Brewer's Tale, The (65 page)

I'd no right to resent the world in which he was a merchant nobleman, knight of the realm and husband, with commitments he must meet and burdens he must bear. Yet I did. Now that love had been acknowledged, it flourished in my head and my heart excused much that, in the depths of my soul, a pardoner would not. How could love be a sin?

But I could not prevent wishing it were different, that the Lady Cecilia didn't exist. Not that it would alter my situation. Leander could no more marry me than move the king's court to Camelot.

I wondered what Lady Cecilia felt when he was with me. Did she know?

Yet, I accepted this was the way it must be, for I was a sinner and must serve some penance, even if it was uneasy consideration of Lady Cecelia's sensibilities.

The days rolled into weeks and though I was kept busy, I was also able to enjoy the pleasures that accompanied the growth of my babes. Their tiny bodies fleshed out, their newborn down replaced by cream-coloured curls of silkiness. Their noises changed from primitive cries of need to gurgles, squeals and chuckles of curiosity, happiness and desire thwarted. When the weather allowed and the brewery permitted a brief respite, I would place either Karel or Isabelle in a sling and with Juliana carrying the other, stroll the streets of Southwark, Harry or Adam providing an escort. We would wander to Moulstrand Dock and along Moss Alley, enjoying Banaster's Garden, catching sight of the jongleurs and jesters performing, or walk along the river towards Winchester Palace, buying a hot pie and some small ale to sustain us and standing aside as a military cavalcade or a group of solemn pilgrims passed by. Roars from the bear garden could be heard and we even encountered the occasional staggering gentleman clutching a bulging purse, eager to spend his winnings from the bear-baiting at one of the gambling dens along Bankside.

A few times we braved the crush of London Bridge with its press of shops and acquisitive vendors. Growing accustomed to the crowds and noise, the combination of wealth and squalor, decency and malevolence, humans and animals, I found each trip became easier and more interesting than the last. Still, I was wary of the oily-voiced vendor or the greasy-haired urchin loitering in my footsteps and would signal to Adam or Harry to make their presence known. From both kind and pernickety hawkers, I purchased everything from ribbons for Alyson and myself and a special gilt-tipped mazer for Adam, to a pretty lace cap for Betje.

Nervous among strangers, Betje chose not to join us, until Harry persuaded me to buy a veil. Finding a piece of fabric among some remnants in a mercer's shop, he lifted it out of the pile, drawing the fine material across the back of his hand. ‘Mistress! Look. You could sew this onto Betty's cap. Hide her face, like.' He held the semi-transparent material over his own. ‘I can see out, but can you see who's behind?'

I bought the gauze for a price I knew was far too high, but didn't care. That night, I stitched it to a cap for Betje and, the very next day, her features blurred by the pearly veil, she too joined our perambulations.

Growing more confident under Harry's care, Betje's quiet grieving for Karel was slowly exchanged for the comforting presence of her new friend. Watching Harry with my sister, I felt my faith renewed in the goodness of people. He cared for her, without a doubt, and in Harry, Betje found a solace that my presence alone nor the twins could provide.

What I could do was guarantee that Betje, Karel and Isabelle had a secure future. To that end, I continued making ale and beer even though our sales were few and orders, with the exception of that which went to Ashlar Place and Leander, when he was attending the king, non-existent. This was despite praise for the exceptional quality and fine taste from all who drank it. I despaired. All it would take to alter the situation was for other nobles to place orders for their households; for a few of the borough's many churches to do the same.

Pushing aside my worries, I laboured over the mash tuns and the wort and experimented with the beer. With each batch of ale or beer, the ale-conners were summoned. The first few times, the process was smooth. The ale and beer were passed, my measures sealed and the barrels marked accordingly. I paid the tax and all was well. Relieved, I'd heard of other brewers in Bankside being charged for a range of offences. Since I scrupulously followed the rules and did nothing to jeopardise my meagre sales or the continuance of Leander's order, I believed this wouldn't happen to me.

