Brewer's Tale, The (39 page)

‘He should be back well and truly by now.' Adam nodded at Westel. ‘Go and see if he's in the kitchen.'

Westel darted off.

‘This is a right mess, Mistress Anneke,' said Blanche, finding another shard of pottery.

‘Nothing we can't fix,' said Adam quickly, as if Blanche's observation was somehow critical of me.

‘Aye,' I agreed, ‘but should we?' Resting my elbows on my knees, I looked at Adam and Blanche. Neither answered. Saskia rubbed my back. They knew it was not their decision to make.

Westel reappeared. ‘He's not there, Mistress Sheldrake. Nor's he in our room, the solar, or the brewery.' He hesitated. ‘Do you want me to lock up the chickens and pigs? They're still out.'

‘Will wouldn't overlook his duties,' said Adam, slapping his thighs and standing, raising his voice to be heard above the rain that was now coming down in torrents. He stared out into the sodden gloom. ‘Where's that lad disappeared to?'

‘Could he have stopped at another tavern on the way home?' asked Westel.

‘He wouldn't be foolish enough to give chase to those strangers, would he?' asked Saskia, giving Westel a pointed look.

‘Nay,' I said quickly. ‘Please, God, nay.'

‘Maybe he went to warn Master Proudfellow?' added Blanche hopefully.

‘It's possible, I suppose.' Adam sighed and reached for his cloak and hat. ‘I'll go and find him. Westel, look to the animals.' He turned to me. ‘Mistress Anneke, if I may be so bold, I suggest you go to the twins and reassure yourself as to their well-being. I'll return soon enough and we can discuss what we do about —' he shook his head as he studied the room, ‘this.'

Standing, I straightened my tunic. ‘As you say, Adam.'

‘Don't worry, mistress,' he added quietly. ‘We'll sort this out.'

The doorbell couldn't be heard above the rain as Adam left. The wind was so strong, he was almost bent double as he passed the window. I shivered, whether in empathy or foreboding, I wasn't sure. I ordered Saskia to take the tin to the office and Blanche to prepare hot water for Will and Adam for when they returned and to warm some drying sheets for Westel. I didn't have to tell Saskia to heat some additional wine. We'd all be needing it before this night was over.

Turning my back on the wreckage of the afternoon, I ascended to the nursery, quickly tidying myself before the children saw me. As Saskia said, the twins were unaffected by what had occurred and for that at least, I was grateful. Louisa was telling them a story, Iris by her side. Wide-eyed, Iris started to ask what had happened, but I sent her downstairs to help Blanche and, casting a warning look at Louisa, sat quietly while she finished her tale.

Insisting I also regale them, the twins had their way. Exhausted, I was also filled with a nervous energy that found some comfort from an old fable Mother used to tell about a beautiful woman, an oracle, who was so desired by a god, he promised to give her anything she wanted if only she would succumb to his charms. When she asked for everlasting life, he readily granted it, but when she reneged on her part of the agreement, that they be lovers, he altered his gift so she could live forever, but would continue ageing.

‘How long did she live?' asked Betje, breathlessly.

‘For eternity,' I said.

‘Forever? But if she lived forever …' Betje tried to absorb what they meant.

‘What did she look like?' asked Karel. ‘Worse than Goodwife Barrett?'

Goodwife Barrett was the oldest woman in Elmham Lenn. Rumour had it that she was one hundred and five years old, but I knew she was four score years and two, a fine age, but to the twins and others, ancient. Karel and Betje were fascinated by her sunken, lined cheeks, her toothless mouth, the wattle that hung from her neck and the fact one of her eyes had turned white.

‘Much, much worse,' I said. They oohed in delighted horror.

‘That just proves, you should always keep your promise, doesn't it?' said Karel.

My throat seized and a fire licked the inside of my ribs. I hadn't ever thought of the tale as carrying that meaning. To me it had always been about being cautious when making commitments, ensuring all the terms were clear. I stared at Karel.

