by Karen Brooks
The references to King Henry IV, or Henry Bolingbroke as he is also known, and his whereabouts at different times throughout the novel are faithful, including physical descriptions and those of his ailments. The skin affliction he suffered is documented fact. It’s also fact that the king slipped into a temporary coma on the date described, many believing that he was at death’s door. He made a recovery, but his health before and after was never very good. It’s also true that, much to the chagrin of the nobles, officials, and merchants who’d descended on Gloucester for the sitting of parliament on October 24, 1407, Henry didn’t make an appearance, leaving Archbishop Arundel to officiate instead. The reason for his failure to attend is not known, but probably had something to do with his recuperation from the long river journey, even though this would not have been arduous. He did attend parliament on the second day but kept silent.
It’s also true that King Henry developed a taste for beer, something historian Ian Mortimer, in his excellent biography The Fears of Henry IV, attributes to his time in Lithuania as a young man. This worked very well for the novel and it was not too great a stretch (I hope) to have him ordering Anneke’s beer, let alone ale, for his own table.
The plague that strikes London and Southwark in 1407 is based on an obscure record, and I thank my dear friend historian Dr. Frances Thiele for uncovering that and other facts for me. There were many outbreaks over this period, some worse than others and none as great as the plague the century before (1348–1350) or the Great Plague that decimated London in 1665–1666.
The Thames famously froze in the winter of 1407–1408, and various entertainments occurred on the thick ice of the river, including Frost Fairs. Likewise, the descriptions of crops thriving or failing, wars, allegiances, and the ports owned and operated by the Hanse or Hanseatic League, and various trade and pilgrim routes are all based on actuality.
As for the ale, beer, and other alcoholic beverages that feature in the book, references to the methods used in brewing, the levels of consumption, as well as the taxes and laws, are historically correct. In medieval times people didn’t have the choices, knowledge, or understanding of health that we do now. Water, which was often polluted and brackish, was considered dangerous—and it was. While other alcoholic and nonalcoholic drinks were available in England before the 1400s, the main beverage consumed by the young and not so young, particularly in the lower classes and religious houses, was a home-brewed ale. In the 1400s, people drank on average between one and a half to five liters (the latter in extreme circumstances) of ale a day (often on top of wine, sack, cider, and mead). While A. Lynn Martin, in his scholarly book Alcohol, Sex and Gender in Late Medieval and Early Modern Europe, explains this consumption by analyzing the figures and proposing when and where these amounts were downed, taking into account the food eaten while drinking, as well as the strength of the beer and wine (which was reasonably heady), it still leaves us with the undeniable truth that a great deal of alcohol was consumed every day. That meant that most people were at least a little inebriated much of the time.
Ale was regarded as a safe and relatively cheap means of quenching thirst and providing much-needed dietary nourishment. It was drunk on rising, given to children, downed regularly by paupers and princes, nuns and priests, sailors and soldiers. People went to battle, farmed, birthed children, treated illnesses and injuries, made important policy and diplomatic decisions, married, died, cooked, cleaned, sewed, and accomplished a range of tasks affected by the drink they consumed all day every day. It’s a scary thought!
Ale-making was a domestic industry or a by-product of other cottage-type businesses, like baking or milling, and was mostly (but not exclusively) undertaken by women. The ale was flavored with various spices and herbs, as well as the woodsmoke used to cook the grain, and was often sickly sweet. There was great variety in quality and taste. In this book, Anneke uses barley exclusively to make her ale, but other crops were used depending on availability and region. As a consequence, rye, oat, and other grain-based ales or a mixture of these were also made.
Quantities made differed, but whatever was produced had to be drunk very quickly before it soured, so it was sold or shared with neighbors (bartering likely happened in exchange for a brew) and impromptu parties erupted with the attendant fun, violence, and propensity for accidents they still engender.
