HOLCROFT HOUSE
Midsummer’s Eve
The year of Our Lord 1406 in the seventh year of the reign of Henry IV
I perched on the edge of the bed and stared out the window. As the moon slowly travelled its arc across the sky, the revels next door ceased. The bonfire subsided and the unseasonably cool summer’s night wrapped itself around me as the house descended into slumber. The servants had made their weary ways to bed, Adam slipping in through the mews door, Blanche closing the kitchen one below. There was the creak of stairs, followed shortly after by the rustle of the curtain behind me. Saskia entered my room with the familiarity of a servant of longstanding, hesitating briefly by the curtained doorway before kneeling and throwing more wood on the fire Iris had lit earlier.
‘Are you all right, Mistress Anneke?’ she asked.
‘Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?’ I didn’t turn around.
She sighed and, boring a hole into my back with that stare of hers, willing me to meet her gaze, stood to one side of the hearth.
‘Because it’s not like you to come to bed without bidding us goodnight.’
‘It’s not, is it? Forgive me. A headache prevented it.’ My lie was as apparent as the flames licking the wood.
‘A headache?’ She tutted in false sympathy. ‘That’s too bad. It’s no trouble to fix you something. Or,’ her tone altered, ‘I could comb your hair like I used to when you were small and we would chat. You found that soothing.’
I twisted and gave her a weak smile. ‘It’s not necessary. I’m hoping it’s nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure. Goodnight, Saskia.’
Her face revealed how hurt she was by my abrupt dismissal and how unconvinced she was by my words. It didn’t make me feel any better.
Waiting till the curtain fell into place and Saskia’s soft tread faded, I rose and clambered onto the window seat. The window was open, the shutters flung back. Inhaling deeply, the tepid scents of evening entered — mostly sweet, tinged with woodsmoke, salt, ale and the faint ordure of the animals. High in the sky, the moon showed half her face, casting a silvery glow over the garden, forging dark shapes and unmaking others. Stars twinkled, scattered over the blanket of night like tiny treasures. Over the garden wall, a light bobbed within the church; Father Clement preparing for the midnight prayers, matins. I offered my own swift one to the Lord and to Mother Mary, though my heart wasn’t really in it.
Despite what I claimed, my heart was with Sir Leander Rainford.
Burying my face in my hands, I resisted the urge to weep, to fling myself upon the pillow and cry the way one does when senseless, short-sighted dreams are dashed. Dreams that, until Tobias announced Sir Leander’s forthcoming marriage, I didn’t know I’d had — or did I? According to Tobias, they were obvious to everyone.
How could I be so stupid? I cringed with shame.
Resting my chin against my shoulder and wrapping one arm around my belly, I concentrated on quashing the emotions that threatened to overwhelm me. An owl hooted, its movement swift against the starry firmament, making me jump. Releasing a deep shuddering sigh, I let go of my stomach and traced mindless patterns on the sill.
When Father was alive, I’d always hoped that one day a suitable husband would be found for me. Oh, we’d had offers. As soon as I turned sixteen, Father and Hiske were approached by the likes of the cloth merchant’s son, Robert Mercer, a cocky, ill-mannered man who spent his father’s money faster than he could make it. Father rebuffed him and Robert married Ellen de Lys, daughter of another merchant who specialised in fragrant unguents and oils. They’d taken their business to Saint-Germain. That was four years ago and I hadn’t heard anything of them since. Then there was Sir Abel Orped, an old knight who had lost an arm in France and four wives besides and was given land and a small annuity by Lord Rainford for his services. Making no secret that he wanted a wife and sons to farm it for him, I was his third effort at securing a woman in a month. Fortunately, despite Hiske’s assertions he’d be a fine husband, Father rejected his offer as well. I wonder if it was because of the man’s association with Lord Rainford rather than his violent reputation.
There’d been others too. None had been right according to Father.
I’d always believed he was waiting for the best offer, the right man, before he gave me away in marriage.
And now? As an orphan and eldest child, I’d no-one to speak for me, to tender a dowry which might compensate for my shortcomings: namely, two young siblings, brewing, an alehouse and a blistering reputation.
