Changelings at Court

by Ken Altabef

  “Idiot! Get out! I won’t be undone tonight. Go satisfy your urgings on some scullery maid. Get!”

  He scowled again. “Fine. Just remember, I’ve a lust for other things than just the use of a woman’s cunt.”

  “No worries. When the time comes, I’ll let you be the one to kill our young King Georgie.”

  “Your card?”

  Meadowlark glanced down at the playing cards in his hand. He held a few low-numbered diamonds, the six of clubs and the King of hearts. Numbers, numbers, numbers; he was sick to death of numbers. The King of hearts, at least, had a merry smile on his face. The King held his sword at an angle that made it seem he were in the process of committing suicide.

  “Suicide,” he muttered. “Perhaps ‘twere better to perish by iron blade than the blunt edge of boredom.”

  “Is that Shakespeare?” asked Queen Charlotte’s Mistress of the Robes, the Duchess of Ancaster.

  Meadowlark, in his guise of Johanna Hagerdorn, shot her an apathetic nod. “Quite.”

  “I don’t recognize the passage. Is it King Lear?” This was asked by the First Lady of the Bedchamber, the Duchess of Hamilton.

  “Never mind all that,” said Ancaster impatiently. “Johanna, your card?”

  Meadowlark played the six of clubs.

  “Oh dear,” remarked Hamilton.

  “A club?” demanded the fourth, Lady Elsevier of Manchester. “But dear, you played trump on clubs just two turns ago. You can’t still be holding a club.”

  “Another mis-play! The hand is ruined.” Ancaster tossed her remaining cards on the table. “I give up.”

  “Oh, did I mess things up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Again!”

  “I’m sorry,” he replied. “There are so many rules.”

  “There are three.” Manchester cast him a look that could churn butter.

  That’s three too many, thought Meadowlark. He did, very much, like the agonized looks on their faces as Manchester tore the score sheet to ribbons. He could hardly keep from laughing. He could hardly keep from crying. The game in disarray, these ladies would soon resume sipping tea and making droll conversation. It would be hairstyles and dresses, the latest scents from Paris, and all the subtle differences in cheeses from county to county. Protocol prohibited even the slightest scrap of lascivious gossip, which might’ve allowed the time to pass with some small interest. Just wallpaper and etchings and flowers in the garden and toast and tea with pinkies extended. Torture and more torture. He could absolutely not stand another minute of it.

  What had he gotten himself into? Murdering the old king had been pleasant enough and infiltrating the court of his inexperienced and oafish son quite amusing, but two months playing a role, observing rule after rule, playing at hands of whist with this gaggle of bird-like women of the court, and talking, talking, talking. He could stand it no more.

  Meadowlark noted that his other faery compatriot Bekla, who posed as Juliana Schwellenberg, was rarely to be found at the card table these days. She was, right this very moment, somewhere in the west wing balling one of the King’s Horse guards, or perhaps one of the King’s horses. She never failed to find an amusing playmate, or two, among the palace staff. But not Meadowlark, poor Meadowlark, stuffed into a corset and full hoop dress! He’d had enough!

  No more teacakes, no more talk of sweet little babies, no more eyeshadow!

  He rose daintily from the table. “I think a breath of air will do me good.”

  The ladies were all in full agreement. As he stepped out into the corridor he distinctly heard Manchester say, “Really! I know she’s a simple provincial girl but is she incapable of understanding the rules or unable to follow them?”

  That time he did laugh, though he felt his mood no lighter. He wondered what her Highness the great and terrible Dresdemona was doing at this moment? Certainly the Dark Queen spared herself no pleasures. His footsteps drifted toward the royal bedchambers, his heels scuffing the lacquer on the parquet floor.

  He wanted to see her; he was desperate to see her. He had tasted her sweetness and her bile and couldn’t keep from wanting more. More of either, or both. Thoughts of her were a burning, nagging itch like to drive him insane.

