Brewer's Tale, The (60 page)

It was a fancy, really, one Captain Stoyan inspired a long time ago, when he sat in the solar with me at Holcroft House and drank my first beer.

‘This is so good,' he said, smacking his lips in appreciation, ‘it deserves its own name.' We'd laughed heartily at the absurdity of such a notion.

Since I'd been at The Swanne and used the last of the hops I'd brought from Elmham Lenn, the idea had taken hold. Why not name my beer? My ale for that matter as well?

I played with names like Anna's Ale and Southwark Superior and laughed at my audacity. For certes, Alyson was having an influence upon me. Weeks went by and while I hadn't decided on a name for the ale or beer, we gradually became referred to as the Bathhouse Brewery. I knew then that a name for my beer and ale would disguise its origins and, perhaps, make purchasing it more palatable for some households. One morning after I'd served the corner crones, the name came to me. It was so simple and meaningful. I'd heard this name being given to beer by some of the English sailors in Elmham Lenn who'd served abroad in the king's forces. To me, it signified more than simply a point of difference to ale and to The Swanne. In naming the beer, I felt I was also honouring my brother Karel's memory — after all, was he not a son of one of the finest brewers? One to whom I owed my talents?

I found some charcoal and kneeling before each barrel of beer, inscribed on the wood in neat black letters, Son of Ale.

Heavy grief but also a sense of wonder tinged with rightness accompanied my naming, my effort to include Karel in our endeavours. I prayed to the Holy Mother and my Saviour that what I'd created in my brother's name would indeed pay tribute to his all too brief life.

That I also included the goddess Ninkasi in these prayers was between my crones and me. And Mother. Always Moeder.

Westel may have sought to steal her gift, but he'd not succeeded. The de Winter women's traditions were forever emblazoned in my memory. It had not been difficult to recreate the recipes I'd used with such success in Elmham Lenn. I'd even dared to embellish them, sourcing local herbs, spices and woods for smoking, to add flavour.

Footsteps echoed above me and I cast my eyes in their direction. Alyson was supervising the cleaning and restocking of The Swanne. The muted cries of vendors arriving at the kitchen door occasionally carried, as did tantalising smells, reminding us that we were soon to break fast. The cook had been particularly busy over the last two days. Juliana cast a longing look towards the stairs and I knew I wasn't the only one feeling the stirrings of hunger. A barrel of small ale had been taken upstairs for the servants.

As I stirred the mash, I ran through the other tasks I had to accomplish today. Betje and Harry must revise their letters. Then there were the little smocks I was sewing for the twins to wear when the weather was warm enough. Keen to see how they measured against their growing bodies, I hoped to be able to spend extra time with them. I also had to ensure the coal and wood merchants delivered, and ask Adam to remind the miller, Master Backster, that we were still waiting on our last batch of ground malt. Charging reasonable prices, Master Backster also had a tendency to preference the orders of other brewers, such as Master Falstof of the Boar's Head on High Street, before mine. Three times already, our brew had been held up because of a late delivery. If this continued, we'd have to seek an alternate miller and that could be hard — they were further away and the cartage would add another cost I could ill afford. There was also the cooper to see, the ironmonger to pay, Mistress Simister the seamstress to call upon about the new tunic for Betje, and, finally, the farrier to organise.

Wiping a hand across my brow, I grimaced at the thought of what lay ahead with the bells for sext due to sound. Yet, for all my fatigue, my exertions were nothing to what they could have been. Though each brew, the maintenance of the equipment and the tasks allotted to each servant were my responsibility, I didn't have to concern myself with such mundane tasks as cooking food, finding the money for rent or for the constant supplies required to brew in the quantities I demanded. Here at The Swanne so many of these duties were either shared or taken from me altogether. I'd not appreciated how much easier it would make the whole experience nor what having a legitimate business partner entailed. Typically generous, Alyson gave me whoever she could spare to help — the only caveat was that I trained them. Juliana and Yolande both showed an interest and were thus assigned to me exclusively, and replacements found to take over their work upstairs. Harry spent at least half his day with us and Leda and Mabel came when we needed extra hands. Even Master atte Place, who usually only appeared some time between sext and none, started to arrive earlier, his clothes creased, what remained of his hair dishevelled, offering to fetch the water, lug sacks of coal and faggots of wood into the cellar, and roll sealed barrels out into the courtyard and into the storage room at the back of The Swanne ready to be tapped. In fact, any task that required strength, he took over. All he asked was that he be allowed to enjoy a quiet tankard or two of ale as reward.

For all the help I was given, it still wasn't enough.

Aware that this was a huge undertaking, Alyson would visit at least once a day, casting a discerning and generally approving eye over our work. Most evenings, when the shadows grew, the candles were lit, the fires stoked, the children abed, and the girls of The Swanne entertaining their clients, we would sit in her solar, Adam working on the ledgers, and discuss our plans to turn over a profit.

God forgive me, patience was not one of my virtues. I couldn't help but be reminded of how difficult it had been in Elmham Lenn and how, until Captain Stoyan managed to create a network of customers for us overseas, it didn't matter how many patrons we'd attracted or mazers and tankards of ale, let alone barrels and firkins we filled, we'd floundered.

‘If only I could find a market somewhere — someone who'd buy large quantities.'

‘Aye,' said Alyson, frowning as one of the girl's let out a playful shriek. ‘Pity about your captain.'

It was. It wasn't just because of the orders he'd found. I missed Captain Stoyan in so many ways. Adam looked up from where he was annotating the books.

‘You may not be able to rely on Captain Stoyan, mistress. But don't you worry, someone will come along.'