All that aside, was there ever a time when I could have attracted the legitimate attentions of a nobleman? Once, mayhap … But ever since Mother died and Father made the contract with Lord Rainford, the best I could hope for in a husband was a struggling merchant or mayhap a poor knight … Never a peer of the realm, not even the youngest son of one … Not even a cripple …
I sighed. It was long, drawn from the depths of my being. Truth be told, before I decided upon brewing, Sir Leander was unavailable to me no matter what. The son of a lord forming a union with the eldest child of one of his vassals wasn’t possible. Though we’d all heard stories of nobles marrying farm girls and kings taking housemaids as mistresses, they belonged in the realm of make-believe, not my reality.
For the time being, marriage to any man was out of the question. And so was Sir Leander Rainford, no matter what my mind tried to whisper. Then why could I not dismiss him? Why was hope, despite my bold denials, still nestling in my breast? Tears welled, burning the hollow my heart had become.
The night was so quiet and still. The distant crash of waves could just be discerned. A dog barked, the leaves rustled and the faint breeze carried the sounds of Father Clement’s novices chanting. The bells of St Stephen’s chimed and St Bartholomew’s began to answer.
It was no good, sleep wasn’t going to attend me this evening, not yet.
Staring across the yard, my gaze came to rest on the brewhouse, the place that had given me, in one way, such prospects, and in another, such misery. The place that ensured the family survived and I maintained independence. Yet it was also proving to be a millstone that may yet drown me in good intentions.
Thoughts of drowning led to Father, which then led to Lord Rainford, the house, and what started me brewing in the first place, which led to consideration of wine, ale and beer. By God, I needed another drink. I needed to drink myself into oblivion and forget the nagging ache lodged beneath my breastbone, and either dam or shed the tears that stoppered up my throat.
Grabbing my shawl, I left the room and crept downstairs, avoiding the spots where the floor protested.
Entering the kitchen, I could hear Blanche’s soft snores from her room behind the fireplace. Searching for a cup in the dark wasn’t easy; neither was finding a jug of ale. I needed light and to make noise. I couldn’t risk drinking in here — not only might I wake Blanche, but I didn’t want the servants catching me in my weakness. I yearned for solitude, for the drowsy numbness ale or beer would hasten.
Unlatching the kitchen door, I ran through the garden and into the brewery.
My heart was beating savagely; I felt like a naughty girl or a woman embarking on an illicit liaison. The idea gave me pause and sadness began to crawl through me again. I shut the door, fumbling until I found a candle. The flame spat to life and cast a small halo. I looked around. The kiln and oven were still warm, emanating a faint, comforting glow. Beneath the windows, the cooling ale pooled in the troughs, the moonbeams making the surface sparkle. Singing softly to the ale and the crones as I moved around, I found a tankard, slipped my tunic over my head so as not to stain it, pushed up my elegant sleeves and recklessly immersed the vessel in the trough, enjoying the mellow feel of the liquid against my flesh. Raising my voice slightly in honour to the goddess of brews, it was as though I drew from the source.
Lifting the tankard, the ale spilled over the sides, down my forearms and back into the trough. Before I lost any more, I slurped the foam and then drank deeply, relishing the way it slid down my throat, appreciating the notes of honey, mint and even the richness of the mandragora I’d added. On a fancy, I’d paid a goodly sum for it from a hawker who had come to the house, wanting to recreate the draught it was said Circe gave to Odysseus’s crew.
Imagining myself to be the goddess Circe, I plunged my tankard into the ale again and drank, opening my throat. After all, I indulged not to quench a thirst but to summon forgetfulness. Even as I filled my cup a third time, I knew I would pay for this folly on the morrow, but as my mind clouded and thoughts became difficult to separate, my heart slowed and the pain afflicting my soul dissolved. Sinking onto the floor, my back to the trough, the agreeable heat of the stove offering solace as well, Leander Rainford, husbands, brewing and the future became distant winking lands to which I one day might venture.
One day … maybe … if …
They erupted from nowhere, the tears I’d thought banished, the sorrow I didn’t know I carried so very deep within. They fell fast and furiously, for Mother, Father, Will, Patroclus and Achilles, for the cruelty of Hiske, for being thought a whore by a man I knew I could so easily love … but I didn’t. Nay. I did not. I do not love you, Leander Rainford. As God is my witness, I do not. Sobs were torn from my throat and, unable to sit straight any longer, I curled up in a ball on the floor, uncaring that rats scuttled nearby, or that ash from the kiln was my pillow. I wept, hiccoughed, and wept some more.
