Pillars of Avalon

by Catherine Pym

  Tolt paled. He opened his mouth then closed it.

  Sara struck his name from her list of potential cod-oil manufacturers.

  David waved his fir branch. “Knollys, you will follow these men to their cottages, their fish houses and make certain everything is divided equally, minus two quintals, which will be paid to the governor for me pains. Dismissed!”

  He set his hat more rakishly over his forehead. “Next!”

  Sara dipped her quill in the pot and looked up when a pretty lass with pale blonde hair and an older man stepped forward. He doffed his cap.

  “Your names.”

  The girl softly said her name.

  “Louder.”

  “Nell Wood,” she said and Sara wrote down her name.

  “Who stands for thee?”

  “I do,” the older man answered, his dark wavy hair dashed with grey.

  “Who are you? What is this gel to you?”

  The man gave a shallow bow. “Colonel Stamp, at your service, sir. The gel is me servant.”

  David sat back and regarded Stamp. “Art thou truly a colonel?”

  “Nay, ‘tis a name, nothing more.”

  “Is it your baptismal name?”

  “Nay.”

  “What is your name, then?”

  “Socrates Stamp, sir.”

  Laugher rent the air. Stamp scowled.

  David waved his fir frond. “Order. We shall have order.” He regarded Stamp with a raised eyebrow. “Why Colonel?”

  He shrugged.

  “Tell me, man, or for thy insolence, I’ll have you thrown into the frigid waters of the pool.

  He cleared his throat. “‘Tis due to me cocks.”

  David leaned forward. “You have cocks, here? Cockfighting causes undo riotous behaviour. I shall not have it.” He thumped the table with his fist.

  Knollys leaned forward. “’Tis not why he is here, Sir.”

  “Then why art thou here?” David hollered. He glared at the lass. “You aren’t into cockfighting, are you?”

  Sara bit the insides of her cheeks to keep from smiling. David misfired his harquebus too often these days.

  Nell Wood shook her head. The near white tendrils that escaped her cap bounced along her pretty cheeks. “Never, milord.”

  David glowered at Stamp. “Why are you here?”

  Knollys prodded Mistress Wood. “Tell Sir David what brings you to this unsavoury meeting.”

  Sara frowned. David harrumphed. “Unsavoury, I say. You will hold your opinions, Knollys.”

  “Aye, milord.”

  Mistress Wood burst into tears.

  David reared his head. “Someone better tell me what this is about, or I shall throw the lot of you into the pool.”

  “Stamp kissed Mistress, Sir David,” Knollys informed the chamber.

  “I did not want the kiss, milord.” Nell sniffled as big tears rolled down her cheeks.

  “On the lips? To your servant, who should be family?” David asked, his face shocked by the effrontery done to the lass. “You’ve committed incest, man. Do you know the weight of punishment this crime carries?”

  Stamp’s shoulders slumped. “Aye, sir, but she’s so pretty and I could do with a wife.”

  David waved his fir branch which emitted a clean smell. “It would be like marrying thy daughter.” He stood, his face grim. “Colonel Stamp, you will be removed from Newfoundland this very day, but this court will keep thy cocks. Such strong beasties will be good amongst the hens. The Spirit sails with the evening tide, back to London.” He leaned forward. “I shall not see thee, again.”

  The man balked. “What about me fishery?”

  “After two quintals donated to the court for this bother, the balance of your business will be transferred to Mistress Wood, as compensation for the gross manipulation of her person.” He gazed at the girl. “You’ve a new business, Mistress. Let us hope you do well with it. Dismissed!”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  London, November 1640

  Frances Hopkins led the way to her father’s house on St Thomas Lane. Her husband, William, and his son, George, followed closely behind, along with Nurse and their firstborn, Nicholas. A trail of carts with their portmanteaux, some furniture and other odds and ends, rattled over uneven paving stones.

  When Frances and her family entered the office and wine storeroom, her father slowly rose from his stool. She’d been gone from London but a few years. It shocked her to see how age had etched deep lines in her dear father’s face. When he opened his arms to her, she fell into his embrace.

