Pillars of Avalon

by Catherine Pym

  David followed him up the stairs, the dark oak handrail smooth as silk under his gloved hand. He craned his neck and looked at the windows. They appeared masterfully done and would stand the onslaught of high winds, hail and driving rain. As they climbed, the ground level seemed far below, the flagstones dancing with bright colours from the leaded lights.

  The servant crossed the landing and nodded. “In there, sir. Mister Mayor is awaiting thee.”

  With gritted teeth, David removed his hat and entered the chamber that was well appointed. A fireplace stood against the wall, its mantel of the same dark oak as the newels and balusters. Silver candlesticks, gilt and lace adorned the room. Freshly lit pipe tobacco filled his nostrils.

  Rainton, a tall man fitted in a brown velvet doublet and breeches, stood behind a large table. His face was long and narrow, his eyes shaded by the brim of a beaver hat. “Mister Kirke,” he acknowledged.

  David suddenly hated the man with his whole heart. He jutted his chin and bowed, showing a leg. “Lord Mayor.”

  Rainton spread his arm. “You know Monsieur de Caen.”

  Not expecting de Caen, David quickly turned to see the damn Frenchie sitting quietly on a straight back chair. He had not doffed his bonnet before the mayor, which showed deep disrespect.

  The coxcomb’s lips spread into a conquering grin. His eyes glittered with malice. He stood and bowed, showing an impertinent leg. “Monsieur.”

  David would not bow to the man. His fingers itched to return his hat to his head but he left it tucked under his arm. David slowly nodded.

  Rainton rested his knuckles on the table. “Gentlemen, as you know, the Treaty of St-Germain-en-Laye was signed by our two countries just days ago.”

  De Caen smirked. “Oui, monsieur le maire.”

  Word had trickled down to David but he had no idea of the details. At de Caen’s expression, the terms must be damning to the Merchant Adventurers. “I have heard of this.”

  Rainton motioned for them to sit down. His hat still tucked under his arm, David found a straight back chair similar to de Caen’s and perched on its edge.

  “As you know,” Rainton began, “France has petitioned the return of what was taken in New France.”

  David nodded. He knew this.

  De Caen rubbed his gloved hands together. “What was stolen from us will be ours, once again.”

  Rainton frowned. He regarded David with what seemed sympathy. “The terms of the treaty are thus; Once the French fleet arrives in New France, our people will have eight days to vacate, board ships and thence to England. This means everyone will remove from their residence all personal items, which includes the armaments we gave to support the forts.”

  “Mon Dieu,” de Caen cried. “We have need of as many armaments, guns, powder and shot as we can store. You will not remove them.”

  Rainton gave de Caen a flinty glare. “You will adhere to the terms of the treaty between our two countries, is that understood?”

  David inwardly groaned. The king had succumbed to every pressure. The dirty French had cast him to his knees, his arse in the air to be plundered. The Crown’s pitying state and David’s family loss of income made him deadly mad.

  Rainton picked up a paper. “This includes Port Royal and Cape Breton.” He sighed and dropped the leaf.

  De Caen chortled with glee.

  David wanted to rip a hole in the Frenchman’s neck, watch him bleed. It took every effort not to leap across the chamber and stab him in the heart with his dagger. He sucked in air.

  There had to be more. Rainton’s face was open to his inner wounds. He disliked having to part with bad tidings.

  “What else?” David asked.

  The Lord Mayor picked up another piece of paper, this one quite large. He faced David. “This is a warrant, issued by the Privy Council to me, Mister Kirke.” He rattled the paper. “You will hand over the key to the warehouse wherein the prizes are stored. This includes the seized skins.”

  David jumped to his feet. “A majority of those pelts came to me fairly, bartered honestly with the Aboriginals. Only a portion of the skins came from Québec. I shall not relinquish them to you, God or king.”

  Rainton reared back with astonishment. “I will inform the Privy Council you will not obey their will or the will of His Majesty, our king. You could very well be arrested.”

  De Caen stood. “I will go with you to this warehouse and take the skins.”

