Surely he would if she weren’t a crone and enjoyed tussling upon the counterpane.
Spangler cleared his throat and Sara gave him a murderous regard.
David could not fathom their discontent. “I will.”
“Sara Andrews, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance, in the holy estate of matrimony? Will thou obey him and serve him…”
She would certainly obey him. If not, David knew he had the full right to beat her into proper submission. He gazed at her. She was so pretty with bright eyes and kissable lips. He could never lay a hand upon her, no matter how much she vexed him.
“I will,” Sara said.
Spangler looked up, at the congregation. “Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?”
“I do,” Sara’s father said.
“Take her right hand within yours,” the minister ordered David. “For now you will give each other thy troth...”
* * *
Leaving Sara behind in the street, David bolted into the Andrews’ house and to their dining chamber. It was done. He was shackled for life. With shaking hands, he splashed wine into a pewter goblet then slurped it down.
At the end of the ceremony, Spangler had snapped the Book of Common Prayer shut as if shouting to the world, “This man is very strange.”
Indeed, so full of horror and dread, doubts assailed David from all sides. Every cough or sniffle in the congregation sent his mind whirling he’d done a terrible thing. His knees were weak. He hardly heard the good words and had to be prodded to answer.
Before Spangler declared them man and wife, he almost ran down the aisle and into the street. He’d prefer to face fierce Aboriginals in Canada, their deadly spears in hand, than not know how Sara would treat him the rest of his life. He would have what his father had, a compliant, reliable, and business partner wife. His heart quavered.
David wiped his chin with his sleeve and turned at Sara’s gasp. “What?”
“Look what you’ve done to your lace cuff. It will be impossible to remove the red stain.”
She dipped her handkercher into a finger bowl and dabbed water where he’d slobbered wine, tsking the whole while. He stood there like a damned pillar of salt, his brain stilled of all manly thoughts. They’d been married a mere hour and already she showed him the fishwife. He growled.
She raised her gaze to his and grinned. “Don’t be such an old bear.” She leaned closer so that, as she wetted the lace to near dripping, his fingertips brushed against her breast.
“Remember when we bundled?” she whispered.
His breath caught in his throat. “Aye.”
“Tonight, we won’t have the bundle board between us, and I shall be wearing only my nightgown.”
He gasped.
She waggled her brows. “That means I shall be truly naked.”
Blood rushed to his privities. He feared he would faint like a wee girl. “And?” He could not breathe with the anticipation of her sweet administrations. His fingers wanted to do more than touch the satin of her gown.
“We shall see, won’t we?” With a final dab she released his arm.
It dropped like a log to his side. He must sit down. He could not take much more. He needed another drink!
She gazed at him. “Please do not drink overmuch. I want you whole and sound, tonight.” She quirked a small smile and her eyes sparkled.
With so few words, she offered much. All he could do was nod.
“Good.” She patted his lifeless arm and walked away.
* * *
Sara wanted to laugh. Her husband looked as if he would soon collapse. His fear was so obvious that he had stuttered his answers during the ceremony. After the family and wedding party had consumed the wedding feast, she went to Frances who handed out wedding favours of love knots to arriving guests.
“How is he?” Frances murmured so that no one could hear. “He seems quite bewildered.”
“He’ll be fine. ‘Tis the first night jitters.”
Frances giggled. “Shouldn’t that be you?”
“Aye, but I am not the least bit ruffled. Bundling gave me an inkling of what to expect. Methinks I shall do well.” Indeed, her belly fluttered with expectation their frolics would be energetic and hopefully fruitful. She wanted to give David sons.
They planned to stay at the Kirke house where David would be close to the business and Sara could continue to manage the household. Until Madame improved, she’d work with David and his clerks in the vintner business.
The house was large enough and David was restless. He had hinted another venture may be on the horizon. If he left her for months on end, Sara preferred to be with the Kirkes than at home with her very difficult mother, who at this moment leaned close to the roaring hearth, her face in a deep scowl.
“I am truly sorry you’ll be left alone with Mother,” Sara confided.
Frances sent her gaze to where their mother stood. “I shall be fine if Mother remains in her chamber.” Her brow furrowed. “I do believe she is ill though. I will speak to Father and contact our physician. Mayhap, he’ll see what the matter is.”
“Mother won’t have him,” Sara advised. “She prefers the lady barber down the lane. Her name is Felicia. Do you want me to write it down?”
“I’ll remember.” Frances rolled her eyes and handed a new arrival a love knot. The guests crowded the chamber, their pomanders and sweat overriding the smell of food.
Wan and thin, Madame walked in on the arm of Thomas. A line creased down her forehead toward the bridge of her nose.
She came to Sara and kissed both her cheeks. “I am so glad you will be my daughter. You’ve been a great help to me while I mourn dear Gervase.” She regarded her younger son. “Isn’t that aright, Thomas?”
He frowned but would not look at Sara.
David swaggered to them, a goblet in his hand. “Maman, you must save me a dance. As you see, the musicians are here, tuning their instruments.”
“Can’t you see our mother is still grieving?” Thomas snarled. “It would be unseemly to revel so. ‘Tis unseemly she’s even here.”
