Brewer's Tale, The (37 page)

‘I still don't see why this is important. I mean, perhaps they were people Westel knew?'

‘Oh, he knew 'em all right. But that's not why I'm here, not the sole reason. I mentioned it to Adam and he said I was to keep an eye on Westel, and I have been. Until tonight, I saw nothing untoward, unless I count those letters he received …'

I let that slide. All the servants received correspondence. With the exception of Adam and Westel, the others required me to read it to them. It vexed Will that Westel didn't need my services and that his letters remained private. He saw it as a personal slight.

‘Did you see those brothers what come in, mistress?'

‘I did.' It was hard to miss them with their black robes and heavy crosses. ‘Well, Awel was serving them when, lo and behold, just as the music starts, I see Westel pass another note. Not in an open way either. He held it beneath the trencher. I wouldn't have seen it except the monk he gave it to had had too much to drink and it slipped from his fingers. He bent down to pick it up and I saw it clear as the ears on Father Clement's head.' He tweaked a lobe to emphasise his point.

I wanted to reassure Will there was nothing to be concerned about, but passing a note to monks — especially Benedictines — didn't sit comfortably with me. What possible reason would Westel have to do that? Having them in my establishment was cause enough for concern and I'd been careful to ensure they were served swiftly. I'd no doubt they were there to spy on me. So why would Westel be passing notes? Mayhap they weren't from St Jude's but were old friends from the friary in Norwich. That must be it.

Will was watching me with wary eyes. ‘Sometimes, mistress, he also wanders the house at night. I wake and he's not in our room. I don't always hear him come back, but when I do, I know he's been gone a while.' I wasn't sure what to say. There could be a perfectly reasonable explanation for that as well.

‘I didn't want to worry you, but thought you should know.'

‘Thank you, Will, thank you. I appreciate it.'

‘What will you do?'

‘Do?' I stood up, folding the blanket and placing it on the seat. ‘What any rational person does in these situations — seek the truth.'

Will neatly folded his rug and lay it across the stool.

‘I'll ask Westel.'

The expression on Will's face caught me unawares. There was a flash of what I can only describe as concern before it changed into a mask of obedience.

‘Aye, mistress,' he said and, with a small bow, went to leave. As he reached the door, he turned, one hand on the frame. ‘Only, be careful, won't you? I don't think Westel is what you think he is.'

‘What do you think he is, Will?'

The darkness between us tightened.

‘Dangerous.'

HOLCROFT HOUSE

Approaching Lent

The year of Our Lord 1406 in the seventh year of the reign of Henry IV

O
ver a week passed before I'd a chance to speak to Westel and, when I did, it was in the brewery where we were both occupied, as the mash tun, malt and wort took precedence. Nonetheless, Westel wasn't upset by my question.

‘It was a chance for me to let Brother Roland know I'm in fine hands,' he said, pausing over a tray of dried malt, the steam from the hot grain moistening his face. Pushing his hair off his forehead, his eyes crinkled at the corners.

‘I'm happy you think so, Westel.' I paused. ‘So, you wrote a message to Brother Roland?'

‘Aye, and asked the monks to carry it. Is there a problem, Mistress Sheldrake?'

I'd never spoken to Westel about the brothers, Abbot Hubbard or his threats to undermine my efforts. Talk among the servants and in the town would mean he wasn't completely ignorant. I decided it was time to tell him. Briefly, I spoke of what happened — Brother Osbert's visits, his offers and my refusal to sell, the damage done to Master Perkyn's place and even my misgivings about the dogs' disappearance, that it too was an attempt to warn me away from ale-making. Westel listened, his large eyes growing rounder.

‘How dare they,' he said between clamped teeth. ‘As God is my witness, the monks of St Rebecca's would never condone such practices, such tactics. Oh, mistress, no wonder you were worried about the notes. I'm so very sorry. If it will reassure you, I'll never speak to them again.'

I looked at his earnest face. ‘Nay. Nay, Westel, there's no problem.' The man was entitled to speak and write to whom he wanted. I'd allowed my prejudice and Will's to gnaw at me.

Holding my gaze a moment, he gave a nod and returned to work. I watched him a little longer. Hefting the tray to the table to cool, he went about his tasks, picking up the shovel and entering the malthouse. His relaxed manner and readiness to explain banished the last of any suspicions I'd been harbouring.

Turning back to the mash, I didn't raise the issue of wandering about the house, after all, there was probably a perfectly reasonable and private explanation for this as well. And what did it matter anyway? In my own mind, I put Will's concern down to jealousy. There was no doubt that since Westel's arrival, the attention Will once received from the female servants, and probably me as well, had been reduced. No longer was he the only young man in the house. Furthermore, they shared a room. I hadn't considered it before today, but the more deeply I thought, I could see the jealousy — the disdainful glances Will would flash, how he'd roll his eyes or mutter under his breath if Westel spoke, often exchanging a meaningful look with Adam. I didn't have time to pander to Will's pride and thought that learning to live and work with another man would teach Will some valuable lessons in both cooperation and humility. I determined to speak to Adam about this and enlist his support. I did not want my servants at loggerheads.

