The Lady Brewer of London

by Karen Brooks

  “Guten Morgen, Fräulein Sheldrake,” he said as I joined him, giving me a small bow. “Es tut mir leid um ihren Vater.”

  Unlike the words proffered by Lord Rainford and others, the captain’s sympathy sounded sincere. Captain Stoyan may not have liked my father, but he had respected him—at one time, at least.

  “Danke schön,” I replied.

  Glancing pointedly at the smaller boats and barges floating in the water outside the warehouse and the crews working on them, the captain lowered his voice. “Wir unterhalten uns später in Ruhe.”

  It suited me to wait till we were inside to talk. I didn’t want what I was about to say overheard. Indicating I should go ahead, Captain Stoyan shouted some orders then followed me into the Kontor.

  It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dark interior. Beneath the pitched roof and wooden walls of the warehouse men rolled huge barrels, clambered over enormous bales of wool, sorted crates of metal, hammered nails into chests, and, using ropes and pulleys, moved enormous loads in and out of the building. Spools of fabric were checked by well-dressed merchants, while clerks stood nearby with counting boards and portable desks, ready to record any transactions that might take place. Livestock was quarantined to one side: chickens, sheep, and cattle. In one corner, the floor was being swept vigorously by two lads with straw brooms. In another, crates were being stacked on top of each other. There was a sense of order in the work around me. As I walked beside Captain Stoyan, I caught snatches of conversation in different languages, including the singsong purr of Flemish and my mother’s native Dutch, as familiar to me as English.

  The captain and I entered a large quiet room at the back of the warehouse. It had been years since I’d been inside this room, and yet, it was as if time had stood still. The aging map featuring England, Scotland, and Wales was nailed to a wall. France, the Netherlands, the German Empire, the kingdoms of Denmark, Sweden, and all the small countries, duchies, and provinces that lined the North and Baltic Seas were captured in pastels. I used to stare at this map for hours when I came to Father’s meetings with the captain, imagining traveling to such marvelously named and shaped places. The rusting iron holders still clutched their melting pillar candles, which the captain lit as I waited. Everything was exactly as I remembered. Boxes were still stacked against one wall; the tattered rug from Persia, with its ruby and sapphire boldness, was the same. Even the cobwebs appeared unchanged, shimmering in the corners. A fire burned in the grate, making the place warm enough for me to ask permission to remove my cloak.

  “Of course,” said the captain, and he came to take it from my shoulders. “I ask that we speak in English, Mistress Anneke. If we’re overheard, we’re less likely to be understood. My men are many things, but fluent in that, they’re not.”

  “Very well.”

  Hanging my cloak on a hook that jutted out of the wall behind his desk, he gestured to the comfortable chair opposite his own. Gathering my skirts, I sat.

  “It’s been too long,” he said, and, going to a huge old sea chest in the corner, pulled out a jug and two silver mazers. Knocking the top off the jug, he first poured a drink for me, then himself, and sat, pushing aside the clutter on his desk with his forearm. His voice was almost a growl. “The last time I saw you, you were but a kind, a child. Now, you’re a woman grown and, if I may be so bold, a very lovely one.”

  My cheeks reddened as I thanked him.

  “I’m sorry about your father. His loss will be felt by many in very different ways.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “To old acquaintances,” he said and raised his drink.

  “Old acquaintances.” I sipped the ale slowly, noting the foam on top and the rich honey color of the fluid. It had a mild, slightly bitter taste. “Where’s this from?” I knew the captain imported wines and ales from across Europe.

  “That’s from Bruges. I thought you might like it. Reminds me of what you and your mother used to brew.”

  It was a perfect introduction to what I wanted to discuss, but before I could say anything, he resumed. “Forgive me, Mistress Anneke, but when I heard the news of your father’s death and received your note, I made some quick inquiries.” He drained his mazer. “Mein Gott!” He thumped the table hard, the empty mazer tipping over. “What was your father thinking? To not look to his children’s future, to leave you in such a position?”

  He wasn’t thinking. He was hurting.

  I examined my hands, twisted together for strength.

  “Do you know the story of when I first met your mother?” the captain said softly.

  My head flew up. “Please, tell it to me.”

