Brewer's Tale, The (16 page)

The captain looked at me as if I'd suggested he dine on parchment. ‘I may be thought reckless, but I'm no fool. Would you buy this —' he lifted his mazer, ‘if you had a choice? Exactly. The man is not to be trusted. Especially not when he said he welcomed competition, a new brewer in town. He even went so far as to say he would like to try your ale when it's ready.'

Adam made a scoffing noise. ‘Try and copy it.'

‘
Ja
. This was my thought too.' The captain rubbed his chin. ‘The entire time I was in his presence, his obedientiaries, his office-bearers, four of them, interchangeable in their black robes, two with their faces disguised by heavy cowls, the others with their tonsured heads, stood to one side murmuring, tut-tutting, coughing and gasping like a chorus of consumptive angels. If they hadn't been so caught in this man's spell, blinded by his loquaciousness and manner, they would have been funny. As it was, they too are dangerous. They will do whatever this man bids.'

‘You think he's dangerous?'

‘
Nein
. I know he is. I've seen his sort before. He comes from the wrong side of the blanket, a noble's bastard who feels the world owes him something and he'll claim it whatever it takes. He is a greedy man. The friary is his empire, his world, and he will take down anyone who threatens it.'

‘Even me?'

‘You're a woman; as far as he's concerned, you're no threat to him or any man. But the Hanse … Well, we're another matter all together. I've invoked their spectre — worse, you have, and he doesn't like that.'

‘Are you concerned?'

‘For me? What can he do to the Hanseatic League? He'll be furious, his pride will be hurt and I've no doubt someone will pay, but it won't be us.' He regarded me steadily.

‘Well, then, I'd best get my first batch of ale ready for sale, hadn't I?' My cheer rang as false as my bravado.

‘I think you should reconsider your plans, Mistress Anneke,' said Adam, taking a step towards the desk, placing his hand upon the wood. ‘I don't like the sound of this abbot.'

I stared at him in dismay; fear darkened his eyes.
Not now, Adam, Please, I need you to stand by me as you did over a week ago.

‘What's the alternative, Adam?' My tone was sharper than I intended. ‘Working for Hiske? Watching Karel become an apprentice somewhere and Betje little more than a servant to do her bidding? That is, until she's sent to a nunnery for the rest of her life.' I shook my head. ‘I can't allow that. Brewing has been in my family for centuries. It's what de Winters do; it's how my grandfather earned and kept his office with the Hanse. It's how we made our living and, God willing, it's how I am going to as well.'

‘But is God willing?'

‘God is. It's Abbot Hubbard who's not.'

‘She's right, Master Barfoot.' The captain rose, draining his mazer as he did. ‘Anyway, this isn't about God, this is about something and someone much more earthbound, no matter how he styles himself. This is about the abbot and while he won't like it, he won't be able to stop Anneke either.'

I could have kissed the captain there and then.

Placing the cup down on the desk, the captain gestured for Adam to pass his cloak and hood.

I rose, running my hands down the sides of my tunic. ‘Thank you, Captain Stoyan. Thank you. Now I can throw myself into this business without worrying about being sabotaged every step of the way.'

With Adam's help, the captain shrugged on his cloak.

‘Forgive me, sir, but Mistress Anneke, I wouldn't be so quick to thank the captain.' Adam smoothed Captain Stoyan's cloak, then stepped to one side to face us both. ‘Hasn't it occurred to either of you that until the captain went to the friary and spoke to the abbot he'd never heard of Anneke Sheldrake? Now, despite his assurances, which you yourself admit, captain, are fairly meaningless, he'll be watching you like a hawk, waiting until he can strike.'

Adam was right. I hadn't thought of that. I cast a look of concern at the captain.

‘
Ja
, Master Barfoot is right.' He tugged his hood into place. ‘But consider this: until I went to the friary, the abbot didn't know how great the might of the Hanse was, either. He might watch you, Mistress Anneke, but I'll be watching him — wherever I am in the world, I'll be watching him …'

‘Until he moves out of sight.' Adam's tone was dry, sceptical.

