Pillars of Avalon

by Catherine Pym

  Dawson bowed.

  * * *

  David tore the wax seal and read Champlain’s letter. “Ho! The wily devil has given us a list of conditions.”

  “What are they?” Lewis demanded.

  Thomas stared out of the main chamber’s glazed window, his back to them. David wanted to gnash his teeth. His young brother was an impertinent coxcomb.

  He heaved a breath. “One. Monsieur de Champlain demands I show him the letter of commission that proves our countries are at war with one another.” His brows furrowed. “Two. We must give them passage to France for all his people, which includes their two Aboriginals.” His head shot up. “Why would they want to transport savages? Would they be paraded about at a fair like our St Bartholomew’s?” He shook his head. “We are to transport their Jesuits and, what?” He narrowed his gaze and scratched his head. “The Récollets. Who are those, again?”

  “They are part of a reformed branch of the Franciscan priesthood.” Thomas turned to them. His eyes shined with unusual humour. “A bird’s crest adorns their hoods that looks more like a nest.”

  “I loathe Franciscans,” David cried. “Why are the French so Catholic?”

  Thomas returned his gaze to the windows.

  “There’s more, methinks,” Lewis said.

  David ran his finger down the page, searching where he’d left off. “Ah yes, number three. They expect we will give them a ship with which they may return to France.” He raised a finger. “We are to equip it with victuals. There must be room for their guns, furniture and portmanteaux. They will pay for this with animal pelts.”

  “Do they truly expect us to give them one of our ships?” Thomas snarled. “Which one? I shall not part with the George.” He regarded Lewis. “Will you give them your vessel then draw lots as to which of your seamen will man it?”

  “We will not do what he requests,” Lewis said, his tone confident.

  “You must deny them this outrageous demand,” Thomas insisted.

  David snorted. “Four. We will give them the gentlest of treatment. No violence.” He nodded. He did not want a battle. He reckoned the citizenry of that colony had suffered enough.

  “Five. The ship we present to them must be ready within three days.” He gazed at his brothers and grinned. “As I said, even half-starved and in a most pitiable of conditions, the old fox remains wily.” He waved the letter. “I shall pen a response. Let us open a barrel of wine while I think what to say.”

  The next day, David handed a sealed letter to Lewis. “His men may take what they wish, their arms and clothes. We’ve room enough in the hold for some furniture. As for the Jesuits, they will take what is on their backs and their holy books. Nothing else.”

  Lewis gazed at him. “He won’t like that.”

  David shrugged. “We will treat them kindly and convey them to England.” He pulled on his Vandyke beard. “I will know why Champlain wants to transport savages, though. He will tell me, himself, why he wants to do this.”

  Four weeks later, David paced the main deck of the Abigail. The old bastard wrangled over every point of the terms of surrender, not giving an inch until David wanted to strangle the man. The colonists had eaten much of the victuals, drank their beer. Champlain had enjoyed David’s store of Rhenish and Canary wines.

  Summer eked toward its close and his fleet still languished near Tadoussac. The old man was stubborn as they came. He refused to leave his Aboriginal daughters behind. The more Champlain dug in his heels, the more David wanted to give him a blow to the jaw.

  Today was no different as they retreated into David’s chamber and quibbled over the same points.

  “Those savages, as you call them,” Champlain argued, “are my daughters. I will have my whole family with me when we sail to France.”

  “As you already know,” David ground out, “we will not take you to France but to London. The savages will remain behind as hostages of your good will.”

  “You think I am strong enough to overcome your men? Don’t be absurd.”

  David had had enough. He leaned over the table and growled. “Sign the terms or I will throw you and all your people in gaol with no food or water until you do agree, and I’ll send your savages back to the bloody tribe from whence they came, be they Christian or heathen. Do you hear me well, sirrah?” He pushed the paper before Champlain and thumped it with this knuckles. “Sign now.”

  Champlain’s shoulders slumped. With a shaking hand, he took the quill and dipped the nib into the inkpot. A great sigh escaped as if his whole being was wracked with pain. He scribbled his signature at the bottom, followed by the date; August 19, 1629.