  Righting his mazer, he refilled it and sank back into his chair, legs stretched before him, his face taking on a dreamy, faraway look. “I first met your mother when she was but a child. As the daughter of Herr Gottfried de Winter, the great merchant and official of the Hanseatic League, she was precious, not just to her parents, but to all who served Herr de Winter, myself included.”

  I knew my grandfather had been an important man, but to hear Captain Stoyan speak of him in such tones imbued him with a significance I’d never gleaned from Mother’s or Father’s conversations. It filled me with a combination of excitement and sadness. I’d never met any of my German or Dutch relatives, except through Mother’s tales . . . apart from Hiske, and she’d spun her own, less favorable stories to counter Mother’s. Listening to Captain Stoyan was an unexpected boon.

  “Herr de Winter was not always able to return to his home in Maastricht to see his family. Too often he was called upon to attend to Hanse matters in other ports, other countries. He would ask those of us he trusted to visit in his stead, to take gifts and letters to his wife and daughter on his behalf. I was one of the first to be given the duty. That was how I met your mother.”

  I placed my elbow on the table and rested my chin in my hand. “What was she like?”

  Captain Stoyan chuckled softly. “An angel. I still recall disembarking from the small barge I’d hired to sail up the River Maas. I was all of seventeen, a callow youth, and how I’d resented this task your grandfather had forced upon me!” He chuckled and shook his head. “I was determined that I would simply drop the parcels and notes and leave immediately, believing I’d much more important things to occupy me. I even told the boatman not to weigh anchor, but to tie the craft and wait. Stupid, when I think of the currents in the Maas. As it was, I leaped onto the bank and, in my haste, landed heavily, twisting my ankle. I fell over, rolling and yelping like an injured pup. And when I stopped, there was this vision with silver hair and the greenest eyes I’d ever beheld”—he focused on me briefly—“your eyes—standing over me. God bless her, she placed her tiny hand in mine and tried to help me to my feet. ‘You’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘I’ll make sure of it.’ I’ll never forget that. This sweet child helping me.” He paused, savoring the recollection.

  “After that, I volunteered to make the trip, going back many times over the years. Each visit, Cathaline would seek me out, talk to me. I used to bring her not only Herr de Winter’s gifts, but treats I’d found to delight her. There was nothing I would not give to see her smile.” He rubbed his beard.

  “Then I was given my own ship to command and sent to the Mediterranean. Years later, I returned, only this time your mother was no child. She was a woman and so comely to behold, she left me speechless. By then, she was already engaged to your father—the Englischer bastard, we’d call him, so envious were we. We couldn’t understand why Herr de Winter was giving her to an Englishman, this prize! We should have known; everything Herr de Winter did was costed and measured and your mother’s husband was no different. She was given to Sheldrake because of what he promised he could do for the Hanse—dominance of the ports along this part of the English coast.

  “Your father persuaded Herr de Winter that there was great wealth to be had through importing salt, ale, and wool and exporting beer, cloth, and spices, especially wit
h prices rising so high here and crops failing. That he’d ensure, using his legal skills and connections with a great English lord, that exclusive contracts were granted, shoring up the Hanse’s profits.” He gave a dry laugh and paused to drink. I did as well. Questions burned inside me.

  “Over the years, in fact, quite quickly, your father did well; he expanded trade, negotiated excellent tithes in ports, and overall made profit. What I don’t understand is the nature of the agreement he had with Lord Rainford. I never knew . . . It wasn’t until I looked into matters after he died that I discovered the truth . . . that while he lived, Joseph Sheldrake earned an excellent living, but upon his death, everything reverted back to Lord Rainford.” The captain threw his hands up in the air. “It’s perplexing and seems out of character with the man I knew. With the man to whom Herr de Winter gave his daughter.”

  A wave of heat swept my body and took my voice away momentarily. I cleared my throat. “I didn’t know about any of this until after Father died either.”

  Not about the debts . . . the fact that Father effectively signed over all his rights to any profit . . .

  Unaware of my disquiet, Captain Stoyan continued. “Part of me can forgive your father placing his trust in Lord Rainford—what I cannot forgive is that he placed your trust”—he jabbed a thick finger on the desk—“your future, there as well and, in doing so, denied you one. You and Cathaline’s twins.”

