Pillars of Avalon

by Catherine Pym

  David pulled up a stool. “You should bring in a few cats. They will rid you of this vermin.”

  “C’mon matey, they aren’t so bad. Right friendly they are when you get to know them.” He backhanded the rat. With a squeak, it flew off the table and onto the floor.

  “Pour us some wine. I have a problem.”

  Anton’s dark eyes studied David. “You don’t say?” His stool scraped across the flagstones as he gained his feet. “Should I bring the barrel or will the problem be solved after a dish or two?”

  “Bring the barrel.” David was thirsty and he must think this through. What he would propose could get them into trouble with the Crown.

  Soon, Anton returned with a barrel under an arm; in his hand were two clay dishes. As David swept papers to the side, his friend set the barrel and dishes on his table.

  Anton removed the bung and inserted a spigot. “I know how much you like a good Spanish wine.” He poured pale yellow liquid into the mugs.

  David took one and drank, savouring its sweet taste. “This is good, not sullied with molasses.” He raised his cup. “Thanks to thee.”

  Anton sipped his wine. “Where do you think this particular wine comes from?” He smiled, his dark eyes gleaming with challenge.

  David took another sip, ran the rich fluid about his tongue and swished it between his cheeks. “’Tis not green. Has a robust, rich flavour. Not a Malmsey.” He looked at his cup, trying to think where Anton would have found this gift of the gods. Certainly not from the Kirke’s stores, the old rogue, throwing coin into another’s coffers.

  He took another sip, swished wine in his mouth. He remembered tasting a new wine that gave a lovely lilt to the tongue. This one did the same. He raised a brow. “I’d say this comes not from the mainland but her Canary Islands.” He sipped. “’Tis a Canary. From La Orotava? I’d wager this barrel was dear, mayhap, five pounds sterling.”

  Anton’s smug smile collapsed. “You shrewd bastard. How’d you come to that conclusion?”

  David laughed. “Am I correct?”

  His friend heaved a sigh. “Aye, you are.” He drank then dragged the stool with his foot back to the table and sank onto the seat. “What’s afoot?”

  “How would you like some beaver pelts?”

  Anton reared back. “Beaver pelts? What would I do with those?” An eyebrow hitched. “How much is one worth?”

  “Quite a lot. In its raw state, a pelt is worth a good five shillings.”

  Anton frowned. “What will you have me do?”

  “’Tis slightly illegal.”

  “Indeed?” Anton finished off his wine and replenished his dish. “Do you want another?”

  David reached over the table. “I shall do it.” He turned the spigot and filled his cup; then drank, savouring the sweet, rich taste.

  “If I do this, how many pelts will you give me?” Anton queried.

  “A thousand.” David watched his friend mentally calculate the numbers, his eyebrows quirking up and down, his forehead squiggling. David wanted to laugh.

  “That’s two hundred fifty pounds.”

  “Aye.” David was assured his friend had taken the bait.

  Anton frowned. “For this amount of money, whatever you want me involved in must be quite illegal.”

  David’s assurance dipped. “The king’s men will soon have a warrant to seize the goods taken from Québec, most of which are paltry.” He shrugged. “The pelts, however, are another story. We will move them afore they do.”

  His friend shot off his seat. “The king’s men. Now I know you’ll get me thrown in Newgate. I shall be hanged, then beheaded.”

  “More like Fleet Prison but I shall get you out.”

  Anton crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Indeed. How will you do that?”

  David hadn’t thought much on that aspect. He cocked his head. “I will think of a way.”

  “While I languish in there, paying for me bed and food. Mayhap, falling ill with gaol fever.” Anton poured wine into his cup and bolted it down.

  “Isn’t two hundred and fifty pounds worth a bit of bother?” David tried to encourage him.

  Anton regarded him, then sagged in acquiescence. “Tell me your plan.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  David led the way along the river quay where the vintner guild stored their goods. Dockworkers crowded the way, their cries strident. Water lapped against the dock, spreading a ruinous smell of dung and decay. Tied to posts, barges and lighters rolled with the Thames current. Some were filled with barrels whilst others waited to be loaded.

