Pillars of Avalon

by Catherine Pym

  Madame Kirke had begun to work again in the family’s vintner business but it was erratic. Guilt for not being there for her husband prior to his falling ill had struck her hard. David did what he could to reassure her, but Madame’s self-loathing had set heavily within her heart. Some days were better than others, but lately she’d taken to her bedchamber as her own mother had done.

  The women’s incapacity forced Sara to manage two households, hers and the Kirke’s. Whilst she directed the cleaning and conferred with the cooks, what meals each family would have and which markets sold the best cuts of meat, Frances worked with their father in his wine business.

  Oftentimes Father and David consulted with Sara and her sister. They asked their opinions on gains and losses, which wine of late sold better than another. Sara was pleased the men of two houses relied on them, mere women.

  As she stepped onto the landing and headed toward Mother’s bedchamber, Sara considered she had too much to do and did not want to deal with discontent. At the dark portal, she took a deep breath and knocked.

  “Come in.” Mother’s voice was muffled, as usual without humour.

  Sara sighed and went in. A coal fire roared in the grate, making the room terribly warm. The mixed smells of dirty linen and burning coals sizzled in the air. The window was wet with condensation. “You wanted to see me?”

  Mother sat with her slippered feet propped on a footrest. She gazed at Sara with hot eyes, her narrow frame hunched over and filled with dark bile. She did not ask Sara to sit. “You will be married, soon.”

  “Aye.”

  Now a member of All Hallows Parish, on Sundays and Holydays Sara stood above the corpse of Father Kirke and prayed with David’s family, listened to Spangler give thoughtful sermons. Standing beside her betrothed, she sang pretty hymns with the congregation and wondered why she knew so few of these people who lived less than a street away.

  The banns had been read the past two weeks. The third would be announced Sunday next, after which, if no one came forth to lay a claim against them, they would receive a certificate signed by the curate to confirm the way was clear for their marriage.

  “I will not attend your wedding,” Mother said, startling Sara from her reverie.

  “Why not?” she demanded, suddenly angry her mother could be so ungenerous.

  “I shall be dead,” she stated without emotion as if she had already accepted this to her very soul.

  “You cannot,” Sara cried out, astounded. How could a person awaken one day and choose to die, just like that with a snap of the fingers?

  “You’ve clearly been too busy to notice but I’ve been ill.” Mother’s tone was filled with derision.

  Despite being uncharitable and disrespectful, Sara could only think her mother’s selfishness would delay the marriage. With Mother so irascible and hard to please, Sara was ready to leave this house and go to her own.

  “I did notice, Mother, but you’ve kept the seriousness of your illness hidden. I have not seen our physician visit, either.”

  Mother’s visage darkened. “You are an impudent jade.”

  Hot anger swept through Sara. She took a deep breath and curtsied. “I regret my harshness. What may I do for thee?” Perspiration trickled down her back as she made every effort to remain calm.

  “Do you care so little that you don’t ask how I will die?” Mother cried.

  Sara fisted her hands; her nails dug into her palms. “What ails you?”

  She sniffed. “I shall go the way of Mister Gervase Kirke, apoplexy and suddenly. I saw his failure over the months and I am doing the same.”

  “I will contact our physician.”

  “I do not want him!” Mother spat. “I prefer the woman barber down the lane. Her name is Felicia. She will come.” Her mother pulled her woollen coverlet closer. “But that is not why I’ve asked you to see me.”

  “What will you have of me?” Sara muttered.

  “We will discuss your marriage.” She glared. “Before Mister Kirke took his fleet a second time to the New World, we had a betrothal ceremony wherein you held hands and said your vows in the future tense.”

  Sara slowly nodded. She knew this.

  “When you marry, your vows will be the same but in the present tense.” Mother gazed somewhere above Sara’s head.

  Sara knew this too but said nothing. These days even a mere tick of the clock sent her mother on a barrage of verbal cruelty. She wanted to look lightly at her mother as David did, perhaps call her Mother Andrews but today Sara did not have the strength to endure it.