People appreciated that a kind of magic occurred when water, grain, and yeast came together. Though the term “yeast” was yet to be used, it was understood that the frothy head that was produced must be preserved and transferred to each new brew. They called this “godisgoode.” It’s likely that the combination of dosing a fresh batch from the previous brew, as well as the yeast build-up on equipment and in the air in the brewing space, would have contributed to the maintenance of yeast as well.
While almost anyone could brew, evidence suggests few were consistently good at it. Woe betide the person who sold sour, watery, or tasteless ale. They not only attracted the wrath of the authorities and fines, but worse, the fury of the village and townsfolk. Pillorying, dunking (called “cucking”—there was even a special “cucking stool” designed for this purpose), and all sorts of punishments were regularly meted out—mostly to women—sometimes even to those who produced a fine ale or sold one. What happens to Alyson when she incurs the wrath of the Southwark bailiff Lewis Fynk was not uncommon. This was because women’s role in brewing was regarded with suspicion. It was a double-edged sword. Women associated with brewing provided something necessary to everyday life, yet were often resented and perceived as “disorderly” troublemakers who were licentious, dishonest, and needed to be reminded of (male) authority, God, and the law. That taverns, inns, and, in the novel’s case, bathhouses often went hand in hand with ale consumption compounded perceptions.
While some monasteries (and thus monks) were involved in large-scale production (relative to the era) and often sold their ale for a profit, brewsters and alewives played a really important role in the manufacturing and local distribution of ale up until around the 1500s, when men slowly took over. Historian Judith Bennett, in her marvelous book Ale, Beer and Brewsters: Women’s Work in a Changing World, 1300–1600, attributes this to an interesting and quite complex notion. She argues (and I use this as an epigraph in the novel), “When a venture prospers, women fade from the scene.” That is, once decent profits could be made from brewing and the scale of production grew, it became a male-dominated and very lucrative (despite taxes and government controls, which were strict) business. Men stepped in and women were eased out as more intensive labor and greater capital were required to maintain a brewing business at this level. The only exceptions were a few widows and resourceful wives and daughters—most of whom inherited their businesses, which eventually passed into male hands either through marriage or sale.
Another reason women left brewing was because of the additive, hops. Before roughly 1420 in England, with few exceptions (Anneke being one), the ale the women made contained no hops (imported beer, which contained hops, was drunk but not favored as a beverage). This herb—from the same family as marijuana—came from Europe and when placed in a brew made the ale quite bitter, but also preserved it. Preservation, via hops, was what changed the face of the brewing industry forever.
Once hops were introduced as a regular part of brewing, the product had a longer shelf life. The new drink, called beer to distinguish it from ale, could be made in larger quantities, exported around the country and overseas. It was also cheaper to make, requiring less grain, so the overheads were fewer and the profits greater. Regarded with distaste and as “un-English” by many at first, beer was gradually adopted as the preferred beverage. Initially, even the laws reflected the negative attitude toward the hopped ale, as those who made ale were forbidden from making beer and vice versa. (It’s important to note that “ale,” as a description of a type of beer, didn’t come into use until the 1800s.)
It was the ambivalent role of women in brewing, as mak
ers of something essential to the diet of medieval folk, as bitches and “witches,” and the constant assertion of authority and control over them and their product through the presence of ale-tasters and taxes and guilds (the latter virtually excluded them) that inspired me to write The Lady Brewer of London and explore, through fiction melded with fact, what it might have been like to brew in these times. You may have noticed that I’ve used the terms “brewer” and “brewster” interchangeably throughout the tale. While “brewer” mainly applied to a man and “brewster” to a woman, men could, in certain regions of England and in Scotland, be called brewsters. While the scholars I used mostly differentiated between the sexes, I wanted to acknowledge that both sexes could be called either by referring to Anneke as both a brewer and brewster.
Many of the alehouses and taverns mentioned are authentic to the era and, while I’m on the subject of actual personages and places, the mayor of London, as named in part two, was a real person as well. There are others scattered throughout.
