Pillars of Avalon

by Catherine Pym

  It gladdened him she cared.

  “John,” Sara ordered. “Send someone to find Lewis.”

  * * *

  Something smelled good and David opened his eyes. Lewis stood beside the bed holding a dish of collops and eggs. Still warm, steam twined toward the ceiling.

  “Good, you’re awake. This dish is hot.” Lewis set the plate on the bed. He laid a knife and spoon on top of the food. “You’ve moved on from beef broth. Best eat whilst it’s warm. Nothing worse than cold eggs and bacon.”

  “I can eat it cold,” David said, his voice raspy.

  “Oh yes, thou art the manly brother.” Lewis frowned.

  “Methinks you have bad tidings, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

  Sara came to the bed and felt David’s forehead. “Your brother has been here every day since you became ill. You are on the mend, Dear One, but you must eat.”

  Lewis’ face creased with trouble. He wandered away from the bed and looked out the window. “I’ve always liked this chamber. The cantilever storeys lean greatly over the lane. You can almost touch the house across the street. Do you remember Mistress Betty Cooper? She’d open her casement, then primp in front of the looking glass.” He shook his head with wonder.

  “You nearly fell to your death trying to cross over one day,” David scoffed. “It was a good thing I caught thee. As it was, your hat fell into the muck of the lane.”

  Lewis forced a laugh.

  “Do not spare me. Tell the whole of it.”

  Sara frowned at Lewis. “Do not. We still have time. I don’t want anything to upset David’s recovery.”

  Lewis turned to him. He opened his mouth but when Sara glared at him with fists on her hips, he clamped it closed again.

  “Out with it,” David ordered.

  Sara shook her head. “Do it then.”

  Lewis returned to the bed. “The High Court of Admiralty has summoned you.”

  David pulled himself to a seated position. His head spun. Sara fluffed the pillows and he leaned against them. “When?”

  “Tomorrow morning at ten of the clock. Someone told them of your countersuit with the Common Court.” Lewis stared at him for a long moment then returned to the window. “I don’t think Mistress Betty lives there, anymore.”

  David studied his breakfast plate. The food no longer appealed. “She married an old merchant who gave her several children. Most of them lived past five years.”

  “Eat,” Sara demanded.

  He picked up his plate. With the knife, David cut into the eggs. He scooped them up with his spoon. Now cold, he almost gagged.

  “I told you to eat the eggs whilst they were still warm.” Lewis opened the casement and leaned against the sill. “Have you seen her father, Mister Cooper, of late? He must be ancient by now.”

  Sara tucked the woollen rugs around him, his legs and feet. Sounds of annoyance buzzed in her throat.

  David slowly chewed the eggs and swallowed. “Where is Booker?”

  “He’ll be here tomorrow. Together, we will go to the Admiralty Court.” Lewis sighed.

  Sara’s face creased with worry. David did not like Lewis’ strange reminisces that filled the chamber with sad foreboding. He forced another spoonful of eggs down his gullet.

  “Good to see you eating again.” Sara’s smile of encouragement wavered.

  He must have strength to face the dreaded music.

  The next morning, Lewis and Sara helped him dress in a thick woollen suit. He wore two shirts to guard against the frosty day and tightly woven woollen stockings.

  Tugging and huffing for breath, Lewis forced old boots with large cuffs onto David’s feet. “Your man should do this.”

  Helplessness put David in the droops. He waved Lewis and Sara away. “I can do it.” His head spun and his knees wobbled.

  “Nay, you cannot,” Sara cried. “You will let us help thee.”

  “A sedan chair is outside.” Lewis assisted him with his doublet and Sara buttoned it.

  “Do not treat me like a dandling babe. I will not allow it.” He pushed their hands away and finished buttoning his doublet. His fingers shook. He was short of breath and his face dripped sweat when he fastened the final button.

  “We don’t want to be late.” Lewis put on his hat. “The Bridge is always too congested.”

  “Why not take a wherry?” Sara’s voice rang with command. “He’ll be less tired.”

  “There is no sedan chair waiting on Bankside. I do not want to carry him through the streets.”

