Changelings at Court

by Ken Altabef

  “He kicked me from his carriage!” To illustrate his point, Eric slashed his boot at a defenseless clump of tall grass. “He practically sent me ass-first into the mud.”

  Theodora took her husband’s hand. They stood on a high mound overlooking the Grayson farms below. The harvest was already finished, ten days early, since only half the fields had been planted this year. With no place to sell any additional crops, they had let half their fields lie fallow. It’s alright, she thought. Let the land rest a while. Let it heal.

  “William Pit,” she said, “was against us from the start.”

  “Yes, but I got around him. We had the King on our side. We had him! Of all the rotten luck…”

  Theodora was convinced it had been something more than just bad luck, but decided not to raise the issue. She wanted Eric to calm down.

  He released her hand in order to fidget with the buttons fronting his greatcoat. “Threadneedle gave his all for us. Is his sacrifice to be in vain?”

  “Take a deep breath,” she said. “Cool, fresh air does wonders for a troubled heart. Isn’t it beautiful up here above the fields? Look at the farmhouses. So peaceful, with just a curl of smoke from their chimneys. Winter will soon be here. Time to rest. To get our lives back on track, that’s all.”

  “I won’t give up.”

  “If you continue on this way, it will cost us everything.”

  “I don’t care. No matter the cost, we press on.”

  “But what does that mean? Press on? There’s nothing more for us to do. I spoke with Moonshadow just yesterday. She’s not willing to expose the faeries. And if Moonshadow won’t do anything, we’re out of options. Let it go, at least for now. They’re not your people, Eric.”

  “Yes, they are,” he insisted, and she knew what he meant. He was thinking of his family—of her and Nora and James. “You’re a good man at heart. A better one, I’ll never know. I’ve watched you grow from a young man with a burdensome inheritance to a strong father and now even a crusader. Believe me, Eric. I couldn’t be more proud. But we can’t do it alone.”

  “Don’t be so sure of that. Moonshadow may not want to show herself, but what if we do? What if you do? What if we let the King see—let them all see? A faery living right amongst them? I’ll stand beside you.”

  “You can’t be serious? After what just happened in Newcastle-upon–Tyne?”

  “That was the Winter Court. We’re not responsible for them. We’ll help make it right. If they could just see you for what you really are, how wonderful you really are, the way I see you. They’ll have no choice.”

  Theodora squeezed his hand. “Oh my darling, I appreciate the sentiment, I really do. But you must know… they won’t understand. To them, all the faeries are the same. They won’t listen. We’ll be ruined. We’ll lose everything—everything we have left.”

  “We will stand proud and face them. My family still has some standing. They won’t be able to ignore us.”

  “Ignore us?” she chuckled. “They’ll kill us or throw us in chains. Eric, we can’t.” Theodora stopped, realizing she had now taken a position that mirrored everything she had chided Moonshadow for advocating earlier that day—hiding, cowering, playing it safe while everything crumbled around them. She couldn’t risk the good life she’d created here. Eric was willing to risk anything. But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

  “Maybe there’s a third way,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Someone else who can convince them. When the time is right. Someone they would never expect.”

  She glanced at him wonderingly and, at last, he smiled. “I have sort of a plan.”

  PART 3: QUEEN’S GAMBIT

  Chapter 29

  August 20, 1761

  The King’s Road, England

  Princess Charlotte just could not concentrate on her sewing.

  Usually the repetitive movements of her fingers and the occasional prick of the needle kept her mind from racing. But her needlework could not offer any such calming effect today. She had reached a turning point. Her life, her family’s fate, affairs of state—they were like a river, a raging torrent. Pivotal events had swept her up and she must either allow herself to be carried along or fling herself bodily from the carriage.

  She laid down the embroidery and forced herself to take a deep breath. Her heart was pounding in her chest. The bumpy carriage ride, the uncertain future, a royal marriage, a husband, children. Children!

