The Lady Brewer of London

by Karen Brooks

  Saskia didn’t say anything, but she knew. I heard her talking with Adam late into the night as I sat in the office, the murmur of their voices offering both comfort and a painful reminder that my rapid social descent affected them as well. Accumulating enough to pay Lord Rainford came at a cost and, for the first time, I wondered if it had been worth it.

  * * *

  After the last of the patrons departed—many now foreign sailors who were keen to drink the beer—and we’d tidied the alehouse, the servants left me in peace. Instead of retreating to the hall for supper and a tale or two before bed, I pulled a stool toward the fireplace, sinking gratefully upon it. That’s how Saskia found me some time later, staring despondently into the flames. She stood beside me and, without saying a word, pressed my head against her thigh, stroking my face, wiping away tears I didn’t know I’d begun to shed.

  “Mijn zoete kind,” she whispered. It had been years since she’d used that endearment, my sweet child. I cried harder. “What is it? Tell me.”

  Words tumbled out. “Tobias . . . he . . . he warned me. So did Adam, Captain Stoyan, and even Sir Leander. But would I listen? Nay. And now . . . now . . .” I raised my arms in a clumsy gesture before they flopped back into my lap.

  “They knew they could never talk you out of the alehouse, my zoete. They told you this, gave you such warnings as they could to prepare you. They knew what people would be like. How narrow and judgmental they can be.” She smoothed my hair. “Folk don’t cope well with change; they’re threatened by it, fear it.”

  “As God is my witness, Saskia”—my voice was fragile, quavering, and I hated it—“I haven’t changed. I’m the same person I always was. Why can’t people see that? I’m still Anneke Sheldrake who used to be welcomed with smiles and encouraging words. I’m still the Anneke Sheldrake they paid their respects to after Father died. All that’s changed is I serve ale to people . . . nothing else.” I buried my face in my hands and wept.

  “Hush, hush, my lamb, mijn zoete.” Saskia bent down and took my face in her calloused hands, her smile so sweet, so gentle. “Listen to me.” She forced my chin up so I had to look upon her. There was a hard glint in the amber depths of her eyes. “Anneke. You’re not the same person. You’ve changed and praise be to God that you have.”

  I sniffed loudly. “But—”

  “How can you be the same after all you’ve endured?” Pushing strands of hair off my cheeks, she continued. “You’re stronger. More determined.” She took one of my hands in her own. “You’ve a family to raise, bills to pay, a household and business to run. You refuse to be influenced by what others say, think, or do. Those people out there”—she waved her hand toward the street—“they don’t like that they can’t control you anymore—the shrews with their gossip and rumors, the men because you’re proving a woman can be without a husband and survive. That she can run a business.” She laughed. “You’re not a servant, you’re not a wife, you’re not a mother. You’re queen of your own realm, your own woman, and they don’t know what to make of you anymore.”

  I choked back a sob. “What if I don’t want to be my own woman?” I wiped my nose on the end of my apron and stared at her.

  “Whose would you want to be?” she asked softly.

  I opened my mouth . . .

  “Excuse me, Mistress Sheldrake.”

  Saskia released my hand with one last tightening of her fingers and rose slowly, her joints creaking. I quickly brushed the tears away and straightened my scarf.

  “Aye, Westel?”

  “I put the tin on your desk. I also took the liberty of leaving a goblet of wine there for you.” He hesitated. “You look like you need it.”

  I lifted my hand to prevent Saskia rebuking him for his familiarity. “Thank you, Westel.” He bowed and left.

  Rising, I turned and gave Saskia a hug. “Thank you too.”

  Returning my embrace, she held me at arm’s length and beamed. “You’re always welcome, Mistress Anneke. Always. You know, if God had ever seen fit to bless me with a daughter, I’d have wanted her to be just like you.”

  I almost bumped into a table, so thick were the tears that welled in my eyes.

  “But,” she continued, drawing close to me and lowering her voice, “if I may give you one piece of advice”—she didn’t pause long enough for me to answer—“be careful with that lad, Mistress Anneke, with Westel. You indulge him. He thinks because he works beside you, he can hover all over the house and say what he likes. He’s getting a bit too big for his boots. As far as I’m concerned, he’s still on trial and if you won’t watch him, I will.”

