Brewer's Tale, The (2 page)

They knew what dragged me from my warm bed and down to the harbour before the servants stirred. It was what brought any of us who dared to draw a living from the seas.

I continued, lifting my skirts and jumping a puddle that had collected where the dock ended and the dirt track that followed the estuary into town began.

To the toll of morning bells, I joined the procession of carts, horses and vendors trundling into market as the sky lightened to a pearlescent hue. The rain that hovered out to sea remained both threat and promise. Ships that plied their trade across the Channel were anchored mid-river, their sails furled or taken down for repairs; their wooden decks gleaming, their ropes beautifully knotted as captains sought to keep their crews busy while the weather refused them access to the open water. Some had hired barges to transport their cargo to London, while others sold what they could to local shopkeepers or went to Norwich. Closer to the town, abutting the riverbanks, were the warehouses belonging to the Hanseatic League, their wide doors open. Bales of wool, wooden barrels, swollen sacks of grain and salt were stacked waiting to be loaded onto ships that were already ­overdue — ours being one of them. The workers lingered near the entry hoping to snatch some news. Like us, these men, so far from their homeland, longed to hear that their compatriots were safe. Apart from the whinny of horses, the grunt of oxen, and the grind of cart wheels, silence accompanied us for the remainder of the trip into town.

As our procession spilled through the old wooden gates, dirty-faced urchins leapt onto the path, offering rooms, food and other less savoury fare, tugging at cloaks, pulling at mantles. Avoiding the children, I steered around the visiting merchants and travelling hawkers who paused to pay tolls, and slipped past the packhorses and carts to head towards the town centre. Jostled by the farmers with their corn and livestock, apprentices wearing leather aprons and earnest expressions, the way was slow. Before I'd passed the well, the bells of St Stephen's began to toll announcing the official opening of the market. Around me, shop shutters sprang open, their bleary-eyed owners waving customers forth. ‘Hot pottage!', ‘Baked sheep's cheek', ‘Venetian silk', ‘Copper pans going cheap'; their cries mingled and were soon drowned in the discordant symphony of market day. Catching a glimpse of our housekeeper, Saskia, among the crowd, I darted down the lane near St Nichols and increased my pace. It wasn't that I didn't like Saskia — on the contrary, as one of my mother's countrywomen, a constant presence since I was a baby, I loved her dearly. I just wanted to enjoy a few more minutes of my own company, without questions or making decisions or, what I was really avoiding, the suffocating weight of the unspoken. I also wanted to make it home before Hiske knew where I'd been or the twins escaped the nursery. If she spied me, Saskia, with the familiarity of a valued servant, would suborn me to her will. I needed to dry myself and change my gown. More importantly, I had to erase the worry from my face and voice. Why I insisted on doing this, going to the seaside these last few days, I was uncertain. It was a compulsion I couldn't resist. It gave me purpose, prevented me from feeling quite so helpless. I thought about what I'd tell the twins today, how I would distract them. I rounded the corner back onto Market Street, the main road that led to the gate at the other end of town. Walking against the tide of people, I drew my hood, quickened my step and entered the alley that ran beside my home. I unlatched the garden gate and squeezed through.

Passing our scant vegetable patch, I hugged the outside wall of the old stables, plucking at the laces at my throat and pulling my cloak off my shoulders and my hood from my head, still hoping I wouldn't be spotted from upstairs. I was relieved to note Patroclus and Achilles, our two wolfhounds, were absent. Adam Barfoot, the steward, must be walking them — a task he'd performed for years now, ever since we'd let go of the servants Hiske persuaded Father we no longer needed. I tossed the two bones I'd carried in my pockets as a bribe for their peace towards the kennels. The dogs could enjoy them on their return. Perhaps my early morning vigil would go undetected after all.

Folding my cloak and hood over my arm and adopting nonchalance, as if it was always my custom to stroll in the gardens at dawn, I crossed the courtyard, passing the disused brewhouse.

