The Lady Brewer of London

by Karen Brooks

  Hearing the commotion, Betje came running over. “Anna, are you all right?”

  “Why does everyone keep asking me that?” I stroked her cheek. “I am better than all right. And when I return we will celebrate.”

  “Return from where?” asked Betje.

  Alyson cocked her head. “Celebrate what?”

  “I feel as if Christmastide has passed me by and I should make belated amends.”

  Alyson folded her arms and nodded approvingly. “It’s never too late for amends.”

  “Indeed, that’s what I think. I won’t be long—back before curfew for certes and”—I squatted beside Betje, tugging at her hood—“then we’ll rejoice.” Retying my cape that had come loose when I attempted to pick up Alyson, I began to stride toward the gates, making way for Harry returning with a cart full of milled grain.

  “Where are you going, Mistress Anna?” cried out Harry.

  “To see Captain Stoyan,” I answered. “My German Mercury.” With a laugh, I disappeared out the gates as if there were wings on my feet.

  * * *

  While I’d been aware of the constant snow and strong winds and the frost that coated the windows, making them appear as if they were made of pigskin and not glass, I’d been confined indoors for weeks. Stories of ink freezing in inkwells, animals dying of cold, and the river ceasing to flow washed over me as I stepped into the day and spied the thick white coats on every building, the dead animals in ditches, their thin, craggy limbs encrusted by winter’s breath. An abandoned well, too frigid to draw from, had broken buckets buried in hillocks of white powder at its base. The wind bit my exposed cheeks. The tales I’d heard but dismissed as fancy were both real and cruel.

  But it wasn’t until I stood upon the dock where Captain Stoyan moored his barge that I could no longer ignore the great and terrible effects of winter.

  Adam had been serious when he spoke of the captain freezing. I thought he’d meant physical discomfort, something the captain would complain of nightly when he returned to The Swanne, when what he actually referred to was nature’s course.

  The wide, shifting river, once a seething, ceaseless rush of water that bubbled and frothed against the footings of the bridge and swirled in mighty currents as it sped toward the sea, was a solid mass. Boats were stuck in its midst, their ropes and sails garlanded with frost and ice. Children and adults slipped and slid across the glassy surface, shrieking with laughter, holding hands. Women and men hauled great sacks across, their backs bent, panting. Some risked weighty carts, their oxen and horses ignoring the slow-moving waters beneath them. Dogs scrambled to find purchase as they chased each other along the slippery edges, barking and growling. On the riverbanks, canny vendors lit fires, roasting chestnuts and other fare for purchase. Hawkers roamed back and forth, selling hot drinks.

  It was like a fresh world had been created, one populated by the brave and foolhardy.

  Even the docks, manacled in icy gauntlets, gave an air of industry to the scene. So did the boats and barges trapped in a glacial clinch. Among them was Captain Stoyan’s barge, The Lady Swanne, upon which my gaze came to rest.

  Smoke escaped from a vent in the small aft cabin, but not a soul appeared to be on board. Barrels were lashed down one end, along with bales of wool and sacks of barley, rye, or some other grain, which were covered with a flapping canvas. Wooden crates were stacked neatly toward the other end, their contents a mystery. Spending each day upon the barge, the captain both guarded his goods and—I now understood—waited with a mighty impatience for the ice to melt so he could resume work.

  My steps faltered and I drew my cloak around me tight, the wind lifting the ends and lashing my ankles.

  “Captain?” I cried out, a gust snatching my voice and hurling it against the ice. Perhaps he was upon the river? I covered my brow and peered.

  “Liebchen! Mistress Anna.” I spun around. “What are you doing out in such weather? Are you mad?”

  Ducking out of the cabin, a cloud of smoke following, was Captain Stoyan. Snow began to fall, timid flakes that melted on contact. He strode across the deck, slipped and quickly regained his balance, chuckling at his near tumble, and leaped onto the wooden planks of the dock. The captain took my hand and gave a curt bow.

  “What are you doing here? You’ll freeze if you don’t keep moving.” He indicated those on the river, most of whom were abandoning the ice, desperate to reach shore as the snow began to fall faster.

