Brewer's Tale, The (89 page)

The cockiness that defined Master Fynk wasn't so pronounced as he walked ahead, leading us through gloom-soaked passages and into the harsh daylight. Blinking after the dimness of the prison, it wasn't a bright day and, as my eyes grew accustomed, I was able to see the heavy grey clouds that clustered overhead.

Our footsteps resounded on the cobbles. Guards wearing the bishop's livery stood to attention as we passed, then fell in behind us. Was I so dangerous that I must be accompanied by so many fearsome men?

As we rounded the corner and entered the huge courtyard of Winchester Palace, the reason for the guards became apparent. Hundreds of people were crowded into the space, all facing towards a small dais in the centre. Once I was spotted, the crowd, who'd been relatively quiet, began to murmur, quickly swelling to a roar as they pointed, shouted and tried to draw near, only to be deterred by a pike or sword.

We ploughed our way through to the clear space in front of the dais. Keeping my head bowed, I focussed upon my boots, scuffed, the toes dirty with whatever lay upon my cell's floor, kicking my tunic about. It too was soiled, a band of scum weighing it down.

It wasn't till we drew to a halt that I raised my head and the roar of the people dimmed, like the sounds of the sea trapped forever within a shell. Straight in front of me, a small pyramid of faggots flamed. Next to them, an empty barrel lay on its side, the lid on the ground next to it. A cooper in an apron stood nearby, his hammer in one hand, the other crooked behind his back. He glanced at me before his eyes slid away.

On the platform above stood Bishop le Bold and some of the jurors. Members of the senior clergy were also there. I was so close, I could see their cassocks were stained, their fingernails dirty. One belched and thumped his chest, another yawned. The oldest stared at me with a look of such compassion it took my breath away. Of Alyson, Captain Stoyan, Betje and Harry there was no sign. I was glad. I wanted them to remember my life, not the nightmare of my death.

For just a moment, sadness enveloped me as I realised there would be no Leander, no last-minute rescue, no hero to alter events and change destiny.

Leaving me amidst the guards, Master Fynk ascended the platform and, calling for quiet by raising his hands, read from a scroll he pulled from his belt.

Hearing my list of misdemeanours and sins again, I almost laughed. They were absurd, except nothing about this was funny. And hadn't I always anticipated this? That some day, the transgressions I'd committed, big and small, would have to be paid for? Aye, I had. But in all my imaginings, I'd not foreseen my trial or reparation being delivered by le Bold. This was the cruellest of jests and a small part of me could not credit it to my God, even though His goodwill had been wanting of late.

With every sin read, the shouts and noise of the mob grew. I dared not turn around, though part of me wanted nothing more than to declare the entire catalogue a lie and a conspiracy and a twisting of the truth. Only … I couldn't. Most bore some element of veracity that rendered outright denial of even the most outrageous claims impossible.

The last crime was heresy. Courtesy of my ale song and the corner crones, the elements that had helped make my ale so popular made me a heretic. I was now a traitor and heretic. The greatest sins according to God, king and fellow man.

Hisses and cries flew around me as the guards grabbed my arms and forced me to my knees in front of the barrel.

‘Get in,' snarled one of them, landing a kick to my side.

I tried to obey, but every time I placed my head in the barrel and inhaled the scent of wort, hyssop, barley and woodsmoke, I withdrew it. This was one of my barrels. I could not, would not comply. This was a most wicked injustice.

The bishop yelled an order and while one guard held me fast, the other righted the barrel. Lifted off my feet, I was shoved inside and held down.

‘Nay, nay,' I screamed, my earlier resolve to be dignified gone. ‘These are unjust accusations, they're contrived, they're —'

The lid shut off my last words. Slammed against my head and driven down until I was forced to bow my neck, I tried to push, to throw it off, but squeezed into the small space, my arms lacked mobility. Nails were hammered in, one by one. I shouted, I slammed one fist against the wood, kicked the sides, but my efforts were feeble, ineffectual.

