The Lady Brewer of London

by Karen Brooks

  “Thank the good Lord for your prudence, Leander,” Tobias said, sitting very still, staring into the distance.

  “And providence,” added Sir Leander modestly.

  We fell quiet, acknowledging those who’d not been so fortunate, those who God willed would not find land again. The twins bowed their heads.

  “Not that it was such a hardship to remain,” said Tobias suddenly, breaking the somber mood. Betje and Karel raised their eyes cautiously.

  “Why?” asked Karel.

  Tobias grinned. “There’re worse places than Bruges in which to be stranded. I’ll take you both there one day, you wait.” Karel and Betje’s mouths dropped open and they stared at each other with wide shining eyes. Betje burrowed against Tobias, wrapping her arms as far around his waist as she could. Tobias turned toward me. “You should see the place, Anneke, you’d find much to please you. It’s so pretty. Full of colorful houses with white shutters, huge stone churches inside the city walls, and perfectly arched bridges under which swans drift. Everyone seems to own a dog, cats meander along the cobbles, horses and carts jingle, and the women are so pretty. Why—”

  Sir Leander coughed.

  Tobias flashed him a look. “Um. They are. Very. And the entire place is laced with canals as well,” he recovered. I buried a grin.

  “They call it the Venice of the North,” added Sir Leander, earning sighs of wonder from Louisa, who, sitting nearby with her chin resting on her hands, hadn’t been able to tear her eyes away from our guest.

  “What’s a Venice?” asked Betje.

  “Tell us!” demanded Karel, and Tobias complied.

  My heart lurched, astonished at the desire his words aroused. Venice, Bruges, the Netherlands. The number of times I’d stood on the bay and imagined those worlds and places beyond Elmham Lenn . . . And here was Tobias describing them, revisiting his experiences for us to savor. I envied Tobias, but I didn’t begrudge him. I knew life at sea was not a romantic adventure, but a dangerous and ofttimes unpleasant enterprise involving cramped quarters, sour ale and brackish water, spoiled food, illness, and even death—and that was before the elements or pirates were taken into account. Wanting to ask more, I was prevented as Blanche brought in a tray of cheeses and warm bread. Iris followed her, topping up mazers and goblets with the spiced wine made for Martinmas. I’d so wanted us to be imbibing the ale . . . At least Sir Leander appeared to find the wine agreeable; by my reckoning he was onto his third cup. I enjoyed the warmth it left in my throat, though it did nothing to settle the flutter in my stomach.

  I still couldn’t credit Sir Leander’s words. What had I done to provoke such an insult?

  Unable to relax with him in the room, I wasn’t able to stop my eyes drifting in his direction either—neither were Saskia, Blanche, or Iris, who, like Louisa, were clearly struck by his appearance in our midst. My fixation came from a different source. Fury that the explanation I intended to insist upon must needs be delayed stoked my apprehension; my nerves were already frayed waiting for the officials to appear. Where on earth were they? The afternoon was dying. Evening would be upon us shortly. All around Elmham Lenn, Martinmas was being commemorated; people were buying and drinking ale—the friary’s. Mine was sitting in barrels, unable to be consumed. Worse, unable to be sold.

  Lost in a fugue of frustration, I tried to pretend that I wasn’t preoccupied with anything other than Tobias’s arrival. (Whore! That . . . that . . . man called me a whore!) I sipped my drink and tried to absorb the first real bit of happiness we’d had at Holcroft House in a long, long time. Contentment in which I too could have shared if not for Lord Rainford’s arrogant son and his vicious words.

  I glanced at him now and gave an internal hurrumph as the dogs sat at his feet, their tongues lolling. Putting his weight on his stick, he leaned over, scratched their necks and fondled their ears. How was it that even my animals betrayed me? Unable to watch any longer, I excused myself and went to my room to change my tunic and tidy myself in the forlorn expectation that the tardy ale-conners would indeed come. Truth be told, I also thought that a change of garment might alter Sir Leander’s wretched opinion of me and thus took extra care with my toilet. Ale-conners be damned!

