by Karen Brooks
With every sin read, the shouts and noise of the mob grew. I dared not turn around, though part of me wanted nothing more than to declare the entire catalogue a lie and a conspiracy and a twisting of the truth. Only . . . I couldn’t. Most bore some element of veracity that rendered outright denial of even the most outrageous claims impossible.
The last crime was heresy. Courtesy of my ale song and the corner crones, the elements that had helped make my ale so popular made me a heretic. I was now a traitor and heretic. The greatest sins according to God, king, and fellow man.
Hisses and cries flew around me as the guards grabbed my arms and forced me to my knees in front of the barrel.
“Get in,” snarled one of them, landing a kick to my side.
I tried to obey, but every time I placed my head in the barrel and inhaled the scent of wort, hyssop, barley, and woodsmoke, I withdrew it. This was one of my barrels. I could not, would not comply. This was a most wicked injustice.
The bishop yelled an order and while one guard held me fast, the other righted the barrel. Lifted off my feet, I was shoved inside and held down.
“Nay, nay,” I screamed, my earlier resolve to be dignified gone. “These are unjust accusations, they’re contrived, they’re—”
The lid shut off my last words. Slammed against my head and driven down until I was forced to bow my neck, I tried to push, to throw it off, but squeezed into the small space, my arms lacked mobility. Nails were hammered in, one by one. I shouted, I slammed one fist against the wood, kicked the sides, but my efforts were feeble, ineffectual.
Dear Lord, this was really happening.
Spears of ice shot through my body, my heart pounded so fast and hard it should have exploded from my chest. Tears flowed down my cheeks, the words I tried to say drowning in my sorrow, my terror.
“Nay, nay,” I sobbed, pummeling the wood.
Outside, all fell quiet. My own whimpers stilled. I heard them. Muffled at first, coming closer, growing louder.
“Stop this at once!”
“It’s unlawful.”
“In the name of Mayor Drugo Barentyn, halt the punishment.”
My spirits soared. There was to be a last-minute reprieve; rescue was nigh.
The crowd began to chant, “Stop the execution, stop the execution.”
Sounds of scuffle, of restraint carried. Urgent conversations took place.
I pressed my ear to the wood. Though the voices were close, I couldn’t make out what was being said, only the insistence behind them. Once more, silence was called for and eventually granted.
This time, Roland le Bold spoke.
“Masters Porlond and Hamme from the Mystery of Brewers . . .”
Good God. What were they doing here?
“. . . would declare this execution unlawful due to the criminal being a resident of London and therefore under the jurisdiction of that borough and bound by its laws. They declare this in the name of the mayor, Drugo Barentyn.” There was a pause and rustle. “They cite this deed as their evidence, signed by the guilty woman, Anna de Winter, on the sixteenth of June, which indicates she paid a six-month lease on a property in Cornhill Street, thereby making her, officially, a resident of London.”
Could this be true? Would I be spared le Bold’s form of justice yet?
There were cheers as well as disgruntled noises. Some were more bloodthirsty than others.
“But I say, and the jurors agree that, despite these orders from the Sheriffs of London, Master Thomas Duke and Master William Norton”—there was the sound of paper being unfurled—“and the pleas of the mayor, because the brew that killed the monks of Winchester and which rendered the king unto death was made here in Southwark before the lease was signed, in premises rented from this manor, Mistress de Winter can be rightfully tried and punished by our laws, Southwark laws.”
The shouts almost drowned out his next words. “A decent attempt, gentlemen, but a failed one. No more delays, place the barrel on the fire.”
Unprepared, when they lifted me, my chin struck the wood hard and I bit my tongue. Unable to place me, the guards threw the barrel upon the flames. Jolted, my head hit the lid and, for a moment, spots swam in front of my eyes.
Though I could hear the crackling of the fire, the heat was not immediate.
“This is barbaric,” shouted Master Porlond.
“Are you mad?” yelled Master Hamme. “This is not lawful. It cannot be. Rescind this punishment immediately. If she is guilty, let the King’s Bench try her.”
