“We will not listen to your impertinence which is well known,” Mister Street admonished. He clamped his teeth on his pipe stem.
Vane indolently waved a pomander. “Let us continue. We have the list of your misdeeds, here. Street, please read them to Sir David.”
Street rattled leaves of papers, forcing the men in the chamber to quieten. “Your accusations are thus...”
The man listed the same complaints as yesterday and the week before. David’s mind drifted until someone slammed a fist on the table, startling him.
“You’ve a monopoly on imported alcohol.” Street glared at David and sniffed disdainfully.
David heaved a breath. “Those are restrictions set forth by the Western Charter. I’ve nothing to do with that.”
“Fifteen pounds for a tavern license,” Vane cried out in disgust. “Thou art a greedy person of the most corrupt order.”
“Taverns are disallowed under the Western Charter,” Masham cried.
Booker pushed forward. “Again, you rail against us and the Western Charter. How often must we confirm Sir David had nothing to do with it? He followed the king’s grant to the letter.”
“We interviewed several planters and other persons residing in Newfoundland,” Masham derided, his face creased with discontent. “You overcharge…”
David lost interest, again, his mind travelling across the winter seas to his Ferryland. He’d accomplished so much there and wished with his whole being to return.
“…You exact illegal coin for fishing rooms.”
Booker bumped against David, returning him to the false accusations at hand. “I do not deal with coin in Newfoundland,” he insisted.
“You rented fishing rooms to foreign fishermen,” Street said.
“As per the king’s patent,” David retorted.
“And against the Western Charter,” Masham repeated.
“I do not follow the Western Charter,” David persisted, his voice rising an octave. Soon, he’d lose control and start hollering. “Why dost thou harangue me on this issue?”
Vane shook his pomander; spice scents shot over the table. “We reckon several thousand pounds found their way into your moneybox, sirrah, without giving the previous or current governments their share of the proceeds.”
“I sent bills of exchange to London. You’ve spoken to my man.” He did not mention the many bills of exchange transferred to Lewis prior to his arrival in England.
“Aye, we have, and indeed, there is little there.” Vane stared at David with a sort of wonder, even as David knew the man considered him a venal and cunning person.
He thinned his lips against Vane’s scrutiny and stared at the little window. He’d come to know its filthy glare was not only from coal and tobacco smoke, but from years of terror at the hands of sovereigns’ righteousness.
Vane stood. Heavy sadness covered him like a pall. David braced himself for the worst.
“Sir David, after much consideration and multitudinous documents from various sources both here in England and abroad in that faraway land called Newfoundland, I find you had no knowledge of the Western Charter and followed explicitly all clauses of the patent given to thee by our late King Charles the first.”
His gaze went around the table and to the chamber’s walls where men awaited his judgement. “I charge thee innocent of any wrongdoing. You are free to go.”
Chapter Forty-two
David ran up the front porch stairs and entered the house. Filled with renewed energy, he wanted to jump and shout, laugh and sing. Finally, his troublesome brews were over. Despite late autumn’s heavy gales and frosty mornings, they must set sail for Newfoundland immediately.
He swept off his hat and cloak, dumping them into the arms of a servant girl then dashed upstairs to the parlour. His grin might crack his face but he did not mind. He’d order Twig to make haste and pack their portmanteaux.
He burst into the chamber and met a crushing wall of woe and misery. His heart plummeted. Lewis and Sara regarded him, their carriages stiff with foreboding.
“What?” he cried. “The Council of State has finished with us. I shall take in much dudgeon if you tell me otherwise.”
Sara heaved a breath whilst Lewis went to a small table and rummaged in his leather case. He pulled out papers. “Lord Baltimore has filed suit with the High Court of Admiralty, stating you unlawfully seized the Province of Avalon and unceremoniously took over the mansion, throwing out Mister Hill, caretaker.”
“He knows damn well the way of it,” David exclaimed, deadly anger building in his gut. “Why will he not give it up? He complains but never visits Ferryland, never lifts a finger to make it better.”
David suddenly lost strength and sagged onto a straight back chair. An overwhelming lassitude swamped him. A headache throbbed behind his eyes and he sneezed.
“What will you have me do, then?” He dug in his sleeve for a handkercher.
Sara’s face paled with stark fear. “Fight, of course.” She came to him and clasped her arms about his shoulders. “You will not give up, Husband. We’ve come this far; let us continue these last steps.”
“Baltimore is a damn biting insect,” Lewis snapped. “He does this to wear you down.”
The man had succeeded, for David did not have the energy to fight against more accusations of his good name. He sank into Sara’s embrace and sighed. “I should contact Booker, then.”
Sara shook him. “What are you about? Sit up. Fight.”
He could not. “I am ill. We shall discuss this anon.” He staggered to his bed amidst sharp cries from Sara.
The next morning, David awoke refreshed, and resolved to right the wrongs against him. He dashed out of bed and fitted himself in a dark, unadorned woollen suit. He would fight Baltimore to the bloody ends of the earth. Ferryland was his. He would not allow anyone to take it from him.
Sara came into the bedchamber with a dish of new beer, fresh bread and cheese. “Thank the Lord. I thought you had given up.”
