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clear, however, that he had scant time for his brash young brother. We saw little of each other, and he would vanish from Flanders for weeks on end, on various unspecified journeys on behalf of his king.
    Time bettered things between us, thanks chiefly to the mediating influence of our vivacious and beautiful sister Elizabeth, halfway between us in age, though in some senses far older than Charles and in others far younger than I. As our boat passed the quays at the Charing Cross, I asked Charles when he had last seen her, and if she was well. 'She called by just two days ago, with young Venner and Oliver.' Her sons, these, and thus our nephews, by her reptilian husband, Sir Venner Garvey; the younger named in honour of the Lord Protector and king-killer whom his father had served so notably. 'She is well. She will be disappointed to miss you.'
    As always, what Charles did not say was more potent than any words he chose to utter. Elizabeth would miss me; so my time in London would not be sufficient even to pay the briefest of calls on my own sister.
    We were passing by the riverside buildings of Whitehall Palace now. Lights shone from many windows, and we could hear the sounds of music and laughter. Although the palace was vast, stretching from Charing Cross almost to Westminster Abbey and thus bigger than many towns, the buildings were mostly low, undistinguished and of several eras. Only the great Banqueting House built for old King James, towering over the rest even in the darkness, bore any resemblance to the grandeur of the palaces we had seen in France and Spain. Our boat went past Whitehall Stairs, the public landing place, and pulled in toward a covered pier. This was the privy stairs, the king's private landing jetty, where two pikemen and two musketeers stood stiffly at attention, ready to ward off the attentions of any boat that came too close.
    A small, fussy man with a great chin stood waiting on the quayside with a lantern. 'My lord earl,' he said. 'Captain Quinton. Follow me, if you please.'
    Tom Chiffinch, this; keeper of His Majesty's back stairs. Chiffinch controlled most of the confidential access to the royal person, and probably knew every secret that was worth knowing in England. He led us unerringly through the warren that was Whitehall, down dimly lit galleries, up narrow staircases, through empty chambers. As always, the fragrances of Whitehall presented a grotesque and heady mix: one moment an exquisite French perfume, lingering long after its wearer had departed (doubtless to the bed of some vile rake); the next, the less pleasing odours of the palace's many cesspits, which had probably not been emptied since Lord Protector Cromwell and his swordsmen marched along these same corridors in their harsh leather boots. Finally, Chiffinch came to a closed door, knocked, entered, and bowed. We followed him into a small, dimly lit chamber, with windows that looked out over the Thames.
    Three men sat in the room, laughing as a little dog with long ears shat on the floor, then looked around indignantly as though accusing one of them of having done the deed. The oldest of the three was forty or more, his face aquiline and weary. He was cursing the dog in a strong German accent. The youngest was tall and awkward; a forced smile struggled to find purchase on his long, stern face. In the middle sat a dark man, equally tall, just past his thirtieth year, with a great ugly nose, a fine black wig, and a laugh like a peal of bells. Reflexively, we Quinton brothers bowed to him. The earl my brother said, 'Your Majesty.'
    Charles the Second, King of England, Scotland and Ireland, by the grace of God (and, more pertinently, by the grace of those politicians who had invited him back to reign over us)–this King Charles looked up and beckoned us in, gesturing towards the wine on the table.
    'Charlie, Matt. You choose a damn fine moment for your audience. That's the problem with dogs. Shit everywhere. God alone knows