Pillars of Avalon

by Catherine Pym

  “You said nothing to defend me.” Thomas cried. “You’ve lost strength.”

  “What do you mean, Delilah? Dost thou speak of the Biblical Samson and Delilah?” David demanded with menace. Then his eyes widened. “Do you desire my wife? Is that why you dislike her? Are you weak afore her?”

  “She will only lead us into abomination!” Thomas withdrew his dagger, menaced Sara with it, teased her with its tip. He jabbed it about her face and neck.

  The men exclaimed with alarm. “What are you doing? Leave off.”

  With a gasp of terror, Sara cowered. She covered her face with her hands, afraid he would maim and scar her.

  “You will not have her,” David raged.

  Of a sudden, a whoosh of air passed her. She raised her eyes above her fingertips in time to see David, his face feral with blood lust, give Thomas a mighty blow to the gut. He collapsed to the floor and lay there like a dead man.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  July 13, 1632

  Thomas did not die. Whilst his brothers, Captain Brewerton and Sara stood over him, he gained his knees. Then he had staggered to his feet and with as much dignity as his bent body would allow, walked out of the building. Sara had not seen him since.

  “I banished him to the fisheries where he will collect quintals of salted cod, take it to Spain and Portugal for sale.” David sniffed. “Those countries do enjoy salted fish with their wine.” He shook his head and wandered away.

  Sara was glad Thomas was gone. The way in which he abused her, she could only believe he hated her. His passion was violent. She feared for the wench who married him.

  Now aboard the Gervase, she waited for the fleet to set sail. The decks were crowded with men, some with families, their goods and armaments once sent to Québec for protection.

  Drumrolls rolled off the cliff and down river where they were anchored. Everyone turned their regard to the top of the fort.

  The world paused with awe. A gentle breeze brushed the ship’s deck and swept the flies away. Sara stood with the others; colonists, soldiers and seamen. Only the sheets and fittings that clanged against the masts and yards thrummed in her ears. Everyone watched as, high above, St George’s ensign came down and the French flag with the fleur-de-lis trinity went up.

  The French once again took hold of Québec, the land of St. Lawrence and Acadia. When their flag flapped in the breeze, the men aboard ship dispersed. They went to the rail as sails unfurled. The armada of English vessels began to move, gained speed and flowed down river, away from a territory the Kirkes had tried so hard to retain.

  * * *

  They sailed into the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The sky was blue with a few scudding clouds. Sara breathed in the fresh air, continually amazed it could be so clean. No coal smoke clogged her lungs or distorted her vision. Everything was crisp, clear. She saw islands in the distance. A landmass appeared. David had told her during the incoming trip that this was Newfoundland.

  “We will go there.” His face was flushed with pleasure and pride. “’Tis a better place than Québec.”

  “Truly?” she asked. The further north they went the more desolate the land. Birds nested on the cliffs and rocks above the frothy sea. There was little to compare with this landscape and Québec.

  He rubbed his hands together. “You’ll see.”

  Sara disliked it when he was cunningly cryptic and she sniffed.

  “What’s this?” He laughed. “Have you fallen into the droops? Come now. Soon you will be astonished.”

  She must accept his wicked ways but she’d not let him know how it annoyed her. She turned and walked across the deck to the starboard side.

  He followed her with arms outspread. “Don’t you want to be surprised?”

  She twirled about.

  He stopped, his eyes round.

  “You know I dislike surprises,” Sara informed him. “I shall be cross if you continue in this manner.” She set her hands on her hips and gave him what she hoped was a quelling regard.

  He laughed. “Oiy then I shall stop, not tell you a thing about Ferryland or the pool.” He nodded and strolled away.

  Exasperated, she admonished herself for allowing him to see her discontent. Sara did want to learn of this Ferryland that so pleased him. She’d heard of it since his 1629 foray. His stories evoked in her a heart-stirring need to see the rugged land, as if she would one day be part of it.

