Waving an arm at the shambling Palace above them, Dr. Hammond said to Roger, “This place is such a bazaar of rumor and intrigue, that your presence, m’Lord, will go far towards quelling any whisperings should the worst happen which Almighty God forbid.” Favoring Daniel with another fearsome over-the-shoulder glare, as he followed the Marquis of Ravenscar into the King’s Apartments.

“It sounds as if some have already gone far beyond whispering, ” Daniel said.

“I’m certain that Dr. Hammond is solely concerned with preserving your reputation, Dr. Waterhouse,” Roger said.

“What-it’s been nigh on twenty years since His Majesty blew up my father-do people suppose I am still nursing a grudge?”

“That’s not it, Daniel-”

“On the contrary! Father’s departure from this plane was so brisk, so hot-leaving behind no physical remains-that it has been a sort of balm to my spirit to sit up with the King, night after night, imbrued in the royal gore, breathing it into my lungs, sopping it up with my flesh, and many other enjoyments besides, that I missed out on when my Father ascended…”

The Marquis of Ravenscar and the two other Doctors had slowed almost to a standstill and were now exchanging deeply significant looks. “Yes,” Roger finally said, after another grand pause, “too much sitting up, in such a f?tid atmosphere, is not healthful for one’s body, mind, or spirit… perhaps an evening’s rest is in order, Daniel, so that when these two good Doctors have restored the King to health, you’ll be ready to offer his Majesty your congratulations, as well as to re-affirm the profound loyalty you harbor, and have always harbored, in your breast, notwithstanding those events of two decades hence, which some would say have already been alluded to more than enough…”

He did not finish this sentence for a quarter of an hour. Before putting it to a merciful death, he’d managed to work in several enconiums for both Drs. Hammond and Griffin, likening one to Asclepius and the other to Hippocrates, while not failing to make any number of cautiously favorable remarks about every other Doctor who had come within a hundred yards of the King during the last month. He also (as Daniel noted, with a kind of admiration) was able to make it clear, to all present, just what a morbid catastrophe it would be if the King died and turned England over into the hands of that mad Papist the Duke of York whilst, practically in the same phrases-with the same words- asserting that York was really such a splendid fellow that it was almost imperative that all of them rush straight-away to the King’s Bedchamber and smother Charles II under a mattress. In a sort of recursive fugue of dependent clauses he was, similarly, able to proclaim Drake Waterhouse to’ve been the finest Englishman who’d ever boiled beef whilst affirming that blowing him up with a ton of gunpowder had been an absolute touchstone of (depending on how you looked at it) monarchical genius that made Charles II such a colossal figure, (or) rampant despotism that augured so favorably for his brother’s reign.

All of this as Daniel and the physicians trailed behind Roger through the leads, halls, galleries, antechambers, and chapels of Whitehall, rupturing stuck doors with shoulder-thrusts and beating back tons of dusty hangings. The Palace must have been but a single building at some point, but no one knew which bit had been put up first; anyway, other buildings had been scabbed onto that first one as fast as stones and mortar could be ferried in, and galleries strung like clothes-lines between wings of it that were deemed too far apart; this created courtyards that were, in time, subdivided, and encroached upon by new additions, and filled in. Then the builders had turned their ingenuity to bricking up old openings, and chipping out new ones, then bricking up the new ones and re-opening the old, or making newer ones yet. In any event, every closet, hall, and room was claimed by one nest or sect of courtiers, just as every snatch of Germany had its own Baron. Their journey from the Privy Stairs to the King’s Bedchamber would, therefore, have been fraught with difficult border-crossings and protocol disputes if they’d made it in silence. But as the Marquis of Ravenscar was leading them surely through the maze, he went on, and on, with his Oration, a feat akin to threading needles while galloping on horseback through a wine cellar. Daniel lost track of the number of claques and cabals they burst in on, greeted, and left behind; but he did notice a lot of Catholics about, and more than a few Jesuits. Their route took them in a sort of jagged arc circumventing the Queen’s Apartments, which had been turned into a sort of Portuguese nunnery quite a long time ago, furnished with prayer-books and ghastly devotional objects; yet it buzzed with its own conspiracies. Whenever they spied a door ajar, they heard brisk steps approaching it from the opposite side and saw it slammed and locked in their faces. They passed by the King’s little chapel, which had been turned into a base-camp for this Catholic invasion, which didn’t really surprise Daniel but would have ignited riots over nine-tenths of England had it been widely known.

Finally they arrived at the door to the King’s Bedchamber, and Roger startled them all by finishing his sentence. He somehow contrived to separate Daniel from the physicians, and spoke briefly to the latter before showing them in to see the patient.

“What’d you tell them?” Daniel asked, when the Marquis came back.

“That if they unsheathed their lancets, I’d have their testicles for tennis-balls,” Roger said. “I have an errand for you, Daniel: go to the Duke of York and report on his brother’s condition.”

Daniel took a breath, and held it. He could scarcely believe, all of a sudden, how tired he was. “I could say something obvious here, such as that anyone could do that, and most would do it better than I, and then you’d answer with something that’d make me feel a bit dim, such as-”

“In our concern for the previous king we must not forget to maintain good relations with the next.”

“ ‘We’ meaning-in this case-?”

“Why, the Royal Society!” said Roger, miffed to have been asked.

“Righto. What shall I tell him?”

“That London’s finest physicians have arrived-so it shouldn’t be much longer.”

HE MIGHT HAVE SHIELDED HIMSELFfrom the cold and the wind by walking up the length of the Privy Gallery, but he’d had quite enough of Whitehall, so instead he went outside, crossed a couple of courts, and emerged at the front of the Banqueting House, directly beneath where Charles I had had his head lopped off, lo these many years ago. Cromwell’s men had kept him prisoner in St. James’s and then walked him across the Park for his decapitation. Four-year-old Daniel, sitting on Drake’s shoulders in the plaza, had watched every one of the King’s steps.

This evening, thirty-nine-year-old Daniel would be retracing that King’s final walk-except backwards.

Now, Drake, twenty years ago, would have been the first to admit that most of Cromwell’s work had been rolled back by the Restoration. But at least Charles II was a Protestant-or had the decency to pretend to be one. So Daniel oughtn’t to make too much of an omen out of this walk-God forbid he should start thinking like Isaac, and find occult symbols in every little thing. But he couldn’t help imagining that time was being rolled back even farther now, even past the reign of Elizabeth, all the way back to the days of Bloody Mary. In those days John Waterhouse, Drake’s grandfather, had fled over the sea to Geneva, which was a hornets’ nest of Calvinists. Only after Elizabeth was on the throne had he returned, accompanied by his son Calvin-Drake’s father-and many other English and Scottish men who thought the way he did about religion.