The Lady Brewer of London

by Karen Brooks

  I tried to stand but was forced to bend slightly because of the shackles on my hands. Ordering the gaoler to leave, Roland waited till his steps faded then moved closer, the lamp held high in one hand, the other pressing a kerchief to his nose.

  Ignoring the stench, the dirt, he squatted at my feet, peering into my face. Barely able to determine his features, I focused on the liquid gleam of his eyes.

  “I warned you, Anneke. I told you what would happen if you revealed our past.”

  I shook my head. Tears I didn’t know I’d harbored began to stream down my cheeks.

  “Nay, don’t deny it,” he said softly, sweetly. “I have it on good authority that you’ve been bleating to everyone. Well, not you, exactly, but your lover. He’s been asking questions, paying for answers, visiting people I hoped to forget and inviting them to remember what they should not. And, tell me, how would he know with whom to speak, where to go, if you hadn’t told him?”

  “Sir Leander would never—”

  “Oh, come now, Anneke.” His voice was wheedling. “Of course you’ve told him. Whispered your pain across the pillow.” He collected one of my tears on the tip of a finger, holding it toward the lamp and examining it as if it was an exquisite jewel. “How could you resist eliciting sympathy from such a one? How could you not appeal to the warrior in him by playing the suffering damsel?” He flicked the tear into the shadows and rose. “You’re all the same, wanton whores who’ll deploy any trickery to get your own way. I cannot blame him. God knows what you’ve told him, what lusty rewards you’ve promised, but he is prying and I don’t like that, Anneke. You broke our deal and now you will pay, just as I promised.”

  “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “You always were a fool, Anneke. When are you going to understand, it doesn’t matter what you have done, it’s what people believe you have done for which I seek recompense.” He laughed, and his eyes glinted in the flame.

  “I didn’t poison the king . . . I did not.” My nose was running and I was unable to wipe it.

  “Oh, I know that.”

  I stared at him in disbelief. “Then—then why am I here?” The sob I released became a cough.

  “Because you’re responsible for the death of two of my monks. Did Master Fynk not tell you? After a mere sip of their drinks, they fell to the floor, dead. Your ale on their lips and in their throats. They were the only two to try it, Anneke, the only ones.”

  “There was nothing wrong with my ale.”

  “Not when it left The Swanne, perhaps. But by the time it reached the monks’ mazers, something terrible had happened to it.”

  My eyes widened. “You . . . you . . .”

  Roland laughed again. “Perhaps you’re not so great a fool.”

  Wincing as the flesh on my injured eye pulled, I tried to touch it, only the manacle cutting into my wrist prevented me. Roland began to laugh harder.

  “And to think, when the king is dead, you’ll be blamed for that too. It won’t take much for a jury to find you guilty. Already, those summoned to do their duty descend upon the palace, eager to see justice done in my court.”

  He reached over, his hand brushing my hair, lifting a tangle from my shoulder.

  “Roland, don’t. Please.”

  “I do like it when you plead. Do you remember?”

  I recoiled, my hair pulled taut in his grip.

  He held the strand, tightening it so pain lanced my scalp. I refused to respond even though it smarted terribly.

  Eventually, he tired and released my hair. “I should keep you here longer, just for the pleasure of seeing you . . . like this. Bent, broken, ready to do my whim—if not now, then soon, very soon.” He swung and grabbed the back of my neck, forcing my face into his crotch. I twisted away, shut my eyes, but he pushed harder, thrust his thighs. I couldn’t breathe, but I could feel him stiffen. I went limp. Ceased to struggle. I even managed to stop crying. It’s not so difficult when rage replaces sorrow.

  He flung me away from him with a grunt, and I fell hard upon one knee.

  “Perhaps not.” He turned his back.

  “Wait. At least leave me the light. Some water?”

  Without answering, he walked out of the cell and didn’t look back. A short time later, the gaoler returned to lock me in.

  Engulfed by shadows, the rats became bolder, leaving the corners to stare at me, their eyes gleaming in the faint bands of light from the window. After a time, I no longer saw them. All I saw was Roland le Bold’s pale face and colorless eyes; his perfect mouth and perfect teeth locked in an eternal smile that expressed not humor or joy but, like a herald with a trumpet, announced my eternal damnation.

