The Brewer’s Tale

One person’s calamity is another’s fortune, I’d heard say, and that was certainly the case with the pestilence. The day we emerged from the cellar after it had passed, having ravaged the population like a fire through a field, we were fearful of what we’d find. Clinging to faith and the power of our prayers, despite evidence to the contrary, we entered the world with fresh eyes and renewed hope and vigour. For though we’d lost a great many to its deadly grip, we’d not suffered the losses of our neighbours who’d lacked Adam and Captain Stoyan’s foresight and had instead seen The Swanne’s closing as an opportunity to take custom. All the women of the Cardinal’s Hatte had perished along with their master, as had the folk who owned and worked at the Boar’s Head. Seven alehouses in the area would never reopen their doors, nor would two large taverns.

One of the first things we did was go to church, braving the snow and gusts of ice-driven wind. Father Kenton, who had also survived, said it was the freezing conditions that had driven the pestilence from our shores and, while it would produce its own kind of hardship, God was benevolent. In the candles we lit for the souls of the dead and the prayers whispered heavenwards, we gave our shivering thanks.

It was only once that initial wondrous rush of relief passed that we understood what the loss of so many signified. Of the women of The Swanne, only three girls survived: Rose, Golda and Mary, and that was due to the tireless ministrations of Alyson, Captain Stoyan, Harry and Betje. The only customers to endure were a brother from St Thomas (who sang the praises of Alyson and Captain Stoyan), and the son of Lord Chester: the latter, very badly scarred, swore that his father would seek vengeance upon Adam and the captain for forcing him to remain.

Ever with an eye to business, Alyson chose to cease trading as a bathhouse for the time being and turn everyone to helping in the brewery. After all, she reasoned, we had the king’s order to fulfil. Captain Stoyan was sent to buy another mash tun and a trough, as well as barrels, butts, measures, bungs and any other equipment I needed from premises whose owners would never again craft a brew. Guilt-ridden that we could purchase the extra equipment we needed so cheaply and swiftly, I was also grateful that we could offer coin and even work to some of those who were left with nothing.

Not even those who lived on the river escaped the pestilence. Not wanting to profit from other’s misery, but needing to do something useful and wanting to remain on the water, with the money he’d saved Captain Stoyan bought a barge from a widow who’d lost her husband and baby. Ferrying cargo and passengers across the Thames, giving priority to The Swanne’s brewing business, he became a regular sight on the cold waters.

Alyson predicted our orders would increase once word of the Crown trade got around, and she was right. What augmented this was the shortage of other brewers to meet the needs of common folk and richer ones. Once again, local brewsters run out of business by the bigger alehouses and taverns (and the machinations of Master Fynk) were able not only to re-enter the market, but yield coin from trading. On market days, hucksters and brewsters started parading around the square and up and down the side streets, along London Bridge, selling jugs and skins of their home brews. Whereas once they would have been competition, they were welcome as they enabled us to focus on the larger orders. Some of the alehouses on St Margaret’s Hill and along the High Street that had lost their brewers also placed orders with us.

Travellers and troubadours would often call by and, for an ale or two, exchange tales and poems, songs and music. Thus we learned that the pestilence had mainly stayed within London and Southwark, though the port towns of Bishop’s Lynn, Dover and even Norwich and York had experienced losses as well. Itinerant workers, who had waited out the worst in Rochester, Canterbury and other towns, made their way through Southwark en route to London in search of employment. The need for able men and trades had increased. Some called and requested work from us, especially young women who were orphaned by the plague and without a roof or skills. We took on a few, the cleaner and better spoken among them. Over time, The Swanne family was slowly restored to its former numbers and Alyson prepared to open for regular business after the Feast of the Epiphany.

Working from dawn to dusk, we filled our barrels, hogsheads, kilderkins, firkins, jugs and skins. Every day, Master atte Place and Harry would load up either Shelby or the larger cart we’d taken to Gloucester and which Leander had generously sent back to us with barrels to be filled for the monks of St Thomas, Winchester Palace and even the great houses of West London, though Captain Stoyan transported these. Every day, we added more barrels of beer to the king’s order, stacking them one atop the other in the mews, where they would await the approval and branding of the ale-conners. As November segued into December and Christmastide approached, we began to brew the king’s ale as well.

