Pillars of Avalon

by Catherine Pym

  “This is the Grand Remonstrance,” he shouted above the clamour that surrounded him. “We will vote on it.”

  “Not until after a full discussion,” cried a gentleman with an untamed Vandyke beard.

  William sighed. He’d been in the Commons for little over a year and during that time he had come to abhor the constant vitriol and infighting, which delayed the proposal of new laws, or condemned policy that came from the Lords’.

  After being in Newport, he’d forgotten how rank London and Westminster cities were, with oozing muck piles, swarming rats and rooting pigs. To get where he must, William had to push through lanes crowded with humanity. They pitched their wares or argued about Parliament, their fists raised against the king and Laud’s papist dictates. William found it easier to take wherries from the walled city to Westminster stairs, even as the horrid odour at low tide gave him headaches.

  If he did not have the responsibility to support the Isle of Wight, William would give up his seat in Parliament and return home. He missed his students. He longed for quiet moments with his number puzzles, especially the ones with Roman numerals, which truly enticed the brain.

  Pym blustered; his cheeks puffed with passion. “We’ve had this same discussion over the past months. Do we need it again?”

  “Hear! Hear!” some yelled.

  The rowdy behaviour reminded William of rats in a tight corner, fighting over a morsel.

  Pym continued to shout above the hullaballoo. “We uphold this document as the true defender of faith, not what Laud wants, but what every good Protestant prefers for his religion.

  “We don’t want the pomp and ceremony of liturgical services as seen in the papist church. We do not require graven images to hear the almighty word of our Lord.”

  As Pym rambled on, arguments and raucous cries from the floor overpowered his speech. William could barely hear the man. Pym must have thought the same for he climbed onto a bench, still holding the document.

  “We will now vote on the abolition of the knight tax, the right to regular summons of Parliament a minimum of every three years. The king must be restrained.”

  “Hear! Hear!”

  “We will set up an Assembly of Divines, the members nominated by us, the people of the Commons, to bring back the Protestant church, and to dissolve the papist Episcopal ceremonies.

  “Hear! Hear!”

  “We will have the right to veto any law the king tries to set forth.”

  Benches fell over. Men stamped their feet. Walking sticks slammed against the flags. “Hear! Hear!”

  William’s heart thudded. The House of Commons screamed treason, civil war.

  Their threats would never move His Majesty from his conception of the divine right of kings or turn him from his belief in Episcopacy with their high ceremonies.

  “I shall not sign that damned document.” Edward Hyde clambered down the aisle to where Pym jumped off the bench. “This is treason. I shall form a Royalist party and split asunder this traitorous Commons.” He thrust his fist in the air. “Who is with me?”

  Even as William found this chaos and lack of leadership intolerable, he was a Royalist, and a Royalist he would remain. He also knew, if he did not leave the building this very instant, he’d be involved in a riotous brawl.

  * * *

  Westminster, January 4, 1642

  Nervous sweat pierced the air. Members of the House of Commons had thrown their walking sticks away. They now carried swords.

  Yesterday, King Charles had gone against precedent and sent a herald to their chamber. Several troops with pikes followed him, then stood at attention throughout the chamber.

  As the fellow walked with great pomp down the aisle to Mister Lenthall, Speaker of the House, men stared with slack jaws. When the herald climbed the steps to the podium, the chamber fell into ominous quiet.

  “In the name of the king, his dread sovereign, King Charles,” the herald imperiously announced, “I order the following five to surrender for high treason…”

  The chamber erupted into a clamorous bout of refusal, drowning out the herald’s words. Men waved their swords, hollering vile words of condemnation, what they would do to the man and his troops should they get their hands on them.

  The herald shouted, “These men endeavoured to subvert fundamental laws and…”

  “What you do is against what we hold dear. You are not allowed in this chamber. The king is not allowed in this chamber. We have parliamentary privilege,” a man cried, his face red with shock.

