The Lady Brewer of London

by Karen Brooks

Dragging me the last steps to the entry, Alyson bellowed in a voice that would wake the dead, calling for Adam, Juliana, and the rest of her women.

  The girl named Juliana reappeared, her mouth a circle, her eyes like cartwheels.

  “Fetch the Moor’s wife,” said Goodwife Alyson. “Now.”

  With a pale-faced nod, Juliana darted away.

  Adam emerged from the direction of the mews, running, Harry on his heels. One look and he relieved Alyson of her burden and swung me into his arms.

  “What is it?” he asked, his eyes frantic.

  “It’s the baby. It’s coming,” said Alyson.

  “Nay, nay,” I whimpered as another pain seized me. “It can’t be, not yet. It’s too early.”

  “Aye, that it is,” said Goodwife Alyson, and offered her hand to Betje, who slipped hers in it, her terrified face looking from me to Adam to the goodwife and back again.

  I gritted my teeth as another wave of pain swept me. “Better fetch a priest as well,” I gasped.

  “A priest!” said Alyson, pushing open the door and past the girls who’d flocked to the entrance. “You’re healthy, you’re young. Babies come early all the time.” She patted my hand and encouraged Adam to follow her and Betje up the stairs. They were narrow and dark and my shoulders and legs struck the walls a few times, despite Adam’s best efforts. “You’ve no reason to fear—no real cause for alarm.” I saw her exchange a look with Adam.

  Below us, the women talked over one another, and in the snatches I heard the optimism and pessimism that attends every birth.

  “I don’t fear,” I gasped. “I pray.”

  “We all do, sweet child,” said Alyson, swinging open the door to a bedroom on the upper floor, pushing Betje through first before Adam followed with me in his arms. “My girls won’t cease to offer prayers until I tell them so.”

  Holding Adam’s shoulder, I heaved myself up in his arms, fixing my gaze upon Alyson, my breathing ragged and shallow. “You don’t understand. I don’t want the priest for myself. I’ve no intention of dying. I want it for the child.”

  Alyson tut-tutted as she pulled back the curtains, threw the rugs from the large bed onto the floor and lifted a clean sheet off a dresser, intending to spread it over the mattress. “The midwife I’ve sent for, Mistress Verina Vetazes, is the best in Southwark. Your child won’t die, Anna, not if God wills and we’ve any say.”

  “You misunderstand. There’s no question about this. The child will not survive and I want the priest to ensure that when it’s born, it is shriven. I don’t want it going to its grave in an unholy state.”

  Alyson stared at me in dismay. “You must not think such things. Don’t just stand there, put her down gently,” she snapped at Adam.

  “Ah, Alyson,” I sighed as Adam laid me against the cool, fresh sheet. “You believed me a decent soul, but I tell you for certes, I’m not.”

  Squeezing a cloth in a bowl of water, Alyson sat on the bed and wiped my brow. The water was scented, warm, and refreshing. I shut my eyes.

  “And what makes you so certain?”

  “For from the moment I knew this child existed, I’ve done nothing but pray for its death.”

  Thirty-Seven

  The Swanne

  February

  The year of Our Lord 1407 in the eighth year of the reign of Henry IV

  “God forgive you, mistress,” said Adam, his face a picture of misery and concern. “You don’t mean that.” Adam stroked my cheek, brushing aside a tendril of hair.

  “I do, Adam. May God forgive me, I do.”

  Alyson moved aside and began to usher Betje toward the door, calling for boiling water, cloths, and other items on the way. I glared at the offense my body had become.

  “I never wanted this.” My wild whispers made Adam flinch, but I was uncaring as yet another pain tore through me. When it eased, I continued. “Why would I want it any other way? Why should this . . . this”—I gestured to the swell pushing against my tunic—“being live when my Karel, Louisa, Saskia, and Will do not? Answer me that, Adam.” The love and sorrow in Adam’s eyes were almost too much. I couldn’t hold his gaze. “Even its cursed father is dead. Born of violence, it will do nothing but beget more. It cannot be. It has no right.”

  “Nay, Anneke. The child has every right. It did not choose the manner of conception any more than you did.” I swung my head, my eyes wide, my heart pounding, my discomfort momentarily forgotten. “Love.” Adam lowered his voice and once more, caressed my cheek. “The love of a good mother will heal its wretched beginnings, will erase them from its soul . . . And God knows, this child may even ease yours . . .”

