Pillars of Avalon

by Catherine Pym

  Listening to the coals sizzle in the hearth, David frowned. He did not have time to marry a slip of a girl who would most likely die during childbirth. He closed his eyes, already struck with the pain of Sara’s passing.

  He shut his mind to this and allowed the warmth of the fire to engulf his chilled heart. “You are a cruel master, sir.”

  “I am not getting any younger and I miss your mother.” Father’s voice wavered.

  A sudden thrill of fear tingled along David’s spine and his eyes snapped open. His father’s ruddy skin held an unearthly pallor. Why hadn’t he seen this before?

  “You will not die on us. You are our sire and we still need you.” He prayed his father was only filled to the calves with drink and would feel much better in the morning.

  His father heaved a shaky breath. “Help me to my bed.”

  The next morning, David broke his fast with a dish of new beer and a slice of day old bread. Sneezing from the smoke that rolled into the kitchen from the hearth, he waved the maid out of the way, opened the ambry and dug about for cheese. Finding a partial wheel on an earthen dish, he broke off a large piece, glad it did not crumble.

  He had started to eat when his father stumbled into the kitchen. His eyes drooped and his hair spiked about his head. This morning dawned cold and Father had donned two shirts, their tails not secured with points and hanging outside his breeches.

  Mother would never have allowed Father to appear as such before the servants or David’s siblings. He had not realized how his mother’s leaving had affected Father, who skewered him with a glare.

  “Don’t start. I get those same looks from thy sisters. I am fine, just hungry this morn.” Father gazed at the girl who stirred gruel in a small cast-iron pot. “I’ll have a bowl of that when ready.”

  David shrugged. “Well then, I’m off to Deptford. Sir William’s and your money will do very well to outfit a larger fleet for next season. This time, we will take the whole of the French settlements and make them English.” He smiled, waiting for his father’s reply.

  “How many ships will you need?”

  “At least nine or ten, first and second rates, pinnaces and the like.”

  The maid handed Gervase a steaming earthen bowl and a spoon. His father nodded then sat at the kitchen table. “We will spare no expense. Once you conquer Québec, you will leave Lewis as governor. You will return to England and marry the Andrews girl.” He gazed unblinking at him.

  Trapped by his father’s demands, David pressed his lips together. Then he shrugged. Mistress Sara would be a better wife than most. At least he liked her, and the way she acted, he guessed she liked him, too. He had enjoyed tormenting her when she was but a child.

  David shrugged. “As you will.” He plunked his new beer dish onto the table. “Now, I’m off to Deptford.”

  “Visit Lord Andrews, first, and let him know you are willing to marry the girl.” He paused with his spoon in the air. “But go around back to his private offices. It would be best if you did not run into my lady with her strange behaviour.” He sniffed. “Horrid lot, that. Let us hope the daughter isn’t like the mother.” He sent his spoon into the gruel.

  David growled and pushed his beaver hat on his head. He threw his cloak over his shoulder and stomped out of the house.

  * * *

  The bed-curtains pushed to the posts, Sara sat on the edge of the feather mattress and waggled her stockinged feet. Her parents told her last night after supper she was to marry David Kirke. At least when they made the decision, they considered she must enjoy the rascal’s company. Father was to give David quite a large dowry. She only hoped he would use it for their future and not for war against the French.

  She was glad she had been born into a wealthy household, but it stifled her freedom. She must have a servant or Frances with her at all times when out-of-doors. She could not go to market alone, but with several servants trailing behind, their arms ladened with baskets. If it were up to Mother, she’d be out of sight and trotted about town in a sedan chair, her servants footslogging alongside through the muck of the lanes.

  The less prosperous could marry whom they pleased, when they pleased. They even changed mates if they so desired. She’d heard if one fell out of favour with the other, he or she would wander off to another part of the city and marry again. After all, most folk stayed within their neighbourhood the full of their lives. The injured party would never see the other. He or she would never know what happened to them.

  Of course, bigamy was against the Church and God’s law, and she would never consider it. Hmmm.