  “Is that all?” she asked.

  “Nay it is not,” Mother hotly denied. “We must speak of your wedding night, when you throw the stocking which marks consummation of your marriage.”

  Sara had seen dogs and cats mate. She’d skirted around pigs in the lane going at it. How much different would it be with David? God knew, their bundling had come close to the act, his hands slowly working their way up her legs even as the board between them hampered his movements.

  One afternoon when his fingers travelled up her lower thigh, he had smiled. “I believe you’ve the green sickness.”

  “The green sickness?” she asked, barely suppressing a giggle.

  “Aye, ‘tis a virgin malady and brings on erotic melancholy.” He propped himself against the bundling board. “I see it in your eyes, the tinge of green in your skin. If not immediately taken care of, it could lead to uterine fury.” He waggled his eyebrows.

  Sara slapped his hand away from under her skirts. “Dear oh dear, you know so much of the female body. Art thou a chirurgeon or a midwife? Do you study the art of Galen medicine by candlelight?”

  “I’m a man.” David sniffed. “And know of a woman’s physique. I can easily cure your green sickness with a grand tool I have always in my possession.” He grinned and his fingers dove under her skirts that had rucked up to her knees.

  “Are you listening to me?” Mother cried and Sara’s heart pumped faster. Her voice had risen to a shrill octave. “I must tell you of the wedding night, after you throw the stocking and the guests leave your bedchamber. You will be left alone with your husband.”

  “Aye.” Sara expected this.

  “Men can be very aggressive. You will not be able to say no.”

  After bundling wherein Sara’s belly quivered and her lower portions ached with desire, she would not deny David. She’d been given the foretaste of pleasure. Soon, she would know all of it and without the bundling board to impede them.

  “I know what to expect, Mother.”

  “No you don’t,” she nearly screamed. “You have no idea the indignities you’ll experience. ‘Tis hurtful. You’ll be soiled, your inner thighs drenched. They dive betwixt thy legs as if dashing into a swimming pond. You are a vessel, nothing more, to produce sons who will continue the Kirke name. Men don’t care one wit for the woman and all the work she does.” She pulled the woollen blanket closer, her face pinched ugly. “Just pray it will be quick.”

  * * *

  Three weeks later on a Wednesday, the clock struck nine in the morning. The front doorbell had been banging against the lintel since six. Wedding guests overwhelmed the parlour and spread along the first floor, the servants running about with trays of food, goblets of wine and dishes of new beer.

  Sara’s marriage would take place today at ten of the clock in this last week of April, since May was an unlucky month. She stood in her bedchamber with her maid and Frances, the bed covered with items to be packed and sent to the Kirke residence.

  They helped her dress. Sara stepped into a pool of blue satin. The maid pulled up the skirts, tugging them closed at the waistline.

  Frances held her bodice with puffy sleeves. “Stretch your arms hither, please.”

  Sara did so and Frances pushed the silky fabric up her arms. From behind, the maid straightened the ribbons and tied them into a bow at the small of her back. Frances draped a large lace collar over her shoulders. A string of pearls
fell with pink opulence against the white lace.

  Whilst the maid straightened the lace, Sara’s heavily crimped hair and the strand of pearls, Frances struggled to tie a dark red satin sash beneath her breasts. She fussed over the bow, untied it then started again.

  “It will be fine,” Sara softly said.

  Frances’ brow furrowed as she plucked and smoothed the bow. “I must get this aright.”

  The maid plumped the puffy sleeves with gimp lace that fell below her elbows. Her skirts so long and voluminous, even with pattens, Sara feared the hem would drag in the muck of the lanes. She slipped her feet into brocade and velvet shoes tied with silver ribbons, then the maid set upon her head a large brimmed, felt hat, a froth of feathers stuck in the red hatband.

  Sara looked down at her gown, her large sleeves, her embroidered kid gloves and sighed. “Methinks I am ready.”

