The Lady Brewer of London

by Karen Brooks

  Once the door had shut, Westel lifted his face. Even through the curtain of steam, it was apparent he hadn’t changed that much. Still pale, a little fuller around the cheeks, a neatly trimmed fringe of hair revealed it was still that wondrous silver color that reminded me so much of Mother’s, Karel’s, and Betje’s too. Now my babes possessed it, but I could reassure myself that the legacy was not Westel’s alone. Returning my gaze, his mouth turned up at the ends. Not for me the huge smiles and repetitive flashing of teeth that I once mistook as an obsequious desire to please. This was a triumphant leer. A man who oozed self-possession and the arrogance of achieving goals at any cost had replaced the old Westel. Godliness was not a part of his mien and I marveled that I’d ever likened it to that of angels. As I’d told Harry, looks could be deceiving.

  I’d no doubt my Godsent retribution, that I’d spent almost a year anticipating, was before me.

  “Well,” said Westel, coming around the tun, closing the space between us, “here we are, God be praised.”

  He paused on one side of the table. I circled until I was directly opposite. Pushing a bung out of the way, I placed my hands, palms flat, on the top, relieved they weren’t shaking.

  “What do you want, Westel?” I asked.

  “I am ‘your grace’ now.”

  I didn’t respond. Westel gave a bark of laughter. “Still stubborn, I see.”

  “Haven’t you taken enough? Aren’t you satisfied? Did you see what you did to Betje? You murdered my brother, you murdered Will, Saskia, and Louisa.” The names struck with all the force of a feather. He did not even blink. “People who trusted you, welcomed you into their lives.”

  “You blame me for their deaths?” He gave a hollow laugh. “Why, you’ve created a monster, haven’t you? How convenient. A novel way to salve a pricking conscience.” Picking up a measure and turning it in those long fingers, he continued. “Nay, Anneke Sheldrake, I didn’t murder your brother or your servants. They were, sadly, tragically, killed by fire. It was, may God assoil them, a terrible accident. Or, as some might argue, God’s will. What have you done to incur such wrath? Such a burning lesson?” He gave a harrumph of delight at his wit.

  “Will was no accident. That was not the Lord’s decree, but yours.”

  He put down the measure carefully. “Your family doesn’t do well among the elements, does it? First your father drowns, then your so-called husband, while the rest perish in flames.”

  “What do you want, Westel?”

  His laugh was genuine now. “It’s not Westel. Westel never existed. I am and always have been Roland le Bold.”

  It struck me then where I knew the name. Westel had claimed him as his mentor. It was le Bold who wrote the glowing reference, the papers Westel presented me that day at Holcroft House and upon which I’d based his employment. I bowed my head and shook it slowly.

  “I see you’ve worked it out.”

  I gulped. “Are you also Abbot Hubbard’s son?”

  “Aye, but he too is dead.” He feigned being crestfallen. “Something he drank didn’t agree with him.”

  “That doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

  Roland let out a long, deep sigh and, flicking the measure one last time, began to strut around the brewery. “Why do you think, Anneke?”

  “It’s Anna now, Roland.”

  Halting for a moment, he cocked a brow before continuing his study of the room. “So I’ve heard—from every cursed mouth since I arrived in this Godforsaken place. Anna de Winter this, Anna de Winter that. You’ve developed quite a reputation . . .” His eyes scoured my body, slowly, menacingly, as if he were touching me. I remained still, though the urge to recoil was almost more than I could bear. He moistened his lips. “. . . for brewing. Even the king sings your praises.” He chuckled. “It never occurred to me that the woman from Southwark who brewed fit for the king’s table was none other than my obstinate little brewer from Elmham Lenn—the one who wouldn’t surrender her recipes. The one who would not die. I thought you gone from my life for good. When I saw you in Gloucester, I could scarce believe my eyes.”

  He wasn’t the only one.

  “I tried to persuade myself it wasn’t so, that you were a spirit come to haunt me just when I was on the cusp of achieving what I’ve worked so hard for.”

  “Mayhap it was God’s will?”

  “Mayhap it was.” Roland’s eyes narrowed to slits, protecting a secret. “It took only a few discreet questions, some stories over wine, for your history to come out.” He began to laugh. “You are quite the inventor, are you not? A dead husband, a new family and name—very clever.”

