Pillars of Avalon

by Catherine Pym

  Sara gripped the bowl of bread and milk, trying to stay the flow of sharp words that formed on her tongue but, suddenly, dread filled her being. Something was wrong. She needed to see Father Kirke. “You have a fortnight. If you have any questions, I shall help you.”

  She almost ran through the shadowy passageway that led to the living quarters. She found Father’s man on the stairs, his arms loaded with linens, Madame behind him. “How goes it with Father Kirke?”

  Madame’s hand flew to her neck. “What do you mean? We’ve only just left him. I must have a breath of fresh air and a little drink.” She turned around and started back up the stairs to his chamber.

  Father’s man shrugged. “I’ve just gotten him back to bed after changing his nightshirt.” He nodded and walked by her down the stairs.

  The feeling of doom persisted and Sara dashed up the stairs. She followed Madame who tugged open the door. She went in and cried out.

  The bed curtains that had been drawn together to keep Father warm had been dashed aside, a portion of the fabric ripped off their hooks. Heavy woollen cloth draped over the bed and onto the floor. Father Kirke was not tucked under his blankets.

  Madame fell to weeping as Sara ran around the bed. “Father, where art thou?”

  He had fallen off the bed, his body slumped half over the bed-step and half on the floor. His eyes open and his jaw slack, Sara knew Father Gervase Kirke was dead.

  * * *

  His eyes wet, David regarded his father’s body laid in the coffin set on joint stools in the parlour. After Sara had closed his eyes, they remained shut, a good thing. No one near and dear to them would soon die. A ribbon wound about his chin and head held his mouth closed.

  In deep mourning, his mother had taken to her bedchamber and left the funeral details to him. Embalmed, his father’s bowels removed, his innards washed and filled with herbs, his body had been wrapped in winding cloth and sealed with lead. David tried to tell Sara they would have him buried under the church floor but those words remained locked in his gullet. Tears choked him. He cleared his throat and tried again but his tongue remained broken.

  Sara handed him a handkercher which he pressed to his dripping eyes. He could not bear to have his betrothed see how this had affected him, unmanned him. He wanted to tell her to go home, to leave him be. He would fetch her when this trial was over.

  She stroked his hand. Her kind administrations were his undoing. David wept like a babe over his father’s cold dead body. His tears bathed his face and dripped onto Father’s woollen winding sheet.

  The parish had sent a searcher to their house to verify Father was dead. For a shilling, she told them he had crossed the veil due to ‘apoplexy and suddenly’. These words would be recorded in the Bills of Mortality.

  “What does that mean?” he hollered at the base stupid woman. “You do not know how he died. You weren’t here.”

  Nor had he been. David’s heart battled self-loathing and sadness. He should have been at his father’s side instead of at Whitehall, petitioning the king for the lost wealth of the expedition.

  When his Majesty had finally deigned to see him he remained steadfast in his resolve to return everything they had gained at Québec to the French. He gave no reason but sat on his big, gilt throne, his eyes fierce and his face mulish.

  Once out of sight of the king, David gave in to his deadly anger. He ran like the very devil through the lanes back into the city, pushing people aside, not caring if they fell to the ground or not.

  David would have to find another way to regain what had been stolen from his father and the Merchant Adventurers. How, though, was the question. It would take quite a bit of business to regain sixty-thousand pounds.

  “We will have him laid to rest under our family pew,” he finally croaked.

  Sara nodded. “I shall see to it.”

  “Nay, I will. ‘Tis me duty as the eldest.” How shall I tell Lewis?

  Sara regarded him with a frown as if she did not think he were capable at the moment.

  “I can do it.” He kissed her fingertips and her eyes became luminous, full of tears. She nodded.

  He turned away, unable to watch her weep. “I shall go now to All Hallows Church and speak to the minister.”

  “I shall come with you.”

  “Nay, I will do this alone.”

  Sara stood tall, her face filled with resolve. “I will come with and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  He could not fight against her strong will and sighed. “Very well.”

