Brewer's Tale, The (66 page)

‘Lewis Fynk,' boomed a voice. Alyson marched down the steps, her tunic raised to reveal her ankles. ‘I'll not allow you to do that. You can do what you like to me, but I'll not have you harming a hair on her head.'

The marks of Master Fynk's last beating were still evident on Alyson's face as she strode up to him, unafraid, hands on hips, chin raised defiantly.

‘Fine,' said Master Fynk indifferently, his eyes narrowing slightly. ‘Then it will be your head that bears the consequences of this cunting whore's deceit.' Before anyone could react, he grabbed Alyson by the arms and, twisting them around her back, shoved her towards two of the constables. ‘Take her to the river. The rest of you, get those barrels down there.' His eyes swept the cellar. ‘All of them.'

I cried out. ‘Nay! Not the beer. You haven't tasted it. It hasn't been assessed, you can't.'

‘Can't?' Master Fynk grabbed a handful of my hair and snatched me to his chest. I screamed. Betje leapt to my defence but Harry held her fast. Juliana and Yolande had the sense to stop Adam.

Master Fynk drew my face to his. I could smell his breath; see the little red veins in his eyes, the dirt in his pores. I clawed uselessly at his fingers, but they were bands of metal that tightened, no matter how I scratched and pried.

‘When are you going to learn, Mistress of Shit and Piss, Lady Liar, I can do whatever I want.' Running his nose alongside my neck and cheek, he inhaled loudly then flung me away so hard, I struck the table and tumbled to the floor. Yolande and Juliana couldn't hold Adam. Helping me to my feet, I could feel him shaking with rage.

‘You.'

I was a moment before we understood Master Fynk was addressing Adam and the ale-conners.

‘Help my men get those barrels to the river. You too, you little bastard.' This to Harry.

I nodded for them to help. There was no point doing anything else. All I wanted was to reach Alyson.

With one last victorious look, Master Fynk left the cellar.

‘Mistress,' said Master Godfried, his cap screwed into an unrecognisable shape in his hands, ‘God knows, I'm so sorry. I don't understand what's happening. Your ale — it was fine. More than fine. I —'

‘Can bear no blame for the deeds of others. This has naught to do with you, Master Godfried, or you,' I said to the other ale-conner. ‘I don't think it even has anything to do with my brew. This is about something else altogether.' I touched my neck and stared at the spot where Master Fynk last stood.

Waiting until the constables had cleared the barrels away from the door, I scrambled into the courtyard. The women and Betje followed me.

‘Juliana, Betje, go to the nursery. Make sure the twins are all right.' Betje stared at me. ‘Please, Betje. I need to know you and the children are safe.'

‘Don't worry, mistress,' said Juliana. ‘I'll take care of them.' Grabbing Betje by the hand, they ran to one of the external staircases.

‘Bolt the door behind you,' I called. Juliana waved.

Waiting till they were on the first landing, I signalled to Yolande. ‘Come, let's see to Alyson.'

Quite a crowd had gathered by the river: fishmongers, butchers, the farrier, Master Ironside and his son, John, the mercer, Master Cheyner and his family, the local fuller, wiping his hands upon his stinking apron before pointing to where the barrels sat atop the cart trundling towards the water. Yolande and I forged a path through all these to the river's edge.

There, upon a stool, her hands tied behind her back, her hair falling over her shoulders, sat Alyson, cussing and swearing at those who shouted at her, their fingers jabbing, their tongues wagging, accusing, cursing. I looked around and saw those we called neighbours, some friends even. Whispering behind their hands, shouting insults, indictment was writ on their faces. Even our laundress and her ruddy-cheeked daughters, the tailor, shoemaker, dyer, and many more besides, were not above hurling abuse at a woman they drank with, took coin from, bid God's good day. The owners of the neighbouring bathhouses and alehouses, along with their women, pressed forward, agog, no doubt grateful it wasn't their ale about to be sacrificed to the green waters. While cheating was overlooked in many a craft, a brewer who deceived customers was regarded as the greatest of curs and treated as a pariah. Master Fynk could not have picked a more public way of ensuring Alyson's and my disgrace; from hereon in, we would be considered outcasts. The small inroads we'd made with the brew and Alyson with her customers would be meaningless.

