by Karen Brooks
My throat seized and a fire licked the inside of my ribs. I hadn’t ever thought of the tale as carrying that meaning. To me it had always been about being cautious when making commitments, ensuring all the terms were clear. I stared at Karel.
“It does,” I said as panic rose in my chest and I wondered how I would keep mine now. All of them. I’d promised not only to keep the family together, but to find the means to pay the lease. I’d also promised Tobias that if my efforts failed, I would never brew again. I stood up quickly. The room began to spin and my arms flew out.
“Are you all right, mistress?” asked Louisa, reaching out to help me.
“Fine. I’m fine.” I had a desperate urge to count coin, check the ledgers.
When the room stopped turning, I kissed the twins, wished them sweet dreams and God’s love, and crept out of the nursery and ran downstairs.
A fire was blazing in the office hearth and I blessed Saskia’s foresight. Wine awaited me, no longer warm but no less welcome.
The battered tin glowed in the light. Opening the lid, I looked at the small pile of coin in dismay. I’d thought there’d be more. Few of the patrons had paid before the melee broke out. I struck my forehead with the heel of my hand. “Damn, damn.”
I pushed the tin away and picked up the goblet.
Draining it, I heard voices.
“Mistress Anneke, Mistress Anneke!” I recognized that tone. Ice crawled into my heart. I ran to meet whoever it was summoning me in such a way.
It was Adam. Dripping wet, his face leached of color, his lips were trembling, but not from cold.
“What is it, Adam? Tell me.” I stood in front of him, staring, afraid.
“It’s Will. Oh God, Anneke.” It wasn’t just the rain streaking his cheeks, there were tears and . . . blood.
Blood.
“What?” I whispered, dreading to hear.
“He’s been murdered.”
Twenty-Eight
Holcroft House
Lent to Easter Monday
The year of Our Lord 1406 in the seventh year of the reign of Henry IV
Will’s death plunged us into an ocean of grief. Our love for him was a garment we held in common and, instead of wearing it in turn, we donned it together. Yet, for all the succor this offered, it was also a hairshirt that I for one did not wish to remove.
Never before had I felt so utterly responsible for something. Will was only fifteen, on the cusp of manhood. Born and raised in Elmham Lenn, the third son of a tanner, he’d come to us when he was eight years old; a mixture of shyness and cockiness tempered by a desire to please and do his family proud. Adam had taken him under his wing, as had Saskia. Not even Hiske’s sharp tongue or Father’s curt demands had managed to staunch his pride in his position or his gregariousness. I would miss his bright eyes, his freckled nose, his crooked grin. The way his face infused with color when he was caught off-guard; how his hair would never sit flat but always stand to attention. In quiet moments, I found myself reflecting on the last time we really spoke. He’d told me about Westel; the passing of notes, his inclination to wander. I’d dismissed his concerns as jealousy. Feeling I owed Will something, I found myself watching Westel more closely and I began to ponder, if he did indeed leave his room regularly, as Will said, where he went.
After some consideration, the sheriff concluded the assailants were strangers who, affected by drink, angry at being forced to leave, and holding little value upon life, treated Will as a scapegoat. To them, he said, knocking a youth unconscious with a cowardly blow and then slitting a throat was as simple as lacing a boot. With his callous rendering of the crime, the guilt I’d carried with me the moment I caught sight of Will’s limp body—with its wide, unseeing eyes cast toward the harsh heavens, the livid gash and bruising on his forehead, the ghastly wound on his neck—found voice. If I hadn’t opened the alehouse, if I hadn’t invited strangers into Holcroft House, if I hadn’t asked Will to serve them, none of this would have happened. He would still be alive, his parents would still have a son, his two older brothers and younger sister their sibling, and none of them would be plunged into mourning. Words tumbled out and, beyond caring how I sounded, I railed at Adam, Sir Grantham, Westel, Blanche, and Saskia, who tried to silence me. I would have none of it. Sweeping aside her reassurances, I accused myself, took responsibility for Will’s murder, until the burden was so great, I could no longer bear its weight.