  Sara did not understand this need, for she’d never been there, never seen a drawing or an artist rendering of the place. Once she stepped off this ship and onto the rocky soil, her life would never be the same.

  She watched David stride away, his back strong enough to take on any adversity. She would know what he saw, what he touched there, in this very northern Canadian country but she would not beg.

  Sara worked her way to the prow, around cages of turkeys and geese. There were less seamen here and she’d be out of their way. It would give her time to think, watch the stark beauty in this part of the world.

  The ship rode close to the land, rocky with deep inlets, ragged islands within them. Boiling waves crashed against towering, sea blackened cliffs. Beyond, tall grasses and wild flowers climbed the hills.

  Water pulsed and splashed onto the deck. The watch called out when to head starboard or larboard.

  At dawn the next morning, amidst what seemed hundreds of fishing ships and shallops along the grand banks, gulls screaming overhead, the Gervase left the fleet and rounded a spit of land. They meandered through a cluster of small islands and entered suddenly quiet water.

  Fishing boats anchored nearby. People worked within and without the stone buildings that clutched the shore. Small rowing boats bobbed at the pilings.

  “We’re in the pool,” David explained with a smile. As they glided toward a buoy, he breathed deeply. “All of this is the Province of Avalon. That there is Lord Baltimore’s mansion. Last time I was here, his lordship was in the process of vacating it.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

  Her gaze swept the grassy land toward the grey skies where sea birds soared in the wind currents. The house stood on the lee of a hill, a sprawling two-storied structure built of stone, the roof a combination of thatch and flags. Beyond the house rose grassy hills.

  A cold, damp wind soughed off the pool and up the grassy hill. The ship’s bell clanged. The deck creaked. Cables squealed as the sails furled.

  The barren land had its own beauty. It made her think of the books she’d read on Northern Scotland, a brash, wild country by what they and others who’d been there said of it. There were few trees, here, except those planted about the headland.

  A thrill of excitement filled her. “I would like to see the house. Do you think anyone lives there?”

  David shrugged. “Don’t know. But we will see how it fares, for one day this will be ours.”

  Suddenly disturbed by his words, she turned to him. “How do you know this?”

  His clear grey eyes glazed as if he saw the future. “I just know.” His face cleared and he smiled at her. “Whilst we explore, let us see what improvements are to be made. We will begin to prepare for this moment.” His gaze roamed across the land, the buildings with fish rooms at the shore.

  “Won’t we have problems with Baltimore or his family?” Sara wondered aloud. To take his property like a conquering hero had not worked when David and his brothers boldly moved into Québec. “I don’t want this to become a millstone around our necks with solicitors and litigation.”

  “Ha!” he exclaimed. “What makes you think that? We will be gentle to whoever lives there.”

  Sara looked again at the house on the hill, which would ultimately bring them troublesome brews, but she could not restrain from being thrilled to possibly live here. As soon as they returned to London she’d find a good land lawyer to assist them in this new venture.

  * * *

  As they strode along the path that took them further from the wharf, Sara turned around to study the land,
storehouses, dwellings and the pool that David said made a wonderfully defended harbour. Whoever planned this had done very well, for the buildings had been constructed to last through years of harsh seasons.

  On a slope was a working brewhouse. Not far from the mansion she saw a hobbled goat. Sheep grazed along the hills. To the left, a stone barrier protected rows of a budding garden that climbed to the crest of a steep hill. Biting, black flies did not seem so bad here.

  They walked a narrow stone path to the house that looked grey under the low hanging clouds. Rain began to spatter. Wild flowers grew in abundance with the grasses, making a thick, colourful carpet.

  David grabbed the iron knocker and let it bang several times but no one came to open the door. He looked at her, an eyebrow hitched into his hat. “What shall we do?”

  “Go around back,” she suggested. “If anyone is here, they will be in the kitchen or storehouse.”

  They slogged through thigh high grasses to the back, Sara craning her neck the whole while. The windows were glazed, a fine thing indeed, but the weatherworn frames needed repair. She ran her gloved fingers over the roughly carved stone and wondered where the quarry was.