  Before I could respond, a tide of sheer agony swept over me. Panting and gasping, I grasped the sheet in my fists, lifting it from the mattress, baring my teeth like an animal.

  “Childbed is no place for a man.” The accent was heavy, odd. Appearing over Adam’s shoulder was a woman with skin the color of burnt barley and a voice like hot honey.

  Reluctantly, Adam rose, touching my hand lightly. “Think on what I said, mistress, and may Mother Mary and St. Margaret watch over you and your babe. Bless you. I will go to Betje.”

  Waiting until Adam was escorted from the room by one of Alyson’s women, the newcomer sat beside me and began tugging at the laces that held my tunic together.

  “You’ve no need of St. Margaret or Mother Mary. Verina Vetazes is here.” The words were molten, glowing, strangely soothing, mesmerizing. She began to pull the garment over my head. Wanting to complain, an invisible vise crushed my womb once more, snatching words away.

  “Breathe deeply,” said Verina of the Voice. “Here, squeeze my hand.”

  I did. So tightly, I was certain her fine bones would break.

  “She is strong, this one.” Mistress Verina nodded confidently at Alyson. “The babe may be early, but it should survive.” Before I could ask how she could be so certain, Alyson and two other women were beside me, pulling off the rest of my clothes, wiping my sweating brow and décolletage, putting a wine cup to my lips and parting my legs shamelessly.

  Steady, knowing hands felt my stomach. Verina pressed and prodded, spreading the lips of my throbbing cleft and placing fingers deep inside me. I inhaled sharply. It didn’t hurt, not really, it was simply the shock of being handled so boldly.

  “We have some time yet,” said Verina, removing her fingers and wiping them on a cloth. I was horrified to see they were red. “Give her some more wine. Take small sips.” I tried to sit up higher in the bed. Pillows were quickly thrust behind me as I was assisted into an upright position. It was then I saw the carmine stains between my legs, upon the sheet.

  “This is normal,” said Verina as I began to whimper.

  “My mother . . . she—she . . .”

  “Ah.” Verina reached for my hand and placed it firmly between both of hers. Long, tapered fingers curled around mine. “She died in childbed?”

  “Aye.” I didn’t recognize myself in the response. I was twelve years old again, bewildered, scared, expecting golden joy only to discover the blackest grief.

  “I will not lie to you, mistress. This will not be easy, but I believe you will endure and so will the life inside you.” Her eyes were amber, flecked with the light from the candles. They were kind eyes, wise ones. “The past will not enter this room to make the future. You and I together, along with this child”—she rested a hand on me again—“we will forge our own.”

  I’d no words left. I was glad this Mistress Verina, with her thrilling voice and confident ways, was beside me, and Alyson and her women, Juliana and Leda. This strange space had become a female haven, where the mysteries of birth and motherhood would unfold.

  Alyson sat opposite Mistress Verina, offering me her hand and a jasper stone to ease my birthing pains. Leda and young Juliana, who revealed herself able and shrewd, flitted in the background, tearing cloths, changing the bloodied water, passing lotions that Mistress Verina and Alyson took turns to rub into my
flesh, before heaving me to my feet and comforting my groans.

  Candles guttered and were replaced; fresh logs were put on the fire. Outside, church bells sounded the hours and I knew when a new day had started. Between each fresh bout of agony, I thought on Adam’s words, on the existence inside me struggling to be born, resisting my will that it die. As pain wracked my flesh asunder, guilt tore at my heart. I wasn’t sure which was worse.

  I came to the awful conclusion that Adam was right. The innocent soul inside me had no more control over its fate than I did mine. Yet I’d held it accountable for not only destiny, but also the sins of its father. Where I was unable to seek retribution from the villain himself, I sought to wreak vengeance upon the one thing I could—his ungodly spawn. Only, it wasn’t ungodly. It wasn’t culpable. And it wasn’t only his. Mistaken in my grief and frustration, I’d allowed hatred to blossom alongside my babe . . . my babe . . . How curious and terrifying those words sounded in my heart. I tested them again and again.

  My babe . . . my babe . . .

