Elmham Lenn
The day after Michaelmas
The year of Our Lord 1405 in the sixth year of the reign of Henry IV
Sorrow, guilt, and, if I searched deeply enough, a sense of relief warred within me in equal measure, prolonging my weeping until Hiske’s next words abruptly checked it.
“Tell her the rest, Master Makejoy.”
The rest? What else was there?
A handkerchief was thrust into my palm. Master Makejoy’s arms withdrew and, once more, I sank onto the stool.
There was the brush of material against my thigh. Cousin Hiske pressed closer to me. “She must needs know. After all, it changes everything.”
As if Father’s death didn’t . . . I raised my swollen face.
“Despite his lordship’s instructions, it’s too soon,” said Master Makejoy, examining the lip of the beaker before downing a good swallow. “Let the poor girl, the family, mourn. They need time.”
“That’s a luxury they can ill afford,” said Hiske, gesturing at the parchment. “Mourning isn’t helped by time or tears, Master Makejoy. It only makes sorrow grow. Grief needs to be checked as soon as possible lest we overindulge in it.” She sniffed. I twisted and saw in her eyes a peculiar glimmer. “Anyway,” she said, flashing her teeth in what passed for a smile, “there are decisions to be made. You must not be seen to thwart his lordship’s intentions.”
Impatient to be away from them, to get to the twins, I blew my nose in a most unladylike manner. “Too soon or not”—I struggled not to glare at Hiske—“I’d best know what is being referred to, good sir. What does his lordship want?”
Master Makejoy sighed. His eyes lingered on me before he glanced at Hiske and shrugged.
“Very well.” Dragging the candle closer, he rolled out another, larger piece of parchment. This was not offered to me. It looked like a deed. Clearing his throat, Master Makejoy used the beaker to hold the parchment flat. “Lord Rainford asked that”—he gave Hiske a reproachful glance—“in due time, I draw your attention to this. I’m not sure how much you know of your father’s affairs, Mistress Sheldrake, but over the years, in order to consolidate his business, Master Sheldrake entered into an arrangement with his lordship, one that saw Lord Rainford underwrite all your father’s ventures.”
“I was aware of that.” Not because of Father, but because of Adam Barfoot and Tobias. Master Makejoy didn’t need to know that detail.
Master Makejoy arched a bushy brow. “Really?” He cleared his throat again. “Well, what you may not know is that upon your father’s death, any business dealings with Lord Rainford are revoked.”
Frowning, I stared at Master Makejoy. “Revoked? What does that mean?”
Master Makejoy gave me the sort of indulgent smile one does a very young child. “Dear Mistress Sheldrake. Your father’s death, never mind the sinking of the Cathaline, means that any agreements your father had are now invalid; they no longer apply.” His tone changed, became businesslike. “You can thank our Maker for Lord Rainford’s generosity in appointing Tobias his youngest son’s squire. Thus his future is assured. One less Sheldrake to worry about. But as for everything else . . . well . . .” He waved a hand in the air.
“Well, what? To what agreements are you referring?” Darkness made a slow passage from the back of my mind, tarnishing my ability to think clearly.
Master Makejoy leaned back in Father’s chair and laced his hands together, the index fingers forming a pyramid that pointed toward the ceiling. “Quite simply, your father’s interests in the fleet, his dealings with the Hanseatic League, any merchandise awaiting export and import. Concern for all this now passes back to Lord Rainford, who, of course, will find someone else to manage his mercantile affairs. The good news is that this includes any debts, and believe me when I tell you, the sinking of the Cathaline will incur a great many. The business agreement struck between your father and Lord Rainford spares you this at least—these debts are not your responsibility. The bad news is”—he hesitated—“while you don’t have any debts to discharge, you no longer possess any assets either.”
“None?” I forced my hands still. “But . . . I don’t understand.”
“It’s very simple, Mistress Sheldrake. You have . . . nothing.”
I stared at Master Makejoy, aghast. “But how is this possible? Father is . . . was a man of means. We have wanted for very little.” I looked to Hiske for confirmation. She regarded me steadily, no inkling of her thoughts evident in those cold eyes. “The shop,” I continued, gesturing toward it. “We have a business. Yesterday, there were customers. And the warehouse”—my arm indicated the opposite end of the house, where the goods Father traded, had traded, were stored—“there are bales of fabric, wool, spices, some wine—not much, I know, we were awaiting Father’s return to replenish . . . but surely they’re ours to sell and—”
“Not anymore, I’m afraid. Neither are”—he leaned over and referred to the parchment, his finger trailing down the page—“the control of the remaining ships for which your father bore responsibility. Including the Cathaline, there were four in total. There are also the lands abutting this house, which incorporates three holdings, the orchard, and other interests. These were all managed by your father on his lordship’s behalf, and for this, your father was paid a fee. Naturally, they now return to the original owner: Lord Rainford.” Master Makejoy frowned and his eyes drifted back to the page. “Once they’re sold or leased again, there’s always the possibility they’ll not come anywhere near compensating Lord Rainford for his original investment.” He wasn’t addressing me but indulging in some imminent conversation with his employer.
