The Lady Brewer of London

by Karen Brooks

  “That’s a lie,” shouted Alyson. “Does she not wear the apron?” She gestured to the soiled one over my tunic.

  “Merely another ploy,” said the bishop, “to fool those who do deal with her. The evidence is clear; this is not a respectable woman. After all, what respectable woman would lie with not only her brother’s master, but”—he paused and his eyes scoured the room—“her brother’s father.”

  There were gasps of horror and shock. Clutching my heart, I stared at Roland in disgust and disbelief.

  “You lie.”

  “Nay, mistress, you do—with a member of your own family.”

  I stumbled as my head filled with wild thoughts that careered into each other before exploding into fragments that cohered into one solid image—Leander and Tobias side by side.

  Dear God. How could I have been so blind? All along, the truth was before me. The resemblance between them was uncanny, but assuming them half-brothers, I’d been able to dismiss it as part of their shared paternity. And it was—though not in ways I’d ever imagined, ever foreseen. Why did Sir Rainford allow me to assume he was Tobias’s father? Why did Leander?

  Sweet Mother Mary. The church judged Leander’s and my relationship harshly, for certes, but believing that the consanguinity went only so far as Leander being Tobias’s uncle, I was able to receive pardons from Father Kenton. I glanced at where he sat behind Alyson. Clutching his cross, his lips moved. I willed him to look at me, wanting to convey that I knew naught of this. If I had . . . oh dear Lord, if I had, then I never would have allowed myself to love in the first place.

  Leander was Tobias’s father? Could it be true? It would explain the strange way Lord Rainford had responded to me when I said my mother had confessed. Disingenuous, there had been something he was hiding, but I dismissed it, believing the worst was revealed. God forgive me that I hadn’t insisted on a full explanation. Of course, that was why Tobias was squired to Leander, his father, a role well beyond what our station deserved.

  I felt sick.

  Betje buried her face in her hands; Harry tried to comfort her. Alyson was pale. Only Captain Stoyan met my gaze. His strong face and steely eyes displayed only contempt—not for me, but for the bishop.

  “Nein.” He mouthed. “Nein.” He shook his head.

  If only that were true. Why would le Bold say such a thing if it were not?

  I shut my eyes and tipped my head back till I faced the ceiling before opening them again. An enormous iron candelabrum was suspended above, the fat pillar candles spluttering and flickering though the light in the room was bright.

  Because he would say anything to cause you pain.

  Waiting till the shock of his announcement had died, Roland continued. I lowered my chin and prepared myself for what was to come next. I pressed one hand against my stomach that roiled and gurgled. Beads of sweat formed upon my upper lip. My back was sticky, my décolletage as well.

  Worst of all, if it were true, if Leander was my brother’s father, it didn’t change my affection for him. I could no more stop loving him than I could cut out my heart.

  “Good gentlemen, before you deliver sentence, there’s something else I ask you to consider which bears upon these grim proceedings.” Roland paused and crossed himself, his ring catching the light of the torches burning in the walls. “Just when you thought her catalogue of sins, that her wantonness, her disregard for the laws of God could not be worse, she defies the laws of king and country as well.”

  The murmurs were not so loud this time lest they miss hearing what I was to be charged with next.

  “This vicious viper, suckled on the bosom of Eve, the greatest sinner the world has known and who caused us to be exiled from the arms of our loving Father, served the same ale that murdered my monks to the king.”

  There was uproar. The men of the jury turned to each other, some started screaming across the floor at me, shaking their fists, throwing quills, slates, paper, to the floor. Some drew their daggers and drove them into the table.

  “That must be why the king fell into a sleep from which he does not wake.”

  “You cunting whore!”

  “You devil’s bitch.”

  “His Grace will surely die.”

  “Traitor.”

  Staggering backward, I raised my arms as if to ward off their verbal blows, and I struck one of the guards, who shoved me violently. I fell to my knees. Unable to bear it any longer, Betje leaped from the bench, dropping to my side, her arms around me, her face buried in my breast. Harry followed, wrapping his arms around her, trying to haul her back, terrified she’d be punished for such insubordination.