  On this gentle day, the large doors were open, the warehouse a beehive of activity. Men laboured, rolling barrels across the stone floor. Customs’ men checked casks and marked them in a ledger, whilst workers stacked barrels according to customers’ names. Other men pulled barrels and heaved them onto dray wagons, or sent them into a lighter. David regarded the Kirke’s corner where several were piled. He reckoned a delivery would be made to his house, today.

  He waited at the entrance for Anton. “I’ve begged a portion of this warehouse for the Merchant Adventurers and the storage of the pelts. ‘Tis this way.”

  Anton gazed around, at the walls, the open windows. “This is quite large, isn’t it?”

  “One of the largest in London,” David said with pride.

  “I shall be interested to see a raw beaver pelt. Are they vermin ridden?”

  David led the way. “Not the last time I saw them.”

  Damp permeated the vast building. Mould covered the longer stored wine and beer casks. They walked to the back of the structure and to a door that looked like an exit to the outside. It had been almost two years since he had the furs moved here and David hoped there was not too much damage. He snatched a lanthorn from a barrel.

  He and Anton would have to go through them, one-by-one, and search for skins that had rotted or were on the verge of it, a daunting task. He expected the king’s men to take all seven thousand, the greedy bastards. David intended to cull out the bad pelts. If the amount reached what they had taken from Québec, he’d hand those over to the Crown, give Anton his share of the good ones and keep the rest.

  The French revenge and the king’s strange resolve sent his heart into a slow burn. He and the Merchant Adventurers were victims of a secret scheme. David vowed that one day he would learn what that was; then, he’d exact revenge.

  He crossed the stone floor to the large door and jiggled the key chain. Fingering the cold metal, he set it into the lock and turned the key. Tumblers fell, the sounds bouncing about the high chamber walls. He opened the large doors. A plume of musty dust poured out of the chamber. David coughed.

  Anton cried out and covered his face with his handkercher. He waved his hand. “Smells like old, dirty hounds.”

  Glad of it he did not have a dog, the place did smell bad. David raised a lanthorn, revealing low tables with pelts stacked to the timbered ceiling. “This here chamber is four hundred square feet. We’ll need another, almost as large further from the river.”

  “You want us to move all of them?”

  David turned to Anton, his face a pale glow in the lanthorn light. “The king has caused us grave harm. He will demand these pelts, but most of them are ours, bartered fairly in Tadoussac. I will not relinquish them, not to God nor king,” he snapped, his voice thick with passion.

  Anton nodded cautiously. “I see how this will get us into a troublesome brew.”

  “Not if we are careful.”

  “What exactly do you propose?” He looked sceptical.

  “You will take seventeen-hundred pelts to another location further from the river, and out of this damp. That’s the number we took from the French fort.”

  “What of the others?” Anton asked.

  “We will take the balance to another chamber, further up river.”

  Anton took the lanthorn and raised it, moving between the tables. “What will we do, then? There are so many pelts. There
must be thousands, millions of these creatures in one area of the world. I don’t suppose you eat their flesh.” He grimaced.

  David laughed. “I have not, but I understand beaver tail has a brave taste when gently roasted. Me brother said it’s like marrow.”

  Anton raised the lanthorn again. “We’ll need several drays and wagons to move these.”

  “I know an old Muscovy agent who will take our pelts to Russia for processing, then sell them.” David chortled at his gift of skulduggery. The damned king would lose this skirmish.

  Anton rubbed his hand over the fur of a pelt, then lifted it. “Hmm, heavier than I expected.”

  “About one and half pounds in weight.”

  “We’ll need a sturdy wagon.”

  “We must get at it afore the Crown casts a net over our business and stops us dead. I’ve already lost too much.”

  Anton shook his head. “I will not send my pelts to Muscovy with yours.”

  “Why not?” David could not fathom why his friend would not want do this, which was good business.