  Within the hour, they entered the church, their hollow footsteps echoing throughout. Cold and damp clung to the stone walls. Rain slapped against the small glazed windows. Their breath fogged before them. Heavy heels scraped against the flagstones and a man fitted in black walked toward them.

  David extended his hand. “Doctor Spangler.”

  The minister took his hand and shook it. “I hear we’ve lost good Master Kirke to the Heavens.”

  David lowered his hat brim and swallowed. “Aye.”

  Sara dabbed her dripping eyes with a handkercher.

  “I will take thee to the grave-maker. He’s just in here.”

  He was a short fellow with a thatch of red hair. Very strange, his eyes were dead black. David suppressed a shudder for the man looked as if he’d come from the very bowels of hell. Sara squeezed his arm.

  “Me name is Hugh Graveson.” He respectfully folded his pale hands in front of him and David noticed the translucence of his skin with the blood veins almost purple running beneath. “What may I do for thee?”

  “They lost Master Gervase Kirke.” Spangler stepped away and David wondered if the man was afraid Graveson might sully his person with the dirt of the dead. “I shall leave you,” the minister said.

  “We’d like to bury Father under the family pew.”

  Graveson frowned. “Dear oh dear, we’ve just put another there less than a month ago.”

  “Surely, there is something you can do.”

  The latch clicked with Spangler’s leaving and Graveson leaned closer. “With a bit of jostling I could lay your father where you desire,” he whispered, his baleful eyes glimmering.

  David sighed. “How much will this cost?”

  Graveson smiled. “Sixpence.” He beetled his brow. “Of course, that is atop the twenty shillings to put your dear father’s coffin under the floor. I must move the flagstones, you see. To do this, I shall hire more men, very dear. The graveyard would be less costly.” He stared at David, as if waiting for him to change his mind.

  He would not.

  Graveson stroked his Vandyke beard and began to pace. “Since it’s been a short while, methinks the corpse below your pew has not yet rotted off the bones. Lavender must be spread thickly.” An eyebrow rose into his hat.

  Sara gasped and David patted her gloved hand. “We will do it.”

  “I shall order the men to collect your father.” He went to a table where an open journal lay and flipped through the pages. “According to Spangler’s schedule, the men will fetch your father’s corpse afore the service on the twenty-second of this very month.” He dipped his quill in the inkpot then wrote in the journal. “Which will be between five and six of the evening clock.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  December 22, 1629

  Sara pressed the handkercher to her nose. Father Kirke lay in the coffin opposite the parlour hearth, his hair combed off his forehead, his hands crossed over his chest. Even though he’d been embalmed, after three days, his body had begun to stink. Soon, David would be forced to close the coffin lid.

  She gazed at Father Kirke’s face that looked waxen, no longer reflecting his kindness or shrewd business mind. His hands reminded her of a Michelangelo reproduction she’d once seen, with his tapered fingers and finely sculptured nails. The women who dressed him had taken great care. It showed Gervase Kirke had been admired, and loved.

  Gowned in black velvet, a waist-length veil hiding her deep
sorrow, Madame stood with David, her hand on the coffin. She held a crumpled handkercher with which she would dip under the veil and dab away her tears.

  Mary tugged on Sara’s sleeve and regarded her with frightened eyes.

  “Aye, sweet pea?” Sara asked.

  “Will I have to kiss him? I couldn’t bear to kiss him.”

  Remembering when she was forced to kiss the cheek of her dead grandmother whilst resting in her coffin, Sara shuddered. She slowly shook her head. “Nay, you will not kiss him.”

  Mary’s whole being softened. She smiled. “I am truly grateful.” She joined Elizabeth who lorded over the table, not allowing anyone to remove a confectionary. On occasion she’d look at Sara as if waiting for her nod to tuck in. They had little today to break their fast. Everyone was hungry. Sara moved to the window.

  As custom held, food was served between the afternoon hours of one and two. At three of the clock, only her family and Mister Hopkins had arrived. Frances and her mother sat on stools near the hearth-fire that burned low. Sara’s father and Mister Hopkins stood in a corner and spoke in low tones.

