Turning my back on the wreckage of the afternoon, I ascended to the nursery, quickly tidying myself before the children saw me. As Saskia said, the twins were unaffected by what had occurred, and for that, at least, I was grateful. Louisa was telling them a story, Iris by her side. Wide-eyed, Iris started to ask what had happened, but I sent her downstairs to help Blanche and, casting a warning look at Louisa, sat quietly while she finished her tale.
Insisting I also regale them, the twins had their way. Exhausted, I was also filled with a nervous energy that found some comfort from an old fable Mother used to tell about a beautiful woman, an oracle, who was so desired by a god, he promised to give her anything she wanted if only she would succumb to his charms. When she asked for everlasting life, he readily granted it, but when she reneged on her part of the agreement, that they be lovers, he altered his gift so she could live forever, but would continue aging.
“How long did she live?” asked Betje, breathlessly.
“For eternity,” I said.
“Forever? But if she lived forever . . .” Betje tried to absorb what that meant.
“What did she look like?” asked Karel. “Worse than Goodwife Barrett?”
Goodwife Barrett was the oldest woman in Elmham Lenn. Rumor had it that she was one hundred and five years old, but I knew she was four score years and two, a fine age, but to the twins and others, ancient. Karel and Betje were fascinated by her sunken, lined cheeks, her toothless mouth, the wattle that hung from her neck, and the fact one of her eyes had turned white.
“Much, much worse,” I said. They oohed in delighted horror.
“That just proves, you should always keep your promise, doesn’t it?” said Karel.
My throat seized and a fire licked the inside of my ribs. I hadn’t ever thought of the tale as carrying that meaning. To me it had always been about being cautious when making commitments, ensuring all the terms were clear. I stared at Karel.
“It does,” I said as panic rose in my chest and I wondered how I would keep mine now. All of them. I’d promised not only to keep the family together, but to find the means to pay the lease. I’d also promised Tobias that if my efforts failed, I would never brew again. I stood up quickly. The room began to spin and my arms flew out.
“Are you all right, mistress?” asked Louisa, reaching out to help me.
“Fine. I’m fine.” I had a desperate urge to count coin, check the ledgers.
When the room stopped turning, I kissed the twins, wished them sweet dreams and God’s love, and crept out of the nursery and ran downstairs.
A fire was blazing in the office hearth and I blessed Saskia’s foresight. Wine awaited me, no longer warm but no less welcome.
The battered tin glowed in the light. Opening the lid, I looked at the small pile of coin in dismay. I’d thought there’d be more. Few of the patrons had paid before the melee broke out. I struck my forehead with the heel of my hand. “Damn, damn.”
I pushed the tin away and picked up the goblet.
Draining it, I heard voices.
“Mistress Anneke, Mistress Anneke!” I recognized that tone. Ice crawled into my heart. I ran to meet whoever it was summoning me in such a way.
It was Adam. Dripping wet, his face leached of color, his lips were trembling, but not from cold.
“What is it, Adam? Tell me.” I stood in front of him, staring, afraid.
“It’s Will. Oh God, Anneke.” It wasn’t just the rain streaking his cheeks, there were tears and . . . blood.
Blood.
“What?” I whispered, dreading to hear.
“He’s been murdered.”
Twenty-Eight
Holcroft House
Lent to Easter Monday
The year of Our Lord 1406 in the seventh year of the reign of Henry IV
Will’s death plunged us into an ocean of grief. Our love for him was a garment we held in common and, instead of wearing it in turn, we donned it together. Yet, for all the succor this offered, it was also a hairshirt that I for one did not wish to remove.
Never before had I felt so utterly responsible for something. Will was only fifteen, on the cusp of manhood. Born and raised in Elmham Lenn, the third son of a tanner, he’d come to us when he was eight years old; a mixture of shyness and cockiness tempered by a desire to please and do his family proud. Adam had taken him under his wing, as had Saskia. Not even Hiske’s sharp tongue or Father’s curt demands had managed to staunch his pride in his position or his gregariousness. I would miss his bright eyes, his freckled nose, his crooked grin. The way his face infused with color when he was caught off-guard; how his hair would never sit flat but always stand to attention. In quiet moments, I found myself reflecting on the last time we really spoke. He’d told me about Westel; the passing of notes, his inclination to wander. I’d dismissed his concerns as jealousy. Feeling I owed Will something, I found myself watching Westel more closely and I began to ponder, if he did indeed leave his room regularly, as Will said, where he went.
After some consideration, the sheriff concluded the assailants were strangers who, affected by drink, angry at being forced to leave, and holding little value upon life, treated Will as a scapegoat. To them, he said, knocking a youth unconscious with a cowardly blow and then slitting a throat was as simple as lacing a boot. With his callous rendering of the crime, the guilt I’d carried with me the moment I caught sight of Will’s limp body—with its wide, unseeing eyes cast toward the harsh heavens, the livid gash and bruising on his forehead, the ghastly wound on his neck—found voice. If I hadn’t opened the alehouse, if I hadn’t invited strangers into Holcroft House, if I hadn’t asked Will to serve them, none of this would have happened. He would still be alive, his parents would still have a son, his two older brothers and younger sister their sibling, and none of them would be plunged into mourning. Words tumbled out and, beyond caring how I sounded, I railed at Adam, Sir Grantham, Westel, Blanche, and Saskia, who tried to silence me. I would have none of it. Sweeping aside her reassurances, I accused myself, took responsibility for Will’s murder, until the burden was so great, I could no longer bear its weight.
Striding out of the hall, ignoring the stunned faces of my servants, Westel’s foiled attempt to follow, and the cries of the twins, who, hearing raised voices, had run down from the nursery, I fled to the brewhouse, tears flowing freely.
Adam found me a while later, staring into the mash tun, the ale-stick unmoving in my hand. I didn’t acknowledge his presence but remained inert, numb with guilt and sorrow and, I admit, self-pity.
“Mistress Anneke,” Adam said softly, his voice a sigh that carried with it overtones of such kindness, my tears began anew. Prying my fingers from the stick, he gently lowered my hand. “Here, let me.” He lifted the paddle over the edge of the tun, slowly steeping it into the thick, creamy sludge, and then began to stir. At first I ignored him and the soporific movements he was making, but gradually my eyes latched onto the spirals of his actions. Slowly, my other senses became aware: the soft splodge of the mash folding upon itself, the little burps and exhalations the mixture made, familiar companions who, just as I sang them to life each day, now sought to return the favor, chasing the specter of brutal death from my mind. Beneath my fingers, the firmness of the tun I was gripping took shape. Sniffing loudly, I caught the malty smell that characterized the brewhouse. Will would always comment on the odor. “Why, it smells good enough to eat, not drink,” he’d say.