  What could I say? Captain Stoyan was right, but I knew why. Outside, a dog barked and seagulls cawed.

  “So,” said the captain finally. “In your note you mention seeking my help. What can I do for you?”

  Gratitude flooded my body. At last, I could steer this ship into what I hoped were less troubled waters. “I have a request to make—”

  Ten

  Offices of the Kontor, Elmham Lenn

  The same day

  The year of Our Lord 1405 in the sixth year of the reign of Henry IV

  I told Captain Stoyan my plans. I told him about my meeting with Lord Rainford, his assurances that I would be granted till Hocktide to try and earn enough funds to keep the house. I told him about the brewhouse, Mother’s recipes, the arrangement with Master Bondfield and Master Perkyn, my desire to enter the brewing trade. Then I told him what I’d learned from Master Perkyn about the abbot and the city ale-conners. I also told him my fears that, somehow, the guild, which I’d first thought to seek help from, might also be receiving bribes, that in Abbot Hubbard and the Friary of St. Jude’s lay potential danger.

  “And yet, despite telling you this, this miller, he will still grind your malt?”

  “He’s a friend.”

  “That he might be, but he’s also foolhardy. Not that this is necessarily a bad trait.” The captain gave me a crooked smile.

  I placed my forearm on the desk and leaned forward. “All I want, all I need, is the chance to sell my ale, to make enough to pay the lease, maintain the house, keep my family and our servants together. But I’m concerned I may not get that opportunity. And that’s where I need your help, Captain Stoyan.” I sat up, businesslike. “Firstly, I need to know: Is Master Perkyn right? Are the ale-conners in the abbot’s pocket? Is the guild? Because if they are, and the abbot learns what I’m doing, he may ask them to sabotage my business as he has others—accuse me of using incorrect measures, declare my ale unsuitable for drinking whether it is or not, and apportion a fine. If that should happen . . .” I left Captain Stoyan to draw his own conclusions.

  I omitted to tell him what else Master Perkyn shared with Adam and me—about the fire, the brutal killing of a pet, and injury to livestock.

  Instead, I waited for the arguments as to why I shouldn’t brew: that it was unsuitable, that I would never succeed.

  Captain Stoyan straightened, his brow furrowed. “If that should happen, you would be ruined before you even started.” He tapped his fingers on the desk a few times. “It’s common knowledge around here that the abbot pays the ale-conners to pass his ale for sale. The mayor doesn’t care so long as the friary pays its most generous tax, the Merchants’ Guild turns a blind eye because they still get paid to sell it around the county. And the Mystery of Brewers? Well, how often does a representative from London get to Elmham Lenn?”

  I shrugged. I knew not.

  “Exactly. As for the ale-conners, well, they’re simple folk tempted by extra coin. Of course they accept the abbot’s bribes—all they have to do is pass as acceptable what any decent alewife would tip in the dirt and call draff. To them, it’s not a great sin and I’m sure the abbot, or whoever he sends to deal with them in his stead, grants them indulgences, or for a groat they get one from a pardoner.” He inhaled sharply. “In other words, Mistress Anneke, you’re right to be concerned.” Rising to his feet, Captain Stoyan circled the room. “We all know what’s going on—the mayor, the aldermen, the Hanse. Frankly, I didn’t care. If the Englischer were stupid enough to drink the friary’s rubbish, let them. Here we have access to some of the finest ales and beers in Europe.” His hand swept toward the jug on the table. “Why would we drink the abbot’s?” Rubbing his chin, he regarded Anneke carefully. “But it’s different now. I’ll not let him or any of those crooks hurt you.”

  Hope fluttered in my breast. “You’ll help me?”

  A wicked grin split his face. “Sweet fräulein, I can and I will.” Sitting back down, he propped his elbows on the desk and lowered his voice. “You see, Abbot Badon Hubbard has been in control of the friary for a long time; he’s forgotten that he’s simply a spoke in a big wheel that will turn with or without him. I think he just needs a little reminder about what his order owes the Hanse. We not only control the trade routes throughout Europe, but the pilgrim passages as well. Like most religious orders, the Benedictines need access through the Rhine in order to make their holy treks and, for that to happen, they need the cooperation of the Hanseatic League.

