Pillars of Avalon

by Catherine Pym

  “Of course I shall. ‘Tis an unusual drink and we use honey instead of sugar.” He turned to Sara. “Mistress?”

  Sara smiled. “I shall talk to Cook.”

  She started to walk away when Waltham said, “I’m here because a tavern up the coast near St. John’s burnt to the ground last night. According to the Charter, drinking establishments are prohibited.”

  Sara’s heart sank. “Was anyone hurt?”

  Waltham shook his head. “Nay, milady, but it were fierce and took down fish houses with it.”

  David sighed. “And I am to tear down taverns, too? The fishermen need libation after hauling over three-hundred fish into their boats all day, every day. Their work is difficult.”

  “To get sodden takes away from the profits. Less catch means less money in our moneyboxes.”

  “They also pay for their drinks with silver and gold coins, which is illegal in the eyes of our king’s law. But they do it, anyway.” David heaved a breath. “I am not a tyrant, Waltham. We will speak of it no more. Do you want a meal and a drink, or not?”

  Sara again regarded the ocean, hoping Georgie would soon return. It gladdened her heart he’d not go out again, especially as she watched the skies begin to darken with the threat of a storm. The swells were deeper, too.

  “Milady,” David called. “Our son will be back anon.”

  With a sigh, she followed David up the path and across a narrow lane of newly built row cottages, their shallow stoops and windows adorned with budding rose vines brought from England.

  Waltham snorted. His sharp gaze found too much of what was not allowed.

  Children played on the gravelly path; clothes hung on lines strung across the lane, the cottages filled with tenants from all over the Continent, England and Wales. A little building, its front portal etched with a cross, seemed to close off the end of the lane.

  “What is that place?”

  David followed the man’s outstretched arm. “’Tis a school, meeting chamber, and place of worship.”

  “Dost thou follow Baltimore’s religious ways?” Waltham inquired, his voice stark with derision.

  “We are not papist here, sirrah,” David near hollered. “But good folk of the Church of England. We follow the ways of Laud.”

  Waltham woefully shook his head. “Not a good way to be, milord. Nay, ‘tis another black dart against thee, here in what should be the Presbyterian, West Counties’ law of the land.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Isle of Wight, September 1648

  Frances sat in the parlour with their young sons, Nicholas age eight and six-year-old Richard. They took turns reading from a penny-merriment chapbook. The lads loved the silly adventures and laughed with glee as Frances turned the pages.

  Two years had passed since their return to Newport after William had lost a portion of his leg due to a battle injury. Civilian life had been difficult but there was nothing for it. William could no longer sit on a horse or charge into battle.

  Since King Charles was under lock and key at Carisbrooke Castle—not a league from their home—William’s spirits had rebounded. He assisted His Majesty in the exchange of coded letters to his people in England, Ireland and the Queen in France. The challenge of secreting missives into and out of the king’s chambers excited William.

  Astonished at the complexity of the ciphers, Frances faced William, her hands on her hips. “You’ve made the ciphers overly difficult.”

  He grinned, a welcome change from his visage filled with constant pain. “Oh it weren’t me who put those messages together, but our good king. A smart ‘un, he is.” He waggled his brow.

  Over the months, the king had come to admire William and treated him as he would a friend. One dreary afternoon when wind and rain buffeted the casements, the king knighted William with only his private secretary, Sir Philip Warwick, as witness.

  Impatient, Nicholas turned a page of the chapbook. A woodcut depicted two men, one pointing at a door.

  “Out, rascal, out,” Nicholas giggled. “Art thou a rascal, Richard?”

  “Rascal,” Richard imitated. “I’m a rascal.”

  Frances tsked. “Lads, ‘tis a horrid word you are crying loud enough for the birds in the trees to hear.” She cocked her head. “Listen, they weep in the high branches.”

  The boys fell silent.

  “I can’t hear anything,” Nicholas said.

  “Are they very sad?” Richard whispered, his eyes wide.