‘It does,' I said as panic rose in my chest and I wondered how I would keep mine now. All of them. I'd promised not only to keep the family together, but to find the means to pay the lease. I'd also promised Tobias that if my efforts failed, I would never brew again. I stood up quickly. The room began to spin and my arms flew out.

‘Are you all right, mistress?' asked Louisa, reaching out to help me.

‘Fine. I'm fine.' I had a desperate urge to count coin, check the ledgers.

When the room stopped turning, I kissed the twins, wished them sweet dreams and God's love, and crept out of the nursery and ran downstairs.

A fire was blazing in the office hearth and I blessed Saskia's foresight. Wine awaited me, no longer warm but no less welcome.

The battered tin glowed in the light. Opening the lid, I looked at the small pile of coin in dismay. I'd thought there'd be more. Few of the patrons had paid before the melee broke out. I struck my forehead with the heel of my hand. ‘Damn, damn.'

I pushed the tin away and picked up the goblet.

Draining it, I heard voices.

‘Mistress Anneke, Mistress Anneke!' I recognised that tone. Ice crawled into my heart. I ran to meet whoever it was summoning me in such a way.

It was Adam. Dripping wet, his face leached of colour, his lips were trembling, but not from cold.

‘What is it, Adam? Tell me.' I stood in front of him, staring, afraid.

‘It's Will. Oh, God, Anneke.' It wasn't just the rain streaking his cheeks, there was tears and … blood.

Blood.

‘What?' I whispered, dreading to hear.

‘He's been murdered.'

HOLCROFT HOUSE

Lent to Easter Monday

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

W
ill's death plunged us into an ocean of grief. Our love for him was a garment we held in common and, instead of wearing it in turn, we donned it together. Yet, for all the succour this offered, it was also a hairshirt that I for one did not wish to remove.

Never before have I felt so utterly responsible for something. Will was only fifteen, on the cusp of manhood. Born and raised in Elmham Lenn, the third son of a tanner, he'd come to us when he was eight years old; a mixture of shyness and cockiness tempered by a desire to please and do his family proud. Adam had taken him under his wing, as had Saskia. Not even Hiske's sharp tongue or Father's curt demands had managed to staunch his pride in his position or his gregariousness. I would miss his bright eyes, his freckled nose, his crooked grin. The way his face infused with colour when he was caught off-guard; how his hair would never sit flat but always stand to attention. In quiet moments, I found myself reflecting on the last time we really spoke. He'd told me about Westel; the passing of notes, his inclination to wander. I'd dismissed his concerns as jealousy. Feeling I owed Will something, I found myself watching Westel more closely and I began to ponder, if he did indeed leave his room regularly, as Will said, where he went.

After some consideration, the sheriff concluded the assailants were strangers who, affected by drink, angry at being forced to leave and holding little value upon life, treated Will as a scapegoat. To them, he said, knocking a youth unconscious with a cowardly blow and then slitting a throat was as simple as lacing a boot. With his callous rendering of the crime, the guilt I'd carried with me the moment I caught sight of Will's limp body — with its wide, unseeing eyes cast towards the harsh heavens, the livid gash and bruising on his forehead, the ghastly wound on his neck — found voice. If I hadn't opened the alehouse, if I hadn't invited strangers into Holcroft House, if I hadn't asked Will to serve them, none of this would have happened. He would still be alive, his parents would still have a son, his two older brothers and younger sister their sibling and none of them would be plunged into mourning. Words tumbled out and, beyond caring how I sounded, I railed at Adam, Sir Grantham, Westel, Blanche and Saskia, who tried to silence me. I would have none of it. Sweeping aside her reassurances, I accused myself, took responsibility for Will's murder, until the burden was so great, I could no longer bear its weight.

Striding out of the hall, ignoring the stunned faces of my servants, Westel's foiled attempt to follow and the cries of the twins who, hearing raised voices had run down from the nursery, I fled to the brewhouse, tears flowing freely.

Adam found me a while later, staring into the mash tun, the ale-stick unmoving in my hand. I didn't acknowledge his presence but remained inert, numb with guilt and sorrow and, I admit, self-pity.

