Pillars of Avalon

by Catherine Pym

  Gerald’s eyes blazed. “The other ships are mere sloops and an unlikely choice for a long journey across the sea. They were fortunate to have survived the crossing. What were they thinking?”

  “That there was safety in numbers and they would never be taken,” Thomas stated.

  “Aye, ‘tis truth,” Lewis confirmed. “The French are an arrogant people.”

  David laughed. “We would know this since we were born of a French mother.” He cleared his throat and gazed at each of the men. “Let us list what we gained, what we will do with our prizes.”

  “We gained more than we can carry,” Thomas advised.

  “We took eighteen sails, all decks filled to the brim with stores, munitions. It will take weeks to sort out.”

  Captain Forest reached for the pitcher. “One hundred thirty-eight cannon to be exact, most to reinforce Québec and other French forts between here and Nova Scotia.”

  Captain Smythe frowned. “The rest of the goods were to supplement the colonies and assist the passengers, all farmers or persons of trade, who wish to settle in this wild place.”

  “Don’t forget the Catholic Bibles.”

  “‘Tis a pity the heathens can’t read,” Jenkins remarked with a lopsided grin.

  Forest sent the tip of his knife into beef gristle piled on his dish. “The magazines are loaded with powder and shot, barrels of saltpetre and sulphur.”

  “We should have gone to Québec,” Thomas murmured. “Trappers had all winter and spring to gather pelts. De la Tour said their company of French merchants would have been paid thusly.”

  Lewis smiled. “Puts us in a pitiful taking and pickle. Soon, the weather will turn and the seas will be difficult.”

  David huffed a breath. “There will be little reward from this undertaking except for the cannon.”

  “They are brass,” Thomas said. “Our company of merchants can sell them to the East India or Levant Companies.”

  David’s spirit perked up a bit and he nodded. “’Tis good. ‘Tis good.”

  He should have realized before undertaking this venture there would be no gold stored in the Frenchmen’s holds but tools, fish nets and pretty gewgaws for the savages. The bloody Jesuits would be a thorn in his side on the return journey to England and he suddenly decided he’d lodge them with Thomas. He regarded his too serious, younger brother and guffawed.

  David set down his horn cup. “Tomorrow, we sort through the prizes. Once done, we will take the merchantmen, burn the sloops and set sail for England.”

  “And the people?” Forest asked.

  “We will return them to France. They really did not want to settle here, in this heathenistic country. Too many dangers from wild beasts and Englishmen who burn their huts.” David downed his wine in one gulp.

  Chapter Four

  London, October 1628

  Mongers hawked their goods beneath the parlour window and disturbed Sara Andrews’ concentration. Someone cried out and her fingers fumbled. Lace thread and bobbins tangled. Pins fell from the straw pillow that held the lace. They scattered onto her skirts and the floor.

  London was too loud and stank to high heaven. If it weren’t the traders and apprentices that caused a hellish din along the lanes, it was their ringing household. Noises echoed up and down the stairwell from the kitchen where cast iron pots and pans clanged, dishes and cutlery clattered. Servants dashed through chambers, their wooden soles clacking against the plank floors.

  Men’s voices grumbled whilst tavern and innkeepers clamoured at her father’s office door for barrels of wine. Ironclad cartwheels trundled to and fro from dawn until sometimes nine of the clock over broken paving stones to their garden gate. Why her father did not store the barrels at the storehouse near Vintner Hall, she could not reckon.

  She collected the pins from her skirt and floor and stabbed them into the straw pillow. With a heavy sigh she picked up a tangle of knots to unravel but they were in complete disarray. To undo this would be a tedious task and with sharp annoyance, Sara clicked her tongue. The twisted lace and the pretty bobbins rattled.

  “What’s amiss?” her younger sister, Frances, asked. “You’ve been making doleful noises all afternoon.”

  “Me bobbins and threads fell awry. I shall have to untangle too much of it.” She loved to make lace with the intricate knots, the weaving of bobbins, and well placed pins. The end results were lovely, but her mind must not wander for a moment.

  She sighed. “Makes me want to dash the whole thing out the window.”