You would think after my experiences in Elmham Lenn, I wouldn't be so callow.

Midsummer arrived and quarterage was once more paid to the Borough of Southwark and the bishop's liberty. Whether it was the warmer weather, longer days or a combination of both, thirsty patrons began to fill the taproom each evening and sales slowly increased. Word spread throughout Bankside and beyond the liberty — the boundaries that denoted where one jurisdiction ended and another's began — and folk we'd not entertained before came to try our ale. Newly arrived Easterlings, learning that beer just like that drunk at home was available, flouted the Stilliard's rules that banned its members from the licentiousness of bathhouses, and became frequent guests. After vespers, when the first stars were twinkling in the firmament, they'd pour into The Swanne, downing tankards and mazers and filling jugs before curfew sent them scuttling back over the river.

Even the hucksters roaming close to the bridge and over by the pillory near Bermondsey Street returned to The Swanne earlier each day, their supplies having been sold. Praise for the ale was plentiful and even the beer was being tasted, though some men swore ‘it'd ne'er replace our ale'.

‘Reason you named it “Son”,' said one patron to Alyson, ‘is that you know the father is the better man.'

Despite the slight resistance to beer, hope that fortune was at last favouring us flowered in our hearts and, as the days passed and we worked hard to replace what was drunk, grew.

Summer's arrival also heralded less propitious experiences — namely, the return of Master Fynk. As a bailiff, he was within his rights to inspect the bathhouse whenever the mood took him or his suspicions were aroused. Since the latter was a constant, he frequently crossed the threshold. Ever since the day he'd accused me of being a pregnant whore and suspected I was not the widow I claimed to be, he'd made a point of observing The Swanne. Forcing Alyson to submit to the thirty-five questions of the ordinances, which meant asking dozens extra of me and the other women as well, he became almost a fixture — an unwelcome one. Ensuring we left the bathhouse for the required hours on holy days and that no woman wore an apron or was kept against her will, Master Fynk hovered over us the way a bat does a belfry.

Disappointed that despite his vigilance, no cucking stool was required or fines could be levied, he would satisfy himself by beating a few of the girls with a stick. While I would be spared this sadistic venting of his frustration, Alyson was not. After he departed, I would find her in the solar and tend to her hurts. Terrible bruises would mar her face, arms and thighs and she'd ache and limp about the place for days afterwards. The midwife's husband, the Moor and apothecary Marcian Vetazes was called twice and left potions for her to drink. Refusing to go to the sheriff, she tolerated what a lesser person would not. I feared her fortitude was for my sake.

‘Nay, not for you, Anna, though I'd take that and more besides. I tolerate this,' she pushed up her sleeve to expose a violet bruise, ‘for us all. Master Fynk needs to be the victor. If he can't achieve that one way, he finds another. For the moment, his beatings suffice.' She regarded me steadily. ‘They won't always.'

God forgive me, my hatred towards the bailiff built to an impotent fury that I could do nothing except be grateful that, for the time being, I avoided the worst of his retribution. Aye, we endured. Rather than staunching his anger, however, or transforming it to something gentler, our obedience prodded Master Fynk to more pernicious actions.

So it was that finally, as I knew he would, he sought to discredit my brew.

At the height of summer, as two new ale-conners were appointed, Master Fynk chose to accompany them to their first tasting at The Swanne.

Already the bathhouse was filled with customers and while not all were there for drink alone, the ale was flowing freely. The ale-stake had only just been raised when Master Fynk, flanked by four constables, and the ale-conners arrived, ignoring invitations from the women and descending straight to the cellar.