  She frowned, not liking it if David should do such a thing. She hoped he hadn’t changed much over the years. She would not want to kick him in the shins and run off to another part of the city to find a new husband.

  She giggled and fell back onto the counterpane. Her thoughts were very wicked, today.

  Most men and women did not join in body and soul until in their late twenties. By the time Sara reached that age, she’d more than like have a dandling babe at her breasts, and several others clinging to her skirts. This made her feel the pawn to Mister Kirke’s and her father’s businesses. Their coffers would be combined and their families wealthier still.

  “What art thou about?” Frances walked into the bedchamber all a’ flurry. “You are still in your stockings and underskirts. Mother’s in a pet this morn. She wants us to direct the servants in a great cleaning of the upper chambers.”

  Sara slid off the bed. “You know I am to be married.”

  Frances hugged her. “Aye, to a man who is ancient. Have you seen the grey at his temples?”

  Sara laughed. “Some turn grey quite early. Remember Nurse who had almost snow white hair by the time she was thirty?”

  “How could I forget? She blamed us, said our uncontrolled behaviour made her old afore her time.”

  Sara laughed. She stepped into a dark blue outer skirt and tied the drawstring around her middle; then straightened her laced underbodice over the gathered waistline.

  “A maid should help you.”

  “I can do it.” Sara retrieved a red waistcoat from the bed and slipped her arms into the sleeves. Frances helped fasten the hooks and eyes along the front of it. Once done, Sara sat on a low stool and put on her latchet shoes.

  “You look plain as a common maid, today.” Frances derided. “What if Mister Kirke comes to visit?”

  “Then I shall look like a plain but honourable person,” Sara remarked as she stepped to the looking glass and tucked an errant curl into her cap. She turned to her sister. “What do you think?”

  Frances rolled her eyes. “As I said, low and plain, and no one can see your pretty, chestnut hair.”

  “We must always wear a cap, and high gowns with so much cloth are too heavy. Wearing one for any length of time puts me in a distemper of heat and itching.” Sara took a deep breath and raised her arms, turning around. “See? This is much better.”

  Frances walked out of the chamber. “You still look the servant. Mother will scold you, mark my words. You must always appear the lady.”

  They descended to the kitchen on the ground floor of the house, which had quick access to Father’s storeroom and private office. Kitchen servants often provided waiting wine customers with cups of new beer to slake their thirst.

  Sara was to work with the servants and clean the chambers, not lord over them. “Mother can say what she likes. I’m not bothered.”

  “Is that so?” Mother stood at the bottom of the stairs with her arms crossed, her stance stiff with annoyance. “Just because you are betrothed doesn’t give you the right to be impudent.” Her eyes blazed and Sara sighed.

  It would be a long day. “I beg your pardon, Mother.”

  She regarded Sara for quite a long while as if trying to fathom the depth of her sincerity. “I shall watch you, me saucy girl and give thee a high bout if I see differently.”

  Sara would avoid her mother, today.

  A man s
auntered around the corner from her father’s storeroom, whistling a tune between his teeth. The froth of feathers tucked into his hatband bounced in rhythm to his steps. Today, no velvet or ribbons bedecked his doublet or breeches; no lace fell from his boot cuffs. Sara noted he was dressed for work.

  On the bottom tread, she laughed and David started. He swallowed the tune and gazed at them, his mouth spreading into a wide smile. “Well, who have we here?” He raised his hand as if to pull Sara’s ringlets. “Tucked away, are they? Don’t want me to tease you into a fury?” He grinned; then abruptly stepped back as if he expected her to kick him.

  “You are right to be wary, sirrah. The toes of these shoes would surely do thee grave harm.”

  “And I shall dance out of your way, make no mistake. You’ll look the merry jade bouncing about in front of all and sundry.” He grinned.

  Mother’s face did not soften. She clicked her tongue. “May we assist you with something?”

  David’s face stilled as he turned to regard Mother. He slid a glance at Sara then back again, his grey eyes assessing Mother’s ill-temper.