  Rainton turned on him. “You will not! Do not interfere, again.”

  David’s hands rolled into fists. “Most of those pelts are mine.”

  “The Privy Council will authorize the sheriffs to break down the door. You will lose them, anyway.” Rainton frowned. He turned away and gazed out the mullioned window.

  Filled with rancour he had been dealt with so cruelly, David snapped. “Neither you nor our king are honourable, sirrah. I shall never forget this.” David marched out of the chamber.

  As he sped downstairs, the cacophony of de Caen’s laughter, high and piercing, followed him out of the house. David fondled the hilt of his sword, desperately wanting to kill the bloody rascal. He paused on the porch, ready to retrace his steps. The latch clicked closed.

  David heaved a sigh and forced his fingers from the sword.

  * * *

  “They will take the furs,” he told Anton Fitz as they sat in David’s private office, the kitchen noises harsh against his ears. Enticing scents of roasting pullets wafted into his chamber. He should be hungry but since the humiliation at Rainton’s house, David suffered sore discontent.

  “Not yours,” Anton said as he knocked cold ash from his clay pipe. “Yours have been gone a year to the Muscovy Company. How much did you gain?”

  “Not enough. As you well remember, many of the pelts were rotten.”

  David hadn’t been to the new warehouse in months and wondered how the balance of furs fared. No matter how hard they sought a dry storage space, the world was too damp. The longer the pelts sat, the more damage they suffered.

  “I sent a stern letter to Sir Isaac Wake, the king’s ambassador to France, but to no avail. They will take what they will.” David growled.

  “I should have followed you,” Anton admitted.

  “Where?” Despite the dire circumstances, a small smile wavered on his lips.

  Anton growled. “Sent my share of the pelts to Moscow with yours, what did you think?” He frowned at his cold pipe.

  Someone banged on the door. David expected his clerk to handle the delivery of wine barrels and did not seek who tried to bludgeon down his panel.

  Robert entered his private office, his eyes round. “There are some men who wish to speak with thee.”

  David gained his feet while his friend stuffed tobacco in his pipe bowl. He turned to Anton. “Coming?”

  “Why should I?” Anton took a taper and put flame to his bowl. “I’ve nothing to do with wine.”

  “You will this,” Robert stated and he motioned to several men, who looked quite official.

  “Who are they?” David asked softly as they made their way across the wine storage area.

  “Sheriffs,” Robert answered grimly.

  The sky was grey with a fitful wind that whistled down the lane. Cold breezes made their way into the wine chamber, across David’s ankles. Flames danced in the hearth. The men who crowded upon his threshold smelled of wet wool and sweat.

  “What may I do for thee?” David tried to gauge if the men had come to drag him to gaol or would it be something else?

  A gruff, tall fellow who chewed on a pewter toothpick leaned against the doorjamb. “I am Sheriff Winn. We are on the way to break down the door of the warehouse that holds the pelts.”

  “Unless you’re willing to give us the key,” added a fellow, whose yellow hair fell to his shoulders. The wide cuffs of his boots sagged almost to his ankles.

  “We will not,” Anton cried.

  Winn menaced them with a cudgel. “You will come with us.�
� He stepped aside and waited.

  David snatched his cloak from a peg and swung it over his shoulders. Winn walked away, the men scrambling behind him, up the hill. A man with a horse and cart waited for them at the end of the lane.

  Falling apace behind the men, David nudged Anton. “What will the Sheriff find?

  Anton clamped his teeth on the pipe stem. “You know what he will find.”

  They arrived at the warehouse, a wattle and daub structure. David regarded the drooping roof, the large puddle that spread along the foundation and into the street. This did not bode well for the skins.

  Winn opened his palm under Anton’s chin. “The key.”

  Anton grasped the chain hanging from his waist. With great care and deliberation, he began to unlatch the key.

  The sheriff waggled his hand. “Come on. Hand it over.” He snatched it from Anton’s fingers and turned to his men. “Let us gain the wares.”

