The Lady Brewer of London

by Karen Brooks

  I held Alyson close, grateful for her warmth, her affection. Resting my cheek on her shoulder, I glanced over at Adam, who had not taken his eyes from me.

  “Above all, I want to defy the bastard. Even ignoring his threats would make me feel slightly better. But . . .”

  “But?” Extracting me from her arms, Alyson regarded me gently.

  “For the time being, I will obey him.”

  Alyson made a noise of disgust.

  “You have to understand, it’s not only me Roland will hurt. I have to think of Betje, the twins”—I twisted toward Adam—“and others as well.”

  “I do understand and I think you be wise. Only, I hope you’re not including me in that list of yours,” said Alyson, letting me go and sitting down. “I’m perfectly capable of handling one cocky monk, Bishop of Winchester or not.”

  I couldn’t help smiling. So did Adam. “I will handle him my way—by pretending I never discovered Westel survived, that the Bishop of Winchester is just that, the lord of our manor, and no one who would concern me, unless it’s to make ale for him.”

  “Well, he’s made sure you’ll be doing that. Wants no less than ten hogshead of ale.”

  “I wonder why? The bishops have a brewery and he admitted he has my mother’s recipes. He could make it himself.”

  “Not in those quantities he couldn’t. I suspect he wants to do business with the Crown’s brewer. Mark my words, that’s what he’s about. He wants to be able to boast that the king’s brewer supplies him as well. He also wants an excuse to keep an eye on you—both of ’em. This is all about him, Anna, not you, never you fear.”

  Easy to say, much more difficult to do. For all that I made bold statements of denial, I would never know peace again. Westel-Roland would leap into my mind when the cock crowed the dawn and when the sun sank beyond the horizon in the evening. He would arise as soon as my thoughts stilled and sleep tried to claim me.

  I would obey Roland and I would be filled with despair at the price my obedience would exact: fear had come home to roost, not just in The Swanne, but in my very soul.

  * * *

  At the end of the week, notice was given that the Bishop of Winchester intended to raise the rents. As of Hocktide, they would be more than double. The reason given was the pestilence and loss of income from empty houses and businesses.

  I knew the real reason. We all did.

  Upon receiving the news, Alyson slumped heavily in her chair in the solar, trying to accommodate how she would manage the new charges, especially since business in the bathhouse had not yet recovered.

  “Simple,” said Adam after listening to her curse the bishop, God, and everyone else besides. Alyson and I turned toward him. Trying to speak, every word was an effort. “C . . . charge more for beer.”

  “What?” said Alyson.

  “I can’t, Adam.” I pulled the blanket over his knees and tucked it down the side of the chair. “You know that. There are laws against such practices. The ale-conners, or worse, Master Fynk, would charge me. The tax is fixed.”

  Adam gave a peculiar grimace that was meant to be a smile. “In L . . . L . . . London, aye. In S . . . S . . . South . . . South . . . S . . . Here. Nay.”

  “He’s right, you know.” Alyson sat back and rubbed her chin. “Adam”—she pointed at him—“no doubting you’re a smart one, aren’t you.” She clambered to her feet and slapped Adam’s shoulder on her way to the window. “The ale we can’t touch but the beer, well, that’s already sold cheaper, I don’t think anyone would notice if we raised the price a little. Such a pity more don’t drink it. If only those bloody Londoners would develop a taste for it . . . we’d be making more than we could spend, double rents or not. The only one who buys any sufficient quantities to make it worthwhile raising the bloody price is—” She lifted glittering eyes to mine.

  “The king,” I finished.

  “All we need do is raise the price of the king’s order and it will help cover the extra costs the bishop is charging.” Alyson rubbed her hands together in glee. “In fact, it won’t be us the bishop’s robbing blind, it will be His Grace. Seems fitting that, don’t you think?”

  My brows drew together. I didn’t like the idea of cheating the king, especially after what I’d been granted in his name, and said so.