  Frances laughed. “All those lovely bobbins in the muck pile.” She raised her gaze from her embroidery loom of colourful flowers and bright leaves. “Not even a servant will go through the horrid stink to fetch them back.”

  Sara’s ire slipped away and she grinned. “I’ll give one of these fine spools to the first gentleman I see on Valentine’s Day.”

  “Aye, ‘tis better than a sweet letter. What will you have inscribed on it?” Frances batted her eyelashes. “Let us bundle, or give me a kiss?”

  Sara laughed. “Oh, you are bold. I’ll never do it.”

  “Happy day will do. That’s more honourable.” She pulled her needle from the centre of a flower. “But you have quite a long time before you make the decision. ‘Tis only October.”

  Sara regarded with dismay the lace tacked to the pillow. Of late, her dreams had been filled with strange beasts crashing through heavy brush, wild lands and dark skinned people. She awoke weary from her nightly adventures. Something would soon happen to change her life. She stood in a rush and placed the pillow on the dresser; then began to pace.

  Earlier, the skies were bright. Now, clouds had set in which added the smell of damp and mould to the already horrid stink of the streets.

  On days like this, coal smoke settled onto buildings and railings, making every handhold gritty. The servants found it difficult to wash such filth from their gloves. After using them but a few times, they were forced to throw the gloves away or give them to the rag boy. She opened the casement window and leaned against the windowsill.

  Their timbered house was grand as befitted a wealthy merchant. Large windows filled with leaded lights twinkled in the sun and brightened their chambers. Finely wooden balusters took one to the living areas, and rich panelling gave the chambers a warm glow. Their mantelpieces were decorated in gold-leaf.

  Four stories high, each upper level jutted further into the street. Their female servants dwelled in the garret and often spoke with the servants across the lane, their voices barely above a whisper, yet they could hear each other clearly. They exchanged gossip, caps or whatnots as friends would.

  Sara rested her chin on her hand and watched the comings and goings of St Thomas, which seemed to have abated. A light mist began to fall. Fewer men and women hawked their wares; apprentices must have gone back to their work.

  She willed the afternoon away. This evening they were to have guests who had travelled across the seas, truly seen things that her dreams had only hinted. She swung around to face her sister, her skirts swaying about her ankles. “I’m going down to help Mother.”

  Frances put down her embroidery. “How is she, today?”

  Sara shrugged. “I know not.” Mother was a puzzle; her spirits soared to ill temper one moment, then crashed to the depths the next. When Sara saw her mother’s brows furrow, she wanted to run for the door.

  Frances stood. “I shall come with you.”

  Together, they found their mother in the kitchen with not a hair out of place, regally directing the servants in the midst of disorder. “Gently roast the mutton over a lower fire. I will not have it raw at the bone. We will use the Delft dishes, not the pewter or earthen.”

  She gazed at Jane, a stout woman with rosy cheeks. “Run the manchet dough to the baker’s, and remain there whilst they prepare it for the oven. Make certain they don’t pinch any from the full of it. If they do, I shall alert the baker’s guild they are cheats, and they’ll be sent to the pil
lory.” Jane nodded and dashed away.

  Mother was all business and Sara studied every nuance of her face, trying to gauge her temperament. A simple word could send Mother into a raging fit or she’d disappear into her chamber and sit before the hearth, her vacant eyes staring at an empty wall.

  Mother turned to an older woman, whose tight curls escaped from her cap. “Cook, do not to put bay leaves in the dish of tripe. It tastes horrid. And make certain there is plenty of crisp bacon in the dish of colewort.”

  This afternoon, Mother seemed indeed well and Sara inwardly sighed.

  Frances laughed and their mother turned to them with a sharp eye. “Why are you down here and not fitting yourselves for this evening?” She ran her hands down her apron. “As I must do.”

  Frances kissed her cheek. “Then come with us, Mother. We will make ourselves ready together.”

  Mother smiled. “Aye, let us go to it.”

  Two hours later, gowned in blue velvet with lace rimming her collar and embroidery upon her puffy sleeves, Sara listened to heavy footsteps upon the stairs. When hatted heads with froths of feathers appeared beyond the balusters, she stepped to the parlour doors.