  “I’ve had dealings with Muscovy Company when it comes to wood. I do not like them.”

  “What will you do, then?”

  Anton walked away still considering the great amount of pelts. “I’ll find a way.”

  David considered his choice foolhardy. He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  * * *

  Sara took the letter Robert held. She cracked the wax seal and read, her heart sinking with each word.

  “Bad news?” her husband’s clerk enquired.

  “’Tis from Secretary Lord Cottington with a portion in cipher.” She raised her gaze to Robert.

  He slowly shook his head. “I’m useless with code, although I’ve tried to learn of it over the years.”

  “I have no mind for it, either, and they change too often. I dislike having to determine which key goes with what cipher. We will take this to my sister.” Sara retrieved her wide brimmed hat from a peg and set it upon her capped head. “Please accompany me.”

  They found her in the Andrews’ kitchen. Frances looked bedraggled. She blew a tendril of hair from her face but it fell onto her cheek. With a sigh, she tucked it under her cap.

  “What’s wrong?” Sara asked, suddenly afraid her sister was unwell.

  Frances shrugged. “Mother.”

  “Ah.”

  “Aye.” She sighed again and sat down at the kitchen table. “I can’t help Father anymore. Mother fills pages with nonsense, all in the guise of telling me how to run her household, a household she should be running on her own.” She rested her chin in her hand. “Makes me want to marry William by special licence and run away from London.”

  “You may not leave London. I should miss you, terribly,” Sara complained. “You can always find a residence on another lane. No one would find you, there.” Sara quirked a smile and sat on the bench opposite her sister.

  “Then I’d have to find another market. I like the one we use.” Frances’ frown curled deeper. “And I’d miss Father. He doesn’t deserve Mother’s behaviour.” She gazed at Sara. “Was she always like this?”

  “You know she’s always been difficult, but of late-” Sara could only shake her head. She pulled the letter from the pocket within her skirts. “I have something that might cheer you.” She pushed the paper across the table.

  Frances’ eyes widened. “What’s this?” She opened it and smiled. “’Tis in cipher.” She lowered the paper and started reading.

  Sara was amazed her sister did not require a key to decipher the code. “What does it say?”

  Frances ran her finger down the symbols, numbers and letters. “Oh dear.” She frowned. “You won’t like this. David will be outraged.”

  “What?” Sara demanded. She did not like it when David was vexed, for he stomped about the house, cursing like a crusty wherriman. It upset their baby, George, who was usually a placid child.

  “Sir Isaac Wake.” Frances raised her gaze.

  “Our ambassador to France,” Sara supplied.

  “Apparently, he settled with the French Crown regarding the illegal plundering of Québec.”

  “My husband’s actions were not illegal. He had a letter of marque from the king,” Sara fumed. “Besides, we know this. David received a letter at the end of April apprising us of their talks. Why put the resolution in cipher?”

  “Lord Cottington objects to the king being forced to pay fourteen-thousand pounds for the debts to de Caen and his Canada Merchants.” Frances’ head bent lower over the script. “The king should have been consulted afore they put the Great Seal to the pledge.”

  Sara did not like where this was going. The king would never part with a penny. David would be the one forced to pay de Caen. Indeed, as Frances said, David would be furious. “And?”

  “The king pledges, under the Great Seal, to return all the skins, any debt incurred, weapons and the French ships.” She looked up; a line between her brows. “That will be the Merchant Adventurers who pays, won’t it?”

  “Aye, and we’ve lost so much. I don’t wish to inform David of this turn of events.”

  “But he is recouping some of what he lost, is that not so?” Frances folded the letter and handed it to Sara.

  “Thomas is sailing to Canada as we speak. Even as the two governments gave de Caen a monopoly for a year, which brought David to fury, he secretly authorized Thomas to do what he could with trade and whatnots.”

  “Oh dear. I can’t see how this will fare well. Won’t His Majesty throw David into gaol for disobedience?”

  Sara sighed. She would not think on that prospect. The very idea brought too many difficulties.

