Pillars of Avalon

by Catherine Pym

  “Get thee back, Woman,” David cried. “You’ll knock your head on the stones should you fall.”

  “As will you, Husband,” she murmured, ignoring him.

  He shot her a glance, his face in a mighty frown. When the boat hit the rocks, he worked to pull it ashore. He helped the passengers onto the rocks.

  Sara had never met her nephews but knew them through her sister’s letters. The eldest, Nicholas, took after Frances, and the younger, Richard, looked more like William.

  Frances walked up to her and pushed back her hood, her eyes full of tears. “He’s gone, Sara. He went overboard during a high tempest.” She slumped to her knees in the snow and wept.

  Stunned, Sara knelt beside her sobbing sister and hugged her close. Her eyes filled with tears. “There, there, now. You are here. We will make things aright.”

  Frances shook her head against Sara’s starched collar.

  Nicholas pressed his hand on his mother’s shoulder.

  The younger lad burst into tears. “You will not die, Mamma. Nay, you will not. Get thee up.” He pulled on her arm. Get thee up.”

  “Come, Mistress.” David helped Sara and Frances to their feet. “Let us to the house where we’ll give thee burnt claret and a nice meal.”

  Sara wrapped her arms around her sister. “Come then. We shall get thee settled.”

  Richard continued to wail and Nicholas pushed him. “Quieten thyself.”

  Frances rested her head on Sara’s shoulder. “I don’t know if I can endure it.”

  Nicholas looked stricken. “Mamma, you must bear it. What will happen to us if you do not?”

  “We’ve a new litter of curs in the kitchen, Mister Richard.” David held onto Frances and Sara. They veered off the warn path and onto the earlier footprints in the snow. They trudged to the house. “One is for you.”

  The young lad’s face brightened. “For me, alone?” He gazed at Nicholas. “You shall not have it.”

  Nicholas shrugged. “I don’t want a cur but a bear with heavy fur.” He shivered. “’Tis cold here. I shall have a bear coat.”

  Frances gave a wet laugh as they climbed the stairs to the house. Once inside, a servant took their cloaks. Ten-year-old Davey ran down the stairs and stepped up to them, his green eyes bright with question.

  “Welcome your cousins, young Davey,” Sara helped remove Nicholas and Richard’s cloaks and hats. “Nicholas and Richard, this is Davey, thy cousin.”

  “I thought there were more,” Nicholas said.

  “George and Phillip are in the private office, learning the fishing trade,” David informed them then exclaimed, “Sister, you are wet through. Let us to the parlour and afore the warm hearth.”

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, skirts swished toward David’s private office. He looked up when Frances knocked on the open doorframe.

  George and Phillip stood and bowed, showing a leg. “Good day to thee, Aunt Frances,” they said in disjointed unison.

  “Good day to thee.” She stepped into the chamber.

  David scraped back his stool and stood. He raised his spectacles to his forehead, the ribbons pulled taut about his ears.

  Frances seemed weary but her eyes were dry, which relieved him. A sobbing woman always put him at a loss. “Mistress Hopkins. How are your lads this frosty afternoon?” He bowed.

  “Playing in the kitchen with Davey and the pups. ‘Tis a brave home you have here. I am surprised.”

  David did not understand. He spread his hand. “’Tis a home as good as in England.”

  Her cheeks reddened. “Everyone says how savage this New World is. I expected a mean hut and Aboriginals shooting arrows from behind trees.” She shrugged. “Whoever wrote about it must have been elsewhere.”

  David harrumphed. “They must have been to the Frenchie part of the world, like Québec, which is indeed of a more savage nature. Lewis started to bring the fort into the proper way of it when we were cast away.” He growled.

  George’s eyes sparkled. “Mamma will be annoyed if she hears you talk of those days, Dad. She does not like it when you become vexed.” He smiled at Frances. “Takes quite a long while for him to settle again into his normal joyous mien.”