  I sighed. First Will and now Saskia. “You do that, Saskia,” I said and kissed her soundly on the cheek. “It’s a great solace knowing you’re looking out for me.”

  Twenty-Seven

  Holcroft House

  Lent

  The year of Our Lord 1406 in the seventh year of the reign of Henry IV

  We opened our doors as the bells for sext chimed. People poured out of St. Bartholomew’s into the cold, and while many headed home, more than I expected entered the Cathaline Alehouse. In no time at all, the fireside was crowded. Orders were placed quickly and drinks were downed with enthusiasm. Delyth, Awel, and Westel wandered around the tables, squeezing past strangers and locals alike as they deposited brimming tankards, foaming mazers, and set down jugs and vessels. Will and Adam tended the barrels, while I supervised between the kitchen and alehouse, making sure the limited food we were allowed by law to serve was readily available. Perhaps because it was Lent and yesterday had been an Ember Day, where fasting and penance was observed, people were tired of all the restrictions and looking to ease their long period of denial. There were more unfamiliar faces than usual and while I wasn’t initially alarmed, as the afternoon wore on and the place grew rowdy, a sense of unease overtook me.

  A granite sky made the shadows appear early and, when it began to drizzle, a few men took the chance to leave. But as they did more came to take their place. The smell of damp wool, horseflesh, sweat, and the sweet odor of ale and fire smoke lingered. In one corner, an old man I’d never seen before but who’d asked to bring his three-legged dog inside, pulled out a set of pipes and began to play a mournful tune. When his dog started to howl, some men sitting nearby complained. Amused by the dog’s antics and the men’s protests at first, when one of the men, tall, wearing a liripipe—a long, pointed hood that fell down his back—staggered to his feet and took a swipe at the dog, I called Adam.

  Bearing the great wooden staff we kept hidden, Adam made his way through the crowd. Simon Attenoke stood ready to lend assistance. Before Adam could call for peace, another man, even bigger than the first, with thick, short hair and the build of a knight, grabbed the first man and, lest he attempt another strike at the dog, threw him backward. The man wearing the liripipe fell against a table, knocking it over and spilling drinks. After that, mayhem ensued.

  There were grunts and shouts. Fists flew, bodies doubled over. Tankards smashed, ale spilled, and the dog barked. Backed up against a wall, shouting at Awel and Delyth to flee, I was trying to stay out of the way when someone grabbed me from behind, their hands kneading my breasts, pulling at my skirts. Shock stilled me before rage took over and, as the hands fumbled over my body, I grabbed hold of one of them and sank my teeth into it. There was a scream of pain and, as I spat blood on the floor, I was released. Swinging around to identify the rogue, I was again grabbed and lifted off my feet. Kicking, I tried to pry the fingers from my waist.

  “It’s me, Mistress Sheldrake.” Westel. “You need to get out of here.”

  I ceased struggling at once.

  Westel carried me from the room, using his back and shoulders to thrust people out of the way. Putting me down in the corridor just outside, he pushed the tin into my hands. I clutched it gratefully. Will brought Awel over, Delyth following, tears streaming down her face.

  “Stay here,” ordered Will, and he was about to return, the light
of battle in his eyes, when I grabbed ahold of him. “Nay, Will. Run, fetch the sheriff. Tell him to bring his men. Hurry.”

  Will glanced at Westel.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll look after them,” he said.

  Will opened his mouth, shut it again, then nodded. Pushing past us, he grabbed his coat and raced down the corridor, leaving through the kitchen. Standing beside Westel, I placed myself between the girls and doorway, using my boots and arms to push anyone who came too close away again. Westel delivered a few hard punches, breaking the skin of his knuckles, wincing in pain. I couldn’t help but be grateful for his presence, his determination to protect us.

  In dismay I watched as tables broke, mazers were dented, crockery smashed, and my ale and beer spilled over the rushes. Adam was trying to separate two men, one of whom was bleeding profusely from the nose, when another crept up behind, a stool raised above his head.

