David took the wherry to Westminster Palace where he met his lawyer and man of business, Mister Booker of the Inner Temple. A desperate man, David took Booker’s hand in a firm grip and shook it. “Let us finish these constant bouts of accusations and dishonour. They must either drop the charges or send me to gaol.”
Booker adjusted a leather case he carried under his arm. “This should be the last of it.”
Together, they walked into the palace and toward the Council of State, now lodged in the old Star Chamber. The familiar, long corridors echoed with their footfalls, the hems of their woollen cloaks floating against the wainscot.
David dreaded another grilling by men who always removed the pipes from their mouths and stared at him with contempt. The Council was more a tribunal than a seat of discussion and judgement. If their goal was to intimidate, they had succeeded. As he and Booker neared the chambers, he broke into a sweat.
“I hope this is the last of our journeys,” he confided, his mouth dry. But each time he traversed these halls, his soul wilted a little more. It reminded him of the struggling tree near the Ferryland shore. When he had last seen it, it looked dead. David shuddered.
“Do not fear,” Booker seemed to prop him up. “Soon, you’ll be back in Newfoundland.”
They came upon a door guarded by soldiers, their halberds and helmets buffed to a dull sheen. As they neared, halberds clashed together. “Who goes here?”
Booker faced them with confidence. “Sir David Kirke and Booker, lawyer. We’ve been called afore the Council of State.”
The halberds separated. “This way.”
Doors opened with guards leading the way. More guards surrounded them. They walked through a chamber filled with men. Low murmurs quieted. Sharp eyes followed their progress. David’s pride sagged.
At the Star Chamber’s double doors, a man holding a black rod watched them approach, his face impassive. A guard slammed the iron tip of his halberd onto the flags. “Sir David Kirke and lawyer Booker.”
The man nodded. He turned to open the doors, then led the way into the chamber that smelled of wet wool and fresh ink. Someone had recently eaten onions. Rain pelted the small mullioned window.
More men than the last time crowded about the table and on benches against the walls. Indeed, the room appeared full as an egg. David started to count heads when the man with the rod doffed his bonnet and bowed, showing a leg.
“Sir David Kirke and his man of business, milords.”
Booker removed his hat, stepped forward and bowed. “Gentlemen.”
“Who art thou?” a stern fellow in a black hat demanded. His hair had been cut short, near the ears. Men in plain suits, dark hats without adornment and short hair dominated the streets of London and Westminster. Fashion these days mimicked the way of the Dutch—with whom England was at war!
The world had become oppressive with the Presbyter way of things, going to church twice on Sundays with tedious sermons that lasted upward to three hours. David was half-starved by the end of the first service, and would not return for the second one, no matter how Sara cajoled and threatened they must do it or be castigated further by the parishioners.
He longed for the fresh air of Ferryland. If he stayed much longer, only calamity would attend him.
Booker cleared his throat. “Lawyer for Sir David, sir.”
“Lawyers and your ilk are not welcome in this chamber, sirrah,” a pale fellow said. “We are the law of the land for which this man will suffer truth and justice.” He waved his gloved hand. “Get thee gone.”
Booker stood firm. The chamber suddenly quieted as the men stared at him. Rain drops plopped down the chimney.
David suppressed a sigh. Deadly tired of this business, someone always cried against his man being present, but this was not a Crown court where barristers and solicitors were not admitted. This was a council of supposed justice, where a suit had been brought to the table against him for his business practices under the reign of the late martyred king.
“Let him stay.” A sad looking fellow with droopy eyes regarded David. “I am Sir Henry Vane.” He pointed to two others at the table, one squat, the other of florid face. “Mister Street, Mister Masham and I will speak with thee on this matter.”
Vane opened a ledger filled with closely written pages. David’s eyes widened, hoping all the papers before Vane were not about him, his family or his actions over the years.
“We received letters from our representatives in Ferryland. We’ve taken possession of your ordnance, ammunition, houses, boats, stages and other appurtenances belonging to thy fishing trade. They’ve been cast into a warehouse where we’ll collect impositions until Parliament declares their further pleasure.”
David inwardly groaned. Frances and his sons’ letters never mentioned this. He was undone, his wealth in Newfoundland lost.
“Your personal effects are secured,” Mister Masham reassured him.
David added defeat to calamity. He wanted to sag against the table, then anger stiffened his spine, raised his chin. The men afore him were rascals.
He leaned his knuckles on the table. In warning, Booker cleared his throat but David did not heed him. “You’ve seized our plantation, our goods after we’ve already repaid the compound of our property to the amount of twenty-five percent.” His neck prickled with heat. “How often must you seize me goods? How many times must I repay your impounds?”
“We will not listen to your impertinence which is well known,” Mister Street admonished. He clamped his teeth on his pipe stem.
Vane indolently waved a pomander. “Let us continue. We have the list of your misdeeds, here. Street, please read them to Sir David.”
Street rattled leaves of papers, forcing the men in the chamber to quieten. “Your accusations are thus...”
The man listed the same complaints as yesterday and the week before. David’s mind drifted until someone slammed a fist on the table, startling him.
“You’ve a monopoly on imported alcohol.” Street glared at David and sniffed disdainfully.
David heaved a breath. “Those are restrictions set forth by the Western Charter. I’ve nothing to do with that.”
“Fifteen pounds for a tavern license,” Vane cried out in disgust. “Thou art a greedy person of the most corrupt order.”
“Taverns are disallowed under the Western Charter,” Masham cried.
Booker pushed forward. “Again, you rail against us and the Western Charter. How often must we confirm Sir David had nothing to do with it? He followed the king’s grant to the letter.”
“We interviewed several planters and other persons residing in Newfoundland,” Masham derided, his face creased with discontent. “You overcharge…”
David lost interest, again, his mind travelling across the winter seas to his Ferryland. He’d accomplished so much there and wished with his whole being to return.
“…You exact illegal coin for fishing rooms.”
Booker bumped against David, returning him to the false accusations at hand. “I do not deal with coin in Newfoundland,” he insisted.
“You rented fishing rooms to foreign fishermen,” Street said.
“As per the king’s patent,” David retorted.
“And against the Western Charter,” Masham repeated.
“I do not follow the Western Charter,” David persisted, his voice rising an octave. Soon, he’d lose control and start hollering. “Why dost thou harangue me on this issue?”
Vane shook his pomander; spice scents shot over the table. “We reckon several thousand pounds found their way into your moneybox, sirrah, without giving the previous or current governments their share of the proceeds.”
“I sent bills of exchange to London. You’ve spoken to my man.” He did not mention the many bills of exchange transferred to Lewis prior to his arrival in England.
“Aye, we have, and indeed, there is little there.” Vane stared at David with a sort of wonder, even as David knew the man considered him a venal and cunning person.
He thinned his lips against Vane’s scrutiny and stared at the little window. He’d come to know its filthy glare was not only from coal and tobacco smoke, but from years of terror at the hands of sovereigns’ righteousness.
Vane stood. Heavy sadness covered him like a pall. David braced himself for the worst.
“Sir David, after much consideration and multitudinous documents from various sources both here in England and abroad in that faraway land called Newfoundland, I find you had no knowledge of the Western Charter and followed explicitly all clauses of the patent given to thee by our late King Charles the first.”
His gaze went around the table and to the chamber’s walls where men awaited his judgement. “I charge thee innocent of any wrongdoing. You are free to go.”