  “I received your letter a day ago.” His words rumbled in his chest and against her ear. His woollen doublet smelt of coal and pipe tobacco. “I’m afraid your chambers aren’t quite ready.” He put her at arm’s length. “And who’s this new young ‘un?”

  Frances nodded and Nurse stepped forward. Father grinned like a marionette over their six-month old and made nonsensical noises.

  “Aren’t you the big lad?” he exclaimed. “You must take after thy father, for thy mother’s small as a mouse, and thy aunt is a twig.” Her father chuckled.

  Frances pressed her lips together, never sure she liked the term David gave Sara.

  “How is Mother?” Frances wondered if she remained in her chamber, a dried stalk before the roaring hearth.

  Father heaved a breath. “The same.”

  He shook William’s hand. “Welcome. I hear you’ve been elected to the House of Commons. Well done!”

  William’s neck flared red. “They must have misread the name and put mine down for another’s.”

  Due to the king’s and Archbishop’s Episcopacy laws forced down people’s gullets, unrest spread throughout the kingdom. These tumults cost the king money. The only way he could pay for his dictates was to summon Parliament and apply for more.

  Frances feared where this would lead them.

  “Nonsense.” Father laughed. “Everyone knows you are a man of high honour.” He motioned them into the house. “Let us go to the parlour. We’ll have a light meal whilst your chambers are made ready.” About to lead the way, he suddenly paused. “I almost forgot. You’ve a stack of letters here.” He rummaged through the papers on his table, found what he sought and gave the packet to Frances. “One is for you from Sara.” His shoulders sagged. “I do miss that gel.”

  Frances also missed her sister. She kissed her father’s weathered cheek. “Many thanks to thee.”

  Later, in their bedchamber, William looked up from reading a letter. “This is from David. There have been complaints against him and his governorship of Newfoundland.”

  Frances frowned. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “The men of the Western Charter.”

  “Do I know them?”

  “They are from Devon and Dorset. The company believes they have precedence over the king’s grant to David and his partners.”

  “Do they?” Frances asked.

  “King Charles gave the western counties their charter in 1634. David received his patent in 1637.” He grimaced. “Our good king’s advisors do not keep His Majesty abreast as to the proper way of it.”

  He waved the letter. “David wants me to speak to the Privy Council on his behalf. His defence is here.”

  “Oh dear.” Frances knew this would be difficult for her husband. Although good with students, he was a shy fellow who preferred number puzzle books. “Will you do it?”

  William sighed. “Aye. I must go to Westminster tomorrow. On my way, I shall set up an appointment with the Council.” He handed her David’s letter.

  Dated September 12, 1640, Ferryland, it took two months to reach them, which was indeed quick, considering the autumn storms that often plagued the North Atlantic.

  Frances continued to read Sara’s letter. “She says their family fares well and she likes Newfoundland. The lads flourish and little Davy is now one-year-old.” She shook her head, astonished at the flight of time. “They’ve finally allowed Georgie to fish o
n the grand banks but he’d returned with burns from where the fishing string cut through the gloves.”

  Lost in her sister’s letter, Frances barely heard William clear his throat.

  “We shall find another way to keep our gentleman safe,” Sara had written. “Mayhap, you and William could put your heads together and come up with a scientific solution. At the moment, I cannot think beyond Georgie's pain.”

  William interrupted. “David’s letter, Dear One. You may tell me of Sara’s after we discuss how to solve David’s troublesome brew.”

  Frances smiled. “Indeed.” She switched letters and began reading.

  David protested against the allegations made by the Western Counties. “Devon and Dorset complain of the permanent buildings, houses and taverns that have been erected, which is considered against the charter. I did not order this. Should I tell them to tear down their homes, their places of business?

  “The fishermen make their own strong beer, and grow disorderly from drinking it in the eves. ‘Tis another thing considered against the rules of the Western Charter.” Frances could almost hear David’s sigh of disgust.

