The Lady Brewer of London

by Karen Brooks

  But despite Sir Leander’s generosity, wood became scarce and we were forced to buy extra quantities and scour the forest for fallen boughs. Then there were the coal, candles, blankets, and furs to replace worn ones and those that were never returned after Hiske’s sweep of the house. Tools used in the brewhouse had to be replaced, new barrels made and old ones repaired, the children needed new clothes and boots, and the general upkeep of Holcroft House all severely dented profits. Pennies left our coffers as fast as we earned them and, not for the first or last time, I was grateful for the kind help Captain Stoyan and Sir Leander provided. Without their contributions to the ale-making and Holcroft House, any notion I had of making the lease payment would have been impossible. I’d less than four months left, and even though the brew was doing well, firkins, kilderkins, and barrels being sold weekly, it was at wholesale prices. The innkeepers and tavern owners were the ones who really profited from my ale. If I was to make this my occupation, draw enough money from it to support the family and keep the house, I needed to reconsider how to make brewing pay.

  * * *

  Just when I thought the friary might leave us in peace, Brother Osbert paid another visit. It was the Conception of the Blessed Virgin Mary and we’d not long returned from mass. This time, another monk accompanied him. Introduced as the Master of the Novices, Brother Francis was a stooped, wizened man with almost no hair and a badly scarred face. Like Brother Marcus, he allowed Brother Osbert to do all the talking, positioning himself near the fire in the office and latching his pale eyes onto mine. It was most disconcerting.

  Once more, Brother Osbert offered to buy my recipes, only this time he proffered a sum of money that quite took my breath away.

  “Twenty pounds?” I repeated, certain I hadn’t heard aright.

  The brother nodded.

  Adam’s eyes bulged and he cleared his throat. Why, it was more money than we could ever have imagined.

  For as long as it took an angel to flap his wings, I was tempted. Not only would I be able to meet the lease payment for this year and the next few besides, but I could pay our debtors and even put aside some money for the beginnings of a dowry for Betje. I could also ensure Karel was either squired or apprenticed. But then I thought of my mother’s recipes in the monks’ hands, in Brother Osbert’s, which were twisted together in his lap, the knuckles white. I thought of those long pale fingers shuffling the papers, annotating the pages, fiddling with the ingredients. Then I thought of the ale itself and the corner crones. I could see them now, crouched in the brewery, frowns puckering their ancient brows as they grimly awaited my decision, ready to scold me before they vanished forever. I couldn’t betray my mother, my family, my heritage by selling these recipes. Not to the monks. No money was worth that.

  Ready to tell Brother Osbert my decision, I cast a glance at Brother Francis. Leaning forward, those gimlet eyes fixed upon me, there was a look on his face of such need, such desire—not for me, but for what they’d come fully expecting to walk away with—that I knew my decision was right. If the friary was prepared to pay so much for these recipes, then they expected to make a great deal of money from them. Well, so could I.

  “I’m afraid my answer remains the same, good brothers.”

  “You refuse?” Brother Osbert fell back in his seat and blinked. “Twenty pounds is a fortune. Think what you could do with such a sum.”

  “I have, brother. Believe me, I have.” I pushed myself away from the desk and stood. Brother Osbert also rose, his brow darkened. “But if they’re worth so much to you, imagine what they are to me.”

  “We’ll give you thirty,” said Brother Francis quickly.

  I inhaled sharply. “My answer is still no.” Adam gave me the barest nod of approval. “They’ve been in my family for generations, brothers. They’re part of a long-standing tradition. They’re not something I can sell for others to use. I hope you understand.”

  “You foolish woman. So be it,” said Brother Osbert and, before Adam could reach it, he wrenched open the door. With one long look at me, Brother Francis brushed past his superior and left. Brother Osbert hesitated.

  “Denying the friary is akin to denying God, Mistress Sheldrake, and in my experience, those who don’t obey the Holy Father are severely punished for their sins. I suggest you pray that He sees fit to forgive you before you too pay the price of denial.” His look was unmistakable. Releasing the handle, he exited, his boots loud on the floorboards.

