Brewer's Tale, The (46 page)

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.'