Striding out of the hall, ignoring the stunned faces of my servants, Westel’s foiled attempt to follow, and the cries of the twins, who, hearing raised voices, had run down from the nursery, I fled to the brewhouse, tears flowing freely.
Adam found me a while later, staring into the mash tun, the ale-stick unmoving in my hand. I didn’t acknowledge his presence but remained inert, numb with guilt and sorrow and, I admit, self-pity.
“Mistress Anneke,” Adam said softly, his voice a sigh that carried with it overtones of such kindness, my tears began anew. Prying my fingers from the stick, he gently lowered my hand. “Here, let me.” He lifted the paddle over the edge of the tun, slowly steeping it into the thick, creamy sludge, and then began to stir. At first I ignored him and the soporific movements he was making, but gradually my eyes latched onto the spirals of his actions. Slowly, my other senses became aware: the soft splodge of the mash folding upon itself, the little burps and exhalations the mixture made, familiar companions who, just as I sang them to life each day, now sought to return the favor, chasing the specter of brutal death from my mind. Beneath my fingers, the firmness of the tun I was gripping took shape. Sniffing loudly, I caught the malty smell that characterized the brewhouse. Will would always comment on the odor. “Why, it smells good enough to eat, not drink,” he’d say.
“Oh, Adam.” His name shuddered on my lips.
“It’s too late to tell you not to do something you’ve already accomplished, Mistress Anneke, but blaming yourself achieves nothing. Will’s death is God’s will.”
“God’s will?” My head snapped up, eyes narrowing, chin jutting defiantly. “God’s will?” I repeated more loudly, dashing the tears from my face. “God didn’t will this, Adam. This was man’s doing and man’s alone. Wicked, terrible men with murder in their hearts and blood on their hands. You heard the sheriff. They care not a jot for God’s will.”
“Exactly,” said Adam and, letting go of the ladle, gripped my shoulders, forcing me to look at him. “It’s man’s doing. If you’re going to take responsibility, then you have to allow me to take some as well.” He leveled a finger to stop my retort. “After all, I urged him to protect you, to fight. Then he went for the sheriff and into the path of the cutthroats. How am I any less responsible than you? Stop condemning yourself for something you didn’t contrive. If you don’t, then you may as well include me and everyone else there among the guilty.”
“But if there was no alehouse—”
“Mayhap Will would still be alive. But why stop there? If there was no Holcroft House, if there were no Sheldrakes, Barfoots, people entering Elmham Lenn. We can play that game till the oceans dry and the clouds cease to gather. What will it accomplish? What-ifs, whys, and wherefores are like capturing mist—empty of purpose. Facts are, Mistress Anneke, nothing you or I do or say will change what’s happened. Even if the watchmen find who’s responsible and hang him from the gallows, it won’t bring Will back. Blaming yourself won’t either, but it will hinder everything you do from here on in.” He paused and tilted my chin till I was forced to look at him. “And God’s truth, Mistress Anneke, our Will wouldn’t want that.”
Letting me go, Adam opened his arms. I fell into them, burying my head in his chest. “Who would do such a thing, Adam?”
I could feel Adam’s chin against the top of my head. “Someone with no conscience, Anneke; someone who feels they don’t have to answer to God or man.”
I shut my eyes and tried to block out the terrifying image Adam’s words conveyed. The notion that someone so ready to embrace
sin existed was hard to bear. That Will should have encountered such a one.
“You don’t think it was the abbot, do you? You don’t think he was behind this?”
Adam stiffened. “I don’t know what to think, mistress.”
Weeping until my throat was sore, my ribs aching, and the front of Adam’s shirt wringing wet, I remained in the comfort of his embrace until the afternoon bells sounded. Only then did I break away, feeling suddenly awkward, vulnerable.
Before I could say another word, the door opened. I broke away from Adam’s arms.
It was Westel.
“Sorry, Mistress Sheldrake, Master Adam, but Mistress Saskia asked me to fetch you. Father Clement’s here to discuss the burial.”
“Thank you, Westel.” I dabbed my eyes with a cloth and took a deep breath before smoothing my skirts. Though I wasn’t ready for this, I’d no choice, not if I wanted to spare Will’s parents the heartache. I glanced at Westel, who remained in the doorway looking from me to Adam. He was very pale. Dark crescents circled his eyes. None of us were sleeping well, for certes.