  When I reappeared some time later and sat close to my brother, I saw the dogs had been dismissed to the yard and witnessed Sir Leander produce a box from his leather satchel, out of which he extracted a sweet each for the twins. Uncertain whether they should accept, they looked to me, their fingers twitching with excitement.

  Tobias grinned at their antics. “It’s called marchpane,” he said over Betje’s bobbing head. “It’s from the kingdom of Denmark. It’s delicious. Try some, Anneke,” he said. Plucking a piece out of the box, he held out what looked like rose-colored dough. By now the twins were munching on theirs and exclaiming in raptures.

  I shook my head. “Not now, Tobias, thank you. I will, later,” I added when he appeared disheartened. With a shrug, he popped the piece in his mouth.

  Sir Leander had enough for everyone to try. Looking at the servants’ faces, his generosity was well received—even Adam was touched. This gesture didn’t accord with my first impression. With an antipathy that depressed me further, I wondered what he’d expect in return and determined, despite what I’d said to Tobias, not to eat any.

  Everyone was busy discussing the merits or otherwise of marchpane when Will, who’d left to see what was disturbing the dogs, scurried back into the hall, pale-faced. He raced to my side.

  “It’s the ale-conners, mistress, they’re here!”

  Fifteen

  Holcroft House

  Martinmas

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

  My heart pounding, I rose slowly, placed my napkin on the stool, and brushed the front of my tunic. Adam and I exchanged looks. Excusing himself to Tobias and Sir Leander, he stood and ordered Will to remain in the hall. Tobias tried to remove the twins from his lap so he could accompany me, but I pushed him back, squeezing his shoulder in reassurance.

  I whispered in his ear. “Please, I can handle this on my own. ’Tis but a formality. Take care of our guest,” I said with a lightness I didn’t feel.

  As I strode into the shop, trying not to look too hasty, I was pleased to note the candles had been lit. I held my hands before me to steady their shaking and went to greet the man standing just inside the door. Adam stood to one side, waiting to receive his cloak.

  As wide as he was short, Master Constable, the chief ale-conner and an alderman, came forward. Possessed of ruddy cheeks and, as he swept off his cap, strands of ginger hair that clung to the front of his freckled scalp, he wore the black and red livery of an ale-conner and a heavy scowl.

  “We’ve been out there a goodly while, Mistress Sheldrake, being lashed with rain and wind, no less,” he admonished me.

  His hostility forced me back a step. “My sincere apologies, Master Constable, but we fail—”

  “We almost walked away,” he continued, talking over the top of me and shaking a stumpy finger in my direction. “It doesn’t do any good to keep us waiting, you know.” Refusing Adam’s help, he lifted the strap of a satchel off his neck before dragging his wet cloak from his shoulders and throwing it at a stool, which promptly tipped over.

  Beside me, Adam tensed. Before he could say anything, I dashed across and picked up the cloak, shook it, and lay it carefully across the stool, which I righted with my other hand. I gave a small curtsy.

  “May God give you good day, and thank you for coming, Master Constable. Welcome to Holcroft House,” I said sweetly. “Again, I apologize that you had to wait.” It was hard to sound sincere; after all, the ale-conners had made us wait nearly all day. “We’ve unexpected visitors and didn’t hear you arrive.”

  “I don’t want your excuses. Let’s get on with it, shall we?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued. “As you know, Emory Constable’s my name. Head of the ale-conners of Elmham Lenn.”


  Master Constable was one of those men accustomed to deference. Swallowing my pride, I determined to give him some and shot Adam a warning look to do the same.

  I dropped another small curtsy.

  “About your father . . .” He looked around the room, his face unreadable as outside the skies darkened. “May God assoil him.” Master Constable rubbed the top of his head, making the few hairs rise. Proffering condolences was not within his remit; discomfort leaked from him. He held his bag over his generous stomach, staring at the floor.

  “Thank you.” I gestured to Adam. “This is my steward, Master Adam Barfoot.”

  “Aye,” said Master Constable, his eyes narrowing as he studied Adam. “Me and Master Barfoot go back a long ways, don’t we?” He tapped the side of his bulbous nose.