  “Not clever enough. You found me.”

  “And with a word here or there, the right ones in the right ears, so can others.”

  My body became numb. Here it comes. “What do you mean?”

  “There was quite a hue and cry raised over you; over the destruction at Elmham Lenn.”

  “Only because you were believed dead.”

  “Oh, but, Anneke . . . Anna”—he gave a sly smile and held out his arms—“I still am. You see, as far as anyone but a few of your servants and family are concerned, Westel Calkin never existed. Even my own father denied me.”

  I took a deep breath. “It would not take much to prove you did exist—that you still do.”

  He shrugged. “But it will take a good deal more to convince anyone that Roland le Bold, the man who, God be praised, transformed brewing at St. Jude’s, who through trial and error, through creativity and talent, making an ordinary drink a remarkable one, was anything but a humble, selfless monk. I made St. Jude’s both solvent and wealthy, Elmham Lenn as well, Anna. Aye, me—your monster. Using your mother’s marvelous recipes, I am a hero of the church. The Archbishop cannot do enough; after all, it was under my patronage that St. Jude’s was able to enhance the king’s purse, fund his relentless wars and skirmishes, and prevent the treasury becoming bankrupt. Being given this bishopric and carte blanche to transform it is my reward. Imagine, if I could turn a place like St. Jude’s into a growing concern, what I can do here. Especially with the Lady Brewer—isn’t that what they call you?—upon my doorstep, the first woman to receive Crown trade, and for her beer as well as ale. What is it you call that foreign drink?” He glanced around, his gaze alighting on the barrels. “That’s it. Son of Ale.”

  He cast a critical eye over my equipment. The smile left his face. “You want to know why I’m here? I’ll tell you. You stood in my way once. I won’t allow you to again. This is my stepping-stone to the court, to Rome. I’m not going to let some brewster, a cunting whore like you, ruin my chances.”

  This time, I laughed. “You? Rome? What, as a cardinal or are you aiming higher? The bastard son of an abbot?” His face began to redden, but I didn’t care. “A man who murders at whim, who rapes women, deceives, lies, corrupts? Who fathers children—”

  “I was right. They’re mine then? Those two whelps upstairs?”

  My heart pounded. There was no point lying. He would learn the truth soon enough if he didn’t already possess it. “They are yours.”

  He stared at me, then nodded slowly. “I wouldn’t be the first monk to father children, nor the last.”

  “It’s how you fathered them that might be of interest—to the court, to Rome.”

  Westel . . . Roland’s eyes turned into agate slits in his face. Then he threw back his head and guffawed. “You really think to use that against me? You think anyone cares what a whore like you says? Don’t feign surprise. I know of Sir Leander. If you spread your legs for him, it’s not a stretch”—he chuckled—“for anyone to assume you’d do the same for someone else. After all, you’re a very beautiful woman, Anna.” He glided toward me, his fingers outstretched. Lifting a lock of hair from my breast, he slowly twined it around his finger. “A very, very beautiful woman. Beauty such as yours is only good for one thing—a man’s delectation, in whatever way he chooses. How could anyone, let alone a naive young monk, re
sist you?”

  Tugging my hair hard, he released it. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of crying out, though tears sprang to my eyes. I forced them back as he strode past the mash tuns, striking one with his fist. “For Godsakes, you live in a whorehouse, you’re only doing what your kind are born to—tempt better men to sin, poison hearts and souls with your body and lascivious ways.” He spun around. “Even now, you’re thinking about it, aren’t you? Ways of seducing me. What for? My silence? My cooperation?”

  I stared at him. By God, the man belonged in Bedlam.

  “Even if I confessed to everything, Anna, do you think I’d be denied a papal indulgence? Me, who is now regarded as a master craftsman, whose gift from God he shares with all? A favorite of the church, of court?” He strode back to the table and, leaning across, lifted my hands, studying them, running his thumbs over the back. “They’re not as lovely as they once were. Reddened, calloused, like a washerwoman’s. You work hard, don’t you? You’ve achieved so much with so little and against such odds. Your deformed sister, your servant little more than an animated vegetable, and yet, here you are, the toast of King Henry’s dinners, lover of one his finest merchant-knights, and a woman of means.”