  David scoffed. “That is because you are weak.”

  Lewis raised an eyebrow.

  “Let us get this over with.” David stood as tall as he could and staggered out of the bedchamber.

  They arrived at St. Margaret on the Hill in good time, mostly due to the men carrying the sedan chair. They dashed in and out of the crowds, nearly bowling folk over in their haste. David’s ride through the streets was agony. His belly roiled from being brutally jounced and rattled. He nearly heaved up his breakfast when they jolted to a stop.

  Booker and Lewis helped him crawl out of the sedan. Even as the damp and stink of the church seeped into his bones, David took a deep breath. He swayed on his feet, but his gut settled a little.

  Lewis took David’s arm, Booker the other. They slowly walked into the church where the first chamber had not changed. It was still dark as pitch as soon as the doors shut. The sputtering torch gave little light.

  The same fellow sat the table. “What do you want?”

  “The Admiralty expects us,” Booker said.

  “Name?”

  “Sir David and Sir Lewis Kirke. I am Booker, their man of business.”

  The shaggy man ran his thumb down the page. “Ah yes, you’re to go right in.” He motioned to the side door where last month David had met with Drummond.

  Climbing the stairs to an upper chamber, David’s head reeled. He gasped for breath by the time they made it to the top. He stumbled between Lewis and Booker and nearly pitched forward when they came to a large table, three men sitting along one side.

  “You look done in,” Drummond said. “Get him a chair.”

  David gratefully sank onto it and tried to focus but the men’s faces were a blur. He gasped when Lewis removed his hat, his head suddenly cold.

  Drummond rattled several papers. “You’ve been busy, Sir David, and annoyed a great many folk.” He stabbed a finger at his chest. “Including me.”

  Booker stepped forth, his demeanour in supplication. He smiled, then bowed. “Now, gentlemen, let me explain.”

  “You will not,” Drummond exclaimed. “Against our dictates, you’ve gone to the Common Courts with a counterclaim to Baltimore’s suit. In obtaining statutory protection from Parliament, you’ve undermined our court, our strength of power. You’ve caused conflict of interest on both sides of the river.”

  He showed them a leaf of paper filled with scrolling script and heavy typeface, which he waved in the air. “This is a writ of habeas corpus. You are a plague to the court systems, Sir David. For your impertinence, I send thee to Clink Prison.”

  “The Clink!” Booker sputtered. “That’s outrageous. Sir David is no vagrant or thief.”

  “But he is a malignant and follower of the papist church.”

  “I am not.” David thought he shouted but he barely heard his own whisper.

  “You love the old, dead king.”

  “I do not. He cheated me at every turn.” David’s voice was steadier this time.

  “Nonetheless, to the Clink you must go.”

  His soul suddenly broken, David murmured, “I am undone.”

  Chapter Forty-four

  The moment David and Lewis left for the Admiralty, Sara knew this day would bring them to ruin. She had seen it often in her dreams, nay nightmares, which had grown more fitful and dire these past months.

  Not able to attend to her household duties, she watched the street through the parlour’s lace curtains. Hours
had passed before she saw a grim Lewis turn the corner onto Basing Street. Her belly plummeted when a sedan chair did not follow. Her hands shook and her heart thrummed erratically in her throat. She fought the tears that crept into her eyes.

  Lewis stopped and gazed at the front of the house. His shoulders heaved, then he climbed the porch steps. Sara would not wait for him to bring her the bad tidings. She ran downstairs and met him at the portal.

  “Where is David?”

  He looked away. “They arrested him. He’s in the Clink.”

  Sara gasped. “’Tis notorious for filth and damp, and sits below the river’s high-water level.” He’ll die there!

  Hopelessness ate at her. Those who wanted to stop her husband had finally done so. Tears welled and dropped onto her cheeks. She angrily swiped them away with the back of her hand.

  “Well, not quite the Clink but in the Bishop’s Palace, on the second storey, where the wealthy are housed.” He rushed by her. “I need a drink.”