“I’m afraid it’s far too late for that. Look to the barrel.”
Whether they did or not, I don’t know, for the terrible heat had finally penetrated, scorching the wood, creating smoke that filled the little space and made me cough, my eyes and nose streaming even as I tried to recoil from the blackening wood. It seared my skin, branded me with fiery fury.
“Lord in heaven, save me,” I gasped, as my throat filled with deadly hot fumes.
Fifty-Nine
Winchester Palace
The same day
The year of Our Lord 1408 in the ninth year of the reign of Henry IV
The barrel rolled, fast, flinging me against the hell-fired wood. Unable to breathe, to speak, it was only when it violently stopped and the lid was wrenched off, that I was able to gulp air and dared to believe, thank the crones, my ordeal was over. A wall of noise, shouting, the clashing swords, and the clamor of battle surrounded me.
“Anneke, oh, Anneke.”
Were my ears deceiving me? For certes, my eyes were not capable of sight while they burned with tears, smoke, and the rain of falling ashes. Lifted from the barrel by strong arms, the press of firm fingers, I staggered. Prevented from falling, soothing words of comfort were given before a hand swept my hair from my face.
“Leander?”
There was a choke of laughter and a blanket was thrown about my shoulders, making me wince. “Aye, aye. It is me, my love. Almost too late.”
Dashing the back of my hand across my eyes, Leander’s face swam, but I could see the doubt there, the crippling guilt, the tightness in his jaw.
“Nay,” I croaked, suppressing the cough that rose, “God have mercy. Just in time.”
Ignoring the pain in my limbs, allowing the coughs that wracked my body to escape, I nestled into his arms, only partly attuned to the tumult. Leander half carried me away from the platform until we were beneath some battlements. He waited until I found my feet then let me go.
A small cry of protest turned into a croup-like bark.
“Look to her,” he said. “There is justice to be served.” And, with a tender kiss, did leave.
I cried out as he departed, sword drawn, when another set of hands claimed me.
“Anna, my chick.”
“Mistress.”
“Alyson. Adam.” Relief made my knees go weak. I found the wall and held fast until Alyson and Adam, cautious of my hurts, lowered me to the ground.
A wet cloth pressed against my eyes and the blanket was flung from my shoulders. With much tut-tutting, Alyson ordered me to keep the cloth in place as she examined the injuries I’d sustained. Down on one knee, Adam spoke quickly into my ear so that I could hear him despite the commotion.
Betje was safe, the twins and Harry too. Leander had wrought a miracle and brought justice to Southwark.
Before I could ask how, the mighty clang of swords, bellows of rage, and the stomp of boots grew. Bloodcurdling screams rent the air and panic as well as a sense of jubilation was tangible. Unable to hold the cloth in place any longer, needing to know what was happening, I pulled it from my face. Slowly, the scene before me came into focus.
The fire had been extinguished; the barrel shattered. Men in Rainford livery and royal livery fought alongside Archbishop Arundel’s soldiers, hacking and slicing the bishop’s men. I couldn’t see Leander, but I did spy Captain Stoyan, wielding a sword with an agility to which no seaman has the right.
The crowd assembled to
witness my fate were not fleeing as I first thought. Women, children, and the elderly were trying to exit the courtyard but were being prevented by the bishop’s men who were forcing them to remain. Instead of obeying, the mob turned upon them, clinging to their arms, their knees, toppling them, stealing their weapons and running them through. Indifferent to their fate, the commons fought back.
I watched in wonder as the men, ignoring the weapons threatening them, joined the melee, throwing themselves at the guards, dragging them down with sheer force of numbers.
“They fight for justice, Anna. For you,” said Alyson. “They’ve been railing against le Bold and Fynk for some time, at the ad hoc and cruel way laws were enforced. What they tried to do to you, well, if they’d succeeded, life in the Stews and the Liberty would have been nigh on unbearable. You became a rallying point and the final straw.”
“I thought they were here to bear witness to my death. They called for it.”
“On the contrary, chick, they roared for your life.”