  “Indeed, Roland. We’ve both accomplished much since Elmham Lenn. But you still haven’t told me why you’re here. If I cannot harm you by revealing the truth about the twins, about what you did to me, to the others, why do you see me as a threat? Surely, I am the least of your concerns.”

  “God’s truth, this is so. But even the least of them deserves attention lest they grow into bigger ones. I’m a great believer in excising the poison, removing the rot, stamping out a problem before it’s beyond my control.” Behind him, the kiln began to smoke and the odor of charcoal filled the air. Screwing up his nose, Roland continued. “You know what it’s like to lose everything, the lengths you’d go to keep hold of what you have, don’t you?”

  I tried to pull my hands away, but he wouldn’t release them. I’d forgotten that strength. A metallic taste filled my mouth; huge birds flapped their wings inside my chest, making breathing difficult.

  “Then we have something in common.” Dropping my hands, he folded his arms. “Understand this, Anneke Sheldrake, Anna de Winter. It matters not what you call yourself because the consequences if you do not heed my words will be the same.” He pointed his finger at me, a dagger ready to strike. “If you should reveal who I am to anyone, mention that we once worked together . . . If you breathe a word about your mother’s recipes—”

  They were still in his possession.

  “—then I will not only reveal who you are and from whence you came, I will ruin everything you’ve built for yourself here. I will destroy this brewery and the bathhouse. I will see your children sent to a nunnery, your sister—Betty, you call her now?—on the streets. Imagine what life would be like for her the way she looks? Imagine your beloved Adam without a roof, or patron.” He walked around the table until he was so close, I could smell his cassock, feel the ermine that lined the edges against my arm, see the sheen on his ashen flesh, the way the light from the kiln made his hair glint and gave life to his colorless eyes. “Imagine what I could to your lover, Leander Rainford.” I stepped back. “Imagine what I could do to your brother . . . though I’d heard tell he’s only half yours.”

  I bit my lip to stop a cry escaping. How did he know that?

  Running his hand down my face, he gave a soft smile. “Talk is cheap in Elmham Lenn and there was much of it at Holcroft House. Will, whom you believe to be some saint, and Louisa, who did nothing but gossip, were eager to share the stories and rumors that beset the house of Sheldrake. I might have doubted them once, but seeing your brother with Sir Leander, his paternity was obvious. He’s a Rainford through and through.” His fingers dropped from my face to trail down my neck and zigzag across my chest until they rested atop my breast. Drumming them gently over my flesh, he watched them a while. “What do you pay Father Kenton to absolve your sins? Or do you prefer a pardoner? For God does not take kindly to consanguinity, yet you perform it over and over.” Capturing my breast in his hand, he grasped the nipple between two fingers, twisting it through my tunic.

  “Enough.” I struck his hand and backed away, once again putting the table between us. “Enough, Westel, Roland—”

  “Your grace. I will settle for nothing less than your grace.”

  Bile rose. “Your grace.”

  Roland flashed those even teeth.

  Raising my palm to prevent him coming closer, I was panting. The air was close, thick. “I understand what you’re saying.”

  “Saying?” He came closer. “Anna, I’m not saying anything. I’m not even threatening. I’m telling you what will happen should you speak one word about the past, of what’s been said down here today; if you should reveal the truth of my brewing success—” He lunged and grabbed my hair, using it like a rope to bind me to him.

  Refusing to cry out, to give him the satisfaction, I gritted my teeth.

  Twining the thick strands around my neck, he brought my face to his. His lips were almost upon mine. The cellar disappeared to be replaced by the brewery at Elmham Lenn. It was nighttime; I was reeling against a table, blood pouring from a wound on my head.

  Snatches of conversation came back to me. You are the gate of the devil. Traitor of the tree. There was pain, terrible pain, and knowledge of imminent death, of life ending, brutality. Shadows filled my head, clouded my vision. I began to shake; my will to defy deserted me.

  “As God is my witness and Savior,” he growled in my ear, “I will crush you and everyone and everything you love. Do you understand?”

  I couldn’t speak; the hair was so tight around my neck. I half-nodded.

