by Karen Brooks
“Not too late.” I bent and picked up the lid and, with a straight face, passed it to him. “We can’t get this to stay in place.”
Passing the torch to Alyson, Leander regarded me wryly. “I’m happy to be of service, my lady.”
Ramming the lid into position, he grabbed one of the wrapped tools from the table and hammered it shut. Ale leaked out the barrel, staining the outside of the wood, forming tears, runnels of blood, wet scars. Trapped inside was the man who had caused all these things and more.
“Tomorrow,” Leander began softly when he’d finished, leaning upon the top, “I will ask Captain Stoyan to arrange to have this barrel taken out to sea.”
“Aye,” said Alyson, one hand upon Leander’s chest, the other on my arm. “Far out.”
“Will God forgive us for what we did?” I asked.
“I believe God may not forgive,” said Leander cautiously, “but He will understand. Le Bold abused his power, the trust others bestowed. He committed terrible crimes and all the while professed to be doing our Lord’s work.”
“I think that’s one worker God won’t miss,” said Alyson.
“All the same,” said Leander, “I’m glad he wasn’t wearing the cassock when you killed him. For you may console yourselves that you killed an evil man, not a monk.”
“Makes no difference to me,” said Alyson. “Either way, as man or monk, he was wickedness itself.”
I didn’t want to say it, but I felt the same.
We stared at the barrel, the torch crackling. Footsteps resounded above. Leander glanced up. “I’ll tell my men the search is over. Get a message to Tobias.” He glanced at me. “He swore he would not rest till le Bold was found. Unless we tell him the truth, he’ll never know peace again.”
“Can we afford to tell the truth to anyone?” I asked, worrying my lower lip.
“Come,” said Alyson, “let’s discuss this over a drink, shall we? Not in the solar, not yet. I want to celebrate and if that makes me a sinful woman, then give me a badge and I’ll wear it with pride.”
“Shouldn’t we also pray for his soul? Pray that he finds the peace in the hereafter he never found on earth.”
“Peace?” said Alyson. “Get away with you, I hope he rots in hell and never knows anything but torment.” She gave the wood a sharp kick. “It’s no more than the prick deserves. That’s what I’m drinking to.”
I couldn’t help it, I laughed. My body was humming as the song of ale stirred within me, as relief replaced the fear.
Following Alyson, Leander and I walked back to the stairs. “Are you all right, my love? Did he . . . did he hurt you greatly?”
“Not greatly. Alyson prevented that and I am so very thankful.”
“He’ll never hurt you again.”
“Aye, he won’t. And I know I should feel guilty, that I should seek penance for what we did, pray for our souls and suffer remorse, but I don’t want to do any of those things. He killed my brother, he killed Saskia, Will, and Louisa and others besides. Alyson’s right. He deserved what happened. Only, I don’t feel like celebrating either. It’s wrong to seek vengeance, I know, but if the opportunity is offered and we take it upon such a deserving villain, is that a mortal sin?”
“Mayhap.” Alyson paused on the steps and turned to look down upon us. “But answer me this. Is it a sin if anyone other than God—and we three here—knows? Is it a sin if your conscience is clear? That’s what we need to talk about.”
With a wink and a laugh, she continued. I could not.
“Is your conscience clear, my love?” asked Leander.
“For now, but I will still confess.”
“Who would absolve you of such a sin?” asked Leander. “Better to hold your peace.”
“I was thinking of confessing to Father Clement.”
“You are intending to return to Elmham Lenn sometime soon?”
“Nay,” I said, and walked up the remaining stairs, Leander’s chuckles in my ears.
As Leander went upstairs to notify his men and send them home, Alyson and I latched the brewery door and locked it, Alyson pocketing the key. Voices in the courtyard followed by the jingle of tack and whinny of horses drifted in not long after. By the time we’d stoked the fire, Leander rejoined us. “I told the others that you were refilling the jugs and would be up soon. They’re relieved to find le Bold is not here and are continuing their search. We’ll have to come up with a story or it could go on for days. Only”—his eyes rested on the brewery door—“I’m not sure what to tell them.”
