Brewer's Tale, The (78 page)

‘Thank you, captain. Thank you.'

He waved his hands dismissively. ‘I will leave now, today,' he said, examining the sky. ‘But before I go anywhere, I must secure the barge.' He frowned at the goods on the deck. ‘I will ask Master atte Place to retrieve those and secure them at The Swanne until I return. Wait here. I'll be but a moment.'

Walking as fast as the snow and ice would allow, he crossed the dock, leapt onto the deck, and disappeared inside the little cabin. Moments later, the smoke issuing from the small chimney ceased and he re-emerged wearing a thick woollen cape with a hood, gloves, and with the sword he wore during the pestilence strapped to his side.

My eyes widened. I'd not considered he'd need a weapon. I began to protest, to retract my request.

The captain heard me out then smiled. ‘
Liebchen.
I'm grateful for the chance to serve — to see for myself what is happening beyond Southwark and London. Hopefully, I bring home good tidings,
ja
?'

‘
Ja,
' I said, and spared the captain further protests. There was no more left to say. He'd made up his mind and had my eternal gratitude.

Linking his arm through mine, the captain didn't so much escort as helped me keep my feet as we walked along the river, into the wind and back to The Swanne. Ice-laden blasts pummelled by chest, taking my breath away, trying to rip the hood from my hair.

The further we walked, the more the gasp-worthy blusters made it impossible to speak. My insides lurched at the thought of Leander and Tobias and the threats they faced, not simply from the rebels, but from this bitter, bitter cold. And now I had asked the captain to endure it as well.

Holding tight to each other, Captain Stoyan and I skidded on the frozen ground, pushed through fresh piles of snow. Shops had closed their shutters, as had many houses. The few vendors I'd seen as I walked to the dock had already packed up and gone home. Skinny dogs lay curled, shivering, in doorways, while a few fluffy pigeons roosted in the eaves of the church, their feathers ruffled, their little heads crooked beneath their wings. Though it was barely none, lights flickered in houses, while plumes of grey smoke were ripped from chimneys and scattered to the sky. Drifts of snow formed lopsided mountains against doors and on stoops, sealing the occupants within white cocoons. Captain Stoyan was right, what possessed me to venture out this day? The answer was simple. I rested my glove against my breasts.

It took us almost an hour to cover a distance that would normally take much less time. Entering the kitchen, we divested ourselves of wet cloaks and gloves, and crowded at the fire. Trying to shoo us out of the way, Cook pushed steaming mugs of spiced wine into our hands. Flecks swirled on top and we sipped the contents gratefully. Finishing quickly, the captain excused himself and went to his room to pack some belongings.

When he reappeared a few minutes later, I gave him the letter, and watched as he carefully stowed it in the pocket of his surcoat. I also gave him a message to pass to both Leander and Tobias, whispering it to him. Captain Stoyan smiled and patted the place where the letter rested against his broad chest. ‘Both shall reach their destination,
liebchen
, which means I will too. Do not worry.' He glanced out the window. ‘If I leave now, I may make it to Ludgate before curfew.'

Laughter carried down the stairs along with a familiar voice.

‘Do we have visitors, Cook?' I asked, lifting the captain's cloak from the stool near the fire and helping him back into it.

‘Aye, important ones. Though what they are doing about in this weather I don't know. Sometimes you have to wonder about these men of God.' She rolled her eyes. ‘They might have His ear, but I think they be selective sometimes 'bout what it is they be a-hearing, for surely our dear Lord would tell 'em not to step abroad today but gather in prayer and the warmth of community?'

‘Men of God, women who brew, neither listen,' said Captain Stoyan under his breath. ‘Nor does this captain.' He pulled his gloves on. ‘I will not interrupt Goody Alyson and Adam with farewells then, but ask you do this on my behalf,
ja
?'

I agreed and tried to pass him a purse, but he would not take it. ‘You requested a favour and I accepted. Coin does not pass between friends.'

I shook my head. ‘You don't believe that for a moment.'

