Pillars of Avalon

by Catherine Pym

* * *

  David sailed with a Muscovy Company owned ship on its way to the Baltic for timber, tar and pitch. With the English woodlands’ depletion they must search further afield for masts and caulking materials.

  When in Canada, David noticed its lush forests and considered a mast shipping business, but it would be difficult in Newfoundland. Raw materials were quite far inland, with steep hills and jagged cliffs. Getting logs to shore would be expensive. It would be better if he could go to New France where the woods were thick, but Québec and Acadia were off limits to him.

  He rubbed his hands together. The opportunities in the New World were boundless and he planned to take every advantage. Very sagely, he would forgive the king for his unkind ways to him. With this knighthood, he’d have more paths to explore, the power to do what he desired.

  David disembarked at Dunbar, Scotland. His man, Hawkins, hired a coach to take the portmanteaux and their persons the few miles along the coast to the small town of Innerwick.

  The road was filled with potholes, some very deep. The coachman wound around some of the holes but others he seemed to aim at, jouncing David until his very soul rattled. With gritted teeth, he sat in the rolling coach and tried not to be sick in the belly.

  “Is it because we’re English?” He gasped and thrust the leather window covers aside to breathe in damp, salted air.

  Fisheries clung to the seaboard. Beyond the rocky coast, the ground rose like a fertile ribbon to the Lammermuir Hills. The landscape reminded him of Newfoundland. If he ventured inland, he expected to see woodlands, deep glens and bubbling streams.

  They would stay at the house of James Maxwell, a distant cousin of King Charles’, who was a gentleman of the king’s bedchamber. David did not know what to expect but he knew the king would reside in a proper house.

  He had heard there would be several knighted alongside him. He did not know how many were Scots or English. Animosity rose and fell between the two countries. If there were fewer Englishmen, David did not expect to be treated well. To be thrust in a garret or stables would cruelly vex him.

  As the sun dipped toward the western hills, the path ambled past a stone wall, a stand of trees. Shadows extended across the road and sank everything into semidarkness. A chill breeze rippled through the open coach. Of a sudden, they came upon a gate, the gatehouse windows ablaze with candlelight.

  Two king’s guard with Wheelocks guarded the entrance. “Who goes there?”

  A man dashed from the house, chewing food. He thrust his arms into the sleeves of his doublet. “Oiy then, who might you be?”

  Hawkins leaned out of the open window and handed a guard David’s letter from the king. “We are expected. Mister David Kirke, merchant.”

  A guard raised the letter to the waning sunlight; then handed it back to Hawkins. He nodded at the gatekeeper.

  The man pushed his hat down about his ears. “You’re early. His Majesty only arrived this afternoon. Weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

  Hawkins straightened his back. “We are here, now. Let us in.”

  The keeper unlatched the gate and opened it. He stood against a tall hedge and tipped his hat as the coach trundled forward. They rounded a bend and entered a limestone courtyard that shined like a beacon in the final burst of daylight.

  As the coach rolled toward the guarded front portal, David craned his neck. The house was Tudor with winking leaded lights in the setting sun. When they rolled to a stop, servants thronged about them, opened the coach doors and let down the steps. Several removed the portmanteaux and lugged them into the house.

  David descended onto the drive and studied the simple façade made of weathered limestone, the portico of aged marble. He started when he saw a herd of roe deer staring at them from the manicured lawn. They must be very tame to stand so close to the house.

  A gentleman fitted in black bowed. “This way, sir.”

  They entered the high ceilinged mansion. David breathed in the scents of leather, polish and drifting tobacco smoke. On the left was a tight staircase, its balustrade and newels of carved oak. He followed the man upstairs.

  Virginals played in the distance, their melodies echoing down the stairwell. He appreciated the care with which this house had been crafted and considered buying one of his own in London town, one that befitted a knight. Such a house would help him in his many businesses.

  After he refreshed himself, washing his hands and wiping his face with a wet cloth, he changed into a suit of clothes, adorned with lace and ribbons, and better fitted to appear before the king. His chamber contained a stout feather bed and curtains that would keep him warm at night he observed as he left the chamber and followed the music.