  The herald stood stock-still. After several tense moments, the Commons settled to quiet, waiting for what he would do.

  He took a deep breath. “… to deprive the king of his regal power, and to place an arbitrary and tyrannical…”

  He was shouted vehemently down.

  William regarded this with great interest and much fear. The king showed a strange, deadly courage, to send this folly to the floor of the Commons.

  “This break in privilege is a bold step toward civil war, sirrah,” a low voice cut through the rancorous chamber.

  The herald’s eyes goggled and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “I plead with thee to follow the king’s orders.” His voice wavered even as he tried to remain steady. The troops’ pikes no longer stabbed the floor with severity but wobbled like stark trees in the wind.

  “Get thee gone, you corrupt rascal,” someone cried over the din, “or we shall rip thee limb from limb.”

  Terror shrivelled the herald. The troops frowned. Their pikes would do little against the full House of Commons armed with swords. They ran out of the chamber followed by jeers and dirty words.

  Today, the House waited for the king’s redress. Everyone stood ready for a fight should the king send reinforcements.

  John Pym and the others, who had been warned of their imminent arrest, remained in hiding somewhere in London. Their crime had been to entreat Parliament to remove the armed forces from the king’s power and put it into the hands of Parliament.

  William’s heart thrummed heavily in his chest. The tumultuous Commons rejected everything the king said or did these days. Their discontent had spread to the lanes of London and Westminster. With everyone on edge, riots abounded.

  Months ago, William deemed the streets violently dangerous. Even taking a coach had its risks. Today, it had taken him far longer than usual to reach Queenhithe stairs in London. Apprentices dashed uncontrolled through the streets, cursing and doing damage to property. Soon, violence would escalate beyond the two cities.

  Suddenly, the Commons grew hushed. Sharp, burning tobacco smoke floated about their hatted heads as everyone strained to hear. Cold winds rattled down the chimney, scattering hot coal ash about the chamber. A lad near the hearth held a leather bucket and doused the fiery embers.

  The Commons waited.

  A dull clamour rattled toward them, a low voice muttering orders. Soon, they approached the chamber. As one, the Commons turned to face the doors.

  Standing against the back wall, William heard the clatter of hobnail boots and iron tipped halberds against the flagstones. Sharp orders banged against the closed doors.

  The panels were thrown wide to reveal the king upon the threshold, a silver-headed stick in his hand. He wore satin and lace; his Order of the Garter medallion supported by a blue ribbon displayed predominately on his chest. His Majesty made a bold statement of his power as he surveyed the chamber.

  Silence descended. Tension rippled. The king’s face blanched but he appeared firm in his resolve. Men hastily removed their hats.

  The king heaved a breath and walked down the aisle to the speaker’s chair. He waved William Lenthall aside, then sat in his chair.

  Gasps of outrage rent the air.

  King Charles had breached parliamentary privilege in entering the House of Commons. When the king spoke to the people, he did so from the House of Lords. The Members of Commons would gather there to hear his dictates.

  William dreaded the outcome o
f this madness.

  The king set his high crowned hat more firmly on his head then gazed about the chamber. The apparent silence seemed to give him strength.

  He stood. “I seek the five members, and I shall have them. They are John Pym, Denzil Holles, Sir Arthur Hesilrige, John Hampden and William Strode.” He paused and searched the chamber again. “But I do not see them.” He turned to Lenthall. “Where are they?”

  The speaker knelt before his king. “I have neither eyes to see, nor tongue to speak, but as this House is pleased to direct me.”

  The king’s shoulders slumped. “They have flown, then.” His mouth set in obstinate lines. “I shall have them. You will give them to me.”

  Voices rumbled. “Privilege. Privilege.”

  Without being given leave, Lenthall straightened and faced the Commons.

  William thought the king looked quite vulnerable; his soft brown eyes pleaded he should be obeyed. He appeared dwarfed between the speaker’s chair and Mister Lenthall, now standing beside him, as if he were equal to the king.

