The Lady Brewer of London

by Karen Brooks

  I was struck by the beauty of this workshop of mash tuns, troughs, gleaming copper, burning wood, rising steam, puffs of gray smoke, and abundant goodwill. The air was filled with the heady, rich scent of hops and mash. Lifting a beaker from where it hung by a nail on the wall, I went to the trough and sank it deep into the wort. Glancing up, Harry smiled.

  “That’ll have no trouble passing, mistress. That’s a mighty fine brew, even if I do say so myself. Fit for a king.”

  Rose cuffed him good-naturedly across the head.

  Raising the beaker to him, I drank. Harry was right. It was smooth, with an aftertaste of honey, a hint of pine, and the tang of woodsmoke. In many ways, it reminded me of Leander and for a moment, I felt a twinge of sorrow.

  I made up my mind there and then that, come tonight, if he should return, I would seek to mend our rift. I could not bear that we were at odds, not when a much greater adversary loomed.

  * * *

  Putting an end to the minor discord between Leander and myself proved unnecessary. From the moment I saw him again, he was in much better humor—indeed, he didn’t mention Roland le Bold and I determined to avoid the subject unless the need arose. Set to join the king at Pontefract for Easter and then journey to Leicester, Leander and I spent every night till then in mutual embrace.

  The day he departed for Pontefract, I made certain he also had a letter for Tobias, who, Leander had told me vaguely, was occupied attending his affairs elsewhere. My brother’s missive to me had been brief but loving. He refused to allow me to bear responsibility for what had befallen the family, swearing he would yet make amends for the ignominy of his birth, promising to restore the Sheldrake name and our relations in the process. How he thought to accomplish such an unnecessary task, I knew not. What I did know was that I could never use the name Sheldrake again and, even if Tobias was successful in his mission, wasn’t certain I wanted to—I was a de Winter now and content to be so.

  Over the next few weeks, we worked hard to meet the king’s orders and those from the Duke of Clarence, the brethren of St. Mary’s and St. Thomas’s, as well as the large order from Roland. Hocktide came and went and we managed to pay the rent, Harry and Master atte Place delivering it to Winchester Palace on Alyson’s behalf, thanks to the increased price of the beer which the king’s purse bore without complaint or, God is good, knowledge.

  It came as no surprise when the day after the rent was paid, Master Fynk darkened our door. On the pretext of accompanying the ale-conners, he made much fuss. In a repeat performance of his last visit, he declared our ale sour and the beer unfit to drink. Alyson’s threats of summoning Sir Leander didn’t sway him, neither did Adam’s demands for the sheriff to act as mediator.

  “The ale-conners declare this brew unfit. Not even I would dare contest their findings,” he replied calmly and ordered one third of all we made, whether it had passed previously or not, be tipped into the Thames.

  Alyson began to argue, but I grabbed her arm. “Don’t. This man is not above cucking you in the Thames, or worse, sewerage, and this time, he’ll see it done properly.”

  Alyson shut her mouth, but she was seething.

  However, not even the bribed ale-conners would condone having the king’s beer tipped into the dirt. Acceding to my argument that the beer was unfit because it required at least another week in the barrels, Master Fynk nevertheless insisted that the ale made for the king be destroyed and said the conners would return in a week to test the beer. By the time the bells for vespers rang, almost half our brew had been drunk by the river.

  It was a huge blow and set us back enormously. I wouldn’t let it defeat me. Working till the lack of decent light made it impossible, we doubled the amount we put in the tuns. Alyson and Captain Stoyan helped every moment they could spare. My greatest asset, though, was Adam. Slower, still finding long speeches difficult and not quite able to find enough dexterity in his hand to hold a quill, Adam could stir a mash paddle, load kindling, and test wort. Able to instruct and supervise, having him working again not only gave me a chance to make the king’s order and Roland le Bold’s (I wanted him to have no cause to complain), but it restored Adam’s confidence.

  Easter celebrations were subdued, though the church was once again full as spring brought visitors to Southwark by river and road, many of whom would require lodging, ale and food for their bodies, as well as nourishment for their souls. Sales of ale and beer were, perforce, limited, due to Master Fynk’s interference, so Alyson hired more girls for the summer. What she lost in beverage sales was made up for by other, less tiring, means.

