The Lady Brewer of London

by Karen Brooks

  * * *

  Regardless of the obstacles thrown our way—including the news that Master Fynk had been appointed sheriff of our borough—we climbed them. Exhausted, burning at the injustices inflicted upon us, we suffered it all quietly because we knew we wouldn’t have to endure much longer. Once the king’s order for summer was complete, we would begin to pack and then, in the last week of July, move across the river.

  I wrote to Leander every other day as he’d requested, keeping him informed of what was happening, though I spared him some of the more unjust and mortifying details. There was little point angering him when there was nothing he could do.

  Much to my surprise, Leander’s letters weren’t full of admonition and advice as I half-anticipated. On the contrary, they reinforced that soon le Bold would no longer concern me. Leander wrote mostly about the king’s failing health and how even a proposed journey to Windsor by horseback had tired him so much, he opted to repair to his barge for most of the trip. Queen Joan was concerned and remained by his side as, for the time being, Leander would as well. The good news was that the king intended a visit to his trusted confidant and friend Archbishop Arundel, who lived upriver in Mortlake Manor.

  Once His Grace is settled, my beloved, I will come to you. The distance is negligible, thus I can fulfill my official duties with a clear conscience, as well as those, despite sound arguments to the contrary, my heart needs.

  I clung to those words as I did to the hopes the end of next month held. It was only later I placed another interpretation upon them.

  On June fifteenth, after many setbacks, the king’s order was loaded onto Captain Stoyan’s barge to be delivered to both Mortlake Manor and Eltham Palace. At the same time, Harry and Master atte Place transported Roland le Bold’s order to Winchester Palace. Produced from the same batches, I was determined that le Bold would not have cause for complaint if the king was content.

  Though there were still more brews to make before I ceased production in Bankside, I was persuaded the quality of what I’d made for the king would ensure Crown trade continued.

  The ale and beer I’d sent passed both my taste test and that of the ale-conners. Adding some efficacious herbs to the ale, I hoped that they would facilitate a speedy recovery for the king. If one thing was assured, they could do no harm.

  * * *

  Uncertain what woke me, I lay on the bed, stripes of sunlight banding my legs through the shutters where my shift had ridden up. I yawned, sat up, and stretched my arms above my head. Distant thuds, almost musical in their depth, became louder and the buzz of voices and frantic shouts brought me rapidly to my senses. Leaping out of bed, I grabbed my shawl from the chair and wrapped it around my shoulders, threw open the shutters, and pushed out the window.

  A fine mist augured a warm day ahead. The bells for lauds chimed as I gazed on the river and the wraithlike city on the other side which, this time of the morning, appeared to float upon the waters.

  Below, a crowd strode the cobbles. Talking excitedly, they wandered from bathhouse to inn to home, knocking on doors, talking, gesticulating, frowning, and shaking their heads at whoever answered. The Swanne was next to receive the news. Adam wrenched open the door before anyone could pound upon the wood. I leaned out and tried to hear what was being said. I caught the words “His Grace,” “death,” “gravely ill.” Adam’s responses were lost to me, but soon the mob left, eager to pass the bad tidings along.

  I left the shutters ajar as I withdrew from the window. Piecing together what I thought I heard, I was saddened beyond measure. To think that the man I’d met in Gloucester, my king, the man who blessed me with his trade and thus altered my fortunes, was finally succumbing to the terrible illness that, according to Leander, had afflicted him for such a long period.

  Quickly I washed, dressed, and went to the brewery, determined that my ale song would be as much for the king as my brew. As I had been tardy to rise, Betje and Harry were already there and together we serenaded the brew. While they attended to the tuns and the kiln, I gave my offering to the corner crones, whispering that it would not be too much longer before we removed to our new lodgings. Disgruntled that so much of what they’d overseen had been lost to the river, I persuaded myself that they were also looking forward to our relocation. I was literally counting the days. Imagine, we would start brewing afresh—in London. The very notion made my flesh tingle.

