A small man with a protruding Adam’s apple dashed about with his hands pressed together. “Oh dear, oh dear. ‘Tis a calamity, is what it is. A calamity.”
“What’s going on, here?” David demanded. “Who gave you leave to enter me chamber?”
A fellow his own age whirled around, his arms wide. His Indian gown of henna brocade swung about his legs and slippered feet. “Good day to thee. Seems we are chamber mates during this momentous event. Would you care for a goblet of wine?” He snapped his fingers. “Atkins, serve the man.”
Hawkins removed the goblet from the harried man’s hand. “I shall do it.”
Curly, brown hair framed the gentleman’s face. His amber eyes bright, he wore his beard in the usual fashion of a Vandyke. He pointed a tapered finger at a table covered with pitchers of Canary and Rhenish wines. Cheeses, bread, a shoulder of venison overflowed pewter platters. Smaller dishes and knives stood at the ready.
David could not remain annoyed, for the man seemed a pleasant fellow. “Canary will do.”
“I am William Eyre, Esquire, of Neston Wiltshire, soon to be knighted. I expect that, after this, we shall become life-long friends.” He waved a hand. “Sharing such a prestigious event and all that.” His wide smile showed yellow teeth.
“David Kirke, London merchant.” He sipped from his goblet. Sugar had been added to the wine which made it very sweet.
Hawkins stepped up to him. “We shall begin ablutions, sir.” He coughed. “You’ve the odours of horseflesh and fish about you.”
David swallowed wine then handed the goblet to Hawkins.
Eyre removed his dressing gown. It fell in a heap on the floor. He plopped onto a chair, waving his goblet about. “’Tis warm, here.” Over a shoulder, he ordered, “Atkins, open a window and let in a breeze or our freshly laundered shirts will wilt.” He smiled and drank.
As Hawkins fitted David into his best suit, Eyre ran a finger along the rim of his goblet. “’Tis a grand occasion to be allowed afore the king.” He sliced a glance at David. “Bit of an odd duck he is, too.”
This peaked his interest. “How so?”
“He will be served on bended knee.”
David harrumphed. He envisioned servants holding heavy platters near His Majesty’s lap. “That could be cumbersome.”
“His Majesty has bowed legs and wears special shoes.”
“How do you know this?” David asked as Hawkins ran a brush through his hair. Soon, he would try to place a beaver hat upon his head, which David would not allow. He did not want to carry it under his arm all evening.
Eyre shrugged. “Me father served in Whitehall for a while.” He leaned forward, over the wooden arm of the chair. “Our king does not allow different ranked persons to mingle in the same chamber.”
“What?” David’s head snapped up and Hawkins dropped the brush.
Eyre shrugged. “Dukes with dukes, viscounts with viscounts. That sort of thing. Most peculiar, ‘tis, too.” He sniffed and sipped his wine.
So, this explained why he’d been sent away the night before, but the insult still burned.
Chapter Twenty-eight
David and Eyre left their chamber together. They fell in with the others who would be knighted, seventeen in number. Sheathed swords snagged petticoat breeches as more men joined them in the passageways and stairwells. The house buzzed with Scottish brogue. To David’s surprise, only one or two looked down their long noses at him, as if he were a filthy creature and should not be here.
His journey to Maxwell’s had brought discontent and confusion. Beyond the grave insult, he learned that once knighted, his name would be listed with the Lyon King of Arms in Edinburgh rather than the College of Heralds’ in London.
Eyre grunted and David grinned. “What’s afoot?”
A gaudy wasp, his chamber mate’s cloth suit of stiff, blue satin crackled with every step. He constantly tugged on his heavily starched lace collar. “Me chin hairs keep getting caught in this damned lace. Atkins must want me face plucked. I’ve a good mind to dismiss him.”
David laughed. “Nay, don’t. He’s already in great misery. Dismissing him could very well do him in.”
“You might have the full of it. Right then, I shall not kick the poor wretch out me door.”
“I am in a blather we must register our knighthoods in Edinburgh,” David said as they rounded from the landing to a set of stairs.