  David grabbed the paper before Champlain could change his mind. “Go back to Québec and prepare for your departure.”

  Not waiting for the Frenchman to leave the chamber, he turned to Lewis. “You will take over the fort as Commander of Québec and all that is French, which includes Acadia.”

  Champlain gasped but David ignored his outrage.

  The next day, the fleet sailed up the St. Lawrence to Québec. As the great cliff grew larger and dominated his view, David was astonished by the fort’s location, its impregnability.

  “You will make this work,” he ordered Lewis. “Make this a thriving town without the need of shipments from the mother country. Do not be dependent on the Merchant Adventurers to sustain you as Champlain did with his company. Keep the old man’s daughters safe and allow them their religion.”

  He grasped his brother’s arm, knowing he would miss him greatly. “From the fleet you may have one hundred-fifty men and a large percentage of the armaments, ordnance, victuals.” He smiled grimly. “I shall even give you a barrel of Rhenish wine.”

  A pinnace came alongside. “Ahoy there, we are ready to take you to shore.”

  Lewis nodded and headed for the rail. David watched him grab the rope ladder and slip over the side. He’d tasked Lewis to do what Champlain could not and expected Lewis to make a success of it. Sudden sadness filled his being, hoping he’d see his brother again.

  David huffed a breath. He would remain behind and oversee the shifting of goods between vessels, more to the fort, less to the other ships which would make room for the French, their families and the damned Jesuits.

  The next day, whilst David strongly wished Sara were here ordering the loading and unloading goods in his stead, drums suddenly rolled from somewhere on the cliff. Cannon and muskets fired. In a moment of worshipful pause, everyone aboard the ships watched as the English flag was hoisted above Québec.

  The banner fluttered in the breezes and a tear worked its way to a corner of his eye. It looked good, as if the English flag should always have been there. His skin prickled with excitement. His heart thumped in rhythm to the drums.

  He had served his king well. His actions had been a force that expanded His Majesty’s mighty hand to this new, wild place. If David had anything to do with it, this whole New World would be English and Protestant.

  King Charles would reward him with knighthood and beg David for whatever he desired. David wanted a portion of this land to rule as he saw fit.

  Chapter Thirteen

  London, October 1629

  Sara briskly entered her father’s private office on the ground floor of their house. Stacked along the wall were barrels of wine newly arrived from the Vintner warehouse located near the river. She and her sister were to count them, mark the ledgers and determine what barrels would go to which city merchant.

  She did not see Frances and wondered where she’d gone off to. Scattered papers covered the table top. Sara started to arrange them when her fingers brushed against something hard. She moved the leaves to see a stack of ledgers and an open book, its pages scrawled with tight undecipherable code. She recognized a prodigious conglomeration of numbers, both Arabic and Roman, English alphabetical characters but she had no idea what the other symbols meant.

  Tucked into the pages were ciphered letters, the writing in bold strokes as
if from a man. She could not read this, either.

  Sara crossed her arms in front of her. Of late, Frances had become furtive and lurked in shadowed doorways. She disappeared for hours with only her maid at her side. Sara hadn’t thought much on Frances’ ways but now, with these coded messages, Sara did believe skulduggery was afoot.

  “What are you doing?” Frances cried from the open doorway. “I’ve got that quite nicely organized, I thank thee very much.”

  “What are you up to?” Sara demanded.

  Since Buckingham’s murder and the hullabaloo it had caused, London and her environs recently settled into shallow contentment. The king no longer ignored his queen and she was now with child. Peace had been made between England and France—the treaty signed in April, not long after David’s fleet sailed for the New World—but to everyone’s annoyance, His Majesty had dissolved Parliament and thrown some of its members into prison.

  Sara dearly hoped Frances wasn’t involved in a plot against the king, or anything so dire that she would end up beheaded for treason, her head set on a pike above London Bridge. Sara shuddered at the horrid thought.

