The Mountain of Gold (19 page)

Well, the true and rightful heir for now, at any rate
—until the womb of the Lady Louise bore yet more fruit, albeit some sixteen years since its last flowering.

Charles turned to me, took my hand, placed his other hand upon my shoulder, and said, 'Amen to that, then.' He looked at me, a profound distance and yet a powerful sympathy in his eyes. 'God bless and keep you in your perilous voyage, Matthew.'

And you in your perilous marriage, Charles.'

At that we parted, and made to return to the house; but as we did so, we both glanced up, and saw our mother, the Dowager Countess, looking down at us from the window of her room.

***

That same day, Cornelia, my mother and I left for London in the family's state coach. With Charles, who had some estate business to attend to, following the next day, all of us would be cooped up in the same small space of Ravensden House for the few days that remained before the travesty at Saint Paul's. By the second evening, this was already too much of a trial for us all, especially following a visit from the Garveys during the course of that afternoon. Thus Mother decided to pay court to her old friend the Queen Mother in Somerset House; oh, to have been a fly on the wall at that conversation! Charles spirited himself away on what he claimed to be parliamentary business, though how this could be so was a mystery, for Parliament had not been in session since July. He did not wish for a last evening's carousing with friends, for he had almost none, and he wished for it even less with his brother. Even Cornelia abandoned me; her old friend and fellow Dutchwoman Aemilia, the Countess of Ossory, was at court, and the two embarked on a happy promenade through the galleries of Whitehall, shamelessly eyeing all the rakes. Fortunately, a brief sojourn at the palace also produced companions for me. Beau Harris and Will Berkeley, these; my fellow gentlemen captains. Making our excuses to the ladies, we headed back along the Strand, intent on some properly serious carousing in the City. They were good company, these two. Beaudesert Harris was from a stout Cavalier family of Warwickshire, but he was hardly of the old blood; his father had been a merchant who prospered from a monopoly in King James' time and was able to buy out the lands of a decayed gentry dynasty, acquiring a baronetcy in the process. Harris, a cheerful and irreverent soul, had commanded the
Falcon
on the Irish coast two years before, when I served there in my ill-fated first commission, and we became firm friends at that time. Will Berkeley was of a very different metal. For one thing, he was a serious man, determined to learn the sea-business (unlike Beau, who thought such menial knowledge beneath him). For another, there were few names older or grander in the history of England than that of Berkeley; after all, it had been in the ancient castle of that name that King Edward the Second was done to death with a hot poker up the fundament, so that none might suspect a more visible death-wound. Will's father was the treasurer of the King's household, and his brother Charles, then the Viscount Fitzhardinge of Berehaven, was one of the King's great favourites. These connections had already procured for him the command of two of the kingdom's best and largest fourth-rate frigates, and he was but recently returned from the Straits in the
Bonadventure,
with a new commission already promised him by the King and the Duke of York. With his long nose and pointed chin, Will Berkeley looked every inch a lawyer, and as we approached Chancery Lane on our debauch, the resemblance seemed to grow ever more marked.

Our conversation was increasingly ribald (it was difficult to have a conversation without ribaldry in those early days of Charles the Second's court), and we had got to that stage of the evening where wagers were being made and drinking games commenced. The Mitre Tavern on Fleet Street was ever a good venue for such activity, and we crossed the threshold in the best of spirits...

Which evaporated in an instant. For there, standing in the middle of the largest room of the inn, was Colonel Brian Doyle O'Dwyer, no less, seemingly unarmed, surrounded by an ugly coterie of ruffians with knives and cudgels in their hands, all evidently intent on doing him some ill. Their leader was known to me, too. He had a great scar upon his face and no left eye.

Now, there are some who will damn this as a mightily preposterous coincidence. There are others, no doubt, who will see this as a misremembering on the grandest scale, and thus as final proof of my dotage. As for the latter, I will permit God to be my judge; God and my twenty-six-year-old lawyer, educated at Oxford and the Middle Temple, whom I comprehensively outwitted on the matter of some mortgages but the other day. As for the former, it must be remembered that London was a much smaller place then, over sixty years ago, before the Fire. Moreover, although the city was crowded with drinking dens of all sorts, there were relatively few that were suitable for gentlemen of breeding (or who pretended to such breeding, no matter how presumptuously, as was the case with my 'friend' O'Dwyer). As for our arrival at the moment of a deadly assault on him by my own erstwhile assailant; well, I have experienced more than enough of life to be able to say with some authority that such things happen, and are perhaps the best proof that we have of the workings upon Earth of the Lord God (or perhaps more likely, of his disgraced archangel Lucifer). I still recall with a shudder the significant embarrassment and very nearly dire consequences to our realm's foreign policy caused by my quickshit-impelled arrival in a Deptford alehouse privy at exactly the same moment as His Late Majesty the Emperor Peter, Tsar of All The Russias.