“I will take my certificate to Heralds’ in London once we return to England,” Eyre informed him as they descended the treads, the newel posts beautifully carved with Maxwell’s insignia. “That way my name will be listed with our very own English knights.”
“Will you now?” David did not understand why he could not bypass the Lyon King altogether. Who would know?
Eyre shrugged. “I am English and do not want my name listed with the Scots. Then, there are fees to pay. I shall pay mine in England. Don’t want to be fined, do I?”
David frowned. This was the first he’d heard of fees and fines. It annoyed him he knew so little of the process. “How much?”
“Our lovely institution of knights’ bachelor requires one-hundred-eight pounds to mark down our names in the book. If we don’t pay, we shall be fined.” He huffed a breath. “A little extra to sweeten a palm or two would be advantageous. Or your name might go missing from the lists.”
“I shall do all in my power to make certain my name is not lost. What are the fees used for?” That was a lot of money for a minor title.
“Most will go to the exchequer for the king’s pleasure.” Eyre flicked a bit of dust from his beautifully cut doublet. “Since he dismissed Parliament, he must have money, mustn’t he? Why do you think our king’s been knighting a great many folk across his realm these past years?”
David had not been aware of this, either. He was about to say how his lack of knowledge vexed him to the gut, when a king’s guard jostled through the men and descended to the ground floor.
Eyre set his fine beaver hat more rakishly across his brow. “Must look me best afore the king. Could not do with a naked head.” He sliced a glance at David and sucked a tooth.
Having chosen to remain bareheaded, David laughed. “My hats are not as well formed as yours, sir, and I dislike carrying it under me arm the whole while His Majesty is in-house.” In truth, if he wore one he’d set it aside then misplace it. “’Tis better to have a naked pate, methinks.”
Another rattled down the stairs between the men, causing a hullaballoo. A hat with a frothy feather was thrust before him. “Your hat, sir,” Hawkins intoned. His frown was deep. “You must be attired aright.”
David grunted but took the hat. He set it upon his head. “Thanks to thee, Hawkins.”
They entered a great chamber, the floor of black and white tiled stone. Tapestries covered the walls that would protect them from chill winter draughts but this high summer’s evening, the vast room was oppressive with pomanders, sweat and stale tobacco. The stink brought tears to David’s eyes.
Someone opened the doors and unlatched mullioned windows, allowing a soft breeze to waft through.
Eyre thumped him. “Let us find a goblet of wine.”
David nodded, for he could use a drink. His throat parched with agitation, his hand shook when he raised the pewter goblet to his lips.
Suddenly, the herald thumped the floor with his staff. “Hear ye, hear ye, His Majesty our King Charles, King of England, Scotland and Ireland, Defender of the Faith by the grace of our Lord is within. Please pay homage.”
His Majesty and Maxwell entered the hall. Everyone removed their hats and fell to one knee, their heads bowed. David glanced at His Majesty, whose face was pinched with resolve. His mouth in a tight bow of seriousness, David could not help thinking what a sad, little man this king was.
King Charles waved a hand. “You may rise.”
Maxwell raised a golden rod. “We will adjourn to the next room where you will be knighted. Please do not hesitate when your na
me is called.”
As the king and Maxwell left the chamber, the herald slammed his staff onto the floor. Everyone fell to one knee, again. Soon, whispers escalated louder. Nervous laughter pierced the air. David burst into a mighty sweat.
A few minutes later, the herald hit the floor with his staff, jarring David when the metal ferrule squealed against the stone. “The Crown calls Mister Patrick Abercromby.”
A tall fellow near David loudly sucked in air. He coughed, cleared his throat, then stepped forward, his movements unsteady. David dearly hoped he would not move in a stilted, terrified manner when his turn came. The men grew hushed when Abercromby entered the side chamber.
Eyre grinned. “We will soon meet the king.” His eyes widened. “Do you think some humour would brighten that fierce look of his?” He gave David a jolly punch on the arm. “Come now, you must know a penny merriment or two.”
