Pillars of Avalon by Catherine Pym

Author:Catherine Pym
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: 17th century london, canadian fisheries, estalishment of canadas cod fishing trade, first female entrepreneur in north america, history of newfoundland, king charles i and colonial plantations, precursor to the hudsons bay company, sir david and lady sara kirke, the british civil wars, the english civil wars
Publisher: Books We Love Ltd.

* * *

“They will take the furs,” he told Anton Fitz as they sat in David’s private office, the kitchen noises harsh against his ears. Enticing scents of roasting pullets wafted into his chamber. He should be hungry but since the humiliation at Rainton’s house, David suffered sore discontent.

“Not yours,” Anton said as he knocked cold ash from his clay pipe. “Yours have been gone a year to the Muscovy Company. How much did you gain?”

“Not enough. As you well remember, many of the pelts were rotten.”

David hadn’t been to the new warehouse in months and wondered how the balance of furs fared. No matter how hard they sought a dry storage space, the world was too damp. The longer the pelts sat, the more damage they suffered.

“I sent a stern letter to Sir Isaac Wake, the king’s ambassador to France, but to no avail. They will take what they will.” David growled.

“I should have followed you,” Anton admitted.

“Where?” Despite the dire circumstances, a small smile wavered on his lips.

Anton growled. “Sent my share of the pelts to Moscow with yours, what did you think?” He frowned at his cold pipe.

Someone banged on the door. David expected his clerk to handle the delivery of wine barrels and did not seek who tried to bludgeon down his panel.

Robert entered his private office, his eyes round. “There are some men who wish to speak with thee.”

David gained his feet while his friend stuffed tobacco in his pipe bowl. He turned to Anton. “Coming?”

“Why should I?” Anton took a taper and put flame to his bowl. “I’ve nothing to do with wine.”

“You will this,” Robert stated and he motioned to several men, who looked quite official.

“Who are they?” David asked softly as they made their way across the wine storage area.

“Sheriffs,” Robert answered grimly.

The sky was grey with a fitful wind that whistled down the lane. Cold breezes made their way into the wine chamber, across David’s ankles. Flames danced in the hearth. The men who crowded upon his threshold smelled of wet wool and sweat.

“What may I do for thee?” David tried to gauge if the men had come to drag him to gaol or would it be something else?

A gruff, tall fellow who chewed on a pewter toothpick leaned against the doorjamb. “I am Sheriff Winn. We are on the way to break down the door of the warehouse that holds the pelts.”

“Unless you’re willing to give us the key,” added a fellow, whose yellow hair fell to his shoulders. The wide cuffs of his boots sagged almost to his ankles.

“We will not,” Anton cried.

Winn menaced them with a cudgel. “You will come with us.” He stepped aside and waited.

David snatched his cloak from a peg and swung it over his shoulders. Winn walked away, the men scrambling behind him, up the hill. A man with a horse and cart waited for them at the end of the lane.

Falling apace behind the men, David nudged Anton. “What will the Sheriff find?

Anton clamped his teeth on the pipe stem.

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