Ale-conners or ale-tasters must have been the bane of brewers’ lives, dependent as they were on their goodwill and permission to sell their brew. The scenes with Anneke early in the novel (and later, in Southwark) are drawn from facts as presented in H. A. Monckton’s A History of English Ale & Beer. Contested by other sources as to its accuracy, Monckton’s notion of an ale-taster wearing leather breeches and sitting in spilled ale was just too good not to use. Admittedly, I took liberties with the other formalities, though the marking of barrels and the taxes set, as well as the notion of an ale-stake, and a bushel, are accurate and were drawn from numerous other sources, such as H. S. Corran’s A History of Brewing, Richard W. Unger’s Beer in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, Iain Gately’s Drink: A Cultural History of Alcohol, Peter Clark’s The English Alehouse: A Social History 1200–1830, Patrick E. McGovern’s Uncorking the Past: The Quest for Wine, Beer, and Other Alcoholic Beverages, Ian S. Hornsey’s A History of Beer and Brewing, and Judith M. Bennett’s “Women and Men in the Brewers’ Gild of London, ca. 1420” in The Salt of Common Life, edited by Edwin Brezette DeWindt, as well as many more books besides.
The characters William Porlond and Stephen Hamme are based on real people. William Porlond was appointed clerk of the Brewers’ Guild of London in 1418 and managed to keep detailed records until his death around 1438–1439. It’s also recorded that in 1407 one Stephen Hamme owned a brewhouse that was exceptionally well equipped. Using their relationship to brewing and the Mystery of Brewers, I plucked these men from history’s pages and gave them a place in Anneke’s tale. I hope they don’t mind.
The laws of London and Southwark did differ, and despite King Henry granting London authorities charter over Southwark during this period, little changed and Southwark maintained its reputation as an area rife with criminals, lowlifes, gamblers, prostitutes, animal sports, and those who flouted the law—including the laws around brewing. That it would have been a colorful group of manors and liberties in which to dwell, I’ve no doubt, and it’s no surprise that many immigrants set up businesses there (including bathhouses, most of which were run by Flemish) and that over a century later, theaters also found a home in and near the Stews. I’d also like to acknowledge Martha Carlin’s marvelous book Medieval Southwark, which so vividly brought to life the area, its rich history, and the folk and laws within it.
The basic laws as related in the final court cases follow the procedures laid out for trials of women, murderers, and members of the clergy, with modifications and deviations to suit the story. The laws mentioned in relation to prostitutes and bathhouses, and which Lewis Fynk accuses characters of breaking, are also accurate—there were many more besides, and the poor women who either chose (if you can call it that) or had no other option but to enter prostitution had a harsh life. If they found a good master and mistress, they were indeed blessed. Alyson Bookbinder, owner of The Swanne, is not only a good mistress, but as many of you will have realized, she’s Geoffrey Chaucer’s Wife of Bath as I envisage her in the next stage of her life, beyond what we know of her from The Canterbury Tales. Having exhausted (some to the grave) five husbands and being full of life and bountiful in character, I started to imagine what she did with herself beyond the pages of her prologue and tale in Chaucer’s Tales, and so Alyson, proprietor of The Swanne in Bankside, was born. The title of the novel also gestures to these wonderful, bawdy, and heartfelt narratives, and I hope Chaucer forgives me such audacity with one of the richest characters and most marvelous stories in English literature. I will be returning to Alyson’s story, pre–The Lady Brewer of London, very soon.
I’ve also denoted the passing of the years through the novel in accordance with medieval tradition, which was to use the day the king ascended to the throne as the beginning of the first year of his reign, not as a modern reader might expect, from the first day of the new year. So, Henry IV, for example, was crowned on October 29. Accordingly, the year of his reign changes each October 30.
Speaking of “New Year’s Day”: in medieval times, this was generally regarded as falling on Lady’s Day, March 25, though some records also recognize January 1. I have used the latter.
