'I am deeply grateful, Mr Hartwell.'
'You are here but Corrigan, being of a lower order of creation, is not. A builder cannot enjoy the same privileges as an architect. He is a mere employee whereas you are also a friend. I will give the fellow a ride in my coach but I would not condescend to break bread with him. Apart from anything else, he has the most appalling hands. Did you notice all that dirt under his fingernails? No,' he continued, letting out a sudden laugh, 'Lodowick Corrigan is a prince among builders but he will never aspire to occupy a place among my intimates.'
'Who recommended him?'
'Several people. He has a fearsome reputation.'
'For what, Mr Hartwell?'
'Maintaining the dirtiest fingernails in Europe.' He shook with mirth and banged the table with both fists. 'Forgive me, Mr Redmayne. I am in humorous vein today. Let me be serious for a moment,' he said, making an effort to control himself. 'Lodowick Corrigan is renowned for building houses on time and to his clients' exact specification.'
'I'm glad to hear it.'
'You will have no problems whatsoever with him.'
'Good.'
Christopher was not as reassured as he sounded. The meeting with the builder had disturbed him profoundly. Instead of being able to work harmoniously with the crucial figure in the enterprise, he feared that he would have to fight every inch of the way to have his wishes fulfilled. Further discussion with Hartwell was pointless. The man now lapsed into maudlin reminiscence and all that Christopher could do was to compose his features into a semblance of concern and nod at regular intervals. Hartwell suddenly reached out to grab him by the wrist.
'I must confide in you, Mr Redmayne!' he gasped.
'About what, sir?'
'Affairs of the heart.'
'But you have been doing that for some time,' said Christopher.
'Those were mere trivialities. Passing acquaintances. The joyful conquests that all men need to remind them of their manhood. I speak now of true love, of devotion, of - dare I say it? - commitment. Nay, I would go even further and talk, for the first time in my life, of holy matrimony. That is how stricken I am. How ensnared. How desperate. I am even ready to contemplate the surrender of my bachelor life.'
'You have my warmest congratulations!'
'Sadly, they are premature.'
'Does not the lady in question requite your love?'
'She is not even aware of it as yet.'
'Have you not declared yourself?'
'Only with my eyes and with my palms. I have applauded her until my hands have been stinging with pain. She deserves it. She is sublime, Mr Redmayne. A saintly creature. Everything I could possibly want in a wife.' He gave an elaborate shudder. 'But there are certain drawbacks.'
'Drawbacks?'
'The lady is already married.'
'Ah, I see.'
'And she is beset by other suitors.'
'Does not her wedding ring keep them at bay?'
'No, it only seems to excite them all the more. A thousand wedding rings would not deter one particular lover. Indeed, were she not already in possession of a husband, the cunning fellow would certainly provide her with one forthwith then cuckold him mercilessly.' His whole body sagged. 'Do you catch my drift, Mr Redmayne?'
'I believe that I do.'
'A right royal obstacle blocks my path to happiness.'
'Then I can guess at the lady's name.'
'Is she not all that I have said?'
'She is, indeed!' said Christopher with enthusiasm. 'No woman could be more worthy of your love.'
'Or of the house I am having built. It would be a fitting place for such beauty and grace. She could fill it with song. Bring it to life. Enlarge it with purpose. Tell no one of this,' he said, slurring the words. 'Jasper Hartwell does not wear his heart on his sleeve. I am too much a slave to fashion for that. But you know the truth, my friend. I worship her.'
'I can understand why.'
Hartwell spread his arms wide in a gesture of submission.
'I love Harriet Gow!' he confessed.
Then his arms dropped, his eyes closed, his head lolled and his whole body hunched forward. Jasper Hartwell's face rested gently on the plate in front of him. Christopher found himself sitting opposite a vast mountain of ginger hair. From somewhere deep in its interior came a series of resolute snores. The meal was comprehensively over.
The parish of St Martin's-in-the-Fields was one of the largest and most prosperous in London. Though not without its darker areas, it was, for the most part, distinguished by the luxurious residences of aristocrats, courtiers, gentry and their dependents, alongside the neat houses of respectable tradesmen and successful businessmen. Situated next to the Palace of Whitehall, the parish was the favoured address of ministers and civil servants alike. It had status and grandeur. In the church which gave it its name, it also had a magnificent edifice as its focal point.
Christopher Redmayne took a moment to appraise the church. Built over a century earlier, it had survived civil war, plague and fire intact, serving its parishioners faithfully and acting as a magnet to ambitious clerics once they realised what financial rewards could be reaped by the occupation of its pulpit. The spacious church had seating for a congregation of four hundred but, on the single occasion that Christopher had attended a service there, he estimated that at least twice that number were crammed inside St Martin's. It was a centre for urgent Christianity or for those who felt the need to be seen at prayer.
Critical of some Tudor architecture, Christopher had nothing but admiration for this example of it. The parish church of St Martin's-in-the-Fields was triumphantly what it set out to be - a solid, soaring paean of praise to the Almighty, rising above the community it inspired yet remaining essentially part of it, friendly, familiar, welcoming. Time had mildewed its stone and generations of birds had subtly altered its texture but it carried these signs of age lightly. Over eighty churches perished in the Great Fire. It was not only the parishioners of St Martin's-in-the- Fields who gave thanks that their church had been spared. Here was a symbol of hope. A beacon of renewal in the area of Westminster.