That was how Westel found me, ten minutes or days later, I was uncertain; I didn’t care. My pride, my flighty ambitions, my dreams were nothing more than blemishes upon my bodice, runnels of moisture upon my cheeks.
He stood over me, head tilted, those great innocent eyes dark pools that stared and stared. Then, with a sigh I took for tenderness, he knelt down and lifted me into his arms.
At first, I welcomed his embrace. The firmness of his hold, the confidence of his murmuring voice which didn’t seek to question or admonish me, but spoke words I’d longed to hear from other lips. Resting my head against his chest, his fingers wove through my hair, untangling my plaits. The action was soothing, pleasing. One hand stroked my arms, while his lips, whispering, whispering, began to travel from my ear to my neck. I could smell ale on his breath and the reek of old wine. Lost between knowing I had to sit up and extract myself from this comfort, but also wanting to allow the moment to last, to surrender to it for just a little longer and let the pain of remembering fade, I hesitated. A voice inside me was shouting ‘move’, while another couldn’t summon a coherent thought.
Westel’s tone changed. The words were hard to distinguish at first, I’d drunk so much ale and so very quickly. As they became clearer, I tensed. He spoke of God, of the first woman Eve, and prayed for the salvation of my soul and his. The words were fast, deep and wild. When he began to beg forgiveness, for what, I was uncertain, common sense prevailed and, though my limbs didn’t want to cooperate, I struggled to extricate myself from his grasp.
He tightened his arms. His hands, at first gentle, clenched firmly. I stiffened.
‘Westel. What do you think you’re doing? Let me go.’ I pushed against him.
‘Sorry, mistress, but God forgive me, I cannot. I’ve waited so patiently for this chance.’ Twining his fingers in my hair as if in a caress, he bundled my thick locks at the nape and pulled hard, forcing me to arch backwards. Those long, white fingers I’d once admired easily captured my hands in one of his own, caging them.
He laughed, a sinister snarl I’d never heard from him before. I began to flail and whimper as he brought his face closer. Wrenching my head further back, so my neck was strained and the tears so recently staunched fell again, I’d no recourse but to kick. My first attempt missed, but my second met its mark. With a grunt, he doubled over and then with a strength that defied reason, hauled me off the floor by the roots of my hair and bellowed.
Slamming my head against the trough, he released me briefly. Pain exploded in my forehead. Dazed, blood trickled into my eyes as I rolled onto my back and tried to sit up. Before I could, he straddled me. Seizing control of my hands again with one of his, he fumbled at my bodice.
Bright lights danced before my eyes, bands of torment lanced my head and hot blood sped down my brow. Above me, in the semi-darkness of the brewery, Westel’s angelic face was mottled by light and shadow, his huge eyes reflecting the flame of the candle, and he transformed into something from the abbot’s pulpit, an emissary of hell come to take me.
‘Slattern! Whore!’ His spittle rained upon me. ‘Weapon of the devil. You tempt all men, but above all, you seek to first tempt and now refuse me.’
‘Westel, nay, please —’ The room spun, Westel merged with it; a huge black wave was about to swallow everything.
‘Shut up!’ The slap was vicious, loud, my cries muted. ‘I’m a mere man, too weak to resist. God knows I’ve tried. But I’m flesh and blood and why should I be denied what others are not?’
My breathing was laboured, my mind in splinters. Agony rode my will, breaking it into submission.
‘God will understand. God will forgive. Like all women, you’re the temptress, Satan’s whore come to seduce mankind.’
His mad sermon continued unabated, slaver flew from his mouth. Tearing my dress, he groped my body through the rent fabric, rubbed his hands, his face, his mouth against me. His eyes were fierce; his entire body trembled. I could feel his excitement as he thrust himself against me like a rutting pig.
Twisting and turning, I struggled, but he was stronger and that leaden wave pulled me under. I mustered a cry.
‘Whore,’ he struck me across the face again. ‘Make another sound and I’ll stick you with more than my cock.’ He leaned over me. ‘Like I did Will,’ he whispered.
Bright lights danced before my eyes. I shut them but it was as if the stars spun for me alone. ‘It was you? You hurt Will?’ My stomach churned, my mind tried to unravel Westel’s words.
‘Hurt him? Nay, you stinking rose, I killed him.’ His tongue, a repulsive slug, traced my neck.
Teeth sank into the soft flesh around my nipple. My wail was collected in his hand as he covered my mouth.