  There was movement by the door and, to my astonishment, two other figures huddled outside. Master Constable was not referring to himself as “we” after all. There were a number of them. “Dear Lord! Hadn’t we better get the rest of you inside?” I looked pointedly in their direction. “As you say, it’s cold, wet, and you’re pressed for time.” I made a move for the door.

  “Them?” Master Constable shook his head. “Nay, mistress, that’s not the way it’s done.” My hand fell from the latch. “Since this is the first time you’ve hailed us with the ale-stake, let me explain. Until I’ve tested for quality and a decision’s made as to whether or not we take it further, they can’t step inside the premises. They must remain on the street—which is what they are doing. If you’re worried about their well-being, I suggest we hurry up.” He flapped his arms in front of him and stepped toward one of the trestle tables.

  Shrugging apologetically to the men whose features I couldn’t make out, their caps had been pulled down so low, I joined Master Constable.

  “Let’s proceed then.” I gestured to the barrels, relieved to see my hands were steady now. “There are three more in the brewhouse.”

  “If they’re all from the same batch, we’ve only to open one.”

  Fumbling inside his satchel, Master Constable drew out some bound pages and a slim wooden container in which lay a quill and inkwell. Placing the box carefully on the table, he uncorked the inkwell and dipped the feather inside. “And the measures by which you propose to sell?”

  I motioned to his left.

  Rummaging further in his bag, he drew out the official seals and a pair of leather pants that he laid to one side. Glancing at the measures, he picked them up one by one—the gallon, potel, quart, and gill—before examining first the copper then the harvester bottles we’d put aside. “Very good.” He scratched some notes. “I’ve a few more questions.” He rapidly fired queries about the grain used, how much we paid, the intended market, all of which would help the ale-conners set the price by which we could sell our ale, and the tax and fees I’d pay the town for the opportunity. Adam and I calculated the price we needed to sell per gallon to make a profit. Checking his notes, Master Constable rested his quill on the table, put down the pages, and slapped his hands together.

  “Let the test proceed then.” He indicated for Adam to tap a barrel and occupied himself with pulling the leather pants over his leggings.

  Knocking the bung off, Adam drew ale into a jug and passed it to Master Constable.

  Having never seen an ale-testing before, I was most curious.

  Holding the jug steady with one hand, the ale-conner drew a wooden bench across the rushes with the other before, much to my astonishment, pouring a goodly portion of the ale onto the seat. Passing the jug back to Adam he promptly sat in the pool he’d created, his back straight, hands on knees, feet firmly planted on the floor.

  “Would you like a drink?” I asked quietly after Master Constable failed to move or speak for some minutes.

  “Nay, mistress,” he said through tight lips, staring straight ahead. “That be for later. For now, I sit.”

  Casting a sympathetic look at the cold, wet men outside, I perched upon a stool near the barren hearth. Though I’d heard of the manner in which the quality of a brew was judged, seeing it for myself was quite an experience. Watching Master Constable, clad in his leather, immobile upon a spill of dripping ale, I wondered who invented this preposterous test to assess something that was drunk.

  If he didn’t stick to the bench, the ale would be deemed to have failed, so, while the wind howled and the rain struck the panes, I prayed that when the time came for Master Constable to rise, it would be with a bench glued to his hindquarters.

  Just as I thought he must have dozed off, Master Constable cleared his throat and in one swift movement, rose to his feet. The bench followed.

  Mirroring his action but sans the stool, I stifled an exclamation of relief and moved to the door as he pried the bench from his backside.

  Registering my silent question, he placed the sticky seat on the rushes and then gave a click of exasperation. “All right then. Come on, gentlemen,” he called. “Step inside. Be quick about it.”

  Equal parts uncomfortable and grateful, the two ale-tasters stood side by side just inside the door wringing water out of their caps while their cloaks dripped onto the rushes.

  “That is Master Calvin Beecham,” said Master Constable, wriggling out of his breeches and indicating the short, thin man on the left. Master Beecham mumbled something meant to be a greeting and glared at me from beneath bushy brows. “He is a clerk of the court.”

  I gave a slight nod.