  “The Lord Mayor and Bread Street Ward Alderman are here.” Frances’ eyes widened. “Both filled to the calves with liquor. They must have been drinking since afore dawn.”

  Sara groaned. She did not want lewd and rowdy behaviour to dominate the feast. How would it look to Mary and Elizabeth? They were too young to see unbridled ribaldry. She’d speak to David. Mayhap, he’d send the girls to their nurse.

  Her father and David had hammered out the betrothal contract and registered it with the Chancery Court. Once the marriage contract was signed after the ceremony, that too would be sent to the registrar of the Chancery. The banns had been read and no one had come forth to accuse their marriage as bigamous or incestuous—not a servant who was considered a member of the family or a cousin within the tenth degree.

  Mother still lived and her ill temper continued to darken. Father promised she would attend the wedding and serve at the feast.

  Sara had made all the arrangements for her wedding meal, going about it as if fitting the fleet. Tables of food would include all sorts of meat from venison to mutton, salted fish from the shores of Newfoundland, cakes and even an old traditional bride pie for fertility, with lamb-stones, scallops and cocks’ combs. She did not want live birds or a snake put into it, for it would scare the young ’uns. Barrels of oysters had been delivered; prawns roasted gently in garlic and onion, stuffed larks and a fruitcake for the gentlemen, pieces cut up and placed in little boxes for good luck when it was their time to marry. Father and David provided several barrels of wine. A hogshead of beer had been rolled into Father’s private office and the bung removed so that servants could fill large earthen pitchers. She’d even ordered wax stoppered bottles of aqua vitae.

  No one would be standing at her marriage feast’s end.

  Her mother entered the chamber, leaning heavily on a stick. She wore black velvet and her face was dour. “It is time.”

  Sara and Frances looked at each other. “Oh dear,” they said in unison.

  * * *

  Wearing a dark velvet blue cloak and pattens to protect her shoes, Sara struggled to walk over the uneven paving stones. She disliked wearing pattens and could easily twist an ankle, but with the lanes as they were, she had no choice.

  Sara’s maid held the gown’s train out of the dirt as the wedding procession worked their way from St. Thomas Lane to All Hallows Church on Bread Street. People along the way stopped to watch. They cheered them onward to a happy life whilst apprentices threw mud clots.

  A few men drew their swords and ran after them. “Come here, you roguery fellows. To the pillory you’ll go.”

  The lads shouted out and scattered.

  Father held onto Sara’s arm. “Bloody scamps is what they are,” he grumbled. “A clot hit his Lord Mayor’s brave velvet coat with an ermine edge. He’s not a forgiving man and will throw them in the Clink.”

  Sara’s gut roiled with nervousness. Hearing her father grumble and curse made her want to laugh. Giggles bubbled in her throat. “But the Clink’s on Bankside of the river and out of London. Does the Lord Mayor have jurisdiction there?” She chortled like an old sailor, loud and not the least bit ladylike.

  Father gently squeezed her arm and smiled. “That’s it, gel, be joyous on this occasion. You are to marry a fine fellow.” He frowned. “’Tis sad I am old Gervase isn’t here to celebrate.”

  “He’s here in spirit, Father,” Sara said hoping it was true.

  The gates of the churchyard swung open, lads in church garb ready to lead the way.

  “Soon, you’ll be with another,” Father said, his voice suddenly raspy. “At least you’ll be nearby should I need to consult with you on fitting a ship or fleet.”

  They walked into the church, their friends and family finding pews to sit on. Sara and her father remained behind. David’s family, his neighbours and business associates filled one side of the church, hers the other. Suddenly astonished by so many in attendance, she feared the wedding feast would spill into the busy street.

  “Oh dear,” she murmured.

  The pipe organ began to play; beautiful music filled the church. Father took Sara’s elbow and they walked down the aisle. David met her at the altar and they faced Doctor Spangler.