  * * *

  “Mistress Anna? Anna? Be you there?”

  It took an instant to gauge where I was, why the room was so dark, why it smelled so foul. Everything came back to me and I sat up, forgetting the manacles, which pulled so fiercely I cried out.

  “Are you all right?” hissed the voice.

  It was coming from the window.

  It wasn’t so much light as a lessening of the shadows that enabled me to discern a face pressed against the bars.

  “Harry?”

  “The same, mistress. I’ve food and drink for you, and blessings and prayers from everyone. And a message from Sir Leander.”

  My heart felt too big for my chest. “Praise be to God. Give me a moment.” I tried to get as close to the window as possible. Even though he whispered, Harry’s voice was unnaturally loud in the dark silence and I feared we’d be heard.

  Managing to stand beneath the window, I tried to straighten, but it was impossible. A rat scurried across my feet, making me jump.

  “You there, mistress?”

  “Aye, Harry. But I can’t stand. Not properly. They have me in chains.”

  A series of curses were unleashed. “Forgive me, mistress.”

  “You’re forgiven, if I had but the strength, I would say the same. Tell me, what message from Sir Leander?”

  “My lord says the first thing I was to tell you was, you’re not to lose heart.”

  I choked back a sob. “Go on.”

  “He says the king still lives and his condition hasn’t changed. That’s good, mistress, right?”

  “As good as it can be.”

  “He said he knows about the monks, that le Bold, curse the bastard”—Harry spat—“be assembling jurors whom he’s bribed to stand in judgment of you.” My heart sank. “But he, Sir Leander, will do everything in his power to stop this happening. He said to tell you that he’s summoned a . . . whatcha call it? A Corner to come.”

  “Coroner.”

  “That be it. He’s also been sending couriers out all night. Doesn’t care ’bout curfew or nothing.” Harry paused. “Mistress, I’m not s’posed to tell you this, but Sir Leander came here, to The Clink. Demanded to see you. The bastard bishop wouldn’t let him. Said it’s against the rules. Rules be damned. They let whores into the men’s prison and men into the women’s. Le Bold makes his own.”

  “That he does, Harry.”

  I couldn’t help it, I began to weep.

  “Aw, don’t cry, mistress, please don’t cry.” He placed his arm between the bars and tried to reach me. I raised my hand as far as I could. Our fingertips just touched. “Sir Leander will make it right, he will, I knows it. And, if he can’t, then I dare the church to take on Goody Alyson.”

  “Is she all right, Harry?”

  “She is sore and marked but this is Goody Alyson we’re talking ’bout, course she’s all right.”

  Funny how even in the darkest times, a smile will still find you.

  “And Betje?”

  “She’s crushed, mistress, God’s truth. But she’s staying strong—for you. She worked in the brewery till late. We both did. Till Sir Leander arrived, anyhow. He is looking after her, me and Adam too. And, before you ask, Adam and the twins are fine. The twins know nothing, which is the way you’d want it.”

  “It i
s, Harry, it is.”

  “Everyone is praying, mistress, and those who can are writing too. What they’re doing that for, God knows, but if it’ll help . . .”

  “Aye.”

  “You’re also to let me know if there’s anything you need. Goody Alyson, Betje, and Cook sent these for you.” Retracting his arm, he began to push a skin of ale through the bars. I caught it in my cupped hands. Next, he shoved through a linen napkin tied with string. I could smell the bread and chicken. It made my mouth water.

  “Thank you, Harry. Bless you. Please, tell Sir Leander, I won’t—” Damn my tears. “I won’t lose heart. And tell Betje and everyone else, I’m fine. I am well. I’m not harmed.” Not yet.

  Harry pushed his face close, trying to look down and see me. “It’s dark in there, mistress.”

  “That’s what I’d like, Harry, some light.”

  “I’ll bring it tomorrow.”

  “Is it safe for you?”

  “For now. Sir Leander said no one pays attention to lads on the street. He’s right.”

