The Mountain of Gold (9 page)

I have never forgotten my first sight of the grand reception. Mother had arranged that we of the immediate family, and certain other notables, were to be admitted formally, and had thus arranged for the grand steps from the hall into the gardens to be brought back into use. This involved opening a set of doors that had probably not seen their key since her own betrothal reception. The doors in question promptly fell off their hinges, which crumbled into rust, forcing us to send to Bedford for carpenters. They were now pulled open by two Barcocks, and I strode out on to the steps, resplendent in a cloak and a broad, feathered hat, my sword at my side and my breastplate strapped across my chest. The last was at Cornelia's insistence, on the grounds that it made me look more martial and would also protect me against a further assassination attempt by the scarred man, though I was no longer wholly convinced that I had heard what I thought I had heard after the attack on the road back from Newmarket.

'
The Honourable Matthew Quinton, Captain of His Majesty's ship the
Seraph,
the heir presumptive to the Earldom of Ravensden!
cried the steward-designate of that same man-of-war, for Phineas Musk had been pressed into service as master of ceremonies. This was much to the chagrin of old Barcock, the steward of Ravensden Abbey, but the easterly winds had brought him his first cold of the winter and taken his voice away. Besides, he was needed in the kitchens, supervising the chaos engendered by his formidable goodwife, out of which somehow he managed to deliver a reasonably regular supply of food and drink to the shivering masses outside.

For shivering we most certainly were. It was like the depths of January: the great snowstorm of the morning had abated, but flakes were still falling, and the hundreds of guests were broken up into small groups huddled forlornly around braziers or torches. All the men wore cloaks or thick coats (several coats, in the case of some), and many of the more genteel sort wore gloves. Three earls—our near-neighbours Bedford, Kent and Manchester—stood together, perhaps reckoning there was strength in numbers ahead of the inevitable moment when my mother would descend on them and berate them yet again for supporting the Parliament's cause during the late civil wars. The women stood around disconsolately, ruing the fact that their lavish dresses had to be concealed beneath the thickest coverings available to them, their splendid decolletages hidden away to prevent frostbite of the bosom, their exquisite hemlines acquiring more and more mud as the hundreds of feet turned the snow into slush and our lawns into a swamp. Cornelia should have been among them—indeed, she should have stepped out by my side—but her disgust at the purpose of the event had made her take to her bed, proclaiming loudly that she was ill. Mother would have none of it, of course, and a most terrible scene passed between them; or at least, there were the beginnings of a most terrible scene, averted immediately and entirely by Cornelia's suggestion that her symptoms might be morning sickness. Mother changed in the blink of an eye from screaming vulture to clucking hen, insisting that Cornelia should rest, sending her plates of jelly and other delicacies, and summoning no fewer than three doctors to attend her. In some matters Mother could make Machiavelli look like a milksop, but in others, she could be as naive as a new-born. For as we left the room, Cornelia winked outrageously at me.

I went down into the crowd, and was fortunate to find Francis Gale near the foot of the steps.

He said, 'Matthew. Grand event, this. Good punch. Better mulled wine. Now. You'll be needing a chaplain for your forthcoming voyage, I presume?'

The Reverend Gale was already well into his cups, but even so, this was direct even by his standards. I said, 'Good God, Francis, you're not tired of Ravensden already, surely? Jermy's legacy hasn't ground you down?'

'Not at all, my dear Matthew! Francis Gale is made of stronger stuff.' The vicar of Ravensden belched loudly. 'But during her recent visit to the Lord Bishop, your mother impressed on him the difficulty of the task facing me, the manifold backslidings of the dissenters of the parish, and so forth. In fact, she impressed all of that so well onto his Right Reverend Lordship that he has just sent me a young curate, an eminently serious and hard-working Oxford man, who insists on doing absolutely every piece of work connected with the parish, no matter how trivial. You'll see him at church on Sunday, for he has offered to take the service in my place. I think he has ambitions to be an archbishop.'
As did the young Francis Gale, once, I thought.
'But it struck me that a voyage might be beneficial to us both. We can see if my curate can sink or swim, and I can have a last moment of excitement before I settle down to long years of delivering dull sermons from the pulpit of Ravensden Church.'

