The King's Evil (7 page)

Notwithstanding
all this, the capital displayed, in general, a spirit of resilience. If the
setbacks were to be overcome, an immense collective effort was needed and most
people responded at once. Those whose houses or workplaces had been only
partially damaged moved back into them as soon as possible to institute
repairs. Within a week of the end of the fire, a man in Blackfriars cleared
away the ruins of his old house and began to build a new one on the same site.
Others elected to follow suit but their plans were immediately frustrated.

On
the thirteenth of September 1666, while the smoke was still rising from parts
of the city, a Royal Proclamation was issued, prohibiting any hasty building
and empowering the authorities to pull down any structures erected before new
regulations were put into place. The haphazard growth of the city over the
centuries, with its narrow streets, its close-built dwellings, its superfluity
of timber- framed properties, its surviving thatch and its inadequate water
supply had contributed to its own demise. It might almost have been designed to
assist the rapid spread of a fire. Such a disaster, it was insisted, must never
happen again. Safety would henceforth be a prime consideration.

Rebuilding
commenced in earnest the following spring.

'We
must bear the new regulations in mind,' said Henry Redmayne, sipping his
coffee. 'No half-timbering is allowed. The house must be built entirely of
brick and stone with a tiled roof.'

'I
would accept nothing less,' said his companion.

'Nor
must the upper storeys jetty out.'

'Such
a style would, in any case, offend my taste.'

'It
is gone for ever from our midst, Sir Ambrose.'

'Thank
Heaven!'

'I
could not agree more.'

'That
was an incidental blessing of the fire. It cleared away decrepit old houses that
had no right to exist and rid us of squalid lanes and alleys where the poorer
sort lived in their miserables holes. Yes,' added the other with easy
pomposity, 'I did not support every recommendation put before us by the
Commission but, by and large, their suggestions were admirable. I was
particularly pleased that noxious trades have been banned from the riverside.
Those of us who import goods were assailed by the most unbearable stink
whenever we went near the wharf.'

'The
brewers and dyers were the worst, Sir Ambrose.'

'Then
you have not smelled the lime-burners and the soap-makers when they are
practising their craft. Add the reek of the salt-makers and you have a stench
that stayed in the nostrils for days.'

'Just
like the smoke from the Great Fire.'

'Yes,
Henry. Exactly like that.'

'How
long has it been now? Six months?'

'Over
seven.'

'I
still sometimes catch a whiff of that smoke.'

'Memory
plays strange tricks on us.'

'Indeed,
Sir Ambrose. It may torment us in perpetuity.' Henry became solicitous. 'Was
the coffee to your liking?'

'Excellent.'

'Let
us order another cup.'

The
two men were sitting in one of the most fashionable coffee houses in the city,
swiftly refurbished now that decisions had finally been made about building
regulations. Henry was at his most immaculate in a blue coat with extravagant
gold braid and a red and green waistcoat. His new periwig lent him an air of
distinction which made him even more a slave to his vanity and he kept
appraising himself in an invisible mirror. Seated opposite him was Sir Ambrose
Northcott, now almost fifty, a man of middle height and corpulent body who
defied his many physical shortcomings with the aid of an expensive French
tailor. Fleshy jowls were tinged with crimson and the nose was absurdly small for
such a large face yet there were no wrinkles to betray his true age and the
eyes had a youthful sparkle.

Northcott
was an important man. Having inherited his title and a substantial fortune, he
determined to improve himself even more and invested wisely in trade. A Justice
of the Peace in his native Kent, he was also a Member of Parliament and took a
vocal part in the discussions which touched on the future shape and composition
of the capital. Henry Redmayne had cultivated him strenuously for years but he
now had a more pressing reason to court him. Northcott wanted a new house
built.

Henry
made an urgent question sound like a casual enquiry.

'Have
you had time to study those drawings, Sir Ambrose?'

'I
made time, Henry.'

'What
was your impression?'

'A
most favourable one.'

'I
am pleased to hear it.'

'Your
brother has remarkable talent.'