Since the pestilence vanished much in the manner it appeared, quietly, without fanfare or warning, leaving us humbled but not broken in its wake, I’d written to Leander several times and received correspondence in return — letters that lifted my spirits and did much to revive me when the magnitude of our losses and the number of orders overwhelmed me.

My earlier missives had been full of death and sorrow, but of late I’d been able to write in a more positive vein, about the growth of the twins, improvements in Adam’s speech and movement, and Betje’s remarkable abilities as both healer and brewer. Displaying gifts that were not apparent when I was her age, I was excited by the promise she showed. With each response I received, his concern for me and the well-being of my family leapt off the paper, even though he did his best to disguise this with amusing tales of parliament and the great debate concerning the Thirty-One articles, to which the council, tired of the commons and the debts they never met, objected. He reported the goings-on at the abbey, and the gossip at the king’s table. Of his wife, he made no mention. His words, whatever their subject, never failed to make my heart stop and my breath quicken. Giddy as girl around a maypole, I would hear the cry of the courier and the stamp of hooves and wait with barely suppressed excitement for Ralph or Hodge to call out that there was a letter.

There were two communiqués, however, only days apart and just before Christmastide, that upset the stability Leander’s words generally restored. The first arrived on the Feast of St Nicholas, just as Harry came into the cellar to show us the bishop’s costume he would wearing that evening when he presided over our merrymaking. Gathering around him in excitement, there were oohs, ahs and laughter aplenty. Thus I missed the sounds of the courier and knew nothing of his arrival until Hodge came downstairs and placed a missive in my hand. Slipping away from the group, I sat atop a barrel and read what Leander had written.

Whether it was serendipity or some perverse Godly quirk, Leander’s note was also about bishops — a bishop and a monk.

My well-beloved Anneke, I do commend myself to you, wishing with all my heart that you are as well as your last letter described.

Writing that he would be spending Christmastide at Eltham Palace, he also made mention that he hoped to be in London before then, as the king had spoken of how much he was anticipating more of my ale and beer over Christmas. Leander offered to accompany the order to Eltham and was granted permission. The sole reason for his proposal, he confessed, was to see me. I paused and held the letter against my heart.

It then went on to describe the closing stages of parliament and the shocking news of the murder of King Henry’s sworn enemy, the Duke of Orléans. While this was most unsettling to read, how such a great man could be so brutally dispatched, it was the last part of his letter which disturbed me the most.

Since you departed Gloucester with such haste and without the prospect of discovering the identity of the monk who bore an uncanny resemblance to the rogue Westel Calkin, I have, as promised, sought to discover who this man might be. Upon describing his eyes and the colour of his hair to the prior of Gloucester Abbey, he was able to identify the man immediately.

My stomach did a somersault.

Rest assured, my well-beloved, the man you saw is not Westel Calkin who, as we confirmed, perished in the flames of Holcroft House well over twelve months ago.

I paused. Was it really so long ago that we fled Elmham Lenn? That it was. So much had happened … The past had become like a vague dream or an opaque curtain that I sometimes had to push aside to glimpse what lay behind it, only to find the borders had become indistinct, the colours muted. The capacity it had to throw me into despair or melancholy had lessened somewhat. Recognising this had a peculiar effect. Ambivalence warred within me — relief the power that thoughts of Westel and his wicked deeds had to upset me was no longer so immediate, but also sadness that Karel’s sweet face could no longer be recalled with the ease and passion it once could. Indeed, my Karel, as he grew and changed, was beginning not to replace my brother, but to merge with memories of him. With a sigh, I understood that the passage of time was a one-way journey and, while we could look back over our shoulders and reckon where we’d been and what we’d achieved, we could no more return to that place or change the impression we left than prevent the sun from rising.

Time could be both a cruel mistress and kind. Today, her torments were many as I could recall Westel and his actions far more readily than I could the visages of those I loved. Though I didn’t want to, I’d no choice but to continue reading, my throat constricted with the dry dust of unshed tears.

