Eight
Holcroft House
October
The year of Our Lord 1405 in the sixth year of the reign of Henry IV
The next few days passed in a blur. After returning what had been salvaged from Hiske back to where it belonged, I was faced with the bleak reality of how empty, how hollow, the house seemed. The night I’d returned from Lord Rainford’s, drunk on excitement that my bid to secure us time had succeeded, it had been easy to be indifferent to what my cousin had done, but in the gaps and spaces in every room, I was forced to confront Hiske’s avarice and spite. Almost all of Tobias’s possessions—from a knife and sheath to a Lancastrian pennant his lord had given him to commemorate his first battle at Shrewsbury that he’d sent home for safekeeping, to clothes he’d worn as a child that were being kept for Karel, as well as a book that belonged to Mother—all had been seized. The old sea chest and carved stool in his room were gone. The furs from his bed, the curtains that surrounded his mattress as well. In the solar, apart from a couple of stools, the rug, and two tapestries, Hiske had claimed everything—the cabinets, the two chairs, and the cushions that adorned them. The tables filled with curios Father had collected on his travels, the mementos Mother had brought with her when she came to England as Father’s bride were no longer there. Even the main hall and Father’s office hadn’t been spared. The shop and storeroom at the rear of the house, which had held what were now Lord Rainford’s goods, were completely empty. As far as I could tell, only the contents of my room, the nursery, and the kitchen had been saved in their entirety and for that I was grateful. Trying not to be despondent, the starkness of the rooms simply gave me another reason to make my enterprise work.
Though part of me wished to seek justice, it was easier to surrender a few possessions and believe I’d never see Hiske again than have her charged and deal with the very public consequences of that. A court would cause a scandal none of us could afford. And, I told myself, as much as I may not like it, she was family. I couldn’t bring the law down upon one of my own. Mother wouldn’t want that.
A few days later, we heard through Master Jacobsen that Hiske and Master Makejoy had married and were staying in rooms above an inn near the law courts until they could lease their own premises.
With the house returned to some sort of order, Saskia and Blanche tended to the gardens. Though it was late in the year to plant, there would be some vegetables that would yield in early spring and they set about ensuring we’d reap that small harvest. In the meantime, Adam, Will, and I set to restoring the brewhouse.
Entering it for the first time in six years was not the joyous moment I’d imagined. As we pushed open the old door, snatching it swiftly as it almost came away from the hinges, the smell of dust, bird droppings, and the odor of stale wort assailed us. A stream of light filtered through the filthy windows, striking the aged mash tun, exposing the garlands of cobwebs suspended from the wood. Colonies of dust spiraled into the sunlight like tiny moths chasing a flame. In the far corner, a huge kiln loomed. Under the windows, two shallow troughs sat, dark and empty. A row of barrels squatted between them and the kiln. The good news was their wood appeared sound and the metal hoops that girthed them weren’t rusted. I might yet be spared the cost of a cooper.
Leaning against one of the barrels was the mash stirrer. Hefting it off the floor, I upended it so I could examine the laddered paddle for any splintering or rot. Mother had brought this with her when she came from Holland and, though it was a deceptively simple piece of equipment I’d seen deployed in other brewhouses, she insisted on using this stick to stir the mash and wort. She claimed it carried within it her family’s talent for brewing. I didn’t doubt it and proposed to use it as well. Satisfied it was intact, I set it down and continued my survey.
Gathering dust on the table in the middle of the room were bungs for the barrels, a copper hand cup, spigots, and a mallet that, when I picked it up, was lighter than I recalled. Putting it down carefully beside a dull funnel, I flexed my fingers.
As I crossed the room rats scurried before me, and from the shadows and dark corners came the sound of small feet and high-pitched squeals. I opened the door at the far end that led to the small shed Mother had used as a malthouse. The hinges were stiff, and I used my shoulder to thrust the door open, almost tumbling down the steps. It was too dark to see clearly—not even the small window admitted much light. Propping the door open, I descended the few steps and bent down to touch the floor. It was, thankfully, dry, but filthy with grit and dirt. I shuddered and, not for the first time, doubt engulfed me. I went back up the steps and stood in the doorway, hands on my hips, facing Will and Adam.
Will shook his head, arms folded. He didn’t believe we could do it. I took a deep breath and the disturbed dust made me cough. I resolved then and there that I would prove Will wrong. I swung to Adam and, to my great relief, saw only calculation on his face.
“How’s the malthouse?” he asked, putting down the old tundish.
“Dry.” I clapped my hands together to rid them of debris. “For now.”
Adam nodded. “That’s a start.” He turned slowly. “Well, at least all the equipment appears to be here.”
“Aye. But the truth is, it will take more work than I first thought . . .”
“More work, Mistress Anneke?” griped Will. “It’ll take the king’s army.”
“Rubbish,” said Adam. Propping the outside door wide open so more light flooded the space, he knocked his fist against the mash tun. The sound reverberated. “This merely needs a good clean.” He bent down and examined it from below. “There’s a piece of wood wants replacing, but nothing Jasper Cooper won’t be able to tend quickly. I’ll go and see him shortly, ask him to have a look.”
I wasn’t to be spared a cooper after all.
Adam strolled to the troughs and inspected them as well. “You weren’t a part of this household when the brewhouse was used almost every day, Will. It was a sight to behold and one we’ll see again.” He smiled. “Just as the equipment is coated in dirt, disguising its value, you’re allowing first impressions to blind you to what’s before your eyes.” Wiping away a cobweb, he used his jerkin to clean part of the metal. Mimicking Adam, I went to the kiln, passing a hand across its surface and rubbing it on the apron I’d thankfully thought to don. My hand left a dark gray streak on the fabric.
“This is the same, I think.” I opened the door and was enveloped by a cloud of ashes and soot. Caught unawares, I fell backward, coughing and spluttering. I began to laugh. Adam hauled me to my feet, chuckling, his eyes studying my face.
“Nothing a good scrub won’t fix.”
Self-consciously, I raised my hands to my face.
I chortled and coughed again. “I’m sure.” I applied my apron to my cheeks. “I’ll ask Iris to help me clean this and the oven,” I added, noting the grime and rodent droppings across its surface as well. “We’ll fetch a couple of buckets and brushes and tend to them immediately. Perhaps I can persuade Blanche, if she’s not too busy, to help scrub out the troughs.” I ran my hands along their solid edges and then, leaning over, tried to clear the thick glass above with the end of my sleeve, leaving a greasy smudge. “These windows too.” I sighed as the amount of work began to add up. I pressed my back against the trough and reexamined the room. It was hard to imagine it free of all the filth, let alone functioning. With a deep breath that ended in a volley of coughs, I began to recite all that was needed, counting chores off on my fingers. “Oh,” I added, looking toward the stove and kiln and the crooked chimney breast in which they sat. “We’ll need a sweep as well, Adam. And someone needs to scrub the malthouse. I’m not laying grain until the floor is spotless.”