* * *
Just when I thought the friary might leave us in peace, Brother Osbert paid another visit. It was the Conception of the Blessed Virgin Mary and we’d not long returned from mass. This time, another monk accompanied him. Introduced as the Master of the Novices, Brother Francis was a stooped, wizened man with almost no hair and a badly scarred face. Like Brother Marcus, he allowed Brother Osbert to do all the talking, positioning himself near the fire in the office and latching his pale eyes onto mine. It was most disconcerting.
Once more, Brother Osbert offered to buy my recipes, only this time he proffered a sum of money that quite took my breath away.
“Twenty pounds?” I repeated, certain I hadn’t heard aright.
The brother nodded.
Adam’s eyes bulged and he cleared his throat. Why, it was more money than we could ever have imagined.
For as long as it took an angel to flap his wings, I was tempted. Not only would I be able to meet the lease payment for this year and the next few besides, but I could pay our debtors and even put aside some money for the beginnings of a dowry for Betje. I could also ensure Karel was either squired or apprenticed. But then I thought of my mother’s recipes in the monks’ hands, in Brother Osbert’s, which were twisted together in his lap, the knuckles white. I thought of those long pale fingers shuffling the papers, annotating the pages, fiddling with the ingredients. Then I thought of the ale itself and the corner crones. I could see them now, crouched in the brewery, frowns puckering their ancient brows as they grimly awaited my decision, ready to scold me before they vanished forever. I couldn’t betray my mother, my family, my heritage by selling these recipes. Not to the monks. No money was worth that.
Ready to tell Brother Osbert my decision, I cast a glance at Brother Francis. Leaning forward, those gimlet eyes fixed upon me, there was a look on his face of such need, such desire—not for me, but for what they’d come fully expecting to walk away with—that I knew my decision was right. If the friary was prepared to pay so much for these recipes, then they expected to make a great deal of money from them. Well, so could I.
“I’m afraid my answer remains the same, good brothers.”
“You refuse?” Brother Osbert fell back in his seat and blinked. “Twenty pounds is a fortune. Think what you could do with such a sum.”
“I have, brother. Believe me, I have.” I pushed myself away from the desk and stood. Brother Osbert also rose, his brow darkened. “But if they’re worth so much to you, imagine what they are to me.”
“We’ll give you thirty,” said Brother Francis quickly.
I inhaled sharply. “My answer is still no.” Adam gave me the barest nod of approval. “They’ve been in my family for generations, brothers. They’re part of a long-standing tradition. They’re not something I can sell for others to use. I hope you understand.”
“You foolish woman. So be it,” said Brother Osbert and, before Adam could reach it, he wrenched open the door. With one long look at me, Brother Francis brushed past his superior and left. Brother Osbert hesitated.
“Denying the friary is akin to denying God, Mistress Sheldrake, and in my experience, those who don’t obey the Holy Father are severely punished for their sins. I suggest you pray that He sees fit to forgive you before you too pay the price of denial.” His look was unmistakable. Releasing the handle, he exited, his boots loud on the floorboards.
Propelled by fury and a sense of indignation, I followed him into the corridor.
“Forgive me?” I called after their backs as they entered the shop. “My conscience is clear, brothers, but what about yours? God knows the truth, He sees what’s in our hearts, in our words and actions, even when we try and abjure them.”
Before he reached the front door, Brother Osbert spun around. “Are there no bounds to your sins, woman? First, you deliberately challenge the might and right of the friary with your Low Countries ales, then you deny us the recipes, even when, in good faith, we offer far more than they’re worth. But now, now”—he drew himself up to his full height, his black gown and broad shoulders blocking the door—“now you presume to lecture me, God’s emissary on earth, about spiritual matters.” He shook his head and pointed at me. “Hubris is a sin and by your very existence, you have made it a mortal one. Your day of reckoning will come, mistress. You’ll not see where or when, but it will.”
Lowering his arm, his chest heaving, he departed.
The anger left me as fast as it came. I swung to Adam, who stood close behind me.
“You made an enemy today.”
“They were already that. But now I see through the mask they wear; I see my enemy for who and what they are.”
Adam cocked his head. “God’s emissaries have many faces, Mistress Anneke.”
“And so do the devil’s,” I whispered. “Sometimes, I fear, they’re one and the same and telling them apart is nigh impossible.”
Twenty
Holcroft House
Early to mid-December
The year of Our Lord 1405 in the seventh year of the reign of Henry IV
Work in the brewhouse all but enabled me to push Brother Osbert’s visit and the friary’s threats to the back of my mind. Even so, I kept the recipe book close and, as the need to refer to it decreased, I took the precaution of hiding it in the chest in my room again. I couldn’t say why—it was instinctive. Fortunately, I didn’t have time to dwell on the repercussions of my refusal of the brothers’ offer. There were orders to fill and thirsty customers to serve. The days passed in a flurry of activity, not even the icy winds and constant snows of winter slowing us.
Though I’d made up my mind we’d need additional hands, I hadn’t had time to locate anyone suitable. What brought Master Westel Calkin into my orbit, I did not know. It was not God. God could not be so cruel or unforgiving. All I know is that if Westel could speak, it would be to deplore that he ever set eyes on Holcroft House, let alone on Anneke Sheldrake. But whatever he’d bemoan, it would be nothing to the regret I live with to this very day.
For everything that happened, the memory of Westel rests heavily on my soul . . .
* * *
Iris brought him to the brewhouse mid-morning on a Friday, not long after I’d returned from listening to a very long sermon. Aware valuable time had been lost, even if it was in service to the good Lord, I was more than a little annoyed at being interrupted. Rather surly and red-cheeked from kneeling by the kiln, I stepped out into the crisp air, dusting palms on my apron.
“What is it, Iris, this is not a good time,” I rebuked, and then saw the unfamiliar face. “Oh, can I help you?”
Iris bobbed a curtsy. “I’m sorry, mistress, but this gentleman here is looking for work.”
Discommoded that the one thing I needed but had procrastinated over was suddenly forced upon me, I didn’t respond straightaway. I studied the person before me. Perhaps a year or so older than me, the man was cleanly if simply dressed; his coat patched, his cap worn, and his boots scuffed. Carrying a sack that I imagined contained his possessions over his square shoulders, he regarded me with large blue eyes, eyes that brought to mind the frailty of a bird’s eggs and bleached summer skies. Ashen-skinned, he had an unmarked complexion, a chiseled chin, and a full but firm mouth. Clean-shaven, his fingernails, which I noticed as he pushed his cap back on his head to reveal thick white-gold hair that reminded me of Mother’s, were nicely shaped but stained black. Was that ink? Certainly, his hands did not look like those of a laborer.