by Karen Brooks
“As you must see to your babes, I must see to my mine,” she said. “What’s left of them, may God assoil them.”
Captain Stoyan and Harry would continue what they’d been doing. With a sigh, I first wrote to Leander, a note I entrusted to Tobias, and then followed the small, narrow hallway that led to the cellar stairs. Assuming Betje would accompany me, I was soon disabused of that notion.
“Not me, Anna,” she said in her soft, throaty voice as we reached the door. “I must be here for Adam. You go to my niece and nephew. I will be here when this is over.”
When had my little sister grown the head and heart of her elders? Struck dumb, I simply nodded.
And so, before the cock crowed and the sad bells of St. Mary’s chimed daybreak, Captain Stoyan lifted the heavy bar off the cellar door and undid the latch. And with a farewell that refused to acknowledge how dire the circumstances—clutching first the captain, then Alyson, Tobias, and Betje to my breast, trying not to think about the possible consequences of our decisions—I descended into the cellar.
The bar slid into place behind me with a dull thud and the clang of the latch echoed. I paused on the dark steps. Sorrow, regret, and a terrible, aching fear anchored me to the spot.
It was sometime before I was able to move again. And though my babes awaited me below, the devil’s dark humor afflicted my every step, making my descent one from which all light and hope had fled.
Fifty-One
The Swanne
Late October to Christmastide
The year of Our Lord 1407 in the ninth year of the reign of Henry IV
One person’s calamity is another’s fortune, I’d heard say, and that was certainly the case with the pestilence. The day we emerged from the cellar after it had passed, having ravaged the population like a fire through a field, we were fearful of what we’d find. Clinging to faith and the power of our prayers, despite evidence to the contrary, we entered the world with fresh eyes and renewed hope and vigor. For though we’d lost a great many to its deadly grip, we’d not suffered the losses of our neighbors who’d lacked Adam and Captain Stoyan’s foresight and had instead seen The Swanne’s closing as an opportunity to take custom. All the women of the Cardinal’s Hatte had perished along with their master, as had the folk who owned and worked at the Boar’s Head. Seven alehouses in the area would never reopen their doors, nor would two large taverns.
One of the first things we did was go to church, braving the snow and gusts of ice-driven wind. Father Kenton, who had also survived, said it was the freezing conditions that had driven the pestilence from our shores and, while it would produce its own kind of hardship, God was benevolent. In the candles we lit for the souls of the dead and the prayers whispered heavenward, we gave our shivering thanks.
It was only once that initial wondrous rush of relief passed that we understood what the loss of so many signified. Of the women of The Swanne, only three girls survived: Rose, Golda, and Mary, and that was due to the tireless ministrations of Alyson, Captain Stoyan, Harry, and Betje. The only customers to endure were a brother from St. Thomas (who sang the praises of Alyson and Captain Stoyan) and the son of Lord Chester: the latter, very badly scarred, swore that his father would seek vengeance upon Adam and the captain for forcing him to remain.
Ever with an eye to business, Alyson chose to cease trading as a bathhouse for the time being and turn everyone to helping in the brewery. After all, she reasoned, we had the king’s order to fulfill. Captain Stoyan was sent to buy another mash tun and a trough, as well as barrels, butts, measures, bungs, and any other equipment I needed from premises whose owners would never again craft a brew. Guilt-ridden that we could purchase the extra equipment we needed so cheaply and swiftly, I was also grateful that we could offer coin and even work to some of those who were left with nothing.
Not even those who lived on the river escaped the pestilence. Not wanting to profit from others’ misery, but needing to do something useful and wanting to remain on the water, with the money he’d saved, Captain Stoyan bought a barge from a widow who’d lost her husband and baby. Ferrying cargo and passengers across the Thames, giving priority to The Swanne’s brewing business, he became a regular sight on the cold waters.