“But I always thought that his lordship and Father were business partners. What you’re saying implies that their relationship was unequal, that Father was akin to a . . . bondsman . . .” My voice petered out.
“Indeed, that’s an apt analogy, Mistress Sheldrake. The original contract was signed over sixteen years ago, and both your father and Lord Rainford have enjoyed many successes, have profited in all sorts of ways from their joint ventures.” Master Makejoy pushed back the chair and rose, his fingers dusting the metal astrolabe sitting on the desk. “But this doesn’t concern you any longer and, in legal terms, a contract is a contract.” Reaching over the desk, he opened the shutters, allowing air and light to spill into the room. From where I was sitting, I could see a portion of the shop and, past the large, battered sea chest that I knew contained spools of fabric and lace from Venice and Bruges, as well as dyed rolls of wool from Florence, the outside window admitted views of the street. It was still early, the rain falling more heavily now, and, with the shutters open, I could hear the howl of the wind.
“In an effort to try and recoup previous losses and to compensate for the steady decline in trade that these endless wars with France and Wales have brought about, your father risked everything on this voyage. Some might say too much.” Master Makejoy’s eyes flickered to Hiske. “It was, he said, to be the making of him.”
I looked around the bleak space of the office, stared into the shop. I saw it through different eyes. The empty shelves, the lonely jars and barrels, a sad reel of ribbon, a bolt of ruby cloth, the spaces where nothing sat but flattened rushes. “Is there nothing left for us?” My voice was too quiet, too small.
“For you and your siblings?” Master Makejoy shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mistress Sheldrake, apart from a meager sum, there’s not.”
No one spoke. The wind whistled and the trees across the road danced. Adam Barfoot came into view, his head bowed against the wind. His hood had fallen back and he held his cloak together at his throat. Achilles and Patroclus bounded past, their great shaggy coats pressed against their lean frames. At the sight of them, my throat tightened and I felt the prick of tears. I blinked them back.
“There is not,” I repeated.
“Not even the house,” added Hiske, so softly I almost didn’t hear.
“I beg your pardon?” I swung toward her.
“Not even the house.” She slowly enunciated every word.
“Is that true?” I asked Master Makejoy, almost rising to my feet. I could hear Achilles and Patroclus barking as they ran down the alley and toward the back gate. Our back gate.
Master Makejoy frowned at Hiske. “It is. I was going to get to that, but since Mistress Jabben has seen fit to raise it . . .” Disapproval tinged his tone as he swept the second piece of parchment into his hand. “His lordship granted your father a life-interest in this house and its commercial premises. It was very generous. It included the servants, wages, food, and drink in return for Master Sheldrake’s services as master of the fleet, his connections with the Hanseatic League, and those he developed throughout the Low Countries and Germany.”
I struggled to get my thoughts together. I tried to understand what it was Master Makejoy was saying. “In other words, Papa doesn’t own this house . . . he never has. Like everything else, it belongs to Lord Rainford.”
“That’s correct.”
An image of my father—his stern face, iron eyes, and unsmiling mouth—came into my head. I heard his stentorian tone as he questioned me over dinner in the hall about my day’s lessons, what the nuns had taught me. I’d always thought him hard, demanding, implacable, and, worse, cold. Later, I thought I knew why. But I couldn’t forgive him for his inflexibility, his lack of affection—not so much toward me or Tobias, but the twins . . . This new knowledge made me see him in a different light, as a man anxious about his prospects, his family; about his obligations. Tears welled as a sense of injustice and contrition rose.
Pushing back my sorrow to examine it later, I looked from Master Makejoy to Hiske. “But, surely, now that Papa’s dead, Lord Rainford wouldn’t force us onto the street, would he? Not after everything my father has done for him? We have some time to make alternative arrangements?”
“What your father has done?” snapped Hiske. “Child! Haven’t you been listening? He’s incurred a massive debt, one that would ruin a lesser man. Lord Rainford is simply staking his rightful claim; recouping his losses.”
“His losses? How can you defend him? You live here too. Papa’s death affects you as well.” Indignation propelled me to my feet. I was gratified to see Hiske step back.
“Ja, it does, Cousin Anneke. And you would do well to remember that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Hiske laughed. Her teeth were small, yellow, her gums pale. Her eyes were the color of the pewter jug, flat, depthless. “Just like you, I’m affected by my dear cousin’s loss. Only, I have options. I always knew my time here was limited, so I’ve been considering my choices. Whereas, from now on, you’re on your own. Your father’s death means you’ve lost everything—your house, your lifestyle, and”—her eyes narrowed and her lips thinned—“your position. You’ve lost your position.”
In my swift accounting, I hadn’t considered that—the loss of social status. I didn’t want to—I couldn’t.
