The Lady Brewer of London

by Karen Brooks

  Alyson pulled her cloak more tightly around her as a cool breeze ushered in nightfall and we prepared to head back to Master Banbury’s residence. “Since it’s in the same direction, how ’bout we walk past the abbey walls,” she suggested. “It’ll get us out of this wind and we get a chance to see where the king is staying.”

  And Leander. I smiled at her gratefully.

  With seeming goodwill, Master Gervase steered us into Grace Lane and along the street that ran by the abbey walls. Almost immediately the wind dropped. The abbey dwarfed the entire area. The main spire soared into the violet heavens and, over the walls and hedges, I caught glimpses of the chapel, its arches with their saints, gargoyles, and twinkling glass. As we approached the gates, the cloisters’ rows of elegant columns came into view. A monument to faith and godliness, the abbey was truly remarkable; a place both fit for a king and his dear Lord. My eyes were so busy scanning the towers and spires that I failed to notice two monks deep in discussion with the guards by the wooden gates.

  Dressed in the king’s livery, with pikes in their hands and swords at their hips, the soldiers stepped in front of the monks, whether to protect them or ask our business, I was uncertain. It was only when I heard the ring of a sword being drawn that I gasped and halted abruptly. When they saw we were but two women and a gentleman, they relaxed and waved us on.

  Holding each other tightly, Alyson and I scurried past. At the last moment, I looked through the open gates in the foolish hope that Leander might be loitering in the gardens beyond. As I did, my eyes alighted on the monks. These were no ordinary men of God, but from their habits and bearing, bore high rank within the church.

  The taller of the two glanced my way and, as his pale eyes met mine, I staggered. Only Alyson’s firm grip prevented me from falling as everything before me darkened and my heart pounded in my ears. Recovering, I loosened my hold upon Alyson and looked over my shoulder, but the monk had turned his back to us.

  My head spun. My thoughts whirled.

  I barely remember the rest of our walk, arriving at Master Banbury’s, passing through the gates, Alyson giving the porter a groat and thanking Master Gervase for his excellent company. Music and the sounds of merrymaking drifted from the hall. Ascending to our chamber, Alyson prattled on, telling the waiting maidservant where we’d been and what we’d seen. I barely registered any of it. Undoing my cloak, I let it fall upon the bed and drifted to the window. Though it was dusk and the silhouette of Gloucester’s buildings and crofts spread before me, the abbey foremost, I saw none of it. All I could see was a pair of pale blue eyes, so like those that haunted my nightmares.

  “What is it?” asked Alyson after the maid had left. “You haven’t said a word since we passed the abbey. Pining for Sir Leander, are you? You didn’t really expect to spy him, did you? You’ll see him soon enough, sweetling.”

  “Nay,” I said finally, facing her. “It’s not Sir Leander I’m thinking about.”

  There must have been something in my tone, for Alyson cupped my chin in her hand, concern on her face. “Tell me, chick, who is it who’s stolen your tongue and invaded that pretty head of yours? You’ve not been the same since we saw those monks.”

  A quiver ran through me and I folded my arms around my body. “Alyson, I can barely breathe, barely think.” My eyes darted to the window. “I know this sounds impossible, that it defies sense, but I swear to you, as we passed the abbey, I saw someone I thought never to see again.”

  “Who?”

  “I saw Westel Calkin.”

  Forty-Nine

  The House of John Banbury and Gloucester Abbey

  Twenty-fourth of October

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

  Sharing fears with loved ones does much to reduce them. Rather than dismissing worries, they try to make sense of them while also offering consolation. So it was as I sat and talked with Alyson and, later, after the bells for compline sounded and the remnants of supper were taken away, Leander and Tobias as well.

  When the knock on the door sounded, I believed it to be the maidservant come to collect our trays. Distracted as I bade her enter, it was only when I heard Alyson exclaim that I turned around and saw Leander and Tobias on the threshold.