  It all seemed so far removed from her ordinary daily life. The last few weeks had passed in a whirlwind, leaving a blurry smear behind that could only be described as a surreal haze. The only event still remaining in sharp focus was last night. After the marriage treaty had been signed, she had been fêted at a grand banquet at her family home. The palace and gardens were set ablaze with thousands of lamps; it seemed every backstreet and tiny lane of the little town of Neustrelitz was burning wax in honor of the treaty. Charlotte stood before the grand assemblage, shaky at the knees, as she made an impassioned speech of thanks to her family and friends that left no eye dry in the great hall, including her own. The words she had spoken must have come from someone else’s lips—so confident, so bold. She was off on a grand adventure, she said, and vowed that she would see her relations again, the next time, entertaining them amid the pomp and circumstance at St James’s Palace. Confident. Bold. But she knew in her heart she would never see home again.

  Charlotte glanced out her window. The carriage creaked and tottered as it traversed the gloomy stretch of road between Belum and Otterndorf. The day was extremely overcast, the scenery unremarkable—nothing but empty farms and neglected woodland. Their caravan would be met in Cuxhaven at the mouth of the Elbe, where the English king’s fleet would sail her away across the Channel amid a squadron of war ships and other royal yachts. They had even christened a new boat the Royal Charlotte just for her, having renamed the old Royal Caroline for the occasion. A triple-masted schooner. She should be delighted.

  She stabbed at the embroidery again, but it was no good. Her hands were shaking.

  “It’s so very exciting, don’t you think?” Again, she said words that completely contradicted her own feelings.

  Her brother Adolphus, sitting beside her in the carriage, puffed casually at his pipe. “There’s nothing else anyone could think.”

  He smiled his contented smile, his thin lips forming a pleasant half-crescent below his long sloping nose. “You needn’t worry.”

  “Oh, but it’s… I just wish it could have been different for Christina. It’s not fair. She seemed so sad last night.”

  “We’re all sad to see you go, you know.”

  “You know it’s not that. Not just that, anyway. It’s that clause in the treaty, forbidding any member of the family from marrying an English subject. I just don’t understand.”

  Adolphus smirked. “I think that sort of thing is fairly routine. The King doesn’t want any ambitious British nobles working their way into his court through Christina’s… erm, shall we say ‘good graces’. A baser man would have said ‘legs’, but not I.” He chuckled at his own joke, puffing smoke. “Maybe it’s for the best. We wouldn’t want her to be used that way, either.”

  “For the best? Did you see the look in her eyes? Perhaps she never spoke of it with you, but she told me she had hopes of marrying John Ker.” Charlotte lowered her voice when mentioning the name, though it was unlikely their driver might hear.

  Adolphus snickered. “The Duke of Roxbughe?”

  “Yes! And don’t say it like that. They met in Berlin last year. And they feel strongly toward each other. Christina said he was going to propose.”

  “Hmm. No bother. She’s better off without a Scot, anyway.”

  “Oh, you beast!” Charlotte slapped her brother on the arm. “Maybe we can get his majesty to lift the ban. Or at least make an exception. Do you think it came directly from him, or just something the ministers insisted upon?”

  Adolphus
took another contemplative puff. “I don’t know. At least he let you keep your femmes des chambres. That’s quite a concession. They don’t usually, you know. That’s another thing that makes their skin crawl. Bringing in servants that can not be counted on to be loyal. And women do meddle…”

  “Juliana wouldn’t, and not Johanna either. At least not much. And they’re more friends than servants. I couldn’t be expected to go all the way to England friendless and alone could I?”

  “Oh, you’ll soon have them all—the women-in-waiting, chamberlains, pages, apothecaries, Maids of Honor to lace up your corsets and ladies of the bedchamber to set them loose, and probably someone devoted entirely just to look after your teeth. They’ll check them every day. Let’s practice now. Open up! Let’s have a look.”

  He opened his own mouth and stretched the skin at his cheeks. It was not a pretty sight. At twenty-three, her brother the Duke had already lost several teeth in front. “Come on, let’s see those choppers.” He reached for her mouth and she slapped him playfully away.