  Breaking our fast after tierce, I was sitting in the kitchen, intending to take small ale to Alyson and Adam, who I knew were in the solar tending the books ready to pass to the next owner (who was yet to be found), when the clatter of hooves and the cry of a courier forced me to put down the mazers I’d filled and follow Sophie out into the yard.

  Mounted upon a sweating horse was a rider I knew well as he’d delivered many letters to me of late. Reaching in my apron for a coin, I passed it to him in exchange for a sealed scroll.

  “God give you good day, Nab. There’s small ale and bread in the kitchen.”

  “May the Holy Trinity bless you and keep you, mistress, I thank you but I mustn’t tarry. I’m to continue to Elmham Lenn, my lord’s orders.”

  “Elmham Lenn?” The name still had the ability to conjure so many conflicting memories. Hearing it from Nab’s mouth made it even more confronting. “Why?”

  Nab shrugged. “Don’t know, only that it’s urgent and Master Tobias is expecting me.”

  Tobias? He was in Elmham Lenn? I’d assumed him back by Leander’s side . . .

  Before I could ask another question, the courier wheeled his horse and, kicking up dust and debris, cantered out the gates.

  I was still in the courtyard when Alyson found me, staring at the open letter in my hand.

  “There you are. I wondered . . . Anna, what is it? Why are you so pale? Is it Leander? Is it Tobias?”

  Raising my head, I gazed at her blankly.

  Grabbing me by the shoulders, she shook me hard. “Anna, you’re frightening me. What is it?”

  I held out the paper, my hands shaking. “It’s the king. He’s fallen into a sleep from which no one can awake him.”

  “May God help him,” said Alyson crossing herself. “Didn’t you hear the fuss earlier? This is known throughout the land.”

  “You don’t understand. They’re saying it’s not natural, that it’s the devil’s work. There are some claiming he’s been poisoned.”

  “God help us.” Alyson crossed herself again.

  I found breathing difficult. Holding out the letter, I shook it in Alyson’s face.

  “Alyson, Leander writes that His Grace was drinking my ale when he collapsed. It was the batch I added the myrica gale into. I thought it would help . . . I . . . I . . .”

  Alyson snatched the letter from me and read it through quickly.

  “God help you, lass.”

  “It’s said to be good for stomach upsets and can even be used as a powder to ease skin complaints. I thought since His Grace suffered from both . . . Alyson”—I raised wide disbelieving eyes to hers—“what if I caused this? What if it’s me who has poisoned the king?”

  “Hush, hush, my chick.” Alyson wrapped her arms around me and pulled me close, pushing my head into the crook of her neck, dropping her lips to my ear. “Be silent. Do not think such things and, dear Lord, do not say them. Not to anyone. Listen. It’s not you. It cannot be. We all tasted the ale, even Roland le Bold has ale from the same batch and we’ve heard nothing. Do you think that if it was poisoned, the bishop would let it pass? Leander is simply informing, not warning you.” She scanned the letter over my shoulder. “He writes he’ll be here tonight. Till then, you must not make mention of this. You must continue as normal. And it is, do you hear me?” She thrust me at arm’s length, waiting till I met her eyes.

  “I do, I do. I hear you.”

  But I did not. All I heard was the sound of fate rushing forward with black wings to finally claim me.

  * * *

  The day passed slowly. Every s
ound, every hoof on the cobbles, every shout from the courtyard, I would jump to my feet and run to the door or look out the window. I’d long given up on the brewery. I was of no use in there, and I didn’t want my nerves to affect the brew or alarm Betje. Visiting the nursery was a disaster. Wanting to climb over me, the twins, who were now fleet of foot and endlessly curious, weren’t interested in the cuddles I offered and needed in return. When Emma and Constance said they would take them for a walk before supper, we were all relieved.

  Staring out the solar window, my arms resting on the ledge, I tried to enjoy the sunset, the way cushions of gilt-edged pink merged with ribbons of copper before melting into the beginnings of the violet evening. Spires soared into the air, piercing the firmament as if to insist that Heaven pay attention. Seagulls and doves wheeled against the sky, wherries dotted the river, and the cobbles below thronged with folk coming and going on their business.

