Brewer's Tale, The (20 page)

HOLCROFT HOUSE

Martinmas

The year of Our Lord 1405 in the seventh year of the reign of Henry IV

M
y heart pounding, I rose slowly, placed my napkin on the stool, and brushed the front of my tunic. Adam and I exchanged looks. Excusing himself to Tobias and Sir Leander, he stood and ordered Will to remain in the hall. Tobias tried to remove the twins from his lap so he could accompany me, but I pushed him back, squeezing his shoulder in reassurance.

I whispered in his ear. ‘Please, I can handle this on my own. 'Tis but a formality. Take care of our guest,' I said with a lightness I didn't feel.

As I strode into the shop, trying not to look too hasty, I was pleased to note the candles had been lit. I held my hands before me to steady their shaking and went to greet the man standing just inside the door. Adam stood to one side, waiting to receive his cloak.

As wide as he was short, Master Constable, the chief ale-conner and an alderman, came forward. Possessed of ruddy cheeks and, as he swept off his cap, strands of ginger hair that clung to the front of his freckled scalp, he wore the black and red livery of an ale-conner and a heavy scowl.

‘We've been out there a goodly while, Mistress Sheldrake, being lashed with rain and wind no less,' he admonished me.

His hostility forced me back a step. ‘My sincere apologies, Master Constable, but we fail —'

‘We almost walked away,' he continued, talking over the top of me and shaking a stumpy finger in my direction. ‘It doesn't do any good to keep us waiting, you know.' Refusing Adam's help, he lifted the strap of a satchel off his neck before dragging his wet cloak from his shoulders and throwing it at a stool, which promptly tipped over.

Beside me, Adam tensed. Before he could say anything, I dashed across and picked up the cloak, shook it and lay it carefully across the stool, which I righted with my other hand. I gave a small curtsey.

‘May God give you good day, and thank you for coming Master Constable. Welcome to Holcroft House,' I said sweetly. ‘Again, I apologise that you had to wait.' It was hard to sound sincere, after all, the ale-conners had made us wait nearly all day. ‘We've unexpected visitors and didn't hear you arrive.'

‘I don't want your excuses. Let's get on with it, shall we?' Without waiting for an answer, he continued. ‘As you know, Emory Constable's my name. Head of the ale-conners of Elmham Lenn.'

Master Constable was one of those men accustomed to deference. Swallowing my pride, I determined to give him some and shot Adam a warning look to do the same.

I dropped another small curtsey.

‘About your father …' He looked around the room, his face unreadable as outside the skies darkened. ‘May God assoil him.' Master Constable rubbed the top of his head, making the few hairs rise. Proffering condolences was not within his remit, discomfort leaked from him. He held his bag over his generous stomach, staring at the floor.

‘Thank you.' I gestured to Adam. ‘This is my steward, Master Adam Barfoot.'

‘Aye,' said Master Constable, his eyes narrowing as he studied Adam. ‘Me and Master Barfoot go back a long ways, don't we?' He tapped the side of his bulbous nose.

There was movement by the door and, to my astonishment, two other figures huddled outside. Master Constable was not referring to himself as ‘we' after all. There were a number of them. ‘Dear Lord! Hadn't we better get the rest of you inside?' I looked pointedly in their direction. ‘As you say, it's cold, wet and you're pressed for time.' I made a move for the door.

‘Them?' Master Constable shook his head. ‘Nay, Mistress, that's not the way it's done.' My hand fell from the latch. ‘Since this is the first time
you've
hailed us with the ale-stake, let me explain. Until I've tested for quality and a decision's made as to whether or not we take it further, they can't step inside the premises. They must remain on the street — which is what they are doing. If you're worried about their well-being, I suggest we hurry up.' He flapped his arms in front of him and stepped towards one of the trestle tables.

Shrugging apologetically to the men whose features I couldn't make out, their caps had been pulled down so low, I joined Master Constable.

‘Let's proceed then.' I gestured to the barrels, relieved to see my hands were steady now. ‘There are three more in the brewhouse.'

‘If they're all from the same batch, we've only to open one.'