  I wanted nothing more than to fly into Leander’s arms and shower him with kisses, but, containing my feelings, I dropped a curtsy and offered him my hands instead of my mouth. My brother I embraced warmly, admiring the cut of his new surcoat and breeches, both, he informed me, in honor of his first parliament; he would accompany his master to each sitting. We summoned the maid and requested additional cups to be brought and more wine. With Alyson and Tobias as my chaperones, Leander’s presence could not damage my reputation and so we were able to converse easily and exchange stories about our respective travels.

  Relieved to know we’d encountered no troubles on our trip, Leander inquired as to the health of everyone in Southwark. Much to my chagrin, I hadn’t heard and was only able to inform him that when we parted, all was well.

  The frown that marred his brow did not concern me, though I caught Tobias casting his master an uneasy look. Before I could question the source of this discomfort, the maid entered with a tray. Drinks were poured and a platter of pork dumplings provided for the men, who ate with relish.

  “We had supper hours ago,” explained Tobias, with the hunger one expects of a man of eighteen. “Since then, we’ve had to endure endless introductions to knights, lord this and lady that, and so many monks. I’d not thought to see that number of churchmen gathered in the one spot until I ascended to God’s side.”

  Leander spluttered his drink. “In my experience, by God’s side is not where you’d find them, Tobias.”

  “Amen to that.” Alyson chuckled.

  Mention of the monks recalled my earlier sighting. I could not join the laughter but found myself wrapped in a mantle of worry once more.

  “What is it, Mistress Anna?” asked Leander, putting his goblet down. “From your expression, it’s evident something is bothering you.”

  Cursing myself that I could not dissemble, I tried to smile. “’Tis nothing, my lord, but a foolish woman seeing ghosts where there be none.”

  “What ghosts?” Leander looked from me to Alyson.

  Quickly, so Alyson didn’t embellish, I told Leander and Tobias what had happened and who I believed I saw.

  “I know it’s irrational, imprudent even, but this monk had the same almost silver-blue eyes and wore the robes of a Benedictine, and . . .” My voice petered out. Articulating what had happened hours after the event greatly lessened its power to disturb me. I shrugged.

  “For certes, eyes like that are not common, but they’re not uncommon either,” said Leander softly, his words the caress he could not extend physically. “Rest assured, mistress, I will make some inquiries and see if I can discover who this monk might be. Let us see if we cannot end your perturbation. I only vaguely recall Calkin myself, but enough to recognize him if, like the good Lord, he’s been resurrected.”

  “You mock me, my lord.”

  He shook his head. “I seek, mayhap poorly, to reassure you.”

  This time the smile reached my eyes and showed my gratitude.

  “The rogue Calkin is dead, Anneke,” said Tobias. “Leander and I searched the remains of Holcroft House thoroughly—no one could have survived such a terrible blaze. We . . . er . . . spoke to the monks of St. Jude’s, Abbot Hubbard as well, though he was replaced not long after what happened.”

  My eyebrows shot up. I’d not known that.

  “Aye,” said Tobias, “he became very ill. Calkin never returned. Abbot Hubbard denied any knowledge of him, admitted to having only one son and that was not his name. Claimed he would abjure such behavior in a monk, let alone a child of his. No matter who we asked or how hard we probed, we found no proof of a Calkin ever having existed—except in Holcroft House.”

  “But he did.”

  “
Indeed, we met him, though I have trouble recalling him, so little did he draw attention to himself. Rest assured, dear sister, God has punished him for his vile sins.”

  The fire crackled, a candle went out, its dark smoke an ethereal finger that pointed heavenward. For all that I should forgive, I could not. I hoped Westel’s soul resided far below. Merry voices carried along the corridor along with faint strains of music. No one spoke.

  Tobias was right. Leander and Alyson too. Westel was dead, and every time I thought about him, or believed I saw him, I was merely bringing him and his wicked deeds to life again, punishing others and myself over and over. It did no one any good, least of all me. I had to bury him once and for all.

  “You’re right,” I said finally. “It was just a trick of my mind. God has punished him and for His eternal justice I am grateful.” I clapped my hands together. “Now, my lord”—I twisted toward Leander—“tell me, when do I get to meet His Grace? After all, is that not the purpose of this journey?”

