Chapter 7

London, England

#Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!#

Charles II was a towering monarch, particularly for his day. His stature alluded to the power he wielded over his kingdoms, and the great respect his subjects had for him. Years ago, he had been exiled by the execution of his father to France, where his very young and petit cousin Louis XIV sat newly on the throne. The two had developed a strong bond of kinship, though officially they were now at odds due to the differing religions of their nations. As a result, Louis's visit to England was to be kept quiet.
"Sire, I would advise you to request Louis XIV to turn back at once. If word were to spread that the king of France were coming to England, it will be assumed you are siding with the Catholics." "England will not stand for another Catholic government, sire", the advisor added with tone.
Charles slowly set down his ornate cup and saucer, the fragrant tea inside steaming lightly, and lowered his gaudy Union Jack shudder shades.
"The people of England should know that it is because of the gracious generosity of a *Catholic* king that they are now able to have a *protestant* ruler", Charles chided. "Besides," he added, "a visitor is an excuse for a PARTY!"
At the mention of the word, Charles's namesake dog jumped up and barked excitedly. The advisor decided to leave defeated, and Charles returned to one of his favourite pastimes, burying his head in Nell Gwynn, causing her to call out "Oh your majesty!"
It's good to be the king.

Meanwhile, outside Dover, Louis and Philippe were sitting down to dinner at a coaching inn, exhausted from the journey across the Channel. It was, after all, still a very new concept to the two, the sea voyage. The landlord had eyed the two very suspiciously as they entered. He could smell a Frenchman from a mile away. Literally. It wasn't unusual to see a frog-eater in these parts–after all, Dover was a port, but these two were outrageous.
"Look at 'em Frenchies sittin' there", he grunted to his wife in an unmistakably cockney accent, "I'll tell ya what they are them two, right puftas they are! It's not right. Not right at all I say. Two grown men. Hmph. A wonder what them dirty heretic Jims'll do."
A server sent by the landlord approached the two. He was a black man with a lazily fitted blue frock coat that had three white stripes running down each sleeve, a signature mark of Adidas.
"You bruthas is French innit?"
Louis had studied some of the English language before, but the words he had just head sounded like a meaningless jumble. As he turned, his gold lace jabot glimmered and caught the server's eye.
"Oh man that is well tight, blood! Proppa mint. You is flexxin innit!"
Louis again was baffled and stared blankly, not sure if he should be offended. "Excusez moi?"
"*I like yo threads, bruv.* They is safe", the server spoke slowly.
It didn't help Louis or Philippe understand in any way.
"We would like to see a, how you say, menu?" Louis tried to say, though it came across in a heavy French accent.
"*Brap!* I see you ain't no rudeboi. But we don't got bare posh food here."
Philippe turned to Louis. "What is he saying?"
"Erm, I think he says they have food here", Louis replied without much confidence.
"Hmph, astute language skills, brother." remarked Philippe sarcastically.
Quickly coming to the conclusion that the gay French couple in front of him didn't understand a word he was saying, the server put on his Johnny Foreigner explanation voice; a voice instantly recognisable to those who have seen Britons in France, and characterised by slow, loud, and simple English to make those damn foreigners understand.
"WE. HAVE. PIE. OR. FISH. AND. CHIPS."
Louis nodded and began to translate for Philippe, "So apparently we have the choice between either a tart or fish."
"Oooo lovely! I could go for something sweet!" squealed Philippe, "I wonder what kind of tart it will be! Maybe pear?"
"And I suppose I will have the fish" decided Louis.
He placed the order and the server left them in peace again.

"So mon frere, any plan yet on how to track down Hooke?" questioned Philippe.
"I am hoping Charles will be able to help us there. If Hooke is such a great scientist, then I would imagine he would be active in a royal society chartered by our cousin. Perhaps a meeting could be arranged."
This time it was the portly landlord who came to the table and delivered their meals. The food was not at all what they were expecting.
In front of Louis sat a large piece of fish fried so heavily that it oozed oil running down the plate and on to the table. Beside it were potatoes, also fried, that stunk of malt vinegar. Philippe's face showed even more horror than Louis's though, as his 'petit tart' was in fact a heavy, somewhat burnt puff pastry filled with kidney and onion, topped with a dark gravy that ran with a rubbery thick consistency, and further a slop of practically puréed potato. Simply the use of potato in a meal was shocking enough, but the entirety of the strange English dishes truly overwhelmed the two Frenchmen. But if that weren't enough, the uncouth Englishman dropped two piping hot mugs of a brown drink that consisted of boiling water and leaves.