  “Cheating? Why, his liege hasn’t seen fit to pay us for the first few lots he’s received, so I would hardly worry about cheating His Grace.”

  “What if we chase the treasury for payment?”

  “We’ll do that and all as well. We may even charge our new prices for the last order when we send the bill.” Alyson shrugged at the shocked expression on my face. “Why not? We’ve got nothing to lose.”

  Oh, Alyson, you’re wrong, I thought. We’ve everything to lose, which is exactly what Roland intends.

  * * *

  Winter gradually released its stranglehold on the land, surrendering most ungraciously to spring. The snows melted, the river, with a great groan and a crack that sounded as if the devil himself had opened a doorway to hell, started to flow once more. Busy in the brewery, we worked before dawn until well after night fell, mashing, singing the wort to life, adding hops, but also honey, wormwood, and a wonderful herb called eyebright, which I put in for both flavor and as a panacea to reduce the chills and coughs that beset so many in the house over winter.

  During this time, and much to my consolation, a letter arrived from Captain Stoyan. From the beautiful handwriting, it was evident he’d hired a scribe to do what he could not. Paying the courier, I told him to go to the kitchen while I went to my bedroom to read the contents in private and form a response. The rebellion had been averted and the king was riding to Yorkshire via Nottingham with the intention of serving justice upon those involved in the plans to dethrone him. Captain Stoyan, understanding that Sir Leander was with the king, was riding north.

  All being well, he predicted he would be back in Southwark by the beginning of April. He prayed that the river had seen fit to cast aside her wintry mantle so he might return to his preferred state, upon the water instead of horseback. Guilt lanced me as I thought of the hardship the captain was enduring on my behalf. He finished by asking that God and the Holy Trinity keep me and guide me, and had signed the letter himself.

  Offering a swift prayer to the captain and thanks for such loyalty and thoughtfulness, I remained in my bedroom longer than intended, lost in thought. Knowing where I might find Leander, or at least his destination, did I dare write to him about Roland and confess what I’d promised I would not? I would not risk such a rash move—for the same reasons Leander had maintained silence while the rebels plotted, I would as well.

  The bells for none disturbed me and, with a rush of remorse at the time I’d wasted, I tucked the letter under my pillow. I paid the courier and raced back to the brewery.

  * * *

  The following day brought more tidings and unexpected guests to The Swanne. Arriving midmorning, two men asked Alyson if they might meet with me. A maidservant, Sophie, hired to take on Juliana’s duties upstairs, fetched me from the brewery. Whipping off my apron, I quickly tidied my hair and was escorted to the solar, where Alyson was entertaining the guests. Concerned as to who would want to see me, my first thought was Roland was behind their arrival. As I hovered at the threshold, however, I wondered if they’d been sent by Master Fynk.

  On spying the men sitting opposite Alyson, enjoying a mazer of ale, my mind was immediately laid to rest. These men were neither from the law or church. Their insignia declared them to be from the Mystery of Brewers, a London guild lacking a royal grant of incorporation, but able to wield much authority nonetheless.

  What was their purpose in coming here, to Southwark? To see me? Could it be they’d caught wind of the additional charges we’d put on the beer? Even so, I wasn’t under their authority, being neither a member of the Mystery nor paying them quarterage.

  Intrigued and even a little alarmed, it wasn’t till I caught Ada
m’s steady look and calm nod that my nerves settled. Rising when I entered, Alyson introduced Master William Porlond and Master Stephen Hamme. Bowing low, they studied me with curiosity before retaking their seats. I wasn’t able to drink the ale offered or keep my hands still. Why were they here?

  “Mistress Anna, I hope I may call you that?” asked Master Porlond, the younger, and more rotund, of the two. He was an official of the Mystery. His companion, Master Hamme, was both a member and a brewer of some repute. Friends with Alyson, he’d been the one to sell us equipment and proffer advice when we first started. Smiling at him warmly, I turned my attention to Master Porlond.

  “You may, good sir.”