  Soldiers guarded corners and stairways. A gallery with candle sconces opened to his right and he stepped into it. The stringed instruments that harmonized with the virginals seemed louder here. Portraits covered the wainscoted walls. Windows above showed stygian darkness. Like a looking glass, the diamond shaped leaded glass distorted the crown of his beaver hat. David set it more firmly at a rakish angle.

  Another musical section began, one that soothed his soul. He paused to absorb the magical strains of this new piece. The chords raised in pitch and rhythm, matching his swiftly beating heart. Even as the king had caused him great harm, he was honoured to be knighted, to meet His Majesty in a more relaxed setting. Mayhap, they’d become fast friends.

  Finally, David heaved a breath and descended the stairs to a large, oak burnished chamber. A quintet played in a corner. A jolly fire burned in the stone hearth. The king and two men sat in high backed chairs near the warm fire, talking. Short rumbles of laughter punctuated subdued voices.

  A man in an ochre coloured suit stepped up to him. “Whom may I say is calling?”

  “David Kirke, London merchant.”

  He followed the gentleman across a lustrously polished parquet floor. Ornate wooden panels adorned the walls from the skirting boards to the raftered ceiling. The room was warm, luxurious and comfortable.

  His Majesty stopped conversing and with a tight frown turned when the fellow approached. Behind him, David removed his hat and bowed deeply, showing a leg.

  “Mister David Kirke, London merchant,” the gentleman announced.

  The king solemnly nodded and the fellow backed away.

  The king stretched out his hand and David kissed his ring.

  “You may rise.”

  Released from doing homage, David stood taller.

  The king did not wear a hat. Sporting a Vandyke beard, his burnished copper coloured hair fell to his shoulders. His brown eyes were watchful yet they never touched David. His gaze found a spot beyond David’s shoulder.

  Becoming vexed, David made every effort to soften his shoulders. He tried to maintain a respectful mien. He clenched his teeth and waited for the king to speak.

  As if in concord with his confusion, the music’s melody quickened, the notes more strident. In the hearth, a log hissed then broke apart. Sparks flew up the chimney.

  “You are a vintner,” James Maxwell said.

  David nodded. “Aye, milord.”

  He raised his goblet. “This is from Spain, a Canary.”

  “Have you stopped importing French wines, Maxwell?” a stouter, older fellow asked. His eyebrows curved high on his forehead. From beneath heavy eyelids, he surveyed with a critical eye the chamber and each man in it. He wore Anglican priestly garb.

  The men before him were of the highest rank. David vowed not to make a fool of himself. He would listen and only speak when asked a direct question.

  Maxwell spread his arm. “Please meet our dean of the Chapel Royal, Bishop of London, Chancellor of Oxford University, the Right Reverend Lord Bishop, Laud.”

  The king’s full attention on Laud, he laughed, a pleasant enough sound, although slightly high in octave.

  David bowed. “My lord.”

  “Canary wines are popular these days,” Maxwell finally answered Laud. He turned to David
. “As a wine merchant, you must import much Canary.”

  “We do my lord. By the tuns. ‘Tis a brisk business these days.” David wondered if he’d be allowed to take part in discourse with these men. Would they ask him to sit, mayhap partake of a meal?

  With a smile, Maxwell took David’s arm and slowly led him to the door. “His Majesty does not allow lower rank in his presence. You will return to thy chamber. If you are hungry, go to the kitchens.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  The next morning, David paced the width and breadth of his chamber, seething with fury. He’d not slept but a few winks and should be tired but the deadly anger that filled his gut overrode exhaustion.

  Hawkins entered with a tray of bread, cheese and collops. A dish of new beer wobbled beside the plate as he set the tray on a small table.

  “Something to break thy fast, sir.” He pulled a handkercher from his sleeve and polished the door latch. “Many more in residence today, sir.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Guards in the passageways, servants. ‘Tis difficult to walk a straight line.” He shook his head, his face grim.