Alyson predicted our orders would increase once word of the Crown trade got around, and she was right. What augmented this was the shortage of other brewers to meet the needs of common folk and richer ones. Once again, local brewsters run out of business by the bigger alehouses and taverns (and the machinations of Master Fynk) were able not only to reenter the market but yield coin from trading. On market days, hucksters and brewsters started parading around the square and up and down the side streets, along London Bridge, selling jugs and skins of their home brews. Whereas once they would have been competition, they were welcome as they enabled us to focus on the larger orders. Some of the alehouses on St. Margaret’s Hill and along the High Street that had lost their brewers also placed orders with us.
Travelers and troubadours would often call by and, for an ale or two, exchange tales and poems, songs and music. Thus we learned that the pestilence had mainly stayed within London and Southwark, though the port towns of Bishop’s Lynn, Dover, and even Norwich and York had experienced losses as well. Itinerant workers, who had waited out the worst in Rochester, Canterbury, and other towns, made their way through Southwark en route to London in search of employment. The need for able men and trades had increased. Some called and requested work from us, especially young women who were orphaned by the plague and without a roof or skills. We took on a few, the cleaner and better spoken among them. Over time, The Swanne family was slowly restored to its former numbers and Alyson prepared to open for regular business after the Feast of the Epiphany.
Working from dawn to dusk, we filled our barrels, hogsheads, kilderkins, firkins, jugs, and skins. Every day, Master atte Place and Harry would load up either Shelby or the larger cart we’d taken to Gloucester and which Leander had generously sent back to us with barrels to be filled for the monks of St. Thomas, Winchester Palace, and even the great houses of West London, though Captain Stoyan transported these. Every day, we added more barrels of beer to the king’s order, stacking them one atop the other in the mews, where they would await the approval and branding of the ale-conners. As November segued into December and Christmastide approached, we began to brew the king’s ale as well.
* * *
Since the pestilence vanished much in the manner it appeared, quietly, without fanfare or warning, leaving us humbled but not broken in its wake, I’d written to Leander several times and received correspondence in return—letters that lifted my spirits and did much to revive me when the magnitude of our losses and the number of orders overwhelmed me.
My earlier missives had been full of death and sorrow, but of late I’d been able to write in a more positive vein, about the growth of the twins, improvements in Adam’s speech and movement, and Betje’s remarkable abilities as both healer and brewer. Displaying gifts that were not apparent when I was her age, I was excited by the promise she showed. With each response I received, his concern for me and the well-being of my family leaped off the paper, even though he did his best to disguise this with amusing tales of parliament and the great debate concerning the Thirty-One Articles, to which the council, tired of the commons and the debts they never met, objected. He reported the goings-on at the abbey, and the gossip at the king’s table. Of his wife, he made no mention. His words, whatever their subject, never failed to make my heart stop and my breath quicken. Giddy as a girl around a maypole, I would hear the cry of the courier and the stamp of hooves and wait with barely suppressed excitement for Ralph or Hodge to call out that there was a letter.
There were two communiqués, however, only days apart and just before Christmastide, that upset the stability Leander’s words generally restored. The first arrived on the Feast of St. Nicholas, just as Harry came into the cellar to show us the bishop’s costume he would be wearing that eveni
ng when he presided over our merrymaking. Gathering around him in excitement, there were oohs, ahhs, and laughter aplenty. Thus I missed the sounds of the courier and knew nothing of his arrival until Hodge came downstairs and placed a missive in my hand. Slipping away from the group, I sat atop a barrel and read what Leander had written.
Whether it was serendipity or some perverse Godly quirk, Leander’s note was also about bishops—a bishop and a monk.
My well-beloved Anneke, I do commend myself to you, wishing with all my heart that you are as well as your last letter described.
Writing that he would be spending Christmastide at Eltham Palace, he also made mention that he hoped to be in London before then, as the king had spoken of how much he was anticipating more of my ale and beer over Christmas. Leander offered to accompany the order to Eltham and was granted permission. The sole reason for his proposal, he confessed, was to see me. I paused and held the letter against my heart.
