Changelings at Court

by Ken Altabef

  “But who could have done such a thing? To the King?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but I have my suspicions. As soon as I am well enough, I will travel back to London. But in the meantime, there’s something in my house that I need. You’ll get it for me, won’t you? And by the time you return I’ll be fit as a fiddle.”

  “And then?” She squeezed his hand.

  “We’ll see.”

  Chapter 32

  September 7, 1761

  London, England

  When the royal carriage bearing Charlotte arrived at the garden gate of St. James’s there was such an uproar from all the coaches, chaises and horsemen crowded chaotically into the Palace-Yard, George thought his ears might burst.

  Everyone who was anyone wanted to witness the first meeting of the young king and his intended. They lined the avenues along her route and flooded the parks bordering the palace grounds just to watch her pass. George heard them cheering as the carriage rolled from street to street. He waited on the balcony of St James’s, conveniently out of sight. It wouldn’t do for the people to think he was waiting on his princess. If they only knew!

  Their excitement was boundless and utterly contagious, but could not hold a candle to his own. Tonight he would be wed!

  Each time a gun fired from the parapets, a matching roar erupted from the crowd. But as he watched the carriage pull up, George couldn’t keep from thinking about Sarah Lennox. He simply could not help it. He had fallen in love with Sarah Lennox, the daughter of the Duke of Richmond, from the moment he’d first set eyes on her. The fifteen-year-old beauty had absolutely captivated him with her looks, charm and sweet personality. But his birthright would never allow him to raise a mere countrywoman to sit beside him on the throne. Instead, his agents had scoured the noble houses of Europe in order to find a suitable woman of the blood for him to wed. A Protestant. A princess.

  His ministers finally recommended Sophia Charlotte, princess of the tiny backwater duchy of Mecklenburg-Strelitz. She’d seemed a very suitable candidate—by reputation a quiet and unassuming girl, yet very well-educated and from a family of unimpeachable respectability. As for her looks… well… the pen and ink portrait his agents had obtained showed her a tall, skinny girl of pale complexion and plain looks that could not honestly have been described as beautiful. She was only seventeen, he told himself, and might still grow into her too-wide mouth and exaggerated chin.

  George felt another ungodly pang of desire for his poor, lost Sarah Lennox, but he put it again out of his mind.

  Marriage was a serious business, and he would approach it as such. An alliance with the tiny duchy of Mecklenburg-Strelitz had no great significance, but this marriage was, in fact, intended to be the cornerstone of his reign. His bride was of the blood, but utterly provincial. She had no connections in Britain and was no ambitious power-hungry lady of the court. She had, by all accounts, a pliable disposition, one that could be molded into any form the king desired. He had set out to become a new kind of king. He was determined to be the conscience of his country, a moral compass to his subjects in all things. He must be content with his wife, however plain she was reputed to be, and lead a decent, virtuous and exemplary life. No pretend piety here, no selfish secret infidelities and no mistresses, public or private. His royal family would set an example as none had ever before, of duty, of faith, of solidarity. And he would love and cherish his sons, unlike the two kings that had preceded him. He would end the monstrous cycle of jealousy and emotional dysfunction that had permeated his entire family line so painfully. A new type of monarchy, a new country, which took pride in duty, obligation and conscience. That was his ideal. And it would all start today.

  John Bute, who had waited the afternoon with him atop the parapet, advised the King, “We must wait several more minutes before we descend to meet the carriage. A short delay for appearances sake only.”

  “No sir,” replied George. “On this we disagree. I shall not let that woman wait a moment longer.”

  Bute smiled as broadly as George had ever seen him smile, a smile that encompassed a firm appreciation of the King’s romantic impatience, but made no comment as to such. Bute was a true friend.

  George walked proudly to the carriage, accompanied by Lord Bute and also his brother Edward, Duke of York. George was dressed in a luxurious greatcoat of red and gold brocade trimmed with a strip of white ermine along every seam and cuff, with a half-cape of the same elegant fur to match. He measured every stride, his polished boots striking the ground with the full moment of the occasion. He was truly happy. Every step brought him closer to his destiny.