  Propelled by fury and a sense of indignation, I followed him into the corridor.

  “Forgive me?” I called after their backs as they entered the shop. “My conscience is clear, brothers, but what about yours? God knows the truth, He sees what’s in our hearts, in our words and actions, even when we try and abjure them.”

  Before he reached the front door, Brother Osbert spun around. “Are there no bounds to your sins, woman? First, you deliberately challenge the might and right of the friary with your Low Countries ales, then you deny us the recipes, even when, in good faith, we offer far more than they’re worth. But now, now”—he drew himself up to his full height, his black gown and broad shoulders blocking the door—“now you presume to lecture me, God’s emissary on earth, about spiritual matters.” He shook his head and pointed at me. “Hubris is a sin and by your very existence, you have made it a mortal one. Your day of reckoning will come, mistress. You’ll not see where or when, but it will.”

  Lowering his arm, his chest heaving, he departed.

  The anger left me as fast as it came. I swung to Adam, who stood close behind me.

  “You made an enemy today.”

  “They were already that. But now I see through the mask they wear; I see my enemy for who and what they are.”

  Adam cocked his head. “God’s emissaries have many faces, Mistress Anneke.”

  “And so do the devil’s,” I whispered. “Sometimes, I fear, they’re one and the same and telling them apart is nigh impossible.”

  Twenty

  Holcroft House

  Early to mid-December

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

  Work in the brewhouse all but enabled me to push Brother Osbert’s visit and the friary’s threats to the back of my mind. Even so, I kept the recipe book close and, as the need to refer to it decreased, I took the precaution of hiding it in the chest in my room again. I couldn’t say why—it was instinctive. Fortunately, I didn’t have time to dwell on the repercussions of my refusal of the brothers’ offer. There were orders to fill and thirsty customers to serve. The days passed in a flurry of activity, not even the icy winds and constant snows of winter slowing us.

  Though I’d made up my mind we’d need additional hands, I hadn’t had time to locate anyone suitable. What brought Master Westel Calkin into my orbit, I did not know. It was not God. God could not be so cruel or unforgiving. All I know is that if Westel could speak, it would be to deplore that he ever set eyes on Holcroft House, let alone on Anneke Sheldrake. But whatever he’d bemoan, it would be nothing to the regret I live with to this very day.

  For everything that happened, the memory of Westel rests heavily on my soul . . .

  * * *

  Iris brought him to the brewhouse mid-morning on a Friday, not long after I’d returned from listening to a very long sermon. Aware valuable time had been lost, even if it was in service to the good Lord, I was more than a little annoyed at being interrupted. Rather surly and red-cheeked from kneeling by the kiln, I stepped out into the crisp air, dusting palms on my apron.

  “What is it, Iris, this is not a good time,” I rebuked, and then saw the unfamiliar face. “Oh, can I help you?”

  Iris bobbed a curtsy. “I’m sorry, mistress, but this gentleman here is looking for work.”

  Discommoded that the one thing I needed but had procrastinated over was suddenly forced upon me, I didn’t respond straightaway. I studied the person before me. Perhaps a year or so older than me, the man was cle
anly if simply dressed; his coat patched, his cap worn, and his boots scuffed. Carrying a sack that I imagined contained his possessions over his square shoulders, he regarded me with large blue eyes, eyes that brought to mind the frailty of a bird’s eggs and bleached summer skies. Ashen-skinned, he had an unmarked complexion, a chiseled chin, and a full but firm mouth. Clean-shaven, his fingernails, which I noticed as he pushed his cap back on his head to reveal thick white-gold hair that reminded me of Mother’s, were nicely shaped but stained black. Was that ink? Certainly, his hands did not look like those of a laborer.

