The Mountain of Gold Read Free Page B

broad hat, and came to a decision for good or ill. 'Well, Irishman, as liars go, I have met few to equal you. But your lies have a certain diverting quality to them, and God knows, the Levant trade is tedious work, so I require a little diversion. You will tell me more of your imaginary mountain of gold after I have spoken with this Knight of Malta. Mister Lanherne, see this man chained in the hold.'
    As we strode toward the quarterdeck, Musk began to berate me for a fool, but I cut him off. 'What matter can it be if he hangs now or in an hour? It's all fantasy, of course.'
    But as I stepped out into the sunlight, the Irishman's plausible words had somehow already planted the thought in my head. What if—?

Two
     
    Musk had clad me in my finest silk frock-coat. In that heat, and despite the awning stretched a few feet above the quarterdeck, the sweat was pouring down my flesh well before my guest stepped onto the deck, where he was greeted by Boatswain Fuller's whistle. He seemed entirely oblivious to the heat, despite wearing attire even less sensible than my own. It was as though the thick black cloak with its single silver Cross of Malta somehow rendered him immune to the world around him. The gleaming hilt of a sword protruded from the cloak. This magnificent galley-knight raised a splendidly befeathered hat to salute the Wessex and its captain, and I stepped forward, doffing my own hat and bowing low in deference. He was a man of middling height and middling age, this Knight of Malta, so thin as to be almost skeletal. His long, watchful face betrayed nothing but disdain for this young captain and his man-of-war, so ugly and towering alongside the shattered but slender galleys. He looked about him with the unnervingly self-confident arrogance of those who are supremely aware of their own power, and with something else, too. Contempt, certainly, but more than that. He had the look of a priest-executioner, weighing up precisely how long it would take his latest batch of faggot-fodder to burn at the stake; and to this day, I retain the uncomfortable suspicion that this was exactly what he was doing. The dark knight looked me up and down. Although it was one of the hottest days I have ever known, I shivered.
    He spoke at first in French, which was evidently his native tongue, then in Latin, then in Italian, all fluently, then in a somewhat more broken Dutch, and lastly in a halting and reluctant English. Too late, I realised that his linguistic recitation was occasioned by the simple fact that I had forgotten to order our ensign hoisted as soon as I came on deck. ' Monsieur, ;' he said in his rasping voice, I am Gaspard, Seigneur de Montnoir, captain of the galley San Giacomo in the service of his Most Eminent and Serene Highness Rafael Cotoner, Grand Master of the Order of Saint John of Jerusalem, Rhodes and Malta. To whom do I have the honour of speaking?'
    His tone made it entirely apparent that he did not consider it an honour at all, rather a task akin to cleaning a dog-turd off one's shoe.
    Mustering as much confidence as I could, I replied in the flawless French that I had learned at the knee of my grandmother. 'I am Matthew Quinton, sir, captain of this ship the Wessex in the service of that most high and puissant prince, his Britannic Majesty King Charles the Second. You will take some refreshment?' I gestured vaguely towards the stern, knowing that Musk would barely have had the time to lay on my cabin table a flagon of Sicilian wine and two glasses.
    But Montnoir was evidently not a man for pleasantries, nor did he display any surprise at my fluency in his native tongue. Reverting to French, he said, 'I thank you, but no, Captain. Our business can be concluded here and now, and very easily, I think. I seek only the delivery of our prize, and of the men that she carried.'
    'Your prize, sir. And what prize would that be, pray?'
    Montnoir's face was a picture. 'The corsair, Captain Quinton. The accursed heathen