Brewer's Tale, The Page 3

  ‘But, I always thought that his lordship and Father were business partners. What you’re saying implies that their relationship was unequal, that Father was akin to a … bondsman …’ My voice petered out.

  ‘Indeed, that’s an apt analogy, Mistress Sheldrake. The original contract was signed over sixteen years ago, and both your father and Lord Rainford have enjoyed many successes, have profited in all sorts of ways from their joint ventures.’ Master Makejoy pushed back the chair and rose, his fingers dusting the metal astrolabe sitting on the desk. ‘But this doesn’t concern you any longer and, in legal terms, a contract is a contract.’ Reaching over the desk, he opened the shutters, allowing air and light to spill into the room. From where I was sitting, I could see a portion of the shop and, past the large, battered sea-chest that I knew contained spools of fabric and lace from Venice and Bruges, as well as dyed rolls of wool from Florence, the outside window admitted views of the street. It was still early, the rain was falling more heavily now and, with the shutters open, I could hear the howl of the wind.

  ‘In an effort to try and recoup previous losses and to compensate for the steady decline in trade that these endless wars with France and Wales have brought about, your father risked everything on this voyage. Some might say too much.’ Master Makejoy’s eyes flickered to Hiske. ‘It was, he said, to be the making of him.’

  I looked around the bleak space of the office, stared into the shop. I saw it through different eyes. The empty shelves, the lonely jars and barrels, a sad reel of ribbon, a bolt of ruby cloth, the spaces where nothing sat but flattened rushes. ‘Is there nothing left for us?’ My voice was too quiet, too small.

  ‘For you and your siblings?’ Master Makejoy shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Mistress Sheldrake, apart from a meagre sum, there’s not.’

  No-one spoke. The wind whistled and the trees across the road danced. Adam Barfoot came into view, his head bowed against the wind. His hood had fallen back and he held his cloak together at his throat. Achilles and Patroclus bounded past, their great shaggy coats pressed against their lean frames. At the sight of them, my throat tightened and I felt the prick of tears. I blinked them back.

  ‘There is not,’ I repeated.

  ‘Not even the house,’ added Hiske, so softly I almost didn’t hear.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ I swung towards her.

  ‘Not even the house.’ She slowly enunciated every word.

  ‘Is that true?’ I asked Master Makejoy, almost rising to my feet. I could hear Achilles and Patroclus barking as they ran down the alley and towards the back gate. Our back gate.

  Master Makejoy frowned at Hiske. ‘It is. I was going to get to that, but since Mistress Jabben has seen fit to raise it …’ Disapproval tinged his tone as he swept the second piece of parchment into his hand. ‘His lordship granted your father a life-interest in this house and its commercial premises. It was very generous. It included the servants, wages, food and drink in return for Master Sheldrake’s services as master of the fleet, his connections with the Hanseatic League and those he developed throughout the Low Countries and Germany.’

  I struggled to get my thoughts together. I tried to understand what it was Master Makejoy was saying. ‘In other words, Papa doesn’t own this house … he never has. Like everything else, it belongs to Lord Rainford.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  An image of my father, his stern face, iron eyes and unsmiling mouth, came into my head. I heard his stentorian tone as he questioned me over dinner in the hall about my day’s lessons, what the nuns had taught me. I’d always thought him hard, demanding, implacable and, worse, cold. Later, I thought I knew why. But I couldn’t forgive him for his inflexibility, his lack of affection — not so much towards me or Tobias, but the twins … This new knowledge made me see him in a different light, as a man anxious about his prospects, his family; about his obligations. Tears welled as a sense of injustice and contrition rose.

  Pushing back my sorrow to examine it later, I looked from Master Makejoy to Hiske. ‘But, surely, now that Papa’s dead, Lord Rainford wouldn’t force us onto the street, would he? Not after everything my father has done for him? We have some time to make alternative arrangements?’

  ‘What your father has done?’ snapped Hiske. ‘Child! Haven’t you been listening? He’s incurred a massive debt, one that would ruin a lesser man. Lord Rainford is simply staking his rightful claim; recouping his losses.’