‘God, oh, my God,’ he murmured, his lips suckling, hungry, fevered. Nausea rose, sickness and a terrible fear.
Will, oh Will … What monster had I brought into the house?
I gagged, coughed and tried to draw air, but it was rancid. Who was this man? Holy Mother, help me. I summoned another cry, this time for Adam, for Tobias, for Leander, the good men in my life. Before I could release it, Westel picked up my skirts and threw them over my head, not caring that he blocked my nose and mouth, only that it dampened my cries. He unlaced his breeches, his knees pinning my legs.
‘I gave him a chance, you know.’ He spat and thrust moist fingers inside me, grunting. ‘Will, who sought to tell tales, turn you against me. Will who thought he was so clever, knew what I was about.’ He ploughed his fingers back and forth. ‘But he didn’t — not even when he died, when he begged me to tell him, I wouldn’t. None of you knew. Fools.’ His teeth latched on to my ear. ‘You still don’t.’
Cruel fingers gouged the soft flesh of my thighs. My thoughts spiralled and shattered into fragments. This wasn’t happening, this wasn’t real. I would awake and this would be nothing but a devil-sent dream.
The floor became a vast wheel upon which I was turned and turned, sinking lower and lower, descending into a private hell.
As I felt his manhood against me, hard and slick, I made one last effort to heave him away. With a roar of rage, he grabbed my head in both hands, squeezing it as he might a ball, before dashing it against the floor.
His voice became a rhythmic, brutal accompaniment that pierced the thick fog holding my thoughts captive, my body fast.
‘You are the gate of the devil,’ he chanted. ‘The traitor of the tree, the first deserter of Divine Law; you are she who enticed the one whom the devil dare not approach, you broke so easily the image of God, you broke this man; on account of the death you deserved, even the Son of God had to die … And now, it’s your turn …’
I was choking.
A stream of liquid poured over my face, my exposed chest. I coughed, turned aside to stop the steady flow; swallowed, tasted ale, rolled and vomited.
‘Sit up, slut.’
Pulled upright roughly and thrown against a hard surface, I lurched to one side before more ale was thrown in my face. I raised my hand weakly. ‘Please …’
Another slap brought me to my senses. The world compressed until it was just a flickering candle and a ream of paper thrust in my face.
‘What’s this?’ asked Westel, pressing the small book hard into my cheek.
At first, I couldn’t make out what he was compressing against me. When he moved it away and made it dance back and forth, my blurry vision solidified.
‘My … my ale bible.’
The next blow was so hard, my head snapped around, my nose striking the trough.
‘You cunting whore,’ he spat in my face. ‘I know what it is. What’s this?’ Through half-closed eyes, I saw his finger stabbing the words. ‘What language is this?’
He grabbed my right nipple and twisted it.
‘Please …’ He twisted harder. ‘Dutch,’ I cried. ‘It’s written in Dutch.’
He slammed the book against my temple and clambered to his feet. ‘Of course it is.’ He began to laugh, the sound making my skin crawl. ‘And to think I killed her when she could have been of use after all.’
‘Killed?’ My heart almost sprang out of my chest. Will. Westel killed Will. ‘Who else, Westel? Who have you harmed?’
He was beside me again, his face and mouth so very, very close. His hot breath lathed my flesh, fingers cupped my cheek ever-so-gently. They were wet, sticky. Blood. His fingers were covered in blood.
‘Saskia,’ he purred. ‘I killed Saskia. She saw what I did to Karel.’
Karel?
The sound I made was not human.
‘He found me in your room fetching this.’ He thrust the ale bible in my face. ‘I had to silence the devil’s spawn lest he rouse the lot. But I was too late. That cow, Saskia, saw me. Doesn’t anyone in this Godforsaken house ever sleep? She’ll not tell a soul what she witnessed, not any more.’
Saskia, my loyal, loving Saskia … My heart was beating so fast. Think. Think. ‘What did you do to Karel?’
‘Karel? Just a little shove. He fell, struck his head. I placed him in the chest in your room. God was with me for that’s where I finally found this.’ He held the ale bible aloft. ‘Do you know how long I’ve been searching for it? I thought you kept it in the office. But it wasn’t there, was it? You’d tease me with it though, bring it to the brewhouse, talk about your secret little recipes. Then you’d hide it and I couldn’t find it. There was only one place left it could be. When I saw you creeping out tonight, I knew my luck had changed.’ He pushed back his cap and scratched his forehead, chuckling.