  A pitcher of Rhenish wine stood on the parlour sideboard, several goblets alongside. He fumbled with a cup and splashed wine into it. “Guards with cudgels dragged him in his weakened state to that stinking hole of a gaol.”

  “Is it very crowded? Does he have a bed?”

  “I know not. They would not allow us beyond the first chamber.” He gulped down wine and poured another. His brows creased. He cleared his throat, looked at her as if to say something, then closed his eyes.

  Sara knew he did not give David any hope. She clicked her tongue. “I will not allow you to give up. He must have food and linens, medicines from the apothecary. Please ready the vintner cart while I gather goods to take to him.”

  “They will not let you in there, and in truth, ‘tis a terrible place, not fit for man nor beast.”

  Sara dashed into the Kirke vintner office and removed the moneybox from its hidey-hole. “I will be allowed in if we spread enough money around.”

  Defeated, Lewis’ hands dropped to his sides.

  After what seemed hours crossing the Bridge with the profusion of people, carts, a gaggle of geese and needle hawkers plying their trades before their shops, they descended into Southwark. Their wine clerks accompanied them and watched for theft, but with the crowd so heavy, small hands found their way in between the cart slats. Antoine hollered in French whilst Hugh threatened them with a willow branch.

  Sara slapped a lad’s hand who tried to snatch the dish of brawn from the food basket. Another lad hollered, distracting Sara and the clerks. Someone tugged on the basket but Sara held onto it. “Get thee gone, you rascals,” she exclaimed whilst Lewis raised his walking stick.

  He stabbed and parried it about like a sword. “I shall strike thee with this.”

  The lads shouted and ran away. Times like this made Sara wish she were back in Newfoundland where people were not so wicked.

  They wound the cart through narrow lanes filled with tenements, their front walks still showing remnants from when papist bishops lived here with their garden boundaries. They came upon a large cesspit, its miasma of noxious fumes edged the front of several houses. Black, oozing muck bled into the lane. Sara dug out her handkercher and covered her face.

  They found another lane which took them closer to the river. They passed more tenements and the James Brewhouse. Sara breathed in the more wholesome scents of hops and malt. Soon, they pulled up to the Bishop’s Palace with its great hall.

  “He’s up there.” Lewis pointed to where several windows above them had been blocked with wood or fitted with bars.

  Sara heaved a breath, dragged her feet to the door whilst Lewis turned the latch. They found themselves in an antechamber. Pegs knocked into a wall were piled with cloaks. A large cabinet sat against another wall. Half the shelves were ladened with spurs, pistols, and daggers, whilst the other half carried swords, Wheelocks or flintlocks, and all padlocked behind wrought iron, grilled doors.

  A man in a dark suit, wearing rivet spectacles, sat at a table, a large black book at his elbow. Quills and an inkwell littered the board. He looked up and regarded Lewis with dull eyes; then he noticed Sara. “She’s not allowed in here.”

  Lewis opened his heavy purse. Coins rattled. “How art thou this brave afternoon?”

  The man did not answer.

  Sara stepped forward. “I’ve come to see me husband, Sir David Kirke. He was sent here this fore-noon.”

  The man only blinked.

  Sara wanted to slap the lacklustre person. “You will take us to Sir David Kirke.”

  “Do you have a letter from Thomas Davenish that gives you leave to enter this gaol?”

  “Who is Thomas Davenish?” Lewis demanded.

  “The bailiff who’s in charge of this place.”

  Sara’s head began to hurt. “Where might we find this Mister Davenish?”

  The guard ignored her. He flipped through the pages of his black book, then sent a pale eye on Lewis. “If you will see the prisoner, you must provide a garnish.”

  “How much?” Lewis demanded.

  The man stood, the hard backed chair scraping against the stone floor. From his belt jangled a keyring overfull with keys of all sizes. “’Tis up to you, but I shall have enough to make it worth me while.” He shook the keys, and waited. A bushy brow ascended into his hat brim. “An angel will do.”

  “What do you mean, an angel?” Sara cried. It was outrageous to be forced to pay a gold coin to see a prisoner. Those old coins were worth nearly ten shillings.