Dear Lord, this was really happening.

Spears of ice shot through my body, my heart pounded so fast and hard it should have exploded from my chest. Tears flowed down my cheeks, the words I tried to say drowning in my sorrow, my terror.

‘Nay, nay,' I sobbed, pummelling the wood.

Outside, all fell quiet. My own whimpers stilled. I heard them. Muffled at first, coming closer, growing louder.

‘Stop this at once!'

‘It's unlawful.'

‘In the name of Mayor Drugo Barentyn, halt the punishment.'

My spirits soared. There was to be a last-minute reprieve, rescue was nigh.

The crowd began to chant. ‘Stop the execution, stop the execution.'

Sounds of scuffle, of restraint carried. Urgent conversations took place.

I pressed my ear to the wood. Though the voices were close, I couldn't make out what was being said, only the insistence behind them. Once more, silence was called for and eventually granted.

This time, Roland le Bold spoke.

‘Masters Porlond and Hamme from the Mystery of Brewers …'

Good God. What were they doing here?

‘… would declare this execution unlawful due to the criminal being a resident of London and therefore under the jurisdiction of that borough and bound by its laws. They declare this in the name of the Mayor, Drugo Barentyn.' There was a pause and rustle. ‘They cite this deed as their evidence, signed by the guilty woman, Anna de Winter, on the sixteenth of June, which indicates she paid a six-month lease on a property in Cornhill Street, thereby making her, officially, a resident of London.'

Could this be true? Would I be spared le Bold's form of justice yet?

There were cheers as well as disgruntled noises. Some were more bloodthirsty than others.

‘But I say, and the jurors agree that, despite these orders from the Sheriffs of London, Master Thomas Duke and Master William Norton,' there was the sound of paper being unfurled, ‘and the pleas of the mayor, because the brew which killed the monks of Winchester and which rendered the king unto death was made here in Southwark
before
the lease was signed, in premises rented from this manor, Mistress de Winter can be rightfully tried and punished by our laws, Southwark laws.'

The shouts almost drowned out his next words. ‘A decent attempt gentlemen, but a failed one. No more delays, place the barrel on the fire.'

Unprepared, when they lifted me, my chin struck the wood hard and I bit my tongue. Unable to place me, the guards threw the barrel upon the flames. Jolted, my head hit the lid and, for a moment, spots swam in front of my eyes.

Though I could hear the crackling of the fire, the heat was not immediate.

‘This is barbaric,' shouted Master Porlond.

‘Are you mad?' yelled Master Hamme. ‘This is not lawful. It cannot be. Rescind this punishment immediately. If she is guilty, let the King's Bench try her.'

‘I'm afraid it's far too late for that. Look to the barrel.'

Whether they did or not, I don't know, for the terrible heat had finally penetrated, scorching the wood, creating smoke that filled the little space and made me cough, my eyes and nose streaming even as I tried to recoil from the blackening wood. It seared my skin, branded me with fiery fury.

‘Lord in heaven, save me,' I gasped, as my throat filled with deadly hot fumes.

WINCHESTER PALACE

The same day

The year of Our Lord 1408 in the ninth year of the reign of Henry IV

T
he barrel rolled, fast, flinging me against the hell-fired wood. Unable to breathe, to speak, it was only when it violently stopped and the lid was wrenched off, that I was able to gulp air and dared to believe, thank the crones, my ordeal was over. A wall of noise, shouting, clashing swords and the clamour of battle surrounded me.

‘Anneke, oh Anneke.'

Were my ears deceiving me? For certes, my eyes were not capable of sight while they burned with tears, smoke, and the rain of falling ashes. Lifted from the barrel by strong arms, the press of firm fingers, I staggered. Prevented from falling, soothing words of comfort were given before a hand swept my hair from my face.

‘Leander?'

