Brewer's Tale, The (90 page)

Alyson understood. First stroking my hair, she stood, wiping her hands upon her apron. It was dirty and rent. ‘It will all be explained. You've endured more than anyone has a right. We're to get you back to The Swanne, fed, cleaned and rested. We'll send for the apothecary. Sir Leander's orders. He will meet you there as soon as he can.'

Taking an arm each, Alyson and Adam helped me to my feet, and then began to lead me towards a door. The noise was more subdued, the fighting all but over. Those of the bishop's guards not disarmed and standing in a disorderly gaggle with swords pointed at them, were either dead or fled. The common men, so brave and quick, had dispersed. It was fine to get caught up in the heat of battle, but wounding a bishop's soldier carried severe penalties and absence was a surer bet than a possible reward for aiding a rout. Only the brave or foolish remained to search the dead for plunder. Leander's soldiers chased them away. Of Leander, the jurors, of Roland, there was no sign.

‘Wait.' I stopped at the door. ‘What's happening? Where is Leander? The bishop?'

Alyson cocked a brow at Adam.

‘There's to be another trial. This time the real criminal will face his accusers.'

‘Le Bold? I don't understand, how is this possible?'

‘Sir Leander is how,' answered Adam.

‘When, when will this trial be?'

‘It's to happen immediately, mistress. Le Bold was captured by Arundel's men and taken inside. There, a different set of jurors awaits. Sir Leander made sure of that.'

‘Take me there, Adam. Now.'

‘But mistress, you heard Goody Alyson, you're to rest.'

I gave Adam a look I usually reserved for Harry when he said something that both displeased and amused me. He turned to Goody Alyson for support.

‘There's no arguing with her once she has her mind set. We'll take her to see justice done.'

‘She's in no fit state —' began Adam.

‘Don't talk about me as if I'm not present. If I could but have some water, or ale, I will be fine. I hurt, but I will heal. Believe me, Adam, I need this more than I require food, salves for my wounds or rest. I cannot rest while I know le Bold is free. I cannot.'

Without further argument, they led me back across the courtyard, past the prisoners, and through the door that less than an hour earlier, I'd exited.

Sneaking into the back of the chamber, Adam found me a seat and, between the heads of nobles, men of the church, leading merchants, Masters Hamme and Porlond and many others besides, I watched the trial of Roland le Bold.

Presiding over it was Archbishop Arundel. How Leander persuaded such a man to attend, let alone lead the trial wasn't at first evident. Having him there rendered Roland's complaint that he must be tried by church laws redundant.

Ordered to silence, Roland stood where I had only yesterday, as Leander, his surcoat torn, blood staining his shirtsleeves, read a catalogue of wrongdoing, starting with everything at Elmham Lenn.

Accused of murder, arson and theft, his crimes did not elicit the gasps of disapprobation mine had. Everyone in the room knew what was being ascribed to Roland, but still many wore expressions of disbelief, especially the monks, as if one of their brethren could not be capable of such mortal sins.

They didn't know Roland le Bold.

Standing tall, Roland didn't look defeated or even concerned. Donning the arrogance I'd lately observed, he appeared confident that he would be absolved.

That was until Leander began to call witnesses.

Much to my astonishment, familiar faces emerged from the sea of people on the other side of the room. There was Brother Osbert from St Jude's, bowed in misery, his hands buried in the sleeves of his cassock. Thinner than I remembered, the once haughty features had been humbled. Rubbing his face in an effort to shed the fatigue that clearly gripped him, he answered the questions put to him. He told the jurors that Roland was not only Abbot Hubbard's bastard son, but that the prior had endorsed his insinuation into the Sheldrake household under a false name so he could learn what he could of brewing techniques with the intention of replicating them. Once the brewery began to impact on St Jude's profits, he was ordered to steal the coveted recipe book and put an end to my brewing enterprise. Asked if they had offered payment for the book, Brother Osbert nodded.

‘On two occasions. But the wench would not agree.' He hesitated. ‘We threatened her, and for that I do beg the Lord's forgiveness.' He raised his eyes to the ceiling.

‘It is not only the Lord's you should ask,' said Archbishop Arundel quietly.

