The Lady Brewer of London
Page 44
Right had nothing to do with any of it.
“And it’s right that you’re here?” I bit back. Sir Leander’s whore had grown teeth. “That you abandoned your wife—oh aye, just as you have made a point of learning of my folly, I too have learned of yours—to search for your squire’s sister?”
“You’re more to me than my squire’s sister, Anneke.”
“It’s Anna now.”
“Not to me. Never to me. You’ll always be Anneke.”
Turning my head aside so he couldn’t see the tears that welled, I shut my eyes and took a deep breath. Once, I’d longed to hear those words from his mouth. But that was in a different time, when daydreams were still possible, before a monster had ripped those from me and destroyed my family with the flames of his hatred . . .
But that wasn’t true either. I would be the phoenix, the creature who rose from the ashes to soar among the clouds, stronger than before. After all, was I not taking another chance with the brewery? Was I not risking all to make a living? Why not with love as well? After all I’d lost, did I not deserve that?
I no longer had a maidenhead to barter for a title or wealth through marriage. What remained—my body, my love—didn’t need to be sold. My brewing and Alyson’s support allowed me that choice at least. From here on I could choose to give both to whomever I wanted.
All this raced through my head in the time it took Sir Leander to retie his cape. He picked up his cane again, melancholy etched upon his features, as if he were mourning an end. Before he could step out of reach, I rose to my knees and grabbed the edges of his cape. Was it love he was offering? Did it matter?
Lightning split the sky, followed closely by a long low growl of thunder. Dogs began to howl.
When he turned around, questions on his lips, I let go of his clothes and ever so slowly, my cheeks flaming at my daring, drew my shift over my head and threw it to the floor. I shook out my hair until it draped my body, an unruly veil of russet and red.
Drawing his breath in sharply, Sir Leander took me hostage with his eyes. “Anneke.” My name became music, a wild note to which my heart danced.
He stood motionless, only the muscle in his cheek and the throbbing vein in his neck evidence of his perturbation. I willed him to touch me, to ignite the passion bubbling inside us both.
“Do I look so very terrible?” I asked.
Sir Leander gave a bark of laughter, his twinkling eyes capturing every last inch of me, his mouth curving into an appreciative smile.
“Terribly beautiful. Good God, woman. What are you doing to me?”
Unable to wait any longer, I began to undo his laces, pushing the heavy wool cape from his shoulders. It tumbled onto the rushes, followed by his cane, which struck the wood of the bed like a clarion, a call to love.
Clasping my face in his hands, he forced me to look at him. “You’re playing with fire, Anneke,” he said, unaware of the effect his words had upon me. I was the phoenix, after all. Fire was my element. From its ashes I would rise.
“If I don’t leave now, I never will,” he said.
Taking his hands, I placed them upon my breasts, gasping as they filled his warm, busy hands, and drew him closer and closer still, falling back onto the bed so he was forced to follow. With a groan that echoed in his chest and in the darkness outside, he bent to kiss me.
Placing my lips softly against his, I murmured.
“Only if that’s a promise . . .”
Forty-Four
The Swanne
The next day
The year of Our Lord 1407 in the eighth year of the reign of Henry IV
Never before had I so appreciated the artistry of the troubadours and poets, how they could capture an emotion with a mere word or phrase. Pain, sorrow, grief, loss, joy, aye, all these, but the manner in which they described the greatest of sensations—love—made me marvel at their gifts. Had not a thousand ships been launched in love’s name? A war of ten years fought for it? Had not Socrates dedicated an entire symposium to defining what this strange and wonderful affliction was? To be able to chronicle the feelings that course through one’s heart and head, one’s body, the irrational thoughts, the daring and belief in the impossible, was surely indicative of God’s grace.
For certes, it was beyond my abilities.
Thus as I lay abed, watching the weak gray light of morning play across the ceiling, although I knew the coming day was likely to be dull and cloudy, I could swear the blessed sun flowed through my window, promising nothing but warmth and luminosity.
I stared at the man who lay sound asleep beside me, his smooth chest rising and falling, his long lashes sweeping his cheeks, the dark bristles of new growth the only shadow on this bright, glorious dawn. It took all my willpower not to rouse him with a kiss or, my cheeks colored as my eyes dropped to the area between his thighs, covered by only a sheet, some other means.
Smiling, I rose quietly, relishing my nakedness for perhaps the first time in my life. Told my body was made for sin, I’d felt ashamed of what I possessed. No more. If what I enjoyed with Leander was a sin, I would embrace it over and over and rename myself Eve.
Or Lilith.
Washing myself quickly with the water from the ewer and basin on the cupboard, my eyes journeyed back toward the bed and my sleeping lover.
Lover. Leander. How beautiful those words sounded together. How right.
I dressed in my kirtle and tunic, binding up my hair, which Leander had so thoroughly tousled. “If you knew how I’ve longed to do this,” he’d said and twined his fingers through it, using my locks to caress my nipples, my thighs, to hold me in place while his lips ventured where I’d ne’er guessed they’d dare . . . I replayed the night—not so much our lovemaking, that was easy, a mere heartbeat or breath away, sending darts of pleasure throughout my sated body—but our conversation.
