The Lady Brewer of London

by Karen Brooks

  While Sir Leander wished to bear these good tidings to you and does intend to do so, I would not be fulfilling my brotherly duties if I did not inform you first. Perforce, I am also using this opportunity to call you to task once more. This gives me no pleasure, Anneke, but it must be said. It is apparent to me, and no doubt others, that you harbor improper feelings for my master, ones unbecoming of your station, as your shameless display Christmas Day and frequent missives to him attest. It is my solemn wish that upon learning of his forthcoming nuptials you will banish whatever foolish fancies or imprudent desires you may have accommodated, for such are the vagaries of females I do not doubt that you imagined some romantic attachment between yourself and my lord. Sir Leander was always destined to make a fine marriage and you were prideful to think otherwise. I hope this news reminds you of your place and duties. For now, you must set your sights on restoring your reputation and the name of the family in the hope that one day I can secure for you a match worthy of a Sheldrake.

  I know you will add your felicitations to those I’ve already expressed to Sir Leander and I will be sure to pass these on.

  May God have you, Karel, and Betje in his keeping,

  Written in haste, Trinity Sunday,

  Your loving brother,

  Tobias Sheldrake

  Waves of emotion washed over me. A mixture of disbelief, outrage that Tobias could presume to second-guess my feelings and address me so brutally, and frustration I couldn’t defend myself raged within. Most of all, I felt sadness. Sadness that my brother could write to me thus and sadness that Sir Leander hadn’t seen fit to tell me himself about his pending nuptials. I now understood the coldness in his letter. He’d already begun the process of distancing himself, of placing me at arm’s length.

  Cecilia Barnham. Cecilia Rainford. Lady Cecilia Rainford. Why hadn’t he told me?

  There’d never been so much as a hint of it. But why would there be? Sir Leander was under no obligation to confide in me, to discuss his private affairs . . . I knew so little about him. Only that, whatever I may have thought at our first encounter, I was wrong, hasty . . . Just as he confessed he’d been about me.

  The way he kissed me . . . I thought . . . I hoped . . . I shut my eyes and inhaled deeply. I’d no right to hurt so.

  I could hear my heart beating in my ears, feel it hammering against my ribs. It was hard to breathe. Tears pricked my eyes, and I fought them back. The noises from the churchyard next door were more subdued but no less joyous. They simply compounded my growing misery.

  Opening my eyes minutes later, the room was darkened, the melting candles throwing only the faintest of lights as the velvet hues of evening and the crackle of the church’s bonfire closed around me. I glanced at the letter again and, though it was too dim to make out the words, they were burned into my memory. I wanted to deny Tobias’s accusations, point out to him how ludicrous, how priggish . . . Only . . . I did have feelings for Sir Leander. But they weren’t improper. How could they be, when they sprang from deep affection, friendship, and trust?

  As for my shameless display at Christmas, why, Sir Leander had initiated that kiss.

  Aye, but you did answer his passion with your own . . .

  Oh God. And I would do it again—over and over . . .

  Holding Tobias’s letter at arm’s length, I stared at it, the words beginning to blur. Leander Rainford was getting married. Soon. He was my confidant, a friend, nothing more. Nothing more . . . I wasn’t a fool. I wasn’t.

  Except in your wildest and most secret imaginings . . .

  Perhaps there, but only there, where dreams could run free . . .

  “You’re wrong about my feelings for Sir Leander Rainford, Tobias Sheldrake,” I spoke to the empty room, my voice quivering. “I do not love him. Love and even imprudent desires have never entered my reckoning, nor will they. Not ever. Not where your master is concerned. Marriage is a call for celebration, not rebuke, nor false fancy.” I picked up my goblet and drained it. “Do not concern yourself with my heart or, for that matter, my reputation, Tobias. They’re mine to give, mine to make; and I will do so.”

  Tossing my head, I walked slowly from the solar, proud that I’d shed not one tear.

  Not yet.