A trembling hand found my mouth as I tried to make sense of what was happening. Fists flew, bones crunched, and daggers and swords found their targets. Fast and full of fury, pent-up emotions, and fear were released in sheer, bloody folly, the madness of berserkers. The fight shifted as the number of fallen mounted, and those left standing tried to find spaces to continue.
Not far away, lying facedown, his head twisted to one side, was Lewis Fynk. His skull had been cleaved and blood poured over his cheeks and ran in rivulets along the lines of his face and into his mouth. The sneer he wore in life had, in death, become a mask he would display unto heaven or, if God willed, hell.
For that was where he belonged.
The bishop’s soldiers, unable to comprehend that their armor and swords did not incite fear or submission, that the enemy was everywhere, were crawling on their hands and knees in an effort to escape. Helped by the commons and his allies, Leander’s men made a quick finish, the last of the bishop’s men surrendering.
The monks atop the platform were taken into custody. I didn’t see Roland.
Unable to believe I was free, that Leander had come as promised and with a small army, that Roland had not had his victory, I couldn’t move. There were so many questions, so much I wanted to know.
Alyson understood. First stroking my hair, she then stood, wiping her hands upon her apron. It was dirty and rent. “It will all be explained. You’ve endured more than anyone has a right. We’re to get you back to The Swanne, fed, cleaned, and rested. We’ll send for the apothecary. Sir Leander’s orders. He will meet you there as soon as he can.”
Taking an arm each, Alyson and Adam helped me to my feet, and then began to lead me toward a door. The noise was more subdued, the fighting all but over. Those of the bishop’s guards not disarmed and standing in a disorderly gaggle with swords pointed at them were either dead or fled. The common men, so brave and quick, had dispersed. It was fine to get caught up in the heat of battle, but wounding a bishop’s soldier carried severe penalties and absence was a surer bet than a possible reward for aiding a rout. Only the brave or foolish remained to search the dead for plunder. Leander’s soldiers chased them away. Of Leander, the jurors, of Roland, there was no sign.
“Wait.” I stopped at the door. “What’s happening? Where is Leander? The bishop?”
Alyson cocked a brow at Adam.
“There’s to be another trial. This time the real criminal will face his accusers.”
“Le Bold? I don’t understand, how is this possible?”
“Sir Leander is how,” answered Adam.
“When, when will this trial be?”
“It’s to happen immediately, mistress. Le Bold was captured by Arundel’s men and taken inside. There, a different set of jurors awaits. Sir Leander made sure of that.”
“Take me there, Adam. Now.”
“But mistress, you heard Goody Alyson, you’re to rest.”
I gave Adam a look I usually reserved for Harry when he said something that both displeased and amused me. He turned to Goody Alyson for support.
“There’s no arguing with her once she has her mind set. We’ll take her to see justice done.”
“She’s in no fit state—” began Adam.
“Don’t talk about me as if I’m not present. If I could but have some water, or ale, I will be fine. I hurt, but I will heal. Believe me, Adam, I need this more than I require food, salves for my wounds, or rest. I cannot rest while I know le Bold is free. I cannot.”
Without further argument, they led me back across the courtyard, past the prisoners, and through the door that less than an hour earlier, I’d exited.
Sneaking into the back of the chamber, Adam found me a seat and, between the heads of nobles, men of the church, leading merchants, Masters Hamme and Porlond and many others besides, I watched the trial of Roland le Bold.
Presiding over it was Archbishop Arundel. How Leander persuaded such a man to attend, let alone lead the trial wasn’t at first evident. Having him there rendered Roland’s complaint that he must be tried by church laws redundant.
Ordered to silence, Roland stood where I had only yesterday, as Leander, his surcoat torn, blood staining his shirtsleeves, read a catalogue of wrongdoing, starting with everything at Elmham Lenn.
Accused of murder, arson, and theft, his crimes did not elicit the gasps of disapprobation mine had. Everyone in the room knew what was being ascribed to Roland, but still many wore expressions of disbelief, especially the monks, as if one of their brethren could not be capable of such mortal sins.