  To her knowledge, Frances hadn’t seemed interested in the government and its policies, but mayhap something changed. She glared at her sister. “Are you into plots against the king?”

  “What?” Frances laughed. Her shoulders relaxed. She stepped to the table and pulled the book from Sara’s hands. “You know how much I enjoy puzzles and such. ‘Tis only my journal. I write in cipher so that no one will read it.” She returned Sara’s glare with one of her own.

  “Whose letters are these? To whom do you write in code?” Sara knew her sister skirted mightily around the truth.

  Frances closed the book and held it against her breast. She frowned, twirled around and walked out of the chamber.

  “But you must help me with the wine barrels,” Sara cried at her retreating back. When Frances ignored her, Sara sighed.

  She retrieved ledgers from beneath the papers and walked to the stacked barrels. By the burnt brands on the heads, she knew where each would go and jotted this in the ledgers.

  Sara dipped the quill into the inkpot and checked the first barrel, then bent down to regard the one under it. Footfalls clattered along the flagstones. Sara recognized her younger sister’s quick pace. She did not acknowledge her.

  Frances took the ledger from her. “Where does that go?”

  Sara leaned over and squinted. “Bush’s tavern, the Sugar Loaf at Temple Bar.”

  The quill scratched along the paper. “I’m in love and I shall not be denied,” Frances blurted.

  Sara stood tall. “What? Who is he?”

  “William Hopkins.” She looked away. “He’s quite a bit older than I am.”

  “Exactly how many years older?” Sara demanded. “You are only fifteen.”

  “Almost sixteen.” Her face turned mulish. “He’s only two years older than your betrothed.”

  That made him thirty-four, an eighteen year difference.

  “He has a son, George, by a previous marriage,” Frances added.

  Sara pulled her sister to the table and forced her to sit on a stool. “What does he do? Where did you meet him?” How could she have missed this when she saw her sister all the time? Sara frowned. Until recently, that was.

  Frances’ cheeks pinked. “We met here, in this very chamber.” She sighed and looked misty-eyed. “He brought Father a book.” She stood and clasped her hands, her dewy gaze raised to the rafters. “He’s tall and his eyes are lovely. When I saw him, I knew we would one day marry.” She regarded Sara. “We exchange ciphered letters. You will not tell Mother or Father. I shall hate you if you break my confidence.”

  Sara threw up her arms in defence then realized her action imitated David’s. She smiled at her memory of him and hoped he was doing well, not killing or maiming too many savages and Frenchmen.

  “He’s an investor of the Merchant Adventurers and a scholar with a scientific mind,” Frances continued in her ardour. “He teaches arithmetic, language and logic at Christ’s Hospital School. ‘Tis on Newgate Street.” She smiled dreamily and swayed her hips as if in a slow, mating dance. “He’s ever so nice.”

  Astonished, Sara could only stare at her sister. Chapbooks with romantic tales spoke of this but until this moment, she’d never seen the like. Her relationship with David was practical and would last their lifetime. Frances followed the ways of a fairy, bewitched by pixie dust.

  Her sister had gone quite mad. “I should like to meet him.”

  Frances turned to her with a bright smile. “And so you will. He’s coming by this very morning.”

  “Without Father’s permission?”

  Her sister shrugged. “Father doesn’t seem to be here.”

  “Aye, he’s at the Exchange buying and selling,” Sara murmured. “‘Tis convenient, methinks.”

  The latch on Father’s business portal rattled; the new metal hinges squeaked. The clack of wooden sabots rang closer along the flagstones. “Oiy then,” a male voice called, “Where art thou, little one, that I may whisper sweetly in thy ear?”

  He walked into the office and stopped. The blood seemed to drain from his head, his face turning quite remarkably livid. “Oh,” he choked, “didn’t know you’d have company.”

  Sara fought a smile.

  Frances’ worried glance shot back and forth from Mister Hopkins to her.

  Sara bit her bottom lip, trying not to grin. He did seem a nice gentleman. His face clear of sores and no scrofula upon his neck, his eyes cleared the way to a guileless soul. He smelled of old books, brittle paper and cracked leather binding. Her stiff shoulders loosened.