  Phillip laughed whilst David frowned. “Your humour is misplaced, sirrahs. Go and fetch thy mother.”

  The lads laughed and thumped each other’s back. “Now, you’ve done it,” Phillip cried. “Someday that satirical wit of yours will break thy tongue.”

  “And yours will not?” George pushed his brother and his shoulder hit the doorframe.

  “Ouch.” Phillip rubbed his arm. “I shall get thee for that.”

  David listened to them tussle toward the kitchen. He grinned at Frances. “They are near men yet still act like young mongrels.”

  “You’ve done well with them.” Frances stepped further into the chamber. “I’ve brought you this.” She handed him a sealed letter.

  David regarded the king’s great seal and frowned. “His Majesty does not like me.” He slapped the paper against his hand. “Blames me for those rotten pelts, most of which I had bartered for honestly.” His voice rose with the bitter memory.

  “Methinks he no longer blames you for fur pelts, Sir David. He has other worrisome things on his mind.”

  “The civil wars. What’s he about causing so much anguish among his people?”

  “More than that.” She looked away. “His life is at stake.”

  He cracked the seal and unfolded the paper, then looked up when Sara entered the chamber.

  “What’s afoot?”

  He waved the paper. “A letter from His Majesty.”

  “Aye.” Frances cleared her throat.

  Sara looked surprised. “Indeed? What does he want from us?”

  David read the words, the script weak and spidery. Even as the king had abused him, to see this written weakness struck him in the gut. “Methinks, you’ve had an ill time of it, dear lady. Of course, you may stay here as long as you wish.” He reread the letter. “Ah then, thou art Lady Hopkins now.” He smiled. “Well done.”

  “His Majesty knighted William in our home, not long afore he was taken away.”

  David did not like the timbre of her voice. “What art thou saying, Mistress, ah, milady?”

  “I don’t believe we have a king any longer.”

  Sara grabbed her sister’s arm. “Do you know this for truth?”

  Frances lowered her head. “Nay, I do not.” She flattened her hand over her breast. “But in here, I know it to be true.”

  “To disrespect a king is not to be spoken of,” David cried. “No one would do such a thing.”

  Frances pulled her handkercher from her cuff and rubbed her nose. “He stayed with us, in our house, you know.”

  “What an honour,” David exclaimed.

  “How difficult for you,” Sara said.

  “Just before they took him away to England, he handed me that letter and warned us to flee. The tide had turned into an ugly world where royalists are no longer welcome.”

  “What would they have done with him?” David demanded. The Parliament men were a horrid lot who had caused a great deal of calamity.

  “Murdered him,” Frances blurted.

  Sara gasped.

  David’s heart stilled for a moment as Frances’ words struck deep. He heaved a breath. “That means it is only a matter of time before they come here and take what we have.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Ferryland, May 1650

  David reflected Frances had been correct all those months ago when she suspected they no longer had a king. Once dragged from the Isle of Wight, Parliament men had wasted no time in murdering the poor wretch. The king had been dead afore Frances and her lads gained the Ferryland shore.

  Word reached him through Waltham, the Western Charter fellow, who strangely enough, had become a good friend. They sat in his parlour, drinking a cup of freshly brewed ale.

  After what David considered
must have been a mock trial, they had taken King Charles through a Banquet House window to an out-of-doors platform, and there, laid upon wooden planks of a hastily built scaffold, he was beheaded. His only crime was his right to be king and follow the proper Protestant way of it.

  “I was there,” Waltham declared. “They pushed the crowds back so we could not hear his words.” He dolefully shook his head. “Now, the world considers England a barbarian country of the worst order.”

  David closed his eyes. Religion had done this. Nearly destroyed a kingdom and did kill its king. As far as he was concerned, religion was the root of all evil.

  Waltham gave him a pointed look. “You, my friend, are in a troublesome brew.”

  David did not understand. “Why do you say this? I’ve nothing to do with the king or the Parliament men. I did not wield a harquebus during the civil wars.”