'Damn me,' said the scarred man, 'Quinton as well. God in his Heaven smiles on us tonight, boys.'

'You have some damnably unpleasant acquaintances, Matt,' said Beau Harris, drawing his sword.

'A good thing for this gentleman of the army that the navy just happened along,' said Will Berkeley, drawing his.

Drawing my own blade, I said, 'Permit me to name Colonel Brian Doyle O'Dwyer, my intended passenger aboard the
Seraph.'

'Oh, him,' said Berkeley, dismissively.

'The turncoat heathen?' cried Beau Harris.

O'Dwyer bowed his head slightly in mock salutation. 'As you say, gentlemen.'

The scarred man snorted derisively. 'Introductions, is it, by God! How very courtly. Well, as we're in the habit, gentlemen, I'll introduce myself, too. Habakkuk Leech, nobles and gentles all; late sergeant, Hewson's regiment, New Model Army. I won't bother with introducing the rest of my companions, here, for most of them either don't know their names or go by false ones.' Some of the gang—eight strong, no less—sniggered at that.

'Well, then,' I said, 'and what would be your business with Colonel O'Dwyer, here, Sergeant Leech? The same business perhaps that you attempted upon me on the road from Newmarket?'

Leech sneered dismissively. 'A related business, let's say, Captain Quinton. But with very different intended outcomes, I assure you. But I'd make you a proposition. Now, we both know that you have little love for the good colonel, here. So why don't you let the boys and I take him away with us, quiet like, and no more to it?' He looked about him. After all, Captain, there are nine of us here, all armed men who know our trade—learned it in the wars, most of us, unlike you fine but so young gentlemen. Nine of us, and but three of you. Four, if you count the Irish Turk. Still better than two to one for our side, Captain Quinton.'

I glanced at Harris to my left and Berkeley to my right, but I knew I need not have done so; we were of one mind. 'Men of honour don't bargain with the likes of you, Leech,' I said. And O'Dwyer, there, might be a damnable renegade, but he holds our King's commission and wears his uniform. We are bound to defend our fellow officer.'

'Fellow officer be damned,' snarled Leech. 'We should have chopped the heads off all you fucking Cavaliers when we had the chance.'

With that he and six of his men advanced toward us three captains; the other two circled O'Dwyer, who was evidently to be taken alive.

'Remind me,' said Beau Harris, 'to bring an entire regiment with me, the next time I come drinking with you.'

At that, Leech's men rushed us, two on each, with the sergeant himself hanging back, no doubt waiting to see which of us weakened first before administering the
coup degrace
himself. The odds were not good, it was true. But fighting in a confined space always has a dampening effect upon even the worst of odds, and we had swords, which would keep our knife-wielding adversaries at bay for a time, at least until we tired. Harris's two went for him first, perhaps sensing from his grip and posture that he was the least able swordsman of us; one learned his mistake by means of a deep slash across his hand, the other by a snick to the cheek. I barely saw the attack on Berkeley, for my two came for me in that moment, edging forward with their bare blades held out. They were big rogues, both of forty years or more—no doubt New Model veterans like Leech. But as New Model men, I calculated, they would have been happier with pike or musket than with knives, and they might have that innate fear of a sword which so many infantrymen possess. I described a swift figure-of-eight with the point of my blade, and they both flinched as they would have done if it was a cavalryman's rapier bearing down upon them. As they regrouped, I saw Berkeley grappling with his two, who had got close to him (for, in truth, Will was the weakest swordsman of us three). He thrust them away before they could stick their knives in him, giving one a thrust in the forearm for his pains. As I prepared for the next assault from my two, I caught sight of O'Dwyer, standing stock still behind Leech. He was smiling. Sweet Jesus, the infernal scum was not even thinking of raising a finger to help us, who were fighting—and, if God willed it, dying—so that his miserable renegade life could be saved.

My two came on again. This time, they were more subtle. The one to my left, my unarmed side, came on first, and fast, forcing me to bring my blade up to defend myself. At that, the other one rushed me, thrusting for my stomach. I pirouetted on my heel, slashing downward as I did so, and heard a yelp from one of them. But almost at once there was a cry to my left. Harris was hurt, but I could not gauge how badly. On my right, Will was wrestling with his two once more. But this time Leech had identified his man, and was moving in silently for the kill.

