I wish you every good fortune in what is a brave venture for a woman, more so one on her own. With that in mind, I invite you to call upon me for assistance or advice at anytime. May the Holy Trinity have you and your family in their keeping always, yours in blessed Christ’s name, Leander Rainford.
Aware of everyone’s eyes upon me, I folded the letter quickly and tucked it against my breast.
“Anneke! You said you were going to read it to us.” Karel folded his arms and pouted.
“I said no such thing.”
“Is Sir Leander well, mistress?” asked Will, who’d lingered in the hope of news.
“Very, Will.”
“What does he say?” said Betje, her voice demanding.
I spun on the bench and stood, taking a crust of bread from the trencher. “That all is well with him and he sends his best to you.”
“That’s it? What about Tobias?”
A shadow flitted across my mind. “He’s well too.”
I glanced at Blanche and Iris, who both found the dough and pottage very interesting.
The bells for sext sounded. Midday. Adam and Saskia entered, creating a welcome diversion. Flushed from walking quickly, Saskia heaved her basket onto the table, pulling off her mantle, hood, and gloves, brushing bits of snow from the fabric.
“Well, that should be everything,” she said, using the ends of her scarf to wipe her face. Adam hefted two laden sacks onto the table.
“I placed a poster up near the pillory, Mistress Anneke.” He removed his cap and ran his fingers through his hair. “As you can imagine, there’re a few people in the stocks with it approaching Lent, so I figured they would draw a crowd.”
“I told him we didn’t want that sort coming here,” chided Saskia, shaking her head. “But would he listen?”
“All sorts stroll by the pillory, Saskia.” I laughed. “It’s those locked into it whose custom we’d decline, not those who choose to mock or study folk foolish enough to break the law.”
“Ja, well, I hadn’t thought of it like that.” Saskia wrapped an apron around her waist and shot Adam a smile. He winked at me. Saskia began unpacking her basket, while Adam unwrapped the additional candles and haunch of mutton he’d bought.
I stayed a moment longer before deciding it was time to prepare myself. Running up the stairs, I looked at the freshly washed kirtle and tunic draped over my bed. They’d once been Mother’s. One could not serve patrons in the color of death; it was time to cast off our mourning attire. Emerald green and sapphire blue, the latter recalled to me the color of Leander Rainford’s eyes. I reached over and stroked the material. Fancy him writing to me like that. I hadn’t imagined it—he was sorry for what he called me. Recalling the pressure of his fingers, the feel of his lips, was it possible, could it be that . . . I dared to hope again.
Extracting the letter from where I’d folded it against my bosom, I pressed it in my palm then against my mouth, before opening my chest and tucking it beneath my undergarments.
If I could prove to Sir Leander, a man of firm convictions, I was no whore, then how hard would it be to demonstrate the same to others, alehouse or naught?
Dipping a cloth in the water Iris had delivered to the room, I began to wash, pushing thoughts of Tobias and our angry, cruel words aside, my head filled with ocean-blue eyes and a dazzling smile.
* * *
Reluctant though I was to call our first evening as the Cathaline Alehouse an unbridled success, all the evidence confirmed it: the number of customers pouring through the door, their gaiety and goodwill, praise for the ale—and even the beer, which was eagerly tried, though only a few chose to drink it exclusively, preferring the taste of the familiar—never mind the coin that now rattled in the tin. Music, food, laughter, and conversation flowed along with the amber liquid from the moment we officially opened our doors until the last patron left before curfew sounded. Not only did regular buyers of our ale attend, but many curious new customers as well as travelers who had entered through the city gates from the south and encountered us as the first establishment. Pilgrims, monks, hawkers, a troupe of traveling players making their way along the east coast before heading to York, a couple of knights and their squires, even some bargemen and their wives popped in and remained a goodly while. Sitting at the tables or on the window seats, leaning against the wall, or simply standing, it didn’t take long for the room to feel crowded. The strange thing about groups of people is that they attract more, so even when some left, others quickly replaced them. Amidst them were Master Perkyn and Olive, who enveloped me in a huge hug; Hugh the baker; Simon Attenoke; Master Larkspur, briefly; and, much to my surprise, Master Allistair Gretting, the ale-conner. Of Betrix and Master Fortescue there was no sign, but I didn’t expect Betrix to come to an alehouse, even if it was run by me. Master Fortescue couldn’t endorse what the friary did not, so his absence was regrettable but understandable.
I could barely keep up with demand, and every time I checked on the servants, either Iris and Awel were bringing more food from the kitchen or Westel was tapping another barrel. Will served drinks with great cheer and, when able, Westel roamed the tables with a brimming jug, encouraging customers to drink up. When Will brought out his flute and Adam appeared with his gittern, there was clapping, stamping, and calls for songs to be sung, poems to be recited. Lost in the atmosphere, I stood near the table from which we served the drinks, swaying to the melodies.
By the time we closed and tidied, collecting the crushed and dirty rushes and throwing them into the ditch outside, turning over the tablecloths that couldn’t be salvaged for use another night, and taking the dirty mazers, tankards, and goblets (though many patrons had, as was usual, brought their own) to the scullery to be cleaned, I left Westel and Iris to lock the door, staunch the fire, and snuff out the candles. Will was checking the gates, while Adam was ensuring no patrons hovered outside before putting Shelby to bed and ensuring the pigs and chickens were safe. First thanking Saskia and Blanche, the Parry sisters having been escorted home before dark, I then climbed the stairs to look in on the twins. Exhausted, I was also filled with a glow of excitement, the heat of success. The alehouse had operated more smoothly and more successfully than I dreamed. Oh, Tobias, I wish you could have been here. Holding a candle aloft, I entered the nursery.
The rise and fall of the twins’ chests told me they were asleep before their quiet breaths and sweet, dream-sent smell did. I pulled aside the curtain and sat gingerly on the edge of the mattress. Betje rolled toward me and I lifted her back into the center. Snuggling into her brother, they slept face to face, their full, pink mouths slightly open, their silver curls peeping from beneath their sleeping caps. I tugged the furs higher and tucked them around their throats, leaving soft kisses on their cheeks. They stirred briefly, settling back into slumber. I felt the surge of protectiveness that their innocence and trust in me always aroused. It brought tears to my eyes and prayers to my lips.
“How was it, mistress?” asked a sleepy voice from the foot of the bed. Bleary-eyed, Louisa sat up, the ends of her cap falling over one shoulder.
“Sorry to disturb you,” I whispered, rising swiftly. “It went very well. Now, go back to sleep.”
“God bless you, mistress. I’m so happy for you,” said Louisa, beaming at me as she lay back down. “You deserve happiness. As Mary is the Holy Mother, you do.”