  “Adam!” I shouted in warning. Adam ducked as the stool swept through the air, striking another man with a resounding crack, lifting him off his feet. Westel left my side and ran to Adam’s defense, but by then the fight was so thick, the roiling bodies so tight-knit, I couldn’t keep track. Above the din, the bell over the door clanged as men fled. Running past the windows, their shirts torn, their heads bare as they churned up mud with their heels. One paused to tear down the sign that was swinging wildly in the wind.

  “Oy!” cried out Westel, his voice so loud I jumped. “Nay, you rogue,” he exclaimed and, before Adam could prevent him, tore off after the men.

  “Westel! Leave it . . .” It was no use. He sprinted up the street.

  “He’s a brave one, mistress,” said Awel, her eyes wide.

  “Aye, or very foolish,” I said wryly.

  There were still too many writhing, grunting bodies left inside. Fists connected, arms swung. Cheeks were torn, teeth lost, and bodies crumpled. Atop the last remaining table, the old man’s dog howled, scampering from side to side like a wounded squire at a joust. Slumped against the wall was the old man. I wondered if he was even alive.

  Once the sheriff arrived, worse for drink himself, and ordered the watchmen haul away those offenders who refused to concede defeat, bellowing they be locked in the stocks to cool their tempers, the remainder understood it was over. Above the sheriff’s slurred threats and warnings, the men collected their coats and looked around in bewilderment at the remains of the Cathaline Alehouse. Subdued by the enormity of what they’d done, the sheriff asked for descriptions of those who’d bolted, strangers to Elmham Lenn who were already being blamed for starting what happened.

  The shadows lengthened and the rain was falling steadily by the time the last man left, escorted by two of the watchmen, cross their afternoon was spoiled. They pulled him forward, uncaring that his coat slipped from his shoulder or that his cap came off and was trampled in the mud.

  Picking up one of the stools, I sank onto it and stared at the room, the tin resting in my lap. Piles of rushes flecked with blood, shattered utensils, and pieces of what had once been benches, toppled tables, and too many pieces of broken jugs, tankards, and split mazers were scattered everywhere. The only things unaffected were the three barrels behind the serving table and the fireplace.

  The sheriff, Sir Grantham, asked me questions and I know I answered, but I don’t remember what I said. In the midst of all this, Westel returned, his shirt torn, a bloody streak across the front, but he had our sign and held it aloft triumphantly. “I couldn’t let them steal that too, Mistress Sheldrake,” he said.

  I shook my head wearily.

  The sheriff fired questions at Westel; I didn’t hear his responses. My mind was too busy trying to work out how the fight started, whether I could have done anything to prevent it. Everything was such a blur. It was only as Sir Grantham was leaving, promising to return the following day after I’d rested, that I thought of Delyth and Awel and asked him to escort them home. I looked at their pale faces and their large, frightened eyes and wondered if they’d have the courage to return. Delighted he’d enjoy the company of two such pretty girls, Sir Grantham bade farewell with more goodwill than he arrived.

  As the door closed, Tobias’s words rang in my ears. “Turning this house, our home into an alehouse that any knave can enter is something altogether different . . .” Just how different, I’d not known. Until today.

  Before long, Saskia came and pressed a mazer of mulled wine in my hand. Grateful for its warmth, I sipped it slowly, smiling weakly as Blanche, Westel, and Adam, who held a wad of cloth over his left eye, gathered around me.

  “Where are the twins?” I asked quietly.

  “Iris and Louisa took them to the nursery the moment the fighting started. They’re fine,” said Saskia, gripping my shoulder. I reached up and closed my hand over hers.

  “Thank you.”

  Using a piece of tinder from the fire, Blanche went around and relit the candles. Their bright flames were at odds with the ruins.

  The faces of my servants told me they were as dazed as I felt. Blanche had to touch everything, pick up a stool here, a crumpled tablecloth there. She found shards of pottery and glass and piled them neatly on a table, walked in circles pushing the rushes back down with her boots. We watched her in silence. Adam seemed resigned. Only Westel, his eyes neutral, dwelled upon me.