When he had gazed his fill, Christopher nudged his horse forward. He was still suffering from the effects of the monstrous dinner. Having helped to carry Jasper Hartwell out to the latter's coach, he had walked back to Fetter Lane, collected his mount, given Jacob some idea of his movements then set off to examine once again the site of the new house. It was only a few minutes' ride from the church. Occupying a corner, the site ran to the best part of an acre and offered a series of interesting challenges to both architect and builder. Christopher believed that he had met those challenges with some flair. Fortunately, his client agreed with him. Reaching the plot of land, he dismounted in order to walk over every part of the site while it was still virgin territory. Before long, he mused, a splendid new house and garden would rise up to take their place among the exclusive residences all around them.
Swelling with pride, Christopher was also assailed by doubts. It was one thing to create a series of remarkable drawings for a client but quite another to translate them into reality. Did he have the correct proportions, the ideal materials, the most suitable style? Had he made best use of the corner site? More to the point, could he control a difficult builder? Before he could even begin to answer the questions, he was diverted by the clatter of a horse's hooves and by a yell of brotherly rage.
'Christopher! Damnation, man! Where have you been?'
Henry Redmayne arrived at a canter, reined in his horse and leaped to the ground. Face perspiring beneath his wig, he lurched across to Christopher and pointed an accusing finger.
'It has taken me an age to find you.'
'I've not been hiding from you, Henry.'
'When I called at your house, that lame-brained servant of yours told me that you were dining with Jasper Hartwell, though he had no idea where. It was maddening!'
'Jacob is not lame-brained,' said Christopher loyally. 'He is
the shrewdest servant I know. Do not blame him. When I left with my client, I had no idea where we were going.'
'No!' wailed Henry. 'That meant I had to work my way through Jasper's favourite haunts one by one. By the time I finally reached the Dog and Partridge, the pair of you had left so I returned once more to Fetter Lane. The ancient fool who looks after you at least gave me some idea of where you might be, although he could not supply the exact location of the site. The net result is that I have been charging around Westminster in search of you and getting more flustered by the minute.'
'Was it so important to find me?'
'Important and imperative.'
'Why?' asked the other. 'What has happened?'
'I received a royal summons.'
Christopher smiled. 'A promotion at last? A well-deserved reward for your years of service at the Navy Office? Ennoblement, even? Tell me, Henry - are congratulations in order?'
'No!' growled his brother.
'I am sorry to hear it.'
'Though I should perhaps be congratulated on tracking you down. It has taken me hours and, as you see, vexed me beyond measure.'
Henry's appearance bore out the description. He was panting with exasperation. His face was white with anger, his eyes bulging with resentment. The long, largely unproductive search had left him hot and dishevelled. His wig was awry and his hat clinging on at a perilous angle. The apparel over which he took such care was smudged and wrinkled. A self- appointed man of fashion was, for once, unkempt. It irked him.
'Look at the state of me,' he complained.
'It's hardly my fault.'
'Of course it's your fault, Christopher! But for you, there would have been no urgency, no madcap ride around London.'
'But you were the person who received the royal summons.'
'I thought I was,' said Henry darkly.
'What do you mean?'
'I was not even ushered into His Majesty's presence. After sustaining a vicious wound at the hands of my barber, I went to the Palace in great haste, only to be met by Will Chiffinch.'
'Chiffinch?'
'Page of the Bedchamber.'
'I thought I had heard the name before.'
'Anyone who wishes to get close to His Majesty is acquainted with Will Chiffinch. He is far more than a Closet- Keeper. He is the King's friend and trusted confidant, his pimp, pander and procurer-general. Chiffinch is also employed on the most secret and delicate business such as raising money for the royal purse or supplying information of a highly sensitive nature.'
'Then why did this Mr Chiffinch send for you?'
'In order that I could be dispatched to find my brother.'
Christopher was astonished. 'Me?'
'How many brothers do I possess?'
'But I have never even met this Will Chiffinch.'
'He controls the door to His Majesty. That is what makes this all so humiliating. I am hauled off to the Palace to be told that the royal summons is really intended for you and that my sole contribution is to hunt you down at once. In short,' said Henry, stamping a peevish foot, 'I am reduced to the status of a servant, a messenger, an intercessory. Why not approach you directly? Why involve me at all?'
'Did you not ask that?'
'I was not permitted to ask anything, Christopher. Besides, getting a straight answer out of Will Chiffinch is like trying to tattoo a bubble in pitch darkness with your hands tied behind your back. He is a master of evasion. Truth and he parted company such a long time ago that they no longer have anything in common.' He wiped the sweat from his face with a large handkerchief. 'The upshot of it all is this: now that I've located you, I must take you to the Palace of Westminster for a vital meeting.'
'With whom?'
'I was not told.'
'Why should I be summoned to the Palace?'