  At the end of the corridor, blocking his pathway to the King’s bedchamber was an armed guard. This was as close to Dresdemona as he was likely to get unless he found some way to distract this sturdy fellow. Already the guard had given him a curt nod, saying, “Miss Hagedorn.”

  He stepped up close. “You’re a handsome fellow.”

  The guard ignored the maiden’s faux pas with perfect English poise. “Miss, you probably shouldn’t be out in the halls this late.”

  “A girl gets lonely, you know.” Meadowlark angled himself so that his tortured bosom lay squarely in the man’s field of vision. “I’ve seen the way you look at me, sir.”

  “Beg pardon? Now, Miss—”

  Meadowlark hitched up his gown to allow a flash of a slender thigh. “Don’t make me say anything more.”

  He stepped close to the guard. He saw the man’s mouth twitch, torn as he was between the demands of duty and the base call of his nature. What a delicious internal conflict. Meadowlark could simply eat it up. A strong man already reduced to a pad of quivering jelly. All it had taken was a flicker of the eyelids and a flash of thigh. That’s entertainment!

  He pressed himself against the guard, wafting perfume in his general direction. True to his calling, the man’s hands remained locked at his sides. He continued staring straight ahead. To keep from laughing, Meadowlark hummed a pleasant tune under his breath. He leaned forward, bent his chin gracefully upward and flicked his tongue against the man’s earlobe, ringing it like a bell. A shudder ran through his little Horse Guard.

  Meadowlark was delighted. He ran his wet tongue round and round, circling the coils and loops of the man’s ear like a wet sponge. The man moaned softly. It was entirely possible, he knew, to make love to a man, utterly and completely, with only the use of the tip of a tongue on their ear. But that was not his intention, not right now.

  He pulled away, flashing a demure smile. The man was lost, all notions of duty and honor cast to the wind.

  Meadowlark took the guard’s hands and pulled him gently to the side of the corridor, into an arched alcove where their exploits would not be readily visible. The guard tried to kiss him on the lips but Meadowlark turned his head and offered only a perfumed expanse of white neck. The man went at it, working himself into a tizzy as he pelted the soft fragrant skin with nuzzles and kisses.

  Meadowlark hitched his skirts up as high as he might, flashing the pink petticoat beneath. He cupped the bulge at the front of the guard’s trousers. Oh, what the hell, the faery thought as he plunged into the guard’s pants to grip his manhood firmly in his grasp.

  The man saw his chance and sent his own hand delving between Meadowlark’s thighs. An instant later he found what rested there and his hand jerked away.

  Meadowlark planted a kiss on his ear again, still squeezing firmly on his cock. The guard squinted in disbelief, then explored the petticoat again. He groped again, feeling his way more tentatively this time but with the same result. His eyes bulged in horror and his hand withdrew as if it had been burned. He was lost for words.

  Meadowlark worked his member fitfully as the guard tried to squirm free.

  “What…” he sputtered. “Miss?”

  “Mister,” Meadowlark whispered in his ear, lowering his voice a few registers.

  The guard gagged slightly as if he might yet vomit.

  Now this was fun!

  The guard broke away. He flashed a look of utter disgust and confusion accompanied by a little squeal of horror. Then he fled away down the hall, his post forgotten.

  The distraction would not last long. The guard would return once he got hold of his senses, a slave to his precious duty, but most likely too embarrassed ever to tell. He would consider the whole thing a delusion, a phantasm borne of
fatigue and boredom. Even should they pass again across the halls, he would say nothing about it.

  Meadowlark stepped to the Royal bedchamber door. He had just enough time to steal a glimpse, or something more, of the fair Dark Queen…

  He stopped suddenly. He smelled a whiff of brimstone on the air. Aldebaran was nearby and smoking hot. Damn and damn it all. No hope now. Nary a sniff nor a peek. He stomped his heel against the floor. He should have contented himself with the guard.

  Chapter 39

  Nora rapped on the back door of the Menagerie, using the secret knock. This time she was not calling in the middle of the night. It was already past noon. The theatre crew would be just arriving for the day although Master Spagnelli might still be unconscious, either passed out or hung-over on the little cot in the costume room.