This monk is the recently appointed prior of St Jude’s, and is known as Roland le Bold ….

I frowned. Roland le Bold. Where had I heard that name?

Though I did not spy nor speak to the man directly and thus was unable to satisfy myself as he had recently (for reasons not known to me) quit Gloucester, he is regarded as clever and Godly. The talk is that the king intends to confer upon him the Bishopric of Winchester.

Dear God. If this was so, Roland le Bold would one day soon be our neighbour.

My greatest hope is that these tidings do not cause you grief, my well-beloved, though a man who does so resemble your tormentor, your evil adversary, may shortly be dwelling in Southwark. I believe your great good sense will allow you to understand that a physical likeness to a dead enemy does not a living character define. Le Bold is not Westel Calkin and, from discussions I’ve had with those who know him well, seems a fit and worthy successor to the current bishop. Rumours do surround this man and what they claim is that in the short time since he replaced the rogue, Abbot Hubbard, he has made St Jude’s prosper even further and overturned its sullied reputation. The wealth they accrue, mostly from brewing, is shared with Elmham Lenn and surrounding villages, making le Bold a figure of regard both among common folk and the church. For certes, his name was oft-mentioned.

My intention here is to allay your fears and I hope with all my heart this is what I have achieved. I will send you further news from this part of the world as soon as I am able. Unless, God willing, I may deliver it myself. May the Holy Trinity have you in its keeping.

Written on the second day of December.

He signed with his usual flourish.

It may have been Leander’s intention to reassure me, but my inability to place the name Roland le Bold troubled me deeply. So did the news that St Jude’s was doing well from brewing. Was that because they’d removed the competition? That evening, I read the letter to Alyson, Betje, Harry, Adam and Captain Stoyan.

‘There,’ said Alyson, clapping her hands together, ‘you’ve nothing to worry ’bout, as we said all along.’

‘Betty,’ I turned to my sister, who was rubbing Adam’s hand with a special liniment Mother Joanna had taught us to make, ‘does that name mean anything to you?’

Betje paused and screwed up her brow. ‘Not le Bold.’ The look she gave me finished her thought. Only Calkin.

With a sigh, I folded the letter, noting Adam in a state of great agitation. ‘What is it?’ His arm flailed and he thumped the chair. Betje was forced drop his other hand and to lean out of the way.

Adam stared at me, blinking rapidly.

‘You know the name?’

Adam made a noise that we knew to mean ‘aye’, and, though I pressed and asked all manner of questions, no further information could be gleaned. Frustrated, we ceased trying. Adam slumped in his chair and refused to look at me.

My sleep was interrupted that night, filled with flames and vile words delivered on sprays of spit. I tossed and turned, listening to the wind for what seemed like hours before finally drifting off into a broken slumber.

Two days later, a letter arrived that cast other thoughts aside — this time delivered by special courier.

It was Tobias.

Called into the yard, I first thought my brother had come in Leander’s stead to accompany the king’s order to Eltham, but when I saw the look on his face, I froze mid-stride and my heart, which clamoured to see him, beat ferociously. Pain flowered in my neck, pricked the back of my eyes and stopped any words leaving my mouth.

Dressed in fine livery, with a heavy, ermine-lined cape, he dismounted from his horse and in four steps was by my side.

‘Anna …’ No longer did Tobias stammer over my new name. We were slates wiped clean and wrote our own stories now. Tobias was about to deliver the next chapter.

‘Sir Leander?’ The name was but a whimper on my trembling mouth.

‘He’s in good health.’ Frowning, Tobias handed me a scroll sealed with wax and bearing the Rainford mark. ‘He bade me give you this.’

I stared at the roll in my hand, feather-light by any standard but weighted with portent nonetheless. Why did I not want to open it? Why was I filled with foreboding?

Shaking, I broke the wax, which fell like symmetrical drops of blood onto the snow, and unrolled the parchment.

Mistress Anna …

What? Not well-beloved?

I greet you well and send you God’s blessing and mine. I write to you now to inform you of the sad and terrible passing of the Lady Cecilia, my wife.

My hand rushed to cover my mouth. I raised my face to Tobias. He nodded grimly.