‘God give you good day, Mistress Sheldrake.' My hand flew to my breast.

The chambermaid, Doreen, appeared carrying a basket of eggs over her arm. ‘About early again?' Her sharp eyes looked me up and down, taking in my windswept hair, damp clothes and muddy boots. ‘And alone, I see.' She sniffed her disapproval.

With a sinking heart, I knew she'd report me to Hiske. If Hiske knew, so too would father. I sighed. There was no point denying what her eyes, the state of my clothes and my chest, heaving from rushing, clearly told her.

‘As you can see, Doreen, I am.
Again
,' I added defiantly, my cheeks flaming, then swept past her, almost knocking the basket from her forearm.

I entered the kitchen with as much equanimity as I could muster. The heat of the stove and the smell of baking bread made me aware of how chilled I was — and hungry. My mouth watered as I greeted the cook, Blanche, who stopped what she was doing and studied me, eyebrows arched.

‘Mistress Anneke, you haven't been —' she began, but paused as Doreen appeared behind me, ‘enjoying the fresh air and rain again?' she asked with false gaiety. ‘I'll have some hot water and a tray sent to your room, shall I? We don't want you catching your death.'

‘Mistress Jabben is expecting Mistress Sheldrake to join her in the hall, Mistress Blanche —' Doreen was getting bolder by the day.

Ignoring Doreen, I turned to the cook. ‘Thank you, Blanche.' My gratitude was in my smile. ‘That would be perfect.' Avoiding Doreen's pursed lips and cold stare, I scurried through the hall before Hiske, who was sitting at the far end, close to the hearth, saw me. Thrusting aside my dignity, I bunched my tunic and shot up the stairs two at a time.

Walking through Tobias's old room, I threw aside the curtain that divided our chambers and flung my cloak and hood across the chest that held my clothes and other belongings. Though I could have taken down the curtain and adopted my brother's room as my own, giving myself more space, I'd chosen to maintain what I'd always had and keep Tobias's bedroom as it was. Hiske disapproved, saying shrines were for God only and I was making a false idol of my brother. I wasn't so foolish. Content with what I had, I was also happy knowing that Tobias had a place to lay his head should he ever require one.

Opening the shutters, ashen light poured in, along with a cold draught tinted with more rain. Stripping off my tunic and kirtle, I stood shivering in my underclothes and undid my braid. Lifting a used drying sheet from the small table abutting my bed, I quickly towelled my body and then focussed on my hair, ears pricked for sound — for Hiske. How ridiculous that, at my age, I snuck about the house like a thief in the night.

Blanche was true to her promise and the kitchen maid, Iris, arrived with a bowl of steaming water and a fresh drying sheet, taking away my used one. Minutes later, she reappeared with a tray holding a trencher of bread, a lump of yellow cheese and a beaker of small ale. Curtseying, she left me to tend myself as was my wont.

Washed and dressed in a clean, dry kirtle and tunic, my hair tidied, I was picking at the cheese when I heard the clatter of boots and loud whispers. Karel and Betje burst through the curtain, followed by their apologetic nurse, Louisa.

‘Anneke!' they squealed, as if they hadn't seen me the night before. Dropping to my knees, I hugged them fiercely, inhaling scents of rosewater and lavender. Holding first Betje, then Karel at arm's length, admiring their sturdy arms and legs, pink cheeks and gapped teeth, I released them and stood, laughing. How could anyone be gloomy with these two around? Sinking onto the window seat, I watched them taunt Louisa who tried and failed to prevent Karel jumping on the bed. Giving up, she attempted to tame Betje's hair. A riot of silvery curls, it refused to remain in the plaits Louisa insisted upon weaving.

‘Anneke, tell Betje,' said Karel almost falling off the bed, waving his arms in circles to regain his balance. ‘Tell Betje …' he tried again, then gave up trying to talk and bounce at the same time and instead sat heavily on the end of the mattress, swinging his legs. His energy was something palpable, infectious. ‘Papa's coming home today, isn't he?'