‘
Nein.
But it sounded good, did it not?' he winked. ‘Seriously, I do not want or need your coin. Not since you repaid my investment in your first brewery.'

I was yet to pay the captain for what he'd contributed since the pestilence as well — in kind and with hops. Once the king's treasury paid for the ale and beer we'd supplied, we would all be in profit.

So it was, with prayers for his safety and a long embrace, I bade the captain goodbye.

I waved from the kitchen door and watched the way the horse churned the snow as it trotted out the gate, then I went back inside and straight to the hearth. Cook and Eve were busy making pottage and bread. The voices upstairs became louder. Cook's words came back to me.

‘Men of God, you say, Cook?' My stomach fluttered. ‘Who are they?'

‘From the palace.' She jerked her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of Bankend and Winchester. ‘Goody Alyson said you were to go up to the solar when you came home.' She slipped my half-drunk mug from my hands. ‘Only, with the captain here, and taking his leave, I didn't want to be rude. There are drinks and food upstairs,' she reassured when I didn't move immediately.

Thanking her, I left the kitchen with reluctance.

At the door to the solar, which was slightly ajar, I eavesdropped on the conversation taking place inside.

‘Do they resemble their mother?' asked a familiar tone that set my teeth on edge and my heart racing.

‘Oh, indeed, your grace, that they do.'

‘What about the father?'

There was an uncomfortable gap, which was my cue to enter.

Pushing the door wide open, a strange scene greeted me. Sitting by the fire were Alyson, Betje and Adam. Adam was propped in a different chair to usual, while behind him stood Emma and Constance, wringing their hands and scrunching their aprons nervously. In the middle of this group, comfortably ensconced in Alyson's favourite chair, sat a man in the black robes of a monk. His head was bowed as he cooed at Karel and Isabelle wriggling on his lap, his jewelled cap gleaming in the firelight. His pale white hands confidently held one on each knee. As I stared at those long beringed fingers, their exquisite shape, my heart stopped.

I knew who owned those hands.

Stepping forward, everything I'd tried to repress, all that I'd convinced myself I hadn't seen, hadn't felt, didn't know, rushed back to the surface. My knees began to tremble, my palms to sweat. It was as if I'd swallowed a melting candle and my throat was stoppered up with wax. Sensing, or perhaps hearing me, Betje turned, and I saw in her stricken look and in the noises that now began to issue from Adam and the shaking which beset his body, that they also knew who it was sitting in Alyson's solar, holding my sweet babes.

Before I could snatch the children away, Alyson jumped to her feet. ‘Anna!' she exclaimed, tripping towards me across the rushes, flashing me a look of warning. ‘Look who's come to visit, God be praised. The honour we've been granted.' One arm swept wide to indicate the man on her chair and the two monks standing behind him. She gave a forced smile and wrapped her fingers tightly around my forearm, her meaning clear. ‘May I introduce Bishop Roland le Bold, the new landlord of Winchester Palace and an eager customer who has just placed a very generous order for your ale.'

Leander may have tried to offer reassurance that the man I spied in Gloucester, the man I believed to be my nemesis, was only a harmless monk named Roland le Bold, but as Bishop le Bold passed first Karel then Isabelle back to their wet nurses, and the twins held out their chubby little arms towards me and began to cry, I knew I had not been wrong.

Whatever he called himself, whoever he pretended to be, Roland le Bold, the freshly appointed Bishop of Winchester, now rising to his feet to greet me, his bleached eyes gleaming strangely, was none other than Westel Calkin.

Murderer, liar, rapist, and, God help me, father of my children.