  The extra work required to make orders meant less time to think about le Bold, but also set in motion plans to move. Though I’d written to Masters Hamme and Porlond stating I would accept their offer, it had not yet been made official. Receiving two gentle nudges from them by letter already, I didn’t want to wait for a third. I had to make the time.

  One sunny afternoon in May, after Master Fynk had paid another visit and ordered fourteen barrels emptied and leveled a hefty fine, with Alyson by my side and a more able-bodied Adam as chaperone, I arranged to visit the premises Master Hamme offered to lease me. Captain Stoyan took us across the river so we didn’t have to endure the crowds on London Bridge.

  A pleasant wind wafted about our faces as we stood on deck and watched London draw nearer. Brief though the journey was, escaping the brewery and Southwark, the fear of Roland and the machinations of Master Fynk did me much good. I pushed my concerns aside and soaked up the atmosphere. There were many craft upon the river, taking advantage of the temperate conditions to fish, carry cargo and passengers, or simply take to the waters to be seen. Decorative punts, lavishly curtained and with elegant lamps fore and aft swinging with each stroke of the oars, glided past, the coats of arms of noble houses on display, their women passengers decked in sumptuous silks and embroidered linens, their hair coiled and plaited and crowned by the finest gauzes. Troubadours strummed their instruments and the voices of poets drifted across the waters.

  As we poled alongside London Bridge, far enough away to resist the currents and eddies that tested the hardiest of sailors, we caught sight of the teeming crowds on the Bridge, heard the cacophony of voices competing for custom. Buckets were emptied out of the windows of teetering houses, offal and bloodied bones were tipped surreptitiously from a handcart, all swallowed by the waters. Children and some men cast lines from the footings, birds flapped overhead. The smells of life and death clung to this part of the river and we raised our kerchiefs and scarves to cover our noses and mouths lest we inhale the filthy miasma.

  We came ashore at Dowgate close to the Stilliard and, from there, followed Wall Brook, which, though containing much refuse, maintained a steady flow. On we walked, past the church of St. Mary Bothaw, inns, taverns, private residences both well-kept and poor, passing Old Fish Street and understanding why it bore that name, before reaching Cornhill Street. At the corner, near the water conduit known as the Tun (and the adjacent cage, stocks, and a pillory, the latter miserably inhabited by a baker), we met with Master Hamme, who escorted us to the brewery.

  Imagine our astonishment when we saw the name on the building—it too was called The Swanne. Alyson beamed.

  “I asked my Lord for a sign. I didn’t think he’d be so bloody obvious about it though.” This Swanne, while a large building of three wooden stories, nevertheless differed from its counterpart in Southwark. Darker but with bigger rooms, it had a small courtyard and a tiny mews. Close to St. Michael’s Church (but not too close, as Alyson was swift to note), a tavern named The Pope was two doors down, while on either side were residences, one belonging to a German mercer, the other a baker. Inside was mostly clean, though the walls had smoke stains, and the kitchen was possessed of only a makeshift oven. Apart from these, the downstairs was shared with a large hall, buttery, stables, and storage rooms. Upstairs, there were two reception rooms, although the smaller one could be used for an office, as well as five b
edrooms. The attic held more. There was even a garderobe that emptied into the ditch.

  Downstairs, the brewery exceeded my imaginings. Running the length of the house, it had four long narrow windows, allowing light to stream in. It had two doors, one internal and one external that led to the courtyard and mews. Inside was everything Master Hamme promised—two large mash tuns, leaden troughs and pipes, and a big kiln. There were two quern stones, one too big for an individual to operate, and there was also space that could be used for malting if we chose. Altogether, it was a pleasant surprise.

  Most importantly, it had access to a clean water supply. There was also a nearby market and it was not too far from the river and a number of docks. My intention to petition the king for a license to export to Flanders and other parts of Europe would be a priority.

  Its position, within London’s walls, meant I’d have to adhere strictly to the laws that bound those inside. Now I understood why Master Hamme was offering it to me, and so cheaply. Would I have to make a choice between ale and beer? Would the Mystery allow me to brew both? Apart from the ale-conners and the tax, I’d managed to make my own rules so far. Living and working in London would change that. Having Roland le Bold as our bishop did as well. It was a case of the lesser of two evils.

