forbear laughing. No wonder Moll was so pleased to see me entering her portals once more.'
'What do you mean?'
'She would have had lean pickings from the clients on that list. Half of them are too old to manage anything more energetic in bed than a mild fart. Sir Patrick Compton is so fat that he has not actually seen his organ for several years, let alone manoeuvred it into action. Lord Halgrave is about as virile as a dead mongoose. And there was, I am told, a cruel prescience in the christening of Sir Roger Shorthorn.' 'Did you do what I asked you?'
'Yes, Christopher. I added names of others I have seen there.'
'And did you arrange them as I requested?'
'In the exact order you specified.'
'Excellent fellow!'
'Does that mean I can go back to sleep again?'
'No, Henry,' said Christopher, selecting another morsel from the platter. 'You must get up immediately and send for your barber. Then you must put on your finest apparel. We must have you looking at your best for a royal audience.'
His brother's jaw dropped and the bloodshot eyes goggled.
'Royal audience?'
'Yes,' said Christopher. 'You must introduce me to the King.'
The meeting was held in one of the warehouses which had not yet been rebuilt after the Great Fire. Largely destroyed, it had one bay which was still roofed and with walls thick enough to muffle the sounds of Christian witness which rose up within. When the meeting was over, the Quakers left singly or in pairs so that nobody would realise they had attended an illegal gathering. Among the last to venture out of the stricken warehouse was Jesus-Died-To- Save-Me Thorpe and his wife. Hail-Mary Thorpe was a small, bird-like woman who seemed to hop along the ground on the arm of her husband. She had a tiny face with pin-prick eyes and a blob of a nose. It was she who first spotted their neighbour.
Jonathan Bale was gazing at the Thames when they came up.
'Good day to thee, Mr Bale!' said Hail-Mary Thorpe.
The constable turned and touched the brim of his hat in greeting.
'I had supposed thou hadst thy fill of the river last night,' observed Thorpe with a grim smile. 'Art thou recovered, neighbour?' 'I am, Mr Thorpe. Thank you for your help.'
'It was the least I could do for thee.'
'Mrs Bale and thee have been good to us,' said his wife. 'We could not have better neighbours. Many a time when thou might have hadst cause to arrest us, we were sent on our way with a kind warning from thee. It was always appreciated.'
'Though not always heeded, alas,' said Jonathan with a twinkle.
'We are what we are,' announced Thorpe.
'Nobody has been left in any doubt of that, sir.'
'Remember us for our honesty before God, if for nothing else.'
'Remember you?'
'Yes, Mr Bale. We are leaving thee and this sinful city.'
'But we will miss our neighbours,' added his wife. 'Mrs Bale has been my doctor so many times now. I was blessed in her loving kindness.'
'You depart from London?' said Jonathan.
'Before we are forced to,' replied Thorpe. 'We have decided to join the brave new community which has been set up in America. I thought it best to sail away from this country in a state of freedom or this cruel government would have me deported in chains. We go to New England, sir. New life, new hope, new challenges.'
'You will meet many of those, I suspect,' said Jonathan. 'But I wish you both well. It takes courage to cross the ocean.'
'That is the only part which worries me,' confessed Hail-Mary Thorpe. 'I have no fears about what we shall find when we get there but the voyage itself is fraught with danger. Tell us, Mr Bale, for most of thy life has been spent among ships and those who sail in them. What is the best thing to take on such a long and arduous voyage?'
'Belief in God. He is a master mariner.'
'Then we are saved.'
'Just as I told thee, Hail-Mary,' said her husband solicitously. 'We have no need to fear if we put our trust in God.'
Their decision produced a confused response in Jonathan. He was not sure whether to sigh over the loss of such decent neighbours or to rejoice at his escape from the burden of arresting them from time to time. New England might be a more amenable place for assertive Quakers.
'Is London so hateful a place that you must flee it?' he asked.
'It is since the cloven hoof returned,' said Thorpe.
'Cloven hoof?'
'I speak of the Devil who rules this city and corrupts it with his own wickedness. He is the real reason why we must quit this swamp of iniquity.-' Thorpe raised an admonitory finger. 'Ask of us who is sending our little family thousands of miles away to enjoy a more godly existence and we will tell thee straight. It is that Lord of Hell,' he asserted with withering scorn. 'King Charles.'
Whitehall Palace consisted of a motley collection of buildings scattered over a large acreage. If the Banqueting House formed its architectural pearl, it was surrounded by many semi-precious stones, some of which were badly chipped. The royal apartments were situated in the southern half of the palace, looking out across a well-trimmed green sward which swept down to the river. Christopher Redmayne and his brother entered through the Palace Gate and made their way towards the Great Hall. When they entered the building, a guard was waiting to lead them through a bewildering maze to the royal Drawing Room.
Henry glided into it with the confidence of a man who was at his ease in the palace but Christopher looked in awe at the opulence around him. The room was a fruitful source of study for any architect and he quite forgot the purpose of their visit. He was still trying to estimate the cost of the superb chandeliers when his brother's cough alerted him to the presence of the King. Charles entered from a door at the far end and posed before the fireplace. After bowing politely, the brothers approached.
Proximity filled Christopher with the glow of privilege.
The King had been imposing when viewed from the rear of the Banqueting Hall but he was much more striking when only yards away. It was not just the exquisite apparel and the dignified posture. There was a grandeur about the man which set him above ordinary mortals. Christopher found it faintly disappointing when the glorious demi-god before him resorted to something as mundane as human speech.
'What is this nonsense about a Popish plot?' he asked.
'It is not nonsense, Your Majesty,' said Henry. 'At least, I hope that it is not, for all our sakes. My brother will explain.'
Christopher inclined his head respectfully. Charles regarded him.
'An architect, I hear?'
'That is so, Your Majesty.'
'What do you think of my palace?'
'May I be candid?'
'I will accept nothing less from you.'
'You are worthy of something much finer.'
'That is what I tell my Parliament year after year but they will not give me the money to improve it. Kings need kingly surroundings. Parts of this palace make me feel more like a tradesman than a monarch.' He beckoned