  He bowed. “Milady, I’ve just concluded some betrothal business with milord and have come to tell my future bride how pleased I am.” He stood straight and penetrated Mother with a challenging gaze.

  Sara suppressed a grin. Not many had the resolve to stand against the woman and live to tell of it. At least Mother appeared alert. Too often of late, her eyes fluctuated between that and the vacant. Her increasingly odd behaviour put Sara in the droops.

  Mother’s shoulders relaxed. Her severe frown gentled. “Well then, pleased we are to see you. Would you care for something to eat or drink?”

  Sara preferred to learn more of David, his spirit and his heart and she wanted to do this away from her mother’s stern glower. “Mister Kirke will take me for a walk about the neighbourhood.” She stepped up a tread. “Won’t you?”

  His eyes brightened. “I will do one better. Come to Deptford with me. I will show you our fleet.”

  Mother’s mouth opened as if to say something but David leaped lightly onto the stairway, forcing Sara up another tread. “We will get your cloak. ‘Tis chilly this morning.” His broad smile never wavered.

  He took another step, as did Sara, afraid he’d trample her feet.

  “But-” Mother’s face fell into a deeper frown. “When will you return? How will you protect our girl? I shall not have her hurt.”

  David took another step, forcing Sara up the stairs.

  “Do stop.” She hissed.

  “I fear your mother,” David whispered, his eyes wide. “She is a turbulent woman.”

  Sara could not remain annoyed with him and laughed. She dashed to the foyer and the front door, where the family’s cloaks and hats hung on pegs.

  Mother and Frances noisily followed, their heels clicking along the wooden planks. “Frances will go with thee,” Mother demanded. “And a footman. Our biggest and strongest.”

  “Aye.” David plucked her mother’s cloak from a peg. Sara replaced it and pulled down hers. He recklessly flung it over her shoulders. She tied her hat ribbons under her chin.

  Frances laughed and pulled down her cloak, threw it over her shoulders. “We will do well, Mother, have no fear. After all, Mister Kirke has subdued savages and French Roman Catholics. He’s crossed violent seas filled with Moor pirates.”

  “I’ve pistol in me belt and a small sword at me side.” He opened the door.

  “But-” Mother raised her hand as if to stay them.

  David directed Sara onto the front porch. He motioned Frances to hurry and she skipped over the threshold. “We will see thee anon, Mother Andrews.” He grinned, hustling Sara and her sister to the road.

  As they walked boldly down the lane, Sara’s mother cried, “I will not be called Mother Andrews.”

  Chapter Six

  “Now, we’re in for it,” Sara said.

  Following Mister Kirke and Sara, Frances straightened her cloak and set the button under her chin. The day would be bright if not for the fog that muted sounds and blunted the lines of buildings. It forced the city smells to hover over the lanes, making her eyes water.

  Kirke leaned into Sara. “Why do you say this?”

  “Methinks Mother’s brains are cracking.” She shook her head.

  Frances slipped her hand in a slit within her woollen skirts to the pockets tied like an apron around her waist, reassured when she touched the puzzle book. She loved the silly things, with Roman and Arabian numerals clustered together. To solve the riddles, to make sense of what seemed a jumble of complexities, brought her great satisfaction.

  Her fingers skipped about until they found the edges of a letter folded within the puzzle book. A thrill of pleasure overcame her and she almost tripped over an uneven paving stone.

  Mister William Hopkins, a scholar, merchant and investor with the Merchant Adventurers had taken a fancy to her. They met one day whilst she was with Father in his storeroom, counting wine barrels.

  A widower with a young son, his beautiful blue-green eyes saw into the depths of her soul. He was tall and wore a rumpled doublet, his muslin collar forever wrinkled. It did seem he needed a woman to assist him and if her dreams came true, she would one day be his wife.

  Shortly after they met, he had sent her a missive written in simple cipher that expressed his admiration for her kindness, her humility. She could not help but return his shy advances but her letter was in a more complex code, and in secret. Only fifteen, her parents would never approve.

  “What do you mean?” Kirke demanded. “How could her brains crack?”

