‘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 Brewer’s Tale 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 recreate 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 modernise 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.
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 24 October 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 1665–66.
The Thames famously froze in the winter of 1407–8, 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 non-alcoholic 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 litres (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 analysing 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 flavoured 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 neighbours (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 marvellous 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 labour 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 favoured 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 was 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 ‘unEnglish’ by many at first, beer was gradually adopted as the preferred beverage. Initially, even the laws reflected the negative attitude towards 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 makers 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 Brewer’s Tale 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 by denoting female brewers as brewsters, and male ones as brewers, I wanted to acknowledge that both sexes could be called either by referring to Anneke as both a brewer or 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 1438–9. It’s also recorded that one Stephen Hamme owned a brewhouse in 1407 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, low-lifes, gamblers, prostitutes, animal sports, and those who flouted the law — including the laws around brewing. That it would have been a colourful 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, theatres also found a home in and near the Stews. I’d also like to acknowledge the marvellous book, Medieval Southwark by Martha Carlin which brought to life the area, its rich history, and the folk and laws within it so vividly.
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 realised, 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 marvellous stories in English literature. I will be returning to Alyson’s story, pre-The Brewer’s Tale, 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 29 October. Accordingly, the year of his reign changes each 30 October.
Speaking of ‘new year’s day’: in medieval times, this was generally regarded as falling on Lady’s Day, 25 March, though some records also recognise 1 January. I have used the latter.
During the period in which t
he 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 recognised 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 marvellous scholars, journalists and beer academics and 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.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
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 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!
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