It then went on to describe the closing stages of parliament and the shocking news of the murder of King Henry’s sworn enemy, the Duke of Orléans. While this was most unsettling to read, how such a great man could be so brutally dispatched, it was the last part of his letter that disturbed me the most.
Since you departed Gloucester with such haste and without the prospect of discovering the identity of the monk who bore an uncanny resemblance to the rogue Westel Calkin, I have, as promised, sought to discover who this man might be. Upon describing his eyes and the color of his hair to the prior of Gloucester Abbey, he was able to identify the man immediately.
My stomach did a somersault.
Rest assured, my well-beloved, the man you saw is not Westel Calkin, who, as we confirmed, perished in the flames of Holcroft House well over twelve months ago.
I paused. Was it really so long ago that we fled Elmham Lenn? That it was. So much had happened . . . The past had become like a vague dream or an opaque curtain that I sometimes had to push aside to glimpse what lay behind it, only to find the borders had become indistinct, the colors muted. The capacity it had to throw me into despair or melancholy had lessened somewhat. Recognizing this had a peculiar effect. Ambivalence warred within me—relief the power that thoughts of Westel and his wicked deeds had to upset me was no longer so immediate, but also sadness that Karel’s sweet face could no longer be recalled with the ease and passion it once could. Indeed, my Karel, as he grew and changed, was beginning not to replace my brother, but to merge with memories of him. With a sigh, I understood that the passage of time was a one-way journey and, while we could look back over our shoulders and reckon where we’d been and what we’d achieved, we could no more return to that place or change the impression we left than prevent the sun from rising.
Time could be both a cruel mistress and kind. Today, her torments were many as I could recall Westel and his actions far more readily than I could the visages of those I loved. Though I didn’t want to, I’d no choice but to continue reading, my throat constricted with the dry dust of unshed tears.
This monk is the recently appointed prior of St. Jude’s, and is known as Roland le Bold . . .
I frowned. Roland le Bold. Where had I heard that name?
Though I did not spy nor speak to the man directly and thus was unable to satisfy myself as he had recently (for reasons not known to me) quit Gloucester, he is regarded as clever and Godly. The talk is that the king intends to confer upon him the Bishopric of Winchester.
Dear God. If this was so, Roland le Bold would one day soon be our neighbor.
My greatest hope is that these tidings do not cause you grief, my well-beloved, though a man who does so resemble your tormentor, your evil adversary, may shortly be dwelling in Southwark. I believe your great good sense will allow you to understand that a physical likeness to a dead enemy does not a living character define. Le Bold is not Westel Calkin and, from discussions I’ve had with those who know him well, seems a fit and worthy successor to the current bishop. Rumors do surround this man and what they claim is that in the short time since he replaced the rogue Abbot Hubbard, he has made St. Jude’s prosper even further and overturned its sullied reputation. The wealth they accrue, mostly from brewing, is shared with Elmham Lenn and surrounding villages, making le Bold a figure of regard both among common folk and the church. For certes, his name was oft-mentioned.
My intention here is to allay your fears and I hope with all my heart this is what I have achieved. I will send you further news from this part of the world as soon as I am able. Unless, God willing, I may deliver it myself. May the Holy Trinity have you in its keeping.
Written on the second day of December.
He signed with his usual flourish.
It may have been Leander’s intention to reassure me, but my inability to place the name Roland le Bold troubled me deeply. So did the news that St. Jude’s was doing well from brewing. Was that because they’d removed the competition? That evening, I read the letter to Alyson, Betje, Harry, Adam, and Captain Stoyan.
“There,” said Alyson, clapping her hands together, “you’ve nothing to worry ’bout, as we said all along.”
“Betty”—I turned to my sister, who was rubbing Adam’s hand with a special liniment Mother Joanna had taught us to make—“does that name mean anything to you?”
Betje paused and screwed up her brow. “Not le Bold.” The look she gave me finished her thought. Only Calkin.