  “God give you good morning, Mistress Sheldrake,” he said, with a little bow. “May the Lord bless and keep you well.” His voice was deep, melodic, like the angels’. “My name is Westel Calkin.” He gave me a big smile, flashing creamy, even teeth, and it felt as if the sun had sprung into the sky and chased away the clouds. Reaching for the wall of the brewery, I steadied myself, wondering at my momentary dizziness. “I’ve been traveling awhile, seeking work, and I heard from the father next door”—he jerked his head in the direction of St. Bartholomew’s—“that there may be some going here.”

  “There might,” I said cautiously, unable to prevent the smile that tugged at my lips. “What kind of work do you do?”

  “Anything, mistress. I am strong and willing.”

  “You can’t ask for much more than that,” said Iris.

  I silenced her with a look. She mumbled something and buried her chin in her chest.

  “What I need is quite specific . . .”

  “I’ve a reference,” he said, fumbling in his pockets. “I know my letters and can read passably well too.” Pulling out a piece of parchment, he handed it to me and I noticed his hands were shaking slightly. My heart went out to him. It was a bitterly cold day and his garments appeared thin.

  “Come, there’s no need to do this outside. Iris, how about you take Master Calkin to the kitchen and let him warm himself before the stove? I’m sure Blanche can find a hot drink and some bread to spare? I’ll join you in a moment. May I keep this till then?” I asked, holding the reference.

  Master Calkin smiled even more brightly and a look crossed his face that I failed to fathom. “For certes, mistress.”

  Iris didn’t need to be told twice. Chattering away as if Master Calkin were already employed, she led him through the garden to the kitchen, shoving the pigs out of the way with her boot, pointing out the various buildings as she did so.

  I went back inside the brewhouse. “Well,” I said to Adam and Saskia, who looked up at my entrance, “it seems God may have provided.”

  “In what way, Mistress Anneke?” asked Saskia.

  Standing near the window, I unfurled the parchment and scanned it. The writing was very fine, the ink nice and dark.

  “In a practical one,” I said slowly, reading what turned out to be a reference from the second sub-prior at the Priory of St. Rebecca’s in Norwich, one Brother Roland le Bold. “He has seen fit to bring us those extra hands we needed.”

  Adam came and read over my shoulder. “The lad is seeking work, is he? Educated by monks, is he?”

  I glanced up at him. “I know what you’re thinking, but he hails from Norwich, St. Rebecca’s, Adam, not St. Jude’s.”

  “That’s run by Benedictines too,” said Saskia, frowning.

  “You don’t think—”

  Adam shook his head. “I’m not sure what to think anymore.”

  I sighed. “I think I can’t afford not to hire someone. Christmas is almost upon us and if I don’t do something now, well—” I waved the reference in the air.

  “What if he’s been sent by the abbot to undermine you?” asked Saskia.

  “Or worse,” added Adam.

  I thought of Master Calkin’s beaming smile and his spun-gold hair. “He doesn’t look like the kind who would stoop to such measures.”

  “You of all people should know you can’t judge a person by their looks,” said Saskia.

  “I know, I know. But this”—I flapped the paper—“appears genuine. It has a seal and all.” I put the reference on the table and leaned on my elbows, staring at the words. “I can’t let fear of the friary and the abbot cloud my judgment or affect my business decisions. If I do that, then they’ve defeated me already.” I straightened and looked around. The kiln was roaring, the mash tun was full, the malthouse floor had a new crop ready to be dried and the trays were laden with cooling barley. Rows of barrels sat, some empty, others waiting to be taken to the shop, to be moved to the warehouse for storage, or picked up by customers. “We need a pair of willing hands, and that’s just to start. Master Calkin’s here and able. Anyhow,” I added quickly, as Adam opened his mouth to speak, “what if everything he says is true? Certainly, this testimony is glowing. If I don’t take him on, then he’s being punished as well and that doesn’t seem fair.”

  “It’s probably not. But it’s sensible.” Adam picked up the reference and reread the contents. “Says here he has excellent skills with figures.”

  “Mentions how trustworthy he is as well,” I muttered.

  “You could give him a trial.” Saskia went to the tun and proceeded to stir the wort. “Mistress, that tray needs to come out of the kiln.” She nodded toward it.