  ‘His losses? How can you defend him? You live here too. Papa’s death affects you as well,’ Indignation propelled me to my feet. I was gratified to see Hiske step back.

  ‘Ja, it does, Cousin Anneke. And you would do well to remember that.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  Hiske laughed. Her teeth were small, yellow, her gums pale. Her eyes were the colour of the pewter jug, flat, depthless. ‘Just like you, I’m affected by my dear cousin’s loss. Only, I have options. I always knew my time here was limited, so I’ve been considering my choices. Whereas, from now on, you’re on your own. Your father’s death means you’ve lost everything — your house, your lifestyle and,’ her eyes narrowed and her lips thinned, ‘your position. You’ve lost your position.’

  In my swift accounting, I hadn’t considered that — the loss of social status. I didn’t want to — I couldn’t.

  Eyes fixed to my face, Hiske continued. ‘You’ll have to learn to appreciate what others can do for you.’

  ‘Are you referring to yourself, cousin?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘And what is it that you might do?’

  Hiske drew herself up to her full height. She looked at Master Makejoy, who smiled and nodded.

  ‘You’ll be pleased to know, Cousin Anneke, that though this is a time of great sorrow, on its heels follows great happiness. Master Makejoy and I have an understanding.’ I looked from one to the other and was astonished to see Hiske redden and Master Makejoy appear coy. ‘Soon,’ continued Hiske in a softer voice, ‘I’ll be in a position to be able to offer you, and your brother and sister, a roof over your heads.’

  ‘You would offer me, us, a home?’ I couldn’t keep the surprise from my voice.

  ‘I didn’t say a home, I said a roof.’ She bent until I was forced to meet that gelid gaze. She might be my mother’s blood, but her eyes were like my father’s. ‘Up until a few hours ago, you had a dowry, prospects. Your father and I would have found someone in town who’d be pleased to call you wife, mayhap even one of those broken-hearted souls you’ve rejected over the years. Now you’re a liability. That’s the word you used, isn’t it, Master Makejoy?’

  Master Makejoy mumbled into his chest, shuffling the parchment on the desk.

  Hiske laughed. ‘You’ve no prospects, cousin. Not any more. Why, you’re less than a crofter or villein’s daughter, and who in their right mind would want the burden of a penniless wife encumbered with two extra mouths to feed?’ She paused as if expecting me to respond. ‘Exactly,’ she replied, snapping the silence. ‘That’s why, though my responsibilities have, with your father’s demise, formally ended, out of the goodness of my heart, and Master Makejoy’s, I’m prepared to have you come and live with me —’

  It was my turn to look startled.

  ‘As my housekeeper.’

  I swallowed. ‘And the twins?’

  ‘I would clothe and feed them until they were of age and then, of course, they would be put to work. Master Makejoy is sure he could find a position for Karel. Betje, well, one can always do with an extra kitchen-hand or chambermaid. I’m sure Blanche, or Doreen for that matter, would be happy to teach her. If not, the nuns would take her.’

  Doreen’s growing impudence suddenly made sense. Hiske had been planning to leave, to set up her own house, for some time.

  Taken aback at her boldness, her certainty that such an opportunity would be grasped, I gathered my thoughts before speaking. Hiske was right. Not only was I on my own, an orphan, so were my brothers and sist
er. Whereas Tobias, thank the dear Lord, was assured a future, nothing was certain for the twins or me any more. As a nineteen-year-old unmarried and penniless woman, I was indeed a liability. My situation had been cruelly defined, and it was brutally reduced. As for the twins … I recalled the fate of other, less fortunate children whose parents had been taken from them while they were still young. Monasteries were filled with these souls. Now, here I was, along with the twins, to be counted among the unfortunate, an object of pity. My chest burned.

  I could hear Will in the corridor outside, Iris too. It wasn’t just me and the twins who stood to lose each other, our house, our world. Our servants, most of whom had been with us since before I was born, relied upon us. They too were family. My family. And my family would not live with Hiske.

  No matter what.