We’d talked of Elmham Lenn, of what happened after he left—the alehouse, the fire, the deaths. He’d held me close as, for the first time in months, I quietly wept. Tangled in his naked limbs, secure, I found a haven. We spoke of Westel. I didn’t need to elaborate. He knew.
“His price was not high enough,” he muttered darkly, referring to his death in the fire that consumed the house and so much more. Upon that, we were agreed.
We talked of his marriage, of his wife the Lady Cecilia and, as strange as it sounds, I loved him more that he didn’t ignore her. Begging forgiveness that he didn’t relay the news of his nuptials to me himself, he admitted that at first he was relieved to pass the task to Tobias.
“As soon as the feeling swept me, I knew I must not shun my duty and told your brother the same. That I would write. But when he suggested you might misconstrue my intentions, I understood it was a test.”
“A test? Oh. As to whether or not my feelings were reciprocated.”
“Aye. Or mine. You see, I knew my own heart. Of yours, I was less certain. I could not have your brother broker our relations, especially with my wedding imminent, nor did I want him confirming his suspicions. I knew you would bear the brunt of his wrath. Tobias has firm ideas of propriety.” He smiled fondly. “Thus, I said nothing. Can you forgive me?”
I did.
Their marriage was one of convenience, and though his wife was not told why he had cut short their honeymoon, she didn’t complain either. Ensconced in their London house, Ashlar Place, Lady Cecilia was preoccupied with ordering new furniture and fabrics and ensuring the servants were disciplined and the household efficient. “All that a woman of her station should,” I’d muttered, without rancor or envy. Mayhap, there was a little of the latter. How could there not be when my days were spent arranging grain, water, coal, and wood and worrying whether the servants had emptied the mash tuns or the troughs on time, whether the right herbs were added, the water temperature was just so, and the wort boiled for the correct amount of time. If it wasn’t these details preoccupying me, it was whether the ale-conners passed a brew or if all our barrels would sell.
That was mine. All mine.
Around me, the house began to stir. The pitter-patter of feet across rushes, the closing of doors and hushed greetings sounded. From outside came the clomp of hooves and the cries of bakers and other vendors peddling their wares on the way to market.
As I sat to lace my boots, it occurred to me there was only one difficult topic of conversation between Leander and me: Tobias.
After Elmham Lenn, Leander had sent Tobias back to London to join Lady Cecilia and hadn’t seen him since. All he could tell me was that dealing with Karel’s death, the fire, and Betje’s injuries had not been easy for my brother and that he’d spent a great deal of time praying.
“For Karel’s soul,” I whispered in the dark.
Leander didn’t respond immediately. “Nay, my love, for yours.”
Tobias wasn’t alone in blaming me for what occurred; I couldn’t condemn him for that. Then why did I feel . . . betrayed? Abandoned by my own? No matter how I tried to justify his reaction, it rankled.
“You will be reconciled,” said Leander. “I will make sure.”
Nestled in his arms, it would have been easy to believe, to allow him to order Tobias to behave cordially toward me, but it wouldn’t work. Tobias and I had to reach our own accord, not have one negotiated by his master. Otherwise we’d be like England and France, forever snarling across roiling waters, always trying to seize territory from each other or, worse, pretending affection. I couldn’t bear that.
I explained this to Leander and he fell silent, stroking my hair, his beating heart offering consolation of one kind while the lingering taste of him on my tongue presented another. There was only one subject we hadn’t yet discussed and, as I drifted off to sleep, I knew I would have to broach it soon.
Leaving him to sleep, I closed the bedroom door behind me and hesitated, wondering if there was time to see the twins before I went about my business. The babble of voices from below was the answer. The day had begun without me. Ambivalent about not bidding my babes good morning, as was my custom, but knowing they would be brought to me later, I swiftly ran down the stairs. When I reached the lower floors, servants were sweeping out the large fireplace in the hall; Alyson’s voice carried through an open door, Adam answered her with less animation, while in the kitchen and beyond, the oven was stoked, bread was rising on the counter, pails of milk were being slopped over the floor, and a pottage was being nursed back to life. Greetings were exchanged along with a couple of knowing looks. No doubt, the reason for my lateness would be a source of gossip.
Warmth flooded my body, the notion not nearly as disturbing as mayhap it should be.
Opening the cellar door, I descended the stairs to the brewery, praying no one else had yet arrived, for while my babes would forgive my absence this morn, the wort and corner crones would not.
The Lady Fortune was with me. The brewery was deserted. Lighting only one torch and throwing some kindling into the kiln and ensuring it took, I bent over the troughs and, gently parting the foam that had built up overnight, lowered my arm and sang the ale to life. After all the rushing I’d done, peace descended. Here, before the trough, alone with the brew I’d created, I was able to pause, to enjoy the solitariness of the experience, the coolness of the liquid, the way it clung to my arm, like a lover . . . a smile tugged my mouth. Aye, like a lover.
Feelings ascended from that secret part of me, the place I’d refused to seek, and filled me with such ecstasy, I was tingling from my head to the soles of my feet, as if I were a fuse about to erupt into a dancing flame. The song deepened, strengthened, each word carrying with it the love I bore for the man lying in my bed.