  Every time someone entered The Swanne, the bell above the door sounded. Voices traveled up the staircase, all discussing the same thing: the king. News spread fast, but bad news infected everyone who heard it. But, as Alyson wryly noted, bad news was also good for business.

  “Come away from the window, Anna. He will be here soon, you know he will.”

  I spun around reluctantly. “Why am I not as assured as you, Alyson? Why is my heart a-quiver?”

  “For no reason I can fathom, sweetling. Sit down, I will ask Sophie to fetch you a small ale—nay, some of my Bordeaux wine.”

  Her footsteps sounded in the corridor and I could hear her calling for Sophie. I turned back to the window. “Where are you, Leander?” I looked at where the river met the sky for so long, remembering the afternoon we spent in Cornhill Street and the promise of the new venture, I forgot the ground.

  “There she is,” shouted a deep voice. “Don’t let her escape.”

  Startled, I looked down. Marching toward The Swanne, surrounded by soldiers armed with pikes, their swords drawn, was Master Fynk. Pointing straight at me, he led half the men to the entrance and signaled for the remainder to go to the back gates. Shoving people aside, the men, led by Master Fynk, ran into the bathhouse.

  I stood frozen to the spot. There were screams followed by angry calls. I could hear the tramp of boots on the stairs; doors opening and shutting; more cries. My heart pounded, my body flamed with heat before becoming colder than the Thames in winter. I had to get away.

  Before I could act, the door flew open. Standing on the threshold was Alyson, a cape in her hands. “Quickly, quickly.” She ran toward me and threw the cape over my shoulders. I felt strangely comforted as it enfolded me. Alyson tied the laces and pulled the hood down to hide my hair and face. “Dear God, Anna. I’m sorry, I should have listened, acted faster, hidden you away. But who would have thought . . .” Placing an arm about my shoulders, she spun me around, ready to leave.

  “Mistress Anna de Winter,” purred a voice.

  Our heads shot up. Leaning against the doorframe, a long dagger in one hand, a piece of paper in the other, was Master Fynk. “And I thought you’d be the type to surrender without trying to fight or seek flight. How easy it is to assume honor when everyone knows women of your ilk have none. Guards,” he barked over his shoulder, “seize her.”

  Stepping out of the way, he admitted four huge men into the room. Shoving Alyson aside, one of them twisted my arms and tied my hands behind my back. Another held me by the shoulders, shaking me roughly, though there was no need. I’d not had time to gather my wits to resist.

  Alyson found her feet and unleashed a tirade.

  “Leave her go. Do you know who this is? This is the king’s brewer. You’ve no right—”

  The biggest of the guards swung his arm backward, collecting Alyson on the jaw and sending her hurtling into the table. She fell heavily. Her lip was split, her eyes unfocused. Master Fynk threw the paper on her breast. It landed like a drunken bird. “I’ve every right as this warrant will attest.”

  “Please, don’t—” I began, before Master Fynk struck me across the face. My head snapped back, my cheek flamed. My mouth filled with a coppery taste.

  “You will say nothing till I tell you to. Guards”—he leered one last time—“take her to The Clink.”

  The Clink. The bishop’s prison. Sweet Mother Mary, help me.

  Ignoring his threat, as they pulled me forward, I cried out. “Pray, what have I done?” I knew. I knew. I’d never been so afraid in my life.

  The blow came swiftly and the force of it made my ears ring. One eye began to swell.

  Reeling, my head swam, my knees buckled, but the guards held me upright and dragged me out of the solar.

  “Do? What did you do?” Master Fynk imitated my voice, capturing the terror, the disbelief perfectly. “As if you didn’t know.” Changing tone, he waited until we were on the stairs. In the doorways were the women and some of their clients. The girls stared at me in shock and sympathy. A couple dared to reach out, only to have their arms knocked brutally away. Clearing his throat, Master Fynk answered my plaintive question.