With a sigh, I folded the letter, noting Adam in a state of great agitation. “What is it?” His arm flailed and he thumped the chair. Betje was forced to drop his other hand and to lean out of the way.
Adam stared at me, blinking rapidly.
“You know the name?”
Adam made a noise that we knew to mean “aye,” and, though I pressed and asked all manner of questions, no further information could be gleaned. Frustrated, we ceased trying. Adam slumped in his chair and refused to look at me.
My sleep was interrupted that night, filled with flames and vile words delivered on sprays of spit. I tossed and turned, listening to the wind for what seemed like hours before finally drifting off into a broken slumber.
Two days later, a letter arrived that cast other thoughts aside—this time delivered by special courier.
It was Tobias.
* * *
Called into the yard, I first thought my brother had come in Leander’s stead to accompany the king’s order to Eltham, but when I saw the look on his face, I froze mid-stride and my heart, which clamored to see him, beat ferociously. Pain flowered in my neck, pricked the back of my eyes, and stopped any words leaving my mouth.
Dressed in fine livery, with a heavy, ermine-lined cape, he dismounted from his horse and in four steps was by my side.
“Anna . . .” No longer did Tobias stammer over my new name. We were slates wiped clean and wrote our own stories now. Tobias was about to deliver the next chapter.
“Sir Leander?” The name was but a whimper on my trembling mouth.
“He’s in good health.” Frowning, Tobias handed me a scroll sealed with wax and bearing the Rainford mark. “He bade me give you this.”
I stared at the roll in my hand, featherlight by any standard but weighted with portent nonetheless. Why did I not want to open it? Why was I filled with foreboding?
Shaking, I broke the wax, which fell like symmetrical drops of blood onto the snow, and unrolled the parchment.
Mistress Anna . . .
What? Not well-beloved?
I greet you well and send you God’s blessing and mine. I write to you now to inform you of the sad and terrible passing of the Lady Cecilia, my wife.
My hand rushed to cover my mouth. I raised my face to Tobias. He nodded grimly.
I wanted you to learn of this from me first and no other. For the time being, I am at Ashlar Place where I am making arrangements for her burial and mourning. After the period is over, I know not where I will find myself.
Written on the Feast of the Conception of Our Lady,
>
Leander.
“How?”
Tobias stamped his feet and slapped his hands together a few times. His escort had not yet dismounted and their breath parted the air in frosty plumes.
“Don’t answer. Come inside and get warm. Tell your men to go to the kitchen. Cook will provide for them.”
Tobias followed me upstairs and into the solar where, before a blazing fire and with some mulled wine, he told me about the Lady Cecilia. How, even before Tobias left for Gloucester back in October, she had been possessed of a dreadful cough that was hidden from Leander lest it cause him concern. Blood would stain her kerchief with growing regularity. Upon learning of her affliction, Leander sent the best doctors to tend her. Despite the bloodlettings, the star charts that were read, and the potions drunk, she grew progressively weaker, her breathing more difficult until, finally, Leander was summoned home. He arrived just yesterday.
“He was too late, Anna. Though she received Extreme Unction, she passed into the Lord’s arms only an hour before he arrived, Leander’s name on her lips.”
Bowing my head, I sent a prayer to sweet Jesù for her soul. “May God assoil her,” I murmured, and was surprised at the deep sadness I felt for this woman I had never known but who I’d wronged so markedly and who occupied a great deal of my thoughts. After all, we loved the same man.
“My master grieves, Anna, and it is difficult for me to leave him at such a time, but he insisted.”
I barely heard Tobias; all I could think about was Lady Cecilia dying alone, without her husband, without the comfort of his presence. The poor woman. She deserved better.
“Anna, Anneke.” Tobias stepped closer. Troubled, his brow was drawn and a tic worked in his cheek. “There’s something I must ask you and, if I’m wrong, I beg your forgiveness now.”