'He
does,' said Henry, basking in the praise. 'Christopher is a born artist. He has
a most cultured hand. It has ever been so. I once saw him draw a perfect circle
with a crayon.'

'Does
this talent run in the family?'

'Unhappily,
no. And even if it did, I would not waste it on a piece of paper. The only
perfect circles I would draw would be those I traced with a fingertip around
the nipples of a fair lady.'

Northcott
laughed. 'Love has its own architecture.'

'With
building regulations that are far more appealing!'

They
exchanged a polite snigger. Northcott sat back in his chair.

'Tell
me more about this brother of yours,' he said.

'That
is precisely why I am here.'

'Is
he a coming man?'

Henry
needed no more invitation. After ordering fresh coffee, he launched into an
eulogy which owed far more to fact than to fiction, glad that he was not
obliged to lie too much about his brother. Christopher really did possess
creative gifts which set him apart from most of his potential rivals and those
gifts were allied to a capacity for hard work and a willingness to learn. As he
held forth about his brother, Henry came to see just how rich and varied his
education had been and how he merely needed something which would concentrate
his mind in order for all that study to bear fruit. Delighted with what he
heard, Northcott listened intently but he was far too cautious to be rushed to
judgement.

'Your
brother is very young to have achieved so much, Henry.'

'He
is twice the man I was at his age, Sir Ambrose.'

'Yet
somewhat lacking in practical experience of design.'

'What
could be more practical than the drawings of his that I showed you? A reputable
builder could turn any of them into a reality.'

'Some
builders still prefer to design their own work.'

'Those
days are fast disappearing,' said Henry expansively. 'An architect is
indispensable if you wish for the highest standards. Master-builders had their
value but they are in decline. Well, Sir Ambrose,' he continued, risking a
familiar pat on the man's shoulder, 'can you imagine Christopher Wren working
as a mason on St Paul's Cathedral or Hugh May mixing lime mortar for one of
those exquisite houses he designs? It is unthinkable. Such men belong to a new
and honourable elite - the profession of architect. I am proud to number my
brother in their ranks.'

Cups
of coffee arrived and Northcott pondered while he tasted his. A large amount of
money would be expended on his London abode and a degree of emotional capital
would be invested in it as well. It was vital to select the right person to
design it.

'What
of his character?' he asked.

'His
character?'

'Yes,
Henry. You have told me much about his history and his ambition. But what
manner of man is Christopher Redmayne?'

'Dedicated
to his work.'

'That
might make him narrow-minded and possessive.'

'Far
from it!'

'Is
he amenable?'

'Completely,
Sir Ambrose.'

'He
can take orders? Accept criticism?'

'Christopher
is yours to command.'

'What
of his discretion?' said the other, lowering his voice. 'I do not want some
wagging tongue to voice my business abroad. I require a man who does what he is
paid for without asking any unnecessary questions. I need a politic man,
willing but prudent. Conscientious and close. Not to put too fine a point on
it, I am looking for total obedience.'

'You
have just described my brother to perfection!'

'We
shall see,' said Northcott with a contemplative nod. 'We shall see. If this
paragon really does exist, then I will seriously consider him.'

'Thank
you, Sir Ambrose.'

'Arrange
a meeting.'

'You
will not regret this, I do assure you.'

'Let
me see the fellow for myself.'

'How
soon?'

'At
the earliest possible opportunity.'

Henry's
smile broadened and he made an eloquent gesture.

'What
a pleasing coincidence!' he said without a trace of irony. 'As luck would have
it, I believe that Christopher may be in the next room. You can have the
pleasure of meeting him immediately.'

When
the servant rose shortly after dawn, he came downstairs with a taper to find
his master slumped across the table, the candle beside him burned to
extinction. Jacob let out a wheeze of disapproval. He put a hand on
Christopher's shoulder to shake him gently awake.

'Go
to bed, sir,' he whispered. 'Let me help you upstairs.'

'What's
that?' said the other drowsily.

'You
need some proper rest, sir.'

'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.'