Fumbling inside his satchel, Master Constable drew out some bound pages and a slim wooden container in which lay a quill and inkwell. Placing the box carefully on the table, he uncorked the inkwell and dipped the feather inside. ‘And the measures by which you propose to sell?'

I motioned to his left.

Rummaging further in his bag, he drew out the official seals and a pair of leather pants that he laid to one side. Glancing at the measures, he picked them up one by one — the gallon, potel, quart and gill — before examining first the copper then the harvester bottles we'd put aside. ‘Very good.' He scratched some notes. ‘I've a few more questions.' He rapidly fired queries about the grain used, how much we paid, the intended market, all of which would help the ale-conners set the price by which we could sell our ale, and the tax and fees I'd pay the town for the opportunity. Adam and I calculated the price we needed to sell per gallon to make a profit. Checking his notes, Master Constable rested his quill on the table, put down the pages and slapped his hands together.

‘Let the test proceed then.' He indicated for Adam to tap a barrel and occupied himself with pulling leather pants over his leggings.

Knocking the bung off, Adam drew ale into a jug and passed it to Master Constable.

Having never seen an ale-testing before, I was most curious.

Holding the jug steady with one hand, the ale-conner drew a wooden bench across the rushes with the other before, much to my astonishment, pouring a goodly portion of the ale onto the seat. Passing the jug back to Adam he promptly sat in the pool he'd created, his back straight, hands on knees, feet firmly planted on the floor.

‘Would you like a drink?' I asked quietly after Master Constable failed to move or speak for some minutes.

‘Nay, mistress,' he said through tight lips, staring straight ahead. ‘That be for later. For now, I sit.'

Casting a sympathetic look at the cold, wet men outside, I perched upon a stool near the barren hearth. Though I'd heard of the manner in which the quality of a brew was judged, seeing it for myself was quite an experience. Watching Master Constable, clad in his leather, immobile upon a spill of dripping ale, I wondered who invented this preposterous test to assess something that was drunk?

If he didn't stick to the bench, the ale would be deemed to have failed so, while the wind howled and the rain struck the panes, I prayed that when the time came for Master Constable to rise, it would be with a bench glued to his hindquarters.

Just as I thought he must have dozed off, Master Constable cleared his throat and in one swift movement, rose to his feet. The bench followed.

Mirroring his action but sans the stool, I stifled an exclamation of relief and moved to the door as he pried the bench from his backside.

Registering my silent question, he placed the sticky seat on the rushes and then gave a click of exasperation. ‘All right then. Come on, gentlemen,' he called. ‘Step inside. Be quick about it.'

Equal parts uncomfortable and grateful, the two ale-tasters stood side by side just inside the door wringing water out of their caps while their cloaks dripped onto the rushes.

‘That is Master Calvin Beecham,' said Master Constable, wriggling out of his breeches and indicating the short, thin man on the left. Master Beecham mumbled something meant to be a greeting and glared at me from beneath bushy brows. ‘He is a clerk of the court.'

I gave a slight nod.

‘And this is Master Allistair Gretting,' Master Constable pointed at the tall broad-shouldered man with a thatch of dark hair. ‘He is the toll keeper.'

‘Will this take long?' grumbled Master Gretting. ‘My wife said she was cooking goose tonight, but it will be mine she'll be attending to if I'm late.'

‘Aye,' grunted Master Beecham, folding his rangy arms across his chest and casting sombre looks around the room. ‘Let's be tasting, not talking.' He sniffed loudly.

‘May I take your cloaks, gentlemen?' I asked.

‘That won't be necessary, mistress,' said Master Gretting, raising a huge hand. ‘This part won't take long. Being here is more or less a formality.'

That was what I feared most — that the men wouldn't take long because their minds were already made up, whether or not the ale passed the quality test. But Captain Stoyan was certain his warning had been heeded … I watched Adam pour the rich foaming ale into mazers for the men to try.

‘What's going on, Anneke?' With a catch in my breath, I spun around.

Tobias stood in the doorway flanked by Sir Leander.

My heart sank. ‘It's all right, Tobias.' I shot him a look that he chose to ignore. ‘It's the ale-conners.'