  Men’s voices rumbled low while they conversed. “We’ve been declared public enemies. People are burning our effigies in Paris,” a fellow said whose dark, wavy hair brushed along his shoulders. His high crowned hat sat at a rakish angle.

  A thrill of joy surged through Sara, for she recognized the cunning knave. As a child, she thought his light grey eyes romantic, mayhap made of glass. If she looked hard enough, she’d see through to his soul. Then she learned he was a cruel lad who pulled her ringlets and called her Twig.

  Sara wondered what sort of man he’d become. She bit the insides of her cheeks to keep from grinning. He was probably the same horrid fellow, only taller.

  “De Roquemont’s strange, mad ire and Champlain’s letter to Richelieu stoked the fires of King Louis’ anger,” said another fellow who looked similar, the knave’s younger brother.

  “You’ve caused an incident, you have,” murmured an older gentleman with swarthy skin. He had the look of the younger brother.

  “We filled the Merchant Adventurers’ coffers, didn’t we? Methinks one hundred thirty-eight cannon will adorn more than a few merchantmen.”

  “De Roquemont’s ransom was paltry, but Monsieur de la Tour must be well loved. Me moneybox is heavier for his ransom.” The roguery fellow rubbed his hands together.

  Her father, Sir Joseph Andrews, reached the top tread and came into the parlour. “Many evacuated Québec afore winter set in. Do you know if Champlain and his family returned to France?”

  “Nay, we do not,” the rakish coxcomb answered.

  He saw her and smiled. “Well, well, look who we have, here. If it isn’t Twig.” He pulled her beribboned ringlets, tugging one, then the other as one would milk a cow.

  Smelling of damp wool from the drizzly out-of-doors, he grinned and Sara laughed. ‘I shall kick you in the shin as I did when a young girl.’

  His lovely eyes widened. With a final tug, he released her curls. “Still small as a garden snail, I see.”

  Sara feared her grin would crack her face. “Mister David Kirke, the bane of me youth.”

  He took her hand and stepped back. “You’ve grown mightily fine in other ways, though, haven’t you?” His face was bright with pleasure.

  ‘Tis good to see you, too.” She looked over his shoulder. “But where is your mother?”

  David’s eyes saddened. “She is with our ailing grand-mère in Dieppe.” He shook his head. “We do not know when she will return.”

  Her heart tumbled. “Oh, I am sorry.” Flustered and suddenly unsure of herself, she spread her hand. “You remember my mother and sister, Frances, don’t you?”

  He bowed to the women, showing a lusty leg. Laced linen adorned his boot cuffs. “Aye, and you remember me father and brother, Lewis.”

  She dipped a curtsey.

  Mother smiled. “Welcome to our home, sirs. We have Canary and Rhenish wines to whet thy pallet afore supper. Would you care for a dish?”

  Father motioned toward the table with pitchers and Venetian glasses. “Sit thee down, gentlemen. I am very pleased with your latest endeavours, as are the other investors of the Merchant Adventurers. Let us enjoy the fruits of our labours.”

  Later, seated next to David at the long, oak table, Sara listened to the several discourses that floated about the chamber.

  “I’ve never seen such raw beauty, the clean rivers and the strangest of animals that are in the New World,” Lewis Kirke remarked to Frances.

  “Many of those beasts provide the best pelts,” David extolled. “The fur is extraordinary. Kings and queens pay dear for them which will be a new venture for our family.”

  Sara turned to David. “Are you going back to that wild place?”

  David nodded. “Next spring. We will finish what we started, take the French colonies and make them English.” He grinned.

  For some reason, Sara did not find joy in this. Seeing him again after so many years filled her heart with gentle promise. Even as he was fourteen years her senior, his presence always cheered her.

  “Fish are remarkably abundant,” Lewis stated. “And a great source of income for whoever settles there.”

  David nodded. “The fish are so bountiful, they jumped into boats. They crowded against our very own hulls, climbed over each other’s fins and leaped onto our decks. They begged us to take them, eat them and fill the fishermen’s vats with oil.”

