads and opening wide, gap-toothed mouths to drink fountains of golden ale. They disappeared to be replaced by Tobias, solitary, atop a branded barrel, weeping, burying his face in his elbow before, with a look of sheer horror, he pushed away Betje, who reached for him with scarred arms. They were replaced by a faceless king, regal, tall, dispensing justice and coin with a long, sparkling scepter that spat the latter out one end and had a cruel, shining blade fixed upon the other. The scepter twirled above me as I knelt before his majesty. I didn’t know which end I was to receive.
Leander appeared and approached the king. As he did so, the scepter stopped turning and the king pushed Leander aside and stepped down from his dais to stand over me, the scepter hovering above my head. His bejeweled hand disguised which fate was to be mine—coin or blade.
As I raised my head, Leander cried out, his voice far away, beyond reach. “Nay!” he screamed, as a bright piece of metal arced above me and descended.
I woke with a sickening lurch.
Forty-Eight
The London Road and Gloucester
Autumn
The year of Our Lord 1407 in the eighth year of the reign of Henry IV
Alyson and I left Southwark one cool day in October, just over a month after we received the king’s order. Forlorn, Betje stood on the steps of The Swanne flanked by Adam and Juliana, Harry behind her. The hand Adam rested lightly on her shoulder did more to reassure me than Juliana’s common sense and the babes’ rosy cheeks. Smiling bravely, Betje waved a kerchief and asked that God watch over us and grant us good fortune. Emma and Constance lifted the twins’ arms and waved them back and forth as if they were rag dolls doing their owner’s bidding. There my family stood, a picture of sentimental leave-taking, as we trotted off down Bankside and toward London Bridge to join the laden cart awaiting us in Cheapside.
Four burly, armed outriders dressed in Rainford livery and a taciturn driver, enough to deter any brigands, escorted us as we negotiated London, swathed in our woolen cloaks, marveling at the sight presented by St. Paul’s towering over the magnates’ houses before we exited through Ludgate and crossed the refuse-filled River Fleet. The only spectacle that upset an otherwise uneventful trip across London was a large group of mourners gathered in a churchyard where it seemed a number of people were being buried. Bells tolled and my heart grew heavy with remembered sorrow.
Alyson crossed herself as we passed and murmured a prayer. Mine were silent and addressed not only to the dead but also to the pain of those who survived.
Death had attended Bankside over the last few days as well. Church bells had tolled the news and we’d all paused in our duties to offer prayers for the deceased. More than usual seemed to be ascending to meet their Maker of late.
At the time, I thought little of it. It was only as we passed the funeral that I recalled the bells pealing throughout the days leading up to our departure. Pushing my harried thoughts to the back of my mind, I tried to concentrate on where we were going rather than what we were leaving behind.
The countryside opened before us and, upon a road that grew progressively worse the farther we rode, we joined the stream of other travelers. Our cargo drew stares and comments. After all, it wasn’t every day two well-dressed women were seen transporting three dozen barrels with the royal seal, bound with ropes and partially covered with canvas, riding west.
Tugging at my new tunic and kirtle, enjoying the downy feel of the marten lining of the cloak against my cheek, I was grateful to Alyson for the gift of my clothes.
“We are off on king’s business, so we need to look the part. I don’t care what people think of me, but I do care what they make of you. We’re going to dress like ladies and cast doubt upon those who believe us to be otherwise.”
Alyson’s tunic was dyed in her favorite color—scarlet—the stitching so fine it could barely be discerned; her surcoat was lavishly embroidered with peacocks, falcons, and, as a nod to her business, long-necked swans. She certainly appeared a lady. Her silver-streaked brown hair had been styled and pinned beneath an elegant cap and the gloves that hid her reddened hands were of the finest leather. In my emerald tunic with an equally magnificent surcoat of topaz and ruby, my hair dressed, my hands warm, it was easy to feel like one as well. Gentlemen took a second, polite look and even doffed their hats respectfully. The farther from London we ventured, the more often peasants stopped and gawped or even curtsied and bowed as we passed.