  That Lord Rainford could set out the family’s obligations at such a time, define the extent of our losses; that Hiske and Master Makejoy resolved between themselves to announce our plight so soon after the news of my father’s death, reflected poorly on all of them. It made me furious and more than a little afraid. Our destiny had never been mine to control — that was for Father to manage — and he’d neglected that responsibility. Though I thought I knew why, I couldn’t forgive him. For just a brief moment, when I’d learned of Father’s death, I was disconsolate but, in the furthest recesses of my heart, I’d also caught a glimpse of liberty and extraordinary possibility. I wasn’t prepared to relinquish that and hand over my future to someone else — especially not to Hiske. I looked at her now, the narrow mouth, the almost non-existent eyebrows arched in superiority, her long neck with its horizontal lines. Master Makejoy refused to look at either of us and pretended to reread the contents of the deed.

  I could hardly believe that we’d be thrown out of the house; that this dark, sometimes joyless place, where there’d been life, terrible secrets, dreadful pain, some joy and too much death, could be taken away — and why? Because an agreement had come to an end. Because of business.

  I needed time to think, to find a solution to this new problem.

  Moving quickly, I forced Hiske to jump to one side. ‘Cousin Hiske, Master Makejoy, I wish to thank you for your unexpected offer. I would like some time to consider it.’

  ‘But, Mistress Sheldrake,’ Master Makejoy rose and, with what he thought was a benevolent smile, addressed me, ‘I don’t think you understand the position you’re in. How precarious it is.’

  ‘Master Makejoy, I understand all too well. And, as a consequence, I intend to take as much time as I’m able before I make any decisions.’

  ‘There’s only one to make, cousin.’ Hiske folded her arms beneath her breasts.

  I met her gloating gaze without flinching. ‘Perhaps,’ I said and, with a small nod to Master Makejoy and a last glance at Hiske, I kept my despair contained and left the room.

  THREE

  ELMHAM LENN

  The day after Michaelmas to the Nones (7th) of October

  The year of Our Lord 1405 in the sixth year of the reign of Henry IV

  I’d barely time to think about our circumstances as the news spread of Papa’s death and the loss of the Cathaline. After leaving our house, Master Makejoy rode into town and delivered an account to the merchants’ guild, and to the Kontor or offices of the Hanseatic League. As it was market day, it didn’t take long for word to circulate. From warehouse worker to landlocked sailor, vendor to customer, innkeeper to delivery boy, the usual moaning about taxes and the king’s wars and the price of wool was ­momentarily ­suspended — Elmham Lenn was suddenly the centre of its own tragedy. Swept up in an emotional maelstrom, I accepted commiserations and outpourings of sympathy as neighbours and strangers arrived at our door. I also offered consolation — for we were not the only family to be affected by the ship’s sinking. Over forty men had been lost to the sea; other families also felt the loss of a provider, of a husband, son or brother, of relatives and friends, with a profound yet numbing sorrow, and I ached for these people as well.

  Above all, the twins’ welfare was my first consideration, and every spare moment was spent with them. While I expected tears and outbursts, both Karel and Betje displayed the pragmatism of the very young, accepting the news with quiet grace and sadness, before looking to Louisa and me to provide their next distraction. Their faith in the patterns of the everyday would have been amusing if it weren’t so simultaneously heart-wrenching and comforting. Denied first their mother and now their father, I promised myself I would serve as both for as long as the good Lord allowed, no matter what Hiske threatened.

  My next priority was the servants. They already knew what had occurred before I told them. Will, of course, had learned the nature of Lord Rainford’s missive — having fetched me to the office, he pressed his ear to the door before racing straight to the kitchen and telling whoever was there. I knew it would only be a matter of time before the servants also knew of Lord Rainford’s intention to reclaim the house, and I wanted to be sure they heard it from me first. My reassurances that I would find work so they were neither thrown to the mercy of the street nor Cousin Hiske were grasped as a drowning man does driftwood. But the smiles that broke through the weeping and anxiety failed to conceal their doubt. What could a woman, an eldest daughter with no prospects do? Their ambivalence simply steeled my resolve.