  Louder shouts of, “Privilege. Privilege,” pierced the walls.

  His Majesty sent a dark gaze about the chamber. “I shall be obeyed. You will bring the five men to me.”

  He stepped off the podium and, clutching his stick, walked with jagged grace toward the chamber doors.

  “Privilege! Privilege!”

  The king held his head high and stared at the chamber’s lintel. He did not acknowledge being pummelled by thunderous shouts of, “Privilege! Privilege!”

  When the doors thumped closed, the chamber erupted in cries of triumph. William’s knees went weak and he leaned against the wall.

  The men continued to slap each other’s backs but William knew only sadness. As the roaring continued, all he heard was the thunder of cannon, muskets, and the cries of men as swords and daggers plunged into their souls.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Ferryland, Summer 1646

  Sara stood at the table in the main chamber of the house and opened the latest packet of letters, newssheets and pamphlets that had arrived from London. With no end in sight, Civil War raged in England, Scotland and Ireland. She was glad they weren’t in London anymore, for David would be dragged into the losing side of the conflict.

  One royalist pamphlet admitted the king had made far too many enemies. Filled with deep rancour, the Parliamentary troops swelled the battlefields, their bestial war cries sending terror through the hearts of the enemy. They surged through the thinning royalist ranks with swords, muskets and cannon. Nothing seemed to stop the carnage.

  At the onset in August 1642, Thomas and Lewis joined the king’s army. Not long after, Thomas had been killed in an unnamed skirmish, his body left to moulder in a ditch. It took months to learn what had happened to him. His gravesite was unknown.

  Sara sighed. Even as Thomas was a difficult person, his end had been harsh.

  She flipped through the letters to see Lewis’ hand. The war had been good to him. A sudden favourite of the king, he was now Sir Lewis and Governor of Bridgnorth Castle in Shropshire.

  “Governor indeed,” David had informed Sara with a loud sniff. “His real business is steward for the king’s army in that part of the country. He’s been ordered to obtain ten tons of cheese for the royalist army’s victuals.” David rattled his papers. “I should think it would take years to acquire that amount of cheese. Art there so many milking cows in Shropshire?” The line between his eyebrows creased deeper. “Where is Shropshire, anyway?”

  Sara rolled her eyes. “’Tis in the West Midlands.” She frowned. “You never mention Thomas.”

  When David had read the news written in his mother’s hand—the ink blotched with sorrow and tears—he handed the letter back to Sara without a word.

  “I never liked him.”

  Thomas had been cruel to her but not to David. His daring within the fleet, his exploits at the taking of Québec could be labelled as heroic. “He was your brother.”

  David’s nostrils flared. “Don’t forget his ill treatment of you, Dear One, which was a slap against me gallant chin. As far as I’m concerned, he can rot.”

  “’Tis our Lord’s wish we forgive slights against us.”

  “Slights, you say?” He vigorously rubbed his nose. “Right then, I forgive him, may his soul burn in the lowest bowels of hell.”

  “That’s forgiveness?”

  “Aye.”

  Since then, little of the Civil War touched them. Their concerns centred on the West Country fishermen and their troublesome Western Charter, their interpretation of it changing weekly. Every ship brought complaints of David’s governorship.

  “Why aren’t they concerned with the war that plagues their shires?” David would cry. “Don’t they have a battle to attend to? If Laud were still alive, I’d send a strongly worded letter to him about those filthy creatures.” He brooded. “I do miss his Grace. He was a good man, a man of God.”

  Sara wasn’t sure about that, but she did not speak of it.

  He slapped the papers he held against his leg. “They didn’t have to execute him, poor wretch.”

  That Sara agreed with. England had become a violent place since she’d last been there.

  William Hopkins was now a colonel in the Royalist Army. Sara did not know what that would do to him, a gentle man, or to her sister. Frances never spoke of George, William’s son, who had gone over to the Parliament side of thought, though Sara did not think he carried a musket. He had been in Divinity school when the civil war began. Hopefully, he had remained there.

