The Mountain of Gold by J. D. Davies Read Free Book Online

Jermy had simply halted in the middle of the first verse of Chapter Twenty-Three of Deuteronomy, fallen gently forward in his pulpit, and given up the ghost to a maker who presumably had forgotten to reclaim him several decades before.
    I dressed, descended the stairs, entered the grand porch of Ravensden Abbey, lined with the swords and armour of my ancestors, and greeted our new rector, a broad, strong man of close to fifty years.
    'Captain Quinton,' he said. 'I rejoice at your return from the Straits, sir. In approximately equal measure, Matt, I regret that I could not accompany you and cleave my sword into the hordes of heathen Turks.'
    At that he grinned, and we both embraced; for at my behest, on Jermy's death my brother had exercised his right of patronage over the parish of Ravensden by installing my former chaplain aboard the Jupiter, the Reverend Francis Gale.
    I led my dear friend to the library, the octagonal room that had been the chapter house of the original abbey. It was one of the few large rooms still in a state fit enough to receive visitors, although a suspicious odour of damp was beginning to cling to many of the books. Francis Gale was no longer the bitter and hopeless sot that I had first encountered on the Jupiter, a man consumed by the dreadful death of the woman he loved and their unborn child amidst the horror of Cromwell's onslaught at Drogheda. But nor was Francis Gale made to be an entirely abstemious paragon of sobriety. He still relished a bottle, though now he imbibed for good cheer and fellowship, not to drive away his tormenting demons. Thus he had rapidly become firm friends with my uncle; they spent many long hours in this very library, debating everything from the nature of the Trinity to the peculiar shape of Lady Castlemaine's bosom, with every discourse washed down by generous measures of old sack and some of the more ancient wines that my grandfather had brought back from France.
    Another young Barcock brought us some flagons of good local ale, and we settled to discourse. Francis wanted every detail of my journey to the Straits, of my meeting with the corsair and the knight of Malta, and of the renegade Irishman O'Dwyer, who now sat in a cell of the Tower, awaiting the King's pleasure. He, too, was convinced that the man was a fraud, one of the many imposters and cunning men who had crawled out from under stones since the King's restoration, hoping to take advantage of a generous-hearted monarch and an inexperienced government. A mountain of gold? No, it was preposterous, Francis thought: a myth, or a mere story to divert young children.
    We turned to other matters, and I asked how he was enjoying his new living. 'Ah, there's much to do, Matt. As you'll know better than I, my predecessor had not really been the most active servant of the Lord for many years. Decades, if truth be told. There are grown men yet unbaptised, and I have yet to find one villager who knows his Creed. Then there's the fabric of the church itself—apparently the choir boys have wagered on whether the bells will fall before the tower collapses, or vice-versa. And the parish registers are chaos.' Francis sighed and took a long draught of ale. 'Pieces of paper everywhere, some chewed by rats, some years not written up at all. Yesterday I found the page with the marriage record of your great-grandfather, the seventh earl, from the year 1557. It was in the vicarage's privy, ready for use, along with a whole set of transcripts that should have been sent off to the bishop in King James' time. But thankfully I have the lad, Andrewartha. He's a good worker, and his appetite for putting records in order is rather greater than mine. He shows a true vocation, and I hope shortly to secure a place for him at Emmanuel in Cambridge, my old college. He'll be a fine candidate for the Church.'
    This pleased me; young Andrewartha had been an officer's servant on the Jupiter, and was saved from a court-martial and an almost