Following Adam and Westel back into the house, I pushed the murmurs of misgiving aside. I would deal with them later.
* * *
Will’s funeral was held the next day. A small, private affair consisting of his immediate family; all of Holcroft House; the Millers; Master Proudfellow, Kip, and his mother, Jocelyn; Simon Attenoke and Widow Atwell; Sir Grantham and his squire; and a few others—we gathered first in the church, and later in the pouring rain outside. Delyth and Awel Parry came, escorted by their father, but they only stayed long enough to see Will put in the ground and they didn’t exchange a word or glance with me.
Through tears, I muttered responses hopelessly, taking small comfort from the twins, who wrapped their arms about me, their faces puffy from crying, their little mouths downturned. Not even the usually reassuring presence of Captain Stoyan helped.
A procession of bedraggled black, we doggedly followed his bound corpse, rain pounding our coats and hoods, drowning out Father Clement’s prayers, quenching the censor. Buried alongside his grandmother, Will was finally laid to rest and, as clods of heavy soil were tossed upon him, every shovelful was a blow that struck us all. I turned away, unable to bear the sobs of his sister or the quiet, blanched stoicism of his mother and brothers any longer.
Afterward, we retired to the hall. Eschewing the formalities, we ate together. Bread, ale, cheese, Blanche’s pottage, and, though it was Lent, pork, chicken, and even some venison were served. Will’s family, the Heymongers, sat quietly, eyes widening as dish after dish was brought out. Unaccustomed to such extravagance, they didn’t understand that this feast was my way of honoring their son and, if I’m honest, assuaging the responsibility Adam argued I shouldn’t feel. Not even bearing the expense of the funeral achieved that. Nothing did.
For a long time after, I was listless, agitated, and unable to work with my usual enthusiasm. Habits are hard to break, though, and after tossing and turning most nights, I’d rise and make my way to the brewery before cockcrow, sing to the ale and honor the corner crones, but my heart wasn’t in it. It was Westel who saw to all the little but important things, and though I was grateful for his determination not to let the ale spoil, I was beyond caring. I also began to find his incessant need to make sure everything was right jarring. Whereas I’d once enjoyed his smiles, like Saskia I now found his constant grin rang false, his observations about the ale, beer, the weather, and the household irritating, and longed for the silence of my thoughts. Once, when I brought the recipe book to the brewhouse in order to try something new, anything to detract from my usual ruminations, he asked if he might see it. He’d never made such a request and, I confess, as I refused him—and quite sharply—his eager curiosity about the contents added to his perceived sins. Pondering what Will said, what Saskia had added, I began to view Westel with different eyes. Doubt began to color my appreciation. Instead of seeing him as helpful, I saw him as interfering; instead of inquiring, his questions were suddenly prying. I began to shut off to him. I was too heartsore to make an effort, to get to the bottom of this change. Was it him or me? I didn’t care to find out. Courteous, I offered very little else. In response, Westel sought even harder to bridge the widening distance.
The day after the funeral, I’d written to Tobias and Sir Leander, informing them of what had happened. God knows, I didn’t want to, but it had to be done. I entrusted the letters to Captain Stoyan, who left for Ypres the following day. When a letter of sympathy arrived from Sir Leander weeks later, I felt strangely relieved, as if sharing the burden beyond our walls made it easier to carry.
Clutching his letter to me, I memorized the words:
The horror of what occurred must color life at Holcroft House in the darkest of hues. You have my deepest sympathies. I will pray for you, for young Will’s soul, and for the twins and servants. Mostly, I will ask God that he attend most swiftly to the recovery of your spirit, which must be sorely battered by such a terrible ordeal. Please, Mistress Anneke, if there is anything I can do to aid you in your time of grief, do not hesitate to ask. Oceans can be sailed, distance closed. I am yours to command. All it would take is your expressed need.
With Sir Leander’s words, I found a modicum of peace.
I am yours to command. All it would take is your expressed need.