  “You will not have an angel for thy efforts,” Lewis informed the guard. “Two shillings will do or I shall call the bailiff.” He shook out the required amount of coins onto the table.

  “I’ll need another shilling for the woman.”

  Lewis growled. “Only half a shilling.” He dumped sixpence into the guard’s calloused palm.

  With a sleight of hand, the coins disappeared, and the guard unlocked the cabinet. “All weapons and spurs go in this lockup.”

  Lewis set his walking stick amidst the flintlocks, put his dagger on a shelf.

  The guard looked at Sara. “Mistress? Have you a weapon upon thy person?”

  If she had, she would have used it on the belligerent knave’s head. “Nay.”

  “Not even your dinner knives?” His eyes widened.

  Lewis removed the case holding his spoon and knife from his belt and handed it to the guard, who motioned to Sara. “I’ll have yours too, Mistress.”

  Sara dug in her skirts and removed her utensil case from her pockets. She handed it to the guard. “This is all.”

  “You must remove your cloaks. No telling if there is a weapon sewn into the lining.”

  Sara gasped but removed her cloak. Lewis relinquished his and gave it to the man.

  “This way,” the guard said as he hung the cloaks on a peg and led the way to a wicket-gate near the table. He opened the small door within a large one, then called out, “Sergeant, visitors for the Bishops’ Palace.” He stepped aside and motioned to Lewis and Sara.

  They bent low and met another fellow, his hand already out to receive payment. “Who does they call on?”

  “Sir David Kirke recently come here,” the guard of the black book replied. He slammed shut the gate, startling Sara.

  “That’ll be twelve pence.”

  While Lewis counted out the required amount, Sara noticed a knavish person lurking in the shadows. In a woollen gown with two soiled linen panels hanging from his collar, she recognized a King’s Bench attorney. She looked away thanking the Lord Booker did not look so skulduggery.

  The sergeant took the proffered coins. “This way.”

  The man climbed steep stairs to a landing with an iron studded door. He pounded on it.

  Cries of anguish seeped through the stone walls and the studded door. Damp glossed the mossy walls.

  “Who goes there?” a muffled voice demanded.

  “Someone to see the new ‘un.”

  Iron bolts clanged up the ins
ide of the door. Soon, the hinges squeaked and the panel opened. “I am the turnkey, and will have ten pence for me pains.” He gazed around Lewis. “And another five for the woman.”

  Lewis dropped coins out of the purse which Sara reckoned was a mite flatter since entering this horrid place.

  The turnkey nodded. “Follow me.” He took them through several doors and down what seemed many passageways of makeshift walls. They had parcelled off the Bishop’s great hall to make room for as many inmates as possible.

  He stopped at another door, the key poised. “I’ll take another five pence for this duty, sirrah.”

  “Enough,” Lewis growled. “We are not prisoners but visitors. You will open this door and let us pass. You will be near whilst we stay with Sir David, and you will allow us free passage out of this place.”

  The turnkey’s eyes bulged.

  “Dost thou hear me well?” Lewis demanded. He seemed vexed to the very devil.

  Sara stepped out of the way in case he should give the man a sharp blow to the neck.

  The man nodded, then opened the cell door. Lewis and Sara were ushered over the threshold and into a dank chamber, where a deadly vapour hit them.

  Sara covered her face with her handkercher and searched the gloom for David. Beds lined the walls but only a few were filled. She saw a movement. David was trying to sit up but soon he fell back again.

  She grabbed Lewis’ arm. “Go fetch the goods. Immediately.”

  * * *

  By the time they’d settled David comfortably, it was late. Except for the lanthorn on the floor near the bed, the chamber lay in Stygian darkness. Water dripped. Men moaned in their sleep. Brazen rats clustered at their feet. They fought over the marrow dish brought to David. He had eaten a spoonful or two but he drank well from the small pitcher of new beer filtered with barley water.

  Sara brushed her hand over his brow, his now hollow cheeks. The medicine from the apothecary had not helped and his fever spiked again. David shook and shivered. Sara covered him with a woollen blanket, then climbed onto the vermin ridden bed with him, tried to comfort him with her body heat.