The Mountain of Gold (20 page)

'Malta,' I said. 'The gold of the Knights. So, Sergeant Leech, tell me this—how does a New Model veteran, an old Puritan no doubt, come to serve that undoubted papist, Gaspard of Montnoir? And why, pray, has Montnoir sent you after Colonel O'Dwyer and myself?'

Leech was silent for a minute or so longer, as though weighing my questions and the alternatives that O'Dwyer had put to him. Perhaps he considered playing dumb, and claiming that he had never heard of any Montnoir; but O'Dwyer's scimitar was very, very close to his groin. At length his shoulders slumped, and the battle was done. 'Times are hard. Since your whoreson king disbanded the New Model, we've had to seek a wage wherever we can. And I've observed that papists are notably better supplied with gold than those of the true reformed religion. As for you, Captain Quinton—' a sneer in my direction—'why, you were but a sideshow,' he said. 'You were to be scared, or at best beaten until bloody. The Frenchman, Montnoir—well, he told me you had humiliated him in some way.' I thought back to the meeting on the deck of the
Wessex,
and of how pleased I had been with myself in the face of Montnoir's arrogance. The Seigneur de Montnoir evidently bore grudges, and was a man to avenge even the least slight against him. 'And as for the renegade, here,' Leech continued, but was interrupted...

'I was to be taken off to France, or to Malta, or to wherever the good
seigneur
happens to be at this moment,' said O'Dwyer. 'Montnoir wants me alive. Has always wanted me alive, since first he learned of a corsair captain of Oran who claimed to know the location of the mountain of gold.' Leech nodded at that. 'That, Quinton, is why he was in pursuit of me when you took my galley. And now Montnoir will be doubly determined to find it, through me,' O'Dwyer continued. He looked at Leech. 'Five attempts, sergeant. Five attempts you have made to seize me, each more inept than the last, as I have told the King. Methinks Montnoir could have spent his money better.'

Five attempts? As I have told the King?
Of course; for what a service Montnoir had done Brian O'Dwyer! If there were still doubts about the veracity of the Irishman and his story (and God knows, Matt Quinton alone had more than a sufficiency of them!), then what could be a more efficacious way of allaying them than five attempts to kidnap him? Yes, Gaspard de Montnoir and Habakkuk Leech had done O'Dwyer's work for him, far more effectively than the man himself could ever have managed.

The constables arrived at that moment; quite probably they had been waiting outside for some time, listening to make quite sure that the fracas within had concluded. With them came the alderman for that ward, a fat, short creature who mentioned something about us all being under arrest. O'Dwyer was the first of us to react.

'Arrest, you say? I think not, Alderman. You see, before you stands your most humble servant, Lieutenant-Colonel Brian Doyle O'Dwyer of His Majesty's Irish army, shortly to set sail at the King's express behest. To sail, in fact, on the ship commanded by the tall young gentleman yonder, Captain Matthew Quinton of His Majesty's navy royal. Is the name Quinton familiar to you, alderman? Brother to the Earl of Ravensden. One of the King's closest friends.'

Although it galled me to do so, I colluded with O'Dwyer, for I did not relish the prospect of incarceration. 'Indeed so, Alderman. And please allow me to present Captains Beaudesert Harris and William Berkeley, both also of His Majesty's navy. Captain Berkeley, here, is brother to the Lord Viscount Fitzhardinge. Another of the King's closest friends.'

'So you see, Alderman,' said Beau, taking up the refrain, 'arresting us would be likely to bring down His Majesty's most severe displeasure upon you and your constables here.'

The constables looked at each other, and at the Alderman. Their common will was entirely clear, and they had their way.

A little later, after Habakkuk Leech had been taken away to the tender mercies of the Newgate Prison, the rest of us parted company outside the Mitre: Beau to have his wound tended most attentively by his sweetheart, a Miss Grainger ('demure as a nun until I get her into bed,' Beau said); Will and I to return to the palace; O'Dwyer to ride God knew where.

As he mounted, the Irishman said cheerily, 'Well then, Captain Quinton. Until the Downs, sir, when I shall join you aboard the noble
Seraph.
You'll have much business meanwhile, I don't doubt.'