Captain Stoyan poked him in the chest with a thick finger. ‘Then it will be up to you, Master Barfoot, to keep Mistress Anneke under observation. Ensure she's safe.'

Adam nodded. ‘Very well. So be it.'

Eager to put an end to this discussion and banish the demons plaguing my plans, I thanked the captain again and escorted him to the door. He was about to mount his horse when, as an afterthought, he turned.

‘By the way,' he placed a hand on my shoulder, ‘I've spoken to Master Bondfield. Whatever barley you require will be paid for by me.'

Rendered speechless by this unexpected act of generosity, I froze, my hand resting on the horse's smooth withers.

‘It's my investment,' he muttered, embarrassed, fiddling with the bridle. ‘I expect a share of the profits — in ale, and later beer, of course.'

A light rain began to fall, mingling with the ribbons of mist that slowly descended. Casting propriety aside, I threw my arms around him and kissed him soundly on the cheek. Red-faced, he returned my embrace and patted my back. When I drew away, I could see he was enormously pleased with my reaction.

‘It will be all right,
liebchen
. Forget the abbot, forget the friary and go make some liquid magic.'

‘I will,' I said. But as I waved farewell, I knew that for the next few days, if not weeks, I would be looking over my shoulder. Despite the captain's reassurances, I couldn't forget the abbot so easily.

HOLCROFT HOUSE

Late October to three days past the Nones of November

The year of Our Lord 1405 in the sixth and seventh years of the reign of Henry IV

M
aking sure the haircloth that lined the bottom of the kiln was in place before loading more coal, Adam stood back and wiped his hands on his apron. ‘Perforce, this is hot work,' he said, grinning to indicate he took no displeasure in the task. It was a cold, dreary day and the brewhouse, with its raging kiln and crackling stove, was a most agreeable space.

I flashed him a smile, my eyes fixed on glowing coals and the newly sprouted barley we'd painstakingly collected off the malthouse floor, laid upon large perforated trays and slid into the kiln so they could be dried. Over the past few days, tray after tray of moist grain had been slowly and carefully fired. The latest sat upon a table nearby, golden, divested of its little green shoots, the steamy haze surrounding it dissolving as the cool air grabbed the heat and swallowed it. Tasting the grain to ensure it was cured correctly, I found the buttery, nutty flavour lingered pleasantly in my mouth. Before long it would be cool enough to pour into sacks to go to the mill for grinding.

Louisa and Blanche had collected heather from the moors behind the church, and I picked some up. First shaking the white powder from the fronds onto a piece of fabric so I could save it to use as an additive later, I threw it in the flames. The kiln smoked fiercely for a few seconds, forcing Adam and me to back away. Fast consumed, the dry heather released a sharp smell that caught in the back of the throat. Turning slightly to cough into my fist, it struck me how the brewhouse, now a veritable hive of activity, was unrecognisable from the bleak space it had been only weeks earlier.

Adam, Will, Iris when she could be spared, Saskia and I, and even Louisa and the twins, had done nothing but work from dawn until dusk for days. Making larger quantities of ale required more hands than had once made the household's supply. What I also discovered was that six years is a long time between brews. Unpractised with the stages, determined to follow my mother's recipes lest I make a mistake, I commenced slowly. Flopping into bed at night exhausted and filled with self-doubt, I prayed to not only the Virgin and my Lord Jesus Christ, but also (may God forgive me) to the goddess of brewing, Ninkasi.

Ninkasi was a beautiful goddess from ancient times, and Mother had taught me the hymn brewsters in the Low Countries, Germany and other parts of the continent sang to her to ensure the ale became yeasty and rich. Sometimes we'd even call upon Hathor, the Egyptian goddess of drunkenness, but Mother warned we were only to invoke her for very special occasions. I wondered if our first ale would warrant Hathor's help and decided it would, so, when the opportunity presented itself, I summoned her presence as well.

Barely stopping for meals, throwing down a piece of bread, some cold rabbit or eel, depending on the day of the week, the entire household committed fully. We had to — our livelihoods and the roof over our heads depended on it. There was an undertow of desperation to all we did, an unspoken fear of failure.