“Easy. Nothing. When Captain Stoyan takes the barrel, tell him not to go out to sea, but to open it and pour the contents in the river. The body will wash ashore as night follows day or the moon chases the sun. When it’s discovered, everyone will have their answers; they’ll assume God saw fit to punish the bishop. Tobias will know peace and so will we.”
“That means we’ll have to tell the captain what happened,” said Leander.
“Aye,” said Alyson.
“A version, mayhap?” I said.
Leander gave me a small smile. “Mayhap.”
“Hatto can be trusted,” said Alyson, misinterpreting the look that passed between Leander and me.
I agreed.
“Before we drink,” said Leander, “can we agree never to speak a word of what happened in there again?”
“Not a word,” said Alyson, hand atop the stopper on the skin.
“Not a word,” I agreed.
Leander leaned in. “Alyson I believe, but as for you, Mistress Anneke, any time you give your word you’re apt to break it.”
Pretending an affront I didn’t feel, I put distance between us. “It’s not always of my choosing.”
“Nonetheless, I think I’ve a solution.”
“Well, that can wait till after we down something, for Godsakes!” said Alyson, placing mazers before Leander and indicating he should pour. While he did that, she sat me closer to the fire, throwing me a sheet so I might dry my hair and tunic. Lifting my hand, I gently touched the tender flesh of my forehead. There would be bruising—le Bold’s final mark.
“To life,” said Alyson, and lifted her drink.
“To new beginnings,” I said.
We looked at Leander. “There’s only one thing I want to toast. Rather, one person.”
I tilted my head. “Oh?”
His smile broadened and those eyes did twinkle. “To the Brewer of London.”
“To the Brewer of London,” said Alyson, standing, raising her mazer, and downing it in one gulp.
“But I’m not—not yet.”
“You soon will be, my chick. The finest in the land. I know it. I feel it here.” Alyson slapped her midriff. Walking around the table, she gave me a resounding kiss on the mouth. “Now, let’s return to the festivities upstairs before we arouse more suspicion.” She lifted the heavy damp curtain of my head and winced when she saw my forehead. “We’ll have to think of something to explain these as well. Oh, the stories we’ll be telling.” And her eyes gleamed at the notion.
Turning our backs on the kitchen and brewery, taking fresh jugs of beer and some wine with us, we returned to the solar and the friends and family who awaited us there.
Sixty-Two
The Swanne, Cornhill Street, London
Late July
The year of Our Lord 1408 in the ninth year of the reign of Henry IV
Two weeks later, as I observed Leander standing by the window, enjoying the warm London breeze, I thought of all we’d achieved.
The move had gone smoothly, with the brewery fittings and our furniture and household goods transported across the river by Captain Stoyan. While the servants and additional help we’d hired arranged everything upstairs under Alyson’s watchful eye, I supervised the placement of equipment downstairs.
The copper pipes fascinated Betje, Harry, and Yolande, while Thomas and Master atte Place could not cease examining the slotted tuns that came with the premises. Reminding them that t
here was work to do, I had to prevent them exploring until everything was in place.
Excited by the change and by their new nursery, which was a larger room on the second story, the twins walked up and down the stairs, grabbing the railings, crawling and running through rooms, hiding beneath tables and in chests, getting under everyone’s feet, and generally exhausting Constance and Emma, who found even their endless reservoir of patience drained.
Each night I fell into bed, pleased with how The Swanne was taking shape. From the second day, using supplies we’d brought from Southwark, Alyson opened the taproom and began to sell our ale and beer. Already, we had additional orders to meet, on top of our regular customers. Masters Porlond and Hamme had visited and declared themselves pleased and arranged a date for me to be invested into the Mystery of Brewers.
Leander organized for Captain Stoyan to take the remaining sealed barrel from The Swanne down the river.
“What’s wrong with it?” asked the captain as they maneuvered it up the stairs.
“It’s soured,” said Leander, and quickly explained.
“Ah. It’s a monk’s pissy brew then,” said Captain Stoyan.
Leander’s lips twitched. “Aye, one of a kind.”