“Never,” he cried. “I’m off to the High Court of Admiralty in Southwark.”
“You need to break thy fast. Eat this afore you leave.”
“No time. I want to be first in line. Baltimore must cease and desist.” He jabbed a finger in the air and flew downstairs.
In the frosty out-of-doors, he found his way onto Budge Row, skirted around the London Stone, and trod onto Candlewick Street. Turning on New Fish Street, David walked downhill to London Bridge. The ramp carried him to a naked place where a fire the year he had been knighted burned several houses. Debris had been thrown off the Bridge onto the river bank but some still clung to the edge of the road. Wind whipped David’s cloak. He grabbed his hat as a sharp gust tried to sweep it into the Pool of London.
Carts trundled toward him. People hawked their wares. Once amongst the houses, Bridge Road narrowed to less than twelve feet and everything slowed down. David ground his teeth. This congestion put him in an ill condition.
After what seemed a very long time and his belly rolling with hunger, David came out the stone gatehouse and into Southwark. He’d been to the High Court of Admiralty several times and knew the way. Convenient to the Customs House and the cranes alongside the Thames, it was housed in the disused church of St. Margaret’s Hill on Borough High Street. An ancient building, he could smell the heavy rot, rat dung and piss before he came upon it.
Inside the old church, the doors banged shut behind him, putting everything in deep gloom. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. The first thing he saw was a flickering torch anchored to the stone wall, a grizzled fellow with black hair sitting at a table beneath it. His heavy lidded eyes regarded him with suspicion.
David did not recognize the man but he’d been gone from London several years now. The previous gentleman must have become a pensioner. “Where’s old Ned?”
The man sat up straighter. “Dead.”
David frowned. “Oh dear. Who are you?”
“What do you want?
”
So much for civility. “I want to go afore the High Court of Admiralty to explain the case drawn against me.”
The man opened a ledger. “What’s your name?”
“Sir David Kirke.”
The grizzled fellow ran his meaty thumb down the list. He turned a page, his attention steadfast on the list. “Don’t see you here. You’ll have to make an appointment.”
A door to the right rattled on its hinges, then opened. David grinned and went to meet him, his hand outstretched. “James Drummond, ‘tis good to see thee.”
Drummond shook his hand. “Sir David, what are you doing here?”
“Me name must be put on the docket. Lord Baltimore has filed suit against me.”
“We can write down your name and give thee a number but it will be weeks if not months before we will be able to look at the suit. We’re at war and those complaints come first.”
David took a step back. “But I don’t have months or weeks. I wish to return to Newfoundland. Me fisheries are suffering.”
Drummond frowned. “Can’t be helped. Besides, ‘tis winter. You’ll never get a ship of sail to take you across that rough sea.”
Thin lipped, David bowed. “I thank thee for thy honesty.” He turned on his heel and left the Admiralty.
At Bankside he waved down a wherry. When the boat scraped against the stairs, David got in. “To Westminster.”
“Aye sir.” The wherriman pushed the oar against the stone stairs and the boat slipped into the river’s current going upstream.
He’d try the Common Courts there but he must stop at Booker’s offices at Inner Court, first. He tapped the wherriman’s back. “Take me to the Temple Stairs instead.”
* * *
“Come in, come in,” Booker said with enthusiasm. “I’m just on my way to dinner at Sugar Loaf. They make a fine neat’s tongue and dish of prawn.” His throat made a humming sound. “Very good. Mum beer, too.” He put on his cloak and headed for the door. “I shall pay the reckoning.”
David’s belly growled but he did not want to take the time to eat. “Baltimore put a suit against me, the bloody bastard, but the High Court of Admiralty is full of business due to the war.”
Booker looked at him, his hand on the door latch. “What do you have in mind?”
“I will have the dispute reviewed by the Common Courts at Westminster. I wish to have this business finished so that I can return to Ferryland.”
His lawyer released the latch and walked back into the chamber. “You cannot with the complaint already at the Admiralty.”
“Drummond said it will take months, if not years to be reviewed.” It made him deadly mad Baltimore could be so obstinate. “Mayhap, I should leave for Ferryland anyway. When the complaint is scheduled, they can send me a letter of its conclusion.”
“It never goes well when a charterparty is tried in absentia.” He gathered papers on his table and set them into a neat pile. “You will lose Ferryland and you could be thrown in prison.”
“I can amass a small army. I will be safe in Ferryland.”
Booker shook his head. “The court’s justice has long arms. You’ve already been taken from your home in Newfoundland. If you leave, they will do it again. This time the results could be dire.”
A sense of urgency consumed David. If he did not leave this rank city soon, he’d never get away.
“The case should not be with the Admiralty,” David persisted. “They have been lately regulated to litigation on water, the Common Courts to issues on land. Baltimore complains we took his father’s property, which is on land.”
“But the lawsuit was submitted to the Admiralty. They have the power to review and judge Baltimore’s complaint. You cannot remove it to a faster court.”
David turned mulish. He crossed his arms in front of this chest and stared down his nose at his man of business.
“Don’t do this,” Booker entreated. “The Admiralty judges are better equipped to handle international law.”
