With a full heart, I took the candle and tiptoed out. As I shut the nursery door, a hand touched my shoulder. I spun around. It was Will.
“Mis—Mistress Sheldrake! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s all right, Will,” I said, waiting for my heart to return to normal. “I was . . . lost in imaginings. What is it?” I asked. Will didn’t often come to this part of the house.
“I was wondering, Mistress Sheldrake, may I’ve a word? In private?”
More startled by this than his sudden appearance, I gestured for Will to lead the way. “Let’s go to the solar. There’s no fire, but we won’t be disturbed.”
“Thank you, mistress.”
The solar was cold and dark. Taking a rug from the back of one of the chairs, I first put the candle between us and threw the blanket to Will, urging him to cover himself. Hesitating, he sat in the seat opposite, tucked the blanket around his lap and plucked at his lower lip. I found another cover and wrapped it around my legs.
Waiting for him to speak, I rested my hands on the arms of the chair, remembering how, for a few weeks, I’d believed these pieces of furniture gone for good until Sir Leander organized their return. The thought made me smile and it was with this expression that I gave my attention to Will, even as I absentmindedly stroked the wood.
“Now, what is it you want to speak to me about?”
In the candlelight, Will’s sandy hair glistened and the freckles that dotted his face blurred into a golden perfection the daylight hours disallowed. “Well, mistress, I don’t like to tell tales, and this may be nothing, but when it happened again, I felt you should know.”
“When what happened?”
Will’s eyes flashed to the door. He wrung his hands together then leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Westel passing notes.”
I stared at him confused. “What do you mean?”
“I first saw it before Christmas. Westel was in the shop, helping sell ale, when a couple of men I’ve never seen before came in. They waited until Westel was free. I was busy fixing Master Larkspur with his ale and Westel was chatting to Olive. I asked him to tap a barrel, and that was when they pulled him aside.”
“That’s not unusual, is it?”
“It ain’t usual either, mistress, not for strangers to take such an interest. I mean, what could they be saying that couldn’t be spoken in front of me? They were whispering and waving their arms about. Anyhow, I didn’t think too much about it until, first, I heard your name mentioned—”
“But I’m the brewster, Will.”
“Nay, not by Westel, by one of these men. Then I saw Westel pass a note. He thought I didn’t see, he waited till I left the room, but I stopped in the corridor, hoping to discover what they were talking about and he did it then.”
“I still don’t see why this is important. I mean, perhaps they were people Westel knew?”
“Oh, he knew ’em, all right. But that’s not why I’m here, not the sole reason. I mentioned it to Adam and he said I was to keep an eye on Westel, and I have been. Until tonight, I saw nothing untoward, unless I count those letters he received . . .”
I let that slide. All the servants received correspondence. With the exception of Adam and Westel, the others required me to read it to them. It vexed Will that Westel didn’t need my services and that his letters remained private. He saw it as a personal slight.
“Did you see those brothers what come in, mistress?”
“I did.” It was hard to miss them with their black robes and heavy crosses. “Well, Awel was serving them when, lo and behold, just as the music starts, I see Westel pass another note. Not in an open way either. He held it beneath the trencher. I wouldn’t have seen it except the monk he gave it to had had too much to drink and it slipped from his fingers. He bent down to pick it up and I saw it clear as the ears on Father Clement’s head.” He tweaked a lobe to emphasize his point.
I wanted to reassure Will there was nothing to be concerned about, but passing a note to monks—especially Benedictines—didn’t sit comfortably with me. What possible reason would Westel have to do that? Having them in my establishment was cause enough for concern and I’d been careful to ensure they were served swiftly. I’d no doubt they were there to spy on me. So why would Westel be passing notes? Mayhap they weren’t from St. Jude’s but were old friends from the friary in Norwich. That must be it.
Will was watching me with wary eyes. “Sometimes, mistress, he also wanders the house at night. I wake and he’s not in our room. I don’t always hear him come back, but when I do, I know he’s been gone a while.” I wasn’t sure what to say. There could be a perfectly reasonable explanation for that as well.
“I didn’t want to worry you, but I thought you should know.”
“Thank you, Will, thank you. I appreciate it.”
“What will you do?”
“Do?” I stood up, folding the blanket and placing it on the seat. “What any rational person does in these situations—seek the truth.”
Will neatly folded his rug and laid it across the stool.
“I’ll ask Westel.”
The expression on Will’s face caught me unawares. There was a flash of what I can only describe as concern before it changed into a mask of obedience.
“Aye, mistress,” he said and, with a small bow, went to leave. As he reached the door, he turned, one hand on the frame. “Only, be careful, won’t you? I don’t think Westel is what you think he is.”
“What do you think he is, Will?”
The darkness between us tightened.
“Dangerous.”
Twenty-Six
Holcroft House
Approaching Lent
The year of Our Lord 1406 in the seventh year of the reign of Henry IV
Over a week passed before I’d a chance to speak to Westel and, when I did, it was in the brewery, where we were both occupied, as the mash tun, malt, and wort took precedence. Nonetheless, Westel wasn’t upset by my question.
“It was a chance for me to let Brother Roland know I’m in fine hands,” he said, pausing over a tray of dried malt, the steam from the hot grain moistening his face. Pushing his hair off his forehead, his eyes crinkled at the corners.
“I’m happy you think so, Westel.” I paused. “So, you wrote a message to Brother Roland?”
“Aye, and asked the monks to carry it. Is there a problem, Mistress Sheldrake?”
I’d never spoken to Westel about the brothers, Abbot Hubbard, or his threats to undermine my efforts. Talk among the servants and in the town would mean he wasn’t completely ignorant. I decided it was time to tell him. Briefly, I spoke of what happened—Brother Osbert’s visits, his offers and my refusal to sell, the damage done to Master Perkyn’s place, and even my misgivings about the dogs’ disappearance, that it too was an attempt to warn me away from ale-making. Westel listened, his large eyes growing rounder.
“How dare they,” he said between clamped teeth. “As God is my witness, the monks of St. Rebecca’s would never condone such practices, such tactics. Oh, mistress, no wonder you were worried about the notes. I’m so very sorry. If it will reassure you, I’ll never speak to them again.”