“Eh? Oh. Aye, well . . . while I don’t like to speak ill of any of your family, there be one not helping matters.”
I cocked my head. “And who might that be, Master Proudfellow?” The way I asked indicated I knew already.
“Aye, it be Mistress Makejoy. She’s let it be known that she’s cut all ties with you—”
“Cut? She’s denied me, Master Proudfellow, just as Peter denied the good Lord. So, don’t concern yourself, you’re not speaking ill of anyone related to me.”
Master Proudfellow examined the toe of his boot. “If that’s the way the wind blows . . .” He paused. “She’s also said—” He pulled his top lip a couple of times.
“What? I would rather know than remain in ignorance. After all, if I’m to run a business, I need to know what my customers think or what they’re being told to.”
“Forgive me for repeating this, but she says you’re a stain that will spread and mark any who come into contact with you. That your ale and that sour drink—her words, Mistress Sheldrake, not mine, I’ve grown quite partial to the beer—you make is contaminated. She tells everyone who will listen and, in Elmham Lenn, there’re many.”
We fell into silence, the only sound the rumble of the wood on gravel and the grunts of the men as they hefted the barrel into the cart. A lone bird circled high above.
“There, I told you. I feel no better for having done so.” He replaced his cap, giving it a tug for good measure. “You’re not to listen to that rubbish, Mistress Sheldrake. That Mistress Makejoy’s poison—one draft and all who taste it will suffer blight.” With a huff of indignation, Master Proudfellow folded his arms.
I began to laugh.
“Begging your pardon, mistress, but I hardly see the funny side.”
“Don’t you? Oh, Master Proudfellow, according to the town, I’m a stain, and to hear you tell, my cousin is poison. Seems to me that between us, we’re an affliction worse than the pestilence.”
Master Proudfellow’s lips twitched, then he too began to chuckle. “I doubt she’d see it like that. But I know which disease I’d rather catch.” We both laughed then and I rested a hand briefly on his forearm, grateful for his frankness. No matter how much I pressed Saskia and Adam whenever they returned from town, they wouldn’t tell me what was being said. When Louisa stopped taking the children to see the troupes of actors passing through on their way up the coast for Eastertide, I knew things were worse than I’d feared. Hiske and her twisted tongue I could live with—I was accustomed to her ways—but not her influence. As for superstition, I could hardly blame folk for feeling that way. Even before Father died, ill fortune dogged our family—it wasn’t until he’d passed that I understood how much.
With a sigh, I pocketed the pennies Master Proudfellow paid and, saying my farewells, set Westel to stirring the mash. I went to the office to deposit the coin in the tin and, for the umpteenth time that week, added up the ledgers.
Not even Good Friday and Easter Sunday broke what had become a daily habit: tallying up the coin, adding up the columns, hoping and praying for an increase in sales that would allay my growing fear. The figures barely changed from day to day, but so long as there was something to place into the credit column, I could persuade myself that our goal of paying the lease was coming closer, even as I knew the only person I was fooling was myself.
Just before sext on Easter Monday, I left Westel tending the boiling wort and went to the house. Saskia met me at the door to the kitchen.
“There’s a gentleman to see you.”
“Who?” I wasn’t expecting anyone.
“Sir Rainford.”
“Sir Rainford?” My hand flew to my mouth. “Why didn’t you say?” I quickly undid my apron and threw it on the bench. “Does he have refreshment? Where is he?”
“Adam is with him and, ja, he and his squire have drinks.”
Bending in front of a large upturned pot, I tried to see my reflection, straighten my kerchief, tidy my hair. My heart was beating and my throat dry. It took a moment to register Saskia’s words. “His squire? Is Tobias here too?” I swung around.
“Mistress Anneke,” said Saskia, shooing Blanche and Iris, who, seeing me so flustered, had paused in their tasks. “Anneke”—she laid her fingers against my wrist—“it’s not Sir Leander Rainford who’s here. It’s the other one.”
“The other?” I stared at her. “Who?”
“The elder brother, I believe, Sir Symond. He says he’s here on behalf of his father. Mistress”—she lowered her voice—“he told Adam he’s here to collect the lease monies. That it’s time to honor the contract.”
I stared at her in horror. “Today? But he’s at least a week early.”
Saskia bit her lip.
The blood fled from my face. “If that’s the case,” I said, my shoulders slumping, “we’re doomed.”
Twenty-Nine
Holcroft House
Easter Monday, eight days before Hocktide
The year of Our Lord 1406 in the seventh year of the reign of Henry IV
Erasing the despair from my face, I took a deep breath and entered the office. A tall man with dark hair, gray eyes, and a grossly misshapen nose rose languorously out of my father’s chair. Across his hips he wore a thick belt, and from it hung a huge scabbard from which an ornate and bejeweled hilt protruded. The size and evident seriousness of the weapon was at odds with the fashionable, almost frivolous, garments he wore. I noted the open ledger before him, the half-drunk mazer of ale. This man had made himself comfortable indeed.
In the corner stood another well-dressed, younger man.
“Sir Symond?” I asked, and bobbed a curtsy. “My lord, you are very welcome.”
“Indeed,” said Sir Symond, giving me a small bow and looking me up and down in the invasive manner particular to his family. “Sir Symond Rainford. This is my squire, Michael de Montefort.” I nodded to Master de Montefort, who barely acknowledged me, a look of disdain on his features. Shocked at such contempt from someone who was, at the least, my social equal, I turned back to Sir Symond. “And you must be Anneke Sheldrake.”
“My lord.” I lowered my head. I gestured to Adam, who stood to one side. “You’ve met Adam Barfoot, my steward.”
“I have.”
Before I could invite him, Sir Symond sat back down. I perched on the stool opposite, rearranging my tunic to cover my unease. Behind me, Adam and Master Michael stood at either end of the cold hearth. “How can I help you?” I asked.
“Come, come. I think you know why I’m here, Mistress Sheldrake.” Tipping his head to one side, he smiled, but it never reached his eyes.
“Even so, to avoid confusion, I’d be very grateful if you would inform me, my lord.”
Sir Symond appraised me as I imagined he would a horse or fatted calf. I wanted to rub my arms, my neck, but I forced my hands quiescent in my lap.
“Very well. I’m here on my father’s behalf to collect the annual dues for Holcroft House and lands. It’s my understanding that you”—he dwelled upon my décolletage, which I resisted covering—“and my father have a contract which expires at Hocktide.”