David never presumed the king would sink to a commoner’s behaviour. “What about you? You seem a droll fellow.”
The herald’s staff hit the floor. “The Crown calls Mister William Eyre.”
David’s heart thumped. “That was quick.”
Eyre looked stricken. “Oh dear. Wish me good fortune.” Off he went toward the chamber. At the open portal, he straightened his back, took a deep breath and walked inside.
After what seemed a very long while, David’s name was called. Near terror filled his gut, which he did not understand. He would be a knight of the realm, a great accolade, but for some reason he did not think this would go well.
He walked into the sombre room to see His Majesty sitting on a raised, gilded chair, which David surmised had been carried from London. The portly Doctor William Laud, his cherub face pale, sat below him on a less gilded chair.
Maxwell rapped his knuckles against a table where a long sword lay. At the end of the table sat a man with a stack of parchments before him. “This way, Mister Kirke. We will knight you, here.”
David had thought the monarch knighted one but did as he was told. He moved to stand before Maxwell. A cushion lay at their feet.
“Please fall on bended knee.”
With the king so solemn, his dark eyes glimmering in the shadows, David felt as if he were about to be executed instead of knighted. He began to sink to one knee when satin and silk rustled.
“I shall do it,” trilled the voice of His Majesty. His walk was hitched. David remembered he must wear special shoes.
Maxwell bowed. “As you wish, Sire.” He stepped aside.
“On your knees, Kirke.”
David sank to one knee on the cushion, his head bowed. He wondered if he had angered the king in some way and searched for any wrong-doing on his part.
“Mister David Kirke, have you undertaken to accept the distinction of knighthood that is offered here, at Innerwick?”
“I have.”
“I am greatly pleased.”
David doubted this, for the king’s essence radiated abhorrence as if he knighted him against his will.
Maxwell’s soft Scottish burr intruded. “Your Majesty, Mister David Kirke, Merchant of London kneels in homage before you. He is a gallant gentleman whose achievements at sea were forthright and of honour. He fought well whilst remaining courteous to his prisoners.”
“Bring forth the Great Sword of State,” King Charles commanded.
Maxwell picked up the sword from the table and handed it to His Majesty.
“David Kirke, you are deemed worthy to receive this accolade.” His tone pierced an uncomfortable octave and David’s lips compressed. “Do you swear by all that is good and holy to defend the Crown?”
“I will.”
“That you will conduct yourself in all matters as befits a peer, drawing your sword only for just cause?”
“I will.”
“Then having sworn these solemn oaths, know that I, King Charles of England, Scotland and Ireland, by right of arms, do dub thee once for honour.” The flat of the sword came softly on David’s right shoulder.
“Twice for Duty.” The sword touched David’s left shoulder.
“And thrice for chivalry.” Once again the flat of the sword came upon David’s right shoulder. “Arise, Sir David, Knight Bachelor.”
Humility pierced the blanket of his confusion. David rose and faced his king.
Maxwell relieved the sword from His Majesty and set it on the table. He opened his mouth to say something but the king raised his hand. “You are now a peer, Kirke. I hope by all that is sacred, you hold this privilege dear.” He regarded David expectantly.
David lowered his gaze. “I do, Sire.”
“Then go forth and honour me.”
Maxwell motioned for him to move to the end of the table where the gentleman held a parchment, embossed with the king’s Great Seal. “Your certificate, my lord.”
Before David took the parchment, his name scribed in bold letters, the gentleman withdrew it. “You are English.”
“Aye.”
“Since being knighted in Scotland, you must take this to Lyon King of Arms in Edinburgh.” He gazed at him. “Do you understand?”
David nodded. “I do.” He could not fathom these men with their veiled animosity.
The gentleman released the document into his hand. As David backed away from the king, His Majesty stepped up to him. Thoughtful, he stroked his beard.
David bowed, showing a leg. “Your Majesty?”
“Rise.”
David straightened.