While Brother Osbert didn't believe the abbot intended everything that occurred, he possessed knowledge of it and, once le Bold returned to the priory and modified the way brews were made and sold, and profits soared, he rewarded the perpetrator with rank and privileges far beyond the usual.

When asked why he chose to come forward, Brother Osbert hesitated. It was then the resentment and jealousy he felt at being overlooked in favour of le Bold became apparent. Dissembling, he spoke of how what occurred didn't fit with the church's teaching or his conscience; he could no longer hold his silence. When Tobias Sheldrake appeared at the gates of St Jude's seeking answers, he took it as a sign from God.

I shook my head in disgust. His confession was as much about revenge as it was a burdened soul.

‘What name did Bishop le Bold use while he lived in Elmham Lenn?' asked the Archbishop.

‘Westel Calkin.'

‘And it's Westel Calkin who set fire to Holcroft House, the property of Lord Hardred Rainford, leased by Mistress Anneke Sheldrake, now known as Mistress Anna de Winter?'

‘Aye, your Grace.'

‘Is Westel Calkin present among us?'

Brother Osbert raised his head and pointed directly at Roland. ‘As God is my Lord and Saviour, that is him.'

There were murmurs and Alyson rested a light hand upon my shoulder. Motivated by revenge or scruples? Did it matter if the felon was caught?

I was uncertain.

After that, the trial moved swiftly. Witness after witness, most from Elmham Lenn, came forward. There was Father Clement, bless his soul, and, much to my astonishment, Master Perkyn, Blanche and Iris as well.

Adam leaned forward and whispered in my ear. ‘Sir Leander asked me and Tobias to convince them to come.' He sniffed and wiped his eyes. ‘When they knew it was for your sake, Anna, they needed no such prompt.'

Timid at first, trembling as they stood before the might of the Archbishop, they answered questions without any guile or venom and thus condemned le Bold further.

It was then I noticed Master Makejoy, more rotund, older, but no less industrious, sitting at the end of the table, passing pieces of paper, whispering explanations to the Archbishop and the other jurors. Catching my eye, he bowed his head and smiled.

My heart filled. What was that old proverb Captain Stoyan used to quote? One he heard from sailors in the ports of Venice? ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.'

Even Tobias, initially obscured among the other witnesses, came forward to give evidence. As he spoke, I learned where he'd been the last weeks, and the tasks Leander had assigned him. Wanting more than anything to rush to his side, I hoped that whatever residue of friction existed between us, it was now forever extinguished. What faith in me his ruthless quest to uncover the truth revealed. It was beyond my comprehension.

Likewise, as I glanced around the chamber — at those giving evidence, the paperwork littering the long table, the serious faces of the officials and the sullen ones of the witnesses — the scope of what Leander sought to accomplish for my sake became apparent.

As Roland had planned to eliminate me, so had Leander silently and diligently worked to thwart him. And had done so for some time; from the moment I identified le Bold as Westel Calkin, Leander had set his wheels in motion. And to think I'd lectured him on restraint. Watching Leander smoothly control the trial, moving from one witness to the next, encouraging further questions, demanding answers, I marvelled at this man who called me beloved. As he strode around the chamber, using his cane for emphasis as he spoke, I saw the warrior, the man who refused to allow his deformity, his twisted foot, to dictate his life. Replacing the cane with a sword, I could imagine it bearing down on his enemies, and see them trembling before his wrath. Adam once spoke of how folk tended to underestimate Leander. I'd been guilty of doing the same. Never again. To do so was to invite peril.

From the expression on Roland's face, it was evident he felt the same. He also understood that convicting me of charges that were false had merely brought his fate forward, and Leander and everyone knew this to be so. I was going to be exonerated and, after all this time, after so much death, loss and grief, Roland was going to get what he deserved — God willing.

The trial continued well into the afternoon, by which time Roland le Bold's future was sealed. With each testimony, each remembrance of what he'd done at Elmham Lenn, even those who had believed his protestations of innocence were beginning to doubt. Still, there was reluctance to pass a severe sentence upon a man of God, especially one in such a prestigious office, appointed by the Archbishop, no less. That was, until the final piece of evidence was given.