‘Mistress Anneke,' Adam said softly, his voice a sigh that carried with it overtones of such kindness, my tears began anew. Prying my fingers from the stick, he gently lowered my hand. ‘Here, let me.' He lifted the paddle over the edge of the tun, slowly steeping it into the thick, creamy sludge and began to stir. At first I ignored him and the soporific movements he was making, but gradually my eyes latched onto the spirals of his actions. Slowly, my other senses became aware: the soft splodge of the mash folding upon itself, the little burps and exhalations the mixture made, familiar companions who, just as I sang them to life each day, now sought to return the favour, chasing the spectre of brutal death from my mind. Beneath my fingers, the firmness of the tun I was gripping took shape. Sniffing loudly, I caught the malty smell that characterised the brewhouse. Will would always comment on the odour. ‘Why, it smells good enough to eat, not drink,' he'd say.

‘Oh, Adam.' His name shuddered on my lips.

‘It's too late to tell you not to do something you've already accomplished, Mistress Anneke, but blaming yourself achieves nothing. Will's death is God's will.'

‘God's will?' My head snapped up, eyes narrowing, chin jutting defiantly. ‘
God's
will?' I repeated more loudly, dashing the tears from my face. ‘God didn't will this, Adam. This was man's doing and man's alone. Wicked, terrible men with murder in their hearts and blood on their hands. You heard the sheriff. They care not a jot for God's will.'

‘Exactly,' said Adam and, letting go of the ladle, gripped my shoulders, forcing me to look at him. ‘It's
man's
doing. If you're going to take responsibility, then you have to allow me to take some as well.' He levelled a finger to stop my retort. ‘After all, I urged him to protect you, to fight. Then he went for the sheriff and into the path of the cutthroats. How am I any less responsible than you? Stop condemning yourself for something you didn't contrive. If you don't, then you may as well include me and everyone else there among the guilty.'

‘But if there was no alehouse —'

‘Mayhap Will would still be alive. But why stop there? If there was no Holcroft House, if there were no Sheldrakes, Barfoots, people entering Elmham Lenn. We can play that game till the oceans dry and the clouds cease to gather. What will it accomplish? What-ifs, whys and wherefores are like capturing mist — empty of purpose. Facts are, Mistress Anneke, nothing you or I do or say will change what's happened. Even if the watchmen find who's responsible and hang him from the gallows, it won't bring Will back. Blaming yourself won't either, but it will hinder everything you do from here on in.' He paused and tilted my chin till I was forced to look at him. ‘And God's truth, Mistress Anneke, our Will wouldn't want that.'

Letting me go, Adam opened his arms. I fell into them, burying my head in his chest. ‘Who would do such a thing, Adam?'

I could feel Adam's chin against the top of my head. ‘Someone with no conscience, Anneke; someone who feels they don't have to answer to God or man.'

I shut my eyes and tried to block out the terrifying image Adam's words conveyed. The notion that someone so ready to embrace sin existed was hard to bear. That Will should have encountered such a one.

‘You don't think it was the abbot, do you? You don't think he was behind this?'

Adam stiffened. ‘I don't know what to think, mistress.'

Weeping until my throat was sore, my ribs aching and the front of Adam's shirt wringing wet, I remained in the comfort of his embrace until the afternoon bells sounded. Only then did I break away, feeling suddenly awkward, vulnerable.

Before I could say another word, the door opened. I broke away from Adam's arms.

It was Westel.

‘Sorry, Mistress Sheldrake, Master Adam, but Mistress Saskia asked me to fetch you. Father Clement's here to discuss the burial.'

‘Thank you, Westel.' I dabbed my eyes with a cloth and took a deep breath before smoothing my skirts. Though I wasn't ready for this, I'd no choice, not if I wanted to spare Will's parents the heartache. I glanced at Westel who remained in the doorway looking from me to Adam. He was very pale. Dark crescents circled his eyes. None of us were sleeping well, for certes.