  A light November rain sprinkled down, not much more than a mist but full of the chill of the season. She knocked again. Of course she could have applied at the front door but after so long an absence, she didn’t know what type of welcome she was likely to receive. Theatre people were a close-knit clan and savagely shunned anyone who appeared disloyal.

  The peep-hole cover slid to the side, but Nora couldn’t tell who had taken the place on the other side of the door.

  “It’s me,” she said softly. “Anne Meadows.”

  The door creaked open and a disheveled Spagnelli stood in the frame, his soiled nightshirt hastily tucked into loose black trousers. His hair was a mess, his nose and cheeks ruddy, his eyes sleepy.

  Spagnelli glanced comically over her shoulder. “No half-mangled bodies in tow like the last time, I hope?”

  “No. Just me. With a heavy heart and an apology in hand.”

  He ushered her inside. “Come, come. Come.”

  They entered the costume room but Spagnelli left the door open lest no one get the wrong idea.

  “I’m so sorry I left you in the lurch that way. Threadneedle—I mean Mister Templeton—was hurt. I couldn’t leave him.”

  Spagnelli’s sleepy eyes twinkled. “I understand. What is life but a passion play after all. And the soul must dance.”

  Nora giggled. She was very relieved to hear him say that. She couldn’t bear it if he held a grudge. “Mr. Horace Wilde sends his sincerest regrets as well.”

  “Doesn’t matter. That charade, or any other, isn’t meant to last. They were bound to find us out eventually. I think it’s better this way. Safer for the both of us. Wilde disappears, without a trace. So mysterious! Anyway, it was a good run.”

  “It was,” she agreed.

  “I’ve got Charles Thurston in the lead role now.”

  “Thurston? Oh my.” She covered her mouth with her hand. She couldn’t keep from laughing, picturing him as Titania. How could he ever be convincing in the role?

  Spagnelli smiled as well. “Of course he can’t hold a candle to you my dear, but it doesn’t matter. I’m just stringing things out for another season until they realize it’s not the same and lose interest. That’s the way these things go. Everything is just a passing fancy after all. I’m working on something new. Monkeys. A troupe of trained monkeys.” He beamed with delight. “Trained monkeys. Much easier to work with than the usual primadonnas and little tyrants I have to deal with around here. Oh, but they are spectacular. The monkeys I mean. From India. They do backflips and this and that. My only problem is how to keep them from flinging their poo at the audience. But I think—” He waved a thick finger at her as if she was a disobedient monkey. “I think I’ll lick that problem soon. A month or two more, that’s all I need. Watch for the notices, dear.”

  Nora was pleased. “I will. I certainly will.”

  Spagnelli grunted with satisfaction, as if anticipating his success. “Speaking of monkeys, have you spoken with Thurston at all?”

  “Not since that night.”

  “Well, he’s here. Getting ready for rehearsals. In your old—Mister Wilde’s old closet. You two have some unfinished business I expect. Perhaps you might want to square things with him?”

  Nora knocked on the door to the closet. From the other side, she heard Thurston exclaim, “It’s about damn time!”

  Yes, it was. It seemed like an eternity ago that he had proposed to her. She’d first put him off and then disappeared entirely. No doubt Spagnelli had covered for her, leaving Thurston completely in the dark as to her true whereabouts. One virtue Spagnelli held in great esteem was his ability to keep a secret. He would never have betrayed that she was a faery.

  “I asked for that tea over an hour ago. How do you suppose I can maintain my voice in its proper working—” At this point, the door having opened sufficiently, Charles Thurston’s narrative stopped abruptly, having fallen victim to a slack jaw and an astonished expression. He quickly recovered, his shock melting seamlessly into an expression of concern. “Anne! Thank God you’re alright! I was worried sick.”

  She indulged in a half-smile. “Worried sick or not, you still took the role.”