  “And this is Master Allistair Gretting.” Master Constable pointed at the tall, broad-shouldered man with a thatch of dark hair. “He is the toll keeper.”

  “Will this take long?” grumbled Master Gretting. “My wife said she was cooking goose tonight, but it will be mine she’ll be attending to if I’m late.”

  “Aye,” grunted Master Beecham, folding his rangy arms across his chest and casting somber looks around the room. “Let’s be tasting, not talking.” He sniffed loudly.

  “May I take your cloaks, gentlemen?” I asked.

  “That won’t be necessary, mistress,” said Master Gretting, raising a huge hand. “This part won’t take long. Being here is more or less a formality.”

  That was what I feared most—that the men wouldn’t take long because their minds were already made up, whether or not the ale passed the quality test. But Captain Stoyan was certain his warning had been heeded . . . I watched Adam pour the rich foaming ale into mazers for the men to try.

  “What’s going on, Anneke?” With a catch in my breath, I spun around.

  Tobias stood in the doorway flanked by Sir Leander.

  My heart sank. “It’s all right, Tobias.” I shot him a look that he chose to ignore. “It’s the ale-conners.”

  “S . . . Sir L . . . Leander,” said Master Constable, his eyes widening and his face coloring as he saw the taller man. He gave a swift bow, shooting a look at the two other ale-conners who mumbled uncomfortably. They shuffled till their backs were against the wall. “We wasn’t told—I mean, we didn’t expect to see you here, my lord.”

  “I confess, I didn’t expect to be here, Master Constable.”

  “Perhaps we can do this another time,” said Master Constable, waving away the mazers Adam was holding.

  “Please—” I began, raising my hands in protest.

  “Don’t let us stop you,” said Sir Leander, leaning against the doorframe that led back inside the house. “Please, continue. Not only does my father have a vested interest in this, but I’ve always been curious to know on what basis ale-conners make their decisions, haven’t you, Tobias?” He cocked his head toward my brother.

  “I have, indeed. Often, my lord,” lied Tobias.

  The ale-conners shared another look, clearly ill at ease.

  “Very well,” said Master Constable finally. “Let’s get on with it.”

  Adam solemnly passed mazers to the two men.

  My heart was beating so violently, I was sure the front of my tunic must be quivering. Whil
e I wanted more than anything for the ale to be passed, I also wanted it to be because the ale had earned it, not because of Captain Stoyan’s threats. But neither did I want to fail because an abbot said I must.

  Master Gretting and Master Beecham stared at the contents of their mazers before rotating the wooden cups so the ale formed a gentle whirlpool. They held their noses over it and inhaled noisily. Neither revealed anything in their expressions. I glanced at Master Constable, who was busy scratching more notes; why, I was uncertain. I sent a swift prayer to the goddesses and the crones.

  Holding the handles, first Master Gretting then Master Beecham tilted the cups and took a mouthful. Swilling the ale around in his cheeks a few times, Master Gretting’s eyes widened, then he swallowed, before quickly taking another sip. Smacking his lips, he licked them slowly then pursed them tightly, nodding, but whether in approval or to confirm a doubt, I didn’t know.

  Master Beecham’s cheeks bulged and he shut his eyes. Tipping back his head, he gargled and then gulped, his Adam’s apple moving up and down the way a bird’s did when it warbled. Then he bent his head until his nose disappeared into the vessel and drew in a breath deeply and noisily. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Tobias shove a fist against his mouth. Sir Leander coughed. I was too nervous to find anything funny. Too much was dependent on the outcome of this mummery.

  “The verdict?” asked Master Constable shortly in a resigned voice, after the men had a few more mouthfuls and spent additional time sniffing and breathing in the fumes.

  Both were frowning, their eyes hard. They looked at each other, shrugged, and then turned back to Master Constable.

  There was nothing amusing about them now.

  “I know what we’ve been told,” began Master Beecham cautiously, his eyes sliding toward me. “And I know it passed the quality test, but I can’t ignore me oath, nor me obligation to the town. I’ve never tasted anything like it before.” He screwed up his face in what could only be read as displeasure.