  * * *

  My body was a rag that had been wrung through a laundress’s mangle. I couldn’t think, couldn’t focus. Pain and the constant rush of hot liquid on my thighs, followed by a soothing wetness returned me to the place where hurt ruled. Aware of featherlight caresses upon my sodden brow, of solid fingers against my belly, the hours passed in a fugue of ghastly aches and barely remembered conversations. Trying to distract me, to keep me conscious, Alyson questioned me about my life before Dover. Why had I come to London? Why was I traveling at such a dreadful time of year, and in my condition? Drifting in and out of sense, the waking world and that of my dreams blended, and in my fragile state, I revealed all to the goodwife. After all, was she not owed my tale? There was Mother, Father, Hiske, Karel, Betje before the fire and then after. Louisa laughing, Saskia holding me, Karel jumping up and down on my bed. Tobias stood nearby, shaking his finger, priggish, unforgiving. There was Master Makejoy and a pile of coins, Adam and the great shaggy hounds, Sir Rainford and his astonishing capitulation. Finally, there was Sir Leander, his tender arms, his flashing eyes, his warm lips pressed against mine. I opened myself to the sensations only to find that as I did, the pressure changed and it was no longer Sir Leander, but Westel Calkin who held me, hurt me, thrust into me, forcing me apart . . .

  A scream tore from my exhausted body and I grabbed my knees, pulled toward my own center as Alyson and Mistress Verina, helping me squat upon the rushes, supported my back.

  “Push!” Verina’s melodic incantations became brusque commands.

  Unable to do anything else as my entire body metamorphosed into a great maw that would spasm until it had expelled the stranger inside, I focused all my weary willpower on thrusting the little being out, toward the room, the women waiting for it, toward survival. Son or daughter, I willed it to live through this; despite the animosity I had harbored, I wanted it to know that I didn’t want it to die. Not anymore.

  Tears began to spill down my cheeks, mingling with the sweat. Another cry was wrenched from me and with all my might, I willed my child forth.

  There was a moment when I thought I would tear in two, and then, with a rush of heat and blood, I felt it come.

  “That’s it, once more. Push, push, sweetling,” said Alyson, her face beside mine, her voice choked with emotion. “The babe has crowned . . . it’s a beauty . . . That’s it, that’s it, by Mother Mary and all the saints . . .”

  There was a tiny cough followed by a small cry. It spewed from the diminutive, ruddy being coated in the fluids that mingled within me and flew straight to my heart.

  “It’s a girl,” said Mistress Verina, and, after holding her aloft for me to see, placed her on the bed, tying the cord that still connected us.

  Another spasm rippled through my body, catching me unawares. I gasped and Alyson grabbed my shoulders, holding me steady. “It’s simply the afterbirth, Anna, don’t you worry.”

  “Nay,” said Mistress Verina, passing my babe, my daughter, to Juliana, who took her as if she were Venetian glass. “Not only the afterbirth. There’s another babe yet to come.”

  Alyson gasped. “Another. Sweet Mother of Jesus!”

  I didn’t think I’d heard Mistress Verina aright. Unable to speak, my lips opened and shut, my mind dulled for a moment then burst with light, as if the god Apollo had driven his chariot into my head. My thoughts splintered in different directions, into both sadness and elation all at once. It was intoxicating, confusing. They joined again as they headed toward the same destination—my mother’s memory.

  There are two. Twins . . .

  Once more I lapsed in and out of consciousness as hours passed and I staggered from floor to bed and back again. The other life inside me, the brother or sister to my daughter, would not or could not leave my womb.

  Blood flowed freely. I heard my daughter wailing and another woman enter the room and take her. There were whispers, touches, kisses, soft, urgent prayers, and ghastly potions poured between my lips.

  “You can do it, Anneke, you can make it work,” said a voice, and I wondered in my delirium if Mother had come from heaven to support me.

  Try as I might, this time I could not fulfill my mother’s desires and, as the shutters in the room rattled and a weak gray light filtered into the room, the house around us and road and river outside awoke, my remaining babe and I drifted away . . .

  * * *

  When he asks me in the years to come, I’ll have no tale to tell my son about his birth, except that it was almost, as everyone feared, a keening instead of a joyous welcome.