  “I can see that,” I said, nodding to his barge.

  “Ja. It’s been like this for days now. It will be longer yet, I fear.” Screwing up his eyes, he raised his face, snowflakes catching on his eyelashes and beard.

  “I’ve come to ask a favor.”

  Captain Stoyan raised his brows. “Then ask—consider it granted if it’s in my compass to do so.”

  I grinned, my eyes softening. God had been kind indeed to bring this man back into my life.

  “I was wondering if you would deliver a letter for me? It’s for Sir Leander.” I gestured to the barge. “I thought it could be delivered by river, but I was foolish to think that possible.”

  “Anything is possible and water is not the only mode of travel available.” He gave me a warm smile and flicked the snow out of his thick hair. “Of course I will. It will give me something to do until the frost melts and I may once again ply my new trade upon the water.”

  “Before you so readily agree, you need to understand where I’m asking you to go.” I quickly explained what I required and that a horse would be made available to him.

  “This is not hardship but an adventure, something I’ve been sorely lacking of late. I will welcome it after being ground to a halt because of this.” He gestured to the ice. “It will do my heart good to see Sir Leander and Tobias again and to know that in doing so, I will ease yours.”

  “Thank you, Captain. Thank you.”

  He waved his hands dismissively. “I will leave now, today,” he said, examining the sky. “But before I go anywhere, I must secure the barge.” He frowned at the goods on the deck. “I will ask Master atte Place to retrieve those and secure them at The Swanne until I return. Wait here. I’ll be but a moment.”

  Walking as fast as the snow and ice would allow, he crossed the dock, leaped onto the deck, and disappeared inside the little cabin. Moments later, the smoke issuing from the small chimney ceased and he reemerged wearing a thick woolen cape with a hood, gloves, and with the sword he wore during the pestilence strapped to his side.

  My eyes widened. I’d not considered he’d need a weapon. I began to protest, to retract my request.

  The captain heard me out then smiled. “Liebchen. I’m grateful for the chance to serve—to see for myself what is happening beyond Southwark and London. Hopefully, I bring home good tidings, ja?”

  “Ja,” I said, and spared the captain further protests. There was no more left to say. He’d made up his mind and had my eternal gratitude.

  Linking his arm through mine, the captain didn’t so much escort as helped me keep my feet as we walked along the river, into the wind and back to The Swanne. Ice-laden blasts pummeled my chest, taking my breath away, trying to rip the hood from my hair.

  The farther we walked, the more the gasp-worthy blusters made it impossible to speak. My insides lurched at the thought of Leander and Tobias and the threats they faced, not simply from the rebels, but from this bitter, bitter cold. And now I had asked the captain to endure it as well.

  Holding tight to each other, Captain Stoyan and I skidded on the frozen ground, pushed through fresh piles of snow. Shops had closed their shutters, as had many houses. The few vendors I’d seen as I walked to the dock had already packed up and gone home. Skinny dogs lay curled, shivering, in doorways, while a few fluffy pigeons roosted in the eaves of the church, their feathers ruffled, their little heads crooked beneath their wings. Though it was barely none, lights flickered in houses, while plumes of gray smoke were ripped from chimneys and scattered to t
he sky. Drifts of snow formed lopsided mountains against doors and on stoops, sealing the occupants within white cocoons. Captain Stoyan was right—what possessed me to venture out this day? The answer was simple. I rested my glove against my breasts.

  It took us almost an hour to cover a distance that would normally take much less time. Entering the kitchen, we divested ourselves of wet cloaks and gloves, and crowded at the fire. Trying to shoo us out of the way, Cook pushed steaming mugs of spiced wine into our hands. Flecks swirled on top and we sipped the contents gratefully. Finishing quickly, the captain excused himself and went to his room to pack some belongings.

  When he reappeared a few minutes later, I gave him the letter, and watched as he carefully stowed it in the pocket of his surcoat. I also gave him a message to pass to both Leander and Tobias, whispering it to him. Captain Stoyan smiled and patted the place where the letter rested against his broad chest. “Both shall reach their destination, liebchen, which means I will too. Do not worry.” He glanced out the window. “If I leave now, I may make it to Ludgate before curfew.”