I wanted you to learn of this from me first and no other. For the time being, I am at Ashlar Place where I am making arrangements for her burial and mourning. After the period is over, I know not where I will find myself.

Written on the Feast of the Conception of Our Lady,

Leander.

‘How?’

Tobias stamped his feet and slapped his hands together a few times. His escort had not yet dismounted and their breath parted the air in frosty plumes.

‘Don’t answer. Come inside and get warm. Tell your men to go to the kitchen. Cook will provide for them.’

Tobias followed me upstairs and into the solar where, before a blazing fire and with some mulled wine, he told me about the Lady Cecilia. How, even before Tobias left for Gloucester back in October, she had been possessed of a dreadful cough that was hidden from Leander lest it cause him concern. Blood would stain her kerchief with growing regularity. Upon learning of her affliction, Leander sent the best doctors to tend her. Despite the blood-lettings, the star charts that were read and the potions drunk, she grew progressively weaker, her breathing more difficult until, finally, Leander was summoned home. He arrived just yesterday.

‘He was too late, Anna. Though she received Extreme Unction, she passed into the Lord’s arms only an hour before he arrived, Leander’s name on her lips.’

Bowing my head, I sent a prayer to sweet Jesù for her soul. ‘May God assoil her,’ I murmured and was surprised at the deep sadness I felt for this woman I had never known but who I’d wronged so markedly and who occupied a great deal of my thoughts. After all, we loved the same man.

‘My master grieves, Anna, and it is difficult for me to leave him at such a time, but he insisted.’

I barely heard Tobias, all I could think about was Lady Cecilia dying alone, without her husband, without the comfort of his presence. The poor woman. She deserved better.

‘Anna, Anneke,’ Tobias stepped closer. Troubled, his brow was drawn and a tic worked in his cheek. ‘There’s something I must ask you and, if I’m wrong, I beg your forgiveness now.’

‘What is it, Tobias?’ Birds took wing in my chest. From the look on his face, the distant manner in which he had given me the letter, I knew what he was going to ask and I feared the question. Would I have the courage to answer him truthfully?

‘Sir Leander … Leander, was most insistent that I deliver that,’ he pointed at the scroll curled on Alyson’s desk. He shook his head slowly. ‘I find it strange that of all those he must tell, of all those he reaches out to at a time of such grief, it is you. It puzzled me, as a great many things have over the last year: his desperate need to find you, his desire for your ale and even your beer over other perfectly fine alternatives. The way he ensured your brew was offered to the king, how he would describe your talent. How he used Lady Cecilia’s dowry to repay his father the debt you owed for the loss of the house when it burned down.’

I stumbled into a chair.

‘Did you not know that?’

With my hand upon my breast, a poor attempt to still the moths that fluttered within, I answered, ‘I did not.’

‘Perhaps I should not be telling you, but he did. It seems he can forgive you anything, even the veneer of respectability you lost when you left Elmham Lenn in the manner you did.’

‘Tobias —’ I began to rise.

‘Let me finish.’

I sank back onto the cushion again.

‘For months, I tried to persuade myself that Sir Leander did it out of the kindness of his heart, took pity on my family when circumstances were so dire. That he didn’t want your foolish preferences —’

‘Please, Tobias —’

‘Let me finish!’ he shouted so loud the words propelled him forward, hands clenched by his side. I shrank back.

Lowering his voice, he continued. ‘Making my way here today, the reason for this forgiveness, generosity and, frankly, absurd patronage occurred to me. I hesitate to ask lest I be wrong and grossly offend you and the memories of loved ones.’

‘What do you wish to ask, Tobias?’

Inhaling deeply, his eyes fixed on mine, he took a step closer. ‘Am I a bastard?’

Elevating his chin, there was high colour on his cheeks that threw into contrast the mauve shadows beneath his eyes. I’d failed to see them before, being so caught up in the news he delivered.

‘You see, I know Leander has a great fondness for you, one would have to be blind to not. The actions he takes on your behalf are more akin to those of a lover,’ his eyes flickered; I looked down ‘or what one would do to protect the interest of familial relations. Lover, I discredited at first but, mayhap, I’m wrong?’