  Thirty-Three

  Holcroft House

  Midsummer’s Eve

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

  I perched on the edge of the bed and stared out the window. As the moon slowly traveled its arc across the sky, the revels next door ceased. The bonfire subsided and the unseasonably cool summer’s night wrapped itself around me as the house descended into slumber. The servants had made their weary ways to bed, Adam slipping in through the mews door, Blanche closing the kitchen one below. There was the creak of stairs, followed shortly after by the rustle of the curtain behind me. Saskia entered my room with the familiarity of a servant of long standing, hesitating briefly by the curtained doorway before kneeling and throwing more wood on the fire Iris had lit earlier.

  “Are you all right, Mistress Anneke?” she asked.

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” I didn’t turn around.

  She sighed and, boring a hole into my back with that stare of hers, willing me to meet her gaze, stood to one side of the hearth.

  “Because it’s not like you to come to bed without bidding us good night.”

  “It’s not, is it? Forgive me. A headache prevented it.” My lie was as apparent as the flames licking the wood.

  “A headache?” She tutted in false sympathy. “That’s too bad. It’s no trouble to fix you something. Or”—her tone altered—“I could comb your hair like I used to when you were small and we would chat. You found that soothing.”

  I twisted and gave her a weak smile. “It’s not necessary. I’m hoping it’s nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure. Good night, Saskia.”

  Her face revealed how hurt she was by my abrupt dismissal and how unconvinced she was by my words. It didn’t make me feel any better.

  Waiting till the curtain fell into place and Saskia’s soft tread faded, I rose and clambered onto the window seat. The window was open, the shutters flung back. As I inhaled deeply, the tepid scents of evening entered—mostly sweet, tinged with woodsmoke, salt, ale, and the faint ordure of the animals. High in the sky, the moon showed half her face, casting a silvery glow over the garden, forging dark shapes and unmaking others. Stars twinkled, scattered over the blanket of night like tiny treasures. Over the garden wall, a light bobbed within the church; Father Clement preparing for the midnight prayers, matins. I offered my own swift one to the Lord and to Mother Mary, though my heart wasn’t really in it.

  Despite what I claimed, my heart was with Sir Leander Rainford.

  Burying my face in my hands, I resisted the urge to weep, to fling myself upon the pillow and cry the way one does when senseless, shortsighted dreams are dashed. Dreams that, until Tobias announced Sir Leander’s forthcoming marriage, I didn’t know I’d had—or did I? According to Tobias, they were obvious to everyone.

  How could I be so stupid? I cringed with shame.

  Resting my chin against my shoulder and wrapping one arm around my belly, I concentrated on quashing the emotions that threatened to overwhelm me. An owl hooted, its movement swift against the starry firmament, making me jump. Releasing a deep shuddering sigh, I let go of my stomach and traced mindless patterns on the sill.

  When Father was alive, I’d always hoped that one day a suitable husband would be found for me. Oh, we’d had offers. As soon as I turned sixteen, Father and Hiske were approached by the likes of the cloth merchant’s son, Robert Mercer, a cocky, ill-mannered man who spent his father’s money faster than he could make it. Father rebuffed him and Robert married Ellen de Lys, daughter of another merchant who specialized in fragrant unguents and oils. They’d taken their business to Saint-Germain. That was four years ago and I hadn’t heard anything of them since. Then there was Sir Abel Orped, an old
knight who had lost an arm in France and four wives besides and was given land and a small annuity by Lord Rainford for his services. Making no secret that he wanted a wife and sons to farm it for him, I was his third effort at securing a woman in a month. Fortunately, despite Hiske’s assertions he’d be a fine husband, Father rejected his offer as well. I wonder if it was because of the man’s association with Lord Rainford rather than his violent reputation.

  There’d been others too. None had been right, according to Father.

  I’d always believed he was waiting for the best offer, the right man, before he gave me away in marriage.

  And now? As an orphan and eldest child, I’d no one to speak for me, to tender a dowry that might compensate for my shortcomings: namely, two young siblings, brewing, an alehouse, and a blistering reputation.

  All that aside, was there ever a time when I could have attracted the legitimate attentions of a nobleman? Once, mayhap . . . But ever since Mother died and Father made the contract with Lord Rainford, the best I could hope for in a husband was a struggling merchant or mayhap a poor knight . . . Never a peer of the realm, not even the youngest son of one . . . Not even a cripple . . .