  Frances looked up when she heard a door slam and her husband’s hobble coming up the stairs. She set aside the book. “Go to the back garden, boys. ‘Tis a lovely day, today. We won’t have many more with the leaves falling from the trees. ‘Tis dreadfully early in the season, too.”

  The lads ran off as William staggered into the parlour and fell onto a chair. He shuddered a heavy breath. “I must remove this wooden leg.”

  Frances knelt and unbuckled the leather straps. Very slowly, she pulled the wooden peg off William’s knee; then set it on the floor.

  “Oh dear.” The stump oozed blood. The chirurgeon had not made a straight cut which caused him undue anguish.

  “What was he about?” she once hollered. “Was he sodden to the calves he could not do a proper job of it?”

  His eyes filled with tears of pain, he had clutched her arm and gasped. “’Tis done. We cannot undo it.”

  They had tried to compensate by padding the leather cup they’d formed atop the peg but nothing worked. Flesh and bone scraped whatever they touched. Frances did not know how he could endure it. Of late, William had taken to using a crutch to keep him upright.

  Still thinking the chirurgeon was a menace to man and God, Frances stood to call a servant.

  His groan was more a hiss when he leaned into the chair. “I cannot endure walking very long on this contrivance. Today, I nearly took a bad tumble.”

  “What happened?”

  “The peg’s metal cap lost purchase and slid on a cracked paving stone.” His hands shook when he rubbed his thigh. “Rebalancing meself hurt exceedingly.”

  Frances rang the table bell. “I’ll have a servant bring warm water and new bindings.” Reflecting the servant would take too long, or wouldn’t have heard the bell, she was about to dash downstairs.

  William raised a hand. “Wait. I must speak with thee.”

  Frances turned to him. It broke her heart to see him in such acute pain. She would hold him close to her heart, but his demeanour was suddenly stiff, his face full of resolve. “What is it?”

  “Come in and close the door.”

  * * *

  Frances was in a dither of excitement as she sent the servants into a whirlwind of cleaning. Others went to market for foodstuffs of the finest calibre. No sausages for their Sunday dinners but ribs of beef and saddles of mutton. She pleaded with Father to ship them barrels of red and white wines. She would have a large sugarloaf on the sideboard to sweeten the wines and syllabubs.

  King Charles would be released from his locked chamber in Carisbrooke Castle and reside in their home while the Treaty of Newport was negotiated.

  “His Majesty has been given forty days to negotiate this new treaty.” William puffed on his pipe, his brow furrowed. He clicked his teeth on the pipe stem. “Methinks this will be his last chance to compromise with Parliament.”

  Frances put her hand on his arm. “Why do you say this?”

  “The king’s stubbornness started the second Civil War. People are tired. The radicals want reprisal. Presbyterians and the army will do something rash if the king doesn’t relent and give in to some of their demands.”

  “Where will the negotiations take place?” Frances folded a large piece of lace she’d created which would go on the mantelpiece in the king’s bedchamber.

  “In me old schoolhouse at Newport’s city centre.” He kissed her hand. “His Majesty and several of his advisors will take up our table.”

  Frances had so much to do. She started to pull away but Wil
liam would not release her hand. She frowned.

  He leaned close to her ear. “Fill our portmanteaux with goods and clothes, Dear One.”

  She regarded his very serious manner. “Why? What’s amiss?”

  “If this does not go well, we will be forced to flee.”

  * * *

  Negotiations in the schoolhouse had extended beyond the allocated forty days. Relegated to waiting hand-and-foot on the king, his chaplains and advisors, Frances felt rebuffed. She’d lost her best chambers to the king. Lords Richmond, Lindsey, Southampton and Ashurnham and their wives took up the whole bedchambers’ floor. Frances and her family now slept in the garret with the servants.

  The king and his people had chewed through a side of beef, tripe and cowheels. They had slurped down several barrels of wine. Of the eves, their dining chamber rang with laughter and good cheer, yet she and William did not share in it.