  Madame Kirke enjoyed bartering with foreign wine suppliers but she would not put a hand to fitting the fleet. That would fall to Sara’s shoulders and this past month she had missed her menses. A breech birth, George was only six months old. Her body was not ready for another pregnancy.

  She stood and placed the letter in her pocket. “I dread this evening. If you hear a roar of disdain and outrage, that will be David.”

  “Over the hullaballoo in the streets?” Frances laughed.

  “Aye, the bats will shiver in the belfry of All Hallows Church.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  London, April 1632

  David Kirke took a circuitous route to Cornhill where the Lord Mayor, Mister Nicholas Rainton and master of Haberdashers Company, lived. He had imperiously summoned David, which set his gut afire. He knew with dread certainty what this was about.

  It had been three years since the fleet of Merchant Adventurers and his brothers sailed to the New World and seized Québec, yet the prize business had not been settled. The damn Frenchies nagged and whined. They rattled their chains of greed that England had not compensated them enough for their losses, their woe and misery.

  Gall burned in David’s craw. He disliked being at someone’s beck and call.

  Even as he knew the mayor from previous guild ceremonials, Rainton was a foreigner, born somewhere in the Eastern Fens of England. Rising like a bog-man from the murk, he should not be allowed the title and power of London’s mayor.

  David scowled. The Lord Mayor’s wealth spoke volumes to the almost bankrupt English Crown. Rainton strutted about town dressed in rich clothes and high crowned, beaver hats. He would more than likely take a portion of whatever he collected from David before giving it to the king.

  He started up a lane with filth running down its kennel. A terrible stench of decay greeted him. David turned around and searched for another way to Cornhill.

  Since King Charles had dismissed Parliament, the Crown was desperate for money and imposed levies on several commodities. The odious concept of monopolies was encouraged. Those with exclusive rights to sell a product, such as soap, near raped the common man with their avarice, causing deep resentment. The king received only a pittance of what the monopoly holders accrued.

  From somewhere in the dusty annals, the Crown ha
d resurrected an ancient law called ‘tonnage and poundage’ wherein imports were heavily taxed. Customs men harassed David as they scoured his storeroom for new, unclaimed wine shipments. As an import merchant, he suffered, spending much and gaining little.

  David pressed his lips together to keep from roaring. The lanes were filled with passers-by and he must settle to calm. It would not do to make a bloody fool of himself in front of the mayor.

  He came upon St. Mary Woolchurch that marked the beginning of Cornhill, one of the smaller wards of London. Comprised of fine houses on either side of the street, the air smelled cleaner, mayhap due to burning of wood—very dear—rather than sea coal.

  David walked to the Lord Mayor’s house and studied the edifice, graced with a large covered porch. Stone carved lion statues flanked either side of the green door. David took a deep breath, climbed the steps and pulled the bell rope. The bell clattered against the lintel. Soon, footsteps slapped the flagstone floor.

  A gentleman in green livery with gold braid sliced open the door. He seemed young with sharp eyes that surveyed David. “May I help you?”

  “The Right Honourable Lord Mayor expects me. I am Mister David Kirke, wine merchant.”

  The servant bowed and opened the door wider. David walked into the house, anger still simmering hot beneath his skin.

  “I shall tell his lordship you are here.” The fellow climbed the grand staircase that hugged a wall. Windows with stained, leaded lights ranged near the ceiling, brightening the entry chamber. The servant reached the top, walked across the landing and disappeared from view.

  The house was dead quiet which made the street noise over loud. Mingled scents of newly roasted meat and beeswax polish wafted to him.

  A pall of doom settled over David, the silence of this tomb boding ill. He would have greatly preferred to deal with his father’s friend, the former Lord Mayor, Sir James Cambell, who was a pleasant fellow. He had come to his wedding, feasted afterward and had given him far too many jolly punches of congratulation.

  A door slammed. The liveried servant stepped gravely down each tread. He bowed. “This way, sir.”