  She looked up from the letter. “The fishermen make blackcurrant wine from the berries found there. Is that a strong drink?”

  William shrugged. “I’ve no idea.”

  Frances continued to read; “I did not destroy fishery stages or cook rooms. Much like apprentices, fishermen are arch rogues who quickly fall to rude and riotous behaviour.

  “Ships’ masters complained to me of the fisheries’ destruction and asked what I would do about it. ‘What should I do but follow the rules?’ I then sent warrants to the island planters and a crier amongst the fishermen. The clauses of the 9th of His Majesty’s reign will be duly observed, that whoever would interrupt the fishing of Newfoundland is worthy of the name, traitor.”

  William waved a leaf of paper. “The West Country complained to the Privy Council that David hath given their fish rooms to foreign persons but I see nothing of that in his letter.”

  “Who would those foreigners be then? Certainly not the Frenchies, whom David now hates.”

  “Mayhap, they speak of the Dutchies, or those folk from lands about the Baltic.” William shrugged. “For certain, our Sir David is a bold one.”

  Frances understood her brother-in-law would take what he could when the opportunity arose. Her sister also possessed a shade of ruthlessness and did not seem to mind David’s aggression. The two worked well together.

  She returned David’s letter to William. “Let us think on this whilst we solve a number puzzle.” She grinned. “Methinks I’ll take you with a new cipher I’ve formulated.” But before she could find her puzzle, someone knocked on their door.

  “Come,” William stated.

  George came into the chamber. A gentle lad of twenty-one, he’d lately taken to wearing collars and cuffs without lace, his suits of clothes dark and plain. As she and William were stout royalists, Frances feared George leaned toward Presbyterianism.

  William smiled though his eyes remained troubled. “Aye, son?”

  George stretched his arms and cracked his knuckles; then crossed his arms in front of his chest.

  William sighed. “Best get it out in the air.”

  His gaze flitted from his father to Frances.

  “Shall I leave?” she asked.

  With a shake of his head, George replied, “Nay.”

  “What is it then?” William seemed to know what his son was about to say and he slumped onto a joint stool.

  George cleared his throat, opened his mouth; then snapped his teeth together.

  Frances would like to save the lad from this suffering and say what she feared the most, but George was of age, now. She must allow him to forge his way in this world.

  He took a deep breath. “I’ve become Calvinist and shall apply to Divinity School, if you’ll be so pleased to allow it.” His shoulders sagged and he sighed. “There, I’ve said it.”

  “You’ve taken a bold move,” William remarked. “One that may prove dangerous. Our world is on the brink of a religious war.”

  “I don’t want to fight, sir, only steep meself in the rhetoric and preach soft sermons afore the multitude.”

  William’s eyebrow rose. He smiled. “To the multitude, you say?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Do you fight against His Majesty and Laud’s Anglican designs?”

  “I will not fight against the king but bring solace to those who need it. I shall publish me sermons, too.”

  “To which school of divinity are you seeking entrance?” William asked.

  George broke into a big grin. “You’ll allow me, then?”

  “Aye,” William answered.

  “I should like to go where Milton went, Christ’s College, Cambridge. ‘Tis a good place to learn the proper ways of our Lord.” His nose rose into the air.

  Frances met William’s sad gaze and sighed.

  * * *

  William Hopkins walked through Westminster Palace. Heavy coal smoke drifted through corridors and into chambers, the pall so thick, tendrils wafted about men’s hats and shoulders, brushed against windows and dulled ladies’ pearl necklaces. With his residence in Newport on the Isle of Wight these past years, William had forgotten London and Westminster’s plague of smoke and gritty fog that clung to most things.

  He came to a chamber lined with benches, several men upon them. At a double door guarded by two soldiers a gentleman stood, holding a black rod.

  His eyebrow rose. “Aye, sir?”

  “William Hopkins to speak before the Privy Council.”

  “Please take a seat. We will be with you in a moment.”

