The Lady Brewer of London

by Karen Brooks

  As Roland had planned to eliminate me, so had Leander silently and diligently worked to thwart him. And had done so for some time; from the moment I identified le Bold as Westel Calkin, Leander had set his wheels in motion. And to think I’d lectured him on restraint. Watching Leander smoothly control the trial, moving from one witness to the next, encouraging further questions, demanding answers, I marveled at this man who called me beloved. As he strode around the chamber, using his cane for emphasis as he spoke, I saw the warrior, the man who refused to allow his deformity, his twisted foot, to dictate his life. Replacing the cane with a sword, I could imagine it bearing down on his enemies, and see them trembling before his wrath. Adam once spoke of how folk tended to underestimate Leander. I’d been guilty of doing the same. Never again. To do so was to invite peril.

  From the expression on Roland’s face, it was evident he felt the same. He also understood that convicting me of charges that were false had merely brought his fate forward, and Leander and everyone knew this to be so. I was going to be exonerated and, after all this time, after so much death, loss, and grief, Roland was going to get what he deserved—God willing.

  The trial continued well into the afternoon, by which time Roland le Bold’s future was sealed. With each testimony, each remembrance of what he’d done at Elmham Lenn, even those who had believed his protestations of innocence were beginning to doubt. Still, there was reluctance to pass a severe sentence upon a man of God, especially one in such a prestigious office, appointed by the Archbishop, no less. That was, until the final piece of evidence was given.

  Leander called Sir Gilbert Woodley, the coroner. At the mention of his name, Roland visibly paled. An imposing man with dark hair and bristling brows, from the moment he began to speak, his voice like dark velvet, he captured the entire room.

  “Having examined the bodies of the deceased monks and the mazers from which they imbibed the drink, it’s clear their deaths were not caused by the ale alone.”

  “It was poisoned,” shouted Roland, imploring the jurors. “Of course, it wasn’t the ale alone. That slattern brewster infected the entire barrel. She was out to murder me. She knew I could identify her as the felon who destroyed Lord Rainford’s property and murdered her own brother and servants in the process.”

  There were dark mutters and knitted brows.

  “Nay, your grace,” said Sir Gilbert calmly. “Your grace”—he turned to the Archbishop—“the barrel was not poisoned, merely the mazers.”

  “How can you be certain?” spluttered Roland. “We tipped the barrel into the Thames immediately.”

  “Mayhap you did,” said Sir Gilbert, “but the king’s steward did not get rid of His Grace’s ale. As a consequence, I’ve been able to test the king’s brew, which was branded and marked with the same seals as yours, by Southwark ale-conners, and find it clear of any questionable ingredients. The brew was not poisonous—not the contents of the barrels, at any rate. In fact, it’s an uncommonly fine brew.” He gave a small bow in my direction.

  Unaware I was present till this moment, heads turned toward me, and I saw Leander frown and then shake his head, a small smile on his lips. I returned the coroner’s courtesy with a dip of my chin.

  “Examining the monks’ bodies knowing the ale was clear, however, did lead me to form other conclusions.”

  “Share them if you please, Sir Gilbert,” said Leander.

  “From the discoloration upon the monks’ lips and from reports of the smell that hovered about the corpses’ mouths, and the manner of their death, which was described as swift, preceded by tremors, vomiting, and extreme pallor, it’s clear that the deadly herb hellebore was used. It’s my belief that Bishop le Bold, seeking to implicate Mistress de Winter, added hellebore to the monks’ mazers in order to make it appear as if the brew itself was poisoned.”

  Exclamations were followed by loud whispering.

  “Hellebore? Where would I attain such an herb?” Roland had to raise his voice to be heard.

  Leander waved forward someone from the crowd on the other side of the room. It was an officer of the Hanse.

  “Captain Geise,” whispered Adam.

  “Captain?” Leander flipped his hand in the man’s direction. “Mayhap you can answer.”

  Removing his cap, Captain Geise bowed to the jurors before answering. “Ja, my lord. One of my men was tasked with purchasing the exact same herb for the bishop last month.”