‘S… Sir L… Leander,' said Master Constable, his eyes widening and his face colouring as he saw the taller man. He gave a swift bow, shooting a look at the two other ale-conners who mumbled uncomfortably. They shuffled till their backs were against the wall. ‘We wasn't told — I mean, we didn't expect to see you here, my lord.'

‘I confess, I didn't expect to be here, Master Constable.'

‘Perhaps we can do this another time,' said Master Constable, waving away the mazers Adam was holding.

‘Please —' I began, raising my hands in protest.

‘Don't let us stop you,' said Sir Leander, leaning against the doorframe that led back inside the house. ‘Please, continue. Not only does my father have a vested interest in this, but I've always been curious to know on what basis ale-conners make their decisions, haven't you, Tobias?' he cocked his head towards my brother.

‘I have, indeed. Often, my lord,' lied Tobias.

The ale-conners shared another look, clearly ill at ease.

‘Very well,' said Master Constable finally. ‘Let's get on with it.'

Adam solemnly passed mazers to the two men.

My heart was beating so violently, I was sure the front of my tunic must be quivering. While I wanted more than anything for the ale to be passed, I also wanted it to be because the ale had earned it, not because of Captain Stoyan's threats. But neither did I want to fail because an abbot said I must.

Master Gretting and Master Beecham stared at the contents of their mazers before rotating the wooden cups so the ale formed a gentle whirlpool. They held their noses over it and inhaled noisily. Neither revealed anything in their expressions. I glanced at Master Constable, who was busy scratching more notes; why, I was uncertain. I sent a swift prayer to the goddesses and the crones.

Holding the handles, first Master Gretting then Master Beecham tilted the cups and took a mouthful. Swilling the ale around in his cheeks a few times, Master Gretting's eyes widened, then he swallowed, before quickly taking another sip. Smacking his lips, he licked them slowly then pursed them tightly, nodding, but whether in approval or to confirm a doubt, I didn't know.

Master Beecham's cheeks bulged and he shut his eyes. Tipping back his head, he gargled and then gulped, his Adam's apple moving up and down the way a bird's did when it warbled. Then he bent his head until his nose disappeared into the vessel and drew in a breath deeply and noisily. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Tobias shove a fist against his mouth. Sir Leander coughed. I was too nervous to find anything funny. Too much was dependent on the outcome of this mummery.

‘The verdict?' asked Master Constable shortly in a resigned voice, after the men had a few more mouthfuls and spent additional time sniffing and breathing in the fumes.

Both were frowning, their eyes hard. They looked at each other, shrugged, and then turned back to Master Constable.

There was nothing amusing about them now.

‘I know what we've been told,' began Master Beecham cautiously, his eyes sliding towards me. ‘And I know it passed the quality test, but, I can't ignore me oath, nor me obligation to the town. I've never tasted anything like it before.' He screwed up his face in what could only be read as displeasure.

‘Me neither,' said Master Gretting. ‘On the one hand, it's very different,' he looked meaningfully at Master Constable, ‘but on the other, that means it doesn't meet the standards to which we've grown accustomed either.'

‘Aye. It's too different, mayhap,' added Master Beecham.

Master Constable put down his pages and rubbed his face. ‘That's your verdict then? It be less good than what's reasonable to pass?'

The two men looked into the mazers then shrugged again and nodded.

‘If that be your
honest
opinion, then there's nothing more to be done.' With a long, weary sigh, Master Constable began to pack up his quill and ink, his phlegmatic demeanour transformed into one of haste. ‘While some might be unhappy with this result, there are others who will find justice in it,' he muttered, swinging around, urging his men to return their cups.

‘Excuse me,' I said, tugging gently at Master Constable's sleeve. ‘While “others” might know what's just happened, I'm afraid I do not. “Different” is not the same as “less good”? Less good than what? Surely, it's not undrinkable?' I gestured to the two men draining their mazers.

Master Constable wouldn't meet my eyes. ‘I thought it was more than clear. The ale-conners have spoken, Mistress Sheldrake. The brew cannot be sold. It's so different there's nothing against which we can judge it.'

Disappointment and fury rose, transforming into bitter tears that threatened to spill. All my plans and hopes unravelled before me. I tried to find the right words to reason with these men, to prevent them leaving and change their minds. This was a fine brew. Different, but with good reason.