  “If you needed further proof, then you’ve only to look to her sister—her full-blood sister, to see God’s wrath, his attempt at justice, etched upon this spawn’s face.” He strode around the table and with a malicious tug, ripped the veil from Betje.

  There were screams. One of the women on my right fainted. The jurors who weren’t already standing leaped to their feet, yelling.

  “Stop.” My throat was tight, the words too soft. “Stop.” It was louder but not enough.

  Rising to my feet, Betje’s bemused expression following me, I shook my head, raised my chin, and shouted, “Stop!”

  The crowd fell silent. Betje’s sniffles and Harry’s quiet words of comfort the only sounds.

  “Accuse me all you like, say what you will of my character, but do not malign my sister.”

  I glared at Roland, willing him to challenge me, dare me to reveal how she came to be so disfigured. As much as I wanted to, I knew that way lay even greater danger.

  With deliberate slowness, I took the veil from Roland’s fingers and reattached it. One of the guards tried to stop me, but Roland waved him back.

  “All who come within your sweet-scented orbit do surrender their innocence,” said Roland finally, almost sadly. Tapping Harry on the shoulder, he jerked his chin.

  “Return her to her seat and keep her there and naught will be said of this.”

  I nodded. “Do it, Harry, Betje.”

  One last hug and Betje went unwillingly, her head bowed.

  Bishop le Bold also sat, as did the jurors.

  “In case my evidence is not enough, Master Fynk has assembled those who will support my claims and testify against the offender.” He gestured to those on my right.

  Not Emma! Not Rose! But of course these two, and more. Their injuries suddenly took on a more sinister cast. What had he threatened to do to them that hadn’t already been done?

  Each person was made to stand and answer questions from the jurors and Roland. Most of the responses were delivered in a monotone, rehearsed and devoid of emotion. Others were more impassioned, either from vindictive streaks or the desire for a purse they’d no doubt been promised. However they were coerced, every word condemned me further. Hoisted me upon the rope I knew awaited me at the Tower.

  Leander, where are you?

  From the number of looks Alyson cast toward the door, I wasn’t the only one concerned on that score.

  The sun rolled across the sky. People came and went, even some of the jurors, sating thirst, hunger, and other needs. Neither invited to sit nor offered refreshment, I stood until I swayed with fatigue. Not once did Alyson or Captain Stoyan leave the chamber. Harry and Betje did, but briefly.

  It wasn’t until the last rays of sunshine feebly struck the wall behind the jurors that the testimonies drew to a halt. Added to my transgressions was witchcraft. Emma, with a stricken look, delivered a damning account of the ale song and the one rite I thought unobserved—my libation to the corner crones.

  “And does she curse God and the Holy Mother when worshipping these pagan effigies?”

  “Aye, she does.”

  “And does she divest herself of her clothes and dance naked before their shrine, decrying the birth of the baby Jesus and the sanctity and purity of all saints?”

  “Aye.”

  My confidence that Leander would arrive
at the last moment, that this trial would be exposed as the sham it was and the real criminal unmasked, ebbed away.

  When the verdict was finally delivered, no one was surprised.

  “Guilty,” said the first juror, and his decision was repeated a dozen times, each one a death knell that brought my hanging closer. My only hope now lay in a law that, in any other situation, may have raised a chuckle or at least a witty observation. The law that decreed the church could not put anyone to death.

  It was the only respite I was likely to receive.

  Unless Leander appeared and overturned this verdict or could arrange some impossible marvel, the outcome once the King’s Bench heard the evidence would be identical. They were not known for disregarding the church in matters of law. If anything, they generally imposed a more serious sentence.

  Trying not to reveal my fear, my utter despondency that Leander hadn’t arrived, I faced the bishop.

  Once again forced to wait while those in the chamber quietened, Roland regarded me steadily, a small smile fluttering about the corners of his mouth.