  I sighed. It was long, drawn from the depths of my being. Truth be told, before I decided upon brewing, Sir Leander was unavailable to me no matter what. The son of a lord forming a union with the eldest child of one of his vassals wasn’t possible. Though we’d all heard stories of nobles marrying farm girls and kings taking housemaids as mistresses, they belonged in the realm of make-believe, not my reality.

  For the time being, marriage to any man was out of the question. And so was Sir Leander Rainford, no matter what my mind tried to whisper. Then why could I not dismiss him? Why was hope, despite my bold denials, still nestling in my breast? Tears welled, burning the hollow my heart had become.

  The night was so quiet and still. The distant crash of waves could just be discerned. A dog barked, the leaves rustled, and the faint breeze carried the sounds of Father Clement’s novices chanting. The bells of St. Stephen’s chimed and St. Bartholomew’s began to answer.

  It was no good; sleep wasn’t going to attend me this evening, not yet.

  Staring across the yard, my gaze came to rest on the brewhouse, the place that had given me, in one way, such prospects, and in another, such misery. The place that ensured the family survived and I maintained independence. Yet it was also proving to be a millstone that might yet drown me in good intentions.

  Thoughts of drowning led to Father, which then led to Lord Rainford, the house, and what started me brewing in the first place, which led to consideration of wine, ale, and beer. By God, I needed another drink. I needed to drink myself into oblivion and forget the nagging ache lodged beneath my breastbone, and either dam or shed the tears that stoppered up my throat.

  Grabbing my shawl, I left the room and crept downstairs, avoiding the spots where the floor protested.

  Entering the kitchen, I could hear Blanche’s soft snores from her room behind the fireplace. Searching for a cup in the dark wasn’t easy; neither was finding a jug of ale. I needed light and to make noise. I couldn’t risk drinking in here—not only might I wake Blanche, but I didn’t want the servants catching me in my weakness. I yearned for solitude, for the drowsy numbness ale or beer would hasten.

  Unlatching the kitchen door, I ran through the garden and into the brewery.

  My heart was beating savagely; I felt like a naughty girl or a woman embarking on an illicit liaison. The idea gave me pause and sadness began to crawl through me again. I shut the door, fumbling until I found a candle. The flame spat to life and cast a small halo. I looked around. The kiln and oven were still warm, emanating a faint, comforting glow. Beneath the windows, the cooling ale pooled in the troughs, the moonbeams making the surface sparkle. Singing softly to the ale and the crones as I moved around, I found a tankard, slipped my tunic over my head so as not to stain it, pushed up my elegant sleeves, and recklessly immersed the vessel in the trough, enjoying the mellow feel of the liquid against my flesh. Raising my voice slightly in honor to the goddess of brews, it was as though I drew from the source.

  Lifting the tankard, the ale spilled over the sides, down my forearms and back into the trough. Before I lost any more, I slurped the foam and then drank deeply, relishing the way it slid down my throat, appreciating the notes of honey, mint, and even the richness of the mandragora I’d added. On a fancy, I’d paid a goodly sum for it from a hawker who had come to the house, wanting to re-create the draft it was said Circe gave to Odysseus’s crew.

  Imagining myself to be the goddess Circe, I plunged my tankard into the ale again and drank, opening my throat. After all, I indulged not to quench a thirst but to summon forgetfulness. Even as I filled my cup a third time, I knew I would pay for this folly on the morrow, but as my mind clouded and thoughts became difficult to separate, my heart slowed and the pain afflicting my soul dissolved. Sinking onto the floor, my back to the trough, the agreeable heat of the stove offering solace as well, Leander Rainford, husbands, brewing, and the future became distant winking lands to which I one day might venture.

  One day . . . maybe . . . if . . .

  They erupted from nowhere, the tears I’d thought banished, the sorrow I didn’t know I carried so very deep within. They fell fast and furiously, for Mother, Father, Will, Patroclus and Achilles, for the cruelty of Hiske, for being thought a whore by a man I knew I could so easily love . . . but I didn’t. Nay. I did not. I do not love you, Leander Rainford. As God is my witness, I do not. Sobs were torn from my throat and, unable to sit straight any longer, I curled up in a ball on the floor, uncaring that rats scuttled nearby, or that ash from the kiln was my pillow. I wept, hiccuped, and wept some more.