  I raced over, grabbing the cloths off the table as I did, wrapping them around my hands.

  “Aye, a trial. We could all watch him,” said Adam. “First sign of anything suspicious, he goes.”

  Lifting the smoking tray out, I heaved it onto the table, waving the steam out of my eyes, peering at the golden grains. “Shall I hire him then?”

  “Ja,” said Saskia, stirring the wort earnestly, her face red.

  Adam nodded brusquely. “I’m not happy about it, but I don’t think we have a choice.”

  “We don’t,” I said and went to rescue the second tray from the kiln before my barley was burned. “After I’ve moved these, I’ll go to the house and tell him the good news.”

  * * *

  In exchange for a shared room with Will on the topmost floor, meals, and a small wage of a penny a week, Master Calkin fast became the most valued member of my brewing team. Whereas Adam, Will, Saskia, and the other servants who would occasionally help had other duties that would take them from my side, Master Calkin was dedicated to helping me alone.

  From cock’s crow to first stars, he labored, doing whatever I asked of him—even running errands in town. In only a matter of days, if the twins needed me, or Betrix paid a visit, I felt confident enough to leave him in the brewhouse, knowing it was in good hands. Sunday was his day off, but he left the house only to attend services next door before returning and begging to be given something to do. When he’d been with us six days, I decided to test the veracity of his reference and make use of his gift for figures.

  Each week, Adam and I would calculate the cost of the grain so the ale-conners could set the price at which we would sell each brew. Deducting the cost of the tax and the other debts we had to pay, including a seller’s fee, we were still managing a profit, albeit one that didn’t go very far. Nonetheless, I wasn’t ashamed to let anyone see my books. Still a long way from covering the rent for the months leading up to Hocktide, I either had to raise the level of production or seek other ways of selling my ale to widen distribution. That my ale was of a quality unfamiliar to those in town was without question. Many were keen to try it but were reluctant to buy their household supplies from me instead of the friary. Rather than purchase a barrel, a hogshead, or more, they risked only a flask here, a firkin there, perhaps a few jugs, even though, as they would whisper to Adam or Will, they longed to buy more. Some would choose to drink mine in the inns and taverns, rather than buying it from me and risking the wrath of God and the abbot. Master Proudfellow and the other innkeepers attracted so many patrons they could sell both the friary’s ale and mine. “But it’s yours they ask for, Mistress Sheldrake,” Master Proudfellow would reassure me when he came for more stock. “St. Jude’s i
s only drunk after yours has gone.” The reports from Master Larkspur were the same.

  The only exception was the Millers, who, since their millstone was destroyed, continued to drink small quantities at the shop—Master Perkyn explaining that it was best he kept to old habits and thus allay suspicions. So, though I paid them in kind for grinding our malt, giving them a firkin every week, they would make an almost daily pilgrimage for a jug or two. Olive would enter the shop, squealing with delight, twining her hair around her fingers, flirting with Westel and Will and, in her unabashed way, remonstrating with customers that they didn’t purchase more of my ale, calling them fools and toadies. Not even her father’s threats or my entreaties could silence her. As for the patrons, they weren’t offended, they simply indulged her. After all, as Simon Attenoke noted, you shouldn’t punish someone for speaking God’s truth.

  If I could sell my ale directly to more people, even in smaller quantities, then I might be able to meet my debt to Lord Rainford. In the end it was Master Calkin who voiced the solution staring me in the face.

  He was in the office, checking my calculations and jotting down sums, adding to the stains that already coated his fingers. These, he told me, were the result of years of copying manuscripts. I watched him scratching away with the quill, muttering to himself, and exchanged a look with Adam, who was clearly impressed. Behind me, the fire crackled; outside, the snow fell silently.

  Westel raised his head. “I know you’re concerned about your figures, Mistress Sheldrake, and, at the rate you’re going, you’ll be hard-pressed to meet the lease payment. But I think I know a way around this.”