  Sara finished sifting through the letters. One was from Second Lord Baltimore’s man. “What will we do about Baltimore demanding we return the Province of Avalon to him? He’s quite persistent.”

  David shrugged. “His father obtained his patent to establish a popish colony, then abandoned the site. His son has never set foot, here. His complaints are not to be considered.”

  She handed David several letters addressed to him. “One is from Lewis.”

  He broke the seal and unfolded the paper. “Oh dear. Dear, oh dear.” Tears welled. He cleared his throat again and again.

  “What?”

  “Maman has died.” He stared at the window that showed a lovely view of their hamlet, the buildings at pool’s edge, the deep grey sea. “Flitted away in the dark of night, she did.” He gazed at the letter. “Some while ago, too. In May.” He dropped the paper on the table and left the chamber.

  * * *

  Sara walked out of the house. The day was blustery, but fresh, the skies blue. She stopped at the flag pole. Ropes snapped against the wood, the royal standard flapping above her. She shielded her eyes and looked out to sea. Georgie fished with a crew on one of their boats, wearing the new gauntlets she and David had devised, with carved wood secured with heavy leather over the palms.

  “I can’t bend me hand very well,” Georgie had said as he tried to flex his fingers. “But the fish line should not cut through and slice me hand.” He smiled.

  “This is your last time to fish, sirrah,” David admonished. “You are fifteen and must learn other parts of the business. We shall prepare you for when I float to the Heavens.”

  Sara gasped and Georgie frowned.

  “I should not like that one bit,” their son said.

  “You will not speak thusly,” Sara ordered.

  David’s eyes twinkled and his mouth quirked in a half smile. “Aye, but it will happen, me Dear Ones. Indeed.” He suddenly frowned.

  A shallop drifted into the pool, blocking Sara’s view of the crowded grand banks. The ship flew Western Counties’ colours and she bit her lower lip.

  David came beside her. “Bloody hell. What do they want, now?”

  An angular man stepped down a rope ladder and onto a small boat; then they rowed to shore.

  “These men are a bane to our business, Twig. I can’t get anything done without one or two of these biting flies pestering about our persons.”


  Still shielding her eyes from the bright day, the man dressed in a dark suit and hat shimmered in the summer’s glare as he walked up the hill toward them.

  He stopped and regarded them for a moment, then pulled out his pipe. “Your patent and the Western Charter’s rules are in conflict.”

  David scowled. Sara prepared for an unpleasant exchange.

  The man with dark hair and Vandyke beard motioned to their bustling hamlet, the permanent houses. “This is highly irregular,” he admonished.

  “What is?” David ground out. His body stiffened against Sara’s.

  “All these buildings, this road.” He shook his fist at the water’s edge. “That foul smelling privy. There aren’t to be inhabitations closer than six miles from shore.”

  “Who are you?” David demanded. “I am the governor here, under the direct rule of the king. I daresay, you cannot say the same.”

  The fellow removed his hat and gave a shallow bow. “I am Reginald Waltham of the Western counties come to complain of your behaviour, Sir. We have sent numerous letters to His Majesty and the Privy Council.”

  “What would you have me do, sirrah? The mansion was here prior to the Western Charter. Would you have me tear down all these structures?”

  Waltham reared his head. “Newfoundland is to be a free ranging country. With so many taking up permanent residence, our company loses business each year.”

  David relaxed and Sara sighed. No blood would come of this exchange.

  “We cannot stop the progress of men wanting to escape war, Waltham,” David advised. “Many of these people are tired of bloodshed, their families torn asunder by religion and battles.”

  “Mayhap,” Waltham conceded, “but the Western counties won’t give in until you are stopped.”

  “The king must settle this dispute. Would you like a dish of gooseberry wine?” David extended his hand.

  Waltham’s eyes brightened as he shook David’s hand. “If you will.”