Brewer's Tale, The (29 page)

‘It's probably not. But it's sensible.' Adam picked up the reference and re-read the contents. ‘Says here he has excellent skills with figures.'

‘Mentions how trustworthy he is as well,' I muttered.

‘You could give him a trial.' Saskia went to the tun and proceeded to stir the wort. ‘Mistress, that tray needs to come out of the kiln.' She nodded towards it.

I raced over, grabbing the cloths off the table as I did, wrapping them around my hands.

‘Aye, a trial. We could all watch him,' said Adam. ‘First sign of anything suspicious, he goes.'

Lifting the smoking tray out, I heaved it onto the table, waving the steam out of my eyes, peering at the golden grains. ‘Shall I hire him then?'

‘
Ja,
' said Saskia, stirring the wort earnestly, her face red.

Adam nodded brusquely. ‘I'm not happy about it, but I don't think we have a choice.'

‘We don't,' I said and went to rescue the second tray from the kiln before my barley was burned. ‘After I've moved these, I'll go to the house and tell him the good news.'

In exchange for a shared room with Will on the topmost floor, meals and a small wage of a penny a week, Master Calkin fast became the most valued member of my brewing team. Whereas Adam, Will, Saskia and the other servants who would occasionally help had other duties that would take them from my side, Master Calkin was dedicated to helping me alone.

From cock's crow to first stars, he laboured, doing whatever I asked of him — even running errands in town. In only a matter of days, if the twins needed me, or Betrix paid a visit, I felt confident enough to leave him in the brewhouse, knowing it was in good hands. Sunday was his day off, but he left the house only to attend service next door before returning and begging to be given something to do. When he'd been with us six days, I decided to test the veracity of his reference and make use of his gift for figures.

Each week, Adam and I would calculate the cost of the grain so the ale-conners could set the price at which we would sell each brew. Deducting the cost of the tax and the other debts we had to pay, including a seller's fee, we were still managing a profit, albeit one that didn't go very far. Nonetheless, I wasn't ashamed to let anyone see my books. Still a long way from covering the rent for the months leading up to Hocktide, I either had to raise the level of production or seek other ways of selling my ale to widen distribution. That my ale was of a quality unfamiliar to those in town was without question. Many were keen to try it, but were reluctant to buy their household supplies from me instead of the friary. Rather than purchase a barrel, a hogshead or more, they risked only a flask here, a firkin there, perhaps a few jugs, even though, as they would whisper to Adam or Will, they longed to buy more. Some would choose to drink mine in the inns and taverns, rather than buying it from me and risking the wrath of God and the abbot. Master Proudfellow and the other innkeepers attracted so many patrons they could sell both the friary's ale and mine. ‘But it's yours they ask for, Mistress Sheldrake,' Master Proudfellow would reassure me when he came for more stock. ‘St Jude's is only drunk after yours has gone.' The reports from Master Larkspur were the same.

The only exception were the Millers, who, since their millstone was destroyed, continued to drink small quantities at the shop, Master Perkyn explaining that it was best he kept to old habits and thus allay suspicions. So, though I paid them in kind for grinding our malt, giving them a firkin every week, they would make an almost daily pilgrimage for a jug or two. Olive would enter the shop, squealing with delight, twining her hair around her fingers, flirting with Westel and Will and, in her unabashed way, remonstrating with customers that they didn't purchase more of my ale, calling them fools and toadies. Not even her father's threats or my entreaties could silence her. As for the patrons, they weren't offended, they simply indulged her. After all, as Simon Attenoke noted, you shouldn't punish someone for speaking God's truth.

If I could sell my ale directly to more people, even in smaller quantities, then I might be able to meet my debt to Lord Rainford. In the end it was Master Calkin who voiced the solution staring me in the face.

He was in the office, checking my calculations and jotting down sums, adding to the stains that already coated his fingers. These, he told me, were the result of years of copying manuscripts. I watched him scratching away with the quill, muttering to himself, and exchanged a look with Adam, who was clearly impressed. Behind me, the fire crackled; outside, the snow fell silently.

Westel raised his head. ‘I know you're concerned about your figures, Mistress Sheldrake, and, at the rate you're going, you'll be hard-pressed to meet the lease payment. But I think I know a way around this.'

‘You do?' I placed my elbows on the desk. ‘What's that, Westel?'

‘Well, I've been talking to Master Proudfellow and the other gentleman who owns the tavern down around the square —'

‘Master Peter Goddard of the Thistle and Whey?' said Adam, joining me at the desk.

‘That's him. And it seems to me, you've only one choice if you want to make real money from brewing.'

I knew what he was going to say. The same idea had been going around and around in my head for weeks.

‘You must turn the shop into an alehouse.'

A warm, not unpleasant feeling sped through my body. ‘An alehouse.' There. I'd said it. I could hear Tobias's protests; the disapproval of Hiske, Father, Mother — admonishments that beat against my fevered mind. I brushed them aside. ‘Go on …' I said, my heart pounding.

Sitting opposite, Westel began outlining what we needed to purchase, how much extra ale would be needed to meet demand and how the household could be arranged to accommodate the new business, referring to his notes as he did.