I didn’t respond.

‘I see.’ His lips thinned. ‘Which led me to consider family. At once, so much made sense. Thus, I’m compelled to ask, am I a Rainford bastard?’ The air escaped his lungs.

A falsehood teetered on the tip of my tongue. It would have been so easy; it would have spared so much heartache.

My response was whisper-quiet. ‘You are a Rainford, Tobias.’

His chin fell to his chest. ‘How long have you known?’

‘Since mother died. How long have you?’

His head flew up. His eyes were metal. ‘Lady Cecilia told me — not directly. She made mention of how fortunate I was that my father saw fit to bestow, if not his name upon me, then to at least ensure I reaped its benefits. She assumed I knew. I didn’t understand at first, not until I took Leander’s behaviour into consideration.’ His fists were white-knuckled balls at his side. ‘I didn’t believe it at first. I thought it a cruel jape. Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Because it made no difference which side of the bed you were made upon or whose blood flowed in your veins. It still makes no difference. You are Tobias Sheldrake, my brother.’

He began to laugh. It was forced, brutal. ‘But I’m not, Anna, don’t you see? All this time I’ve operated under the delusion that though father never appeared to care for me, he at least secured me an honourable position in the Rainford household, and as a squire, no less. I told myself that though he never showed affection, he must be invested in my future, otherwise why go to the trouble of procuring such a posting? Giving me to the Rainfords, I believed, was an act of fatherly care of the kind I’d been lacking. I did feel gratitude towards him, while labouring to find the feelings befitting a son towards a father — pride, a desire to emulate him, fondness. They never came. I felt only anger, fear and loathing, and thus I felt guilty and disappointed in myself that I was such an ungrateful wretch. Discovering I was given to the Rainfords not out of paternal duty, but as part of a business deal struck years earlier, both liberated and crushed me. For all that father or Lord Rainford cared, I was a bale of wool, wine or livestock to be traded and exchanged over a handshake and signature.’

‘Tobias —’

He continued as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘In the end, father didn’t even profit from the agreement, nor did you and the twins. I’ve gained and you have lost everything, because of father, because of me.’ His voice became thick. ‘Here I was, accusing you of damaging the Sheldrake reputation, when all along I’ve been the blight on the name — a name I’ve no right to bear.’ He flung his arms out and gave a bark of laughter. ‘The irony, Anna, the irony.’

He crossed the room and gripped me by the forearm, his fingers digging into my flesh. ‘And you knew and never said a word.’

‘I … I …’

‘Don’t say anything.’ He let go of my arm and, in one swift action, collected his hood and cloak. ‘Truth is, I don’t know whether to thank or curse you for not disclosing the truth. Knowledge can be a terrible thing — especially when you don’t know what to do with it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Now I know what I am, I need to work out who I am. Who I want to be. I also have to make amends for the losses I’ve caused.’

‘There is no compensation to be had, Tobias, not by me. You didn’t cause any of this.’ I tried to hold him, but he threw off my hand. ‘It was God’s will.’

‘What? Father’s bargain? The loss of our fortune? You being forced to brew —’

‘That was a choice.’

‘Was it? Do you really believe that Anna?’ He made a grunting sound. ‘And what of Karel’s death? The evil Calkin wrought? Was that God’s will? Do you believe that?’ He waited. I didn’t reply. ‘I didn’t think so.’

‘You’re my brother, Tobias, regardless of what’s happened.’

‘Am I?’

His eyes bore into mine until I was forced to look away. Hadn’t I thought to use his birth against him, to fling the truth like mud when he sought to denigrate and control me? Hadn’t I used knowledge of his true father to further my cause and that of the family of which Tobias no longer believed himself a part?

It was not Tobias who finally destroyed what we’d once been, that blame was mine alone to bear. Shame rose inside me. I was no better than father, or Lord Rainford. It was not for Tobias to make amends, but me.

As these thoughts circled in my head, crows picking at memories, Tobias donned his cloak.

‘Exactly,’ he said when still no answer was forthcoming. And before I could reassure him, ask that we talk further so I could beg forgiveness for my part, he left the room without another word.

FIFTY-ONE