'Well of course, Francis,' I said, 'if the Archbishop consents to you taking a leave of absence—'

'
The Most Honourable Sir Venner Garvey, Member of Parliament for the borough of Rievaulx, and the Lady Garvey!'
bellowed Musk.

My beloved sister Elizabeth stood at the top of the steps, clad in a rich green cloak. Almost as tall as I, she towered above her minute (and far older) husband. Lady Garvey was one of the most elegant and beautiful women on which a man—even her brother—could cast his eyes; or at least, so she was when she stood still. For when she began to descend the steps, as at all other times, my dear sister had the gait of an elephant. By contrast, Sir Venner Garvey, the carbuncled and devious time-server who had been such a staunch supporter of our late Lord Protector, moved so daintily that one could have sworn he was suspended in the air by invisible strings.

I had seen Elizabeth when they arrived a little earlier, but she was late (as ever) and shrieked something about needing at least three hours to prepare herself before rushing off to her childhood room to commence the process. Now, though, the Garveys came at once to my side. Elizabeth kissed me in her usual uninhibited way, Venner congratulated me on my new command, and I introduced them both to Francis.

Elizabeth said, 'So Cornelia's taken to her bed, then? Promising signs of a pregnancy, Mother says?'

'Umm—well, we pray so—'

'Oh, for Heaven's sake, Matt. She might be able to fool Mother, but she can't fool me. If Venner hadn't dragged me here, I'd probably have done the same as her.'

It was rare that I exchanged a glance of knowing fellow-feeling with my good-brother Sir Venner, but this day was an exception. I heartily disliked Venner Garvey—I disliked his Cromwellian past, I disliked his hypocritical mock-Cavalier present, I disliked the fact that the king seemed to feel a need to fawn on Venner and his kind. Above all, I disliked the fact that the prosperity of his Yorkshire estates had persuaded our mother to insist on my dear elder sister's marriage to him. But on occasion, Venner could be strangely diverting company. I was about to ask how their children fared—young Venner and Oliver, my nephews—when the doors of the abbey were flung open once more and Musk proclaimed, 'The
Most Noble Lady Anne, Dowager Countess of Ravensdenf

My mother had briefly forsaken her accustomed black, and as was usual in her case, she had gone to the opposite extreme: she was clad all in white.

Mother descended the steps slowly. She had forsaken her sticks—she almost never produced them in public—and had straightened her back as far as it would go, even though I knew that would keep her in agony for as long as she held the position. But she did not show it. Hundreds of eyes were upon her, and she knew it. At moments like this she was once more the young Lady Anne Longhurst, one of the beauties of the court of the first King Charles, and the Lady Caldecote, the fearless Cavalier termagant of the great civil war. So she was still, in her mind's eye.

She paused at the foot of the steps, looked around her, and as I had predicted, she made directly for the three noble earls, who bowed at her approach.

There was no time for me to resume my conversation with Venner and Elizabeth. Musk was in position again and cried with especial pride and volume,
'My Lords! Ladies, gentlemen, esquires, yeomen, and those of other estates and conditions! I give you that most high and noble lord, the Right Honourable Charles Quinton, tenth Earl of Ravensden, Baron Caldecote, Privy Councillor of the Kingdom of England!'

My brother looked pitifully small and wasted against the great grey walls of the abbey. His pallor resembled the snow that lay all around, but even so, he had evidently rejected a cloak in favour of a modest frock coat. He wore no wig. Charles hated ostentation of any sort, and to be standing thus, at the top of the stairs and with hundreds of eyes upon him, would have been mortifying indeed. He descended slowly, favouring his right side; for it was his left that had taken three musketballs for the king at the Battle of Worcester, leaving him barely alive.

He made his way toward our little group. Elizabeth ostentatiously nudged Venner Garvey, who said, 'Ah. Yes. You must forgive me, Matthew, but I have some matters of parliamentary business to discuss with Sir Samuel Luke, who I think I just spied by yonder brazier.' He made to move towards the distant Luke, but that path took him directly past me, and as he brushed my arm he whispered, 'You and I must talk, shortly. And alone. The undercroft, say, in an hour? About this business of the mountain of gold.'