  Just as it had with Mother, blood flowed from me in a continuous torrent. With each tightening of my womb and the accompanying pain, it grew worse; neither cloths nor linens nor the actions of the midwife stemmed it. A copper tang caught the back of my throat and filled my lungs. There were whispers, and the looks in my direction were filled with a knowingness I didn’t want to acknowledge. Only when Alyson sat by my head and took my limp hand in her own, her face a tired ruin, did I understand that in the hearts of those around me, I was a dead woman.

  Light-headed, fading, I nonetheless met Alyson’s sad eyes with steely ones.

  “Nay.”

  The word was a weapon of iron, wielded to protect, defend.

  “Nay,” I repeated. Louder. Firmer. Betje’s face swam before me, disconsolate, afraid, her scars apparent on her face; her soul unmarked. Like the babes I was bringing forth, she needed me. I was not going to surrender, not if I had any say in the matter. I heaved myself upright, the room spinning, my equilibrium momentarily scattering.

  “Do not look at me as if I’ve already departed this realm,” I snapped at Alyson, squeezing her hand so tightly, she recoiled.

  “Anna, forgive me, I . . .”

  “I’m not letting death defeat me. But—” A sword of calescent agony lanced my womb. “But,” I began again when the pain retreated, “you must fight by my side.”

  With a trembling smile, she returned my grip. “I’m here.”

  Letting her go, I pushed aside my sweat-drenched hair and stared at the others. “Doubt has no place in this room. If you remain, you must fight with me. If you cannot, I must bid you leave.”

  There was a stunned silence before Alyson clapped her hands and the women responded grimly, “We fight.” Their words may have been forced but no one left the room. My relief sent me back into the pillows.

  “Now,” I said, my attention fixed on Mistress Verina, who knelt at my heels. “Tell me what’s happening, what I must do.” I coughed and the room dissolved. Despite my bravado, my strength was evaporating, streaming out of me in an ever-widening crimson stain.

  With a tilt of her dark head and fire in her eyes, Mistress Verina rested a firm palm upon my rippling stomach. I’d no need to demand her commitment—I could feel it pulsing through me.

  “You must use the great courage you have within to anchor you to this life.” Her gaze flickered to the first bab
e before pressing on my abdomen. “To your children.”

  I nodded once. “Go on.”

  “The babe is facing the wrong way—it doesn’t want to part from you. This is why you’re losing so much blood.” Another hot gush escaped. “Far too much. The child will kill you and itself if we do not separate you. To do this, I must turn it.”

  I bit my lip as another wrench took my breath away. Panting, I saw the determination gleaming within the midwife and drew from it.

  “Can you?”

  “I can . . . but—”

  “But?”

  “It will . . . hurt you . . .”

  I began to laugh but it changed into a wail. “I hurt already, what’s a little more?”

  “You misunderstand,” said Mistress Verina. “The hurt will last a lifetime. If you survive . . . if the babe should, I doubt you’ll be able to bear more children.”

  My head fell back. Alyson wiped my brow, her touch swift, welcome. When she’d finished, I raised my head and stared at Mistress Verina, framed by my bloodied knees.

  My constant damning of the children was not to go unpunished after all. “If this is a choice I must make, so be it. Turn the babe. Let God have His justice and decide our fate.”

  Many weeks later, Adam told me the scream I released, as Mistress Verina twisted the baby in my stomach and I gave one final, inconceivable push, stopped everyone in their tracks. The cats sunning themselves on sills paused amidst their endless grooming. Horses lifted their heads from nosebags; birds ceased their chattering and workers their tasks. The women in The Swanne hesitated in their ablutions and shuddered. Yet, as the bells for none sounded moments after, another sound came—the lusty wails of my newborn son.

  Wrenched from my womb, he looked more like a butcher’s afterthought than a child. Lifting him toward the ceiling so I could see his small, wrinkled form, the blue and purple cord connecting us throbbing in the suffused light, I knew that God in His wisdom and benevolence had forgiven me my evil thoughts, my desire to destroy what He’d created. While the manner of the creation was surely not His intention, the result was. My children had been gifted to me for a reason, and I would do my utmost to understand what that might be. Sending a swift prayer to Him and Mother Mary, it was only then that I allowed myself to truly rest into the pillows and release the jasper stone, which I’d clutched so hard the imprint remained in my palm for hours afterward.