  Madame wrung her hands and fretted why so few came to view the body. “Dear Gervase is well known, a wealthy wine merchant. He and the Ward’s Alderman are friends, as is our new Lord Mayor, Sir James Cambell. His fellows, vendors and customers should be here.”

  Sara stared through the leaded lights and hoped she would see one of the invited guests walk toward the house.

  His eyes downcast, David patted his mother’s hand while his siblings regarded with longing the platters of biscuits on the table, stacks of delftware dishes at either end. Pitchers of hot claret—now gone quite cool—sat on a cupboard, small pewter goblets alongside.

  Sara held a basket filled with fifty black enamel mourning rings. She’d already given her father and mother one. David and Thomas wore theirs. Mary and Elizabeth threaded black ribbon through theirs and wore them like a pendant.

  At three-thirty, whilst Madame softly wept over her husband’s body, David giving her gentle words, Sara began to pace. At four of the clock, she sighed. She turned to the chamber and saw several pleading faces. “Go on then and eat but only six biscuits a piece. We’ve fresh oysters in the barrels, which Cook is sending up. That should hold thee until after the service.”

  David went to the cupboard and poured wine into goblets. Thomas took the goblets and dispensed them to his mother, sisters and Sara’s family. He did not give Sara a cup of wine. He walked past her, nearly knocking her over. Astonished by his rudeness, her eyes goggled. She turned to David, whose face darkened with fury.

  He took a deep breath and splashed wine into a goblet then gave it to her. “He will brew as he has baked, Dear One, make no mistake.” He opened his mouth to say more, mayhap reassure her.

  David had explained his mother favoured this brother so very much, she could not see his ugly face, but at that moment, the bell clanged against the lintel. Their guests had finally appeared.

  Sara stood beside David and his siblings, and greeted their guests. Friends, men from the vintner’s guild, carters and tavern owners filed into the house and up the stairs to the parlour. They bowed or curtsied to Madame who sat regally on a hard backed chair. They said a soft word or two then backed away.

  Soon, a crush of people gathered about the long table. Some put their biscuits on the delftware dishes but others grabbed handfuls and ate with abandon. Within a trice, the platters held crumbs; the pitchers of claret were empty, the bowls with fresh oysters slurped up.

  Sara sniffed. It seemed as if the concept of free food brought out the swine in folk. She called for more wine and a barrel of beer to be brought to the parlour. She placed her empty basket of mourning rings on the mantel, then stood against the wall, near her sister and sipped her wine.

  Frances put a reassuring hand on her arm. “I am truly aggrieved you lost Master Kirke. He was a fine man.”

  Tears welled. Of the few men in her life, Father Kirke was one of the best. He recognized her talents and entrusted her to use them. He was the one who demanded David’s brothers, especially Thomas, to allow her full rein to refit the fleet. Without him, her sense of being wouldn’t be as high as it was. She pulled her handkercher from her sleeve and dabbed her brimming eyes.

  The chamber was overcrowded and hot, not allowing many to remain for long. Men and women came in, gave their condolences then left, bled into the other chambers, up and down the stairs. Soon, she heard ribald laughter.

  Sara wanted this day to be over. She moved to the casement window and opened it, letting in damp, coal soaked air. She breathed deeply and allowed it to bathe her hot face and neck. This was much better than the rank odours of the room; sweat, fish and wine mingled with the stench of the dead. David shut the coffin and regarded Sara, his eyes pleading this crush of folk should soon end.

  She reflected his wish had come true when almost immediately four men and a young lad marched into the parlour, wearing sombre cloaks, their felt hats garnished with black feathers. David looked pleased and motioned for them to come hither. People moved aside as the men hefted the coffin onto their shoulders. The lad began ringing a bell; nine claps for a man, then sixty-one more for Father Kirke’s age. With uniform movements, they stepped from the parlour toward the front door. Their guests more subdued, they set goblets aside and waited for Sara and David’s family to follow the coffin bearers.