  “We’ve been keeping a close eye on you, specially since you earned the honor of Crown trade. May we offer congratulations. I have to say”—he held his mazer away from his body and examined it—“this is a mighty fine brew.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Do I detect some oak?” asked Master Hamme.

  “Aye, and hyssop,” I added.

  Smacking his lips together, Master Hamme nodded appreciatively and took another swig. “Told you she was good.”

  Alyson raised her brows but chose to remain quiet.

  I turned expectantly to Master Porlond.

  “I won’t keep you waiting any longer, mistress. The reason we are here is twofold. We want to extend an invitation to you to join the Mystery of Brewers—”

  “Oh—” Of all the things I’d thought to hear, it was not those words.

  “In London,” finished Master Porlond.

  “Oh.” Strange how the same word or sound could convey two entirely different meanings. The Mystery of Brewers. Sweet Jesù, this was not expected either. But in London . . .

  Master Porlond looked to Master Hamme, who nodded encouragement. “You may not be aware, mistress, but in light of recent events—”

  I frowned. To what did he refer? For a moment, panic set my features as I thought of first Roland le Bold, then the rebellion, before I finally understood he meant the pestilence.

  “—positions have become available.”

  “Not merely positions,” added Master Hamme. “Though it’s true, London is dangerously short of decent brewers at present and the mayor is most unhappy. What we want to offer you, mistress, is an altogether different and, we hope, pleasing proposition. We have a brewery for lease. God in His wisdom has seen fit to allow me to own two. Unfortunately, the family leasing my second one was afflicted with the pestilence. No one was spared, not even their servants, may God assoil them. It’s empty. It’s also fully equipped. Even has leaden pipes and copper tubs and a millstone so you can take care of your own milling if you should choose to do so. There’s easy access to a good water supply. And living accommodation above—enough for your servants and children. I understand you have three?”

  “Two. My younger sister lives with me as well.”

  “Ah, she be the crip—oof.”

  Master Hamme doubled over as Master Porlond’s elbow connected with his side.

  “Anyhow”—Master Hamme coughed, casting a dour look at his companion—“we understand that living in London was something, mayhap, you once considered—and what with the bishop doubling the rents, we thought you might like to give it more thought. I’d lower the rent for the first year, until you’re settled.”

  The men stared at me. I glanced at Alyson who was no longer smiling, but concentrating on a spot on the floor. I knew that look.

  I’d not really considered London again, not since the king ordered my brew and certainly not since the murrain, and yet . . . it made sense. With Roland le Bold returned, and as lord of the manor, moving out from under his watchful eyes—away from his threats—might be a solution. London was bigger. For me, for us, it could be safer. I would be one of many brewers, protected by the Mystery no less—or forced to concede to their rules. If the Mystery admitted me, there was no reason for the Hanse to refuse to trade. What if I could reestablish the connections I’d made in the Low Countries? Export again? Captain Stoyan would give me advice there, help too, I’d no doubt . . .

  Plucking at my lower lip, my eyes now trained upon the rushes as my thoughts danced in circles, it took me a moment to realize the men were waiting for an answer.

  “You do know what an honor it is to be asked to join the Mystery, don’t you, Mistress Anna?” said Master Porlond.

  “I don’t think a woman has ever been invited before.” Master Hamme scratched his head. “I mean, we have quite a few women in the Mystery, but most are wives of brewers or inherited the position when their husbands died. You are the only one we’ve approached whose husband wasn’t a member first.”

  “Then it’s indeed an honor that you bestow upon me, gentlemen.” I smiled. Master Hamme colored while Master Porlond smoothed what remained of his hair across his scalp and nodded.

  Standing, I ran a slow hand down the front of my tunic, which the men’s eyes followed. “Aware of the privilege and the honor you accord me with such a generous proposition, can I ask your indulgence a little further, gentlemen?”

  Without even conferring, they both said, “Aye.”

  “If I could but have a little more time to consider this—more for the sake of my family, my servants, my friends, and my business partner.” I gestured to Alyson.