  “Prove it,” snapped Roland, all efforts to remain calm forgotten.

  “You requested there be no bill of sale, so I cannot.”

  Roland turned to Leander, a smirk upon his features.

  “Which doesn’t explain how this was found in your quarters,” cried a voice from the back. Captain Stoyan pushed his way to the front holding aloft a small bag. Before the room, he opened and tipped some of the contents into his palm, holding it out so Sir Gilbert could identify the plant. A number of stringy, dark brown stalks were visible.

  “That is hellebore,” said Sir Gilbert.

  “This is preposterous. Your grace,” Roland beseeched the Archbishop, “this could have been acquired anywhere and be said to have come from my rooms.”

  “True,” said the Archbishop. “Do you have proof this is indeed the property of the bishop?”

  Captain Stoyan turned and beckoned to someone else. A young acolyte reluctantly made his way to the edge of the crowd. One side of his face was bruised and he walked favoring his right foot.

  “This is Bishop Roland’s servant, your grace,” said Leander. “He will swear that this bag was in a chest in the bishop’s rooms.”

  “What is your name, lad?” asked the Archbishop softly.

  “Payn, your grace.”

  “Payn who?”

  Payn shot a look at Roland, who glared at the boy with such ferocity, I felt sure it would render him mute.

  “Le Bold, your grace. I am Payn le Bold.”

  The room erupted.

  “And,” he said, shouting to be heard, “I also have this.” From beneath his shirt, he held up a tattered old book bound in leather and tied with string.

  Mother’s recipes, my ale bible.

  Above the din, Roland shouted, “Sir Leander has bribed these witnesses. Every testimony has been paid for.”

  “Aye,” called a voice, “a darn sight more than you paid, you tight-arsed bastard.”

  There were hoots and cackles.

  After that, the verdict was swift and final.

  “Bishop Roland le Bold—” Archbishop Arundel asked everyone to stand. Waiting until the room fell quiet, he continued. “On the morrow, you will be put to death according to the laws of both church and king. Our laws decree that such a sentence cannot be carried out on church property, therefore, you will be transported to the Tower, whereupon, as the sun rises, you will hang by the neck until you are dead.”

  Roland turned white. His eyes widened and a harsh, terrible scream issued from his throat. Guards descended upon him, hauling him out of the room, trying to prevent him from injuring himself as he pulled at his chains, swung his body side to side. “Nay! It’s she who must die! The viper, the poison rose of Satan!”

  I didn’t hear what was said after that; I no longer cared.

  Justice was served. Because of my beloved, Leander, I was a free woman.

  As Roland le Bold, formerly Westel Calkin, was led into the bowels of the Palace and The Clink, I was taken out another door, into light and liberty.

  The liberty to finally be who I was, love whom I chose, leave Southwark and, with my family and friends, establish my brewery in London.

  Sixty

  The Swanne

  July

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

  Exhaustion battled with exhilaration as celebrations at The Swanne continued long into the night. Though I’d had the bath and rest I’d delayed in order to bear witness to Roland’s trial, and eaten fit to burst, part of me was still tr
apped in the barrel. Trying to repress the flashes of memory that insisted on conjuring the full horror of it, I determined to focus on the good as I sat in Alyson’s solar drinking ale and beer with my family and friends. Huddled next to me was Betje, Harry by her side, their faces glowing with quiet disbelief, words tripping over each other in an effort to leave nothing unsaid, as only those who have escaped tragedy are sometimes wont to do. Others prefer quietude—not without, but within. It was the latter I sought, even amid the gaiety and abandon.

  Allowing the twins to remain in the solar, I held them to my breast and, possibly sensing the peace their mother radiated (a great deal due to their presence), they snuggled into my bosom contentedly, gently tugging my hair, giggling and clapping, so that Constance and Emma (who could not cease apologizing) could enjoy a dance and some drinks.