  Frances blinked, suddenly aware of her surroundings, their jaunt down to River Thames.

  “Mother goes from joyous to great misery and stares at a wall for hours. ‘Tis all very unsettling.”

  Kirke winked at Sara. “Your mother will be fine and dandy, mark me words.” He picked up speed as they walked down Bow Street and descended the hill toward Thames Street.

  Nearly at a run to keep up with Kirke’s long strides, Frances’ skirts tangled between her legs but she couldn’t help laughing. She’d never seen Mother so astonished when Kirke called her Mother Andrews. Her face askew with astonishment, her mouth moved without sound like a fish out of water.

  “What?” Kirke turned to her, his face flushed in the cool air.

  “I imagine Mother ran into Father’s office.” Frances huffed, almost out of breath. “And filled his ears that you, Mister Kirke, shamed her in front of the whole world.”

  “Nay, it isn’t so, and call me David. After all, I’m almost your brother.”

  She nodded. “David then.”

  “Aye,” Sara added. “Soon, word will spread and our parish, nay, all of Cordwainer Street Ward will know of it. On Sundays, our alderman and his wife will stare as Mother walks down the church aisle to our family pew.”

  “Our mother will never forget this slight, Mister Kirke,” Frances pressed.

  “David.”

  “Aye.” She noted their footsteps had taken them in the opposite direction of the Bridge and London Pool.

  “And she’ll say we were part of the roguery.” Sara stopped short and David almost ploughed into her. “Where are we going?”

  “To Queenhithe. We’ll get a wherry there.” David sniffed as if Sara should know this.

  Sara turned to him with a frown. “Nay, sirrah. I will not shoot the Bridge with you. ‘Tis a deadly folly.”

  “We’re in between tides and the water is calm.” David cocked his head. “Do you hear rushing water?”

  Besides the normal city din, men shouting along the river, horses and heavy coaches rattling down the lanes, Frances only heard the needy cry of gulls.

  “I do not.” Sara straightened her shoulders and started to walk again toward the river. “But I shall see for myself.”

  David snorted. “Who is Mother Andrews, now?”

  Sara gave him a dirty look and Frances bit back a laugh
. Her sister and this man would do very well together.

  They reached Queenhithe Stairs, and indeed, the river drifted toward the Bridge as if filled with melancholy. A wherry bumped against the stone quay with another rowing their way.

  “Right, ladies, in you go.” David assisted Frances and Sara into the boat and onto a bench; then climbed in.

  Frances held onto the gunwale as the scull bobbed amidst floating debris that swirled about the pilings.

  “To Deptford,” David ordered.

  The waterman clamped yellow teeth on his pipe stem and held out a meaty, calloused palm. His neck knotted with scrofula, he was surly and stank of sweat and grease. “That will be six shillings afore hand.” He glared without remorse at David.

  Frances could not believe her ears. That was very dear indeed when the river lay gentle through town. For that price, her clothier could fashion a very nice gown.

  “That’s outrageous,” Sara declared.

  The grizzled boatman sucked on his cold pipe. “’Tis the cost to fill this here boat. Five persons going to diverse places along the river. You are but three persons and you want to go a good distance.” He scratched his pate beneath his cap. “Come to think on it that will be eight shillings for the added miles.”

  “What?” Sara cried.

  “Pay the price or we wait for others to fill this here boat.”

  David scowled. “I shall take this to your guild. You are a bloody cheat.”

  The boatman’s mouth moved into a slow grin. “I beg thee try.” Refusing to budge, the boatman kept the anchor firmly in the mud.

  Frances frowned. “Mayhap, we could hire a coach.”

  “That will never happen,” the boatman roared. “No coaches for hire will ever survive in City. Our guild is strong. We’d stop it, make no mistake.”

  “We could fetch ours,” Sara suggested.

  “Nay,” David retorted, his face set in stubborn lines. “’Tis too difficult. Once down to the Isle of Dogs, we’ll have to take a horse-ferry across the river. This would be faster, if the rascal would oblige us in his duties.”