  Leander gave a look that melted my heart and tested my resolve not to throw my arms around him and beg him to carry me into the shadows then and there. I half rose and then sat again.

  “My, you are excited, Anneke.” There was a note of disapproval in Tobias’s voice.

  I bit back a laugh. Oh, I was.

  “Well,” said Leander, rubbing his chin. I noticed then how tired he looked, the shadows under his eyes, the way the muscle in his jaw throbbed when he moved his leg. Here I was, anxious about phantoms when real pain wracked my beloved. “Tomorrow will be a busy day for His Grace, but I’m hoping that once the commons choose their Speaker, and discussion starts, Arundel will ensure the sittings are not too onerous for the king. He’s not enjoyed the best of health lately.”

  “So we’d heard,” said Alyson. “What ails His Grace?”

  “No physician has yet been able to uncover the problem, despite taking samples of royal piss almost every other day and consulting the stars.” Leander shook his head. “It matters naught what they give him—potions, unguents—his skin burns, and he is afflicted with angry pustules over his body. He suffers great lethargy from time to time, hence the slow trip to Gloucester, eschewing the road for the river.”

  “He needs Marcian Vetazes, does His Grace. Works marvels, that man.” Alyson folded her arms and nodded sagely.

  “Our apothecary,” I explained.

  Leander seemed to consider the possibility before continuing. “I’m hoping, however, that His Grace will see you the day after the morrow. If I’ve any influence, it will be by week’s end.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond. What I really wanted to know was when I would see Leander again. “And you, my lord, will it be busy for you as well?”

  “Parliament always is. That’s why, now that I’m assured my friend Banbury has made you comfortable and that you and the brew have arrived safely, I must depart.” He sighed and heaved himself to his feet. Relying on his cane to keep him steady, he went to the door and paused.

  I rose, smoothing my tunic. “My lord, forgive my fuss, but I must inspect the brew before the king tastes it. It wouldn’t do for him to be served an ale that has soured or a beer that does not froth into a tankard, now would it?”

  Leander smiled. “I doubt your brew would ever suffer the faults that afflict others. But you have a point. Tobias will escort you to the abbey’s cellars after tierce tomorrow. You won’t be the only brewer wanting to ensure the king’s supplies made it here intact, so it would be good to arrive early.”

  Tobias frowned. He didn’t like the idea of my needs taking priority over his. Leander clapped him on the back. “I’ve recommended your sister’s brew to the king; if there’s something wrong with it, I want to know before His Grace. Parliament can be a dull affair. You’ll thank me for this distraction. Wait and see.”

  Tobias appeared dubious but resigned. I flashed Leander a grateful look.

  “Come, Tobias, I promised John we’d join him for a drink in the hall. I just hope he’s able to remember I kept my word.”

  Bidding adieu, I remained at the door as the men descended and, with a last look and wave back up the stairs, retreated into the hall. Shortly after, the maid came and helped us undress. Alyson wasted no time clambering beneath the furs, muttering her prayers as swiftly as she was able. Within minutes, gentle snores wafted the curtains.

  Drawing a chair up to the window, I rested my elbows upon the sill and stared into the night. The moon glimmered on the river and the crenellated towers of the castle. Below, night watchmen, lamps held aloft, patrolled the streets; and within the dark, figures darted around corners and into doorways just ahead of their radiant path, those few folk brave or foolish enough to defy curfew and wander without light.

  Though I’d made a commitment to bury Westel, it was moments like these, when I was left with no company but my straying thoughts, that he returned from the grave, larger than life and with a malice that made me tremble. Leander might think eyes that color weren’t uncommon, but it wasn’t just the color that made them different; it was what I saw reflected in those opaque orbs that made me quake in the depths of my very soul. For what I hadn’t told anyone was that in that brief moment when our eyes locked I saw not evil or a gaze of longing or lust, which even monks were capable of giving. Nay. What I saw was fear. Fear and disbelief. And, in that, the monk’s eyes echoed mine.