  “Mistress Anna de Winter, I’m arresting you for the most heinous crime there is.” He paused, enjoying the sudden silence.

  A clatter on the stairs broke it. I looked down and saw Betje and Harry peering up. A groan escaped me.

  Following my gaze, Master Fynk leered. Louder than a town crier, he continued. “I’m arresting you for murder.”

  There were gasps, denials.

  Oh, God and all the angels help me.

  The king was dead.

  Amidst tears and protests, shouts and jeers, I was hauled from The Swanne.

  Fifty-Seven

  The Clink, Southwark

  Late June

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

  Though it was the Southwark sheriff who arrested me, the seriousness of the charge should have warranted my incarceration in London: Newgate at least, but the Tower most likely for a crime against the king’s person. I would face the authority and discipline of the King’s Bench. Instead, I was neither marched nor rowed across the river to London; I wasn’t handed over to the king’s men, but rudely paraded through the streets of Southwark and thrown in The Clink.

  A crowd followed, mocking and heckling, their numbers increasing with each step until the guards were forced to clear a passage. Barely aware of them, all I could think of was Betje and the twins. Betje’s stricken face staring up at mine as she understood the seriousness of the charge. And poor, brave Alyson. That guard was vicious. Her hurts would be significant. I prayed they would care for one another and that when Leander arrived, they would convey the urgency of my situation. Leander would know what to do, how to secure my release from this dreadful place.

  The Clink was part of the Bishop of Winchester’s liberty, which meant Roland le Bold could hold me until the royal court was ready to deal with the charges. That could take days, weeks . . . dear God, it could take months . . .

  What he could do to me in that time did not bear thinking about. I will destroy everything and everyone you love.

  Oh God, Leander, help me.

  Thrust in a dark stinking cell, I was manacled to the wall and left to sit on urine-soaked straw. If I ever wondered about the origins of the prison’s name, the sound of the door clanging shut left no doubt. The sound echoed throughout the vast chambers, final, deadly. Cackles and hoots resounded from cells I could not see, but whose inhabitants had rushed to the bars to study the new arrival. Toothless, dirty women crowed, their lean, scratched arms reaching through the bars. Children younger than Betje, their faces streaked with grime, their eyes lumps of unforgiving coal, took note of my fine tunic, my clean hair, before spitting in my direction. Whores, wretched orphans, thieves, heretics—they were all here. And now I was one of their number. I was the worst kind of villain—a traitor.

  Unable to move too far before the chains pulled me back, I sat on the straw. Piercing through my tunic, it claw
ed my thighs. I tried to flatten some, disturbing the creatures that lurked beneath it: lice, vermin, and God knows what else. Three large rats poked their noses through before disappearing. Gray shapes scurried into the corners. The floor was not much better. Slimy, dank, and filthy, it exuded its own foul odor. A small grated window to my right admitted a faint strip of light and I could hear the sounds of passersby going about the afternoon’s business, unaware of the women trapped below or, more likely, indifferent to their fate.

  As the cell slowly darkened, I pondered my own and prayed fervently for a sign, for hope . . . for a miracle.

  Sound carried down the corridors, mostly the wails and derision of the other women. Gruff male voices could also be heard as well as grunts and giggles. Curling against the wall, I tried to block them. Water dripped from somewhere above—at least I hoped it was water—forcing me to find an alternate place to sit.

  What I couldn’t comprehend was, if the king was dead, why were the church bells not sounding? Why were there no laments? No crying? Even when King Richard died, there’d been those who’d walked the streets of Elmham Lenn weeping and wailing.

  I didn’t have to wait long to discover the reason.

  The jangle of keys and the dull, heavy steps of the gaoler were accompanied by a lighter tread.

  It was difficult to discern who it was until a cresset lamp illuminated his face. Roland le Bold. No longer in his robes of office, he wore a simple surcoat and breeches. This was how I remembered him: not as a man of God. It was Westel Calkin restored to life.