Eleven

A man should go to his brother's marriage with joy in his heart and a carefree smile. Instead, I went to the nuptials of my most noble brother Charles Quinton, tenth Earl of Ravensden, with the heart and smile of a corpse. Yet it was a bright and cheery morn as the Earl and I rode out of Ravensden House. We were both attired in fine new garb, namely deep blue tunic coats with silver buttons, scarlet breeches and stockings, and fine blue silk gloves; blue, the armorial colour of Quinton. As we were finishing dressing before the mirror, a little earlier, Charles had commented laconically that we looked like a pair of somewhat disreputable French swordsmen. Otherwise, the Earl prepared himself in silence, as though for a funeral rather than a wedding, and with a mighty heaviness already upon my own heart, I knew better than to attempt the back-slapping jollity expected of a groom's supporter. Thus prepared, we left the house to the cheers of a small gaggle of retainers and tenants, brought down from Bedfordshire for the occasion. I mounted Zephyr, who seemed inclined to bolt toward the west; Musk, already mounted and in my earshot but not my brother's, murmured: 'The glory or downfall of the House of Quinton, today, by God. Take your pick, my masters.' We rode out, along the Strand and Fleet Street, across the fetid stagnation of the Fleet River by way of the Fleet Bridge, up Ludgate Hill, through the red-brick Lud Gate itself, and onward towards our destination, Saint Paul's, its mighty tower dominating the city beneath.

Our passage was slow, for our road was full of people: both those strange half-creatures who turn out to gawp at the ceremonials of any illustrious name, cheering hysterically as the great ones pass, and the far larger throng of hawkers, hucksters and the like, who cared only that their vulgar trades had been interrupted by our progress. Some shouted good wishes and all health; others, distinctly graphic advice for the bedding. Musk, riding before us in an ancient tabard bearing the Quinton arms, vigorously pummelled several who hooted abuse or attempted to touch Charles or myself. We had no other attendants. I have been to weddings where forty or more have ridden behind the groom, laughing lustily all the way to the church door, but Charles was not a man for such rowdy show (and besides, he had barely four friends in the world, let alone forty). At length, we came before the west front of the cathedral, and dismounted. As I stepped down onto the cobbles I winced with the pain imparted by my new shoes, upon which Cornelia had insisted. Here were many of our tenants and retainers—Barcocks, mostly—who had come to shower the steps of the cathedral with dried petals upon the bride's entrance. They were all joyous beyond measure, and I wondered why I alone felt as though I were processing to a graveside. (Or perhaps, not quite alone: but as ever, Earl Charles' expression was unreadable.) We entered the cathedral by way of Inigo Jones' great new west portico, modelled upon the Roman style, its stone fresh and young alongside the dull ancient grey of the remainder of Paul's church. I looked up at the classical columns, and wondered how on earth the architect reckoned they fitted with the soaring Gothic favoured by the original builders. All architects are frauds, of course, but time can alter a man's perspective mightily. Nowadays, I would gladly favour Jones' short-lived portico over the monstrosity since inflicted upon the world by that mountebank Wren, whose demented notion of building a cathedral has been to deposit an enormous breast atop Ludgate Hill, for the boundless ridicule of all posterity. Then, I thought only of what was to take place within.

We passed through the west door into the long, soaring nave, known since time immemorial as Paul's Walk. Despite the rosemary and myrtle that bedecked every column, the nave still reeked a little of horse-shit. It had been employed as a stable by Noll Cromwell's cavalry, who had also smashed the windows and defaced the monuments, and the restoration of its former glories still had some way to go (indeed, a longer way to go than was left to the building itself). Ahead of us, beyond the damaged screen, we could hear a choir singing the Sixty-Seventh Psalm. On either side of us stood the lesser members of the congregation: Ravensden tenants and neighbours, the curious of court society, not a few creditors hoping to serve writs, all in the most resplendent finery they could muster. Many wore blue bridal ribbons upon their arms and gloves upon their hands, both of which had been distributed seemingly willy-nilly by our mother. I could hear the whispers of the less discreet:

'Poor earl, looks feebler than he did—'

'Tall lad, that Matthew, but a shame his hair's going—'

'God knows how he'll get it up—'

'You mean this isn't the Kendrick wedding?'

I should have been looking cheerily from side to side, giving a smile here and a wave there, a step or two behind my brother as our ranks dictated. Even men walking to the gallows have been known to manage such levity, but I could not. Nor, if truth be told, could the earl. Charles was ever uneasy when he was the centre of attention, and he strode forward as purposefully as his ancient wounds would permit, his eyes seemingly fixed on the high altar far ahead of us. At least I managed to glance to the sides and upwards, to take in some of the sights of the building; it was as good a way as any of avoiding the eyes of any of those who stared upon me.