  When I broached my concerns about brewing ale and beer, which broke the rules of the Mystery, Master Hamme didn’t contradict me. “Aye, mistress, but those who make these rules be a-changing annually. Furthermore, you’re only breaking rules if you get caught. I won’t be a-telling if you don’t.” He winked. “You’ll find the outbreak of pestilence changed many things.”

  With a discretion I hadn’t expected from him, Master Hamme left us alone for a while. After wandering through the building again, we gathered in the brewery.

  “Well?” I asked.

  Alyson, Captain Stoyan, and Adam looked at each other. Adam was pale and tired. It was his first big outing since his illness, and though he was enjoying himself immensely, it was evident he needed to sit down.

  “Adam?” I asked when no one spoke.

  “I’ve looked at the ledgers, Anna, and if they are true, this brewery did well. Not as well as you’re doing now, but it didn’t have C . . . Crown trade.” His lips twisted, and though he tried to continue, no sound came. Raising his withered arm as high as he could, he gave the equivalent of a shrug. “If you leave The Sw . . . Swanne, you could not do better than here.”

  I turned to Alyson. “I agree,” she said. With hands on hips, she gazed around. “There’s potential here, Anna, and not just for a brewery, but to offer accommodation, food as well, attract good-quality clients. I like it.” She jerked her chin toward the stairs. “I like him.”

  “And, Captain, what do you think?”

  “If they won’t say it, I will. I think anything that gets you out from under le Bold’s nose is good. I also think it will be easy to export from here. The docks are solid, the water deep, the storage excellent. Ja. It’s good.”

  Everything they said confirmed my feelings.

  “Very well, let’s begin negotiations.”

  It didn’t take long to settle on a price and conditions. Once I started production, I would be invited to join the Mystery. Making arrangements to sign a lease and to begin moving in July, we said farewell to Master Hamme and rowed back to Bankside.

  Alyson and the captain chattered excitedly, while I sat with Adam, watching the river slide beneath us, enjoying the roll of the water, the spray that occasionally struck our warm faces. Above us, gulls soared on the thermals, cawing to each other, their white plumage gleaming in the rose-gold of the sky, turning them into giant butterflies.

  I thought back over the afternoon, and though I sent prayers to the Lord and His Mother, I also sent some to the crones. For what I didn’t tell the others was that as I entered the brewery, I spied my old women squatting in the corners as if they’d spent their entire existence there. Grinning wickedly, they licked their parched lips, letting me know that they were thirsty and it was my brew they were waiting for.

  I could not wait to get back to The Swanne, to share the news with Betje, Harry, and the twins. I would write to Leander and Tobias as well. Knowing I’d be leaving Southwark and the sphere of Roland le Bold would, I prayed, offer the peace of mind we all deserved.

  * * *

  Do not the church fathers warn of invoking the devil’s name lest you summon him? Though I didn’t utter it, my thoughts appeared to beckon the one person I least wanted to set eyes upon. The person whose presence still had the power to make me tremble, to doubt my resolutions and those of others. As we pulled into the dock and Captain Stoyan and Alyson tied off the barge and anchored her, there he was, Bishop Roland le Bold. Surrounded by cronies, including Master Fynk, he halted at the end of the dock and watched us disembark.

  Noting the swagger in Master Fynk’s steps, the arrogant set of his chin, everything became clear. I had believed he was acting of his own volition, to punish Alyson and me for our defiance and Sir Leander’s intervention, but now I understood he was simply following orders. Those of Roland le Bold.

  Why? Hadn’t Roland said he would only seek to ruin me if I revealed the truth? How could he possibly know of my conversations with my friends at The Swanne, with Leander? He didn’t. They made no difference.

  Alyson linked her arm through mine. Clutching his walking stick tightly, Adam took my other arm while Captain Stoyan led our group. Courageous, we crossed the dock as if we had not a care in the world.

  Pausing where the bishop stood, giving blessings and receiving them in return, we waited our turn to offer obeisance. To do otherwise would be ill-mannered and almost heretical. I would give him no cause for complaint.

  Accepting our reverence, he retracted his hand and smiled.