The women of The Swanne appeared one by one, emerging under arms, between shoulders, their faces stricken, their mouths downturned. They loved Alyson and to see her brought so low, publicly shamed, wouldn't be easy. One or two cast looks in my direction, looks laden with significance. This was my fault, and not only in their eyes. I would be held accountable.

Ordering one barrel left on the cart, the rest were swiftly removed and rolled down the muddy banks. Adam and Harry were forced to cooperate, to empty what they'd laboured over into the flowing waters. On Master Fynk's command, the bungs were knocked out. Only as the crowd grew and comments began to get louder, did he turn to me, his face lit with that peculiar glow of satisfaction only the self-righteous emit. Upon the river, men poled their barges closer to the banks, wherries drifted upon the outgoing tide, steered within hailing distance so their contempt might be added to the babble of angry voices.

Watching the golden liquid chugging into the river, knowing the ale was good, indeed, better than anything served on the waterfront, that my measures were in order, I didn't let Master Fynk or those now yelling insults see what a terrible blow had been struck. Nor did Alyson. We faced the river, heavy grey clouds threatening overhead, trapping the thick, warm air, and fixed our features so they revealed neither our sorrow nor our anger at this gross unfairness. Inside, I burned with impotence, shame and no small degree of fear.

A clod of mud struck me on the side of the face. Staggering into Alyson, nearly tipping her over, I cried out, my hand flying to my cheek. I tried to find the offender. Another missile hit, followed by another. Rotten fruit exploded against my tunic, scattered across my chest, caught in my hair and slid down my neck. There were jeers and laughter. I stood in front of Alyson, using my body as a shield, as the air filled with projectiles.

‘Slattern!'

‘Whore!'

‘Cunting bitch!'

‘Water my ale, will you?' A man pulled out his cock and began to piss all over the cobbles, his urine splashing Alyson's skirts. There were catcalls, hoots and cries for others to do the same. Leda, her flaxen hair unbound, went to strike the man, but Adam grabbed her hand and shook his head. Her lovely face contorted into a mask of fury.

More fruit and vegetables were hurled.

I wrapped my arms around Alyson.

‘For God's sake. Do something,' shouted Master Godfried at Master Fynk.

Signalling the constables, Master Fynk smiled as they abandoned the barrels by the water's edge. At last, we were to be given sanctuary, taken back to the safety of The Swanne until the mob dispersed.

Pulling me away from Alyson, the men were rough, but I turned towards them eagerly only to find my hands trussed tightly behind my back.

‘You're hurting me.' My cry was ignored. Dragged to the edge of the crowd, I was turned and held fast.

Standing on a large stone so he could be seen and heard above the crowd, Master Fynk spoke. ‘For serving improper ale by unapproved measures, Goodwife Alyson Bookbinder, you are sentenced to be doused a dozen times.'

The rabble cheered.

Good God.

Carrying the last of the barrels on their shoulders, the two constables who'd brought Alyson to the river bank paused beside her and slowly, chuckling wildly, upturned it over her head as the crowd clapped and whooped.

When I'd last seen this done, the woman choked and vomited, almost drowning in a sea of ale. Not Goodwife Alyson. Like a flower unfolds for the sun, she turned her face and opened her mouth, greeting the golden liquid with glee.

I gasped as she swished some in her mouth, swallowed and then drank some more as it flattened her hair, blinking furiously as it welled in her eyes, ran in fountains of amber from her shoulders, ears and hands. Laughing, she shook her head, a wet dog relishing an illicit swim.

‘That's it, boys, give me some liquid gold,' she cried.

My hands flew to my mouth, stoppering up the laughter I felt building.