During the period in which the novel is set, the papacy was based in Avignon and Rome due to a schism in the church. Benedict XIII was expelled from Avignon in 1403; however, he was succeeded, after a Council was held in Pisa to resolve the issue (but made it worse), by three “antipopes,” none of whom resided at Avignon and who weren’t recognized by the English, who supported the Roman papacy and Pope Gregory XII. Captain Stoyan threatens to close off the Benedictines’ access to the pilgrim trails to Rome, but later there’s a reference to Avignon as well, so I thought I should explain.
As is usual with historical fiction, I have also played with facts to suit the narrative, and I hope that the marvelous scholars, journalists, and beer academics, and the many writers whose work I have drawn upon and to whom I’m indebted, the websites that I’ve pored over, and any history buffs will forgive me this imaginative play and understand that I had to change the ingredients in order to brew to my own recipe. Any mistakes are completely my own and I do humbly ask your forgiveness.
Acknowledgments
The three years I spent researching, writing, and rewriting this novel have brought so many wonderful, knowledgeable, and generous people into my life. Finally I get to publicly thank them here.
First, my dear friends who, when I said to them, “My next novel is going to be about a medieval brewer,” didn’t fall about laughing, but showed (or feigned!) real interest. Only my husband, Stephen; my son, Adam; and my daughter, Caragh, understood the irony—that someone who doesn’t drink beer had made the decision to craft a novel about, and thus devote a few years of her life to, the amber liquid. And you know what? They didn’t doubt for a second I would do it—now that’s a loving family!
To my fabulous friend Kerry Doyle, who, along with Stephen, read an early draft and offered kind and sage feedback—you’re a rock. Kerry and I go back a long way; through some very bad times, her enthusiasm, care for others, and bright shiny spirit have never dimmed—thank you. Also to Jim McKay, who, after reading a few chapters, encouraged me to please continue—I did, Jim, and here it is, in no small part due to you. Thanks must go as well to Joanna Lindsay. Beside me through writing this book, she was happy to share a w(h)ine or three whenever either of us needed it and listen to me ramble on about all things medieval and brewing.
Katherine Howell, author extraordinaire, is the best writing buddy one could wish for. If it wasn’t for the hours we spent on email and phone, supporting each other through conception, drafting, and editing, these last three years would have been a poorer experience indeed. Thank you so much, Katherine.
Huge thanks must also go to my beloved friend Dr. Frances Thiele, whose harp music not only soothes and inspires me as I write, but who is also my go-to person for historical conundrums. Franny, you’re a wonder. Thank you to my gorgeous and dearest of f
riends, Dr. Lesley Roberts, who traveled throughout the UK with me on a fact-checking and creative mission—not just for this novel, but my next two as well. We shared a room in some strange and marvelous places, numerous adventures, so many laughs, and discovered extraordinary people and places that will weave their way into future books. Thank you for being beside me in every sense of the word, Lesley. I love you dearly.
Thank you also to my sister, Jenny (who was by my side the day the idea for the story was born); my uncle Peter; my aunt Helen; Peter Goddard; Sheryl Gwyther; Alison and Greg Hall; Dr. Anthony Eaton; Margaret Wenham; Dr. Lisa Hill; Dr. Malcolm Maclean; Jason Russell; Danny Matheson and Kazuo Ikeda at Jam Jar in Battery Point (where I spent many hours thinking and researching); and the Prince of Wales and Shippies (my fabulous and fun local drinking holes where I could witness liters of beer being consumed in a convivial atmosphere and among friends, such as Christina Schulthess, Peter Jenkins, and Ali Gay). Klaus Stroehl and Sandra Poth for ensuring my German was accurate: Danke Schön alles Liebe. Thanks also to my wonderful mum, Moira Adams, and mother-in-law, Pat Brooks, both of whom always asked how the writing was going, even when I know they didn’t really want to hear the answer—love you both very much.