  “Hawkins, have you any idea when the knighting ceremony is, where it will be?” His jaw tight, his words sounded clipped.

  “Early evening, sir, then there will be a feast to celebrate. The kitchen’s in a mad stir with Cook in a very high bout.”

  David regarded the food, pleased to have something to fill his empty belly but the cheese looked crumbly. The bread smelled fresh, though, and the bacon strips appeared crispy, the way he liked them. He took one and bit down on it. Good.

  As he sipped his new beer, the local herbs rolling off his tongue, he wondered greatly if the king would deign to speak to him once he was knighted. The humiliation of the previous evening rankled to the very marrow of his bones. He growled.

  One of Hawkins’ eyebrows rose. “Mayhap, you’d like to ride this morning. The day is clear.”

  “You will come with me.”

  Hawkins looked horrified. “You know I dislike horses. I prefer coaches, even as they are difficult to ride in. Gives me a headache thinking of it.”

  David regarded his manservant, who had taken over after Father’s man retired. This fellow took his responsibilities seriously and cared well for him, but he was arrogant.

  He nodded. “Please make arrangements.”

  Hawkins bowed then left the chamber.

  David ate while he dressed. He chose to avoid the chance of another insult and followed men down the backstairs and into the kitchens. Once out-of-doors, the sun was bright, the breezes light. The scents of horse dung and flowers wafted in the air.

  He found the way crowded. Coaches, carts loaded with portmanteaux lined the drive. Horses stood alongside the carts, waiting for saddles to be removed, to be rubbed down and given a bag of oats. An empty coach stood next to David’s leased one. Stable hands attended new arrivals. Men and their servants crowded the stables’ entrance, smelling of hot horseflesh, sweat and leather.

  Hawkins leaned out of the stable’s open doorway and motioned to him. David weaved his way through the chaos, his annoyance growing by bounds until he dashed into the shadowed, stone building. Here, it was cooler but still crowded. His need for solace pulled on him, drove him forward.

  A stable hand gestured. “There’s another door that leads to the pasture. You won’t be bothered by so many in the drive.”

  David nodded. “I give thee thanks.” He said to Hawkins, “I shall return later this afternoon.”

  Hawkins bowed.

  The stable hand led him to another, smaller door, where a lad stood, his red hair flying in all directions. He held the reins of a gelding and a pony. His eyes were green like Sara’s and David immediately liked him.

  The lad bowed. “Balloch Randolf at thy service, milord.”

  “Well done,” David said with a grin, for it was the first time anyone addressed him thusly. He stretched the leather of his gloves over his wrists; then mounted.

  A great clamour reached his ears. Men and horses cried out.

  “Let us away from this place,” David ordered. “Take me where you will.”

  The lad nodded and mounted his pony. They trotted across a grassy area to a narrow path. Once away, they broke into a canter. David did not know where the lad would lead him. As long as he returned to the house before the knighting ceremony, he did not care what the world brought him.

  They fell into a slow gait up a hill. David heaved a contented sigh and gazed around. Few clouds marked the deep blue sky. The North Sea twinkled in the sun. Seabirds flew overhead, fought over a cluster of tents and structures near the shore. Their raucous cries found his attention on a fishery.

  David pointed. “Let us go there. I’d like to see how you process fish.”

  His visit to Newfoundland had had a profound effect on him. Every day he saw something that reminded him of that wild, beautiful place. This area of Scotland especially brought to mind the fresh air, the virgin, rocky ground of Ferryland.

  Since his return almost a year ago, he manoeuvred his business away from importing wine and into the sack trade, which brought ships filled with salted fish and cod-oil for market. Instead of procuring more ships, he and his partners hired the services of other vessels. David’s company chartered them in bulk of eight and nine months, paying one hundred forty-three pounds per month for each ship of sail.