The day after his letter arrived, to which I swiftly replied, another was delivered. I’d hoped it was from Tobias but, alas, there was no word from my brother, just a telling and, I felt, righteous silence. The letter was from an entirely different and quite surprising source.
The bells for none had not long rung. I’d finished in the brewery and was in the office brooding over the ledgers when Adam rapped smartly on the door. He’d quietly assumed Will’s duties as well as his own.
“This just came, Mistress Anneke. The messenger didn’t wait for a reply.”
Moving to stand by the window to read, I was afforded a view of the alehouse as well. Saskia, Blanche, Iris, and Adam had worked hard to remove all signs of damage and, though we had two less tables, too few stools, and more cracks in the walls, the rushes had been replaced, the fire re-laid, and the room was ready to serve customers again.
The last step was the most difficult to take—it was a chasm I could not yet cross. For the moment, the alehouse remained closed, though the shop still traded.
Failing to recognize the seal, I broke it and, unfurling the parchment, caught my breath when I saw the familiar script. The few harsh lines took only moments to scan.
If only you’d listened to those who knew from the outset how such outrageous plans, such ungodly behavior would conclude. You have no one to blame but yourself, Anneke Sheldrake, for the shame and ignominy you’ve brought upon your family. You forget your place in every regard and so God has seen fit to punish you, as you so justly deserve. That He chose to strike one in your care for sins you’ve committed lies upon your conscience alone. I am writing to inform you that from this day forth, you are no longer my cousin, nor of my blood. I formally and irrevocably sever all ties with the Sheldrakes. Any offers made to you in the past are rescinded. You, your brother, and your sister must needs fend for yourselves because you will receive nothing more from this quarter. May God see fit to forgive you, because no one else will.
Sinking onto the chair, I felt Hiske’s accusations leap from the paper, full of invective. They were also the truth. How could anyone forgive me when I couldn’t forgive myself?
Shame and regret swamped me. Tears pricked my eyes. I shut them to prevent them falling, but my thoughts forced them open again. I wanted to be furious with Hiske but she only stated what others were thinking—what I was thinking. I’d no doubt my name, which was already questionable in town, was now a byword. And whose fault was that? Why, yours, Anneke Sheldrake. I’d brought this all on myself.
Only, the twins would now suffer for my schemes; and Will . . . Will paid the ultimate price.
Who else might?
Folding the letter and its bitter contents away, I rose. Moving back to the window, I stared at my small demesne—the Cathaline Alehouse.
Two choices lay before me: I could either forget the alehouse and brewing and throw myself upon Lord Rainford’s mercy, or, with less than a month to acquire the monies to make the lease, reopen and do everything I could to ensure that not only my business survived, but Holcroft House and all who remained here did as well.
Beyond the shop window, a cart rolled past. Two boys ran after it, beating sticks against the sides, dogs cavorting at their heels. Some peddlers laden with pots, sacks flung over their shoulders, headed in the direction of the square. A gray palfrey cantered along the street, its hooves flinging up mud, earning the rider a scolding from an old woman with a child who tried unsuccessfully to avoid the muck. A couple of dark-robed monks strode by, looking up at the last minute to peer into the windows. I was unable to make out their features, their cowls were so deep, but felt the intensity of their stare . . . as if they knew I was looking out upon them . . .
I made up my mind.
If I didn’t continue with the alehouse then Will’s death would have been for nothing. It would mean that whoever killed him had taken more victims; it would mean they’d also murdered my ambitions. If I conceded Hiske was right, that I should have listened to her, to Tobias and those who disapproved of my attempts at independence, that I should have heeded the abbot’s warnings, sold my recipes to Brother Osbert and washed my hands of brewing, then it wasn’t just Will’s life that would be meaningless, but mine, the twins’, and the lives of everyone who supported me. I would be like the oracle who spurned Apollo and broke her promise, locked in an eternity of regret and maybes, aging into an already withered future.
“Goddamn it, Hiske Makejoy.” I gave a bark of laughter at the irony of her new name and screwed the letter into a ball. “You’ve unwittingly earned my gratitude. Without this”—I threw it into the cold grate—“I would have given up, surrendered to fate. No more. I’ll take it into my own hands, thank you.”