Alyson would raise a hand and wave, chuckling quietly at their courtesy. “If only they knew,” she’d whisper under her breath. I wondered what our driver thought, but he barely said a word and kept his eyes fixed on the road. The escort occasionally drew level with us, but if they spoke, it was only to inquire as to our well-being or inform us the next stop wasn’t far away. Though the conversation between Alyson and myself was filled with the possibilities of what lay ahead, my mind was with who and what I’d left behind.
It wasn’t easy to leave Betje or the babes, but I understood that necessity; securing the present in order to shore up the days ahead meant I’d no choice. What I hadn’t considered when we made our plans that warm night in September was that absenting myself for a few weeks meant I had to pass to Betje the last of my brewing secrets, held by the women of my family for generations. Not that I didn’t trust her; after all, she was a de Winter. Brewing was in her blood. On the contrary, my reticence was because once I revealed them, I could no longer pretend that she was still a child, still dependent upon me to make her way in the world. At eight years of age, her entry into the adult world had already been delayed as I persuaded myself that her injuries meant she required more time. I couldn’t fool myself or anyone else on that score any longer; disfigured or not, she was more than ready and able to embrace the work of a brewer. It was me who was unprepared. I’d underestimated my sister. In lecturing Tobias, I’d failed to heed my own advice to look beyond the facade.
I had confessed some of my ambivalence about leaving to Alyson one evening as we sat companionably in the solar; filling the number of orders that had arrived in the wake of our royal favor was a real concern.
Suddenly, all the custom I’d longed for arrived within a matter of hours. The old and ailing Bishop of Winchester placed an order, the Bishop of Rochester as well. The abbot of St. Augustine, and the friars at St. Thomas’s hospital, swiftly followed. Every day orders were delivered—from the gentry, lawyers, knights, inns, hostels, private homes, and more besides. From Southwark, London, and beyond, couriers and servants arrived with orders.
“Tell your master we’ll send word when the order is ready.”
“Come back in a week and the ale will be here.”
“If you return at month’s end, there’ll be a brew for you.”
Over and over, these phrases rang in my head as I calculated how we’d manage.
After two weeks of this, it was evident that on top of the king’s order, we’d be unable to produce so much with the limited equipment we had.
“We need help, Adam,” I said with resignation. Until we were paid, I wasn’t quite sure how we’d afford it, but it was clear we couldn’t continue with the few hands we had, let alone when I was in Gloucester.
“We do,” agreed Adam. “And extra mash tuns and troughs.”
Using much of the coin Leander provided, we purchased the necessary equipment and supplies. Alyson found me additional servants. Along with an extra trough from a farm in Surrey, Adam and Harry also brought back Thomas, a broad-shouldered, shy young man keen to help in the brewery. I was too tired to argue and set him to work straightaway. I barely remember hiring two girls, Milda and Rose. At nineteen, barely younger than me, Milda felt the urge to provide constant commentary on everything as a way of asserting authority. If she hadn’t been so good at what she did, having brewed since she was five, I may have let her go. Chatter aside, she was an asset. With Harry taking more responsibility in the brewery, another lad, Walter, was brought in to take over his duties. All I can recall is that he had dark eyes and a mop of brown hair out of which his ears jutted like the handles of a mazer.
It was Alyson who convinced me to only have Betje brew ale in my absence. “The beer, that Son of Ale, well, I don’t care what young Harry thinks, only you can make that.”
“Harry thinks he has what it takes to make beer, does he?” I swirled my drink in the goblet, watching the way the dense liquid and frothy head mingled.
“He does. Just ask him.” Alyson laughed. There was no malice in her statement, only great fondness and a pride she disguised with harsh discipline. Responsible for him since his mother, who had been one of her workers, died, she’d kept him under her roof. Harry also wriggled his way into her heart.