  “Where’s Will?” I asked suddenly.

  Blanche stopped and glared at the rushes, hands on hips, as if expecting him to rise from beneath them.

  “I last saw him when he went to fetch the sheriff,” said Westel, scratching his head through his cap.

  “He should be back well and truly by now.” Adam nodded at Westel. “Go and see if he’s in the kitchen.”

  Westel darted off.

  “This is a right mess, Mistress Anneke,” said Blanche, finding another shard of pottery.

  “Nothing we can’t fix,” said Adam quickly, as if Blanche’s observation was somehow critical of me.

  “Aye,” I agreed, “but should we?” Resting my elbows on my knees, I looked at Adam and Blanche. Neither answered. Saskia rubbed my back. They knew it was not their decision to make.

  Westel reappeared. “He’s not there, Mistress Sheldrake. Nor’s he in our room, the solar, or the brewery.” He hesitated. “Do you want me to lock up the chickens and pigs? They’re still out.”

  “Will wouldn’t overlook his duties,” said Adam, slapping his thighs and standing, raising his voice to be heard above the rain that was now coming down in torrents. He stared out into the sodden gloom. “Where’s that lad disappeared to?”

  “Could he have stopped at another tavern on the way home?” asked Westel.

  “He wouldn’t be foolish enough to give chase to those strangers, would he?” asked Saskia, giving Westel a pointed look.

  “Nay,” I said quickly. “Please, God, nay.”

  “Maybe he went to warn Master Proudfellow?” added Blanche hopefully.

  “It’s possible, I suppose.” Adam sighed and reached for his cloak and hat. “I’ll go and find him. Westel, look to the animals.” He turned to me. “Mistress Anneke, if I may be so bold, I suggest you go to the twins and reassure yourself as to their well-being. I’ll return soon enough and we can discuss what we do about”—he shook his head as he studied the room—“this.”

  Standing, I straightened my tunic. “As you say, Adam.”

  “Don’t worry, mistress,” he added quietly. “We’ll sort this out.”

  The bell above the alehouse door couldn’t be heard above the rain as Adam left. The wind was so strong, he was almost bent double as he passed the window. I shivered, whether in empathy or foreboding, I wasn’t sure. I ordered Saskia to take the tin to the office and Blanche to prepare hot water for Will and Adam for when they returned and to warm some drying sheets for Westel. I didn’t have to tell Saskia to heat some additional wine. We’d all be needing it before this night was over.

  Turning my back on the wreckage of the afternoon, I ascended to the nu
rsery, quickly tidying myself before the children saw me. As Saskia said, the twins were unaffected by what had occurred, and for that, at least, I was grateful. Louisa was telling them a story, Iris by her side. Wide-eyed, Iris started to ask what had happened, but I sent her downstairs to help Blanche and, casting a warning look at Louisa, sat quietly while she finished her tale.

  Insisting I also regale them, the twins had their way. Exhausted, I was also filled with a nervous energy that found some comfort from an old fable Mother used to tell about a beautiful woman, an oracle, who was so desired by a god, he promised to give her anything she wanted if only she would succumb to his charms. When she asked for everlasting life, he readily granted it, but when she reneged on her part of the agreement, that they be lovers, he altered his gift so she could live forever, but would continue aging.

  “How long did she live?” asked Betje, breathlessly.

  “For eternity,” I said.

  “Forever? But if she lived forever . . .” Betje tried to absorb what that meant.

  “What did she look like?” asked Karel. “Worse than Goodwife Barrett?”

  Goodwife Barrett was the oldest woman in Elmham Lenn. Rumor had it that she was one hundred and five years old, but I knew she was four score years and two, a fine age, but to the twins and others, ancient. Karel and Betje were fascinated by her sunken, lined cheeks, her toothless mouth, the wattle that hung from her neck, and the fact one of her eyes had turned white.

  “Much, much worse,” I said. They oohed in delighted horror.

  “That just proves, you should always keep your promise, doesn’t it?” said Karel.