Madame patted his arm. “I am glad to be out of that old dreary house, my dear boy.” She beamed. “Isn’t he a lovely lad to take care of me so?”
Sara suppressed a frown whilst David sniffed his disdain, but their mother did not see it. Her heart was only for her favourite.
“Let us go to the banquet table and have a plate of food.” Madame led the way to the other side of the chamber.
“Now, you are mine,” David blustered. “Soon we will throw the stocking afore all.”
“What will we do then?” Sara could not breathe. Her stomach fluttered and her heart burst with joy.
He brushed his finger under her chin. “You will soon know.”
What seemed hours later, the wedding guests filled with wine, beer and hilarity, the musicians also drinking, Sara’s father walked to the centre of the chamber and clapped his hands. “I thank thee for coming to the celebration of this young couple.”
He motioned to Sara and David. “It is time to put them to bed.”
The guests’ laughter filled the room. Men chortled and women giggled. Sara’s belly dipped to her knees.
“But do not fear,” Father cried. “This ribaldry will continue to the wee hours.”
Before Sara expected it, the ladies grabbed hold of her and pushed her upstairs to her bedchamber. All a’ giggle, they untied laces, stripped away her bodice and skirts. They flung her corset on a chair. They pulled off layers until she stood before them quite naked in her shift and stockings.
Suddenly vulnerable, Sara tried to cover her nakedness with her arms and hands. They pushed the bed curtains to the posts and coaxed her onto the bed. “Off with thy stockings,” the women chanted. Frances giggled. She put her hands to her cheeks.
Sara raised a foot as Frances and a bridesmaid removed her stockings. Young girls tittered and twilled. Soon, the fid
dlers found their way to the landing. Their music sent a few into dancing a jig. Someone danced into the wall and the chamber shuddered.
Men crowded the doorway, holding David’s stockings. They grabbed up Sara’s stockings and twirled them around their heads.
In a velvet dressing gown and a nightcap, David was pushed into the chamber. The men hollered and the women sang bawdy songs. Strong hands stripped David of his dressing gown, swept the nightcap from his head. Sara’s heart thudded, for he stood tall and sleek before all in his shirt that fell to the knees.
“Get into bed,” the men roared.
Sara giggled nervously and scooted under the counterpane. With staggered heartbeats, the bed dipped as David climbed in and sat next to her. His warmth pressed against her torso and legs. Two bride-men held one of Sara’s stockings, and two bridesmaids David’s.
“Now, you will fling them. If they land on their heads, you’ll soon be married,” someone shouted.
At the foot of the bed, a bridesmaid flung a stocking but it fell short and landed on David’s knees. John, David’s young brother, twirled Sara’s stocking then threw it with such force, it hit the canopy and dropped onto Sara’s foot. Great shouts greeted this as the fiddlers plucked their strings.
Frances rolled David’s last stocking into a ball and flung it, hitting him in the face. The guests roared their pleasure, for Frances would soon marry. She cried, “Mister Hopkins, you will throw the last stocking.”
William Hopkins’ face reddened as he handled Sara’s stocking. Sara laughed, not sure if he was shy or ashamed to hold such a personal garment. He bit his lower lip and looked very severe as he twirled the stocking over his head then threw it at Sara, where it landed on her capped head.
Frances clapped her hands, her face glowing with pleasure. Sara’s heart melted as she listened to David’s deep baritone chuckles.
“Now, go away,” he ordered.
“Nay, not before you drink your posset.”
“Where is the posset?” David got up on his knees, his head close to the canopy.
“Right here.” Sara’s father held a potion of milk, wine, egg yolks, sugar and spices. He struggled through the throng and handed the cup to David. “Drink this ‘ere your marriage will be prosperous.”
David drank and handed the cup to Sara. When she sipped the sweet brew, cinnamon tickled her nose.
“Now, get away with thee,” David entreated. He waved his hands. “Or I shall give one or two of thee a blow to the head.”
The men chortled and the women tittered but one-by-one their guests left the chamber. Once the latch snapped shut, David leaped out of the bed and locked the door.
Then he turned to Sara. His grin was wicked. “Now, Twig, prepare to be mounted.”
Chapter Twenty
London, June 1631
“Ach!” David cried and flung the letter onto his table. He thrust his mind from the continued, deep frustration of his last expedition where a pleasant solution seemed beyond reach. The casement windows were open with a light breeze rolling through his private office. The day was warm. Birds nesting in the eaves, chirped busily. He’d have to watch for new holes in the wattle and daub.
“What’s wrong?” Sara came up to him and snatched the letter from the table. She began to read.
His annoyance suddenly abated, he regarded her with fondness. After the hard birth of their son, Twig had rallied nicely, gained her strength and set to work, refitting the fleet for ventures to Newfoundland and Acadia. As he struggled to regain a percentage of the cost lost in the last expedition, Sara, his brothers and Maman kept their business running.
Sara rattled the paper, bringing him back to the present.
