Brewer's Tale, The (40 page)

Following Adam and Westel back into the house, I pushed the murmurs of misgiving aside. I would deal with them later.

Will's funeral was held the next day. A small, private affair consisting of his immediate family, all of Holcroft House, the Millers, Master Proudfellow, Kip and his mother, Jocelyn, Simon Attenoke and Widow Atwell, Sir Grantham and his squire and a few others, we gathered first in the church and later, in the pouring rain outside. Delyth and Awel Parry came, escorted by their father, but they only stayed long enough to see Will put in the ground and they didn't exchange a word or glance with me.

Through tears, I muttered responses hopelessly, taking small comfort from the twins, who wrapped their arms about me, their faces puffy from crying, their little mouths downturned. Not even the usually reassuring presence of Captain Stoyan helped.

A procession of bedraggled black, we doggedly followed his bound corpse, rain pounding our coats and hoods, drowning out Father Clement's prayers, quenching the censor. Buried alongside his grandmother, Will was finally laid to rest and, as clods of heavy soil were tossed upon him, every shovelful was a blow that struck us all. I turned away, unable to bear the sobs of his sister or the quiet, blanched stoicism of his mother and brothers any longer.

Afterwards, we retired to the hall. Eschewing the formalities, we ate together. Bread, ale, cheese, Blanche's pottage and, though it was Lent, pork, chicken and even some venison were served. Will's family, the Heymongers, sat quietly, eyes widening as dish after dish was brought out. Unaccustomed to such extravagance, they didn't understand that this feast was my way of honouring their son and, if I'm honest, assuaging the responsibility Adam argued I shouldn't feel. Not even bearing the expense of the funeral achieved that. Nothing did.

For a long time after, I was listless, agitated and unable to work with my usual enthusiasm. Habits are hard to break, though, and after tossing and turning most nights, I'd rise and make my way to the brewery before cockcrow, sing to the ale and honour the corner crones, but my heart wasn't in it. It was Westel who saw to all the little but important things, and though I was grateful for his determination not to let the ale spoil, I was beyond caring. I also began to find his incessant need to make sure everything was right jarring. Whereas I'd once enjoyed his smiles, like Saskia I now found his constant grin rang false, his observations about the ale, beer, the weather, the household irritating and longed for the silence of my thoughts. Once, when I brought the recipe book to the brewhouse in order to try something new, anything to detract from my usual ruminations, he asked if he might see it. He'd never made such a request and, I confess, as I refused him — and quite sharply — his eager curiosity about the contents added to his perceived sins. Pondering what Will said, what Saskia had added, I began to view Westel with different eyes. Doubt began to colour my appreciation. Instead of seeing him as helpful, I saw him as interfering; instead of inquiring, his questions were suddenly prying. I began to shut off to him. I was too heartsore to make an effort, to get to the bottom of this change. Was it him or me? I didn't care to find out. Courteous, I offered very little else. In response, Westel sought even harder to bridge the widening distance.

The day after the funeral, I'd written to Tobias and Sir Leander, informing them of what had happened. God knows, I didn't want to, but it had to be done. I entrusted the letters to Captain Stoyan, who left for Ypres the following day. When a letter of sympathy arrived from Sir Leander weeks later, I felt strangely relieved, as if sharing the burden beyond our walls made it easier to carry.

Clutching his letter to me, I memorised the words:

The horror of what occurred must colour life at Holcroft House in the darkest of hues. You have my deepest sympathies. I will pray for you, for young Will's soul, and for the twins and servants. Mostly, I will ask God that he attend most swiftly to the recovery of your spirit which must be sorely battered by such a terrible ordeal. Please, Mistress Anneke, if there is anything I can do to aid you in your time of grief, do not hesitate to ask. Oceans can be sailed, distance closed. I am yours to command. All it would take is your expressed need.

With Sir Leander's words, I found a modicum of peace.

I am yours to command. All it would take is your expressed need.

The day after his letter arrived, to which I swiftly replied, another was delivered. I'd hoped it was from Tobias but, alas, there was no word from my brother, just a telling and, I felt, righteous silence. The letter was from an entirely different and quite surprising source.

The bells for none had not long rung. I'd finished in the brewery and was in the office brooding over the ledgers when Adam rapped smartly on the door. He'd quietly assumed Will's duties as well as his own.

‘This just came, Mistress Anneke. The messenger didn't wait for a reply.'

Moving to stand by the window to read, I was afforded a view of the alehouse as well. Saskia, Blanche, Iris and Adam had worked hard to remove all signs of damage and, though we had two less tables, too few stools and more cracks in the walls, the rushes had been replaced, the fire re-laid and the room was ready to serve customers again.

The last step was the most difficult to take — it was a chasm I could not yet cross. For the moment, the alehouse remained closed, though the shop still traded.

Failing to recognise the seal, I broke it and, unfurling the parchment, caught my breath when I saw the familiar script. The few harsh lines took only moments to scan.

If only you'd listened to those who knew from the outset how such outrageous plans, such ungodly behaviour would conclude. You have no-one to blame but yourself, Anneke Sheldrake, for the shame and ignominy you've brought upon your family. You forget your place in every regard and so God has seen fit to punish you, as you so justly deserve. That He chose to strike one in your care for sins you've committed lies upon your conscience alone. I am writing to inform you that from this day forth, you are no longer my cousin, nor of my blood. I formally and irrevocably sever all ties with the Sheldrakes. Any offers made to you in the past are rescinded. You, your brother and your sister must needs fend for yourselves because you will receive nothing more from this quarter. May God see fit to forgive you, because no-one else will.