Introducing himself, the chief ale-conner, Master Godfried, a mercer from Churchway by the bishop's palace, was an amiable but serious sort of man. He shucked off his surcoat, quickly donned his leather breeches and, with nervous glances towards Master Fynk and the constables, accepted a brimming tankard from Adam with a mumbled thank you. Pouring some of the contents on the bench, he settled himself while his companion checked our measures. Ordering the constables to stay at the foot of the stairs, Master Fynk wandered around the brewery, peering into the tuns, staring at the wort, the crease between his brows deepening. Sniffing, he roamed from station to station, examining everything with a gleam in his eyes. My heart began to sink.

Adam, Juliana, Harry and Betje kept working, all of them casting anxious looks over their shoulders. Yolande remained by my side, a drying sheet in her arms ready to offer the ale-conners, along with a mazer of good ale.

Nobody spoke. The wort bubbled, the kiln spat, and the mash tuns gurgled. A couple of the constables cleared their throats, one nervously tapping his foot upon the bottommost stair.

I felt confident we'd pass as we'd always done. Drawn from upstream and boiled repeatedly, the quality of the water was without question. The wort had also been boiled, and the ale was not sour, despite the heat. The beer had been in the barrels for almost two weeks and was at its best for drinking. The cellar kept the temperature even, the liquid cool. What was being drunk upstairs and enjoyed was no different to what these men were about to taste.

After the testing period expired, Master Godfried rose with a deep groan, bringing the bench with him.

‘Adjudging by my breeches, this be a good brew, mistress.'

‘Here, Master Godfried,' I said, passing him a mazer of ale. I passed another to the other ale-conner. At least one constable licked his lips. ‘Time to be sure.'

Watching the ale-conners' faces as they drank, I was pleased to see their countenances change from wariness to pleasure. Downing his mazer in two gulps, Master Godfried smacked his lips together. ‘This be —'

‘I would like to try some as well.' Like a cloud over the sun, Master Fynk drifted across proceedings.

‘You'll be trying something worth tasting then,' said the other ale-conner, raising his empty mazer to receive more.

‘I'll be the judge of that,' snapped Master Fynk.

My heart shrank into a hard lump of coal. Anger filled the space it had once occupied and it was all I could do not to throw the remainder of the jug in Master Fynk's face. Instead, I bit my tongue, poured him a drink and waited. Why, I don't know. I knew what was about to unfold. I'd become an actor in a Christmastide farce, doomed to perform my part, say my lines, knowing how the final scene would play.

It was Elmham Lenn all over again.

Only this time, there was no-one to whom I could turn. Other brewers would be grateful Master Fynk's attention was not focussed upon them. If it meant he would remove me as competition, so much the better. Worse, I was a woman without a man to lend legitimacy to my name and what I did. That I was the business partner of the owner of a bathhouse, another woman besides, undermined everything in Master Fynk's triumphant eyes.

Raising the mazer to his lips, Master Fynk made a show of drinking the ale.

‘Faugh!' He spat it onto the floor. ‘What's this? You're serving pig's piss!' He held the mazer towards the constables, as if it was proof of his outrageous claim.

‘Steady now, Master Fynk,' began Master Godfried. ‘This be qual—'

As the mazer was struck from Master Godfried's hand, we watched it hit the floor and the contents stain the stones. ‘It be piss, I tell you.' Master Fynk pushed his face into Master Godfried's. ‘Piss.'

The shorter man recoiled, and lowered his eyes. Shaking his head, he didn't dare correct the bailiff. Spinning to face the other ale-conner, Master Fynk applied his glacial gaze until he too, looked away, red-faced, placing his mazer upon the table without taking another drink.

Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, Master Fynk laughed. ‘You know the penalty for selling watered ale, Mistress de Winter? For adjusting legally tendered measures?' His leg shot out and he kicked the offending barrel. Before I could answer, he did. ‘Most of it gets tipped into the river.' He paused, a huge smile forming as he saw my face pale. I knew what happened to alewives and brewsters accused of fiddling with their brews. ‘
Most
… As for the rest, I cannot tell you what pleasure I'm going to get from tipping it over —'