THE SWANNE

Mid-February

The year of Our Lord 1408 in the ninth year of the reign of Henry IV

I
wanted to denounce him then and there, but Alyson's counterfeit delight, Betje's palpable fear and Adam's vulnerable state, as well as my instincts, screamed caution. Pretending he didn't have my acquaintance, he expressed pleasure in the babes, and sorrow at the various tragedies that had befallen my family. Well versed in my faux history, he spoke of the loss of my husband, how resourceful I was to brew and to do it so well. Staggered by his boldness, I could barely respond. Casting a look of sympathy towards Betje, which alighted not on her face but somewhere over her shoulder, Westel said he would pray for her and Adam. Sincerity dripped from him like honey from a comb and though I felt sickened by this mummery, I sustained my performance. Westel was no longer a servant or a mere monk — the quality of his robe, the sparkling rings on his fingers, the leather of his boots, the cap upon his head — all declared his high office, the resources upon which he could draw. Greatness attended him as did menace and, for the time being, I must be obedient to his whims.

Unnerved, and understanding something was greatly amiss, Alyson was louder than usual and she filled any silences with mindless chatter, which Westel responded to with grace and an amity I never recalled him possessing before — or had he? Perhaps, at first, it had been there.

Aware of his glance falling upon me, I could scarcely think. If I'd not been so eager to send Captain Stoyan upon his way, I could have sent word to Leander of our visitor, confirming I had not been mistaken. Alas, it was too late and now I had to endure his company and fret about his intentions. Westel had crossed this threshold for a reason, and it did not bode well for any of us. I didn't have to wait long to find out.

All gallantry and affability, he demanded a tour of the brewery, arranging it so that I alone would escort him. In itself this was not unusual, and caused no comment among the servants, though Alyson did offer a meek protest and Betje clung to my side.

‘It is all right, sweetling, I will show his grace the brewery and be back before you can say ten paternosters.' It was what Adam used to say to comfort me as a child and I saw in his eyes he understood. Betje did as well and released me with reluctance, joining the wet nurses and taking Isabelle.

Aware of Westel upon my heels, his hot breath against my neck, I was at first relieved to see the brewery all hustle and bustle. A combination of steam and smoke filled the air. Rose and Golda stood over the mash tuns, the new girl, Margaret, keeping a firm eye on them while tasting some freshly cooked grain. Master atte Place hoisted another huge tray into the oven. Beyond them, Rupert sorted barrels, rolling some, hefting others. Whistling a well-known air, he was lost in daydreams. Over by the troughs, Harry was tapping ale into a barrel, while Thomas was poised to lend a hand.

Before I could say anything, offer introductions or any kind of explanation as to what was going on, Westel called out from the stairs.

‘Begone, all of you.'

Glancing up, amusement on their faces, it took the servants only a moment to understand this was no prank, that a high-ranking churchman was in their midst. I nodded curtly.

‘Leave your tools. Master atte Place, I will look to the grain. Go and enjoy the fire and a small ale.' Warily, the girls put down their mash sticks; Ralph righted a barrel with a thud and stomped past, crossing himself, while Thomas came forward and bowed to Westel before dashing up the stairs. One by one, they ascended. Only Harry remained, defiant, pretending not to notice us; that he didn't hear.

Touching him upon the shoulder, I whispered. ‘Go, Harry, please.'

‘But mistress,' he flashed a look at Westel over my shoulder. The bishop had left the stairs and was staring into a mash tun. ‘I don't like the look of him.'

Bless him.

‘Looks can be deceiving.'

‘Only sometimes,' said Harry and, unhappy at my insistence, pushed out his chest and, giving a small huff in Westel's direction, left.

Once the door had shut, Westel lifted his face. Even through the curtain of steam, it was apparent he hadn't changed that much. Still pale, a little fuller around the cheeks, a neatly trimmed fringe of hair revealed it was still that wondrous silver colour that reminded me so much of Mother's, Karel's and Betje's too. Now my babes possessed it but I could reassure myself that the legacy was not Westel's alone. Returning my gaze, his mouth turned up at the ends. Not for me the huge smiles and repetitive flashing of teeth that I once mistook as an obsequious desire to please. This was a triumphant leer. A man who oozed self-possession and the arrogance of achieving goals at any cost had replaced the old Westel. Godliness was not a part of his mien and I marvelled that I'd ever likened it to that of angels. As I'd told Harry, looks could be deceiving.