  Reaching down to me, he waggled his fingers. I stroked the tips.

  “Bless you, Harry Frowyk, bless you.”

  There was a loud sniff, then Harry pulled his arm away. The gray light brightened before I heard a faint “God bless you,” and he was gone.

  I sat down heavily, my back against the wall, my treasure trove of fare in my lap. So, Roland had summoned a court to convict me. The penalty for murder was swift and harsh—death by hanging. But if the coroner could arrive in time and prove my innocence, I might yet be spared the noose. Leander made sure I knew the king was still alive so I’d understand the weakness of le Bold’s case against me. Though not if he could prove my ale killed those monks.

  Whether I was accused of killing king or pauper, death was death; the one great leveler regardless of birth or wealth.

  Movement to my left reminded me of the rats, who had caught the scent of food, and I remembered how hungry I was. Pulling the stopper out of the skin, I drank. This was no small ale, but a full-tasting brew. How ironic if it was the same that killed the monks. Though I knew it wasn’t my drink that ended the monks’ lives, but Roland’s callous intervention. That such hate could lie in the soul of a man of God unnerved me.

  Unwrapping the linen, I picked up the bread and chicken and began to nibble. There was a lump of cheese as well, which I first thought to save till morning but, hearing the scratching of the rats and their chittering, I changed my mind and, casting crumbs to the other side of the chamber, finished everything I’d been given. Turning the linen inside out, I spread it on the straw and, exhausted and overwhelmed by the events of the last hours, lay down. It would be for but a moment . . .

  * * *

  Eight days later, I was taken from the cell. Every night since I’d been incarcerated, Harry and, one time, Betje and Alyson, had come to the window and given me news and provisions. The day after I was interred, they’d bribed the gaoler to give me a chamber pot, light, food, water, and other essentials, but while he’d taken the money, nothing manifested. That Betje braved the streets, albeit with Alyson and Harry, despite my reassurances, revealed that Harry’s reports must have failed to proffer sufficient reassurance. Upon peeking into the cell, lit as it was by the weak glow of a cresset lamp and inhaling its pungent smell, she’d cried. She tried to reach me by putting her arm between the bars like Harry, but she wasn’t tall enough.

  For the first few days, Leander tried to use coin to gain access to me, but it had been refused. Alyson said the only reason for that was because the bishop was paying the gaoler more.

  “Or threatening him,” I added.

  “Or both.”

  From Alyson I learned that Master Fynk and his constables had questioned every single person at The Swanne. “They got nothing out of me, mind, nor Adam or Master atte Place, but some of the girls and young Ralph and Hodge came back mighty sore. They broke Emma’s arm . . .” Her voice petered out. “Threatened to hurt the twins.”

  “Oh God. Alyson . . .”

  “Captain Stoyan has taken them and Constance to the Stilliard, to Captain Geise.”

  Thank God.

  Alyson squeezed her plump arm through the bars with much difficulty. Twining my fingers through hers gave me such comfort as I’d not believed possible. Resting my head against my arm, I too cried.

  “Sir Leander got word from your brother, chick, and I’m to tell you he’s left Southwark. Adam is with him.”

  My heart plummeted and my tears fell faster. “Sir Leander has gone? Adam too? Why?”

  “He wouldn’t say lest he gives us false hope. But he has a plan. He says when he returns, he’ll have the key to your freedom.”

  I prayed he was right. We all did.

  So when they came for me, I left the cell without protest, escorted by two guards, the old gaoler locking the door behind me.

  Taken from The Clink, I was led through a passage and into Winchester Palace next door. Conscious of the state of my clothes, how matted and dirty my hair had become, I would appear a right and proper slattern. The men escorting me remained silent, though the guard on my left shot me glances—whether hostile or sympathetic, I was uncertain. I tried to keep my chin up, my eyes focused only on what lay ahead, but as each step brought me closer to the jury that would try me, my mind and eyes wandered into some dark spaces.

  I was ordered to wait before a pair of large wooden doors, polished to a high sheen that complemented the gleaming metal of the pikes of the soldiers standing on either side of them, and took some deep breaths to try to steady my racing heart. A lump blocked my throat, as if I’d swallowed something solid. Perhaps that’s what it was, my fears all bundled together in a sphere, which I must consume lest it consume me.

