Adam, Will, Iris when she could be spared, Saskia, and I, and even Louisa and the twins, had done nothing but work from dawn until dusk for days. Making larger quantities of ale required more hands than had once made the household’s supply. What I also discovered was that six years is a long time between brews. Unpracticed with the stages, determined to follow my mother’s recipes lest I make a mistake, I commenced slowly. Flopping into bed at night exhausted and filled with self-doubt, I prayed to not only the Virgin and my Lord Jesus Christ, but also (may God forgive me) to the Sumerian goddess of brewing, Ninkasi.
Ninkasi was a beautiful goddess from ancient times, and Mother had taught me the hymn brewsters in the Low Countries, Germany, and other parts of the continent sang to her to ensure the ale became yeasty and rich. Sometimes we’d even call upon Hathor, the Egyptian goddess of drunkenness, but Mother warned we were only to invoke her for very special occasions. I wondered if our first ale would warrant Hathor’s help and decided it would, so, when the opportunity presented itself, I summoned her presence as well.
Barely stopping for meals, throwing down a piece of bread, some cold rabbit or eel, depending on the day of the week, the entire household committed fully. We had to—our livelihoods and the roof over our heads depended on it. There was an undertow of desperation to all we did, an unspoken fear of failure.
By the end of the first two weeks, when the first batch of grain was dried and ready to go to the mill, we had found a rhythm. Preparing the malt became a matter, over ten days, of tossing the grain across the now-clean and better-lit floor of the malthouse and watching it fall like a brief shower of rain. Soaking the barley in the crystal waters we’d drawn from the nearby stream, the Nene, it spread over the floor, a slow-moving marsh settling against its earthen banks. Bare-footed engineers, we’d lean on our tools and watch our muddy demesne form around our ankles. As the hours and days passed, we used the rakes and shovels to prevent the roots from fastening to the floor and each other, our backs and shoulders aching. Keeping the kiln and stove burning constantly, within days a fresh field of tiny green shoots sprouted and we became farmers rejoicing in our crop. Scooping up the new life, we layered it onto the large trays that went into the kiln. This was the point at which the previous hard work could easily come undone. If the temperature was too high and the grains burned, the ale was ruined before it was made. Likewise if the heat was too low. Mother had taught me how to ensure the fire burned slowly but consistently, waiting until the grains transformed into a mixture of amber or the color of the sandstone rocks that swept the bay, before swiftly removing them.
After the cooled grain was poured into sacks, it was sent to the mill to be ground. The following day, it was returned—a coarse flour littered with chits and husks ready for the next stage.
The milled grain was tipped into the mash tun and hot water added. As with the heat from the fire, if the water was too hot or not hot enough, the brew would be spoiled. Many brewsters destroyed their ale during this process—Mistress Margery Kempe from Bishop’s Lynn was as famous for her piety as she was for ruining brew after brew. It was hard to gauge the heat. It required experience and what Mother used to call “the touch.” Her trick was to allow the water to boil, cool it slightly, and then place her elbow just below the surface. If she could tolerate the conditions and, more importantly, the steam had dispersed enough so she could catch a glimpse of her face upon the now-still surface of the water, it was time to add the milled barley.
Rolling up my sleeve, I did exactly as she’d always done. The water was hot but not boiling, and gazing back at me, as if about to emerge from the dark liquid, was my wide-eyed visage, tendrils of hair glued to my forehead and cheeks, as if I too were an ingredient. Mayhap I was. Using old drying sheets, Adam and Will hoisted the huge copper off the stove and slowly poured the contents into the mash tun, where the grain drank it thirstily. Grabbing the long-handled ladle, my mother’s mash paddle, I stood over the tun and worked clockwise then counterclockwise, moving around and blending the ingredients to prevent clumps of grist forming. Saskia took over when my arms grew tired. Following one of Mother’s recipes, I added cloves, some sweet gale, and bog myrtle to the mixture, sprinkling them onto the surface. Saskia stirred and I watched them whirl and settle and listened to the plashing of the liquid wort as it drained through the natural sieve of broken husks and grain into the copper underneath the tun.
We now had the beginnings of our ale. Tomorrow, before dawn, when the house was still abed and I was certain no one could bear witness, I would perform the step I believed made my mother’s brew unique. A process no one, not Saskia, Father, or, God forbid, Hiske, knew about. It had been Mother’s secret and mine, one passed down through the de Winter women for generations. I would ensure it was kept that way, until I was ready to pass it on to Betje and my children, and she to hers.
The thought of children of my own, let alone little Betje having any, gave me pause. Would my womb ever quicken? In order to have a child, I first had to find a husband, and that was unlikely to happen any time soon.
Sending Will out to chop wood, Adam and I turned our attention to straining the last of the wort away from the mash. This would be done twice—the first time created a rich, full-tasting ale. The second, after we poured more water upon the mash, made a weaker small ale that would mostly be kept for the household to drink. Some brewers, including the friary, would not only add more water to their first press in order to create more volume, they would also do a second and even a third pass, producing a very thin drink, unfit, by most folk’s reckoning, for consumption. I refused to do this. I wanted to sell only my first, unless taste and demand said different, and let my reputation and fortune stand on that. Watching the honey-colored broth move through the remnants of the mash and splash into the huge copper pots that sat beneath the tun did much to elevate my spirits. We were so close.
When Will returned, the wort-filled coppers were heaved onto the stove. It was this part that went a long way to making the ale my mother used to make different from everybody else’s. Few bothered to boil the wort—not the brewsters in Elmham Lenn nor the monks at the friary. It wasn’t economical or, many believed, necessary. Maybe not. But it did add flavor to the ale and, for some reason I didn’t understand, preserved it for longer as well. The trick was to bring it to the point where the wort roiled around the pot and then create a whirlpool with the special ladle. One hour was all that was needed. Using a marked candle, I ordered Will to light it as soon as I detected signs that the boiling point had been reached. Standing on a stool by the pot, I placed the ladle in and stirred, imagining, as I used to years ago, I was bringing the great whirlpool Charybdis, she who tried to confound the hero Odysseus, to life. Tiny ships filled with terrified sailors were tossed upon my waves . . . just like those on board the Cathaline . . .
I withdrew the ladle in shock. How callous of me. My face burned with shame. I’d become lost in the joy of creation and wasn’t thinking, allowing the stories of old to sweep me into another world. Thank the good Lord Adam and Will seemed oblivious. I quickly replaced the paddle, my daydreaming tempered. After a while, the brewhouse walls ran with rivulets from the steam, and they seemed like tears of happiness.
That night the boiled wort was left to cool in the troughs beneath the windows, which I left open. Sacks of grain sat by the door, the tun was gleaming, awaiting a new mash, and the malthouse floor was full of sprouting barley. Production could now begin in earnest. I tossed and turned, unable to rest despite fatigue so great it made my head throb. Anxious lest I’d lost my touch, failed both my mother’s instructions and her memory, I gave up trying to seek the oblivion of sleep and rose before the sun, throwing on some clothes and creeping downstairs, across the garden, and into the brewery.