The caws and hoots slowly changed as the mob saw Alyson wasn't cowed or frightened by what was being done; on the contrary, she was appreciating every moment.

‘By God's good grace,' she called in her booming, deep voice, her tongue lathing her mouth. ‘I am the luckiest goodwife alive. This Son of Ale is the only kind I want rising in me.'

There was a great roar of laughter followed by exultant cheers. Adam, who'd been taut as a bow, swung to me and grinned. The women from The Swanne began to applaud, Leda jumping up and down on the spot. Soon, a chant started. ‘Goody Goody Alyson. Goody Goody Alyson. Son of Ale. Son of Ale.'

As the waterfall of liquid became a trickle, the constables eased the barrel down. Only then did I glance at Master Fynk. In the wonder of Alyson's bravura performance, I'd quite forgotten about him. One look now and Alyson's words flew back to me.

He's a dangerous man.

In two strides, Master Fynk reached Alyson's side. Raising his hand, his fist curled and, along with a red-faced cry of utter ferocity, dropped.

I ran forward, slapping away Adam's hands. Before I could reach the bailiff someone else did.

‘Nay.' Barked a deep, rough voice. ‘Your point is made. That is enough now.'

It was Leander.

I stopped in my tracks. My heart filled.
Leander.
Why he was here, I cared not. His timing was perfect, his manner imperious. With his embroidered linen surcoat, silky dark hair, shining boots, flashing eyes and beringed hands, he fairly blazed authority.

‘M— my lord,' stammered Master Fynk. He tried to pull his hand from Leander's grasp, but could not.

Holding him fast, Leander nodded to the constables.

‘See this crowd back to their work.' He waved his cane about.

‘Aye, sir.'

‘Milord.'

‘You,' Leander nodded towards Master Godfried, ‘untie the goodwife.'

‘Be my pleasure, me lord.'

As he fumbled with the knots, I stepped forward and helped the mercer. I wanted Leander to acknowledge my presence while at the same time I prayed he did not. I didn't want Master Fynk to have yet another reason to dislike me.

It took all my willpower to ignore Leander, but I did, turning my back upon him and the man he held fast, holding the drenched Alyson in a warm hug as she found her feet again.

‘You were marvellous,' I whispered. ‘So very brave.'

‘Bloody foolish.'

I held her at arm's length before pressing her back to my bosom. ‘Aye, that too.'

With an arm around her shoulders, I started to walk back towards The Swanne. Leander would see to Master Fynk, of that I was certain. I did not need to see the man browbeaten, as much as I would like to. Alyson had achieved that and so much more.

The scattering crowd parted before us, many going out of their way to pat Alyson on her back, mutter at how unjust Fynk's accusations had been, and congratulate her. Others stood back and shook their heads, mostly in admiration at her daring, but not yet ready to be seen aligning themselves with such scandalous behaviour. If Leander hadn't stepped in when he did, Alyson could have been grievously hurt. Time in prison was still not out of the question. There were many charges Master Fynk could lay at her door, scold being the least of them, and much depended on what happened now between him and Leander.

Remaining in Master Fynk's sight would have only served to remind him of his humiliation and weaken Leander's position. Taking Alyson back to The Swanne accomplished many purposes. I could attend to her needs, start another brew and, between times, make myself presentable. For had not my love returned?

As we reached the path leading to the door, I noted two horses being held by an urchin. There was Leander's black destrier and another, smaller stallion that also bore the Rainford livery.

Before I'd time to fathom to whom the beast belonged, a familiar figure appeared in the doorway, Betje by his side.

My heart lurched and I tripped.

It was Tobias.

THE SWANNE

High summer to early autumn

The year of Our Lord 1407 in the eighth year of the reign of Henry IV

L
ying in bed late that night, sleep was elusive as the events of the day preoccupied me. For certes, Alyson was brave. I marvelled at her audacity, her bold defiance, and thanked the good Lord that Leander arrived when he did. If that hadn't been enough to deal with, Tobias and our awkward reunion also kept my thoughts whirling.