‘And Tobias,' added Betje, twisting towards her brother, exclaiming when her hair was pulled. ‘Don't forget him. You always leave him out.'

‘I do not!'

‘You do so. Just because he doesn't live here doesn't mean we shouldn't worry about him as well.' Betje glared at Karel then spun back, rubbing her head. ‘Is it today, Anneke?' Betje's large grey eyes alighted on mine, her little brow puckered. ‘Will Papa be coming home?'

Louisa and I exchanged a look.

‘Perhaps,' I answered cautiously. ‘Now remain still and let Louisa finish,' I admonished gently, cupping her cheeks briefly.

‘Perhaps! You said that yesterday.' Karel pouted.

‘And the day before,' added Betje.

‘And
perhaps
I will say it tomorrow.' They both groaned. ‘The fact is, I don't know.' I shrugged, affecting a lightness I didn't feel. ‘No-one does.' I sat back down and looked outside. A squall rattled the panes. The trees in the churchyard next door were buffeted by winds, stubborn autumn leaves clinging to the branches. They looked like hungry fingers reaching, grasping … I stared beyond the garden wall, past the church, the road, towards the wide, white-capped bay and into the vast ashen void. Somewhere across that raging sea were the Netherlands, Flanders, Rotterdam, Ghent and my mother's home, Maastricht, and all the places Father sailed, as did Tobias with his master. I imagined Father looking back at me, frowning, his thin lips disappearing as he prepared to scold me for allowing emotions to govern common sense. They voyaged in this kind of weather all the time, a trader's life was built on risk, he would remind me — and not only those offered by the oceans.

But this time is different
…
They should be home by now … Papa at least …
I bit my lip. As for Tobias, he belonged to another family now, called another place home. It didn't stop me claiming him still or, as Betje said, any of us worrying.

Betje climbed onto my lap. I shifted to accommodate her and wrapped my arms around her tightly.

Snuggling against my breast, she tilted her head back. ‘We won't be able to do this any more once Papa is home, will we?'

‘We'll have to stay in the nursery again, won't we?' said Karel quietly from the bed, staring at the toe of his boot.

‘We won't, my sweetlings, and,' I said softly to Karel, ‘you will. Papa is a very busy man. He doesn't like to be disturbed.'

‘But we want to disturb
you
, not him,' said Karel.

I bit back a smile.

‘Papa doesn't like a lot of things,' said Betje, with the innocence of childish observation. She stared out the window.

No-one replied.

‘The sky is angry,' she said in an awed voice. ‘That means God is as well, doesn't it?'

I followed her gaze and it struck me, as the rain fell, steady enough to form rivulets on the thick glass, that if God was expressing any emotion, it was sadness. I kissed the top of Betje's head, preparing a reassurance, when something attracted my attention.

Betje saw it too. ‘Look!' She sat up and pointed. ‘There's a rider.'

The messenger tore by the church walls, his slender mare churning the road. With a lurch, I recognised the livery and wondered what was so important he should be abroad on such a day.

Karel bolted from the bed and squeezed beside us. ‘Where?' he demanded, his head swivelling until he spotted him. ‘Look, there's someone else with him as well. They're stopping. Right outside our house!' He pressed his face against the window, the glass turning opaque where his breath struck.

‘Let me see,' complained Betje, trying to shove her brother out of the way.

Karel was right. The men talked urgently, walking their horses towards the front of the house.

‘Oh, my,' added Louisa from behind. ‘Mistress —' Apprehension inflected her tone.

I rose, lifting Betje from my lap, eyes fixed on the figure tethering his horse, waiting for the black-robed gentleman beside him to dismount before they strode out of sight. ‘Louisa, take the children back to the nursery would you?'

‘But Anneke …' they chorused.

‘Come now,' said Louisa, authoritarian. ‘You heard what your sister said. Out with you.'

Once I heard the nursery door close, I checked my hair, straightened my tunic and, taking a deep breath, went back downstairs.