  Adam played his pipe and Master atte Place a drum. Captain Geise, the man who surprised us all with his unexpected aid and generosity in caring for the twins and Constance (since I had become a Crown trader, the Hanse’s reputation was no longer under threat if members associated with me), plucked a gittern. They played a bawdy song about a knight and his mistress.

  To be in the company of Blanche, Iris, Father Clement, Master Perkyn, and Master Makejoy brought me much happiness. When Tobias and Adam had ridden into Elmham Lenn and sought them out, they were first surprised and delighted to see them. Shocked to discover I was in such dire trouble, upon learning they could help, they made swift arrangements and left for Southwark immediately. Leander organized horses, an escort, and accommodation.

  “Grand it were too,” said Blanche.

  “Oh aye,” agreed Iris, watching the dancers with such longing I bade her join them.

  Father Clement gave me messages from Mother Joanna, and Master Perkyn from Olive and many more besides. When Master Makejoy joined us, a mazer of ale in his hand, I asked after my cousin’s health only to see a look of sadness cross his face.

  “You wouldn’t have heard, would you, mistress? We’d no way to find you. Hiske died of the plague not these few months past.” He lowered his head and I expressed my sympathy discovering, much to my surprise, that I meant it. I’d always known, deep down, that the discordant relations I’d shared with my cousin had little to do with me, despite appearances.

  “I know you and she didn’t always see eye to eye,” said Master Makejoy, pulling a kerchief from his surcoat and blowing his nose loudly, “but she gave me some very joyful times and I’ll be hard-pressed to replace her. Nonetheless, she believed in family and I know she would have wanted me to come here to your aid, mistress. She bore a terrible guilt over what happened betwixt you. I hope, may God assoil her, that she can rest easy now.”

  I wasn’t quite sure how to respond, so I patted his hand.

  It was Leander who, upon returning to The Swanne with Captain Stoyan, took me from the festivities and up to my room, offering neither apologies nor explanation. Some ribald comments accompanied our departure, but I simply laughed. All I wanted was to be alone with my beloved.

  Shutting the door, he leaned against it. I sank onto the bed with a groan. The unguents Alyson had rubbed into my burns may have alleviated much of the pain, but they also made my tunic and kirtle stick to my flesh and I longed to divest myself of them. I began to tug at my laces.

  “Are you going to stand there all night, my lord, or join me?”

  Leander chuckled and pried himself from the door. Watching him approach, his rolling gait and what it signified, I almost pitied those who failed to recognize the strength, the dexterity that emanated from him, despite the affliction. There were those, as I’d learned, who never looked beneath the surface, preferring to remain in the shallows.

  He propped his cane against the chair and sat beside me. Placing a hand over mine, he stilled my fingers. “I want nothing more than to stay, if you’re sure.”

  “Quite sure.”

  “Isn’t there something you want to ask me first?”

  I shrugged. “Is there?”

  Leander lifted my hand and kissed my fingers one by one. “Alyson told me—”

  “That never bodes well.”

  He didn’t smile. “Alyson said that during your trial, le Bold mentioned consanguinity. That he said Tobias was my son.”

  “He did . . .”

  Leander nodded. “Well then. Do you want the truth?”

  I pulled my hand away and walked to the window, treasuring the places upon my hand where his kisses had fallen. The shutters were open and the warm, gray day had turned into a balmy night. The clouds that had slunk over the city remained, swallowing the moon and stars.

  “I’m afraid of the truth.” I spun around. “I would rather love in ignorance than feel guilty every time you touched me, every time I had lustful thoughts or desired you as, even though I wilt from tiredness and injury, I do now.”

  A flicker of a smile crossed his face.

  “Anneke. It’s not true. Le Bold presented a falsehood, mayhap to enhance your wickedness.”

  My hands reached behind to grab the ledge as my body slumped and my head bowed. “Thank God.” Steadying my thoughts, I raised my face. “So Lord Rainford is Tobias’s father?”

  “Nay. It’s Symond. Symond is his father. Tobias is my nephew.”