'I am beyond caring. All I know is that I must deliver you there with all due speed.' He hauled himself up into the saddle. 'Mount up, Christopher. This farce has gone on long enough. Come with me before I expire on the spot. It is so unkind, so cruel. They do me wrong to send me on such a mean embassy.'
'Is that what it is?' wondered the other. 'A mean embassy?'
Henry straightened his hat and adjusted his coat.
'There's only one way to find out,' he said balefully.
A servant conducted them through the labyrinthine interior of the Palace before handing them over to the Page of the Bedchamber. William Chiffinch was waiting for them. A tall, spare, dignified man in sober attire, he was quite elderly yet having a sprightliness that belied his years. There was something strangely nondescript about Chiffinch, an elusive quality which made it somehow impossible to remember the exact configuration of his features once you turned away from him. He was a walking paradox, an impressive figure who was yet almost invisible, a wielder of power who evinced no sense of his real influence. Introduced to the man by his brother, Christopher was struck by the dark, watchful, worldly eyes, taking everything in yet yielding nothing in return. He felt that he had been judged and found wanting.
'I am to take you into His Majesty's presence,' said Chiffinch.
'Not before time,' snapped Henry irritably.
'The invitation does not embrace you, Mr Redmayne. It is your brother who is in demand here. You were a convenient go-between.'
Henry was mortified. 'A go-between! A man in my position being used as a convenient go-between? This is intolerable.'
'On the contrary sir, you have rendered a useful service.'
'Is that what you call it!'
'Lower your voice, Mr Redmayne.'
'Then do not give me cause to raise it, Mr Chiffinch. All that I ask for is a modicum of respect. Of simple human decency. Treat me as I have every right to be treated.'
'I may be forced to do just that,' said Chiffinch smoothly.
Henry blustered afresh. Christopher intervened swiftly.
'Calm down,' he said, patting his brother's arm. 'I am sure that a happy compromise can be reached here.' He turned to the other man. 'Mr Chiffinch, I am very sensible of the honour visited upon me, but it is only fair to draw attention to the crucial role played by Henry in getting me here in the first place. Where I go, my brother goes with me. If you acquaint His Majesty with that fact, I think that he may be ready to indulge us. Both of us are at his service.'
Chiffinch gave him a searching stare before letting himself out through a door. Christopher could not decide if he had surprised or annoyed the man. Henry had no doubts on the subject.
'You have just stepped on some significant toes, Christopher.'
'Have I?'
'It's not the way to endear yourself to Will Chiffinch.'
'I can live without his good opinion.'
'Not if you wish to befriend His Majesty.'
'I had to speak up for my brother,' said Christopher. 'You've been shabbily treated, Henry. I'll not stand by and let that happen.'
'Thank you.'
'We are in this together or not at all.'
'Bold words! You may live to regret them.'
'I think not.'
Chiffinch rejoined them to pass on a curt command.
'His Majesty will see you now - both of you.'
Christopher allowed himself a quiet grin and Henry basked in what he saw as a substantial triumph. Both of them followed Chiffinch into the Drawing Room. Having escorted them to the centre of the ornate carpet, the Page backed away so silently that it was impossible to tell if he had left the room or was lurking in one of its many recesses. Neither Christopher nor his brother dared to look round. Their gaze was fixed on the tall, immaculately dressed figure who sat opposite them. Framed in the high window, King Charles was staring dejectedly at a ruby ring on his left hand and ignoring the spaniels who were clambering all over him. One of them was perched on his shoulder, nibbling at the outer edge of his periwig and arousing the yapping jealousy of the other dogs.
The visitors waited until the royal head finally turned in their direction. Henry gav
e an extravagant bow but Christopher inclined his back with more restraint. Charles raised a morose eyebrow.
'You have come at last,' he observed.
'I had some difficulty finding my brother, Your Majesty,' said Henry apologetically. 'But I stuck to my task.'
'Good.'
'We are here at your command.'
'Henry.'
'Your Majesty?'
'Be quiet, please.'
'Oh, well, yes, naturally, if that's what-'
'Completely quiet,' insisted the King, quelling him with a stare before turning his attention to Christopher. 'We have met before, Mr Redmayne. You rendered sterling service on that occasion.'
'As did my brother,' reminded Christopher.
'He is of no account here. You are, sir. That is why I sent for you, by means of a go-between.' Henry winced at the insult but wisely held his peace. 'Do you recall what I said at our last meeting?'
'I believe that I do, Your Majesty.'
'Well?'
'You were pleased with the way that I'd been able to render you some assistance and you were kind enough to say that you might call upon me again one day.'
'That day has arrived, Mr Redmayne.'
'Then it comes at an inappropriate time, Your Majesty.'
'Inappropriate?'
'I am heavily preoccupied with my work.'
'Royal business takes precedence over your career, however illustrious that may be. I should warn you that I am not accustomed to being thwarted. This is a matter of the utmost importance so I'll brook no obstruction.'
'Christopher was not being obstructive, Your Majesty,' said Henry.
'But you are, sir.'
'Without intention.'
'Hold your tongue or leave the room!'
'Of course, Your Majesty.'
'I only wish to hear from your brother.'
Henry recoiled from the rebuke and squirmed in silence.
The Amorous Nightingale Page 5