First days, then weeks went by in a flurry of activity and, before I knew it, it was spring and Lent with all its strict observances arrived — observances that were occasionally overlooked within the confines of the alehouse. From dawn until the alehouse closed just before curfew, I was consumed by all things brewing and, when I wasn't preoccupied with boiling wort, making sure the right quantities of additives, including hops, were placed in the vat or getting to the brewhouse before anyone stirred so I could sing the ale and now beer to life, or serving what I'd made, I was toting up figures, paying creditors, ordering barley, making certain requisitions were filled and customers satisfied.

The only interruption to my otherwise steady routine occurred in the mornings. For some time, I'd been unable to shake the impression I was being observed. Rising early and going to the brewery had become such a solitary and accustomed habit, it took me a while to pay attention to my feelings. Without the dogs to warn me if someone was coming, I was more conscious of listening out for Westel or the Parry sisters' arrival. I pricked my ears but not, initially, my other senses. When I did, I felt as if I was wading in cobwebs; as if invisible fingers were caressing my flesh, tugging at the roots of my hair. I was certain I was being spied upon.

Yet, though I kept the doors closed and one eye on the window when performing the ancient rites, the feeling remained. The displeasure of the corner crones, who didn't like our customs to be seen, was palpable. I worked hard to appease them and yet … no matter what precautions I took, no matter how careful I was to check no-one else was about, I couldn't shake the notion I was being watched.

But if I was, why could I see no-one?

When Westel stumbled in some time after the sun rose, rubbing his face and stifling yawns, I'd ask him if anyone was about.

‘Nay, Mistress Sheldrake,' he'd say, scratching his head. ‘It's just you and me.' Then he'd flash that broad smile and I'd try to dismiss my worries.

After a while, it became a game to him. ‘Feel any eyes upon you this morning, Mistress Sheldrake?' he'd ask as he entered the brewery.

With a hollow laugh, I would shrug and feel more than a little foolish and, after a time, the sensation dulled or, as I suspected, I became accustomed to it. Nonetheless, though the days lengthened, I took to rising even earlier and satisfying the crones and the needs of the ale while it was still dark.

Whenever possible, I'd spend time with the twins. Often, in the middle of the day, I'd leave the brewery and alehouse to the others and accompany Louisa and the children on a walk along the bay or in the woods behind the church. Sometimes, Father Clement would join us and it was on these occasions I could put aside my concerns and lose myself in the joy of the children as they kicked rivulets in the melting snow, chased a daring rabbit, spied a robin or lark, and, as springtime blossomed, happened upon birds' nests and eggs. If we strolled by the ocean, we'd cast pebbles into the water, pass the time counting the number of caravels drifting in the harbour, or collect shells to bring home.

While Tobias's prediction that the alehouse would become a den of vice didn't eventuate, I could no longer ignore how my reputation in town had suffered as a consequence. Though we'd only been open a few months, there was a distinct shift in the manner of the vendors in town. Where once the men would treat me with a deference due to my position as a Sheldrake, some took to gazing at me boldly as I handed over coin or argued about the price of a coney, halibut or spices. It was as is if they wanted to say something else but didn't yet dare. Whether it was the presence of Adam or Westel by my side, I never knew, but I sensed the change and though I continued to behave as I'd always done, something important had been lost.

Women were more obvious. Some whom I'd known well when my mother was alive and who, in the past, had visited our solar, sat at our table or invited us to theirs, turned away on sighting me. But it wasn't until Betrix and her mother made a point of changing direction when they saw me as I was leaving Master Proudfellow's one day that I knew for certain those small differences I'd detected in people's behaviour were real. Betrix didn't even look over her shoulder; there was no reassuring glance or smile, just the back of her ruby mantle and the kick of her hem as her leather boots scurried out of sight. After that, I searched for excuses to avoid going to town, sending a servant in my stead.

Saskia didn't say anything, but she knew. I heard her talking with Adam late into the night as I sat in the office, the murmur of their voices offering both comfort and a painful reminder that my rapid social descent affected them as well. Accumulating enough to pay Lord Rainford came at a cost and, for the first time, I wondered if it had been worth it.

After the last of the patrons departed — many now foreign sailors who were keen to drink the beer — and we'd tidied the alehouse, the servants left me in peace. Instead of retreating to the hall for supper and a tale or two before bed, I pulled a stool towards the fireplace, sinking gratefully upon it. That's how Saskia found me some time later, staring despondently into the flames. She stood beside me and, without saying a word, pressed my head against her thigh, stroking my face, wiping away tears I didn't know I'd begun to shed.