  * * *

  “That’s ours, over there,” I said, raising the cresset lamp high so it illuminated the corner of the cellar.

  “Where?” asked Tobias, lifting the light he carried and almost bumping the monk Brother David, who had led us down here, in the face with his elbow.

  “See? It says Son of Ale, there, beneath the band.” I pointed to a stack of barrels.

  “Son of Ale?”

  “It’s what your sister calls her beer,” said Alyson, squeezing past. “Just as well or we’d be here all day trying to find the bloody barrels. Oh, excuse me, brother,” she said, trying to swing around, but colliding with Tobias. “I’d not expected so many.”

  The black-garbed monk merely raised his eyes to the ceiling and crossed himself.

  Forcing my way between the hundreds of barrels bearing the brands of other brewers, I reached my own. When I entered the cellar and saw how many were stored in neat rows beneath the abbey—and these just for the king’s and parliament’s consumption—any fancy I had about being given Crown trade on the basis of this delivery dried quicker than a spilled ale in summer. Why, there was beer from Flanders, Belgium, Norwich, Chester, Brigstock, Tewksbury, Surrey, Kent, London, and many more places besides. Local brewers had also provided ale. Brother David explained how suppliers were sourced from everywhere and only the best were selected for the king’s table.

  “His taster and possibly one of his lords will be down shortly to try a couple of the brews. This occurs daily. Those approved end up at the high table.”

  “What about those that aren’t?” asked Alyson.

  “Why, they’re for the commons to drink, or the monks.”

  “But how does the taster get through all these?” I looked around the cellar, trying to take in the vast number of barrels and skins.

  “He doesn’t. It’s simply not possible.” Brother David’s voice was sympathetic.

  “So mine might not get tasted at all.”

  Alyson huffed. Tobias shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. Trying not to become despondent, I thought about those other brewers who didn’t even get this opportunity. There was no point worrying about what might not happen. What if the king did try my brew? It was important that, just in case this should occur, I knew what he would experience. Taking a deep breath and trying not to cough as the cold air entered my lungs, I indicated two barrels. One bore the name Son of Ale, the other the three Xs branded in the manner of Southwark ale-conners and which denoted my ale. “Knock the bungs out of those, Tobias. Alyson, do you have the tankards?”

  “Aye,” said Alyson,
sliding one expertly beneath the spot where Tobias struck and caught the little wooden plug. Ale chugged into one then another. Tobias quickly pushed the bung back in, hammering it sealed. Only a little liquid spilled onto the floor.

  Putting my lamp on top of a neighboring barrel, I reached for the tankards. Passing one to Father David, I raised the other and, swirling it a few times, smelled the contents, capturing the earthy, rich odor of the malt, the smoky scent of the moss I’d burned with the wood and the herbs I’d added to impart flavor. But the proof was in the tasting.

  Brother David was about to take a drink when a noise at the other end of the cellar made him pause. Voices followed by laughter and leisurely footsteps. A light bobbed. People approaching quickly, no doubt other brewers come to do exactly that which we were about.

  I took a quick sip and was most pleased with the result. I lifted my tankard for Brother David to do the same.

  “If you would just come this way, Your Grace,” said a rough voice. “You’ll find some of the lesser-known brews.”

  Your Grace? I shot a puzzled look at Alyson, who was staring wide-eyed at the approaching figures. She jerked her head furiously in their direction.

  Turning, I watched a short but very wide monk holding a lamp aloft draw nearer. Behind him, three dark figures could just be discerned. The tallest had a graying, forked beard, a fine mustache, and his high forehead glinted, as if it were embedded with jewels . . .

  “Your Grace,” whispered Brother David in shocked tones and dropped to his knees. Tobias and Alyson followed suit. If Alyson hadn’t tugged my tunic, pulling me down beside her, I think I still would have been gawping, a brimming tankard in my hand as the king drew level. As it was, I fell into a deep curtsy, my chin tucked to my chest, one arm across my middle, the other still holding the ale.

  Though I’d not yet offered proper thanks to them, I believe the gods and crones were looking out for me in that very moment.