Part One
The Brewer of Elmham Lenn
September 1405–June 1406
A man that hath a sign at his door,
And keeps good Ale to sell,
A comely wife to please his guests,
May thrive exceedingly well . . .
—From “Choice of Inventions,” quoted in Judith M. Bennett, Ale, Beer, and Brewsters in England: Women’s Work in a Changing World, 1300–1600
One
Elmham Lenn
Dawn, the day after Michaelmas
The year of Our Lord 1405 in the sixth year of the reign of Henry IV
A sharp wind slapped the sodden hem against my ankles. Clutching the cloak beneath my chin with one hand, I held the other over my brow as a shield from the stinging ocean spray and squinted to see past the curtain of angry gray mizzle drawn across the entry to the harbor. I tried to transport myself beyond the heads, imagine what lay out there; see with my mind’s eye what my physical one could not.
Just as they had for the last three days, land and water conspired against me.
With a protracted sigh, I turned and walked back along the dock, my mantle damp and heavy across my shoulders. Brine made the wood slick and the receding tide had strewn seaweed and other flotsam across the worn planks. Barnacles and ancient gull droppings clung to the thick timbers, resisting the endless waves. I marveled at their tenacity.
On one side of the pier, a number of boats protested against their moorings, rocking wildly from side to side, abandoned by their crews till the weather passed. Along the pebbled shores of the bay, smaller vessels were drawn high, overturned on the grassy dunes, their owners hunkered near the harbormaster’s office at the other end of the dock, drinking ale and complaining about the unnatural weather that stole their livelihood, pretending not to be worried about those who hadn’t yet come home. I waved to them as I drew closer and a couple of the old salts raised their arms in return.
They knew what dragged me from my warm bed and down to the harbor before the servants stirred. It was what brought any of us who dared to draw a living from the seas.
I continued, lifting my skirts and jumping a puddle that had collected where the dock ended and the dirt track that followed the estuary into town began.
To the toll of morning bells, I joined the procession of carts, horses, and vendors trundling into market as the sky lightened to a pearlescent hue. The rain that hovered out to sea remained both threat and promise. Ships that plied their trade across the Channel were anchored mid-river, their sails furled or taken down for repairs; their wooden decks gleaming, their ropes beautifully knotted as captains sought to keep their crews busy while the weather refused them access to the open water. Some had hired barges to transport their cargo to London, while others sold what they could to local shopkeepers or went to Norwich. Closer to the town, abutting the riverbanks, were the warehouses belonging to the Hanseatic League, their wide doors open. Bales of wool, wooden barrels, swollen sacks of grain and salt were stacked waiting to be loaded onto ships that were already overdue—ours being one of them. The workers lingered near the entry hoping to snatch some news. Like us, these men, so far from their homeland, longed to hear that their compatriots were safe. Apart from the whinny of horses, the grunt of oxen, and the grind of cartwheels, silence accompanied us for the remainder of the trip into town.
As our procession spilled through the old wooden gates, dirty-faced urchins leaped onto the path, offering rooms, food, and other less savory fare, tugging at cloaks, pulling at mantles. Avoiding the children, I steered around the visiting merchants and traveling hawkers who paused to pay tolls and slipped past the packhorses and carts to head toward the town center. Jostled by the farmers with their corn and livestock, apprentices wearing leather aprons and earnest expressions, the way was slow. Before I’d passed the well, the bells of St. Stephen’s began to toll, announcing the official opening of the market. Around me, shop shutters sprang open, their bleary-eyed owners waving customers forth. “Hot pottage,” “Baked sheep’s cheek,” “Venetian silk,” “Copper pans going cheap”; their cries mingled and were soon drowned in the discordant symphony of market day. Catching a glimpse of our housekeeper, Saskia, among the crowd, I darted down the lane near St. Nichols and increased my pace. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Saskia—on the contrary, as one of my mother’s countrywomen, a constant presence since I was a baby, I loved her dearly. I just wanted to enjoy a few more minutes of my own company, without questions or making decisions or, what I was really avoiding, the suffocating weight of the unspoken. I also wanted to make it home before Hiske knew where I’d been or the twins escaped the nursery. If she spied me, Saskia, with the familiarity of a valued servant, would suborn me to her will. I needed to dry myself and change my gown. More importantly, I had to erase the worry from my face and voice. Why I insisted on doing this, going to the seaside these last few days, I was uncertain. It was a compulsion I couldn’t resist. It gave me purpose, prevented me from feeling quite so helpless. I thought about what I’d tell the twins today, how I would distract them. I rounded the corner back onto Market Street, the main road that led to the gate at the other end of town. Walking against the tide of people, I drew my hood, quickened my step, and entered the alley that ran beside my home. I unlatched the garden gate and squeezed through.
Passing our scant vegetable patch, I hugged the outside wall of the old stables, plucking at the laces at my throat and pulling my cloak off my shoulders and my hood from my head, still hoping I wouldn’t be spotted from upstairs. I was relieved to note Patroclus and Achilles, our two wolfhounds, were absent. Adam Barfoot, the steward, must be walking them—a task he’d performed for years now, ever since we’d let go of the servants Hiske persuaded Father we no longer needed. I tossed the two bones I’d carried in my pockets as a bribe for their peace toward the kennels. The dogs could enjoy them on their return. Perhaps my early-morning vigil would go undetected after all.
Folding my cloak and hood over my arm and adopting nonchalance, as if it was always my custom to stroll in the gardens at dawn, I crossed the courtyard, passing the disused brewhouse.
“God give you good day, Mistress Sheldrake.”
My hand flew to my breast.
The chambermaid, Doreen, appeared carrying a basket of eggs over her arm. “About early again?” Her sharp eyes looked me up and down, taking in my windswept hair, damp clothes, and muddy boots. “And alone, I see.” She sniffed her disapproval.
With a sinking heart, I knew she’d report me to Hiske. If Hiske knew, so too would Father. I sighed. There was no point denying what her eyes, the state of my clothes, and my chest, heaving from rushing, clearly told her.
“As you can see, Doreen, I am. Again,” I added defiantly, my cheeks flaming, then swept past her, almost knocking the basket from her forearm.
I entered the kitchen with as much equanimity as I could muster. The heat of the stove and the smell of baking bread made me aware of how chilled I was—and hungry. My mouth watered as I greeted the cook, Blanche, who stopped what she was doing and studied me, eyebrows arched.
“Mistress Anneke, you haven’t been,” she began, but paused as Doreen appeared behind me, “enjoying the fresh air and rain again?” she asked with false gaiety. “I’ll have some hot water and a tray sent to your room, shall I? We don’t want you catching your death.”