  That was how Westel found me, ten minutes or days later, I was uncertain; I didn’t care. My pride, my flighty ambitions, my dreams were nothing more than blemishes upon my bodice, runnels of moisture upon my cheeks.

  He stood over me, head tilted, those great innocent eyes dark pools that stared and stared. Then, with a sigh I took for tenderness, he knelt down and lifted me into his arms.

  At first, I welcomed his embrace. The firmness of his hold, the confidence of his murmuring voice, which didn’t seek to question or admonish me, but spoke words I’d longed to hear from other lips. Resting my head against his chest, his fingers wove through my hair, untangling my plaits. The action was soothing, pleasing. One hand stroked my arms, while his lips, whispering, whispering, began to travel from my ear to my neck. I could smell ale on his breath and the reek of old wine. Lost between knowing I had to sit up and extract myself from this comfort, but also wanting to allow the moment to last, to surrender to it for just a little longer and let the pain of remembering fade, I hesitated. A voice inside me was shouting “Move,” while another couldn’t summon a coherent thought.

  Westel’s tone changed. The words were hard to distinguish at first, I’d drunk so much ale and so very quickly. As they became clearer, I tensed. He spoke of God, of the first woman Eve, and prayed for the salvation of my soul and his. The words were fast, deep, and wild. When he began to beg forgiveness, for what, I was uncertain, common sense prevailed and, though my limbs didn’t want to cooperate, I struggled to extricate myself from his grasp.

  He tightened his arms. His hands, at first gentle, clenched firmly. I stiffened.

  “Westel. What do you think you’re doing? Let me go.” I pushed against him.

  “Sorry, mistress, but God forgive me, I cannot. I’ve waited so patiently for this chance.” Twining his fingers in my hair as if in a caress, he bundled my thick locks at the nape and pulled hard, forcing me to arch backward. Those long, white fingers I’d once admired easily captured my hands in one of his own, caging them.

  He laughed, a sinister snarl I’d never heard from him before. I began to flail and whimper as he brought his face closer. Wrenching my head further back, so my neck was strained and the tears so recently stanched fell again, I�
��d no recourse but to kick. My first attempt missed, but my second met its mark. With a grunt, he doubled over and then with a strength that defied reason, hauled me off the floor by the roots of my hair and bellowed.

  Slamming my head against the trough, he released me briefly. Pain exploded in my forehead. Dazed, blood trickled into my eyes as I rolled onto my back and tried to sit up. Before I could, he straddled me. Seizing control of my hands again with one of his, he fumbled at my bodice.

  Bright lights danced before my eyes, bands of torment lanced my head, and hot blood sped down my brow. Above me, in the semi-darkness of the brewery, Westel’s angelic face was mottled by light and shadow, his huge eyes reflecting the flame of the candle, and he transformed into something from the abbot’s pulpit, an emissary of hell come to take me.

  “Slattern! Whore!” His spittle rained upon me. “Weapon of the devil. You tempt all men, but above all, you seek to first tempt and now refuse me.”

  “Westel, nay, please—” The room spun, and Westel merged with it; a huge black wave was about to swallow everything.

  “Shut up!” The slap was vicious, loud, my cries muted. “I’m a mere man, too weak to resist. God knows I’ve tried. But I’m flesh and blood and why should I be denied what others are not?”

  My breathing was labored, my mind in splinters. Agony rode my will, breaking it into submission.

  “God will understand. God will forgive. Like all women, you’re the temptress, Satan’s whore come to seduce mankind.”

  His mad sermon continued unabated, slaver flew from his mouth. Tearing my dress, he groped my body through the rent fabric, rubbed his hands, his face, his mouth against me. His eyes were fierce; his entire body trembled. I could feel his excitement as he thrust himself against me like a rutting pig.

  Twisting and turning, I struggled, but he was stronger and that leaden wave pulled me under. I mustered a cry.