  “King Charles’ son has entered the fray whilst the new Commonwealth erases everything royal. Your Newfoundland partners have been executed. You stand alone with the old king’s grant to you.”

  Sara gasped.

  David did not know she had come upon them and frowned. “You will not think on it, Mistress. All will be well. I’ve done nothing to vex the new government.”

  If they murdered the king, they would be bold enough to extend their wicked tentacles across the Atlantic to the colonists, to him and his achievements. He fought the fear that wanted to fill his gut.

  “Ah but you have, Sir David,” Waltham intoned. “I’ve come to warn you the Council of State will appoint a commission to look into your operations, here. The Commonwealth has not seen any of your profits and the wars were expensive.”

  “But we’ve done nothing against the patent,” Sara cried.

  David began to pace. “I’m outraged they should find me a dishonourable fellow. I’ve sent proceeds and gains to my man in London. He’s the one these new government persons should visit.”

  Waltham scratched his head. “And don’t forget Lord Baltimore. He still wants his father’s land returned to him.”

  “Ach! Baltimore’s but a biting fly. I give him no heed.”

  Waltham stood. “You have until this third civil war ceases to set your finances and story straight. After both sides lay down their arms, they will send men to search your ledgers.” He picked up his walking stick and looked at David as if he were a dead man.

  Sara’s eyes widened. “You will divert your thoughts, sirrah,” she exclaimed. “Sir David has done nothing wrong against the new estate. As I said, we have followed the patent as it is written.”

  A cold wind touched David’s soul. He suppressed a shudder. “When do you think the hostilities will cease?”

  Waltham shrugged. “Ireland tried to lend a helping hand but Cromwell defeated them. Now, he is headed toward Scotland. If Scotland falls, you have but months.” He bowed, set his hat more firmly on his head and walked out of the chamber.

  After the door closed, Sara turned to him. “Perhaps, we should return to England and sort this out.”

  David would not cower or look afraid. “We shall not. Let them come to us and prove what they accuse us of.”

  “There is not much coin in the moneybox,” Sara persisted.

  “That’s because the five percent tax on fish were in quintals.”

  “Which we turned around and sold to Barbados or ports of call in the Mediterranean.” Sara nodded, her gaze on the floor as she thought this through.

  David wanted to laugh but to do so would put her in an ill-condition of reprimand. It put him at a complete loss when she did not look fondly upon him. “There you are, Dear One. Bills of exchange from those sales should have gone to London, and into our moneybox.”

  “But what if they hadn’t?” Sara seemed to leap to the end where the world would crash about their ears.

  He sighed. “Come hither.” He opened his arms and she fell into his embrace. “Do not fret. We will carry on, no matter the outcome.”

  She buried her head in the wool of his doublet. “I’m afraid this will be our undoing.”

  David rubbed her back. “No matter what we do or what we did, this new Commonwealth will want to rid their guilt of killing the king. Our existence forces them to remember. They will try to justify their actions by attacking those who supported the king.”

  Sara groaned.

  He sighed. “We are fishermen who process and sell cod and cod-oil. If they kill us for that, then there is nothing we can do. Our fate is set.” He tipped her chin toward him and kissed her hard on the lips.

  * * *

  George stepped into the open doorway of David and Sara’s private office. He huffed a loud breath, causing his shoulders to heave up, then down.

  Sara knew her son well and laid down her quill. His light grey eyes wide, he was about to impart something of grave import.

  David had not seen their lad, his attention fully on writing his missive. The dull quill splattered ink across his paper. She nudged David, whose arm jerked, splitting the quill stalk. Ink pooled across his words.

  “Ach, look at this now. I shall have to begin again.” David raised his spectacles to his forehead, held on by the black ribbons wound about his ears.

  “You need a new quill anyway. That one made reading your words difficult.” Sara nodded toward the door. “We’ve a visitor.”

  David looked up. “Ah then,” he said with a broadening smile. “Come hither and tell us of the Anne. How many quintals of fish have you been able to load?”