  The door swung open, emitting a terrible stink of rot. Rats poured from the dark chamber. Men groaned, pressed their handkerchers to their faces. While a fellow backed the cart to the door, lanthorns were lit and the men swarmed into the warehouse.

  Anton grabbed David’s arm. “I shall follow them and take what is mine.”

  David could not fathom the man’s stupidity. “Why will you do this? By the smell of it, they are too late.”

  “’Tis the principle of the thing, don’t you see?” Fitz pleaded. “They are in the wrong.”

  “But you will not succeed and you’ll be thrown in Fleet,” David said with what he considered wisdom.

  “I do not care.”

  Winn stumbled out of the warehouse. He wagged his head and gasped. “Where are they?”

  “What do you mean?” David cried, hoping he looked aghast. “Do you doubt my word?”

  “There should be more. The number I have is near seven thousand.” He waved his hand to indicate the warehouse. “There’s much less in there.”

  David shrugged. “The decision to take what was mine took too long. The rest rotted and we were forced to throw them away.”

  Winn stared at him, his face showing a myriad of thoughts, from disbelief and disgust to understanding. Finally, he waved at the fellow with the cart. “Take what you can.”

  Once the cart was filled with rotting pelts, a great many flies buzzing over them, the driver prodded the horse. Cart wheels rolled through the puddle. They left the warehouse door open that creaked with despair in the breeze.

  David watched the booty trundle away.

  “I shall see you, later,” Anton said, his eyes on the men and cart.

  David nodded as, with steadfast but foolish determination, Anton Fitz followed them.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Sara looked up when turbulence stormed into the house. David had been in a mad stir for days, and today, he was worse than she could imagine. Over the past month, with the king’s men demanding seized goods, his language had deteriorated but he mumbled most of his curses. Today, she heard his foul words clearly. He blasphemed with abandon and stomped through their storage area.

  She’d been refitting what remained of the fleet for this summer’s ventures. Captain Brewerton’s, the Gervase was nearly stocked with victuals, armaments and goods to sell. Thomas’, the George still had a good ways to go before she was comfortable with its fitting. From the approaching turmoil, it seemed her work might be done for the day.

  Sara did not have time to coddle her husband. With a sigh, she stood.

  David burst into the office like a whirling dervish and stopped short when he saw her, his cloak flapping around his legs. He looked so stricken, she wanted to laugh.

  “That fool, Anton Fitz, stole all the pelts from where the king’s men had taken them.” He paced the floor, forcing Sara to step back. “I told him to do so would get him thrown in Fleet but he did it anyway.”

  “Is he in prison, now?”

  “I’m not sure. I could not find him.”

  The storeroom door squeaked. They turned to see who it was.

  Mister Fitz stared at them with sorrowful eyes.

  “Why aren’t you in gaol?” David asked incredulously.

  “I would be if I hadn’t returned every last pelt.” He shrugged. “I know it was base stupid but the king had no right to take what was mine.” He regarded them with pleading eyes. “How have we come to this? Our Crown steals from us and there is nothing we can do about it.”

  David frowned. He, too, was astonished by the king’s waffle, his lack of honour but it was time to move forward. The Kirkes and the Merchant Company must forge a new road, this time without the aid of the Crown.

  He gazed at the table where his wife had been working, a thought burgeoning. “How long will it take to outfit the Abigail for Canada?”

  “Several months, at least. You know this,” Sara calmly replied. “Don’t forget, many of your crew have dispersed to other ships and duties. Lang, your helmsman, sailed with an East India merchantman last month. He’s gone ‘round the tip of Africa. Dawson, your first mate, captains for the Levant Company, headed for ports of call in the Mediterranean.” She leaned forward. “Shall I continue?”

  “We don’t have that much time.” David started to pace again.

  Sara stepped back, out of his way. She wondered what was on his mind.

  “’Tis nearing May. We must leave within the week.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Why must you go anywhere?” Anton looked confused. “When we can get everything we need right here, in City?”

  “We cannot get beaver pelts, here,” David shouted.