  He placed the palm of his hand flat under his chin and ran it slowly down his body showing off the fact that beneath his light robe he wore a Dutch corsette—a form-fitting undergarment that had considerable feminine attributes already built in. “Have you read the notices? The reviews aren’t bad. And I’ve grown into the role considerably since the opening. But—oh but none of this matters. Where have you been?”

  “Nursing my friend back to health.”

  “Yes that mysterious friend of Spagnelli’s. He refuses to say a word about it. Is he sufficiently well now? Are you returning to the Menagerie?”

  “No. No I can’t do that…”

  He took her hands and pulled her into the room. “Nothing’s changed for me,” he said with a sigh. “Not a day’s gone by I haven’t thought about you, about us, about the future. I meant what I said. I still do. We can pick things up right where we left them. Say that you’ll marry me.”

  “It’s not as simple as all that, Charles. There are things about me you don’t know.”

  “You’re a faery. Seriously Anne, I’ve known since that night you went away. Mr. Wilde conveniently skipped out at the same time. I’m not stupid, you know.”

  No, not stupid. Smarter than she had ever given him credit for, that’s for sure. Nora felt a flush of embarrassment. She had treated him so poorly and here he was still professing his true feelings for her. Had they known each other that well? She almost couldn’t remember. She felt positively wretched.

  “I know what you are, Anne. And I tell you, I don’t care. There are worse things, I suppose than a faery wife. I’m willing to look the other way. We’ll keep it to ourselves of course. No one need ever find us out.”

  “And if they should find it out?”

  Thurston lifted his chin bravely. “I am willing to bear any disgrace, so long as you are by my side. I just hope it wouldn’t hamper my career. But only because… I have to provide for the family.”

  Disgrace. That’s how he sees it. She could hardly blame him. Perhaps he really did love her; perhaps he was willing to accept her as she was. But she could never be with any man who viewed her true nature as a disgrace. She pictured them locked in a lover’s embrace, her skin turning green, her face growing more angular, her ear tips pointing. What would be going through his mind at such a moment? Was he an accomplished enough actor to hide his repulsion? She didn’t want to find out.

  “It might have been,” she said. “It’s too late.”

  “Might have been? What? Don’t you care for me at all?”

  “I’m sorry.” Sorry for the hurt this situation is causing you Charles, but not sorry for what I am.

  She was a faery and proud to be one. Why should she marry a mere human when there was so much more for her at Barrow Downes? She didn’t want a man who accepted her ‘flaw’. She didn’t accept him. How about that? Maybe once, but not now.

  Thurston turned toward a shaggy, dyed-green horsehair wig on the dressing table. In her run as Titania, Nora had never need
ed to use the raggedy thing. As he reached for the wig it jumped out of the way. Thurston pulled back his hand, startled. The wig moved again and the mystery was explained as the nut-brown face of a monkey peered out from under the frilly locks.

  “Ughh!” exclaimed Thurston. “Filthy little beasts!”

  He launched a hairbrush at the creature but Spagnelli’s monkey danced nimbly away. Thurston turned back toward Nora.

  “Anne, listen to me. I’ll take you away from all this. We’ll start again somewhere new…”

  “I can’t marry you, Charles, not now or ever.”

  “I see,” he said sadly.

  She turned to go, leaving him to stand alone, dressed in falsies and bulging corset.

  He lifted his chin, remaining proud to the last. “I have to know. Is there someone else?”

  “Maybe.” She hesitated, searching her own heart for an answer. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Good bye.”

  “Good bye, Anne.”

  Chapter 40

  “A word, Father?”

  Eric cinched his saddle strap tight then turned to face his son.

  “James. I was just making ready to ride off.”

  “Alone?”

  “For now.”

  James hesitated. Perhaps this wasn’t the best moment to convey his suspicions to his father. But he had come to an impasse as far as his investigations into the death of the girl. And the problem remained. Now that he knew of her torment, he could not leave her ghost to suffer if he had any hope of offering comfort. But only one person could do that.

  “Do you think it will work this time?” he asked.