  “Good. Now, on your knees.” With brute force, he pushed me to the floor. Whimpering, I didn’t resist. Terror had me in its clutches and would not let go.

  “Let us seal our deal with a blessing, shall we?”

  Crowning my head with his hand, he held me fast. His manhood strained against the fabric of his cassock. Swallowing, I raised my face, my eyes burning. “A blessing?”

  “Believe me, the seed of a holy man is indeed blessed. You will imbibe, my poisonous rose, my sweet harlot and, together, we will both feel God.”

  Sending prayers to Mother Mary, the crones, Ninkasi, anyone who would listen, I shut my eyes and opened them again. Roland was hoisting his cassock, gathering it in the crook of an arm. His white knees were exposed, his milky thighs with the dusting of fine hair. I could smell urine and sweat.

  Pulling me toward him, toward the weeping, stiff paleness that filled my vision, he began to pray.

  “Pater noster qui es in caelis sanctificetur nomen tuum . . .”

  The door at the top of the steps burst open. Roland dropped his cassock and turned around, rearranging himself.

  Thanks be to sweet Mother Mary, the crones, Ninkasi, and all the female saints that they answered my prayers. Harry, Betje, Alyson, and Master atte Place came tumbling into the cellar, the other two monks in their wake.

  I hauled myself up by the table, hoping no one had seen my humiliation.

  “Anna!” said Alyson, beaming with such ferocity she was fit to burst. “Your grace.” She gave Roland a small nod. “We were worried. You were down here quite some time and we couldn’t risk the mash becoming spoiled or the grains burning. Appears we were just in time.” She fixed Roland with a look.

  The grain! I’d quite forgotten. Master atte Place pulled the smoking tray of dark brown husks from the kiln. It hissed as it touched the cooler, damp wood. The barley was ruined.

  Rushing to their posts, Betje, Harry, and the other servants who’d waited timidly at the top of the stairs curtsied and bowed to Roland, who stood, indifferent to their presence. I knew we’d pay for this interruption, for the manner in which everyone made it clear their loyalties were with me.

  Bishop Roland made as dignified an exit as possible, waving the monks at the t
op of the stairs out of the brewery.

  No one heard his last words as he brushed past me, as our bodies connected. “Everyone you love,” he murmured.

  I didn’t know I was holding my breath until the sound of hooves in the courtyard released me.

  Fifty-Four

  The Swanne

  Late February to late March

  The year of Our Lord 1408 in the ninth year of the reign of Henry IV

  Though Roland le Bold threatened to destroy me if I made mention of our shared history and the recipes he stole, and I didn’t doubt he meant every word, I knew I had to divulge, at least in part, what had passed between us. Alyson was no fool and Adam knew the sins this man carried; it would be an insult to pretend nothing had occurred, especially after we had spent so much time alone. Nonetheless, I didn’t concede everything. The shame I felt at what he wanted me to do, at what had almost happened, was too much.

  Ensuring the brewery was back to normal and Betje remained to supervise, I followed Alyson upstairs to where Adam, greatly agitated, waited. Asking for ale and wine to be brought to the solar, I shared the bulk of what happened: that he was indeed Westel Calkin—a false name created solely for the purposes of inveigling himself in our midst—that he had survived the fire, and had gone on to use my mother’s recipes to make St. Jude’s prosper. So much so, he’d been rewarded with an elevation in rank and the promise of more seniority to come; brewing became the means of his rise within the church. I explained that if I mentioned anything of this to the authorities, he would simply invoke a higher one.

  “God?” spat Alyson.

  “In some measure. He would use the church against us, and God knows”—I gave an apologetic smile for my poor pun—“as His voice on earth, that’s powerful enough.”

  “A voice that speaks in whispers with a forked tongue.” Alyson came to my side and wrapped her arms around me, holding me close and stroking my hair. “Ah, my chick. This visitation from the past will sorely test you. For that I’m sorry.” We stood like that for some time, the snow striking the mullioned glass, the wind whistling under the door and between the cracks, causing candles to flutter and the fire in the hearth to dim before roaring to life again. “What do you wish to do, Anna?” she asked finally. “Ignore, obey, or defy him?”