The fire crackled, the kiln was hot against my back.
“Can you forgive me?” he asked softly, stooping slightly so our faces were level.
For a fleeting moment, I glimpsed a different man. The man who fearlessly strutted the timbers of a heaving ship despite his affliction, who, according to Tobias, was brave and foolhardy in battle, and accustomed to making quick decisions and being obeyed. This was the man who watched over my brother.
Sensing my hesitation, he raised my hand to his lips. Wide-eyed, I stared as they pressed against my skin, tender yet ever so firm. His lashes were long and dark, his hair shiny. I sucked in my breath; it was as if a spark ignited deep inside me. He kissed my hand again, this time, answering it with an insistent grip and turning his face ever so slightly so his cheek, for just a fleeting second, rested against the back of my hand. Shocked at such an intimate gesture, once more I tried to extract my hand. This time, he released it slowly, drawing out the moment, and looked at me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. I brushed my other hand against where his lips had touched, where his cheek had momentarily lain. A flicker of a smile crossed his face. Ah, I understood. Sir Leander had used this ploy before.
Others may have accepted an admission of error, his heartfelt apology.
I was not others.
“I cannot,” I said finally.
Sir Leander took a step back and blinked. If I hadn’t been so serious, I would have laughed at the owlish expression on his face. Few denied this gentleman.
“I can’t forgive you,” I continued. “Not yet. It was a harsh, cruel word, my lord, callously and thoughtlessly delivered. It hurt me deeply. I cannot dismiss it from my memory simply because you bid me do so. I am not my mother, Sir Leander, neither am I my father to strike a poor bargain, and I perceive your apology to be one. You haven’t yet paid the price of your rudeness, not according to my accounting.” I raised my finger to prevent him speaking. “But, to prove I’m not completely without reason, there’s something I can do—I can give you another chance.”
He began to smile.
“Only one,” I said, holding a finger steady to make my point.
“That’s all I need,” he said, and, with a toss of his head and a smile that creased his eyes and dimpled his cheeks, threw his cloak over the table, spun around, and headed to the malthouse. Shucking off his boots, he scooped up the rake with his cane, wielding it like a sword as he descended the steps.
It was some minutes before I resumed my work.
After that, things changed between us. As each hour passed, the tightness I felt between my shoulders, the hum of slow-burning anger that Sir Leander’s presence generally presaged, transformed into something else.
Two days later, the ship from Exeter arrived and they were gone.
And so it was, in the days after we bade Tobias and Sir Leander farewell, Saskia, Adam, and I were doing the work that had for a short time at least been shared among five.
* * *
For all the warnings about the friary, that townsfolk would be too afraid to purchase from me lest they offend the abbot, these past weeks had seen the ale walk out the shop door almost as soon as the bushel was hung. I’d begun to take orders as well. Good as his word, Master Proudfellow not only sold my ale, but spoke to the other innkeepers in town, persuading them that if they all offered some of my brew as well as the friary’s, then not only would they be unlikely to be punished, but they were helping everyone’s business. I now brewed ale for the Gull’s Rise, the Crown and Anchor, the Pickled Herring, and the Bull’s Head, inns close to the docks. Master Proudfellow said there were more wanting to order, but they were being cautious, waiting to see if there were consequences for the others. I was relieved, for it was all I could do to keep up with demand.
* * *
It was St. Catherine’s Day when Father Clement came to visit. I was on my way from the kitchen to the brewhouse when the hounds alerted me to a visitor. Waving with joy, I went to greet him, calling out reassurances to the dogs, only slowing my pace when I noted the two black-robed men accompanying him. What were they doing here? My heart began to hammer. I wiped my hands on the apron.
“God give you good day, Father Clement.” I smiled, my expression quizzical.
“You too, Mistress Sheldrake,” said the Father. “May the Lord shine blessings upon you.” With a look I interpreted as apologetic, he introduced me to his companions. “This is Brother Osbert, the sub-prior of St. Jude’s. Brother Marcus here is the cellarer.” There was a slight quiver in his voice. For certes, the friary had sent some powerful men to me.
“Sirs, by God you are welcome,” I said, granting them a curtsy, hoping I didn’t sound as concerned as I felt.
“Mistress Sheldrake,” said Brother Osbert, a portly man with a ruddy complexion and intelligent eyes. “Forgive this unexpected visit. His grace, Abbot Hubbard, has asked us to present a business proposition to you and, as we were in Elmham Lenn to oversee the St. Catherine’s Day mass, we thought we’d take the opportunity. We pray this is a convenient time. Is there somewhere we can talk?”
Surely, my ears were deceived? “The abbot wants to do business with me?” The hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention.
“That he does.” Brother Marcus nodded affably, a too-wide grin splitting his face, spoiled only by the fact he was missing many teeth and the smile didn’t reach his eyes.
Before I could respond, Adam stepped out of the brewery, wiping his hands on a balled cloth. The dogs were still barking fit to bring down the heavens, and with a frown he shut them in the stables before joining me, his boots crunching in patches of remnant frost.
Introductions were made and with some reluctance, I led the brothers back to the house. As we passed the brewhouse, the door blew open and the rich aroma of mash and wort wafted over us.
“This is where you make your delicious ale?” asked Brother Osbert, stepping forward and peering inside.
Reaching past him, Adam wrenched the door closed and gave a curt nod. “It is.”
“You’ve tasted it then?” I asked the brother.
“Ever since you first brewed, we’ve tasted every batch,” said Brother Marcus with that fixed smile. “Marvelous how you manage to keep such consistency.”
“Indeed,” said Brother Osbert. “It’s almost unnatural.” His easy manner didn’t deflect the sense of peril his words aroused. But all I could think about was that they’d tasted it and wanted to place a business proposal before me. Could Captain Stoyan be wrong? Was the friary not my enemy but, like Lord Rainford, a potential business partner?
“Please, come this way, brothers,” I said quickly, trying not to let my growing excitement show. “Let me assure you, there’s nothing unnatural about what I do. After all, this is ale we’re talking about.”
“Ah, but ale can lead to many interesting conversations, don’t you find, Mistress Sheldrake?” Brother Osbert increased his pace so he walked beside me. “Just when you think you’re discussing one thing, it becomes another matter altogether.” He gave a laugh, an odd, high-pitched trill. “Who knows what we could end up considering?”
Brother Marcus chuckled. Adam, Father Clement, and I didn’t join in.
I knew then I didn’t want these men anywhere near the twins or my home, not until I could ascertain whether they were a threat or offering a flag of truce. Instead of leading them into the kitchen, I diverted by the vegetable garden and to the front of the house and the shop. As we passed the stables, the hounds’ barking increased.