Brewer's Tale, The (83 page)

Much later, when the moon was a silver crescent high in the sky, and a parliament of owls had taken wing, their haunting cries echoing in the still night, I lay in Leander's arms. We hadn't made love; what had been discussed quenched passion, though not our love. Lying back against the covers, my head pillowed on his chest where the steady beat of his heart was like a lullaby, we talked long into the night. Sometimes our words were heated and strained, but more often, they were frank and reasoned.

Leander insisted that I tell him everything Roland had said, a full accounting. Of what he did, what he tried to force me to do, I remained mute. Not because I wished to protect Roland, or even my own modesty, but because I knew that any restraint I asked of Leander would become impossible. He would charge down to Winchester Palace and demand a reckoning regardless of who witnessed it or how his role would be perceived. Leander's desire to strike Roland down, run him through with a sword was already palpable. Anger heated his body, made him restless. Rising from the bed as reason battled with instinct, he strode around the room, his limp more apparent tonight than it had been for a while. He wanted, needed vengeance. Knowing Westel was alive, that he lived not far away, was almost more than he could bear. I understood that.

But bear it he must. For me.

This, I told him. What I did not share was my fear that despite Leander's strength, connections, titles, his revenge would fail and Roland would triumph. He would use Leander and my love for him to wound me more grievously. I could not, would not allow that to happen. So, I advocated, I beseeched. Using my own womanly arsenal, I even wept.

Though he comforted me and made vague promises that left me uneasy, he continued to envisage a revenge befitting a man such as le Bold. His silences, his tense limbs and shallow breathing revealed much to me.

Trying to divert his thoughts, I asked about the battles, the king's health (which was very poor) and even, with the gentlest of questions, about his late wife. Answers, though given, were superficial and distracted. As he spoke of Bramham Moor, the place where the final skirmish against the rebels took place, he described the endless cold, the dreadful, chilling winds that froze the rivers and hardened the ground, making it impossible to bury the dead. He told me how, at Wheel Hall, an abbot was put to death and the Bishop of Bangor imprisoned at Windsor. This last was to remind me that King Henry was not above meting out justice to clergy and was meant to allay my fears. In that, my beloved failed.

Finally, as the moon disappeared and the stars dissolved, we fell asleep, dreams of Roland le Bold churning and churning like the Thames as it beat against the footings of London Bridge.

Leander left early the following morning to return to Ashlar Place and his own affairs. He was tired, disgruntled and more than a little moody. Anger that I had made him promise not to act formed a black impenetrable cloud over him. Captain Stoyan returned to his barge, a cartload of barrels accompanying him to be delivered upriver to Westminster. The captain was eager to resume business and sail the green waters once more.

Bidding Leander adieu, acutely aware of the strain that had developed between us, I saw the barrels safely onto the cart and into Captain Stoyan's care before returning to the brewery. I'd already sung the ale to life and honoured my crones and there was great comfort in resuming familiar patterns.

I was struck by the beauty of this workshop of mash tuns, troughs, gleaming copper, burning wood, rising steam, puffs of grey smoke and abundant goodwill. The air was filled with the heady, rich scent of hops and mash. Lifting a beaker from where it hung by a nail on the wall, I went to the trough and sank it deep into the wort. Glancing up, Harry smiled.

‘That'll have no trouble passing, mistress. That's a mighty fine brew, even if I do say so myself. Fit for a king.'

Rose cuffed him good-naturedly across the head.

Raising the beaker to him, I drank. Harry was right. It was smooth, with an aftertaste of honey, a hint of pine and the tang of woodsmoke. In many ways, it reminded me of Leander and for a moment, I felt a twinge of sorrow.

I made up my mind there and then that, come tonight, if he should return, I would seek to mend our rift. I could not bear that we were at odds, not when a much greater adversary loomed.

Putting an end to the minor discord between Leander and myself proved unnecessary. From the moment I saw him again, he was in much better humour — indeed, he didn't mention Roland le Bold and I determined to avoid the subject unless the need arose. Set to join the king at Pontefract for Easter and then journey to Leicester, Leander and I spent every night till then in mutual embrace.

The day he departed for Pontefract, I made certain he also had a letter for Tobias who, Leander had told me vaguely, was occupied attending his affairs elsewhere. My brother's missive to me had been brief but loving. He refused to allow me to bear responsibility for what had befallen the family, swearing he would yet make amends for the ignominy of his birth, promising to restore the Sheldrake name and our relations in the process. How he thought to accomplish such an unnecessary task, I knew not. What I did know was that I could never use the name Sheldrake again and, even if Tobias was successful in his mission, wasn't certain I wanted to — I was a de Winter now and content to be so.

Over the next few weeks, we worked hard to meet the king's orders and those from the Duke of Clarence, the brethren of St Mary's and St Thomas's, as well as the large order from Roland. Hocktide came and went and we managed to pay the rent, Harry and Master atte Place delivering it to Winchester Palace on Alyson's behalf, thanks to the increased price of the beer which the king's purse bore without complaint or, God is good, knowledge.

It came as no surprise when the day after the rent was paid, Master Fynk darkened our door. On the pretext of accompanying the ale-conners, he made much fuss. In a repeat performance of his last visit, he declared our ale sour and the beer unfit to drink. Alyson's threats of summoning Sir Leander didn't sway him, neither did Adam's demands for the sheriff to act as mediator.