Alyson grunted. ‘Listen to Master Adam. Do you think some other merchant prepared to take your brew to the Low Countries will just appear like the Holy Grail to a knight? God knows, we get enough of 'em here and all it takes is for one of them to see a sound business proposition … but they may as well be blind for all the good it has done us.'

Over the last couple of weeks, she'd tried to persuade a few of her more regular clients, successful merchants, to gamble on exporting the beer. Not prepared to buy the brew outright and risk a loss, even when she'd offered to let them take it on credit, they'd baulked. Nothing Alyson did or said could move them. What was unsaid was their reluctance to do business with women.

‘They'll trust us with their cocks but not their purses,' she'd grumbled. ‘We just have to hope that as word gets around about the quality of your brew, more of the bathhouses will start to buy their supplies from us. Otherwise, we're going to have more barrels than the king's army, only without their thirst to quench.' She glared into her mazer a moment before lifting her head and fixing us with a forced smile. ‘Summer is all but upon us and with the warmer weather and more daylight, what do people find more time to do?'

She looked at Adam and me brightly, but I was too despondent to answer.

‘Why, you addle-headed pair. Drink, of course.' She rose to her feet and went to watch the moon haul itself over the horizon. ‘We'll be fine,' she mumbled, her back to us. ‘All we need is a little more time. All we need is one bastard to place his trust in us …'

It was the closest Alyson had come to acknowledging she was troubled, which meant we were in a worse state than she was prepared to admit.

Adam met my anxious look with his own. We both knew time was our enemy here — time and the stubborn merchants of London and Southwark who preferred the watery, diluted ale of the other brewers to the richer, tastier and stronger kind produced by a female brewer.

God knew, if we couldn't find buyers in Southwark, which was filled with alehouses and the homes of nobles that needed stocking, we never would.

At first I wasn't sure what woke me. A soft tinkle, like a chime in the breeze that was quickly followed by an explosion of shattering glass, shouts and shrill cries. Diving out of bed and reaching for a shawl, I ran into the corridor, my first instinct to check on Betje and the twins. The door to the nursery above was shut and I prayed it remained that way. Positioning myself at the foot of the stairs so I might protect them, I tried to discover the source of the growing commotion.

As I leaned over the railing, I was able to see the floor below. Torches blazed in sconces, casting a mottled light onto the wide corridor. All the doors were currently shut. A scream as loud as a smashed plate made me jump and two half-naked men, who were twined around each other, fists flying, arms flailing, legs pumping, teeth bared and blood flowing, burst through one of the doors, splintering the wood and tearing it from the frame. Grunting and swearing fit to rouse the devil, the men punched, kicked and bit each other. Other doors opened and men in various stages of dress and undress gathered to watch; some tried to separate the brawlers while others urged them to more violence. Not even the fight in the Cathaline Alehouse the day Will was killed compared. Unable to tear myself away, I watched as one man, his breeches falling, his buttocks on display, tried to wrestle a younger, taller one who looked vaguely familiar, back to the floor.

‘Don't tell me there's another fight.'

Juliana, who'd taken to sleeping in the nursery, joined me on the landing, shaking her head, her hair tousled and eyes heavy.

‘Don't these gents have anything better to do?'

‘Have the children woken?' I asked.

‘Nay, mistress,' she grimaced as another blow landed. ‘Only me. They'd sleep through the king's coronation, your lot.'

By this time, quite an audience had gathered, pulling on shirts and surcoats, tugging on breeches — and on the two floors below as well. Craning their necks, men tried to see, while others dared the stairs, some with swords and daggers drawn. Others took the opportunity to leave, scarpering down the stairs and out of sight. There were more shouts and cries as Alyson appeared. Charging up the stairs, a cresset lamp held aloft, her tunic askew, its laces all untied, a young man in tow, she began barking orders, shoving women and men aside with her shoulders and hand. Master atte Place pushed past his mistress, ignoring the half-naked women clutching remnants of clothing and trying to melt into the walls as he barged along. On seeing the tumult was between two of their fellow-carousers, men who'd come expecting a fight sheathed their weapons and exchanged them for shouts of encouragement and groans of disbelief as the older man lost his balance and was pushed through a wall. Alyson bellowed, but they ignored her.

Dazed for a moment, the man took the proffered hand of a stranger who pulled him free. With a roar, he threw himself at his adversary, earning cries of approval.

‘This happens often?' I asked Juliana.

‘Always on May Day and especially throughout summer.'

The women certainly didn't look shocked, more amused. Beside me, Juliana tut-tutted but was clearly enjoying the spectacle. Alyson stood at the top of the first flight of stairs, arms folded, a mixture of impatience and fury on her face. Harry appeared and I saw her whisper something to him before, with obvious reluctance, he raced down the stairs ducking around those who refused to get out of his way.

Just as the brawl looked to cease, the man who'd made the huge hole in the wall used his considerable weight to swing his fist into the side of his rival's head. The slighter man, more a boy really, staggered with the blow and lost his footing. Toppling heavily against the railing, there was a sickening crunch before the banisters gave way and the young man fell.

Juliana and I gasped and followed his descent. It was all over in an instant. The man, arms circling, legs wheeling, dropped two storeys onto the rushes below. Mayhap it was God's grace that he struck another gentleman on the way down. Even so, as he landed on his back, limbs akimbo, there was a sickening, dull thud.

All was silent. Only the hiss of Alyson's cresset lamp going out and a small sob could be heard.

The man didn't move. One leg was bent at a peculiar angle, and one arm was twisted behind his back. Gorge rose in my throat.

Juliana crossed herself. I did too and sent a swift prayer to my Lord.

Then, with a clap of her hands, Alyson took control.