Brewer's Tale, The (30 page)

With excitement and some nerves on my part, the very next day, as the wort was boiling, I added hops to the mixture. The sharp aroma of mint fused with sour notes of wild grass enveloped me. It was heady, strong, wild. My mother also recommended, as a way of offsetting the bitterness, that honey be included. I added some dried elecampane as well. While I knew apothecaries recommended it to assist with eyesight, Mother always said there was something wholesome and honest about the plant and the flavour it released was sweet and pleasing.

Watching me from the doorway of the malthouse was Westel. I sensed he was annoyed that I hadn't asked him to help make the beer. Bombarding me with questions when he discovered I intended to use hops, his interest was at first gratifying, but after the umpteenth inquiry, grew tiresome. Preferring to keep my experiments to myself, I set him a task that would remove him from the brewery for a time. It wasn't that I didn't trust him; not exactly, it was simply that there were some aspects of making ale I wasn't yet ready to share with anyone, not even Adam. Having finished fetching wood, Westel, barefoot from wading through the malt, now loitered nearby.

Passing me the elecampane, Adam hesitated. ‘Are you sure you want this, Mistress Anneke? Legend says this only grows where tears fall.'

My hand paused. ‘Tears don't only mean sorrow, Adam. They can also fall for joy.'

Westel made a noise, but whether of agreement or dissent I was uncertain and when I turned to ask him, he was back in the malthouse, bent over the rake.

Before I could change my mind, I took the elecampane, broke it between my fingers and threw it in.

‘Let's hope you're right,' muttered Adam.

A few days before Christmas, we tapped the troughs and filled two firkins and, much to my surprise and delight, a hogshead with beer. Adding hops meant that we didn't need to use as much malt as we did when making ale, and so produced more than twice as much for less grain. Though we used more wood, this was more than offset by the saving in malt. Due to lack of storage space, we were forced to place the barrels atop the central table. I couldn't go past them without stroking the ageing wood, sending a swift prayer to the goddesses that they bless this new enterprise.

Whether it was my imagination or the peculiar mist that hovered about the yard, wrapping the brewhouse in spectral fingers as I entered before dawn each day, I thought I heard and felt something respond. Raising my head to peer through the window at the grey skies and watching the flurries of snow strike the panes, I smiled and shut my eyes before thoughts of the abbot and an image of Brother Osbert intruded:
Hubris is a sin and by your very existence, you have made it a mortal one. Your day of reckoning will come, mistress.

‘Mistress Anneke, are you all right?'

My eyes flew open and in my fright, I slipped on some liquid spilled near the trough. If Westel hadn't caught me, I would have fallen. Waiting for me to find my balance, he kept his arms around me. I became aware of him in a way I hadn't before. The hardness of his body, the way his mouth curved, making two lines on either side of his cheeks; I noticed how straight his teeth were, how clear his eyes, eyes that revealed, even as they bore into mine, so very little. If they were mirrors to the soul, why could I not fathom Westel's?

‘I … I'm fine, thank you, Westel,' I said and found my feet, unsettled by his cold gaze, his warm flesh.

He released me slowly, his smile broadening and I hoped that he couldn't tell how fast my heart beat or how uneasy I suddenly felt.

‘You startled me. I lost my footing,' I said, my voice weak.

‘I know.'

We stared at each other a moment longer.

‘What needs doing?' he asked.

Studying his hands where they rested against the brewhouse wall, I hadn't noticed before how feminine they were. Long, tapered fingers, a narrow palm. The ink that had stained them when he first came had long been washed away. Yet they were also deceptively strong; he'd held me has if I weighed no more than a mazer. His arms were sinewy, more rugged than I realised, dusted with that ice-white hair, so different to Sir Leander's. They reminded me of the silvery beech by the river, the one in which a highwayman had been hanged years earlier and left to the carrion birds until he was only bones and sinew.

A shiver ran through me.