  While they waited for the music to pause, David leaned close to her and smirked. “Once done, you will be my vessel and I shall dominate you.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sara raised her chin and sniffed. “Indeed.”

  Apparently, she did not appreciate his droll wit and David reluctantly conceded he should have waited to say this until after Spangler said they were man and wife. His confession that he considered her beneath him may not bode well, later, in the bedchamber.

  He was mad for her. If she denied him, he’d be in a very ill condition. Tonight, he wanted far more than the mere symbol of consummation of throwing a stocking. He must plough her with his seed, give them a son. His chest swelled with the pride of his prowess.

  Spangler took a deep breath and said, “Dearly beloved friends, we are gathered together here in the sight of God...”

  David’s chest deflated and his gut heaved. The very raising of her chin emasculated him, casting him into the hoary pit of impotence. She did that often and he wondered if women were born this way or if they learned it from their mothers.

  Lord above, but he pitied Sara’s father. Being married to a bloody harpy like Mother Andrews would be his undoing.

  “...an honourable estate instituted by God in paradise, in the time of man’s innocence...” Spangler said in a singsong manner.

  David wanted to scoff. Man’s innocence, my arse. Women’s cunning and their wicked ways unmanned men. In his weakness David would soon lustily bed Eve as Adam had taken the apple and eaten thereof.

  “…of Saint Paul to be honourable among all men, and therefore is not to be enterprised, nor taken in hand unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, to satisfy men’s carnal lusts and appetites, like brute beasts…”

  Of course, he was a brute and a beast. He hungered for Twig, her softness, how her eyes brightened when he walked into a room. Their bundling showed she had the capacity to love him. She was open to do all things imaginable behind the bed curtains. He intended to try the sports expressed in chapbooks. All of them.

  “…but reverently, discretely, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God.”

  David did not like those words. A woman must have whispered in the ear of whoever wrote that part of the Book of Common Prayer. Why should a man fear God when he created the physical body to enjoy the act of procreation?

  He scoffed in derision and Sara gave him a look. The minister paused in his reading. They turned to him with question, their regard on the verge of horror. Embarrassed, David’s neck heated. His ears buzzed and his knees wobbled.

  All he could do was shrug.

  Spangler cleared his throat. “Duly considering the causes for which matrimony was ordained. One cause was the procreation of children, to be brought up in fear and nurture of the Lord, and praise of God…”

  Why should he raise his sons to fear God? When a man struck out o
n his road, to do what his heart most desired, if it was honourable, then there should be no fear. He sliced a glance at Sara. So far, she hadn’t been overly reverent or spouted homilies. She did not judge with the Good Book in her hand. He nodded. They would do well together.

  “Secondly,” the minister continued, his voice falling into the monotone of words often said.

  David frowned. Would this never end?

  “It is ordained for a remedy against sin, and to avoid fornication that such persons as be married, might live chastely in matrimony and keep themselves undefiled members of Christ’s body.”

  Those words should be stricken from the ceremony, David reflected sagely. The only reason a man would fornicate outside the marriage bed was a cold and stiff wife, which he would not have. He’d sell Sara in a public auction if she was thusly, and he snorted.

  Spangler tripped over his words and Sara faced him, her lips curled in a frown. David reared back, as if he would soon be pummelled by the two of them. Nervous coughs came from the congregation. He tried to look innocent of any wrongdoing.

  After several tense moments where he burst into a mighty sweat, Spangler flipped through the pages of his book, then said, “I require and charge you, as you will anywhere at the dread full day of judgement, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed,” he put his hand to his mouth and coughed, “that if either of you do know any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, that ye confess it.” He gazed at David.

  Sara turned to him.

  He wanted to shout, “What have I done?”

  Still looking at David, Spangler said, “For be ye well assured that so many as be coupled together; otherwise then God would doeth allow you are not joined of God. Neither is your matrimony lawful.”

  Annoyance turned to anger. The man was a damned rogue who pointed an improper finger at him.

  “David Kirke, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour and keep her…”