  As they sat in a small chamber on the ground floor, something crashed above them. Frances and William regarded each other with a frown.

  Nicholas cried, “When will they leave? I want my chamber back.”

  “I want my toy horses,” Richard wailed, following suit with his brother.

  She did not tell their lads the toys and several chapbooks had been packed away in the portmanteaux. They had been labelled royalist. William had already made arrangements with a ship’s master in Cowes Harbour to take them to a safer place. William had mentioned Newfoundland some while ago, but not since. He confessed he did not want her to know their destination.

  Frances feared violence. William’s leg would never allow them a speedy escape. As the weeks passed with no resolution, King Charles became more sombre. He wrote fewer coded letters to Queen Henrietta.

  “Me dear wife’s letters do not reach me,” he’d been heard to murmur.

  William lit his pipe and puffed on it. Rich smoke wafted about his nightcap. “The talks are going slowly, me lads. The king will have his High Church and Episcopacy over the Covenant.”

  “What does that mean?” Nicholas demanded, his face in a deep scowl and reminiscent of David Kirke.

  “’Tis about religion,” Frances answered. “You have studied it at school.”

  Nicholas bristled. “Religion causes too many troublesome brews. I shall not have it when I grow up.”

  Frances smiled. “Religion is succour for many, but it can be abused.” She pursed her lips together, wondering when this would end, if His Majesty would compromise and end the hostilities.

  William set his pipe in a dish. “Let us look at some arithmetic equations. It will be a change of pace and good for thy brains.” He took up a book from a nearby table. Thumbing through the pages, he said, “Now, where were we?”

  The wives of the king’s advisors returned to London. His face saddened with the turn of events, His Majesty went into seclusion in the evenings with his private secretary, Lord Warwick. They spoke of the day’s proceedings. Neither the king nor the Parliament men gave way for compromise. Everyone waited for the tide to turn and the king to be taken to his fate.

  Frances regarded William with worry. “Where will we go? I do not want to live in Holland or France.”

  He stared at her, his eyes luminous with sorrow, and then she knew. They would go to Newfoundland.

  * * *

  Newport, Isle of Wight, November 30, 1648

  King Charles regarded Frances, his face filled with deep sadness. “I wish to thank thee for thy generosity these past months. I only wish they could have been happier.”

  Frances’ throat closed. Her eyes welled with tears. Tomorrow, the king would be taken across the Solent to Hurst Castle on the mainland. The king and his men had succumbed to defeat.

  He leaned forward. “You should leave before they take me. It will be safer for your family, for our dear Colonel Hopkins. He is too close to me.” His voice was little above a murmur.

  She did not tell His Majesty they already had one foot out the door. Their portmanteaux had been taken to the ship several days ago. Nicholas and Richard were on their way down river to Cowes Harbour where snug bunks awaited them. All she and William had left to do was pay the servants a full year’s wages.

  The king handed her a sealed letter. “I wrote this some while ago, hoping I did not have to give it to you. ‘Tis an introduction to your brother, Sir David in Newfoundland, requesting he give thee kindness in that faraway land. You’ll be safe, there.”

  With a deep curtsey, Frances took the letter. “We thank thee for thy kindness, Your Majesty.” He offered her his ring and she kissed it.

  “Go with peace, dear lady. Hopefully, when all this is finished, I shall see thee again.”

  Frances broke into a sob and ran from the chamber.

  Later that night, the Belle Dame slipped its moors and drifted from the harbour. At the rail, William leaned on a crutch, Frances beside him. The air was cold and damp, the black water glossy in the lanthorn light.

  “It could be a rough crossing.” William cautioned.

  Frances put her arm around his middle and leaned into him. His woollen cloak smelled of damp tobacco smoke. A ship’s bell clanged in the distance. “How long will it take us to get there?”

  “I know not, but at least two or three months, depending on the weather. I must warn you winter storms can be dangerous.”