I wiped the blood out of my eyes. Karel. Saskia. I had to get to Karel. I groaned and retched, the noise loud in the quietness of the brewhouse. ‘You bastard,’ I tried to rise. ‘You’ll hang for this —’
His foot shot out, connecting with my ribs and I fell, panting. I tried to scream, the sound was ragged, pathetic, all the wind had been knocked from my lungs, all the courage, my faith, was leaching from my body.
‘Scream all you like; it doesn’t matter any more.’ He shoved the ale bible down the front of his pants. ‘They’ll not heed you, there’s too much else to occupy them.’
Pressing my hands against my ribs, I panted. ‘What do you mean?’
Westel stared out the window above me, and I swear I could see the fires of purgatory dancing in his eyes. ‘You’ll see.’
Reaching for his coat, which had been flung across the table, Westel shrugged it on. With all my remaining might, I wished him dead. But death was not something you could will, it came of its own or another’s volition. I would be that other. I searched for a weapon, something to wield against him. Around me was a litter of broken tools, an upturned mash tun, bent trays. My hand scrabbled across the floor.
‘Why?’ I asked him, shuffling forward slightly, trying not to make my actions obvious. ‘Why, Westel? Why Karel? Why Saskia? Why Will?’ I gestured to the remnants of my gown, to my dignity that was spilled on the floor, pressed into the bruises, blood and his seed on my thighs. ‘Why me?’ My voice was tiny.
‘Why, why, why?’ he mocked me in a mewling tone. ‘Why not? You deliberately flaunt God’s laws and man’s and believe there won’t be a price to pay? You set out to steal business away from us, from God, and think a cost won’t be extracted? Oh, the vanity and evil of women knows no bounds.’ He crossed himself. ‘Even now, you don’t understand justice when it’s been served.’
‘This is about the ale?’ Nothing would come into focus, not properly. Breathing deeply, there was a familiar tang in the air; I couldn’t quite identify it, my nose was slightly blocked, the smell of blood and my own fear dominated but they also gave me a sudden clarity. ‘You’re from St Jude’s.’
‘Aye. I am.’
It all made sense now. What I’d always believed to be his growing baldness was actually a tonsure growing out. The constant praying, his ability to read and write, the cap that never came off … his endless curiosity and willingness to help with the ale.
‘Everything you told me was a lie.’
‘Not everything. I was raised by monks — that part was true. It’s just that, as the son of Abbot Hubbard, I could never be denied a calling. After all, I was born to heed my Lord.’
Abbot Hubbard’s son? Oh dear God, help me.
‘I don’t understand,’ I tried to distract him with questions, all the while searching for a weapon, something with which to protect myself. ‘The alehouse was your idea.’
‘Aye, it was and you adopted it, just as I hoped.’
‘You intended me to fail all along.’
‘Such is your pride and vanity you assumed you were going to succeed.’
‘I was.’
Westel shook his head in disbelief. The light from outside was growing, the smell getting stronger. A steady roar, like the ocean in a storm, grew louder, forcing Westel to raise his voice to be heard.
‘You were warned, Anneke Sheldrake, we gave you notice time and time again, but you chose to ignore us. Instead, you sounded the clarion, recruited more soldiers and marched to meet your destiny. Tonight you face it.’
Before I could anticipate him, he lifted the ale stick away from the wall and in one swift action, raised it above his head. In the undulating light pouring in from outside, Westel was an avenging angel come to wreak a terrible justice.
With all my remaining strength, I screamed, raising my arms above my head. At the same time, I levered myself partly under the trough. The ale stick swung. It hit the edge of the wood and my shoulder at the same time as my head struck the metal leg. I fell back into blessed shadows and lay completely still.
With a grunt, Westel cast the ale-stick aside and prodded my body with his boot. I fought the blackness creeping into my mind, the agony that roared through my shoulder, head and heart. Nay, nay. Karel … Betje. Oh sweet Jesù, please don’t forsake me …
Conscious of a commotion swelling beyond, of the door to the brewhouse opening, a blast of smoke-filled air entering, I tried not to let murky relief claim me, but my injuries were too great, my soul and body too sore. I shut my eyes, intending to rise, to run to the house, find Karel, see what caused such smoke and raging light, but before I could, I lost this battle as well.