There were final steps to complete. One, an essential part of the process; the other, a de Winter tradition. The ale could not be drunk, let alone sold, without this arcane undertaking that made Mother’s ale distinctive and had folk returning for more. This made the “magic” of which Perkyn Miller and Captain Stoyan spoke, though they were ignorant of its origin.
I shut the door. No one must know. No one could see. I couldn’t leave anything to chance.
With a flaming candle resting atop an empty barrel, I examined the contents of the trough. The window above revealed the pre-dawn sky. Angry red streaks punctured the gray, promising a day of sorry weather. My breath misted as I studied the coat of soft white spume dressing the ale. The smell was overpowering. Images of rolling hills, days of sunshine, freshly turned earth, and baking bread filled my vision. My headache began to abate and a smile tugged the corners of my mouth. I could detect the wild notes of pine and winter. Shutting my eyes briefly, I also saw Mother’s sweet face. You will make it work, she whispered.
Uncorking one of the jugs of beer Captain Stoyan had given me, I slowly tipped it into the wort, relishing the splash and gurgle as it tumbled from the spout into the trough. Until I’d been given this, I’d believed myself doomed to use the friary ale in order to add the vital ingredient, the godisgoode, the element all brewers needed, to my brew. Using the Low Countries beer, the “son of ale” as I’d heard it called, meant I not only brought some of my mother’s homeland to my recipe, but I avoided what I felt was contamination—the friary.
Lowering my arm into the trough, I slipped through the flocculent, luscious froth. Transformed into a fleshy paddle, I divided the cool liquid, caressing it, murmuring, allowing the love I felt for my family, the hope I clung to for our future, to flow from me into the ale. I thought of the friends who supported this venture: Captain Stoyan; Masters Perkyn, Bondfield, and Proudfellow; not forgetting Adam, Saskia, Will, Blanche, Iris, Louisa, and, of course, the twins. Opaque, the now-golden water swirled as I carved a path through the creamy bubbles, back and forth, to and fro. Satisfied it parted so readily before my gentle intrusion, I began to sing, all the time my hand stroked the wort, calling the ale to life as Mother had taught me.
When I’d finished, I removed my hand and brought it to my mouth and licked it slowly. The earthiness of malt struck the roof of my mouth, the subtle sweetness of the fluids lathed my tongue. I shut my eyes in pleasure. A wild nectar clung to my teeth while cloves raced down my throat, nestling warmly in my chest. I sucked my fingers one by one and was rewarded with the bitterness of the bog myrtle and even the faint tang of the captain’s beer. My head spun momentarily and the room expanded on itself before contracting, till there was only the beam of watery light passing through the window. Upon its shining span, I saw rows of tiny lights spinning toward me, toward the hand I held before my face. Lapping the last of the ale, reveling in the taste, the aroma, the effect, I wanted to giggle, dance, throw my arms out. I did all three, abandoning myself to the ale, to the magic created.
Once more, Mother’s face manifested, laughing gaily, reaching for me—beyond me—with a look I hadn’t seen before. Her cheeks were now pale, her eyes dark with disbelief, fear, even. Who was she regarding in such a way?
“Moeder,” I called quietly, slipping into her native tongue, seeking to distract her. She turned toward me, the anguish gone, and with a sweet smile, met my eyes.
“The crones,” she murmured. “Remember the crones.” Her visage vanished and I was alone in the brewhouse as dawn broke over the county.
With a sigh that spoke of loss and longing, I dried my hand. From what I tasted, the brew exceeded my expectations. But the process was not complete, and if we were to be ready to sell by Martinmas, I’d one more thing left to do.
Reaching for the copper scoop that hung on a hook by the far wall, I dipped it into the trough. Collecting some wort, I went to each of the four corners of the brewhouse and tipped a portion onto the floor. Mother could be assured, I hadn’t forgotten the crones. An old Low Countries custom, I offered our ale to the corner crones who dwelled in the brewery and asked that they bless what I made. The last dregs I deposited on the threshold of the malthouse and then, bowing to each of the spirits in turn, I thanked them from the bottom of my very full heart.
I’d just returned to the wort when Adam and Will entered, failing to notice the little wet patches in the corners or, as I imagined, the tiny old women, on hands and knees, lapping my offering up greedily.
* * *
And so our days passed—malting, mashing, and preparing the wort. Now that I had my own godisgoode to make the brew froth, foam, and ferment, I was able to pass the goodness on to each fresh batch. Every day, I would conduct my secret ceremony—singing the ale into life and respecting the generations of women past, the goddesses and crones who’d granted to womenkind the joy and responsibility of brewing. Gradually, we filled our barrels and even a hogshead of small ale, and the day to summon the ale-conners to taste and pass the brew for sale drew closer. The day that would test the veracity or otherwise of the abbot’s assurances to Captain Stoyan, and his to me.
Thirteen
Holcroft House
Martinmas, Eleventh of November
The year of Our Lord 1405 in the seventh year of the reign of Henry IV
It was Martinmas, the day the last of the wheat and barley crops were planted. Livestock that couldn’t be maintained over winter were slaughtered and a huge hiring fair was held in town. Tonight, there would be much gaiety and celebration as a feast with fires, mummers, jugglers, minstrels, and dancing was held in the main square. In previous years, though we hadn’t been allowed to attend the dance (Hiske persuading Father that the strangers who poured into town at this time of year were not only dangerous, but posed a potential threat to our souls with their behavior), we’d enjoyed the fair and the festive foods, such as joints of beef, legs of mutton, and pottages full of bacon, wild onions, and herbs. Being conscious of spending this year, Blanche salted our beef and stored it away for winter, sold our mutton, and put goose on the menu for the evening instead.
But I’d much more to keep me occupied than thoughts of fine fare, the dubious company of strangers, or dancing. Up well before dawn, by the time the bells marking prime tolled, I’d been in the brewhouse for over an hour, my ancient rites completed and the fires stoked. Moments after I’d finished, Adam and Will, brushing crumbs from their mouths, stumbled through the still-dark skies and hoary frost to join me.
“We’re doing well, Mistress Anneke. Almost five barrels full.” Adam nodded toward where the ale was stored as he warmed his hands by the kiln.
While I didn’t want to deflate his optimism, I also didn’t want to create false hope. “It certainly appears we’re doing well, but we won’t really know until this afternoon.”
“That’s right,” said Will, striding over to join us, slapping the side of the first barrel on his way past. It made a dull sound. “Not until we taste the brew!” He sidled in beside Adam, letting the heat strike his back. “Well, not until the ale-conners do.”
We all regarded each other solemnly. Blanche always said the proof was in the tasting. So it would be with the ale. Confident that what I’d tried each morning was good, something the others had confirmed when they’d had a sip, I didn’t want to say too much lest we’d grossly misjudged. After all, some of the brew had been fermenting in the barrels for well over a week now, and a great deal could go awry that had nothing to do with the ale-conners, bribes, or the abbot.