‘The ale-conners declare this brew unfit. Not even I would dare contest their findings,' he replied calmly and ordered one third of all we made, whether it had passed previously or not, be tipped into the Thames.

Alyson began to argue, but I grabbed her arm. ‘Don't. This man is not above cucking you in the Thames, or worse, sewerage, and this time, he'll see it done properly.'

Alyson shut her mouth, but she was seething.

However, not even the bribed ale-conners would condone having the king's beer tipped into the dirt. Acceding to my argument that the beer was unfit because it required at least another week in the barrels, Master Fynk nevertheless insisted that the ale made for the king be destroyed and said the conners would return in a week to test the beer. By the time the bells for vespers rang, almost half our brew had been drunk by the river.

It was a huge blow and set us back enormously. I wouldn't let it defeat me. Working till the lack of decent light made it impossible, we doubled the amount we put in the tuns. Alyson and Captain Stoyan helped every moment they could spare. My greatest asset, though, was Adam. Slower, still finding long speeches difficult and not quite able to find enough dexterity in his hand to hold a quill, Adam could stir a mash paddle, load kindling and test wort. Able to instruct and supervise, having him working again not only gave me a chance to make the king's order and Roland le Bold's (I wanted him to have no cause to complain), but it restored Adam's confidence.

Easter celebrations were subdued, though the church was once again full as spring brought visitors to Southwark by river and road, many of whom would require lodging, ale and food for their bodies, as well as nourishment for their souls. Sales of ale and beer were, perforce, limited, due to Master Fynk's interference, so Alyson hired more girls for the summer. What she lost in beverage sales was made up for by other, less tiring, means.

The extra work required to make orders meant less time to think about le Bold, but also set in motion plans to move. Though I'd written to Masters Hamme and Porlond stating I would accept their offer, it had not yet been made official. Receiving two gentle nudges from them by letter already, I didn't want to wait for a third. I had to make the time.

One sunny afternoon in May, after Master Fynk had paid another visit and ordered fourteen barrels emptied and levelled a hefty fine, with Alyson by my side and a more able-bodied Adam as chaperone, I arranged to visit the premises Master Hamme offered to lease me. Captain Stoyan took us across the river so we didn't have to endure the crowds on London Bridge.

A pleasant wind wafted about our faces as we stood on deck and watched London draw nearer. Brief though the journey was, escaping the brewery and Southwark, the fear of Roland and the machinations of Master Fynk did me much good. I pushed my concerns aside and soaked up the atmosphere. There were many craft upon the river, taking advantage of the temperate conditions to fish, carry cargo and passengers, or simply take to the waters to be seen. Decorative punts, lavishly curtained and with elegant lamps fore and aft swinging with each stroke of the oars, glided past, the coats of arms of noble houses on display, their women passengers decked in sumptuous silks and embroidered linens, their hair coiled and plaited and crowned by the finest gauzes. Troubadours strummed their instruments and the voices of poets drifted across the waters.

As we poled alongside London Bridge, far enough away to resist the currents and eddies that tested the hardiest of sailors, we caught sight of the teeming crowds on the Bridge, heard the cacophony of voices competing for custom. Buckets were emptied out of the windows of teetering houses, offal and bloodied bones were tipped surreptitiously from a handcart, all swallowed by the waters. Children and some men cast lines from the footings, birds flapped overhead. The smells of life and death clung to this part of the river and we raised our kerchiefs and scarves to cover our noses and mouths lest we inhale the filthy miasma.

We came ashore at Dowgate close to the Stilliard and, from there, followed Wall Brook, which though containing much refuse, maintained a steady flow. On we walked, past the church of St Mary Bothaw, inns, taverns, private residences both well-kept and poor, passing Old Fish Street and understanding why it bore that name, before reaching Cornhill Street. At the corner, near the water conduit known as the Tun (and the adjacent cage, stocks and a pillory, the latter miserably inhabited by a baker), we met with Master Hamme, who escorted us to the brewery.

Imagine our astonishment when we saw the name on the building — it too was called The Swanne. Alyson beamed.

‘I asked my Lord for a sign. I didn't think he'd be so bloody obvious about it though.' This Swanne, while a large building of three wooden storeys, nevertheless differed from its counterpart in Southwark. Darker but with bigger rooms, it had a small courtyard and a tiny mews. Close to St Michael's Church (but not too close, as Alyson was swift to note), a tavern named The Pope was two doors down, while on either side were residences, one belonging to a German mercer, the other a baker. Inside was mostly clean, though the walls had smoke stains, and the kitchen was possessed of only a makeshift oven. Apart from these, the downstairs was shared with a large hall, buttery, stables and storage rooms. Upstairs, there were two reception rooms, although the smaller one could be used for an office, as well as five bedrooms. The attic held more. There was even a garderobe that emptied into the ditch.

Downstairs, the brewery exceeded my imaginings. Running the length of the house, it had four long narrow windows, allowing light to stream in. It had two doors, one internal and one external that led to the courtyard and mews. Inside was everything Master Hamme promised — two large mash tuns, leaden troughs and pipes and a big kiln. There were two quern stones, one too big for an individual to operate, and there was also space that could be used for malting if we chose. Altogether, it was a pleasant surprise.