  Edward opened the carriage door and offered the princess his arm as she stepped down. No sooner had she touched the ground, she threw herself at his feet. George raised her up, taking her hand. Her skin felt cool and clammy. She was, of course nervous to the extreme. He wanted to tell her that she need not bow to him, but it would not do to speak to her until Lord Bute had completed the formal introductions.

  “I present Lady Sophia Charlotte, Princess of Mecklenburg-Strelitz,” Bute announced with his distinctive Scottish brogue. He turned his open hand to George with a flourish. “His Royal Highness, George William Frederick, King of Great Britain and Ireland.”

  George stumbled for something to say. He felt a moment of panic at sight of his intended, for she was certainly not a beauty. He had expected that. He’d been aware of that.

  “I regret,” he said, speaking her native German, “that you must come by carriage, my lady. I had planned a lovely procession up the Thames.” He felt like an idiot saying that, but he couldn’t think of anything else.

  She dipped her head demurely. “Certainly your highness need not apologize for the roughness of the sea.”

  “Certainly not.” Certainly not what he had planned to say. And her reply also surprised him. Her German bore no hint of the provincial dialect he would have expected from Mecklenburg-Strelitz. But then, he reminded himself, she had been very well-educated at the duchy.

  “Lord Abercorn was very gracious,” she added, “when we were forced to put in at Witham.”

  “I’m pleased. Rest assured, I will thank him appropriately.”

  They were supposed to embrace now, in full view of the crowd. Why did he delay? He had to do something, or everyone would think him disappointed. But he surely was disappointed, wasn’t he? The ink sketch in his office which he had held in such high regard had not fully prepared him for this. The girl had a fine head of hair, but such a wide mouth and large, flaring nostrils. And such a long, ungainly neck. She was entirely plain. Worse than plain.

  He stepped forward and they came together for the briefest moment, his hands only touching her lightly at the elbows. She smelled of lilac perfume, very peasant.

  And then her eyes rose to meet his. And they were the most exotic eyes he had ever seen. She was not plain at all. She was simply exquisite. Every man assembled here must be driven mad with jealousy.

  She touched his wrist with one long, slender finger and he nearly gasped. She was the most sensuous woman he could ever imagine. He must not let the others see him trembling. He must speak, but his mouth was dry. He could hardly remember the line.

  “A-a-allow me to present you to my… my family.”

  She shot him another coy look from those withering eyes. How many more hours to the wedding? He could hardly wait. He must not think beyond that. He might go mad with longing for her touch.

  Dresdemona smiled at the man standing moronically before her. What a hideous sight he was! His heavy-lidded eyes bulging, his fleshy lips trembling. His nose was large and pimpled, his brow receded backward at a slope she had only previously seen on degenerates and pinheads. His forehead disappeared beneath his gaudy white wig as if half his brain was missing. This was the reigning King of England?

  She smiled again as her retinue debarked from the carriage. Aldebaran, posing as her brother Adolphus, could not help but snicker. Idiot! If she wasn’t careful
of him, he’d ruin everything before they even got started.

  Meadowlark came next, disguised as her maiden Johanna, and then Bekla, posing as Juliana. Meadowlark swept the hem of his fluffy pink dress carefully to the side as he stepped down. At least he had the good sense to act in character. Bekla gawked at the Horse Guards and the adoring crowd of Londoners standing slack-jawed, awed by the pageant of majesty put before them.

  Dresdemona allowed the royal buffoon to lead her through the garden and up the steps to the palace.

  Chapter 33

  “I asked around,” James said, “and I found out her name was Marjorie Hightower. She was the grand-daughter of the Earl of Kent.”

  “A ghost in the lake? You’ve seen a ghost. James, you are a sensitive.” And with that she flicked his exposed nipple.