  “God give you good day, Mistress Anna,” he said unctuously.

  “And you too, your grace.”

  “Pleasant day for the river, is it not?”

  “Most pleasant.” I gave a curtsy and sought to pass. His hand flashed out and held my forearm. Alyson was rudely shoved out of the way. She made a noise of protest but fell silent when a guard lowered his pike in her direction and snarled.

  “You wouldn’t be seeking to leave, would you?” said Roland, so softly only Adam and I could hear.

  My eyes widened. How did he know?

  “Because in order to leave my manor, my jurisdiction, you must seek permission. Mine. Failing to do so incurs penalties, harsh ones, and steep fines—enough to make most people paupers. I’m sure you wouldn’t want that, would you?”

  “Nay, your grace. I would not.”

  Roland offered another smile and nodded benignly. “You see, it’s my responsibility to make Southwark strong by enhancing the trades we offer, the skills folk can rely upon, bolster its reputation, especially since licentiousness and ungodliness has stained it so. The pestilence has offered an opportunity for renewal that I will not let slip past. A brewer who has Crown trade is a blessing, is it not? And did not the good Lord say we should share our blessings? If, God forbid, you were to take your talent away, then my manor, my liberty, would be denied and our reputation suffer. I cannot allow that. I will not.” Flashing those perfect teeth, he gave a wave of dismissal, turning and throwing coins toward a gaggle of urchins who leaped upon them. Bowing his head, he continued walking along the river. “God give you a good night,” he called over his silk-clad shoulder.

  It was like a blow to the stomach and I doubled over. Adam strove to hold me upright and Alyson ran to my side. They helped me to a rock, where I slumped. “Is what he said true? Do I need his permission to leave?”

  Shielding her eyes with her hand, Alyson watched the bishop greeting locals. Captain Stoyan and Adam followed her gaze. I did not.

  “If it’s not true today, there’ll be notice it’s so by the end of the week. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about your bishop, Anna, he won’t be thwarted. And if he thinks he has been, his punishment
is swift.”

  “And he gets others to mete it out,” said Adam.

  “Master Fynk?”

  “Exactly.”

  Alyson lowered her hand. “You need to watch yourself, chick.”

  I held my emotions in check. “Aye. We all do.”

  Fifty-Six

  The Swanne

  Late June

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

  Perhaps I was a fool to ignore Roland’s warning, but I did. Without flaunting it, plans to move to Cornhill Street proceeded apace. We told only Betje, Harry, Emma, and Constance, the latter two being sworn to secrecy. The remainder of the women, Master atte Place, Ralph, Thomas, Golda, and Rose and the tradesmen and -women with whom we dealt regularly knew nothing of our intentions. Nor did the clients.

  Or so we thought.

  In the meantime, we continued to brew, despite Roland’s efforts through Master Fynk to prevent us meeting our orders and being blacklisted as a consequence. Two more brews were tipped into the Thames, and Alyson, who protested loudly and scornfully and accused Master Fynk of being a puppet who merely let a bishop pull his strings, was heavily fined and sentenced to being shackled in the pillory on the High Street for being a scold.

  Master Fynk had underestimated her popularity. Though he ordered a full kilderkin of ale to be tipped over her, it was a very warm day and Alyson thanked good Master Fynk for cooling her passions. A crowd gathered, most clutching rotting fruit, eggs, and dung. Listening to Master Fynk list Alyson’s crimes, there was some discontented mumbling and glances at Bishop le Bold, who sat upon a chair watching proceedings. It was one thing to make mockery of a baker who put ground stone in his bread, or a regrateresse who bought up ale and waited until it was in such short supply she could sell it on at inflated prices, but this was different. Alyson was regarded as an honest woman—both in her dealings in the bathhouse and in the brewery. None among those present had cause to complain about what she served. Why, hadn’t her brewer earned Crown trade? Reluctant to hurl objects let alone abuse, people muttered and hovered. Master Fynk soon tired of waiting and, after flinging some mud and insults of his own, sensed the temper of the crowd didn’t favor him. As soon as he saw the languid wave of the bishop’s wrist, he ordered her released. By the time Captain Stoyan, Adam, and I helped Alyson from the pillory, the constable whispering apologies, the bishop and Master Fynk had gone.