Captain Stoyan straightened, his brow furrowed. “If that should happen, you would be ruined before you even started.” He tapped his fingers on the desk a few times. “It’s common knowledge around here that the abbot pays the ale-conners to pass his ale for sale. The mayor doesn’t care so long as the friary pays its most generous tax, the Merchants’ Guild turns a blind eye because they still get paid to sell it around the county. And the Mystery of Brewers? Well, how often does a representative from London get to Elmham Lenn?”
I shrugged. I knew not.
“Exactly. As for the ale-conners, well, they’re simple folk tempted by extra coin. Of course they accept the abbot’s bribes—all they have to do is pass as acceptable what any decent alewife would tip in the dirt and call draff. To them, it’s not a great sin and I’m sure the abbot, or whoever he sends to deal with them in his stead, grants them indulgences, or for a groat they get one from a pardoner.” He inhaled sharply. “In other words, Mistress Anneke, you’re right to be concerned.” Rising to his feet, Captain Stoyan circled the room. “We all know what’s going on—the mayor, the aldermen, the Hanse. Frankly, I didn’t care. If the Englischer were stupid enough to drink the friary’s rubbish, let them. Here we have access to some of the finest ales and beers in Europe.” His hand swept toward the jug on the table. “Why would we drink the abbot’s?” Rubbing his chin, he regarded Anneke carefully. “But it’s different now. I’ll not let him or any of those crooks hurt you.”
Hope fluttered in my breast. “You’ll help me?”
A wicked grin split his face. “Sweet fräulein, I can and I will.” Sitting back down, he propped his elbows on the desk and lowered his voice. “You see, Abbot Badon Hubbard has been in control of the friary for a long time; he’s forgotten that he’s simply a spoke in a big wheel that will turn with or without him. I think he just needs a little reminder about what his order owes the Hanse. We not only control the trade routes throughout Europe, but the pilgrim passages as well. Like most religious orders, the Benedictines need access through the Rhine in order to make their holy treks and, for that to happen, they need the cooperation of the Hanseatic League.
“All it would take for that to become . . . let’s say, most troublesome, for the passes to become impossible, for ships to become unavailable, rivers and oceans unnavigable, roads too dangerous, is a word from me to my colleagues in the Stilliard in London or, better still, Cologne. From there, every port between Lübeck and Harfleur, Hamburg and Venice, Danzig and Ypres, and the entire Rhine, never mind passage through the Alps, would be closed to the Benedictines. Once word gets out that the Friary of St. Jude has caused this . . . well . . . you can imagine. Every Catholic between here, Rome, and even those who follow the Antipope in Avignon would be calling God’s wrath upon them and, ultimately, his grace. I don’t think Abbot Hubbard would want to risk that, do you?”
My eyes widened. “You would threaten the abbot?”
“For you, Anneke, I would do that and more.”
“You’re not going to try and talk me out of it? Out of brewing?”
Captain Stoyan snorted. “What? Like your mother when she had her heart set on something? Like I tried to talk her out of marrying your father?”
Failing to notice my surprise, he shook his head, his bushy hair thrown back and forth. “Nein, liebchen. Not me. I’ll not try to dissuade you. I will see you’re given every chance to succeed.”
My face grew warm, my heart light until the shadow looming over me reappeared. “My impression is that Abbot Hubbard is someone who wouldn’t take kindly to being threatened . . .”
Captain Stoyan laughed. It was dry, bitter. “I don’t threaten. I’m doing him the courtesy of issuing a warning. He leaves you alone. Him and his verdammt ale-conners.”
I repressed a smile. “You think that will work?”
“Unless the abbot is a very stupid, or very cunning man—”
“He’s a man of God.”
“Then he is both.” Captain Stoyan pushed back his chair and stood, striding over to the map on the wall. He traced a finger along the lower part. “If the throne of England bows to the might of the Hanse”—he drew a huge circle that encompassed all of France, Burgundy, the kingdom of Poland, Sweden, and beyond—“then your abbot will too—he will, or he’ll be crushed.”
Smiling at Captain Stoyan through blurry vision, I blinked the tears back rapidly.
“Don’t cry, liebchen.” Stepping toward me, he suddenly halted and struck his forehead. “Of course,” he exclaimed. Swinging toward the chest, he flung the lid back with a resounding bang. “Since you’re entering the brewing trade, I’ve something here that you may be interested in. Something that may give you an advantage.” Pulling out a small sack, he untied the opening. “Hold out your hands.”
Wiping my eyes quickly, I dried my palms on my dress and then held them up obediently. Captain Stoyan poured some herbs into them. They were a light green. I bent my head and inhaled. They smelled of a freshly plowed field or an aromatic spice I couldn’t place.
“What’s this?”
“Something that’s been used in Germany and your mother’s home as long as I can remember. You will have heard of it—it’s called hops.” He dragged his finger through the hops, tickling my palm. “We use it all the time. Few of you Englischer appreciate it, but that is slowly changing. When added to the ale at the right time, it makes a drink we call beer. It’s what you’re enjoying with me now.”
I breathed in the scent again and then, as the captain had done, rolled the herb between my fingertips. It was quite fresh, oily almost.
“I have heard of it and, of course, Mother spoke if it. But I’d never seen it before, or used it. There’re many recipes among the ones she left. If I remember correctly, she said the reason the English didn’t like it was because it gave the ale a very bitter taste.”
“It does, but it also preserves it. Hence, the Hanse can export all over Europe, not like your ale that sometimes sours in mere days. Not much beer comes to England . . . not yet—but once a taste has been developed . . . Well, why import what you can make and purchase at home?” He paused. “Perhaps this is something you can do?” Propping himself on the edge of his desk, he folded his arms and regarded me seriously. “If you learn to use this properly and make beer, you might be able not only to educate the English palate, but to look at exporting. Apart from a couple of brewers in Winchelsea, there are one or two in London who are using hops, but they haven’t perfected their recipes yet. Haven’t quite managed to get the taste right, and they’re working on a small scale.”
I looked from the hops back to the captain. “Maybe I could experiment . . .”
“Ja,” he said. “You should.” Returning to his seat, the captain drained the last of his drink. “Take that.” He waved at the sack on his desk. “I’ve more. It’s only a small amount. I will give you some beer to take with you as well. You can taste it, do some tests with the hops. If you wish, I can bring more back from Germany when I return in late December. But trust me when I say, if you learn to brew with hops”—he opened his palm to reveal what was nestled in there—“make a beer that the English will like and which you can sell beyond your shores, you won’t only be able to provide for your family, you’ll become a wealthy woman.”