Brewer's Tale, The (38 page)

‘
Mijn zoete kind
,' she whispered. It had been years since she'd used that endearment,
my sweet child
. I cried harder. ‘What is it? Tell me.'

Words tumbled out. ‘Tobias … he … he warned me. So did Adam, Captain Stoyan and even Sir Leander. But would I listen? Nay. And now … now …' I raised my arms in a clumsy gesture before they flopped back into my lap.

‘They knew they could never talk you out of the alehouse, my
zoete
. They told you this, gave you such warnings as they could to prepare you. They knew what people would be like. How narrow and judgemental they can be.' She smoothed my hair. ‘Folk don't cope well with change; they're threatened by it, fear it.'

‘As God is my witness, Saskia,' my voice was fragile, quavering and I hated it, ‘I haven't changed. I'm the same person I always was. Why can't people see that? I'm still Anneke Sheldrake who used to be welcomed with smiles and encouraging words. I'm still the Anneke Sheldrake they paid their respects to after Father died. All that's changed is I serve ale to ­people … nothing else.' I buried my face in my hands and wept.

‘Hush, hush my lamb,
mijn zoete
.' Saskia bent down and took my face in her calloused hands, her smile so sweet, so gentle. ‘Listen to me.' She forced my chin up so I had to look upon her. There was a hard glint in the amber depths of her eyes. ‘Anneke. You're not the same person. You've changed and praise be to God that you have.'

I sniffed loudly. ‘But —'

‘How can you be the same after all you've endured?' Pushing strands of hair off my cheeks, she continued. ‘You're stronger. More determined.' She took one of my hands in her own. ‘You've a family to raise, bills to pay, a household and business to run. You refuse to be influenced by what others say, think or do. Those people out there,' she waved her hand towards the street, ‘they don't like that they can't control you any more — the shrews with their gossip and rumours, the men because you're proving a woman can be without a husband and survive. That she can run a business.' She laughed. ‘You're not a servant, you're not a wife, you're not a mother. You're queen of your own realm, your own woman and they don't know what to make of you any more.'

I choked back a sob. ‘What if I don't want to be my own woman?' I wiped my nose on the end of my apron and stared at her.

‘Whose would you want to be?' she asked softly.

I opened my mouth …

‘Excuse me, Mistress Sheldrake.'

Saskia released my hand with one last tightening of her fingers and rose slowly, her joints creaking. I quickly brushed the tears away and straightened my scarf.

‘Aye, Westel?'

‘I put the tin on your desk. I also took the liberty of leaving a goblet of wine there for you.' He hesitated. ‘You look like you need it.'

I lifted my hand to prevent Saskia rebuking him for his familiarity. ‘Thank you, Westel.' He bowed and left.

Rising, I turned and gave Saskia a hug. ‘Thank you too.'

Returning my embrace, she held me at arm's length and beamed. ‘You're always welcome, Mistress Anneke. Always. You know, if God had ever seen fit to bless me with a daughter, I'd have wanted her to be just like you.'

I almost bumped into a table, so thick were the tears that welled in my eyes.

‘But,' she continued, drawing close to me and lowering her voice, ‘if I may give you one piece of advice,' she didn't pause long enough for me to answer, ‘be careful with that lad, Mistress Anneke, with Westel. You indulge him. He thinks because he works beside you, he can hover all over the house and say what he likes. He's getting a bit too big for his boots. As far as I'm concerned, he's still on trial and if you won't watch him, I will.'

I sighed. First Will and now Saskia. ‘You do that, Saskia,' I said and kissed her soundly on the cheek. ‘It's a great solace knowing you're looking out for me.'