  He chuckled and rearranged his collar. “And you aren’t alone. You’ve still got me.”

  She squeezed his arm and smiled. “Yes, and very glad of it. I wish you could stay longer than just a fortnight.”

  “Longer would be intolerable,” he said with a comical air. “After all, I’m forbidden from falling in love with an Englishwoman. Whatever will I do for two weeks?”

  They both laughed again. They were nearly thrown from their seats as the carriage came to an abrupt halt.

  “Oh really,” said Adolphus. “The condition of these country roads is intolerable. Are we stuck again?”

  The road, which was little more than a suggestion, a faint wagon-track etched lightly into the gravel and dirt traversing Otterndorf, had been overflowing with water from the summer rains. The carriage had found itself mired in wet sand twice already this morning.

  A loud crash!

  The carriage shook on its wheels and nearly toppled. Charlotte turned to her window but before she could look out something struck the glass. She jumped back. It had been the driver’s arm, hanging limply downward. After the arm struck, his body followed, a dark silhouette passing in front of the glass. Charlotte heard a wet slap as it hit the ground.

  “What the devil—” Adolphus threw open the carriage door and ran outside. The door banged open and then slowly creaked shut. Charlotte was left alone in the carriage. She took a slow, deep breath. She had no idea what to do. Her whole body was trembling. But she couldn’t just sit here…

  She had to at least see what was happening. She heard a man scream, but was fairly sure the voice had not been her brother’s. They were under attack. A caravan of three carriages, on a lonely country road, with the princess and other English dignitaries on board, must make a pretty target for bold thieves. But the drivers were all armed. The thieves would soon be routed. Surely?

  She pressed her cheek against the window. There was little to see except the gloomy night and the light rain that had started to fall. She looked down as far as she could in order to ascertain the fate of her driver, but the angle would not permit any sort of helpful view.

  Just then the lead carriage, the one containing Lord Harcourt and Colonel David Graeme and their men, came into view. The carriage was just ahead of her own, but it had not stopped. Its horses were traversing a small circle in the path, going round and round in place. As if nothing were wrong. A strange bubbling mist swirled around it but she could see the driver clearly, and the armed guard, both sitting high atop the stanchion. They looked straight ahead, their expressions bored, completely unaware that their carriage was running in endless circles. The driver made a joke, and the other man laughed.

  The carriage door opened. Charlotte’s heart skipped a beat and she thought she might faint. She wasn’t made for this. She imagined a filthy pirate, some bloodthirsty bastard with a knife clenched between his teeth, storming into the carriage.

  She was relieved to see that it was only her handmaid Johanna Hagerdorn.

  “Oh!” exclaimed Charlotte. “Johanna! What’s happened? Where is Adolph?”

  Johanna ran her hand down the front of her dress, adjusting the frills. She hesitated to speak, as if gathering her thoughts.

  “Tell me! What’s happened?”

  “Something terrible’s happened,” Johanna whispered.

  “Adolphus?”

  “He’s surrendered himself. They didn’t hurt him.”

  “They? Who are they?”

  Johanna made a strange grimacing face. Charlotte had never seen her make that sort of face before. Of course it would be natural for her to be out of sorts in such a tense situation but she was acting very strangely. Johanna fidgeted with her bustier again and said, “It’s complicated.”

  “You sound… funny.”

  “Well, maybe a little. But how do I look?”

  Something was wrong. Charlotte didn’t understand. Johanna looked the same as always but she was acting all wrong, sounding all wrong.

  And then Johanna changed. Her hair turned black and curly, her skin a light shade of green. Her eyes turned mean and black, her nose sharp and her ears stretched upward, thinning out to points at the top. She appeared to be still wearing the same frilly pink and lace dress.

  “Well, I can hardly be judged on the voice,” said Meadowlark. “German is such an ugly language as it is.”