  “All it would take for that to become . . . let’s say, most troublesome, for the passes to become impossible, for ships to become unavailable, rivers and oceans unnavigable, roads too dangerous, is a word from me to my colleagues in the Stilliard in London or, better still, Cologne. From there, every port between Lübeck and Harfleur, Hamburg and Venice, Danzig and Ypres, and the entire Rhine, never mind passage through the Alps, would be closed to the Benedictines. Once word gets out that the Friary of St. Jude has caused this . . . well . . . you can imagine. Every Catholic between here, Rome, and even those who follow the Antipope in Avignon would be calling God’s wrath upon them and, ultimately, his grace. I don’t think Abbot Hubbard would want to risk that, do you?”

  My eyes widened. “You would threaten the abbot?”

  “For you, Anneke, I would do that and more.”

  “You’re not going to try and talk me out of it? Out of brewing?”

  Captain Stoyan snorted. “What? Like your mother when she had her heart set on something? Like I tried to talk her out of marrying your father?”

  Failing to notice my surprise, he shook his head, his bushy hair thrown back and forth. “Nein, liebchen. Not me. I’ll not try to dissuade you. I will see you’re given every chance to succeed.”

  My face grew warm, my heart light until the shadow looming over me reappeared. “My impression is that Abbot Hubbard is someone who wouldn’t take kindly to being threatened . . .”

  Captain Stoyan laughed. It was dry, bitter. “I don’t threaten. I’m doing him the courtesy of issuing a warning. He leaves you alone. Him and his verdammt ale-conners.”

  I repressed a smile. “You think that will work?”

  “Unless the abbot is a very stupid, or very cunning man—”

  “He’s a man of God.”

  “Then he is both.” Captain Stoyan pushed back his chair and stood, striding over to the map on the wall. He traced a finger along the lower part. “If the throne of England bows to the might of the Hanse”—he drew a huge circle that encompassed all of France, Burgundy, the kingdom of Poland, Sweden, and
beyond—“then your abbot will too—he will, or he’ll be crushed.”

  Smiling at Captain Stoyan through blurry vision, I blinked the tears back rapidly.

  “Don’t cry, liebchen.” Stepping toward me, he suddenly halted and struck his forehead. “Of course,” he exclaimed. Swinging toward the chest, he flung the lid back with a resounding bang. “Since you’re entering the brewing trade, I’ve something here that you may be interested in. Something that may give you an advantage.” Pulling out a small sack, he untied the opening. “Hold out your hands.”

  Wiping my eyes quickly, I dried my palms on my dress and then held them up obediently. Captain Stoyan poured some herbs into them. They were a light green. I bent my head and inhaled. They smelled of a freshly plowed field or an aromatic spice I couldn’t place.

  “What’s this?”

  “Something that’s been used in Germany and your mother’s home as long as I can remember. You will have heard of it—it’s called hops.” He dragged his finger through the hops, tickling my palm. “We use it all the time. Few of you Englischer appreciate it, but that is slowly changing. When added to the ale at the right time, it makes a drink we call beer. It’s what you’re enjoying with me now.”

  I breathed in the scent again and then, as the captain had done, rolled the herb between my fingertips. It was quite fresh, oily almost.

  “I have heard of it and, of course, Mother spoke if it. But I’d never seen it before, or used it. There’re many recipes among the ones she left. If I remember correctly, she said the reason the English didn’t like it was because it gave the ale a very bitter taste.”

  “It does, but it also preserves it. Hence, the Hanse can export all over Europe, not like your ale that sometimes sours in mere days. Not much beer comes to England . . . not yet—but once a taste has been developed . . . Well, why import what you can make and purchase at home?” He paused. “Perhaps this is something you can do?” Propping himself on the edge of his desk, he folded his arms and regarded me seriously. “If you learn to use this properly and make beer, you might be able not only to educate the English palate, but to look at exporting. Apart from a couple of brewers in Winchelsea, there are one or two in London who are using hops, but they haven’t perfected their recipes yet. Haven’t quite managed to get the taste right, and they’re working on a small scale.”