  Laughter carried down the stairs along with a familiar voice.

  “Do we have visitors, Cook?” I asked, lifting the captain’s cloak from the stool near the fire and helping him back into it.

  “Aye, important ones. Though what they are doing about in this weather I don’t know. Sometimes you have to wonder about these men of God.” She rolled her eyes. “They might have His ear, but I think they be selective sometimes ’bout what it is they be a-hearing, for surely our dear Lord would tell ’em not to step abroad today but gather in prayer and the warmth of community?”

  “Men of God, women who brew, neither listen,” said Captain Stoyan under his breath. “Nor does this captain.” He pulled his gloves on. “I will not interrupt Goody Alyson and Adam with farewells then, but ask you do this on my behalf, ja?”

  I agreed and tried to pass him a purse, but he would not take it. “You requested a favor and I accepted. Coin does not pass between friends.”

  I shook my head. “You don’t believe that for a moment.”

  “Nein. But it sounded good, did it not?” he winked. “Seriously, I do not want or need your coin. Not since you repaid my investment in your first brewery.”

  I was yet to pay the captain for what he’d contributed since the pestilence as well—in kind and with hops. Once the king’s treasury paid for the ale and beer we’d supplied, we would all be in profit.

  So it was, with prayers for his safety and a long embrace, I bade the captain goodbye.

  I waved from the kitchen door and watched the way the horse churned the snow as it trotted out the gate, then I went back inside and straight to the hearth. Cook and Eve were busy making pottage and bread. The voices upstairs became louder. Cook’s words came back to me.

  “Men of God, you say, Cook?” My stomach fluttered. “Who are they?”

  “From the palace.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of Bankend and Winchester. “Goody Alyson said you were to go up to the solar when you came home.” She slipped my half-drunk mug from my hands. “Only, with the captain here, and taking his leave, I didn’t want to be rude. There are drinks and food upstairs,” she reassured when I didn’t move immediately.

  Thanking her, I left the kitchen with reluctance.

  At the door to the solar, which was slightly ajar, I eavesdropped on the conversation taking place inside.

  “Do they resemble their mother?” asked a familiar tone that set my teeth on edge and my heart racing.

  “Oh, indeed, your grace, that they do.”

  “What about the father?”

  There was an uncomfortable gap, which was my cue to enter.

  Pushing the door wide open, I was greeted by a strange scene. Sitting by the fire were Alyson, Betje, and Adam. Adam was propped in a different chair than usual, while behind him stood Emma and Constance, wringing their hands and scrunching their aprons nervously. In the middle of this group, comfortably ensconced in Alyson’s favorite chair, sat a man in the black robes of a monk. His head was bowed as he cooed at Karel and Isabella wriggling on his lap, his jeweled cap gleaming in the firelight. His pale white hands confidently held one on each knee. As I stared at those long beringed fingers, their exquisite shape, my heart stopped.

  I knew who owned those hands.

  Stepping forward, everything I’d tried to repress, all that I’d convinced myself I hadn’t seen, hadn’t felt, didn’t know, rushed back to the surface. My knees began to tremble, my palms to sweat. It was as if I’d swallowed a melting candle and my throat was stoppered up with wax. Sensing, or perhaps hearing me, Betje turned, and I saw in her stricken look and in the noises that now began to issue from Adam and the shaking which beset his body, that they also knew who it was sitting in Alyson’s solar, holding my sweet babes.

  Before I could snatch the children away, Alyson jumped to her feet. “Anna!” she exclaimed, tripping toward me across the rushes, flashing me a look of warning. “Look who’s come to visit, God be praised. The honor we’ve been granted.” One arm swept wide to indicate the man on her chair and the two monks standing behind him. She gave a forced smile and wrapped her fingers tightly around my forearm, her meaning clear. “May I introduce Bishop Roland le Bold, the new landlord of Winchester Palace and an eager customer who has just placed a very generous order for your ale.”

  Leander may have tried to offer reassurance that the man I spied in Gloucester, the man I believed to be my nemesis, was only a harmless monk named Roland le Bold, but as Bishop le Bold passed first Karel then Isabella back to their wet nurses, and the twins held out their chubby little arms toward me and began to cry, I knew I had not been wrong.