  “Impossible,” Sara informed him. “When was the last time you saw the Abigail? The hull is barnacle ridden. It will take several months to get her ready for sail.”

  He turned on her like a fiery dragon, his eyes hot with menace. “Do not tell me we cannot do it!”

  Sara raised a brow, crossed her arms over her chest and waited.

  With a heavy gasp, David sank onto a joint stool, his face a mask of agony. “I shall throw it up,” he declared. “Since Father crossed the veil, everything I’ve touched has gone to dirt.”

  He fell into the droops, sliced a glance at her, as if he expected her to tell him otherwise. Sara bit her tongue to keep from laughing at his comedy of grief.

  “Not everything.” Sara remembered last year when the fleet returned from Québec, Canada and other places along that vast coast. The ships’ holds were filled with oak, birch, salted fish and cod-oil. It had been a lucrative venture.

  David must have seen her eyes fill with mirth for he scoffed. “Go ahead. Laugh.”

  “Do stop feeling sorry for yourself, Husband. Why do you need your own ship? You can go with Brewerton or thy brother.”

  She frowned, for Thomas was still a piece of deadly carrion to her in all things. Sara could not fathom why Madame Kirke did not see her younger son’s cruelty, his malice. Sara hoped with her whole heart Thomas would find a wife, poor wretch, and move from this house.

  David jumped to his feet. “That’s aright! I shall find a chamber aboard his ship.”

  Anton Fitz set his hat more firmly upon his head. “I’m going, now. I’ve neglected me barrel business of late.” He regarded David. “Next time you’ve an idea that goes against the Crown, do not come to me.”

  “Ha!” David cried. “You enjoyed yourself, don’t deny it.”

  Anton’s neck reddened. “Truth be told, I did, but I dislike greatly the threat of being cast into gaol.” He sniffed.

  David stepped up to him and extended his hand. “Until next time, then.”

  Anton grasped David’s hand. “Aye, until then.”

  Sara listened to Fitz’s footsteps retreat across the storeroom, thinking she must get back to it, finish the refitting of the fleet. If indeed the ships would sail within the week, she could not afford more interruptions.

  David turned to her with a gleam in his eye.

  H
er gut sank. “What?”

  He took her hands in his. She could almost hear his heart sing with joy. “Let us go with Brewerton, you and I. I want to show you what we accomplished, show you the beginnings of a plantation at Newfoundland.”

  Her ears buzzed and her skin tingled. “Why Newfoundland? What’s so extraordinary about that place?” Suddenly, she recalled her conversation with the messenger before Father Kirke had died. A broken old man, Baltimore had given David his plantation.

  “There’s a wondrous stone house there. The harbour is safe. The place is called Ferryland. You’ll like it.”

  His words pierced her soul with something akin to predestined knowledge. Sara watched memories roll across his face, which was alight with pride. Deep in her heart, she knew this voyage would change their lives, forever.

  * * *

  Sara stood at the rail and watched the waves thunder against the ship’s hull. The sky was iron grey, the water almost black and tipped with frothy whitecaps. The ship’s dips and rolls exhilarated her. When they plunged into the troughs, the waves around them seemed so high, she envisioned the lookout could touch their watery peaks.

  Her eyes teared in the fresh winds. She wanted to gulp the air, fill her lungs. Salty sprays burned her nose.

  They had been at sea for three weeks. The further they sailed the higher the winds, the rougher the water. Sheets squealed in the gusts. Canvas snapped taut. The ship creaked and groaned as it ploughed through the towering waves. She was glad the first part of the journey had been calmer, for it allowed her to gain her sea legs.

  David slipped along the slanting deck toward her. He pressed against her and held onto the rails. His chest expanded against her back, his breath warm against her neck. “Wonderful, isn’t it?” He nibbled her earlobe. “Makes me want to tussle upon the counterpane.” He chuckled, his voice deep with desire.

  She wiggled her backside and he laughed. “Come here,” he growled. “Let us frolic afore they gather for dinner in the great chamber.” He snorted near her ear. “Don’t want anyone to hear us, do we?”