Sinking onto the chair, I felt Hiske's accusations leap from the paper, full of invective. They were also the truth. How could anyone forgive me when I couldn't forgive myself?

Shame and regret swamped me. Tears pricked my eyes. I shut them to prevent them falling, but my thoughts forced them open again. I wanted to be furious with Hiske but she only stated what others were thinking — what I was thinking. I'd no doubt my name, which was already questionable in town, was now a byword.
And whose fault was that? Why, yours, Anneke Sheldrake
. I'd brought this all on myself.

Only, the twins would now suffer for my schemes; and Will … Will paid the ultimate price. Who else might?

Folding the letter and its bitter contents away, I rose. Moving back to the window, I stared at my small demesne — the Cathaline Alehouse.

Two choices lay before me: I could either forget the alehouse and brewing and throw myself upon Lord Rainford's mercy, or, with less than a month to acquire the monies to make the lease, reopen and do everything I could to ensure that not only my business survived, but Holcroft House and all who remained here did as well.

Beyond the shop window, a cart rolled past. Two boys ran after it, beating sticks against the sides, dogs cavorting at their heels. Some pedlars laden with pots, sacks flung over their shoulders, headed in the direction of the square. A grey palfrey cantered along the street, its hooves flinging up mud, earning the rider a scolding from an old woman with a child who tried unsuccessfully to avoid the muck. A couple of dark-robed monks strode by, looking up at the last minute to peer into the windows. I was unable to make out their features, their cowls were so deep, but felt the intensity of their stare …
as if they knew I was looking out upon them …

I made up my mind.

If I didn't continue with the alehouse then Will's death would have been for nothing. It would mean that whoever killed him had taken more victims; it would mean they'd also murdered my ambitions. If I conceded Hiske was right, that I should have listened to her, to Tobias and those who disapproved of my attempts at independence, that I should have heeded the abbot's warnings, sold my recipes to Brother Osbert and washed my hands of brewing, then it wasn't just Will's life that would be meaningless, but mine, the twins' and the lives of everyone who supported me. I would be like the oracle who spurned Apollo and broke her promise, locked in an eternity of regret and maybes, ageing into an already withered future.

‘Goddamn it, Hiske Makejoy.' I gave a bark of laughter at the irony of her new name and screwed the letter into a ball. ‘You've unwittingly earned my gratitude. Without this,' I threw it into the cold grate, ‘I would have given up, surrendered to fate. No more. I'll take it into my own hands, thank you.'

If no-one would forgive me, then I had nothing to lose.

We reopened the alehouse, but it was subdued. Though there was plenty of ale to sell and barrels of beer, custom was slow, patrons few and coins sparse. As each day passed with only a handful of pennies and groats trickling in, I grew increasingly anxious. Lord Rainford's monies were due in less than a month.

With just over a week to go to till Easter, I pressed Master Proudfellow for any reasons (apart from the obvious) as to why folk were avoiding us. Standing outside the brewhouse, we watched Westel and Kip roll a barrel of ale out to Master Proudfellow's cart. I was grateful for his continued support at least.

Reluctant to answer at first, Master Proudfellow finally confessed. ‘There be two reasons as far as I can tell, Mistress Sheldrake.' He waited till the men were out of earshot. Taking his cap off, he scratched his tufted head, squinting in the spring sunshine. It was a glorious day, the first really sunny one we'd had in weeks. Above us, the sky was a soft blue, the clouds mere wisps that garlanded the endless dome. Our chickens roosted beneath the shade of the old wych-elm, the sun, as it broke through the foliage, dappling their feathers. The pigs quietly foraged in the spent mash. Birds wheeled above us and bees hummed among the flowerbeds. With all the colour and new life around, I felt better equipped to handle unpleasant news, though Master Proudfellow clearly didn't want to be the one to deliver it. Looking around, he drank in our surroundings, as if to draw strength from their beauty.

‘First, Will's death, may God assoil him,' he crossed himself and I followed suit, ‘it scared many. His killer or killers not being caught simply adds to the misfortune that some say haunts the place.' He waved his cap in circles.

‘The alehouse?'

‘Nay, Mistress Sheldrake.' He twisted his cap into a knot. ‘I mean yourself.' He stared meaningfully. ‘They swear that fortune is not your friend. They believe God has abandoned you.'

‘I see.'

‘It's not fair, I know, but then, these things aren't, are they? Feelings, I mean? We're a superstitious lot at the best of times and, once the rumour starts that God's forsaken you, well, even those who don't normally abide by such nonsense start to consider mayhap they should as well.'

I took a deep breath. Though not surprised, his words were hard to hear. ‘And what's the other reason? You said there were two.'

‘Eh? Oh. Aye, well … while I don't like to speak ill of any of your family, there be one not helping matters.'

I cocked my head. ‘And who might that be, Master Proudfellow?' The way I asked indicated I knew already.

‘Aye, it be Mistress Makejoy. She's let it be known that she's cut all ties with you —'

‘Cut? She's denied me, Master Proudfellow, just as Peter denied the good Lord. So, don't concern yourself, you're not speaking ill of anyone related to me.'