  Whatever he called himself, whoever he pretended to be, Roland le Bold, the freshly appointed Bishop of Winchester, now rising to his feet to greet me, his bleached eyes gleaming strangely, was none other than Westel Calkin.

  Murderer, liar, rapist, and, God help me, father of my children.

  Fifty-Three

  The Swanne

  Mid-February

  The year of Our Lord 1408 in the ninth year of the reign of Henry IV

  I wanted to denounce him then and there, but Alyson’s counterfeit delight, Betje’s palpable fear, and Adam’s vulnerable state, as well as my instincts, screamed caution. Pretending he didn’t have my acquaintance, he expressed pleasure in the babes, and sorrow at the various tragedies that had befallen my family. Well versed in my faux history, he spoke of the loss of my husband, how resourceful I was to brew and to do it so well. Staggered by his boldness, I could barely respond. Casting a look of sympathy toward Betje, which alighted not on her face but somewhere over her shoulder, Westel said he would pray for her and Adam. Sincerity dripped from him like honey from a comb and though I felt sickened by this mummery, I sustained my performance. Westel was no longer a servant or a mere monk—the quality of his robe, the sparkling rings on his fingers, the leather of his boots, the cap upon his head—all declared his high office, the resources upon which he could draw. Greatness attended him as did menace and, for the time being, I must be obedient to his whims.

  Unnerved, and understanding something was greatly amiss, Alyson was louder than usual and she filled any silences with mindless chatter, which Westel responded to with grace and an amity I never recalled him possessing before—or had he? Perhaps, at first, it had been there.

  Aware of his glance falling upon me, I could scarcely think. If I’d not been so eager to send Captain Stoyan upon his way, I could have sent word to Leander of our visitor, confirming I had not been mistaken. Alas, it was too late and now I had to endure his company and fret about his intentions. Westel had crossed this threshold for a reason, and it did not bode well for any of us. I didn’t have to wait long to find out.

  All gallantry and affability, he demanded a tour of the brewery, arranging it so that I alone would escort him. In itself this was not unusual, and caused no comment among the se
rvants, though Alyson did offer a meek protest and Betje clung to my side.

  “It is all right, sweetling, I will show his grace the brewery and be back before you can say ten paternosters.” It was what Adam used to say to comfort me as a child and I saw in his eyes he understood. Betje did as well and released me with reluctance, joining the wet nurses and taking Isabella.

  Aware of Westel upon my heels, his hot breath against my neck, I was at first relieved to see the brewery all hustle and bustle. A combination of steam and smoke filled the air. Rose and Golda stood over the mash tuns, the new girl, Margaret, keeping a firm eye on them while tasting some freshly cooked grain. Master atte Place hoisted another huge tray into the oven. Beyond them, Rupert sorted barrels, rolling some, hefting others. Whistling a well-known air, he was lost in daydreams. Over by the troughs, Harry was tapping ale into a barrel, while Thomas was poised to lend a hand.

  Before I could say anything, offer introductions or any kind of explanation as to what was going on, Westel called out from the stairs.

  “Begone, all of you.”

  Glancing up, amusement on their faces, it took the servants only a moment to understand this was no prank, that a high-ranking churchman was in their midst. I nodded curtly.

  “Leave your tools. Master atte Place, I will look to the grain. Go and enjoy the fire and a small ale.” Warily, the girls put down their mash sticks; Ralph righted a barrel with a thud and stomped past, crossing himself, while Thomas came forward and bowed to Westel before dashing up the stairs. One by one, they ascended. Only Harry remained, defiant, pretending not to notice us, that he didn’t hear.

  Touching him upon the shoulder, I whispered. “Go, Harry, please.”

  “But mistress.” He flashed a look at Westel over my shoulder. The bishop had left the stairs and was staring into a mash tun. “I don’t like the look of him.”

  Bless him.

  “Looks can be deceiving.”

  “Only sometimes,” said Harry, and, unhappy at my insistence, pushed out his chest and, giving a small huff in Westel’s direction, left.