King Charles gazed at him, his soft brown eyes tinged with bitterness. “I forgive thee, Kirke.” He stepped closer and whispered, “Aye, I forgive thee for the ills you have done me.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
London, August 1633
David entered his house, overloud with crying babies. “Bloody hell?”
A maid took his hat and cloak. “Mistress is upstairs, sir.”
It struck him like a blow. “Is me wife well?” He could not bear it if anything happened to her.
The maid curtsied. “She is very well.” Her smile was expansive.
David took two treads at a time to their bedchamber. He dashed into the room but found it empty, the curtains pushed to the posts. The casement window was open, airing out their four poster bed.
“Where are you, Sara?” he implored.
A renewed round of baby cries sent him down the passageway to where Thomas had slept. In the past year, he and Lewis had joined the English Navy wherein they sailed the Channel and North Sea. A great, religious war continued in the Holy Roman Empire, its skirmishes bleeding into English waters.
He missed Lewis, who commented in a letter the European conflict had become bitter. With the sovereign states filled with woe and misery, his younger brother, John, had returned from his sojourn on the Iberian Peninsula of Spain and Portugal. His youngest brother, James, had left Eton and now studied at Cambridge.
Maman missed Thomas but no one else did.
David opened the door to find the chamber in a high pitch of distemper. The smell of urine saturated cloth rent the air of the closed room. Dust motes floated in the sun’s rays that filtered through the mullion windows.
Sara leaned against the bedstead and tended to a crying new-born. Pleased to have a second son, his plump fists and feet were thrust into the air. Nearby, on the bed sat Georgie, their two-year-old, screaming. Fat tears rolled down his pink cheeks whilst the nurse stood by like a stick, her eyes a’ goggle.
He stepped into the chamber and swept a very wet Georgie into his arms, who immediately calmed. David turned to the maid. “You may leave us.”
Sobbing, she ran out of the chamber; David’s gaze followed her retreat.
“She’s never dealt with children,” Sara informed him.
“Why did you hire her?”
“Mother recommended her, pestered me until I had to give in. We’ll find another nurse and put that girl to work elsewhere.” She wrapped the new-born in a blanket then presented him to David. �
�Say hullo to Phillip. As you can hear, he’s in fine fettle.”
Her body showed the remains of pregnancy with heavy breasts and rounded belly, but she seemed very well. Her eyes were bright and her smile gentle. David’s throat closed with joy; his mouth would not form any words. He drank in her beauty, so very glad he had her with him, at his side.
David wrapped his arm around his little family and kissed Sara’s forehead. “Methinks you are a good wife, Twig.”
She laughed. “I am pleased you are home. We’ve missed you.”
He kissed her cheek then the tip of her nose. “How much have you missed me?”
Sara answered him with a deep kiss. “In about six-weeks’ time, I’ll show you how much.”
His heart galloped with pride and sudden need, which he reined back. He fought for patience. “I feel as if I’ve been gone months, not weeks, so much has happened.”
“Aye, here too. Frances and William Hopkins announced they will marry next Lady Day.” She grinned. “Two peas in a pod those two are, what with their love of number puzzles and ciphers.”
They exchanged children, David taking the fragile new person in his arms. “Well then, art thou glad to be in this big, wide world, Mister Phillip?”
His second son gathered a deep breath and bellowed.
Later that day, David stood at the table in his office and stared at an embossed, stamped letter from their new Archbishop of Canterbury, Doctor William Laud. He turned it over in his hand and reread to whom it was addressed, Sir David Kirke, Knight.
Sara regarded it with deep interest. “That arrived by special messenger.”
“’Tis a letter,” David stated.
“I can see this. Why do you act as if it is a harbinger of bad tidings?”
“It could be filled with poison,” David reflected aloud.
Sara gasped. “Do not say such things.”
David had left for Edinburgh the day after he’d been knighted as if his tail were afire. The ceremony had been strained, the king strangely vexed. David could not fathom how he had annoyed His Majesty, for he’d never been introduced to the man, never spoken a direct word to him until the ceremony. Ever since that night, he’d run every imagined situation through his head but found nothing to deserve the king’s disdain.
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