O'Dwyer caught my eye. He was still standing quite rigidly, and smiling. But the faintest glance to each side gave me some notion of his intent, just before he executed it. Taking my cue from him, I counterthrust ferociously toward my two assailants. The move was sufficient to distract O'Dwyer's two guards, who turned to look upon my attack. In that moment, the Irishman suddenly stooped to reach for his cloak, lying on the table by him, and pulled from it a gleaming curved Turkish scimitar. With one sweep, he decapitated the man nearest him. The other barely had time to turn before the curved blade slashed across his stomach. As he fell, his guts began to spill onto the straw-strewn floor of the Mitre.

Even in London, the sight of a headless corpse pumping blood onto the entrails of its neighbour is sufficient to distract the most hardened killer. Leech turned from Will Berkeley to confront this unexpected assailant. The horror of the sight had worked in our favour. Despite his thigh-wound, Beau Harris now advanced like a man possessed; one of his attackers mistimed a thrust and found himself on the point of Harris's blade, which protruded obscenely from the nape of his neck. The other, sensing that the tide had turned, fled out of the back of the inn. This disheartened Will Berkeley's assailants, and sensing their indecision, Will aimed a well-chosen thrust directly into the heart of the one nearest to him.

'Stand and fight, you worthless whoresons!' cried Leech; but he was enough of a veteran to know full well that the battle had shifted against him. My own opponents looked at each other, weighed the odds, and ran. Will Berkeley moved swiftly behind Leech, cutting off his only escape route. O'Dwyer advanced upon him with the scimitar. 'Ah, fuck, so be it,' said Leech, throwing his weapons to the ground and raising his arms—only for O'Dwyer to bring the scimitar slashing down toward his skull .

Steel struck steel as my blade deflected O'Dwyer's blow, barely inches from Leech's head. The Irishman gave me a look of sheer hatred. 'He's surrendered!' I cried. 'The rules of warfare, Colonel O'Dwyer. The rules of
Christian
warfare, at any rate.'

I turned to Beau Harris, who was wrapping a large kerchief around his thigh. 'All well, Beau?' I asked.

'An entire regiment, Quinton. Or two. Remember that. I'll make damn certain they're with me, the next time I drink with you.'

Will Berkeley, who had his sword-point at Leech's throat, laughed at that.

'Well, Sergeant Leech,' I said, 'explain yourself.'

'Christ damn you to hell, Quinton.'

O'Dwyer intervened. Ah now, Sergeant, Captain Quinton here's a patient man. As I know full well. But Brian Doyle O'Dwyer, your humble servant, here; well, I'm not quite so patient, let's say.' He stepped in front of Leech's face and smirked. 'So the way I see it, Sergeant, is this. You have two choices. You can tell the good captain here what he wishes to know, and then we hand you over to the alderman of this ward and his constables, and you get a good honest English trial. Now who knows, you might find a jury stupid enough or corruptible enough to acquit you, but myself, I doubt that—even in England. But at least you'll get a hanging, and most of the hangmen up at Tyburn are pretty efficient these days, I'm told, so it'll be fast, and not too painful. Whereas.' He raised his scimitar, plucked a hair sharply from Leech's head and applied it to his blade, which sliced it in half almost before the hair seemed to have touched the edge. 'Fine blades, my old friends the Turks have,' O'Dwyer said quietly. 'So sharp, a man could do all kinds of intricate things to another man's privates. If he was so inclined, let's say.'

The colour drained from Leech's face, but the old sense of duty of a New Model sergeant died hard. In that moment, though, Will Berkeley applied his sword-point to the tie on the bag hanging from Leech's belt, and the bag scattered its contents to the floor. Gold coin. Large quantities of gold coin; many, many pounds worth, that was certain. Quite how many pounds would be difficult to fathom at first glance, for they were evidently foreign coins. Many were
louis d'or
and
écus,
the currency of the Most Christian Kingdom of France; an unexpectedly Catholic wage for a sometime godly Commonwealth's-man. Some were
maravedís
and
escudos
of Spain, but that was hardly unexpected, for Spanish bullion flowed out into every money market of Europe to pay that kingdom's inconceivably vast debts. But some of the coins were less familiar. I lifted one, turned it this way and that, and handed it to Will Berkeley, who raised an eyebrow, then nodded.