Eyes fixed to my face, Hiske continued. “You’ll have to learn to appreciate what others can do for you.”
“Are you referring to yourself, Cousin?”
“I am.”
“And what is it that you might do?”
Hiske drew herself up to her full height. She looked at Master Makejoy, who smiled and nodded.
“You’ll be pleased to know, Cousin Anneke, that though this is a time of great sorrow, on its heels follows great happiness. Master Makejoy and I have an understanding.” I looked from one to the other and was astonished to see Hiske redden and Master Makejoy appear coy. “Soon,” continued Hiske in a softer voice, “I’ll be in a position to be able to offer you, and your brother and sister, a roof over your heads.”
“You would offer me, us, a home?” I couldn’t keep the surprise from my voice.
“I didn’t say a home, I said a roof.” She bent until I was forced to meet that gelid gaze. She might be my mother’s blood, but her eyes were like my father’s. “Up until a few hours ago, you had a dowry, prospects. Your father and I would have found someone in town who’d be pleased to call you wife, mayhap even one of those brokenhearted souls you’ve rejected over the years. Now you’re a liability. That’s the word you used, isn’t it, Master Makejoy?”
Master Makejoy mumbled into his chest, shuffling the parchment on the desk.
Hiske laughed. “You’ve no prospects, Cousin. Not anymore. Why, you’re less than a crofter or villein’s daughter, and who in their right mind would want the burden of a penniless wife encumbered with two extra mouths to feed?” She paused as if expecting me to respond. “Exactly,” she replied, snapping the silence. “That’s why, though my responsibilities have, with your father’s demise, formally ended, out of the goodness of my heart, and Master Makejoy’s, I’m prepared to have you come and live with me—”
It was my turn to look startled.
“As my housekeeper.”
I swallowed. “And the twins?”
“I would clothe and feed them until they were of age and then, of course, they would be put to work. Master Makejoy is sure he could find a position for Karel. Betje, well, one can always do with an extra kitchen hand or chambermaid. I’m sure Blanche, or Doreen for that matter, would be happy to teach her. If not, the nuns would take her.”
Doreen’s growing impudence suddenly made sense. Hiske had been planning to leave, to set up her own house, for some time.
Taken aback at her boldness, her certainty that such an opportunity would be grasped, I gathered my thoughts before speaking. Hiske was right. Not only was I on my own, an orphan, so were my brothers and sister. Whereas Tobias, thank the dear Lord, was assured a future, nothing was certain for the twins or me anymore. As an unmarried and penniless nineteen-year-old woman, I was indeed a liability. My situation had been cruelly defined, and it was brutally reduced. As for the twins . . . I recalled the fate of other, less fortunate children whose parents had been taken from them while they were still young. Monasteries were filled with these souls. Now, here I was, along with the twins, to be counted among the unfortunate, an object of pity. My chest burned.
I could hear Will in the corridor outside, Iris too. It wasn’t just me and the twins who stood to lose each other, our house, our world. Our servants, most of whom had been with us since before I was born, relied upon us. They too were family. My family. And my family would not live with Hiske.
No matter what.
That Lord Rainford could set out the family’s obligations at such a time, define the extent of our losses; that Hiske and Master Makejoy resolved between themselves to announce our plight so soon after the news of my father’s death, reflected poorly on all of them. It made me furious and more than a little afraid. Our destiny had never been mine to control—that was for Father to manage—and he’d neglected that responsibility. Though I thought I knew why, I couldn’t forgive him. For just a brief moment, when I’d learned of Father’s death, I was disconsolate, but, in the furthest recesses of my heart, I’d also caught a glimpse of liberty and extraordinary possibility. I wasn’t prepared to relinquish that and hand over my future to someone else—especially not to Hiske. I looked at her now, the narrow mouth, the almost nonexistent eyebrows arched in superiority, her long neck with its horizontal lines. Master Makejoy refused to look at either of us and pretended to reread the contents of the deed.
I could hardly believe that we’d be thrown out of the house, that this dark, sometimes joyless place, where there’d been life, terrible secrets, dreadful pain, some joy and too much death, could be taken away—and why? Because an agreement had come to an end. Because of business.
I needed time to think, to find a solution to this new problem.
Moving quickly, I forced Hiske to jump to one side. “Cousin Hiske, Master Makejoy, I wish to thank you for your unexpected offer. I would like some time to consider it.”
“But, Mistress Sheldrake”—Master Makejoy rose and, with what he thought was a benevolent smile, addressed me—“I don’t think you understand the position you’re in. How precarious it is.”
“Master Makejoy, I understand all too well. And as a consequence, I intend to take as much time as I’m able before I make any decisions.”
“There’s only one to make, Cousin.” Hiske folded her arms beneath her breasts.
I met her gloating gaze without flinching. “Perhaps,” I said and, with a small nod to Master Makejoy and a last glance at Hiske, I kept my despair contained and left the room.