  William had repeated this often the past few days, his visage dour. She believed they would arrive safely. “Methinks, our ship’s master knows the sea and will do us well.”

  He kissed her capped head. “I hope so.”

  After several weeks at sea, the winds took hold of the vessel and bobbed them about like a child’s toy. At first, it was calming, the swells deep but abiding. The further west they went, the sharp teeth of a tempest sent them careening. The ship’s master furled sails. Atop, the watch hollered when he saw icebergs.

  Toward night, they were told to go below. “’Tis starting to blow and will get worse afore it gets better.”

  Frances aided William as he moved down the companionways, the ship bouncing them to and fro. He lost his crutch but held onto a rope to keep him steady. Somewhere, a hatch slammed shut.

  She looked up at the darkening skies. Her heart pounded erratically in her throat. A strange notion someone would die this night overtook her.

  They found their way to their cabin. The lads stood beside a bunk, their eyes wide with fear. “Are we going to die?” Richard asked.

  “You will not die, me lads,” William reassured them.

  Nicholas’ face was pale as parchment. “Would you tell us if we were?”

  Frances and William glanced at each other. They would not tell them. Better to go to the Heavens unafraid.

  Suddenly, water whooshed onto the deck and under the door. Richard jumped onto the bed whilst Nicholas stared at the water whirling about his ankles.

  “Stay here,” William demanded. “I shall aid the ship’s master.”

  “You cannot,” Frances yelled over the pounding storm, but it was too late. William had slipped through the door and hobbled up the companionway. More water cascaded onto the deck.

  “Stay here,” she ordered the boys. “I shall be back anon.”

  She slammed the door against her sons’ cries, threw her skirts over her arm and climbed the ladder to the main deck. As she pushed the doors open, water surged over the deck. William’s peg slid out from under him but he caught a mast rope and hung on. Seamen ran about, shouting. The water was icy cold.

  Of a sudden, a wave swept over the rail, whirled about, then swooped back to sea.

  William was gone.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Ferryland, February 1649

  A ship of sail drifted into the pool. It was so unusual to see a three-mast vessel during deep winter, Sara threw a shawl over her shoulders and ran out to meet it. Snow covered the ground, stark white against the deep grey sky and almost black sea. Manned by hardy souls, only a few fishing boats plied the grand banks th
is frigid day. The air smelled like it would snow soon.

  A thin layer of ice crusted the snow. Each footfall broke through to powder, wetting her feet and ankles. The mansion’s front door slammed and soon David reached her side. He took her arm and guided her over the snow. They came to the hamlet where the snow had been trodden down.

  Sara and David walked by the tree that struggled to live these many years. With this winter so frosty, she hoped it would still bud in spring.

  While shouts from the ship rent the air, sails were furled and rear davits released a small boat. Men climbed down rope ladders as a rope chair swung over the rails.

  “Oiy, give us a moment.” A man descended onto the rowing boat, followed by another. Their voices skimmed across the water to Sara and David.

  A woman was helped to a bench. “Thanks to thee.”

  Sara’s heart skipped a beat. “Is that Frances?”

  David regarded the boat. “If so, woe and misery have struck.”

  Soon the rope chair swung over the rails again, this time with young lads shouting with delight and kicking their legs.

  Sara’s pulse quickened, for the woman looked like her sister. Sara’s gaze scaled up the hull to the ship’s rails. She did not see William.

  “That is not Frances,” David stated. “She would not travel in the depths of winter without William.”

  Only calamity would force her sister away from William and the Isle of Wight, which she had come to love. “I fear the worst, Husband.”

  “Aye.” He put his arm around her shoulders as if to buoy her up in the face of tragedy.

  Sara leaned into his strength, knowing this arrival would affect them greatly.

  The rowing boat pushed toward them, its keel slicing through thin ice. David ran down to help bring the boat to the shore. Sara followed, more convinced than ever that the passengers were her sister and nephews. Her heart thundered in her throat. Something terrible had happened. She ran onto rocks, slippery as the devil.