The King's Evil

'Where am I?'

'You fell asleep over your work. Go to bed.'

'No, no.' Christopher rubbed his eyes and shook himself awake. 'I have too much to do, Jacob. Far too much.'

'You have been saying that for weeks, sir. This is the third time in a row that you have stayed up all night to struggle with your drawings.'

'There is no struggle involved. It is a labour of love.' 'Show more love to yourself and less to your work,' advised the old man. 'Flesh and blood can only withstand so much, sir. You need sleep.'

'What I need is food and drink. A hearty breakfast will revive me in no time at all. Then I will be able to finish this last drawing.'

'Let it wait, sir.'

'There can be no delay, Jacob. Sir Ambrose expects the completed set today and he will get them. Everything is riding on this commission. It could be the start of a whole new career for me. That would mean money, Jacob. You would get your wages on time for a change. There is a lot at stake here. And whatever happens, I must not let my brother down. Henry went to great lengths to secure this opportunity for me. I must take full advantage of it.'

'Even if it means slaving away night and day?'

'Architecture is a cruel master.'

Jacob nodded. 'I will prepare your breakfast, sir.'

'One moment,' said Christopher, raising a palm to detain him. 'Open those shutters to let in some light then come and see what I was doing while you were slumbering upstairs. I have not been idle.'

'That is my complaint,' muttered the other.

He opened the shutters, lit a fresh candle with his taper then carried it back to the table. Christopher proudly spread out his drawings.

'Here we are,' he said, beaming at his work. 'What do you think?'

'My opinion is worthless, sir.'

'Not to me, Jacob.'

'I know nothing about designing a house.'

'Just tell me if you would like to live in this one.'

He stood back so that his servant could have a clear view. The old man ran a watery eye over each drawing, moving from one to the other with increasing admiration. He scratched his head in awe. The one over which he lingered most was a drawing of the front elevation of the house. It was a handsome abode with a regular facade, neat rectilinear outlines and square-headed doors and windows. Six stone steps, into which an iron handrail had been set, led up to a portico which comprised elegant pillars with a flat entablature and low pediment. The house bore little resemblance to the Tudor dwellings which proliferated in the city of Jacob's youth and was entirely free from the Gothic extravagances which adorned so many public buildings before the Great Fire.

Jacob was especially impressed with the sash windows, a Dutch invention now taken up with enthusiasm in England. There were eighteen in all, including two which served the attic rooms. The old man wondered how many more windows the house contained and which unfortunate servant would be given the task of keeping them all clean.

'It is pretty, sir,' he said respectfully. 'Very, very pretty.'

'Thank you, Jacob.'

'Anyone would be privileged to live in such a place,'

'I hope that Sir Ambrose Northcott shares your high opinion.'

'If he does not, he must be blind. One question, if I may, sir,' he said, pointing to the first of the drawings. 'Why are the cellars so large?'

'That was the express wish of my client.'

'What does he wish to keep down there?'

'Whatever he wishes, Jacob. Mine is not to question the use to which he puts the cellars. All I know is that Sir Ambrose was most particular about their extent and design. This elaborate vaulting will test the skill of the bricklayers but it is vital in order to support the weight of the house itself. I regard the cellars as a minor triumph. The pity of it is that very few people will ever get to admire the work I put into them.'

'I admire it, sir.'

'That is praise enough for me.'

'The whole house is fit for a king.'

'Sir Ambrose would be flattered by such a thought.'

'The only thing is ...' He broke off as he peered at the front elevation again. 'I mean no disrespect, sir.'

'Go on.'

'The only thing is, sir, it looks a bit, well... foreign.'

'That is the French influence.'

'Ah.'

'Specifically ordered.' He grinned. 'Like my breakfast.'

'I will get it for you at once, sir,' said Jacob, heading for the kitchen. 'No man can work on an empty stomach. Though I still think that you should take a nap to get your strength back.'

Christopher did not hear him. He was already immersed in his work again, studying each of the drawings with a searching eye to make sure that every detail was correct and that it contributed properly to the overall symmetry of the house. He did not need his brother to tell him how important the commission was. Apart from putting much- needed revenue into his purse, it was a chance for Christopher Redmayne to establish himself as an architect. In a highly visible profession, success was its own best advertisement. If the house for Sir Ambrose Northcott caught the eye and won general esteem, other commissions would assuredly follow and Christopher would be able to play his part in the exciting work of rebuilding a great city.

Close to the ruins of Baynard's Castle, it was a prime site. The new regulations forbade the building of houses along the riverbank itself so the dwelling was set well back from it. Enclosed by a high stone wall, the long garden ran almost down to the Thames and the rear windows of the house afforded an uninterrupted view both of the river and of the one remaining turret of the castle. Sir Ambrose Northcott was thrilled with this prospect, combining, as it did, reality with romance, the busy world of commerce floating past on the water with the noble profile of a derelict fortress. When darkness fell, the lone turret would be silhouetted against the moonlit sky. It would make an evocative neighbour.

When work first began on the site, he visited it every day.

'What progress have you made, Mr Littlejohn?' he asked.

'Small steps forward, Sir Ambrose,' said the other. 'Small but significant steps forward.'

'When will the cellars be completed?'

'According to schedule.'

'Good. I will hold you to that, Mr Littlejohn.'

'You will not find me wanting. May I say what an honour it is to work on such a project, Sir Ambrose?'

'Then do not allow any slacking among your men.'

'There is no danger of that.'

'The house must be ready on time.'

'I have never failed a client yet.'

Samuel Littlejohn was a sturdy fellow of middle years with a rubicund face and a jovial manner. He positively exuded bonhomie. A successful builder even before the fire, he was now in greater demand than ever and Northcott had to include many financial inducements in his contract in order to secure him. Littlejohn not only had a reputation for building sound houses to the exact specifications of his clients, he invariably did so within the stipulated period of time. He was a wealthy man who dressed well but, if occasion demanded, he was not averse to taking off his coat and soiling his hands by helping his employees. He could teach the best of them how to lay bricks and his carpentry was a source of envy. Samuel Littlejohn enjoyed every aspect of his work.

'You have chosen your architect well,' he said approvingly.

'That is what I believe,' returned Northcott. 'I thought about it long and hard before I reached my decision. Because of his youth, I had grave doubts at first but they are fast vanishing.'