London - Edward Rutherfurd [381]
Julius Ducket had just invented government debt.
It was a sparkling day under a crystal sky when Sir Henry Ducket took his younger brother downriver to see the king.
It had been Henry’s idea. “You must do credit to the family,” he had insisted, “if you are to be presented to the king.” Henry, therefore, had dressed Julius. Instead of his usual, rather modest clothes, Julius was now sporting a high-waisted, bright scarlet tunic and cape. In place of a simple ruff was a huge, floppy lace collar that came down over his shoulders; his soft leather boots were turned over at the knee; and topping this whole assemblage was a huge-brimmed hat with a great, curling ostrich feather drooping elegantly over the brim. In England, the fashion was known as the ‘cavalier’ style. And it had to be said, with his moustache and beard curled, Julius looked uncommonly well, so much so that his wife, gazing at him with admiration, burst out laughing, tickled his ribs and cried: “Don’t forget, Julius, to come back to me tonight.”
“The only thing wrong,” Henry remarked, “is that your hair should be longer.” His own, in the best court style, flowed over his shoulders. “But you’ll do.”
As two cavaliers, therefore, the Duckets came down the Thames to Greenwich.
“There is nothing to fear,” Henry told him, as they made their way round the old riverside palace. Julius knew this was true; yet all the same, he could not help suddenly groaning: “Oh brother. I am such a rude and simple fellow.”
For, it was beyond question, no English court, not even that of great King Harry, had ever attracted such a galaxy of talent. The court masques were masterpieces. Great European artists like Rubens and Van Dyck came to visit and decided to stay. King Charles himself, despite his modest means, was quietly assembling a collection of paintings – Titians, Raphaels, the Flemish masters – to rival any in Europe. The court was cosmopolitan. And, as if to underline this fact, as they walked up the grassy slope behind the palace and turned to look back, Julius was unexpectedly presented with a sight so lovely that he could only gasp:
“Dear God, was ever anything more perfect?”
The Queen’s House at Greenwich was just being completed. Because the old Tudor buildings were still there to screen it from the river, Julius had hardly been aware of it before. Its designer, the great Inigo Jones, had already completed one other classical masterpiece – the Banqueting Hall at Whitehall, whose ceiling was being painted that very year by Rubens himself. But fine as it was, amidst the clutter of buildings at Whitehall, the Banqueting House did not show to the same advantage as this.
For the Queen’s House was perfect. Set by itself in the outer wall of the old palace gardens, and facing up the park, this gleaming white, Italianate villa, just two storeys high, with three sets of windows at the centre and two each side, looked so neat, so classically perfect, that you might have supposed it was a little model for some casket to exhibit a silversmith’s art. “Oh dear,” Julius murmured again, “I am such a rustic fellow.” At which moment he turned to see, not twenty yards away, the king.
King Charles advanced. Dressed neatly in a tunic of yellow silk, he was also wearing a wide-brimmed hat which, as they hastily made their bows, he politely doffed in reply. He was accompanied by a group of gentlemen and of ladies in long, full-bodied silk dresses. He walked easily, carrying a golden-topped stick. But as he reached them Julius realized that he was tiny. He hardly came up to Julius’s shoulder. Yet he was the most aristocratic personage Julius had ever encountered in his life. Everything about the king was as neat as the little gem of a building behind them.
“As it is a fine day,” he said pleasantly, “let us speak here,” and leading the two men to a grassy knoll where an oak tree provided shade, he stood courteously to