There was a choke of laughter and a blanket was thrown about my shoulders, making me wince. ‘Aye, aye. It is me, my love. Almost too late.'

Dashing the back of my hand across my eyes, Leander's face swam, but I could see the doubt there, the crippling guilt, the tightness in his jaw.

‘Nay,' I croaked, suppressing the cough that rose, ‘God have mercy. Just in time.'

Ignoring the pain in my limbs, allowing the coughs that wracked my body to escape, I nestled into his arms, only partly attuned to the tumult. Leander half carried me away from the platform until we were beneath some battlements. He waited until I found my feet then let me go.

A small cry of protest turned into a croup-like bark.

‘Look to her,' he said. ‘There is justice to be served.' And with a tender kiss, did leave.

I cried out as he departed, sword drawn, when another set of hands claimed me.

‘Anna, my chick.'

‘Mistress.'

‘Alyson. Adam.' Relief made my knees go weak. I found the wall and held fast until Alyson and Adam, cautious of my hurts, lowered me to the ground.

A wet cloth pressed against my eyes and the blanket was flung from my shoulders. With much tut-tutting, Alyson ordered me to keep the cloth in place as she examined the injuries I'd sustained. Down on one knee, Adam spoke quickly into my ear so that I could hear him despite the commotion.

Betje was safe, the twins and Harry too. Leander had wrought a miracle and brought justice to Southwark.

Before I could ask how, the mighty clang of swords, bellows of rage and the stomp of boots grew. Bloodcurdling screams rent the air and panic as well as a sense of jubilation was tangible. Unable to hold the cloth in place any longer, needing to know what was happening, I pulled it from my face. Slowly, the scene before me came into focus.

The fire had been extinguished, the barrel shattered. Men in Rainford livery and royal livery fought alongside Archbishop Arundel's soldiers, hacking and slicing the bishop's men. I couldn't see Leander, but I did spy Captain Stoyan, wielding a sword with an agility to which no seaman has the right.

The crowd assembled to witness my fate were not fleeing as I first thought. Women, children and the elderly were trying to exit the courtyard but were being prevented by the bishop's men who were forcing them to remain. Instead of obeying, the mob turned upon them, clinging to their arms, their knees, toppling them, stealing their weapons and running them through. Indifferent to their fate, the commons fought back.

I watched in wonder as the men, ignoring the weapons threatening them, joined the melee, throwing themselves at the guards, dragging them down with sheer force of numbers.

‘They fight for justice, Anna. For you,' said Alyson. ‘They've been railing against le Bold and Fynk for some time, at the ad hoc and cruel way laws were enforced. What they tried to do to you, well, if they'd succeeded, life in the Stews and the Liberty would have been nigh on unbearable. You became a rallying point and the final straw.'

‘I thought they were here to bear witness to my death. They called for it.'

‘On the contrary, chick, they roared for your life.'

A trembling hand found my mouth as I tried to make sense of what was happening. Fists flew, bones crunched and daggers and swords found their targets. Fast and full of fury, pent-up emotions and fear were released in sheer, bloody folly, the madness of berserkers. The fight shifted as the number of fallen mounted, and those left standing tried to find spaces to continue.

Not far away, lying face down, his head twisted to one side, was Lewis Fynk. His skull had been cleaved and blood poured over his cheeks and ran in rivulets along the lines of his face and into his mouth. The sneer he wore in life had, in death, become a mask he would display unto heaven or, if God willed, hell.

For that was where he belonged.

The bishop's soldiers, unable to comprehend that their armour and swords did not incite fear or submission, that the enemy was everywhere, were crawling on their hands and knees in an effort to escape. Helped by the commons and his allies, Leander's men made a quick finish, the last of the bishop's men surrendering.

The monks atop the platform were taken into custody. I didn't see Roland.

Unable to believe I was free, that Leander had come as promised and with a small army, that Roland had not had his victory, I couldn't move. There were so many questions, so much I wanted to know.