“It is of Newfoundland, not Europe.”
“Newfoundland is of an international flavour. You will not win.”
“I wish this to be concluded,” David yelled.
Booker winced. “You will make powerful enemies if you persist.”
“Then let us be above board and properly withdraw the complaint from the High Court.” He waved his hand in frustration. “With heralds if need be.”
A week later, Booker’s apprentice knocked on the Kirke household door. He handed David a letter.
With great trepidation, he cracked the seal and unfolded the paper. Booker’s quill had been recently sharpened for the words were clear and concise.
“Sir David,
“As I expected, the Admiralty will not release the suit against you to the Common Courts. Lord Baltimore introduced the suit and he must withdraw it. I will let you know when the case comes up for review.
“Yours sincerely,
“Henry Booker, Esq.”
David dug a penny from his purse and gave it to the messenger. “I have nothing in reply.”
The lad bowed and jumped off the porch, heading in the direction of the city wall and the Inner Temple.
His footsteps laboured, David slowly climbed the stairs to his and Sara’s bedchamber. Once in the privacy of his room, his forlorn gaze found the roaring hearth. Coal burned hot and gave warmth to his suddenly cold skin. Whatever he did, he encountered another obstacle. Lady Fate had turned against him.
Chapter Forty-three
London, January 1654
Over the past month, David had visited many of the common law offices in Westminster, pressing good coin into each person’s palm. They vowed the money would pay for the court costs but David knew better. He could almost hear the metal clinking in their purses the moment he left their chambers.
He sought a resolution to his misery but each time a hand closed over his coin, his gut sank deeper. A dull headache became a persistent reminder he could lose everything he had worked for. Each evening he folded his body onto a chair and succumbed to deadly weariness; then in the morning, he dragged from his bed to again fight for his right to Newfoundland.
Baltimore’s stubbornness greatly vexed him and David had, for a brief moment, thought to seek him out and stab him in the heart. But reason prevailed. Sara promised David undue harm if he attempted to murder Cecil Calvert, Second Lord Baltimore.
“His home is in North Yorkshire and on the other side of the world,” she informed him.
“He’s the damn malignant,” David cursed. “Not me. Not you. No one in our family follows that popish religion. How is it Baltimore hasn’t been given over to the bailiffs for his idolatry practises?”
He stifled a cough. He could not tell Sara of the fever that simmered behind his eyes.
“There’s a fine line between Laud’s High Church and the Roman Church,” Sara reminded him.
“Ach! I will not listen to this. There are no similarities whatsoever.” He caught Sara’s smile as he stomped downstairs.
He grunted and opened the front portal to a heavy mist. Decay and coal smoke filled the air. His headache throbbed and he coughed. David heaved a foggy breath and set out for Booker’s offices of business.
“You will assist me in this, or I shall find another lawyer,” David hollered.
“Do hold your choler.” Booker hissed. “Inner Temple is a hallowed hall of thought.”
“I tell thee the High Court of Admiralty is a thing of the past,” David’s gruff voice crackled. He cleared his achy throat. “Old Sir Edward Coke succeeded in making the Common Courts jurisdiction for everything on land.”
“But the Admiralty has Baltimore’s suit against you.”
“I want this done!”
“Simultaneous actions with the courts could stall a settlement for years,” Booker reminded him. “And, do not deny it. You are ill.” He regarded David as if he were old and frail.
Indeed, of late, David had lost a great deal
of purpose. His neck pained him. His muscles ached and he suffered from constant headaches. This week, a rattling cough filled his lungs. He frowned. “I will pay the price, with or without your help.”
Booker sighed. “I will obtain a copy of Baltimore’s suit and counterclaim with the Common Courts.”
“How will you do this?”
He shrugged. “I will inform a judge at King’s Bench the Admiralty has encroached on the common law jurisdiction. This will open the way for a review with the Common Courts.” Booker grabbed David’s arm. “Go home and rest whilst I prepare. I’ll contact you once this is set in motion.”
David sagged against the wall. His knees were weak but he straightened his back. With a nod, he started for the door, taking one step, then another. Bleary eyed, he reached for the panel but his legs gave out. With a cry, he collapsed to the floor.
He awoke being jounced on a litter up some stairs. His belly roiled. The ceiling was a blur but he caught the familiar scents of his house.
“What happened?” a pretty voice pierced his foggy brain. A gentle hand held his.
Ah Twig, his lovely lady who could cast the truest rascal into streets with her negotiation skills. He was lucky to have her.
“I love thee, Twig.” He did not recognize his raspy voice barely above a rumbling whisper. He cleared his throat. “I love thee.”
“This way,” Sara ordered. “Do not drop him.” She patted his hand, then released it, leaving him suddenly forsaken.
Soon, a door opened; its metal hinges squeaked like the very devil. He’d have to oil them or there would be no peace, no sleep. Bed curtains were pushed to the posts, their swaying movement pulsated puffs of cold air. He shivered.
A cool hand touched his forehead, his cheeks. “He’s burning up. Husband, what hast thou done?” Twig’s voice caught in her throat.
Pillars of Avalon Page 29