  “Erm, this is me sister. Sara, please meet Mister William Hopkins.”

  Sara dipped into a curtsey. “How do you do, sir, on this fine, frosty day?”

  “The world is surely turning to winter,” he answered convivially. His gaze searched hers, mayhap hoping she’d not run off to Mother and cause a troublesome brew.

  Sara determined she’d stay right there, with them, to keep Frances’ reputation secure. She motioned with her hand. “Please have a seat. Would you care for a dish of new beer or something to eat? It will take but a moment.”

  Colour slowly returned to Mister Hopkins’ face and neck. “Perhaps, another time.” He regarded Frances, his blue-green eyes warm and inviting. “I’ve brought that book you mentioned. Found it at the booksellers where your father and I exchanged thoughts of books and the like.” He smiled. “A day I shall remember for a long while.”

  Frances blushed.

  He sounded like a Shakespeare sonnet and Sara inwardly scoffed. Such foolery. After they married, they’d see the truth of it. They would be more like Mother and Father when in the same chamber, Mother hissing with discontent and Father ignoring her. Sara sighed. At least she and David liked each other.

  Mister Hopkins handed Frances a book. “‘Tis a puzzle book.”

  Frances shrugged.

  “Ah, you think it carries simple puzzles, do you?” Hopkins gently derided. “This one is in Latin with both Roman and Arabic numbers. You will be challenged. I bought one too. We shall solve the puzzles together.”

  Sara groaned. Latin puzzles, indeed. How wearisome. No trouble would come from them. She walked toward the kitchen, already untying her apron strings. “I shall run an errand and be back in a trice.”

  The couple stared at each other and grinned.

  “I’ll send in a servant with food and drink for thee, and order her to remain.”

  Her sister and Hopkins frowned. Sara wanted to laugh.

  “Where are you going?” Frances exclaimed. “We need to count barrels.”

  “To Father Kirke. He’s been unwell. I will see how he fares and return anon.”

  “You’ll be gone longer than a trice, methinks,” Frances murmured, her cheeks rosy. She continued to gaze at Hopkins as if she had something secret to say and did not want Sara to hear.

 
; Sara frowned. “’Tis but a few steps away, on the other side of the Bow Lane. I will take one of the servants with me.”

  Frances and Hopkins stared at each other, silly smiles on their faces. Sara huffed a breath and left them to their wiles.

  Soon, she was in the frigid lanes that stank to high heaven. Muck piles steamed in the kennels. A mamma pig and her young ‘uns rooted in the rubbish. Two curs fought over a hare’s carcass.

  A cry from above, “Gardy loo.” Piss and shit rained onto the lane, splashing the world and her skirts. John, her servant, pressed her against the houses and under the eaves to keep her from being thoroughly doused. He guided her around heaps of rubbish, kept her safe. “Just along this way, Mistress.”

  They crossed Bow Lane to Basing Lane where it was quieter, not as much horridness on the street. It was the law to clean your doorstep each day. On selected days the scavenger and his cart came along to sweep away mud and rubbish. It made for less rats, pigs and the like that found their way into houses and larders, foraged for grains and other foods.

  Bread Street Ward was much cleaner than Cordwainer Street Ward, which did sadden Sara. Then she perked up, for after her marriage, she would live in this better place.

  They entered the Kirke house and into Father Kirke’s storeroom where barrels of goods, wine and cognac sat willy-nilly along the floor, not stacked or stored properly which was very strange. Usually fastidious, he never allowed shipments to pile up. Where were his clerks?

  Father Kirke made daily contact with his customers and either had their goods delivered, or they drove their carts to his back door. On his table papers and ledgers lay in disarray.

  She and John entered the kitchen where Father’s clerks chatted and laughed with the cook and maids.

  Sara turned to John. “I shall be but a moment. Have something to eat.”

  She ran upstairs and saw Father Kirke stagger into his closet. He closed the door. Something heavy fell against it and a gurgling, wretched groan rent the air.