  At the back they found a stone kitchen, at least twelve by eighteen feet with a large chimney and an upstairs chamber. A storehouse stood nearby. Further up the hill were a smithy and henhouse, where hens and their chicks resided. A rooster perched on a tall rock and boasted his prowess.

  She met David’s gaze. “Someone still lives here.”

  “Hmm.” He surveyed the area and cast his eyes on a muck pile near the kitchen door that stunk to high heaven. Rats fed on the spoils. Flies buzzed thickly over it. “We shall make a few changes very soon, now.” He climbed the stone steps and banged on the door.

  Someone tried to open the warped door that hung crookedly on iron hinges. Finally, with a jerk, the door scraped open, digging into the deeply rutted plank floor. A young woman in a dirty apron stared down at them. There were no adornments upon her and Sara reckoned she was Puritan.

  David’s displeasure rattled in his throat.

  Sara feared he would say something they’d both regret. She smiled and stepped in front of him. “Good day to thee. We tried the front but no one seemed to hear.”

  “What dost thou require?” The woman’s tone was sharp.

  Sara groaned. She did not want to deal with a bad-tempered person.

  “Who is it, Faithful?” an older woman appeared behind the growly one, who stomped away.

  The woman’s face, once plump, sagged with wrinkles that tracked across her cheeks, around her mouth and down her neck. Grey curls and tendrils bubbled from beneath her cap. Her blue eyes were kind, gentle. “Come in. Come in. We’ve new ale from the brewhouse. We will have a nice drink whilst I read to you of Doctor Threadgill’s published sermons. ‘Tis ever so spiritual.”

  Sara’s shoulders relaxed, then they tensed when she heard David grunt, for he, too, must realize the former papist Lord Baltimore’s home now housed Puritans.

  “What’s this about?” David snarled. “Who gave you leave to be here, in Lord Baltimore’s house?”

  Her eyes goggled. She kneaded her hands beneath her ample breasts. “My Lord appointed me husband as agent to reside here, sir. He holds the papers in his Bible. What God provides, we shall humbly receive.”

  “Not if you are a bloody Puritan, you will not,” David retorted.

  Sara winced, for she had read some of the early Puritan doctors’ sermons, which were published in bulk and distributed at the markets. They were more heartfelt that guided one toward the light. The later sermons had gained dark momentum and attacked the pulpit with wrath. If it weren’t for her husband and his staunch Anglican beliefs, Sara would look more into the saintly dogma.

  She gave the woman a tremulous smile as David stormed into the kitchen. “I shall see for meself if this house reeks of fanatical filth.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  London, June 1633

  Weary from her second heavy pregnancy, Sara tried to find a comfortable position as she worked at the table in David’s office. She could not keep her mind on business and fought another yawn. Her thoughts drifted to Newfoundland and their visit to Ferryland the previous year.

  The memory of its stark beauty still impressed her. If she had allowed David to tell her of its geographical variety whilst aboard the Gervase, his words would have been trite next the actual brilliance with flower carpeted grasses, the brooding grey skies and sea. Deeper inland, dense forests of fir and pine trees graced the land. On the second day of their stay at Ferryland, an iceberg drifted south, past the many fishing boats that plied the grand banks.

  While David had harangued the poor wretch over her Calvinist beliefs, Sara wandered about the kitchen. The chamber was warm with a well-built hearth. Cast iron pots and pans hung from low rafters. Earthen bowls and dishes lined the top of a cupboard; a tun barrel of ale sat on the floor beside it. Washing cauldrons were tucked in a corner.

  Whoever Baltimore had charged to build this added a very nice baking oven. As she had wandered about, the smell of baking bread wafted sweetly throughout.

  “And where did you get flour to bake bread, Mistress?” David had cried.

  “We trade fish for goods, sir,” the woman sobbed.

  Sara sighed. Her husband was a brute but oftentimes she wanted to laugh at his bluster. Strange words would spume from his mouth that did not make sense.