David frowned. “Last March, I swore an oath before the Star Chamber I took only a margin of beaver pelts from Québec. The others, which included stag furs, came from true and honest barter with the Aboriginals.” He pounded the table. “I am innocent of their vile accusations. I’ve done what the king wanted. I did not wantonly kill anyone. I am an honourable man!”
Sara’s hand went to her neck. “Oh dear.”
“Oh dear my arse,” he cursed loudly enough to wake their six-month-old baby boy, George, tucked in his cradle three stories above them.
Sara tsked. “Such language but I can understand your annoyance.”
“After several pleadings by the king’s own ministers, Sir William Alexander’s and my supplication on bended knee, His Majesty will not tell us why he forces us to return everything to the French.”
David stroked the mustachio of his Vandyke and began to pace. “As Father once said, there is a reason for this repudiation but I cannot find it.” He gazed at Sara who was a bright girl. She seemed to know things he never considered. “Would you know?”
She put the letter on the desk. “I couldn’t guess, although I would wager it has something to do with his queen.” She regarded him with her lovely green eyes fringed with dark lashes. After being married to her more than a year, producing a robust son, Twig still filled him with great desire every time she walked into his presence.
“Did you hear me?” Sara demanded.
“What?” He straightened his breeches and tried to suppress his longing to tumble with her upon the counterpane.
“She is French.” She piled his papers into one large stack.
David barely noticed his careful order being rearranged. “I wonder what the French king has over ours. Hmm. It might bear looking into.”
Sara handed him a sealed letter. “Have you seen this?”
He broke the seal. “Let us see what calumnies this one brings.”
As he read, anger built to the edge of violence. The Treaty of Susa had brought the Earl of Stirling and the Merchant Adventurers almost to bankruptcy. They could not abide much more plunder from the damn French but as he read, heat poured from his eyes and ears.
He slapped the paper across his hand. “Now the French Ambassador begs King Charles restitution of all places and goods taken by, listen to this, ‘particularly the fortress and settlement of Québec, possessed by Captain Kirke and those of Cape Breton and Port Royal held by my Lord Stirling, Sir William Alexander.’”
“We expected this. Is there anything new?”
David snapped his teeth together to keep from shouting. He took a breath and continued, “Secondly, he wants the king’s permission to seize furs and other merchandise brought from Canada.” He raised his gaze to Sara. “I should like to call the Ambassador out for his impudence.” He balled up the letter and threw it across the room.
Sara frowned. “Do calm thyself. We will find a way.”
He scowled. “No we won’t. The king has made up his mind and won’t change it.” He pulled his beard. “We must have something in return for our investment. I shall move the pelts and hide them in a warehouse away from the river. At any rate, ‘tis too damp where they are.”
Robert entered the office that was also a staging area for customers to collect their barrels of wine. He held the door open. The lane was filled with folk going about their business on this lovely, sunny day. Robert waited for Maman to cross the threshold then closed the panel. Their faces grim, they both stared at David.
“What?” he demanded. He could not take much more bad news.
Maman removed her hat and cloak. “’Tis nice out-of-doors. No heavy coal smoke or stench of rubbish fills the streets.” She regarded David. “We’ve just returned from our lawyer, Mister Booker.”
“Aye,” David prodded. Her face showed remorse or a mixture of anger and sadness, he knew not which. He was suddenly hesitant to hear what she had to say.
“His Majesty has demanded a commission to ferret out what goods you and your brother brought from New France.” She sighed.
“And?” He disliked that his mother had to endure this hardship. “What else does the king demand?”
“He will have a warrant issued to search the warehouse of the Merchant Adventurers and deliver the beaver pelts to Mons
ieur de Caen.”
“Never!” David cried, outraged. “Do you know their value? Of the seven thousand pelts, only seventeen-hundred came from Québec. Our king knows this but will pander to Louis’ whims. King Charles has no honour!”
“David!” Maman beseeched. “Your words smack of treason.”
He could not stay still and paced before the long line of wine barrels. “What game does the king play? And those damned, greedy Frenchies?”
David disregarded his mother’s exclamation. “They ate heartily of our victuals. They demanded servants and clean linens, which totalled to an amount that exceeded the value of seventeen-hundred pelts. We don’t owe them a farthing.” He pressed his hat more firmly on his head, threw a cloak around his shoulders. “They’ll have to arrest me, first.” He jerked open the door and stomped out of the house.
* * *
David walked down a narrow lane near Wood Street, on the way to visit Anton Fitz, his friend and barrel merchant. Anton and he found many things in common, from religious theory to aggressive takeovers of other merchants’ suppliers.
They abhorred idleness, unless it meant pouring over litigious or contractual paperwork. The two of them could argue for hours which sentence carried more weight on a contract, how to word a letter for best results to their lawyers, should one or the other file suit against someone. At the moment, David wanted to sue the king for breach of promise.
He found his way to the back of the shop where piles of staves and hoops, organized by size and material, were stacked in an orderly manner. Half forge and half carpentry house, the place always smelled of burning coals and raw wood.
Anton sat at an old, battered table, writing in a ledger. His hatted head came up when David’s heel scraped across the threshold.
“Oiy then, what brings you to this part of London?” He watched a black rat saunter across his table.
Pillars of Avalon Page 14