Westel was watching me, his mouth curled in a question. My cheeks flamed and I pushed past him to hide my discomfort. Something akin to foreboding shot through my chest, and made me catch my breath. The vision of the dead robber had made me giddy. Foolish thoughts were bobbing in my head.

Westel followed. I didn't turn, but I was aware.

Saskia chose that moment to enter. Sensing something at odds, she began talking as if we were mid-conversation.

‘I think Westel should attend to customers this afternoon, Mistress Anneke. He can take Iris if Blanche has finished with her by then. It looks like everything is under control in here.' She gave Westel a curt nod.

I scanned the brewhouse. Saskia was right. Everything was under ­control — so much so, I'd be able to send Adam to town to purchase extra mazers, despite the ale-stake being hoisted to ensure the ale-conners knew to be here before the bells tolled none.

I turned to Westel, driving my earlier dread deep inside. Westel was such a boon, I was lucky to have him.
Think where you'd be if he hadn't missed the hiring fair or hadn't possessed the wherewithal to ask Father Clement if he knew of work … or if you'd dismissed him believing him to be in service to Abbot ­Hubbard
…

‘You can make sure the tables are clean and there's enough stools, and that the barrels are tapped and ready for pouring.' Westel nodded and went to leave. ‘Oh, and fetch the tin from the office. We'll need coin.'

‘Very good, Mistress Sheldrake.' Westel bowed and, with one last look around, strode off, patting his head to ensure his cap was in place. The cap, a worn woollen accessory of faded blue, rarely left his head. I began checking the malting trays.

Saskia rested her elbow on the ladle. ‘Do you think you might be placing too much faith in him, Mistress Anneke?'

‘Too much?' I relieved Saskia of the ladle and began to stir the mash. ‘What do you mean?'

‘I don't know … He hasn't been here very long and here you are, letting him wander into the office without supervision, giving him free reign in here … allowing him to plant ideas in your head …' Like Adam, Saskia was in two minds about the alehouse and, while I assured her it was a notion I'd been toying with for some time, she credited the decision to Westel. ‘Have you forgotten? He's meant to be on trial.'

‘That he is. So, what's he done to deserve such suspicions? He's been reliable, hardworking and, thus far has done everything to earn our trust.'

Saskia frowned. ‘
Ja
. True. So far …'

‘Then, surely it's better to have faith than deny it without proof?' Was I reminding Saskia or myself?

Saskia stared at the spot where Westel had just been standing. ‘Of course … you're right, mistress. It's just …'

A thread of anticipation tugged the base of my neck. ‘What is it, Saskia?' I stopped stirring. ‘Tell me.'

Saskia dashed a hand across her forehead. ‘Nothing, really. I don't know … I shouldn't be saying this, but there's something about him that unsettles me —'

‘What?' I released the ladle and drew closer.

‘You'll think me foolish, but have you noticed the way the hounds never go near him, except to growl?'

I cast my mind back to the times I'd seen Westel near the dogs. Saskia was right, they would circle him like wolves before retreating, snarling, their tails between their legs. Both Adam and I had thrown them out of the hall so their grumblings didn't disturb us.

‘That's nothing,' I reasoned. ‘He's still a stranger. Give them time. How can we trust their judgement? They adored Cousin Hiske.'

Saskia guffawed. ‘You're right,' she said. ‘I'm being silly. But he does smile too much. I don't trust anyone who's always smiling. It's not natural.'

I snorted. ‘That's hardly fair. I would rather someone who smiles too much than otherwise.'
But when that smile doesn't reach their eyes …
An image of Sir Leander drifted across my mind, the way his deep blue eyes sparkled when he was amused, the warmth that could infuse them when he forgot to guard his expression … The way he stroked my hand …

Together we gazed into the grey-cream sludge in the mash tun. The smell was pungent, smoky. I slipped an arm around Saskia's waist and rested my head on her shoulder. Still preoccupied, I murmured, ‘Louisa says he can't take his eyes off me.'

‘For that, I don't blame Westel.'