  Frances laughed, a sweet twittering sound that always made Sara smile. She leaned closer to David. “Would you want to settle in that far off country?”

  He shrugged. “I suppose I should consider me future. I shall be thirty-two next spring. I can’t sail the seas forever.”

  She speared a piece of cold mutton with the tip of her knife. “What would you do there, hold out your hands to catch the leaping fish or snare little animals for their pelts?” A life such as that seemed indeed rugged. “You’d be covered with blood and gore all the time. Flies would buzz about your head.”

  “Don’t forget the mosquitoes.”

  Sara thought how sad it would be to lose him if he should settle across the seas. His loved ones would surely miss him.

  She put a comforting hand on his coat sleeve. “I am truly sorry about your grandparent.”

  He sighed. “Aye, tragic it is. She ate fruit on one of the hottest days of the year, knowing it was not good for her.”

  “Was it her habit to eat much fruit?” Sara had heard of this concept but never knew anyone who died of it.

  “Not that we were aware of.” David’s brow furrowed. “But last summer she did eat several types from Italy and Persia. One day she could not rise. She had a fever but from Maman’s latest letter to Father, grand-mère has not yet crossed the veil.”

  He gazed at her. “I forbid you to eat any fruit during the warm months of the year. I shall not lose you.” Suddenly, his eyes widened and his neck reddened. He shifted uncomfortably on his chair then plucked up his wine and drank.

  Sara’s stomach fluttered but she refrained from adding to his discomfort. “What do you think our parents are doing?”

  They were gathered at the end of the table, engrossed in serious discourse. Father’s hands were spread in entreaty while Mother’s face creased with annoyance. David’s father slowly nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line.

  David regarded them. “Hmm, they are acting strangely.”

  “They’ve hardly touched their food but have emptied the pitcher of wine. The maid has filled it twice now.”

  He turned to her, his lips quirked in a half-grin. “I reckon whoever they are discussing will be the sorrier for it.” He winked. “Let us hope it isn’t one of us.”

  Chapter Five

  “You did what?” David demanded of his father.

  “You will marry Mistress Sara Kirke. Her father will bestow upon you
a fine dowry. We watched you, tonight. You like each other and will make a good match.” Gervase Kirke sat on a turkey carpet covered chair in his closet, bleary-eyed from too much wine.

  “Bu-but, she’s still a child, mayhap fifteen if a day,” he sputtered. “And how do we know she can breed? She’s the size of a damned twig.”

  “Seventeen, soon to be eighteen, sirrah, and a woman. God willing, she will give thee sons.”

  “But, we are to refit our ships for the next venture to Newfoundland, Nova Scotia and Québec. What if I don’t come back?”

  “You are the eldest and heir. ’Tis time to give me grandsons, expand the Kirke family. You will do this or feel my ire.”

  David knew this day would come and he should not fight against it, though he balked at the inconvenience, the diversion. His goals were to conquer the French, make their colonies English. He wanted his father to be proud of him. Marriage hindered those goals.

  He turned to the hearth that gave off a comfortable heat. He leaned against the mantelshelf with its beautifully carved pilasters and ran his finger along the carved oak.

  They had moved from Dieppe after the second Huguenot rebellion. The Protestant rebels were Calvinistic with their extreme interpretation of biblical text and they spoke against the precepts of the Catholic Church.

  Full of anger, they stomped up and down the lanes, rattling their sabres. They roared the Huguenot cry of freedom and continuously fought against Louis XIII and his council. Their narrow vision and constant dissention annoyed the town’s merchants.

  “’Tis bad for business,” Father had often lamented.

  Today, they lived on Basing Lane within the walls of London. They attended All Hallows Church on Bread Street.

  Prior to David’s venture to Newfoundland and Québec, King Charles decided to slap his brother-in-law, Louis, across the face. Charles sent his dearest friend, Buckingham, to France with six-thousand men where they laid siege on Île de Ré. During this time, the king gave the Merchant Adventurers the letter of marque. David considered it ironic his family’s latest success in New France was due to King Charles’ strange feud with Louis.