Brother Osbert held my eyes for a long moment before striding out of the shop, striking the latch off the door as he did. Brother Marcus flashed a look of disgust mingled with regret.
“Don’t bother following,” he said to Father Clement. “It’s evident where your loyalties lie,” he spat.
“My loyalties are, first and foremost, with God,” said Father Clement, stumbling to his feet. Brother Marcus sneered before he followed the sub-prior. The wind caught the door as they exited, slamming it against the frame.
We watched them storm off as snow began to fall. They looked like crows with their black capes and mantles flying out behind them.
I sank back onto the bench. Only now did I fill my mazer and drink.
Adam and Father Clement returned to their seats and tossed back what remained in their cups. Adam poured a generous amount for us all.
“You did well, Mistress Anneke, standing your ground against them.”
“You’re right, Adam,” said Father Clement. “If you’d sold them the recipes, Mistress Anneke, it would have spelled the end of your brewing. They’d have undercut you.”
I stared out the window, the image of the brothers’ righteous indignation in my mind. It was clear they thought their proposal would be readily embraced, that they would not be denied. Yet like Peter the apostle, three times I’d denied them. My head sank into my hands. From where did such courage or foolhardiness come?
“Even if they had the recipes, they couldn’t make the ale the way I do . . . they don’t understand. But I couldn’t give over Mother’s recipes. I just couldn’t. Not to them, not to anyone. They’re for the family, no one else.”
Adam touched the back of my hand gently. “It’s all right, mistress, it will be all right.”
“Will it?” I asked, raising my head. Again, my eyes followed their angry tracks in the muddy snow. “I’m not so sure. If I didn’t have an enemy before, I do now.”
Nineteen
Holcroft House
Late November to early December
The year of Our Lord 1405 in the seventh year of the reign of Henry IV
Just over a week later, we had another unexpected visit, this time from Master Perkyn and Olive. A soft snow was spiraling from the heavens, the pale morning light still trying to force its way through thick clouds. I was in the brewhouse and had only completed the ceremony to the goddess and crones moments before there was a knock on the door. When I saw the Millers and took in the expression on their faces and Olive’s poor swollen eyes, I let out an exclamation and ushered them into the warm, bringing them close to the kiln.
“What is it? What’s happened?” I asked. They didn’t speak, but stared at the floor, the snowflakes on their capes melting in the heat.
“It’s broken, Lady Anneke, it’s all broken,” wailed Olive finally, throwing an arm up over her eyes, resisting her father’s efforts to comfort her.
I looked to Master Perkyn, confused and concerned as I untied Olive’s cape and stroked her arms.
“Broken? What do you mean?” I quickly checked the young woman for injury.
“Aye,” said her father with a heavy heart. “She’s right, mistress. It’s the mill. Some bastard’s gone and taken an axe to it, ain’t they? That and more besides.”
Oh dear God.
“Forgive me, mistress,” said Master Perkyn, “I didn’t know where else to go.”
“You did the right thing coming here. I’m glad you did.” I threw Olive’s cape over the table and scrambled for a kerchief, dabbing at her cheeks as best I could while her face remained buried in the crook of her elbow, immovable. “When did this happen? Thank the good Lord you’re both all right. We’ll get to the bottom of this.” Words tumbled out of me. I felt at a loss to know how to comfort them. They needed to talk, but they also needed something to warm them, they were both shaking with cold and shock. “Do you want to come to the house with me or wait here? I’m going to fetch some warm wine and blankets.”
Master Perkyn looked at Olive. “If it be all right with you, mistress, I’d as soon stay here. Olive, you see, it’s been—” He couldn’t finish.
I squeezed his arm in understanding and pushed the kerchief into Olive’s fist. Her fingers tightened around it and she lowered her arm to peep at me.
“I’ll be as quick as I can.” Swinging my shawl around my shoulders, I ran to the kitchen, set the servants to pouring drinks and finding blankets, and then searched for Adam. He was in the shop. I quickly told him what had happened. Dropping the paper on which he’d been recording our sales, he followed me back to the brewery.
A couple of hours and some wine, ale, and bread later, Saskia, Adam, and I had the story from the Millers. Huddled around the kiln, Olive snuggling into me like a cold cat before a fire, her father told us what happened.
During the night, the dogs had woken them, barking fit to wake the dead. Not able to see anything in the dark, and hearing nothing himself, Master Perkyn went back to bed. It was snowing heavily and bitterly cold outside and he could see no reason to venture out.
“But I should of, curse my lazy bones,” he said. “For when I went to the mill this morning, it was to find the door shattered, my stone smashed, and the ropes cut. To add insult, some bastard pissed—and worse—in the grain that was stored there, and that includes yours, Mistress Sheldrake. I’m afraid your next crop of barley is ruined.” He buried his head in his hands. “Ah, of all the boils on Satan’s bony arse . . .”
Adam and I exchanged a long, level look. Saskia patted his back helplessly.
What would motivate someone to damage the mill? The Millers were not only popular in town, but hurting them affected so many other lives, not just mine . . .
My hand flew to my mouth. Could it be? Surely not. Was Abbot Hubbard behind this? The friary? After all, everyone knew Master Perkyn ground my malt. The monks wouldn’t do this, would they? It was so . . . so ungodly. But then, Master Perkyn himself had warned me about the abbot, Captain Stoyan too. Brother Osbert had intimated I’d regret denying him. Adam’s face confirmed my suspicion.
After tierce, I left Saskia to manage the brewhouse while Adam and I returned to the Millers’ to examine the damage. The door to the mill was a shredded mess. The odor of urine and excrement was overwhelming. The slashed sacks of grain, their insides spilling over the floor, evoked the aftermath of a battle or, more accurately, murder. A fine dust of flour floated in the air, coating everything, including us. But the worst by far was the sight of the great millstone hacked about until its shape was distorted so as to render it useless. The thick ropes that helped turn the waterwheel were severed. The spaniels, who’d been locked in the house, ran around sniffing in the corners, growling, their tails down. We watched them for a moment in silence. A cold draft blew around us.
“I think you’d better fetch the sheriff, Perkyn. See if he can locate the culprits—more than one person was involved, for certes.” Adam paced around the stone, shaking his head, pointing at a set of footprints in the flour. “Someone wanted to make sure you were out of business.”