  Finally, after a considerable length of time, the doors opened and a short man dressed in the bishop’s livery commanded me to enter.

  Sitting on a dais were a great many men, decked out in their finest garments, their brows beetling, their eyes narrowing as they watched me approach. In their middle was Bishop Roland le Bold.

  Adorned with the accoutrements of his office, he looked the part of a bishop. The expression of triumph on his face was only matched by the features of the man standing at the end of the table, Master Lewis Fynk. To my left were benches for ordinary folk. Seated in the front row were Alyson, Betje (God help me), Harry, Captain Stoyan, and at least half the girls from The Swanne. All of them nodded and smiled, but their eyes widened as they regarded my state. Only the look on Betje’s face revealed how pathetic, how doomed, I must appear.

  Behind them was Father Kenton and some of his parishioners whom I knew well enough to greet at mass. There was the miller, the water carter, some of the mercers who patronized The Swanne, our local fishmonger, his wife and son, as well as many of our neighbors. At the back stood Captain Geise from the Stilliard, along with four Flemish sailors. But where were the Southwark nobles? Surely, for such a serious offense, the murder trial of a local woman would have had them filling the seats? And yet nobody represented the peers of the realm.

  Returning the nods and smiles of those I knew, my gaze lingered upon first Betje, then my other companions, trying to tell them without words that I wasn’t beaten, despite my appearance. That there was fight and faith within me yet.

  I glanced to my right and the benches there held a strange assortment of folk. Some I recognized. There was Emma, her arm bandaged, her face puffy and bruised, and next to her were Rose and Golda, both staring despondently at the floor. Golda’s lovely brown locks had been shorn and Rose wore a swollen lip. The rest I didn’t know, but an aura of hostility and guilt surrounded all of them. Were they here to witness the trial as well, or for another purpose?

  I glanced back toward my friends, my brows raised in a question.

  Recognizing that a communion of sorts was taking place, Bishop le Bold barked an order. Stepping forward, Master Fynk unlocked my chains, though the manacles remained arou
nd my wrists. As the sluggish, heavy coils slithered to the floor, I shook my head, flexed my hands, and then tidied my tunic to the best of my ability, locating grit and straw that I slowly removed and allowed to fall to the floor. It was all I could think to do that would not make me appear like a cornered animal, a trembling quarry. Pretending an indifference I by no means felt, I raised my head and, as a lawyer rose from a desk in the corner and began to read the charges, met the eyes of every man who sat facing me. Some had the grace to look sorrowful, others guilty. Most, however, appeared irate and restless. At first I thought it was because they felt there were better things to be done with their time but, as the trial began and they rested their forearms on the table and whispered and grinned among themselves, I understood they were here not to see justice served but a woman they already assumed to be guilty, punished.

  Finished, the lawyer scuttled back to the desk that he shared with one other of his profession and three scribes.

  Rising to his feet, Roland smoothed his robes then twisted the ring on his right hand, never taking his eyes from mine. Nodding gravely, he glanced at the papers spread out before him.

  “Murder,” he began in his deep melodious voice, “is the most serious of offenses. But, to murder, in cold blood, two men of God and in their house, is the most heinous sin on God’s earth. You brazen hussy, you viper within the Godly breast of Southwark—”

  There were a few sniggers.

  “—within the liberty of my manor, did strike down two good men, my men, God’s men as well, and by the most invidious means possible. You did it by poisoning their ale.”

  The public benches released a roar at this and there was much muttering and some shouts for justice. I remained silent, still. Each breath was an ocean in my ears; my heart an instrument playing a discordant tune.

  Roland went on to summarize the rest of my crimes. According to him, I was a murderer, a harlot, a false brewer, and a felon of the highest order.

  Commencing with a list of the fines leveled against me and the number of times I’d been forced to tip out my brew (which was met with protests so loud from the benches, Master Fynk shouted them to be quiet or they’d be ejected), he went on to explain my living situation, how while I brewed during the day, I lay with men at night.