  George hesitantly took a step into the chamber. “I’ve come to tell you something, but not of the Anne.” He gulped.

  “Oh dear,” Sara murmured.

  David swivelled on his stool so that he could face George. He frowned. “What’s amiss?”

  George cleared his throat, then again.

  “Out with it,” David cried. “Whatever you are about to say can’t be as bad as you’re making it.”

  George’s eyes filled with fear. “Uhm, well.”

  He suddenly stepped back, stretched his arm behind the door and pulled a pretty lass to him. Her face was flat with terror as she skidded on the flagstones to his side.

  Sara thought she recognized the girl, but from where she could not fathom. From under her cap, pale blonde tendrils wisped about her face. She was almost as tall as George and seemed older in years, if not experience. Sara’s gaze took in the whole of her, from her plain woollen gown to her sturdy shoes, and the bump beneath her skirts that showed her to be at least six months along.

  With a gasp, she jumped to her feet. “What’s this, Georgie? You’ve gotten the girl with child? How could you have done this?”

  David gave her a look as if to say, How do you think? He lowered his spectacles to his nose, then crossed his arms in front of him. “Explain thyself.”

  George straightened his back. “We shall marry.”

  “But you are too young,” Sara admonished, “You are only nineteen years of age.”

  ‘Tis too early to saddle thyself with a wife and brood.” David agreed.

  Sara clicked her tongue with annoyance. “Brood indeed.”

  David leapt to his feet. “I shall not have you marry a slattern out of a misguided sense of duty, young sir. How do you know the child is yours?”

  George turned mulish. “Because I know, Father. I love this woman and our child. His name will be Nehemiah.”

  “Art thou a Presbyter, too, in me own damned house?” David suddenly raged. “Do you know what those filthy rogues are trying to do to us and our family? They shall have us arrested for treason. I won’t have a Calvinist in this house.”

  “’Tis not because of religion, Father, but of building a plantation.”

  David swung around to Sara. “What does the lad say?”

  “Nehemiah rebuilt Jerusalem.”

  “As our family will improve a plantation.” George shuffled his feet. “Down the coast in Renews.”

  “’Tis four leagues away,” Sara crie
d. “We shall never see thee.”

  “Renews!” David’s voice took on a strangled tone. “What of our plantation, here, in Ferryland. You are my heir.”

  “Not for many years, Father,” George’s lips quirked into a half smile.

  David squinted as he studied the girl. “Do I know you?”

  She curtsied. “We’ve met.”

  “Where?”

  “Socrates Stamp, milord.”

  David swung around to Sara. “Where do I know that name?”

  Sara could not remember, either. She regarded the lass. “Be more clear.”

  “I am Nell Wood, milady, milord. Socrates Stamp kissed me when I did not want to be kissed. You gave me his fishery.”

  “But that was ten years ago!” David hollered. “How old are you? Have you taken advantage of our lad, here, thinking you may crawl into our family and take what we have?”

  Her eyes widened with fear. As if in need of protection, she stepped behind George.

  “She’s done very well with the Renews fishery, Father,” George said.

  Nell peeked over George’s shoulder then gazed at him. “With your help.”

  “When have you had time to gad about the coast to Renews? You are under my tutelage and should have no time at all.” David’s face had taken on a reddish sheen.

  Sara took Nell’s arm. “Let us go to the kitchen for a dish of cream and eggs. ‘Tis good for the babe.” She gave David a stern regard. “Whilst you and your son discuss this issue.”

  David growled and George sighed. His eyes pleaded for her not to abandon him to his father’s fury. With regret, Sara shook her head.

  In the kitchen, Sara motioned toward a large table with benches and chairs around it. “Please find a seat while I fetch the dish of food.”

  Nell sank onto the edge of a bench, her back stiff. She folded her hands on the table. Sara liked the girl’s resolve. She reminded Sara of her own youth.

  Cook wiped her hands on her apron. “Aye, milady?”