  Two hours later, William entered the Star Chamber, a sombre room. Dust motes drifted in weak sunlight that struggled through a small, mullioned window. Men sat around a table, their dark suits and hats in shadow, their faces blurred due to wafting pipe and coal smoke. Nearby, a scribe stood against a podium with a large book, quills and an inkpot.

  William recognized a few; His Majesty, King Charles, His Grace, Archbishop Laud of Canterbury, Earl of Carlisle, Mister Trear, the Comptroller, and Baron Buckhurst. The others he was not acquainted with.

  He removed his hat and bowed, showing a leg.

  “Mister William Hopkins, milords, for the defence of Sir David Kirke, current governor of Newfoundland,” announced the fellow with the black rod.

  “You may rise.”

  The king waved his gloved hand. “How will you defend Kirke, sirrah?”

  “Sire, Sir David wishes to protest against the scurrilous charges against him.”

  Buckhurst sat straighter. “Indeed. And what lies are these?”

  “That his interests are to follow the rules of his patent. He protects fishermen and their catch, their fish houses and cod-oil.”

  “He violated the Western Charter,” Buckhurst snarled. “How can he rule wisely when he does thusly?”

  “Sir David knew not the details of the Western Charter, my lords. Excluding the French, he values the rights of men from all sovereign nations, as per Your Majesty’s late grant to him.”

  Some men nodded while others put their naked heads together and whispered.

  William continued, “Sir David has made every effort to increase trade by offering facilities to both English and foreign fishermen. He’s erected sheds to process their catch during inclement weathers.”

  More mumbles bounced about the board.

  “The voices against him are of prejudice and petty jealousies,” William continued despite the diverse conversations that had sprung about the table.

  “Ignorance is not accepted,” Buckhurst smirked. “We’ve received numerous complaints, all injurious to thy friend, Sir David Kirke.”

  William eyed Buckhurst, whose interest in the fisheries of Newfoundland was plain, but more for its coin than the men who fought to bring in cod. As one who held a high rank amongst the courtiers, Buckhurst would sat
isfy his needs without muddying his fingers.

  “The Western counties of Devon and Dorset,” William sent his unflinching gaze toward His Grace, Lord Buckhurst, “do not want colonists to settle in Newfoundland, thus taking from them the revenue of cod and cod-oil. Permanent residents would put fish numbers in jeopardy.”

  Scoffs and jeering erupted. “There are so many cod, they leap onto fishing boats in order to breathe easier,” said one fellow, his rich bounty of hair swaying about his face and shoulders.

  “I say, with so many fish in those waters, there is more than enough for everyone,” Mister Trear stated.

  “Hear, hear,” several men cheered, their gravelly voices scraping about the board.

  “What about the taverns Sir David erected?” Buckhurst was like a tenacious cur after a bone. “Those were expressly forbidden in the Western Charter.”

  William straightened his back and met the eye of each fellow about the table. “The fishermen built those taverns. Captains of several merchantmen complained to Sir David that it was the fishermen who, in a fit of frenzy, damaged the stages and cook rooms.”

  He bowed. “Your most excellent Majesty, Sir David remains your faithful servant who has filled thy coffers with trade monies, most of which came from his governorship of Newfoundland.”

  The king nodded regally. “Well said, Hopkins.” He gazed at his council. “I believe we’ve heard enough of this matter. The charters overlap, yet the governor, who must please everyone, has done very well, indeed.”

  Buckhurst scowled. Mutterings grew louder. Winds brushed down the chimney, sending smoke and ash into the chamber. The men puffed on their pipes, adding to the myriad of smoke.

  William fought a triumphant smile. He’d won this round for David.

  The gentleman with the rod prodded William with its tip. He was being dismissed. William bowed his way out of the chamber.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Westminster, November 1641

  The House of Commons was in a tumult when William found his place toward the back of the chamber. In a plain suit with no lace upon his collar, John Pym stood at his bench and held a long document, filled with tight print. Even as he raised the paper at arm’s length, it fell to his knees.