  The owners of the ships supplied a crew of forty men, a few lads, to sail into the Gulf of St. Lawrence, armed to the gunwales with gunpowder and shot. The English return of lands had given the French an arrogance that annoyed fishermen and merchants alike. They feared the French would try to control more of the gulf, spread into the waters south of Newfoundland, and in so doing, grow hostile.

  The very idea brought David’s blood to boil. He’d been cheated on every level after the king gave him that letter of marque to do with as he pleased. His Majesty’s about face and the great indignity of last night smouldered hotly within. If he’d been insulted by anyone other than the king, he’d have thrown down the gauntlet and faced the filthy coxcomb in a duel.

  He set the horse into a gallop downhill to the fishery that clutched the rocky shore and like a warrior going into battle, cried, “The French are bloody rascals!”

  Gulls and other seabirds leapt into the air, screeching, their wings madly flapping. Behind him, David heard the lad merrily laugh. His mirth defused David’s hot anger and he smiled.

  They dismounted near a tent. Randolf remained with the horses as David rounded the canvas structures and came upon several flakes, wooden scaffolds of poles and wattle where salted fish dried in the ocean breezes. Men and boys lugged buckets of freshly caught fish to be gutted, then salted. Seabirds swarmed over fish guts that draped the stony shore.

  He did not see the processing of wet fish wherein the daily catch was soaked in heavy brine. This gladdened him, for in truth, fish so heavily infused with salt was not to his taste.

  “What do you want?” asked a craggy faced fellow in a leather apron.

  “I’m interested in your fishery business.” David smiled.

  “I will not sell me business. Get thee away from here,” yelled the craggy person.

  “I do not want to buy your fishery, sirrah, only to ask questions about how you run it. How many quintals do you fetch? Where do you sell your product?”

  The man stared at him, his face filled with suspicion.

  David would not be denied. “Do you tax your customers? What is the tax? I’ve thought five percent fair.” He rubbed his gloved hands together. “Keeps one from debt.”

  The man growled. “Get thee away. I’ll not tell you a thing.” He picked up a gutting tool and shook it.

  “Whoa, now.” David stepped back, his hands in the air.

  “Da!” Randolf cried. “He won’t do you harm. He’s with the king at Maxwell’s.”

  The fisherman released the tool. “You know this man?”

&n
bsp; “Aye, he’s aright.”

  David grinned. Regarding the two together, he saw similarities, what the younger Randolf would grow into, which was not pretty.

  The elder Randolf doffed his bonnet. “Then I’ll tell thee what thee wants to know.”

  David smiled. He prepared to absorb the man’s knowledge.

  Later that afternoon, as he and the young Randolf returned to Maxwell manor, David vowed to write a letter to Sara describing everything he’d learned. The seas off the Scottish coast teemed with herring, cod and haddock that people came from miles inland to purchase.

  Whether or not he and Sara took up residence in Ferryland, it seemed they’d already found their way deeper into the fishery business. Mayhap, they would build flakes of their own at the edge of Ferryland Pool.

  When they entered the manor grounds, the drive overflowed with coaches and carts. Hobbled horses fed in the pasture over which he and the lad had earlier ridden.

  As men dashed from the stables to take his mount, David murmured, “Methinks the inn is full.”

  “Why did you want to know of drying fish, milord?” the lad asked after they dismounted.

  “Because I intend to live in Newfoundland one day.”

  The lad looked at him as if he’d fallen off the horse and cracked his head. “What is new-fun-lan?”

  David smiled and tossed him a half-crown. “Share this with thy father.”

  The lad’s eyes goggled. “Many thanks to thee.”

  * * *

  David would not skulk through the kitchens but boldly walked through the front portal into Maxwell’s house. As he strode through passageways, he acknowledged Hawkins’ earlier remark was correct. The manor had become crowded. Soldiers wandered the passageways. Several men trod past him going hither or yon as David found the way to his chamber.

  He found his chamber in a flurry of activity. An open portmanteau crowded the room. Shirts, breeches and doublets were scattered about the trunk and on the backs of chairs. Hats with frothy feathers were strewn on the bed. Hawkins sat in a corner, looking miserable.