  Her mind back in the present, she sighed and flipped through the papers at her elbow. Mayhap over time, her memories of Newfoundland had taken on a prettily coloured tint. If they ever returned, she might be disappointed.

  Miss Puss, their ratter dog, yipped. Sara picked her up and set her on what was left of her lap. “Oiy then, art thou hungry? Master David won’t call you Miss Puss, will he? Thinks your name is better suited for a cat, but I say you love it, don’t you?” She purred and the dog tried to find a comfortable spot but Sara’s belly had burgeoned with this child. The little dog hopped off her lap.

  Sara sighed again, tried to focus but her eyes drifted closed. She hadn’t slept well this last month. Her thoughts returned to Newfoundland.

  The harsh winters had taken their toll on Baltimore’s old mansion. With little to no maintenance, the caretakers had allowed the house to fall near ruin. The floor planks were scarred, the parlour used for storage. Weather had intruded through wall chinks and the wooden window frames but Sara hoped all this had changed. As they prepared to set sail and join the rest of David’s fleet, a ship had glided into Ferryland Pool, carrying a new caretaker. His name was William Hill and he brought with him his good Anglican wife and children. He also carried news Lord Baltimore had died in April of that very year.

  Chin in hand, Sara flipped through papers and letters. During the past year, their business had expanded into the sack trade. Madame continued as the family’s vintner, whilst David partnered with new merchants. They sent ships to Newfoundland with the intention of filling the holds with dried fish to sell in the Mediterranean markets. They established contracts with factors in the West Indies; Cartagena and Barbados. They would soon sail there with quintals of dry salted fish and vats of cod-oil, fresh from the teeming waters of Newfoundland.

  The task of preparing those ships fell on Sara’s shoulders. As she endeavoured to focus on the papers before her she remembered they still had problems with de Caen, who had refused to give up his kings’ sanctioned monopoly of trade along the Canadian coast. While David strove to expand their sack trade in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, Nova Scotia and Newfoundland, de Caen attempted a scheme of expansion onto Newfoundland’s grand banks.

  “The waters about that island are English!” David hollered, wild-eyed. “That Frenchie has no right to them.’

  Sara tried not to laugh at David’s response but giggles bubbled from her throat. Too often, his overreaction was very comical.

  She took a deep breath and opened the business journal to study
the list of what else she must do this afternoon. She ran her finger down the page, her heart dropping. She did not want to do this, today, and closed the book. She set her quill into the inkpot when the door slammed and heavy footfalls headed her way. Miss Puss ran to meet whoever came, yipping and wagging her tail.

  David strode into the office with the pup tucked under his arm. A big grin spread across his face. “You’ll never believe what I’m about to tell you.” Coal smoke clung to the damp wool of his doublet.

  Sara smiled. “What?”

  “I’ve been called to Scotland. You must help me get ready. I leave with the morning tide.”

  “Scotland! Whatever for?”

  He pulled a paper from within his doublet. “See for yourself.”

  Miss Puss licked his face. David grimaced. “Hullo, Cur.”

  Sara took the paper and opened it. The words astonished her. She reread them then looked up with a grin. “Knighted. You are to be knighted?”

  “Aye, I go to Scotland a commoner and will return to London a noble.” His grin was expansive.

  “Why there? Why not at Whitehall?”

  “The king’s been in Scotland since the first of June. His coronation was at Holyrood on the eighteenth. He will be at Innerwick, until September.”

  He tapped the paper in her hand. “I must be there by the 16th of July. I don’t have a moment to lose.”

  She looked at the letter, again. “His Majesty hasn’t given you much time.”

  He spread an arm. “Why do you sit there, staring at a piece of paper? I’d think you’d rush to get me ready. You will be a lady. Doesn’t that warrant a kiss or a hug?” His gaze went from her face to her rounded belly. “Which is about all I will receive, methinks.”

  She stood and kissed him on the tip of his nose. “Aye, ‘tis all you will have until after the babe is born.”