  “Oh, of course, of course,” they chorused.

  “Take as much time as you like,” said Master Hamme.

  “Till Hocktide,” added Master Porlond darting a firm look at his associate.

  I curtsied to indicate I accepted their terms, and the two men leaped to their feet.

  “Thank you,” I said warmly, first to one then the other. “Thank you. Hocktide it is. I confess, you’ve given me much to consider. I’m sorely tempted by what you offer.”

  “You’re meant to be,” said Alyson quietly. The men spun toward her. Standing, she considered them, her arms crossed under her breasts, thrusting them forward. “And, should you accept, Anna, they be getting a prize indeed. A woman who has not only Crown trade, but who is, of His Grace’s own admission, the king’s preferred brewer.”

  The men muttered and nodded. Alyson dared a wink. Adam tried to smile.

  “If you would excuse me, I must return to the brewery.”

  The men bowed and asked that God give me good day. On the way out, I stopped by Adam’s chair and took his hand. He squeezed my fingers and pulled me closer.

  “You’ll make it work, Anneke,” he whispered hoarsely. “You always do.”

  With tears burning my eyes, I left the room.

  * * *

  I believed Alyson would be resistant to the idea of me joining the Mystery, let alone uprooting all and sundry and shifting my life and business to London. As such, I didn’t give the offer, as flattering and, indeed, tempting as it was, too much consideration. Alyson and I had been through much together and, in the time I’d known her, she’d proven a loyal and wonderful friend. I didn’t intend to act in any way that might cause her upset or undermine our relations, but Alyson had other ideas.

  Waiting until Betje and Harry had gone to bed, when only Adam, Alyson, and I were in the solar, accompanied by strains of music from downstairs and the occasional squeals and laughter of the girls, she pushed aside the paperwork she’d been doing and let out a long, tired sigh. Stretching her arms before her, she rotated her shoulder. “Adam, some days I miss your nimble fingers and quick mind more than most. Today is one of those days.”

  “It’s n . . . not those you miss,” said Adam slowly. “It’s m . . . my way with figures.”

  Giving him a strange look, she grinned. “Not mine, more’s the pity.”

  Adam’s cheeks reddened.

  “You’re right, Adam. It’s your ability to transpose these sums that I wished I possessed.” Picking up her goblet, Alyson drank her wine, then lost herself in its depths. “So,” she said, as her head shot up, her eyes locked on me. “Have you thought much more about what them Myst
ery men said?”

  In the middle of darning Betje’s tunic, I didn’t answer immediately. “I’ve thought about it,” I said, lowering the needlework. “I’ve thought about it and dismissed it.”

  “Dismissed? Are you daft?”

  I looked at Alyson in wonder. “Daft? But I thought you would object.”

  “Object?” she screeched. I began to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” she grumbled.

  “We keep repeating each other.”

  I could see Alyson going over our conversation, then she chuckled. Adam, too. “That we do. But I’m serious. Why would I object when it’s what you’ve been wanting since before you got here? It was your dream, to go to London.”

  “It was W . . . Will, wasn’t it, Anna,” said Adam, “who predicted you’d be the finest brewer in all England? If you go to L . . . London, perhaps that can happen.”

  His words took me back to that joyous evening, so long ago now, when Adam and I returned from Lord Rainford’s and I laid out our plans to brew to everyone. I remembered the toasts we’d drunk, the excitement and hope that had filled the house. And Will, eyes shining, his face flushed with the ale, making his wild declaration. Dear God, we were all daft back then, when anything seemed possible.

  “He did, Adam,” I said quietly. “He did. But, Alyson, I am more than happy with being the finest in Southwark.”

  She snorted. “This seedy old borough? When you have London at your feet? What you’re worried about is upsetting me, hurting me feelings, aren’t you?”

  I opened my mouth to argue but closed it again.

  “See,” she said to Adam. “I was right.”

  “It’s not only you,” I added. “It’s me, Betje, Adam, and the twins as well.”