Venner's words shook me to my toes, for who but a close circle around the King knew of my mission? But there was no time to dwell on the matter, for no sooner had Venner left our circle than Francis Gale, too, excused himself. He had just sighted the Dean who presided over the parishes of our region, a pompous, prating little man whom he heartily despised and thus wished to avoid at all costs.

So, finally, the three surviving Quinton siblings were alone together. Elizabeth kissed Charles profusely, and I offered formal congratulations on his betrothal. My brother seemed embarrassed by that gesture, and said, 'Matt—yes, thank you, of course—I'm sorry that we haven't had a chance to talk, or for you to meet My Lady informally—'

Elizabeth said, '"My Lady", indeed! Not "Louise", then? It is common for a betrothed couple to be on first name terms, brother.'

Charles blushed at that. He looked downcast and lost, and in that moment I knew that he was truly troubled, for the Earl was ever a man in command of his emotions. He whispered, 'It will be for the best. Yes, for the best.'

Musk was ready to announce another; his most important introduction of all, in fact. But the man who had bellowed the names of the rest of us showed his feelings on the matter by almost mumbling, so that only those of us who were still close to the steps could have heard his words.
'Lords, ladies ... etcetera, etcetera ... the Lady De Vaux.'

Those who did not hear him continued their hubbub of conversation, but gradually that stilled as more and more became aware of the startling apparition that stood at the top of the steps. Even I, who was predisposed to be unimpressed, stared at her in undisguised astonishment. Elizabeth's jaw had fallen. And over by the three earls, my mother smiled.

The Lady Louise had eschewed a cloak or winter garb of any sort. Instead, and seemingly oblivious to the bitter Muscovite wind, she was clothed in a vast, billowing satin gown of the brightest red, cut so low in the bosom that her decency must surely have been imperilled with every breath she took. A great stiff collar at the back, something like the unfeasibly vast ruffs of the old queen's days, framed her jetblack hair, set high above her face. Even from a distance, I could see strong features, a wide mouth, and eyes that seemed to penetrate to the most distant parts of the great assembly. Individually, none of her features were truly remarkable, but taken together, they gave her an aura of serenity and duplicity, arrogance and power, that I have only ever observed in the features of two other human beings; and both of those were kings.

The lady came down the steps slowly, but even so she did not do what all the rest of us had done, discreetly checking our footing on each icy, slush-bound step in turn. She looked only ahead, imperiously. Every eye was upon her, and she knew it. More eyes, indeed, than were present at the reception, for I could see my own bedroom window, and Cornelia was framed in it, remarkably recovered and looking down upon the scene below. Her face was a picture; indeed, could have been taken from a picture. When I lived in exile in the Low Countries, I saw many paintings by an old Flemish artist called Brueghel. He often chose scenes of horror and death, portraying men and women with twisted screams of death-agony distorting their faces. That afternoon, my Cornelia could easily have modelled for him.

The Lady De Vaux knew the duty of her rank, that much was certain. While her husband-to-be entertained his insignificant siblings, the future countess made directly for her predecessor and the three earls.

Very quietly, and seemingly not to either Elizabeth or myself, Charles said, 'She will suit. If God wills it, she will suit.'

A familiar voice, restored this time to its full volume, called out once more. No-one had expected Phineas Musk to make yet another announcement, so every eye turned to the top of the steps, and to the quite astonishing spectacle that stood there. Nor had they expected any further announcement, if there had to be one, to be in Latin.
'O domini honoratissimi dominaeque honoratissimae, nec vos omitto, o qui honorem minorem meretis!
cried Musk, whose command of the tongue of Cicero, Tacitus and the Caesars was surprisingly fluent.

'Oh Christ in Heaven,' hissed Elizabeth. 'Not even he would dare this, surely? To upstage a new countess on this of all days—'

But Musk was into his flow.
'Vobis praesento doctorem illum sapi-entissimum et inlustrissimum, Tristram Quintonem magistrum collegii Mauleverensis in Universitate Oxoniensi!'

Two page boys held up Uncle Tristram's vast black-and-gold gown as he descended the stairs slowly and grandly, as befitted the Master of an Oxford college. He made his way through the throng, bowing left and right as though he were the king, doffing his broad doctoral cap to all and sundry. I caught my mother's wrathful stare: it made the Medusa seem like a blinking rural innocent.