HOLCROFT HOUSE

Lent

The year of Our Lord 1406 in the seventh year of the reign of Henry IV

W
e opened our doors as the bells for sext chimed. People poured out of St Bartholomew's into the cold and, while many headed home, more than I expected entered the Cathaline Alehouse. In no time at all, the fireside was crowded. Orders were placed quickly and drinks were downed with enthusiasm. Delyth, Awel and Westel wandered around the tables, squeezing past strangers and locals alike as they deposited brimming tankards, foaming mazers and set down jugs and vessels. Will and Adam tended the barrels, while I supervised between the kitchen and alehouse, making sure the limited food we were allowed by law to serve was readily available. Perhaps because it was Lent and yesterday had been an Ember Day, where fasting and penance was observed, people were tired of all the restrictions and looking to ease their long period of denial. There were more unfamiliar faces than usual and while I wasn't initially alarmed, as the afternoon wore on and the place grew rowdy, a sense of unease overtook me.

A granite sky made the shadows appear early and, when it began to drizzle, a few men took the chance to leave. But, as they did, more came to take their place. The smell of damp wool, horseflesh, sweat and the sweet odour of ale and fire smoke lingered. In one corner, an old man I'd never seen before but who'd asked to bring his three-legged dog inside, pulled out a set of pipes and began to play a mournful tune. When his dog started to howl, some men sitting nearby complained. Amused by the dog's antics and the men's protests at first, when one of the men, tall, wearing a liripipe — a long, pointed hood that fell down his back — staggered to his feet and took a swipe at the dog, I called Adam.

Bearing the great wooden staff we kept hidden, Adam made his way through the crowd. Simon Attenoke stood ready to lend assistance. Before Adam could call for peace, another man, even bigger than the first, with thick, short hair and the build of a knight grabbed the first man and, lest he attempted another strike at the dog, threw him backwards. The man wearing the liripipe fell against a table, knocking it over and spilling drinks. After that, mayhem ensued.

There were grunts and shouts. Fists flew, bodies doubled over. Tankards smashed, ale spilled and the dog barked. Backed up against a wall, shouting at Awel and Delyth to flee, I was trying to stay out of the way when someone grabbed me from behind, their hands kneading my breasts, pulling at my skirts. Shock stilled me before rage took over and, as the hands fumbled over my body, I grabbed hold of one of them and sank my teeth into it. There was a scream of pain and, as I spat blood on the floor, I was released. Swinging around to identify the rogue, I was again grabbed and lifted off my feet. Kicking, I tried to pry the fingers from my waist.

‘It's me, Mistress Sheldrake.'
Westel.
‘You need to get out of here.'

I ceased struggling at once.

Westel carried me from the room, using his back and shoulders to thrust people out of the way. Putting me down in the corridor just outside, he pushed the tin into my hands. I clutched it gratefully. Will brought Awel over, Delyth following, tears streaming down her face.

‘Stay here,' ordered Will and was about to return, the light of battle in his eyes, when I grabbed a hold of him. ‘Nay, Will. Run, fetch the sheriff. Tell him to bring his men. Hurry.'

Will glanced at Westel.

‘Don't worry. I'll look after them,' he said.

Will opened his mouth, shut it again, then nodded. Pushing past us, he grabbed his coat and raced down the corridor, leaving through the kitchen. Standing beside Westel, I placed myself between the girls and doorway, using my boots and arms to push anyone who came too close away again. Westel delivered a few hard punches, breaking the skin of his knuckles, wincing in pain. I couldn't help but be grateful for his presence, his determination to protect us.

In dismay I watched as tables broke, mazers were dented and crockery smashed and my ale and beer spilled over the rushes. Adam was trying to separate two men, one of whom was bleeding profusely from the nose, when another crept up behind, a stool raised above his head.

‘Adam!' I shouted in warning. Adam ducked as the stool swept through the air, striking another man with a resounding crack, lifting him off his feet. Westel left my side and ran to Adam's defence, but by then the fight was so thick, the roiling bodies so tight-knit, I couldn't keep track. Above the din, the bell over the door clanged as men fled. Running past the windows, their shirts torn, their heads bare as they churned up mud with their heels. One paused to tear down the sign that was swinging wildly in the wind.