As Leander sat on the chair near the bed and pulled off his boots, rubbing his twisted foot before undoing the laces of his shirt, I put down my mother’s recipe book, pulled myself to the edge of the mattress, and touched his thigh.
“Thank you,” I said.
“What for?”
“So much, so much.” I found my voice becoming thick. “You saved me, you know. Not only my life, but me.”
Leander gave a dry laugh. “You save yourself so often, Anneke, I sometimes wonder if you need me at all.”
Rising, I stood in front of him and waited until he shifted position so I might sit in his lap. “My lord,” I began, linking my arms around his neck, “whatever else you think of me, whatever else you might say—” He opened his mouth, but I placed my fingers against it. “Shh, let me finish. However it might seem, know I always need you—more than that, I want you.”
He gazed into my eyes, his face softening, his eyes glistening.
“Now may I speak?”
I nodded solemnly.
“I want you. God, Anneke, from the moment I first saw you, I wanted you. What I never anticipated, what has delighted me to my very soul, is that I need you too.” I went to say something, but this time, he stopped me with a kiss. “Not yet. I’m not finished.” He paused and his sapphire eyes looked deep into mine. His warm breath was on my cheek, his hair beneath my fingers. “I love you, Anna de Winter, Anneke Sheldrake, in whatever your next incarnation will be. Know this, I will always love you.”
I bent my head and silenced him for a long time.
Nestled in his arms, watching the stars twinkle and listening to the unfamiliar night sounds of Cornhill Street, something occurred to me. “My lord, on our last night at The Swanne, you said you didn’t believe I could keep my word and that you had a solution. While I chose not to be offended by such an outrageous suggestion”—I smiled—“I’m curious to know. What was it?”
“Simple,” said Leander, untangling my braid. “You must marry me.”
I placed my hands on his shoulders and leaned away so he was forced to drop his fingers. “Marry you?”
“That way, you must promise before the Holy Church and in the sight of God to obey me, so when I ask for your word, you’ve no choice but to abide.”
I burst out laughing. “My lord, that is the funniest of proposals. I don’t need marriage to obey you—or not.”
When he didn’t chuckle or smile in return, I stroked his face. “Sweet Mother Mary, you’re serious.”
“Most.”
“But, Leander, you’re a knight of the realm, the son of a lord, a king’s man, and I’m . . . I’m . . .”
“The most remarkable woman I’ve ever known.”
“I’m a brewer, Leander. Your mistress, a murderer . . .” I arched a brow and looked at him out of the corner of my eye. “You can stop me whenever you wish, my lord.”
“You’re all those things. But you’re also my brewer, and I wouldn’t have you any other way.”
“What would your father say?”
Leander’s brow furrowed. “Frankly, I don’t care. But you might be surprised. I don’t think he’d object, at least, not too hard.” He gave a half-grin. “I’m the youngest son and a cripple—”
I made a noise of objection. I barely noticed his infirmity; like Betje’s scars, like our histories and memories, it was a part of who he was.
“For all that you may think poorly of him because of what he did to your family, he perceived himself as putting a terrible wrong right. That he lacked judgment, that he did not consider the future for all concerned, I think are points he would concede. I, however, want to consider the future—our future. In taking my name, not only is yours assured, my love, but so is Betje’s and the twins.”
“Is that why you ask, my lord? To put a terrible wrong right? You did not rape my mother, Leander, you did not sign a devil’s deal that rendered my family destitute; you’re not responsible for what Roland did to me either.” I stared past his left shoulder, at the lamp flickering by the bed. “I know you feel great affection for Betje, but how . . . how could you love Karel and Isabella knowing who . . . knowing their father?”
“The same way I love Tobias, knowing how he came into this world. Tobias is a good man, a decent man. Are you worried the twins will be tainted by their father’s blood? Not if I’ve any say, Anneke, not if you do either. Just as Symond has had no say in Tobias’s upbringing—that was one thing my father did do right.” He took my chin in between his fingers and forced me to meet his eyes.
“What do you say? Do we create a new, unconventional family from our band of misfits and cripples? A brewer and a knight, adorable giddy twins, and sweet little Betje?”