  “Stop!” he said, twisting away. They lay naked on his bed, still half dazed in the afterglow. Arabelle much preferred to make love outdoors, but it was a rainy day heavy with mid-September chill. She would still have preferred the wet, chilly heath but such weather tended to hamper James’ performance quite a bit. So it was the bed.

  James sat up. “She confused me for my father. That may have had something to do with it. But the girl was real. My father’s valet told me they were supposed to be married. My grandfather arranged the whole thing when they were six years old.”

  Arabelle sat up as well. Her alabaster skin was radiant with a sheen of glistening faery sweat; James watched a small droplet, like a liquid diamond, as it ran down the curve of one breast to disappear into her modest cleavage. “Arranging marriages between children. Do you realize how barbaric and stupid that sounds?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do. But you know, the aristocracy has its own concerns. People often try to marry into rich families to gain wealth and power.”

  “Like your mother did?” Arabelle stuck out her tongue, which was bright pink and sharply pointed. Despite her playful gesture the words still stung, because they were true. “She wanted to get her hands on that Grayson talisman—that lens or whatever it was. And she got it too.”

  “My mother doesn’t care one whit for money or power, and you know it.”

  “Still, she got in didn’t she? A poor country waif from Graystown. And not even that. A pretender. And what about you? Do you have a child bride waiting somewhere too?”

  “No. If I had, we would not be here together.”

  “Lucky for me, then.” She extended the tongue again, this time to lick a small bead of sweat from her upper lip. “And lucky for you. If your father had married that little English duchess, you’d never have been born.”

  “That’s the whole point. The girl didn’t just happen to drown in the lake. She was killed. She thinks my father did it.”

  “Did he?”

  “No. Certainly not. My father is no murderer of children. Or anyone else. It’s just not possible. I know it wasn’t him. And that means it was someone pretending to be him. Someone who could appear to be my father and fool his young bride-to-be.”

  “A faery?”

  “A faery. And very soon after, he meets my mother and falls in love.”

  Arabelle chuckled. “Well that certainly is suspicious. So what about Theodora? Could she kill someone?”

  James did not like the idea but he had to admit it was possible. He knew his mother very well. In the faery realm little was kept hidden, and he had become a very good judge of character. “She could. But I don’t think it was her…”

  “Faeries are such tricksy creatures…” Arabelle went for his nipple again, swinging around to sit on his lap facing him. She moved with an unearthly grace, as if half floating in the air. Her hips settled on his crotch with just the right amount of pressure.

  “Stop for a minute. This is serious. A girl has been murdered. By a faery. Let’s assume it wasn’t my dear mother. Now you tell me, who else might it have been?”

  “Well don’t look at me! Twenty years ago, I was just a newborn babe inside my mushroom, all hyped up on magical hallucinations and loving the world.”

  “I know. But who else? You know them all. We’ve a real mystery on our hands here and if we’re to solve it we’ll need a list of suspects. That’s how it’s done.”

  Arabelle brushed back her fine blonde hair, a pensive expression wrinkling her brow for a moment. “The faeries wanted that talisman—they needed it. They would have done anything to get it.”

  “Who comes first to mind?”

  “Meadowlark.”

  “Hmm. An obvious suspect, I guess. And now he’s gone away. Who else?”

  “I don’t know. It could be anyone. Oh, what about Redthorne? Could have been her. She was quite the assassin, back in those days.”

  “It could have been her,” James agreed. That possibility interested him greatly, especially since it let his mother off the hook. “But Redthorne’s dead. That pirate killed her. Draven Ketch.”

  Arabelle put her hand over her mouth and let out an exaggerated gasp. “What if it was Moon Dancer?”

  James did not appreciate the sarcasm but still he wondered. He’d never met the great matriarch of Barrow Downes, as she had passed away more than ten years ago. It was hard to reconcile her benevolent reputation with the actions of a child killer. But it was possible. As Arabelle had so deftly put it—the faeries were tricksy creatures. All of them. “However can we find out? Too much time has gone by, and all our best suspects are dead or gone.”

  Arabelle kissed him lightly on the forehead. “We could ask.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Not at all.”