  “Under usual circumstances, the Bishop’s Court cannot sentence a felon to death, no matter how grievous the crime. However, considering the serious nature of these offenses, their duration, the impact they’ve had upon the good folk of Southwark and Bankside, never mind that two of our beloved brethren have been cruelly murdered, may God assoil them, I do believe we have grounds for modifying the laws slightly. As she took the life of those in the church, is it not right the church should take hers? An eye for an eye, et cetera?”

  There was a rumble among those present. Looks were exchanged: horror, consideration, frowns, cautious nods.

  I let out a gasp. I swear, it was as if Roland had reached into my chest and wrenched the hope from it. My ribs contracted, my legs began to shake.

  The jurors looked at each other, eyebrows raised. “This is most unusual, your grace,” said one.

  “But there are precedents, if not here, then on the Continent,” said another.

  “What I propose,” said Roland, “is to follow the statutes closely in but one regard.”

  “Your grace?”

  “On no account must blood be shed. So the manner of her death must be such that this does not occur.”

  “How do you propose to do that? Even hanging, the usual death for a traitor, often draws blood.”

  They began to speak as if I was not quivering before them. I shot a look at Alyson, who understood and whispered to Harry, who led Betje from the room. Casting a lingering look in my direction, she didn’t even object. She knew we were beaten.

  How long the conversation went on, I do not know. I do know that when they’d reached agreement, there were a few minutes of silence while the scribes finished recording the punishment. When they had done so, Bishop le Bold signaled for Master Fynk to bring forth the document that sealed my fate.

  Unfurling it with great drama, Roland cast his eyes over it before passing it to Master Fynk with a nod of approval.

  “Read it,” ordered Roland.

  It wasn’t until he reached the part where the details of my death were outlined, that I really listened.

  “She is to be sealed in an empty ale barrel which will be set atop lighted faggots where she will burn until nothing remains but ashes.”

  Alyson and Captain Stoyan jumped to their feet. Captain Stoyan threw himself at Master Fynk and was restrained. Alyson tried to reach out to me, but before she could, my mind went blank.

  Unable to stand, think, or breathe, I toppled to the floor.

  Fifty-Eight

  The Clink

  The following day

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

  I woke before cock crow. Clambering to my knees, I prayed to my Lord Jesus Christ, Mother Mary, and, because I must, to the Goddess of Brewing and the corner crones. I didn’t pray for my salvation, it was too late for that, but for the lives and souls of those I loved and would leave behind. Most of all, I asked that Leander be able to forgive himself. My death would haunt him, though I was the one who had convinced him not to seek his version of justice, but to allow it to be the Almighty’s. God had chosen to punish me when, if I’d allowed Leander his way, I might have been saved. Leander understood that though God might see His will be done, when it came to vengeance, man would always surpass Him.

  Only then did I pray for my soul, and that, if what le Bold said about Tobias’s paternity was true, I might be forgiven for sinning where I sought only to love.

  I did not regret what I had shared with Leander. I could not. Mayhap, this was to be our punishment.

  I prayed for Tobias and thanked my dear Lord that we were, in our way, reconciled before my death.

  Visitors hadn’t interrupted my last night; there’d been no whispers in the dark, no nourishment offered. The gaoler, perhaps feeling sorry for a condemned woman, explained that the bishop had ordered the street outside my cell to be guarded, and had forbidden any communication. What he did allow was a basin of water and a cloth. Water and food, if you could call food bread so hard I could not pry even a crumb loose with my teeth and a pottage so watery I drank instead of sipped it, he also arranged.

  Unable to sleep at first, I had sat with my knees against my chest and revisited everything that had been said and done that day. It would not have mattered what statements I’d made, how much I’d denied the charges or what proof of innocence my friends and family offered—I was condemned before I entered the room and le Bold knew it. He’d been planning this for a long time. Implying he would leave me undisturbed if I did not mention the past was merely a ruse so he could ensure my downfall was complete.