‘Iris could serve, as could I. And while I'd be loathe to ask you to perform such a common task, Mistress Sheldrake, until folk know about it and we can afford to hire someone else, it could work in our favour.'

‘How do you know so much about this?' I asked.

‘The monks who raised me also brewed,' he shrugged. ‘All us orphans had to help sell what they made. Brother Roland, my mentor and friend, supervised. He taught me everything I know.' He gave me his incorrigible grin and I found myself responding.

Adam frowned and shook his head but, caught up in the excitement that my debt to Lord Rainford might be extinguished so quickly, I ignored his doubts and, drawing closer to Westel, began to make plans. God forgive me, but pride and more blinded me that night.
See,
my eyes and mind sang,
we trusted this man, refused to let the friary crush us, and this is how we're rewarded for that faith. Faith in God and faith in ourselves.

‘An alehouse is very different to a brewhouse, Mistress Anneke. So is how it's perceived — how
you
will be,' warned Adam. ‘You need to think of your reputation …' I shooed him away. I didn't want to hear, not that I would have listened anyway, not once I saw what kind of profit and security such a venture could bring. Reputations, especially my own, were the least of my worries.

Turning away to tend the fire, Adam didn't join in the conversation, but he listened. We would open an alehouse in the new year, after Twelfth Night. I committed myself to brewing enough ale to satisfy the customers I hoped our new premises would attract. Organising expenses for the next few weeks, a small part of me dwelled on Adam's words. I was glad neither Tobias nor his master were there to make me heed my steward.

HOLCROFT HOUSE

The week before Christmas

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

C
hristmastide was less than a week away. Learning that Captain Stoyan was back in town, I invited him to join us for supper. Not only did he bring ale from Germany, but a large sack of hops.

‘Straight off the ship,' he said. ‘If you store it in a cool place, which you'll have no trouble doing at this time of year,' he added, brushing the snow off his shoulders as he entered the house, ‘it will keep for months. In fact, providing it's dried properly, sometimes the longer you leave it, the better it tastes.' He lifted the jugs of beer and placed them in Will's arms. ‘But you'll see for yourself.'

I didn't admit that I hadn't yet had the chance to try the smaller sack of hops he'd given me, but determined to try both and soon.

Retiring to the solar after the twins were put to bed, Captain Stoyan and I tasted the hopped brew of the Germans, and while at first I found it bitter and quite dry, after a few mouthfuls, I enjoyed it very much. The recipe would have to be adjusted for local palates, accustomed to much sweeter beverages. Captain Stoyan said beer was all that was drunk throughout the continent and, he added, was slowly growing in popularity in London.

‘Even your king enjoys a beer. Developed a taste for it when he did the reyse, that crusade of his to Lithuania.' My ears pricked up. If the king enjoyed beer … ‘But your Brewers' Mystery are fools,' continued the captain. ‘They insist if a brewer makes hopped ale, that must be all they produce. If they make ale, they're limited to that as well. They want no mixing, no confusion.' He gave a spurt of mocking laughter. ‘No-one is confused but them. After all, why can a brewer not make both?'

‘That makes no sense to me either,' I said. ‘Surely, offering customers choice and quality is what we should be concerned with. Why would the Mystery even worry themselves over such trifles?'

Captain Stoyan rubbed the tips of his fingers together. ‘There's only one reason — the same reason parliament became involved in the concerns of ale-makers in the first place. Money.'

The captain was right. Though I'd only been brewing a few months, I was shocked at how much of our profits went to pay this tax and that official. Restricting what someone could brew so charges could be levied was just another way for pockets to be lined — the pockets of anyone but the brewers. Leaning back in the chair, I stared into my mazer, swirling the amber ale around.

‘It would be so easy to make both — to sell both.'

‘Why don't you?' said Captain Stoyan, leaning forward, the candlelight making his eyes glimmer. ‘At least, until the mystery find out what you're doing.'

I stared at him thoughtfully, ignoring the creasing of Adam's brow. The captain had a point: why didn't I? As an unmarried woman, let alone a small producer, no guild would admit me. They'd take my hard-earned coin in taxes and other tithes, send the ale-conners and monitor my sales, but they would never acknowledge me as an official member. What obligation did I carry to follow their rules? Sitting up straight, my heart beating hard, my fingers became restless. I put down the mazer. Why didn't I sell ale
and
beer? At least that way, if the beer failed to appeal to customers, I still had the ale to fall back on. I didn't need to make too much to start with, just a firkin or two. Opening an alehouse provided the perfect opportunity to test the beer, introduce it to customers, allow word to spread. Plans began to form in my head. Nothing was stopping me doing this — not directly … not yet.

Staring out the window into the blustery night, watching the snow strike the pane and stick to the glass like thin little hands, I determined to revisit my mother's recipes and, as soon as possible, learn how and in what quantities to add hops to the wort.

‘You're right, Captain Stoyan.' I raised my cup to him. ‘There's no reason not to — no good one, anyhow. So, here's to hops …'

‘To fine ale
and
beer,' added Captain Stoyan.

Reluctantly, Adam lifted his cup.