By the end of the first two weeks, when the first batch of grain was dried and ready to go to the mill, we had found a rhythm. Preparing the malt became a matter, over ten days, of tossing the grain across the now clean and better-lit floor of the malthouse and watching it fall like a brief shower of rain. Soaking the barley in the crystal waters we'd drawn from the nearby stream, the Nene, it spread over the floor, a slow-moving marsh settling against its earthen banks. Bare-footed engineers, we'd lean on our tools and watch our muddy demesne form around our ankles. As the hours and days passed, we used the rakes and shovels to prevent the roots from fastening to the floor and each other, our backs and shoulders aching. Keeping the kiln and stove burning constantly, within days a fresh field of tiny green shoots sprouted and we became farmers rejoicing in our crop. Scooping up the new life, we layered it onto the large trays that went into the kiln. This was the point at which the previous hard work could easily come undone. If the temperature was too high and the grains burned, the ale was ruined before it was made. Likewise if the heat was too low. Mother had taught me how to ensure the fire burned slowly but consistently, waiting until the grains transformed into a mixture of amber or the colour of the sandstone rocks that swept the bay, before swiftly removing them.

After the cooled grain was poured into sacks, it was sent to the mill to be ground. The following day, it was returned — a coarse flour littered with chits and husks ready for the next stage.

The milled grain was tipped into the mash tun and hot water added. As with the heat from the fire, if the water was too hot or not hot enough, the brew would be spoiled. Many brewsters destroyed their ale during this ­process — Mistress Margery Kempe from Bishop's Lynn was as famous for her piety as she was for ruining brew after brew. It was hard to gauge the heat. It required experience and what Mother used to call ‘the touch'. Her trick was to allow the water to boil, cool it slightly and then place her elbow just below the surface. If she could tolerate the conditions and, more importantly, the steam had dispersed enough so she could catch glimpse of her face upon the now still surface of the water, it was time to add the milled barley.

Rolling up my sleeve, I did exactly as she'd always done. The water was hot but not boiling, and gazing back at me, as if about to emerge from the dark liquid, was my wide-eyed visage, tendrils of hair glued to my forehead and cheeks, as if I too were an ingredient. Mayhap I was. Using old drying sheets, Adam and Will hoisted the huge copper off the stove and slowly poured the contents into the mash tun, where the grain drank it thirstily. Grabbing the long-handled ladle, my mother's mash paddle, I stood over the tun and worked clockwise then counter-clockwise, moving around and blending the ingredients to prevent clumps of grist forming. Saskia took over when my arms grew tired. Following one of Mother's recipes, I added cloves, some sweet gale and bog myrtle to the mixture, sprinkling them onto the surface. Saskia stirred and I watched them whirl and settle and listened to the plashing of the liquid wort as it drained through the natural sieve of broken husks and grain into the copper underneath the tun.

We now had the beginnings of our ale. Tomorrow, before dawn, when the house was still abed and I was certain no-one could bear witness, I would perform the step I believed made my mother's brew unique. A process no-one, not Saskia, Father or, God forbid, Hiske, knew about. It had been Mother's secret and mine, one passed down through the de Winter women for generations. I would ensure it was kept that way, until I was ready to pass it onto Betje and my children, and she to hers.

The thought of children of my own, let alone little Betje having any, gave me pause. Would my womb ever quicken? In order to have a child, I first had to find a husband and that was unlikely to happen any time soon.

Sending Will out to chop wood, Adam and I turned our attention to straining the last of the wort away from the mash. This would be done twice — the first time created a rich, full-tasting ale. The second, after we poured more water upon the mash, made a weaker small ale that would mostly be kept for the household to drink. Some brewers, including the friary, would not only add more water to their first press in order to create more volume, they would also do a second and even a third pass, producing a very thin drink, unfit, by most folk's reckoning, for consumption. I refused to do this. I wanted to sell only my first, unless taste and demand said different, and let my reputation and fortune stand on that. Watching the honey-coloured broth move through the remnants of the mash and splash into the huge copper pots that sat beneath the tun did much to elevate my spirits. We were so close.