“Don’t forget Tobias.”
“Never.”
“Nor Adam and Alyson—”
“Aye . . .”
“And Captain Stoyan.”
“Well . . . I jest my love, I do but jest. Of course.”
“And dear Harry.”
“And dear Harry.” Leander sighed and raised a finger. “I will draw the line at any of the girls—not even my father at his most agreeable would concede their inclusion.”
I laughed and kissed his finger.
Lost for words, my thoughts spiraled to the heavens. Wasn’t this what I’d always dreamed of, wasn’t this what, in the secret depths of my soul, I’d always wanted? A husband, a family? It had been, once. But if the events of the last couple of years taught me anything, it was that I didn’t need that anymore. I’d the love of a good man, husband or not; I’d my sister, my beautiful children, and such dear, dear friends. I had the type of family of which I’d always dreamed—bound by love, not blood; by experience, not rank or status; and not even the Rainford name could change that. I’d an occupation I loved and a successful trade. Being the best brewer in London, or England as Will had once declared, was no longer an impossible dream but an attainable goal. It wouldn’t be easy; I’d be a fool to imagine otherwise. There were more battles to fight, arguments to win or lose and more injustice to overcome. But I could do it—together, we all could. Was I so very wrong to need to achieve that as well?
It was who I was.
But what Leander asked of me, it wasn’t about need. It was about want. And God and the crones and Mother Mary and Ninkasi knew I wanted him. More than I’d wanted anything in my life. But still . . .
Taking Leander’s face in mine, I held it firmly, studying the firm mouth, the dark bristles, the little dimples that resided in his cheeks, before locking onto his eyes once more and seeing the hope, the want, residing there. “I love you almost too much to become your wife, Leander. You have so much to lose by tying your name to mine, to my reputation.”
“Your answer is nay, then?”
He tried to pull away, not in anger, but disappointment. I wouldn’t release him.
“I didn’t say that, did I?”
“Nay.”
“If you recall, I said ‘almost.’ You see, my lord, I too can be selfish.” A light began to dance in those eyes. “Leander, can you wait until I’m settled here in Cornhill Street, till the brewery is solvent and established? Can you wait till I’m secure in the trade and have trained new journeymen to assist Betje, Harry, and Adam?”
“Why?”
“Because then I want you to ask me again.”
Understanding dawned and his face transformed. His mouth twitched.
“I can, beloved. I can.”
I leaned my forehead against his, lowering it till our noses, then our lips, just touched. His heart drummed beneath my palm, vibrating along my arm and answering the rapid beating of my own.
“What will your answer be then?”
“If I tell you now, then I spoil our tale.”
“Not for me. Never for me.”
“Then, my answer will be aye, beloved,” I whispered against his mouth, breathed into his very soul. “It is aye.”
Author’s Note
Like most historical novels, The Lady Brewer of London draws upon real places, events, records, and people, as well as a documented political and cultural backdrop—including all aspects of beer and ale production, and the laws and punishments described—to enrich and add veracity to a work of fiction. What I’d like to do here is explain where I’ve either followed or veered from fact to create the tale you’ve just completed.
The book opens in the bustling port town of Elmham Lenn, which is an invention. Though a fictitious place, it’s loosely based on medieval Bishop’s Lynn (now King’s Lynn) and Cromer, both port towns on the east coast of England.
The second half of the novel is set variously in medieval Southwark (mainly Bankside) and London, as well as Gloucester, and in terms of setting is as close to accurate as possible. Using original maps from the era and a slightly later period, historical records, and the work of so many wonderful and erudite historians, I’ve tried to re-create the sense of what it would have been like to live and brew in those times. While I’ve aimed for authenticity, I’ve chosen to modernize the spelling of some genuine locales in Southwark and London (for example, St. Saviour’s Church instead of Sint Savyors and Pepper Alley in lieu of Peper, etc., though some others maintain the original, such as the Tabard Inn and the Cardinal’s Hatte) in case keen readers wish to track these places down. I have, however, taken mild liberties as to the exact location and names of certain streets, churches, and conduits (for the sake of the story) around Southwark and London, though most are precise.