They didn’t know Roland le Bold.
Standing tall, Roland didn’t look defeated or even concerned. Donning the arrogance I’d lately observed, he appeared confident that he would be absolved.
That was until Leander began to call witnesses.
Much to my astonishment, familiar faces emerged from the sea of people on the other side of the room. There was Brother Osbert from St. Jude’s, bowed in misery, his hands buried in the sleeves of his cassock. Thinner than I remembered, the once-haughty features had been humbled. Rubbing his face in an effort to shed the fatigue that clearly gripped him, he answered the questions put to him. He told the jurors that Roland was not only Abbot Hubbard’s bastard son, but that the prior had endorsed his insinuation into the Sheldrake household under a false name so he could learn what he could of brewing techniques with the intention of replicating them. Once the brewery began to impact on St. Jude’s profits, he was ordered to steal the coveted recipe book and put an end to my brewing enterprise. Asked if they had offered payment for the book, Brother Osbert nodded.
“On two occasions. But the wench would not agree.” He hesitated. “We threatened her, and for that I do beg the Lord’s forgiveness.” He raised his eyes to the ceiling.
“It is not only the Lord’s you should ask,” said Archbishop Arundel quietly.
While Brother Osbert didn’t believe the abbot intended everything that occurred, he possessed knowledge of it and, once le Bold returned to the priory and modified the way brews were made and sold, and profits soared, he rewarded the perpetrator with rank and privileges far beyond the usual.
When asked why he chose to come forward, Brother Osbert hesitated. It was then the resentment and jealousy he felt at being overlooked in favor of le Bold became apparent. Dissembling, he spoke of how what occurred didn’t fit with the church’s teaching or his conscience; he could no longer hold his silence. When Tobias Sheldrake appeared at the gates of St. Jude’s seeking answers, he took it as a sign from God.
I shook my head in disgust. His confession was as much about revenge as it was a burdened soul.
“What name did Bishop le Bold use while he lived in Elmham Lenn?” asked the Archbishop.
“Westel Calkin.”
“And it’s Westel Calkin who set fire to Holcroft House, the property of Lord Hardred Rainford, leased by Mistress Anneke Sheldrake, now known as Mistress Anna de Winter?”
&
nbsp; “Aye, your grace.”
“Is Westel Calkin present among us?”
Brother Osbert raised his head and pointed directly at Roland. “As God is my Lord and Savior, that is him.”
There were murmurs and Alyson rested a light hand upon my shoulder. Motivated by revenge or scruples? Did it matter if the felon was caught?
I was uncertain.
After that, the trial moved swiftly. Witness after witness, most from Elmham Lenn, came forward. There was Father Clement, bless his soul, and, much to my astonishment, Master Perkyn, Blanche, and Iris as well.
Adam leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “Sir Leander asked me and Tobias to convince them to come.” He sniffed and wiped his eyes. “When they knew it was for your sake, Anna, they needed no such prompt.”
Timid at first, trembling as they stood before the might of the Archbishop, they answered questions without any guile or venom and thus condemned le Bold further.
It was then I noticed Master Makejoy, more rotund, older, but no less industrious, sitting at the end of the table, passing pieces of paper, whispering explanations to the Archbishop and the other jurors. Catching my eye, he bowed his head and smiled.
My heart filled. What was that old proverb Captain Stoyan used to quote? One he heard from sailors in the ports of Venice? “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
Even Tobias, initially obscured among the other witnesses, came forward to give evidence. As he spoke, I learned where he’d been the last weeks, and the tasks Leander had assigned him. Wanting more than anything to rush to his side, I hoped that whatever residue of friction existed between us, it was now forever extinguished. What faith in me his ruthless quest to uncover the truth revealed. It was beyond my comprehension.
Likewise, as I glanced around the chamber—at those giving evidence, the paperwork littering the long table, the serious faces of the officials and the sullen ones of the witnesses—the scope of what Leander sought to accomplish for my sake became apparent.