All this was imparted into the ale and, I swear upon the sacred soul of the Blessed Mother Mary, the brew began to glow.
Withdrawing my arm, I continued to sing, lost in the haunting, joyous melody. Dipping a beaker into the gleaming liquid, I held it aloft before honoring the corner crones. Singing to the wise old women of ale, I knew as they lapped my offering, they also imbibed memories of the evening before and my intense pleasure. That was how Emma and Constance, my children tucked against their sides, found me. Their mouths dropped open, not in wonder, but discomfort. This was an unholy celebration of the kind the church preached against. I saw it in their eyes, their cautious smiles. I didn’t care.
A gross error of judgment on my part—but I was not to know that until much later.
Both babes broke into wide smiles as I walked toward them, my arms outstretched, the ale-song only drawing to a close as I took Isabella from Emma and spun her in my arms, kissing her soundly, stroking her face and tickling, before returning her and taking Karel from Constance in her stead. This time, as I embraced my child, I started singing a well-known ditty:
“Ale makes many a man to stick upon a briar,
Ale makes many a man to slumber by the fire,
Ale makes many a man to wallow in the mire.
So doll, doll, doll thy ale, doll, doll, doll—”
Each time I sang “doll” I bounced Karel in the air and he giggled; Isabella, seeing her twin so happy, responded with her own. The wet nurses relaxed—who can remain wary around a laughing babe, let alone two? Soon the women joined my song, as did Harry and Adam when they entered. Adam moved in circles around me, lighting the remaining torches and flinging open the window, dodging the mash tuns, table, and barrels, while Harry clapped a rhythm before taking Isabella from Emma in order to caper across the floor. The babes were chuckling, their eyes sparkling. The fire began to crackle and the smell of malted barley and wort filled the cellar.
“Ale makes many a man to stumble on a stone,
Ale makes many a man to stagger drunken home—”
I froze. Standing on the steps was Leander. Dressed in his surcoat and breeches, his boots shone and the creamy fabric of his shirt rested against the golden skin of his neck. His cape was draped over the arm that held his cane. Beside him was Betje, her hand tucked firmly in his. She was sucking the ends of her plait, a grin on her face.
Panting, I stopped singing but the others continued, their dance only slowing when they realized I’d ceased. Slowly, the song died too, though Harry didn’t want to stop.
“Look who’s here, Anna,” said Betje, tugging at Leander’s hand so he might move down the stairs. Juliana must have helped her dress. She wore a brown tunic over a green kirtle, a matching cap on her head. I was nonplussed, as she did nothing to try and hide her face or arm, but Leander did not seem repulsed. I could hear my heart beating in my ears.
“Sir Leander couldn’t find you,” she said. “But I knew where you’d be. She’s always here,” she confided to Leander, who nodded solemnly.
“Thank you, sweetling.” I smiled at Betje, who, understanding Sir Leander wasn’t going to move, shrugged but remained by his side, her wise eyes fixed upon mine, waiting.
“My lord,” I began, tucking an objecting Karel under one arm and pushing my hair off my face with another. “You’re awake.”
“So I am. At least, I think so.”
Pretending to be interested in the brewery, he began a slow perusal of it from where he stood on the steps, but the tension in his body shouted it wasn’t my brewing that preoccupied him, but the child on my hip and the other in Harry’s arms.
Not for the first time, I wished I’d spoken of the babes last night. Whereas discussing what had happened to Betje and Karel and the others had occupied a great deal of time, the opportunity to tell him about the twins never arose . . . Oh, craven that I was, I never created it and now I was to pay the price. Dread filled my soul. There was no help for it, I approached the stairs, whipping Karel’s bonnet from his head so Leander might see his fine head of flaxen hair, the clar
ity of his green eyes, and know him for what he was—mine.
Drawing closer, Leander stroked Betje’s hand with his thumb in a gesture of affection, but sadness emanated from him. My stomach flipped—was it for Betje or someone or something else?
“This is my son, Karel,” I said softly, and, with a forced smile, raised him so Sir Leander might see him better.
Sir Leander nodded. “And who is this?” He jerked his head toward Isabella.
“That’s my niece,” said Betje. “Her name is Isabella. She’s not burned.”
“Indeed she’s not. And she possesses a beautiful name,” said Sir Leander. “Almost as lovely as Betje.”
Betje’s shoulders lifted as she smiled and then studied her boots.
Though I could have kissed him, I frowned. “It’s Betty, my lord.”
“It’s not.”
I leaned forward so my words might be for his ears alone. Karel wriggled, forcing me to transfer him to my other hip.
“Aye, Leander, it is. Please, these are the names we go by now. They”—my eyes darted to Harry and the wet nurses—“don’t know who we are.”
Lifting his eyes from Karel, he regarded me strangely.
Releasing Betje’s hand, Leander brought his lips close to my ear. “I knew you were no maiden, my love, but a mother?” He leaned back so he could look into my eyes. “I don’t know who you are either,” he said with more force.
Before I could respond, he gave Betje a small bow and, without another word, took the stairs two at a time and disappeared.