Leander called Sir Gilbert Woodley, the coroner. At the mention of his name, Roland visibly paled. An imposing man with dark hair and bristling brows, from the moment he began to speak, his voice like dark velvet, he captured the entire room.

‘Having examined the bodies of the deceased monks and the mazers from which they imbibed the drink, it's clear their deaths were not caused by the ale alone.'

‘It was poisoned,' shouted Roland, imploring the jurors. ‘Of course, it wasn't the ale alone. That slattern brewster infected the entire barrel. She was out to murder me. She knew I could identify her as the felon who destroyed Lord Rainford's property and murdered her own brother and servants in the process.'

There were dark mutters and knitted brows.

‘Nay, your grace,' said Sir Gilbert calmly. ‘Your Grace,' he turned to the Archbishop, ‘the barrel was not poisoned, merely the mazers.'

‘How can you be certain?' spluttered Roland. ‘We tipped the barrel into the Thames immediately.'

‘Mayhap you did,' said Sir Gilbert, ‘but the king's steward did not get rid of his Grace's ale. As a consequence, I've been able to test the king's brew, which was branded and marked with the same seals as yours, by Southwark ale-conners, and find it clear of any questionable ingredients. The brew was not poisonous — not the contents of the barrels at any rate. In fact, it's an uncommonly fine brew.' He gave a small bow in my direction.

Unaware I was present till this moment, heads turned towards me, and I saw Leander frown and then shake his head, a small smile on his lips. I returned the coroner's courtesy with a dip of my chin.

‘Examining the monks' bodies knowing the ale was clear, however, did lead me to form other conclusions.'

‘Share them if you please, Sir Gilbert,' said Leander.

‘From the discolouration upon the monks' lips and from reports of the smell that hovered about the corpses' mouths, and the manner of their death, which was described as swift, preceded by tremors, vomiting and extreme pallor, it's clear that the deadly herb hellebore was used. It's my belief that Bishop le Bold, seeking to implicate Mistress de Winter, added hellebore to the monks' mazers in order to make it appear as if the brew itself was poisoned.'

Exclamations were followed by loud whispering.

‘Hellebore? Where would I attain such a herb?' Roland had to raise his voice to be heard.

Leander waved forward someone from the crowd on the other side of the room. It was an officer of the Hanse.

‘Captain Geise,' whispered Adam.

‘Captain?' Leander flipped his hand in the man's direction. ‘Mayhap you can answer.'

Removing his cap, Captain Geise bowed to the jurors before answering. ‘
Ja
, my lord. One of my men was tasked with purchasing the exact same herb for the bishop last month.'

‘Prove it,' snapped Roland, all efforts to remain calm forgotten.

‘You requested there be no bill of sale, so I cannot.'

Roland turned to Leander, a smirk upon his features.

‘Which doesn't explain how this was found in your quarters,' cried a voice from the back. Captain Stoyan pushed his way to the front holding aloft a small bag. Before the room, he opened and tipped some of the contents into his palm, holding it out so Sir Gilbert could identify the plant. A number of stringy, dark brown stalks were visible.

‘That is hellebore,' said Sir Gilbert.

‘This is preposterous. Your Grace,' Roland beseeched the Archbishop, ‘this could have been acquired anywhere and be said to have come from my rooms.'

‘True,' said the Archbishop. ‘Do you have proof this is indeed the property of the bishop?'

Captain Stoyan turned and beckoned to someone else. A young acolyte reluctantly made his way to the edge of the crowd. One side of his face was bruised and he walked favouring his right foot.

‘This is Bishop Roland's servant, your Grace,' said Leander. ‘He will swear that this bag was in a chest in the bishop's rooms.'

‘What is your name, lad?' asked the Archbishop softly.

‘Payn, your Grace.'

‘Payn who?'

Payn shot a look at Roland who glared at the boy with such ferocity, I felt sure it would render him mute.

‘Le Bold, your Grace. I am Payn le Bold.'

The room erupted.

‘And,' he said, shouting to be heard, ‘I also have this.' From beneath his shirt, he held up a tattered old book bound in leather and tied with string.

Mother's recipes; my ale bible.

Above the din, Roland shouted. ‘Sir Leander has bribed these witnesses. Every testimony has been paid for.'