  “Your brother?” Repelled by the thought of my sweet, gentle mother with that brute, I was at first lost for words. “Sir Symond? I never knew, would never have thought . . .” I shook my head. “Why then did your father make Tobias your squire? Why did he place my father in so much debt? Punish him for the sins of my mother and your brother? Why did he let me believe it was him?”

  Leander sighed and patted the bed beside him. When I sat, he took my hand in his again. “Do you remember the day, when you were a little girl, that you and your mother came to Scales Hall?”

  “I do. You were most discourteous to me and, if I recall, when we met again at Holcroft House, you claimed not to remember our first meeting.”

  “Well, that wasn’t true. I was simply being contrary.” He stroked my palm. “When I was young, I was boorish to all outsiders, most of whom, because of my leg”—he looked at it, turning it slightly—“would treat me as if I was in need of a mind as well.” He sighed. “You may recall that what I lacked in courtesy that day, Symond more than made up for.”

  “Indeed. He was very kind. Kept me amused the entire time my mother was with your stepmother.”

  “He did. But, like anything Symond does, it was with a purpose. Keeping you entertained was a way to ingratiate himself with your mother. She was very beautiful, you know.”

  “Oh, I know.”

  “Your mother felt indebted to Symond for what he did and, the next time she came to Scales Hall, she brought him a small gift. Finding him in the stables, she tried to give it to him. Symond refused, said there was only one gift he wanted from her and if she wouldn’t give it freely, he would take it.”

  “You’re not saying . . .”

  “I am. Symond raped your mother.”

  I exhaled, a long, sad note of despair. Mother never intimated, never said. I’d assumed so much, misjudged so badly. Moeder, forgive me. That I too had suffered such a fate, what did that mean? Was there a purpose? To teach me a lesson for being judgmental when compassion was needed? Dear God.

  Extracting my hands from Leander’s, I lowered my head into them. “All along, I thought, I believed— Mother encouraged me to . . . I thought she’d given herself freely.”

  “Not freely. Though it was what I understood for years as well. That she’d seduced Symond. I only learned the truth from my father recently. She was forced, and most violently by all accounts.”

  It was some time before I could raise my head. I inhaled and let the breath out slowly. “Tell me, why was my father punished for your brother’s sin?”

  Leander straightened his leg with a grimace. “Once your mother admitted to your father she was with child, he knew it couldn’t be his. He’d been away
for months and the timing was wrong. Only then did your mother confess what happened. In a rage, your father rode to Scales Hall. He confronted Symond, who didn’t deny what had happened, but the great, arrogant fool, instead of offering apologies, compensation, contrition, anything, chose to cast aspersions upon your mother’s character, called her whore and other such names.” Leander had the grace to look abashed. “Your father, forgetting he was dealing with such a young man and someone—forgive me, Anneke—above his station”—I waved a hand; it was but the truth—“demanded a reckoning. Already angry, he lost his temper. He gave Symond such a beating. When Symond drew his sword, your father unsheathed his dagger. He was swift, too fast for Symond. He slashed his face from here to there.” Leander drew a line that mimicked the scar upon his brother’s face. The one I had thought earned in battle. “I think he would have finished him if one of the stable boys hadn’t fetched Master Evan, who told Father. Had they not pulled your father from Symond, well . . .

  “Finding his eldest son in a bloody heap, unconscious, Father would have demanded justice then and there, and been in the right to take it, had he not known instinctively that Symond was responsible for what had befallen him. Even at fifteen, Symond was crafty, underhanded, spoiled. Learning the truth, my father struck a deal with yours. While Symond was carried to his room and doctors sent for, father promised to provide for the child in your mother’s womb and, once he came of age, to take him into his own household. For his silence and cooperation, he promised your father recompense in the form of material comfort. But he also intended your father to be punished. The doctors didn’t think Symond would make a full recovery; they thought he would suffer permanent injury.” Gesturing to his leg, he scowled. “I don’t think Father could cope with the notion of having two sons maimed. My father concluded that it was only just that your father suffer as well, and decided to hurt him where it would matter.”