I grew very still. I hadn't meant Westel …

Saskia dropped a kiss on top of my head. ‘Louisa's right. He stares at you all the time. But that's another thing. It's the
way
he looks at you that makes me uneasy.'

‘How's that?' I asked, relieved she wasn't aware of my slip, enjoying the roundness of her shoulder, the malty smell that emanated from her tunic and apron.

She paused, then whispered. ‘Like a hungry animal. Like he wants to devour you.'

I raised my head and stared at her as a shudder wracked my body — but whether it was of excitement or foreboding, I couldn't tell. I recalled his grip, the vice-like fingers, the hard frame; the way he exuded … what was it? Power?

I levered myself away from her. ‘You're exaggerating, Saskia. Anyway, he was raised among monks. He's not used to women, that's all.'
That was it.

Saskia looked at me as if I'd grown scales. ‘If you think monks aren't used to women, then you're more naive than one your age has a right to be.'

Colouring, I turned and stooped to add kindling to the fire. She was right. The number of bastards Abbot Hubbard sired, let alone those of half the monks at St Jude's was local legend. Why would the men of St Rebecca's be any different? Westel admitted he'd no calling to the priesthood. Could women have been his downfall? It wouldn't be the first time, only most monks chose penance and kept wearing the cassock, enjoying the influence and privileges that came with being part of God's work on earth. If that was his reason, at least Westel had had the strength to admit it. Could that explain the hungry, lingering looks?

As I threw more wood into the kiln, all I knew was that Sir Leander was banished from my thoughts and in his place was Westel Calkin, smiling, hovering, watching …

HOLCROFT HOUSE

Adam and Eve's Day, the day before Christmas

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

B
efore we knew it, Advent was over and preparations for Christmastide began in earnest. The remnants of last year's Yule log was found and placed on the hearth beside the new one Adam had cut in the woods; holly and ivy were hung from the beams and draped across the chests and cabinets. Iris fashioned some extra candles, while Blanche began making humble pies and collecting the ingredients for frumenty. Each day brought new smells, sounds and sights into the house. Blanche outdid herself.

While I had some misgivings about Westel, mostly brought about by what occurred with the monks long before he arrived, as the days rolled by, they diminished. Though he'd only been with us a short time, it was hard to remember the period before he came, we'd become so reliant upon him. Or rather, I'd become reliant. So reliant, I was able to make excuses for him if Will, Saskia, or the twins complained. There were even times, despite his tendency to stare, when I enjoyed his company. He didn't feel the need to fill the silence with endless chatter and nor did he need me to direct him in his tasks, not after the first few weeks. While he still asked questions about brewing or sought my permission before doing something, I felt it was done out of respect and genuine desire to demonstrate interest, to prove his worth. Sometimes, when the wort was settling or the mash had been stirred and the grain tossed, we'd sit before the kiln and share a small ale and talk; it was at these moments, I learned a little of the man upon whom I was coming to depend.

Born a bastard, Westel never knew his father and only vaguely remembered his mother, the daughter of a Norwich alderman. She died young, in childbed. Westel was reared and educated by monks, taught to read, write and more besides, the priory the only home he knew, those within it his family. Believing his destiny lay within St Rebecca's, a friary known for its hospitality, ale and wine, it wasn't until Westel had become a novice and was confronted with the reality of making his solemn vows, that he confessed to being denied a calling. He was sent away. Cast adrift, but with an excellent reference from Brother Roland le Bold (of whom Westel could not speak highly enough), but little else, he sought his way in the world, following the pilgrim trail from Norwich to Attlebridge, intending to go to London. One day, he decided to let God direct his course and, after spending hours in prayer, deviated to the coast and Elmham Lenn. Arriving far too late for the hiring fair, he instead found work with us. ‘God provided, as He always does.' Westel crossed himself. With the flickering flames of the kiln making his hair and eyes glimmer, he reminded me of the statue of the Archangel Gabriel in St Stephen's. It too wore a look that spoke of both elation and vigilance.