‘Oy!' cried out Westel, his voice so loud I jumped. ‘Nay, you rogue,' he exclaimed and, before Adam could prevent him, tore off after the men.

‘Westel! Leave it …' It was no use. He sprinted up the street.

‘He's a brave one, mistress,' said Awel, her eyes wide.

‘Aye, or very foolish,' I said wryly.

There were still too many writhing, grunting bodies left inside. Fists connected, arms swung. Cheeks were torn, teeth lost and bodies crumpled. Atop the last remaining table, the old man's dog howled, scampering from side to side like a wounded squire at a joust. Slumped against the wall was the old man. I wondered if he was even alive.

Once the sheriff arrived, worse for drink himself, and ordered the watchmen haul away those offenders who refused to concede defeat, bellowing they be locked in the stocks to cool their tempers, the remainder understood it was over. Above the sheriff's slurred threats and warnings, the men collected their coats and looked around in bewilderment at the remains of the Cathaline Alehouse. Subdued by the enormity of what they'd done, the sheriff asked for descriptions of those who'd bolted, strangers to Elmham Lenn who were already being blamed for starting what happened.

The shadows lengthened and the rain was falling steadily by the time the last man left, escorted by two of the watchmen, cross their afternoon was spoiled. They pulled him forwards, uncaring that his coat slipped from his shoulder or that his cap came off and was trampled in the mud.

Picking up one of the stools, I sank onto it and stared at the room, the tin resting in my lap. Piles of rushes flecked with blood, shattered utensils and pieces of what had once been benches, toppled tables and too many pieces of broken jugs, tankards and split mazers were scattered everywhere. The only things unaffected were the three barrels behind the serving table and the fireplace.

The sheriff, Sir Grantham, asked me questions and I know I answered, but I don't remember what I said. In the midst of all this, Westel returned, his shirt torn, a bloody streak across the front, but he had our sign and held it aloft triumphantly. ‘I couldn't let them steal that too, Mistress Sheldrake,' he said.

I shook my head wearily.

The sheriff fired questions at Westel; I didn't hear his responses. My mind was too busy trying to work out how the fight started, whether I could have done anything to prevent it. Everything was such a blur. It was only as Sir Grantham was leaving, promising to return the following day after I'd rested, that I thought of Delyth and Awel and asked him to escort them home. I looked at their pale faces and their large, frightened eyes and wondered if they'd have the courage to return. Delighted he'd enjoy the company of two such pretty girls, Sir Grantham bade farewell with more goodwill than he arrived.

As the door closed, Tobias's words rang in my ears. ‘
Turning this house, our home into an alehouse that any knave can enter is something altogether different …
' Just how different, I'd not known. Until today.

Before long, Saskia came and pressed a mazer of mulled wine in my hand. Grateful for its warmth, I sipped it slowly, smiling weakly as Blanche, Westel and Adam, who held a wad of cloth over his left eye, gathered around me.

‘Where are the twins?' I asked quietly.

‘Iris and Louisa took them to the nursery the moment the fighting started. They're fine,' said Saskia, gripping my shoulder. I reached up and closed my hand over hers.

‘Thank you.'

Using a piece of tinder from the fire, Blanche went around and relit the candles. Their bright flames were at odds with the ruins.

The faces of my servants told me they were as dazed as I felt. Blanche had to touch everything, pick up a stool here, a crumpled tablecloth there. She found shards of pottery and glass and piled them neatly on a table, walked in circles pushing the rushes back down with her boots. We watched her in silence. Adam seemed resigned. Only Westel, his eyes neutral, dwelled upon me.

‘Where's Will?' I asked suddenly.

Blanche stopped and glared at the rushes, hands on hips, as if expecting him to rise from beneath them.

‘I last saw him when he went to fetch the sheriff,' said Westel, scratching his head through his cap.