  I sent Will to fetch Father Clement from St Bartholomew’s next door. The man who was both our parish priest and friend should know what had befallen us. He would provide a measure of solace for the servants and, if I was frank, myself as well. I wasn’t disappointed. Moments later, Father Clement strode through the gate. I watched him cross the yard, talking to Will, his cassock swinging as he clutched the cross hanging from the cord about his waist, and my heart lifted. Stepping into the kitchen, he sheltered my hands within his own and his hazel eyes said more than words. As he murmured a quiet prayer, Blanche, Adam, Iris, Doreen, Will and Saskia lowered their heads, the women with handkerchiefs screwed in their fists, the men pale as they slowly took stock of what this change meant.

  I recalled an earlier time and a similar tableau. A balmy summer’s evening just over six years ago. The sky was leaden, poised to rain, the heat moist. Mother had been listless all day, but it wasn’t till her waters broke in the afternoon that we understood the baby had decided to ignore nature’s course and arrive early. That it was two months before its time formed a patina of worry that overlaid the excitement. Father was in Ypres — as usual, worlds away from his wife and his expanding family. The midwife and her assistant were sent for and, in a gesture that announced my entree into the adult world, I was given the role of attending to my mother’s needs and helping Saskia in whatever way I could.

  Terrified of what was happening, I’d nonetheless obeyed every instruction: wiped the sweat from Mother’s brow, held her hand, rubbed her back, propped beside her as she squatted over the freshly laid rushes, teeth clenched, eyes screwed shut, clots of blood dropping from her body, more coating her inner thighs. Hours later, after I’d slept and woken, not once, but twice, first one babe and then another were drawn from her womb. We were jubilant. Two babes! And alive. Cords were cut and they were tenderly swaddled, their squawks softening to whimpers as they were brought to her breast. The afterbirths were examined the moment they were expelled and removed, the stained rushes with them. Once it was over, I felt a rejoicing in my heart. After all the babies Mother had tried and failed to bring into the world — five, at last reckoning — this time she’d managed a pair: a beautiful, red-faced boy and girl. Father would be thrilled; this would make him smile, this would transform him back into the man of my earliest recollections. I couldn’t understand why the midwife wasn’t radiating joy, why her eyes when they slid from mine to my mother were brimming with sadness. At Mother’s insistence, the babes were lifted from her and placed in my old crib. The midwife’s young assistant stepped away from the pallet upon which my mother lay, leaving her pale, sweat-drenched and alon
e.

  Calling me in a voice I no longer knew, Mother took my hand and pulled me to her side, requesting we be left alone. I was scared of the blood, of the strange odour exuding from the woman who always smelled so sweet. Her violet lips and shadowed eyes made her a stranger. Tears began to spill and my nose began to run, even though I couldn’t have told you why. Drying my eyes with kisses, stroking my face with trembling, loving fingers, she made me promise that I would obey my father and, in a broken, weary voice, she revealed a terrible, shameful secret. A secret that even now, so many years later, I wanted to erase, to forget, to doubt. Yet, it explained so much …

  I hadn’t questioned her, I was shocked into silence. When she had finished, she sank back against the pillow and wrapped her arms around me. Lying across her swollen breasts, I felt her lips and hands against my hair, her hot breath on my head, the slow, ponderous beat of her heart, until, suddenly, I didn’t.

  It was Father Clement, newly arrived in the parish, who gently coaxed me from Mother’s side, performed extreme unction, and held me as I wept. It was the good Father who allowed me to see Mother at peace, her body cleaned and wrapped, her face stripped of colour and life, her lips and eyelids forever closed. He’d been so calm, so capable that night. I knew if ever there were a crisis, he would be the one to have by my side. Once the body had been carried to the church, the servants and Father Clement had sat across from each other in the kitchen; the servants quietly weeping, the Father praying. I had stood out of sight in the corner, unable to cry, unable to think or speak. I was like the shadows into which I’d shrunk. Crossing himself, Father Clement raised his head and I was stunned to see tears staining his cheeks; I’d never seen a man cry before. He looked at Saskia and said: ‘Death too often chases birth and triumphs.’ His mouth trembled, but he lifted his eyes to the ceiling. ‘God forgive me,’ he whispered, but we all heard. ‘Why does our dear Lord make even good women pay for the sins of Eve? Surely,’ he dropped his chin and stared into a space over my shoulder, ‘surely, the debt has been repaid in full?’