  Charlotte felt herself go dizzy. If she hadn’t been sitting she was certain she would have already passed out. This man—it was a man, wasn’t it?—was not a human being. He was some sort of wood sprite, some sort of faery. But there hadn’t been faeries in Mecklenburg for hundreds of years…

  “The voice won’t matter, anyway,” said Meadowlark. “No one pays attention to servants at St. James’s.”

  “My brother..?”

  “Good old Ducky Adolpho? He’s fine. Fine. I told you. He makes quite a comical face when surprised. His pipe flew so far out of his mouth I’m afraid he’ll never find it again, but that’s the limit to the damage. Now get a grip on yourself, little girl. There’s someone else I’d like you to meet.”

  He stepped to the carriage door and opened it. And Princess Charlotte stepped in.

  Charlotte was dumbfounded. This other was a perfect copy of herself, down to the finest detail. This new Princess Charlotte gathered her skirts and sat gracefully upon the bench opposite.

  “Come dear,” said the imposter. “We need to talk a bit. We haven’t much time.”

  “There’s been a change in the schedule,” Meadowlark explained as he transformed back to the image of her maid. “It’s so very exciting, don’t you think!”

  Chapter 30

  James Grayson sat naked once again on the shore of the quiet inland lake to the south of Grayson Hall. It was a warm night, a perfect night, the sky littered with stars, a cool breeze rippling off the water. And the moon was full.

  James cleared his mind. This time he would not be attempting communion with a passing sparrow or stray squirrel. This time his objective was the moon itself. For many years, ever since he’d first immersed himself in the culture of the faeries at Barrow Downes, the moon had loomed large above him.

  It was said the moon was the source of all faery power, and each faery had their own link to it, some stronger than others. But he did not. He felt no connection to the great glowing orb in the night sky. Maybe such a connection wasn’t meant for him—he was only half faery, after all—but he’d decided it would not be for want of trying. James cleared his mind, eyeing the soft glow of the moonlight on the water.

  Each faery he’d met seemed to have their own impression of the moon. To some, like his mother Theodora, the moon was a mother figure—Mother Moon—a benevolent celestial brimming with grace and beauty that shined her light and bounty down upon them as a mother nourishes her children. Others described the Moon Maid, a more carefree and playful figure much closer to a friend and companion than a parent.

  Not
all faeries chose to anthropomorphize their mutual benefactor. To some the moon existed as an unknowable entity, cool and aloof, a primordial font which granted power sparingly and reflexively. To others it was merely a dead stone in the sky reflecting light and energy from some other, more distant, source. The faeries didn’t seem concerned that the stories should be so dissimilar. Contradictions were not uncomfortable for them, for they saw possibilities in all things, and certainly allowed that multiple interpretations of the same events were possible and even likely. For all they were concerned, the moon might be all those things at the same time. Such nonlinear thinking didn’t quite work for James, however. He felt there must be a definitive answer.

  James was determined to find out for himself. As a fine mist crawled over the surface of the water, obscuring the moonlight’s reflection, he lay back into the tall grass, draping his jacket over his naked loins in case Mother Moon should prefer a little modesty. He gazed up at the sky, breathing slowly and regularly as he had taught himself to do, opening himself, making his mind and soul as receptive to the forces of nature as possible, be they ever so far away as a million miles.

  His eyes drifted closed, his mind reaching out to everything around him—the woods, the grass, every shrub and mushroom, the lapping water. He began to hear a lone voice, rising and falling rhythmically. Could this be perhaps the voice of Mother Moon? The voice, still very faint, sang a strange and haunting melody. The register was high and definitely feminine. It seemed such a sad and strangely seductive song. A lonely lover, trapped in a terrible circumstance. Surely not Mother Moon.

  The owner of the voice reached out for him, bringing a crushing wave of despair and sadness, loneliness and betrayal. He let her grab hold, forming a connection with the forlorn singer. She pulled; he matched her efforts. Had he offered a rescuing hand to a drowning girl or was he himself caught, a helpless fish on a line?

  James gazed over at the reed-choked edge of the lake. Between the swirling mist and the murky twilight he could see very little, but the song was definitely coming from the water, a weird, wet echo.