  Madame clung to David’s arm. At his side, Sara walked solemnly with Thomas, Mary and Elizabeth up Basing Lane to Church of All Hallows on Bread Street, the mourners behind them, chatting away. Sara could no longer hear the lad with the bell. Despite the sad occasion, laughter filled the air. With their bellies full of oysters, wine and confectionaries, several spoke loudly even as carts and coaches rattled by, their ironclad wheels making an unholy din on the cobblestones.

  They followed the casket bearers to the entrance of the churchyard where they met Doctor Spangler holding a book, his demeanour overlaid with sadness. He took a deep breath and sang; “I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord...” He turned toward the church, everyone following.

  With the mourners, Sara murmured, “He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live...”

  Their singing procession took them into All Hallows and along the wall with small glazed windows. Everyone followed the minister in a languorous route to where the altar stood, Spangler chanting; “And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.”

  They followed him down another aisle toward the Kirke’s pew that had been pushed aside, a gaping, dark hole in the floor. Flagstones piled nearby, Sara craned her neck to look in the hole where she saw a corner of another coffin.

  Doctor Spangler stopped chanting for a moment whilst everyone gathered about. The bearers set the coffin upon a wheeled bier. Then Spangler sang, “I know that my...”

  Everyone joined in, “Redeemer liveth, and that he shalt stand at the latter day upon the earth. And though after worms destroy this body...”

  Sara did not want to think that Father Kirke’s body would be covered with worms in the floor beneath their pew. She marvelled how little it took for a person to die, be reduced to dirt and trodden underfoot. Her gaze wandered about the church, the length and breadth of the floor and mentally counted how many corpses possibly mouldered under there. Then what of the older ones reduced to bones within the coffins? Did the gravedigger remove them from the boxes and shove the bones like rubble against the walls? She frowned.

  “Lord, hear our prayers,” Spangler cried loudly, startling Sara from her morbid reflections. He turned to a marked page of the Book of Common Prayer and read; “Almighty God, we remember this day before thee thy faithful servant, Gervase Kirke; and we pray that, having opened to him the gates of larger life, thou wilt receive him more and more into thy joyful service...”

  Sara’s mind drifted. Once done with the service and burial, they would return to the house and celebrate Father Kirke’s li
fe with a true feast; beef ribs, calf’s head and bacon, wine from the vintners by the barrels. Sara would give white gloves to the maids who served the meal. For Cook, her mourning gift would be embroidered gloves since, with rarely a mishap, she sent the best of foods to their table.

  She had coaxed Elizabeth into helping with the list of foods and she did very well. Mary had suggested the calf’s head, no longer fresh. She had said, “With the meat almost turned, ‘tis fitting for a mourning feast.” Her eyes searched them for approval which Sara felt impelled to give. Once this day was over, she would not want to smell anything spoiled nor near dead again, although with the city streets as they were, she knew her request impossible.

  Doctor Spangler stopped speaking. David took her hand when the bearers set ropes under the coffin. They hoisted Father Kirke’s casket off the bier and set it into the hole.

  Madame softly wept. Sara lowered her head and closed her eyes, not willing to watch the final end of a good man.

  Once set into the hole, the bearers brought up the ropes and stepped aside. Doctor Spangler shut his Book of Common Prayer.

  A church lad thrust a dish before David. He reached into it and brought out a handful of dirt. Sara sighed as he dropped the dirt onto the coffin, the clumps spattering the wood like a heavy rain.

  David slapped his gloved hands free of dirt and sighed. “It is done.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  London, April 1630

  Mother had sent for Sara, so with a grinding belly this would be deeply unpleasant, she hesitantly climbed the stairs to her bedchamber. Her mother no longer smiled, never gave a cheery word. In the past months, she spent more time in her chamber than managing the house.

  “I am always too cold,” she had complained more than once. She drew her woollen shawl more snugly about her shoulders. Her eyes drifted from alert to vacant as she huddled against a hardback chair set near the hearth.

  Sara sighed.