  After everything that had happened, after everything I’d been through because of him, he had his final victory. Not only did he have a position of respect and power in the church, upon my death he would be able to seize all my property. I didn’t own much, only the barrels of ale and beer that had not yet been sold or delivered and the equipment in the brewery. He already possessed Mother’s recipes. But that was not enough; not the recipes, nor the losses entailed in acquiring them. It had never been enough. He wanted, as he said, to destroy me utterly and, if it meant crushing others, including Betje and the twins, he didn’t care. It made his victory sweeter.

  I wept then, not for me, but for my sister and my poor babes. Alyson, Adam, and Captain Stoyan wouldn’t escape his justice either. I wept for Leander, that I would not see him again, would never feel his loving embrace, his midnight gaze, experience one last time the passion he brought into my life. Know again his trust in me, his faith.

  I had cried myself to sleep and, when dawn arrived, found a peculiar quiet, almost as if contentment had found me. Perhaps it was resignation. I couldn’t alter what had happened, or what was to be, but I could ensure that le Bold’s last memories of me would be unforgettable.

  As I washed myself carefully, removing tunic and kirtle and scrubbing the grime of the last few days away, I was also cleansing my spirit.

  When Master Fynk and the guards came to lead me away, I was standing beneath the window, listening to the sounds of Southwark, the borough that had offered me sanctuary, success, friends, and love. For that and so much more, I was grateful.

  The cockiness that defined Master Fynk wasn’t so pronounced as he walked ahead, leading us through gloom-soaked passages and into the harsh daylight. Blinking after the dimness of the prison, it wasn’t a bright day and, as my eyes grew accustomed, I was able to see the heavy gray clouds that clustered overhead.

  Our footsteps resounded on the cobbles. Guards wearing the bishop’s livery stood to attention as we passed, then fell in behind us. Was I so dangerous that I must be accompanied by so many fearsome men?

  As we rounded the corner and entered the huge courtyard of Winchester Palace, the reason for the guards became apparent. Hundreds of people were crowded into the space, all facing toward a small dais in the center. Once I was sp
otted, the crowd, who’d been relatively quiet, began to murmur, quickly swelling to a roar as they pointed, shouted, and tried to draw near, only to be deterred by a pike or sword.

  We plowed our way through to the clear space in front of the dais. Keeping my head bowed, I focused upon my boots, scuffed, the toes dirty with whatever lay upon my cell’s floor, kicking my tunic about. It too was soiled, a band of scum weighing it down.

  It wasn’t till we drew to a halt that I raised my head and the roar of the people dimmed, like the sounds of the sea trapped forever within a shell. Straight in front of me, a small pyramid of faggots flamed. Next to them, an empty barrel lay on its side, the lid on the ground next to it. A cooper in an apron stood nearby, his hammer in one hand, the other crooked behind his back. He glanced at me before his eyes slid away.

  On the platform above stood Bishop le Bold and some of the jurors. Members of the senior clergy were also there. I was so close, I could see their cassocks were stained, their fingernails dirty. One belched and thumped his chest, another yawned. The oldest stared at me with a look of such compassion it took my breath away. Of Alyson, Captain Stoyan, Betje, and Harry, there was no sign. I was glad. I wanted them to remember my life, not the nightmare of my death.

  For just a moment, sadness enveloped me as I realized there would be no Leander, no last-minute rescue, no hero to alter events and change destiny.

  Leaving me amidst the guards, Master Fynk ascended the platform and, calling for quiet by raising his hands, read from a scroll he pulled from his belt.

  Hearing my list of misdemeanors and sins again, I almost laughed. They were absurd, except nothing about this was funny. And hadn’t I always anticipated this? That someday the transgressions I’d committed, big and small, would have to be paid for? Aye, I had. But in all my imaginings, I’d not foreseen my trial or reparation being delivered by le Bold. This was the cruelest of jests and a small part of me could not credit it to my God, even though His goodwill had been wanting of late.