We passed the once-glorious Beauchamp tomb to our right, sadly shattered by those who called themselves 'the godly'; this man, Sir John de Beauchamp, had been Admiral of England in King Edward the Third's time, and I gave him a little nod of salute, as one king's sailor to another. A little further away was the simple memorial to Sir Philip Sidney, the famous poet-hero of Queen Elizabeth's time. My grandfather, who had no time for poets, knew and detested Sidney, and contended that a poet slaughtered in leading a pointless cavalry charge on behalf of the iniquitous Dutch had no right to national veneration; poor grandfather, whose own poet son died a very similar death and was accorded very similar veneration as a result. Ahead and to the left, at the entrance to the north aisle of the quire, stood the tomb of King Ethelred, named Unready in our history. I recalled something of the memorial that had so fascinated me in childhood and shuddered, for it spoke of a conspiracy against that king's elder brother by his 'infamous mother', whose sin would only be expiated by a dreadful punishment.
Does history truly repeat itself?
I wondered, as I continued my way down the nave.

So we came to the crossing, and my heart lifted not a little at the sight of the unusually long and beautiful transepts, sweeping away to either side. As we climbed twelve steps and passed through the fine carved stone doorway into the quire, I could see my close family waiting before the altar, clustered around my infamous mother like the Praetorian guard around some ancient Caesar. Rosemary, myrtle, holly berries and the like were fastened to every conceivable place, their smell finally driving out the lingering odour of horse-dung. Light streamed through the vast rose window in the east end, above the heavily defaced altar screen. Alas, the light only made it easier to see where the original stained glass had been smashed or—higher up—shot out by the musket-balls of brutal iconoclasts. All in all, it was probably an appropriate setting for the event that was about to take place: for like the building itself, this marriage would be at once glorious and desperate.

We came before the high altar, bowed, and turned to acknowledge our family. Mother, bedecked in much of the unpawned Quinton jewellery and clad in a quite astonishing scarlet jacket that might have been fashionable for half a season forty years before, was serene. Cornelia was radiant in a splendid new dress of black silk taffeta with pearl earrings, all bought specially for the occasion, and torn between her pride in being able to show herself off and her anguish over what was about to take place. Despite myself, I smiled and felt proud, for she was a sight to gladden any husband. Elizabeth pointedly wore the old yellow gown that she had worn to our wedding in Veere, and unlike the other women, she had made little effort with her hair, which resembled the nest of a discontented crow. By contrast, Sir Venner had evidently purchased a formidably expensive new green frock-coat in the French style and was the only man present wearing that highest of the season's fashions, a periwig. Tristram, who had reluctantly forsaken his magisterial gown, glowered and avoided my mother's gaze. Those of our distant cousins who had been invited, and who had been solvent or sane enough to travel to London from France, Berkshire and other such grim fastnesses, grinned inanely at Charles and myself, for they, poor innocents, had no reason to believe that this marriage would be anything other than an occasion for rejoicing and unspeakable drunkenness, as has been the case at all weddings since Christ provided the libation at Cana.

We stood, and waited. At last the trumpeters sounded a fanfare and the choir struck up a great hymn of old Tallis. I turned, and saw the Lady Louise emerge through the stone doorway into the nave, accompanied by a great wave of murmuring and clucking from the congregation beyond. For she was magnificent: clad in a gown of shimmering silver moyre, cut as low as an Anglican wedding permitted, and a delicate headdress with biliments of gold, her hair billowing out behind in the traditional symbol of chastity. Before her, she carried a bouquet of snowdrops, as demurely as the most innocent of country maids; how she obtained those blooms so late in the year was a mystery known to herself and, no doubt, the royal gardeners. Behind her came a peculiar little procession consisting of a little gaggle of blue-accoutred page boys, young Venner and Oliver Garvey among them at their grandmother's insistence, but no young lasses at all. Now, at this moment in almost every wedding I have known, the eyes of the congregation should be upon the bride alone. But this was one of the many oddities at the marriage of the tenth Earl of Ravensden, for the eyes of every man and woman were torn between looking upon the bride and upon the tall man in a plain grey coat who walked at her side; the man who would shortly give her away, and the one man within that great church whose broad black hat could remain upon his head with impunity. For the King of England to attend a subject's marriage was rare enough, but for him to play such a prominent part in proceedings was doubly unusual. Charles Stuart being the man he was, of course, he revelled in it all, nodding vigorously to right and left, smiling broadly and exuding an overpowering sense of contentment. Thus he and the lady finally came before the altar, and Louise De Vaux exchanged the most ambiguous of glances with my brother. At last, the nuptials could commence.