Though the day passed much like the others, this one carried the weight of expectation. It hovered over our activities and conversations like a threatening storm cloud. Today marked the threshold moment when our future as commercial brewers would be decided—not by our customers, not at first, but by the official town tasters, the supposedly impartial ale-conners. Required by law to test every fresh brew for sale, to assess the quality, check our measures, and set the price, nothing could be sold until the elected men approved it. Just as they could allow sales to proceed, they could equally order a brewer to tip the entire barrel into the earth and then fine them heavily for the privilege. According to gossip in the marketplace and generously passed on by those who knew what we were doing, including Betrix, that had been happening more than usual of late. Inspired by my efforts, women who’d previously lost brews or been fined because of the friary’s intervention were making fresh ones. Whether they were too hasty in going to sale, didn’t allow the ale to ferment long enough, or because the abbot still had his way, their efforts had been for naught.
Yet again, Mistress Amwell and Mistress Scot lost brews to the soil and received unusually hefty fines, Mistress Scot enduring a dunking for her efforts, making their continuance as independents in the trade all but impossible. They would now become hucksters, selling on ale from the friary like others before them. Two of the taverns in town and even more of the inns had been prevented from selling their own ale and forced to buy from the friary because what they produced didn’t meet the ale-conners fickle standards. There was much discontent in town and murmurings about money changing hands, but no proof. Master Perkyn’s warnings played on my mind. Whatever bribe the abbot offered, shouldn’t quality speak for itself? All these other brewers failing—women and men—was more than a coincidence, surely? Captain Stoyan may have warned the abbot away from me, but were his words heeded? Would I be the exception to the brewing rule? Or had I made things worse for others by being so insistent I could do this?
“Is the ale-wand out, Will?” I asked finally when, by midday, there was still no sign of the ale-conners. The ale-wand or ale-stake was what announced a brew was ready to taste. Not that it was required—not the way rumor spread in Elmham Lenn. It was highly likely the conners would have known my brew was mature before I did. From what I’d heard, these men had an uncanny knack of arriving at a prospective brewer’s house or inn before they’d even been summoned.
Though not, it appeared, today.
“Aye, mistress. I put it out first thing this morning. You’d have to be blind or drunk not to see it—or both. What with it being the fair, and all the people in town and us on a main road and all.” Will frowned and craned his neck to peer out the window. “I would have thought they’d be here by now.”
I followed the direction of his gaze. Long shadows crossed the courtyard; with winter almost upon us, the days grew shorter. A light rain struck the window. The ashen skies of the morning darkened until great bruised clouds sagged overhead. There was a mighty storm waiting to break.
“Me too,” I said. “Perhaps they’re busy with their other duties?”
“Mayhap,” said Adam gruffly. “But I think a message is being sent and it might be one to which we’re yet forced to listen. Captain Stoyan and Master Perkyn were right to be concerned about the friary. No one is able to go into competition with them—not anymore, the abbot won’t allow it. Captain Stoyan may believe he’s forced the abbot’s hand, but he also told us he’s cunning, and what’s more cunning than the ale-conners failing to show? How can the abbot be held accountable for that?”
I paused over the mash tun, leaning against the stirrer, looking at Adam in horror. “Sweet Jesù, Adam. I fear you may be right.” Wiping the back of my hand across my brow, I searched for reassurance. “Surely the conners wouldn’t break their oath? It’s not to be taken lightly. I’ve read it myself: ‘So soon as you shall be required to taste any ale of a brewer or brewster, shall be ready to do the same . . .’” I released a huge sigh. “They’re failing in their duties if they don’t appear when summoned and can be charged.”
All I wanted, all I needed, was a chance, but if the ale-conners didn’t come, all our work would be for naught. My spirits began to flag, my shoulders drooped. I looked at the hogshead towering over its smaller wooden brethren. Orders from our neighbors had already arrived, and I was keen to sell what we didn’t need; anything to make rent. But nothing could happen until officialdom gave permission.
“Come on,” I said finally, leaving the paddle in the mash. “I can’t stand around waiting. I’ve ale to sell. Let’s move those barrels into the shop. If the ale-conners haven’t come by the time we’ve shifted them, then Will, you go and fetch them.”
Throwing some more coal into the kiln and stove, Adam brushed his hands against his jerkin and, with a nod to Will, cleared a space to roll the first of the barrels out.
The noise of the barrel on the gravel sent the chickens squawking and set the dogs barking. Thinking we were bringing out more of the spent mash, the draff, the pigs began to follow us and I had to shoo them out of the way.
Exclamations of glee, followed by the smacking of lips and clapping of hands met our entrance into the kitchen.
Blanche smiled so broadly, the gaps in her lower teeth were visible. “This is it then!” she cried. “Our first brew. Well done, mistress. You two as well,” she added with a lift of her chin toward Adam and Will, who were out of breath and working up a sweat. Wonderful smells emanated from the feast Blanche was preparing. The plucked goose was trussed and basting in a big copper pan. Freshly baked pies sat on the table, steam still rising from the golden-brown pastry. Dough sat resting in bowls, its smell almost identical to that which permeated the brewhouse. Platters of late-autumn fruits and wedges of soft cheeses sat upon the table waiting our workday to end. Warming on the stovetop was some spiced mead and a huge saucepan of pottage.
Hearing my voice, the twins ran from the hall, twining their hands in mine.
“Is that it, Anneke? Is that our ale?” asked Karel, eyes fixed on the barrel Adam and Will leaned against while they gratefully gulped down a drink and tore at a piece of bread Iris thrust into their hands. I shook my head when she offered a piece to me. Karel pouted and was rewarded with some bread of his own. He bit into it hastily.
“Do we get to taste it too?” asked Betje, reaching out to stroke the metal bands that held the wood in place.
“Of course,” I said, swinging their hands. “Not this barrel, but the hogshead of small ale, for certes. And soon.”
Catching Adam’s eye, I led the twins through the house, the barrel following. As they skipped beside me, I marveled that Karel and Betje had been so patient about what was happening. Not only had they suffered the loss of their father and the upheaval Hiske caused, but the last weeks had been even harder on them. Used to having me, if not at their beck and call, at least available, I was gone from dawn till dusk. When I came inside, I’d collapse in the hall each night. Waiting till I’d eaten, only then would they press me for a story. I always found one in my repertoire and, though my voice lacked its usual vigor and my imagination didn’t quite spark, they never complained. Their resilience and good humor seemed boundless. I loved them all the more for it. How proud Mother and even Father would be of their children. The thought gave me pause. Would my parents be proud of me? Of what I was doing?