  The great white ash tree at Barrow Downes had been an impressive sight as long as James could remember. A hundred feet tall, with a trunk as wide around as a Roman column, its leafy branches stretched outward in an unparalleled display of arboreal splendor. Even now, with the rest of the trees taking on bright fall colors and shedding their leaves, the great ash was undaunted, showing only a little orange as if holding out to the very last. As magnificent as the tree appeared above ground, few knew of its wonderful nature below the dark soil at Barrow Downes.

  Unseen, its trunk extended a hundred feet below, the network of roots branching and spreading as they went. Fifty feet belowground, the trunk penetrated a large natural cavern near the center of the faery stronghold. Its tremendous roots circumscribed the walls to every side and circled above to form a vaulted ceiling.

  As he sat in that chamber at the base of the tree, James inhaled the gentle fragrance of midnight orchids. Tiny balls of faery light bobbed and drifted lazily around the trunk, illuminating the base of the tree with pulses of white and yellow.

  Years ago, Moon Dancer’s ebbing spirit had merged with that of the great ash tree, as was the way of the most powerful faeries in their extreme of age. With time she had receded further and further into the tree; the image of her face could no longer be seen overlaying the pattern of wrinkled, white bark. But James had seen a vision of her once as a small boy, leaning over him as he slept. It might well have been a dream, but he would never forget her pleasant, smiling face. Her fine, corn-silk hair bound up around the top of her head, her skin pale as milk. She had a brow and chin both sharp and somewhat masculine, perhaps an aftereffect of having changed sexes several times in her long life. But her cheeks and nose had been plump and matronly, her eyes bright blue and soft as a dandelion’s feathery head.

  Though James had visited this chamber many times, he had never been aware of anyone attempting to converse with what remained of the soul of the dear departed matron. How long could her spirit remain merged with the tree after her body was gone? There were many faery secrets he still did not understand.

  “Have you done this before?” he asked.

  “Few have done it, ever, and none recently. Moon Dancer is at last fading away beyond our reach. I didn’t say it would be easy.” Arabelle chuckled and gave his hand a squeeze. “But together… maybe we can succeed.”

  “Just tell me what to do.”<
br />
  Arabelle laughed. “Tell you? You’re better at communing with spirits than anyone I know, and much better than I am. I’m expecting you to lead. I’ll just follow along.”

  James took her hand. “Empty your mind. Just breathe. Think only of water and air.”

  “Water and air. Got it.”

  “Please, you must be serious…”

  Arabelle chuckled.

  “I can sense the spirit of the ash tree already,” said James. “It’s such a gigantic presence. Do you feel it?”

  “Certainly.”

  “We’ll have to match the tone of its emotions precisely.” This task, for James, was easy enough. The great ash tree had existed for so long, had felt the bite of many winters, felt the sting of storm and lightning, the warm pleasure of the sun and summer rain. Such trees had no worries or cares; they simply existed, growing and expanding as resources and nature might allow. James had long practiced achieving such a peaceful meditative state, but for Arabelle it was not so easy. Faery minds were complicated things, sometimes acting antithetical to their own best interests. She was easily distracted by sensation and quick to impish thoughts.

  James thrilled at the idea of meeting Moon Dancer. He might have leapt directly into the spirit world of the ash tree, but had to take a moment to stay his hand. Before making the journey, he must first match his mind to Arabelle’s and do exactly as she had described—drag her along with him.

  James was quite familiar with the intricacies of Arabelle’s beautiful soul and, as they had done many times before, the two merged on the spiritual plane like a pair of hands clasped warmly together. He found her surprisingly cooperative and composed, and they pair stepped calmly forward as if stepping into a veil of white syrup. They both sighed together as their consciousnesses merged with the great ash tree. The tree, not surprisingly, enjoyed a state of peaceful slumber. James led Arabelle along, probing here and there in search of Moon Dancer’s ancient spirit, stepping lightly so as not to wake the ash tree or disturb its rest. Their search proved fruitless.