The Royal Changeling

by John Whitbourn

  The tall ‘man’ had spoken in the old tongue of which Lucy knew few words. ‘We’ and ‘know’ were, however, of that number.

  It was as well that Lucy had no great expectations of marriage. Though well-born, her childhood was nothing but jagged memories of parental wars, domestic venom and flying cutlery. Even when at last physically separated her mother and father had continued their bloody battle by means of litigation, each seeking custody of the daughter they otherwise ignored. After the law’s stately progress at last gave victory to one (she forgot which) Lucy had fled her Welsh homeland and emerged into the world armed only with her wits and nature’s generous gifts. All in all she’d done spectacularly well.

  Life with Prince (and with effect from the thirtieth of January 1649, King) Charles was pretty much the same as her parents’ arrangements, minus the excitement of hatred. He did not follow the contemporary majority in regarding women as an irksome necessity, there was that plus point. Instead, his was the attitude of a keen but neglectful gardener: appreciative of luxuriant blooms – but prone to wander to other parts of the garden. The arrival of a fine baby boy on the ninth of April 1649 also did much to reform him – for a while – since fondness for children was another aspect of his charm.

  The English nation was not informed and went unwarned. It mistakenly thought the execution of Charles I, the abolition of the monarchy and John Aubrey’s discovery that they possessed a second, greater Stonehenge at Avebury, the most diverting tidings of the year.

  Those about Charles, the courtiers and men of ambition, were also forced to fresh considerations by the babe’s arrival in the world. Up to then they had whispered harsh and contrary things in his ear about Madame Walter. They said she was a den of entertainment that knew no closing hours, its membership open to all men. The ‘marriage’ they scoffed at as a jest, a prank taken – ‘with respect, Sire, just a little too far’ – and best forgotten. They also had some unsolicited support from several Netherlands Town Councils. The unimpeachably staid black-clad burghers let it be known that only consideration of his Majesty prevented Lucy from being driven forth as an infamous wench into drumhead exile. Charles, rather merry that day in a pre-battle mood, had merely smiled at the news, remarking that it was a strange world where he got the pleasure and the whore got the blame. He also dredged into his literary arsenal and fired off a quote from the Bard of Avon, to wit:

  ‘Thou rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand!

  Why dost thou lash that whore? Strip thine own back;

  Thou hotly lust’st to use her in that kind

  For which thou whipp’st her.’

  They’d had no answer for that.

  Lucy had two powerful weapons against these (admittedly truthful) calumnies. Firstly, a viable son and heir could not be disregarded in a time of heart-tearing infant mortality. Secondly she had the wedding certificate: big, bold and brazen – like herself – in (slightly shaky) black and white. Despite having abandoned her first wild hopes of queenship, all requests from the Royal party to ‘inspect’ said document, to ‘put it in safe keeping’, met with sturdy refusal. If insurance had been invented just then, Lucy would have called it her insurance policy against single-parenthood and a cast-off old age. She informed them that it was secured very nicely, thank you, safe and sound in a robust black box … somewhere. Much money was thrown about in seeking it, and much enamel was ground from cavalier teeth in thought of it, but the ‘box’ remained unfound.

  Charles’s son first saw the light of the world in Rotterdam, at the end of a crushing twelve hour labour – for the unnatural never arrive naturally or without pain. All admired his lusty cries and pale skin – and then he was sent away with an English nursemaid to nearby Schiedam to see if he would survive. Their lodgings, in the home of a Dutch merchant, plainly agreed with him and he grew strong. Then, this hurdle over, when he seemed like to live, his mother and father allowed themselves to grow fond – after their own casual fashion. King Charles saw him as often as he could – which was not often, and Lucy seriously inconvenienced several love-affairs to periodically inspect the child. Most importantly, funds were always found from the meagre royal purse to see that he lacked for nothing material. They called him James; James Barlow – a surname plucked from the list of Lucy’s past companions. It was as good a one as any: Lucy recalled the man’s face and that Knight was content, at Royal request, to make the loan. Lucy borrowed ‘Barlow’ also; happy to bear a gentle name as well as gentlemen at last.

  Thus, everyone was satisfied with events and arrangements – for they did not enquire too closely. They were not there to see the baby’s feeding, when the nursemaid looked down on him and allowed the gold in her eyes to show. The infant, likewise blessed, lay strangely still and quiet – and smiled knowingly back.

  ‘Have the coachman halt.’

  Lucy Barlow’s gentleman-retainer conveyed the instruction upwards and outwards. Madame was too grand and well-provided for nowadays to bellow her own orders. The sumptuous conveyance juddered to a halt, pitching its occupants forward in an undignified heap. Lucy, no stranger to exotic positions, was the first to right herself and resume her seat. She peered intently out of the mud splattered window.

  ‘What is my lady’s pleasure?’ asked her gentleman-in-waiting, speaking passably courtly English and bowing as best as a sitting position permits. Since they had novelty value, his mistress was still very partial to a bit of bowing and scraping. The servant was happy to oblige, being one of the very few men willing to please her for nothing in return.

  ‘I think I recognise this place,’ she replied, still quizzing the landscape as though one bit of these flatlands stolen from the sea was distinguishable from any other, ‘but the recollection is dim …’

  Her gentleman had made it his business to have an encyclopaedic recall of his mistress’s extensive acquaintance.

  ‘It is quite possible, Madame,’ he answered, ‘though you were a trifle … over-refreshed on your last visit. We are not far from the residence of your good friend, the Compte de Verteillac, cruelly and falsely banished from his native lands for alleged crimes of …’

  Some memory cells flared in Lucy’s languid brain.

  ‘Tall dashing chap,’ she prompted, ‘abundant codpiece and, hmmmm … all those Moorish servants?’

  ‘The very same, my Lady.’

  ‘Hmmmm … it’s a damned long way from Antwerp to Schiedam …’

  ‘Nigh fifty miles in all,’ agreed the gentleman. ‘We are but halfway.’

  ‘And my bum’s as sore as a whore on Monday with being jolted all these hours …’

  ‘I’m sure the Compte would be glad to soothe it, Madame …’ he silenced a lady’s maid’s guffaw with a savage glance, ‘by his hospitality, I mean.’

  Lucy took no offence. To thine own self be true was her motto – along with Why not?

  ‘Just so. It seems a shame to come all this way and not pay one’s respects to the old boy. The child will still be there in Schiedam when we attend it in due course.’

  ‘But of course, Madame,’ said the gentleman, favouring her with an unusually complete and white display of teeth. ‘A babe of just one year is not like to be roistering about town …’

  They chortled at the jest and the lady’s maids joined in. One thing you could say about service with Lucy Barlow in her new Antwerp establishment: the wages might be late and the life irregular, but you could have a giggle.

  ‘No, you’re right; young James is not going anywhere. So that’s settled then. Tell the coachman our new destination.’

  ‘Willingly, my lady – but may I be excused this outing? It chances that I too have a friend hereabouts who merits a hello. Besides, I recall that the Compte’s largest Moor had conceived a powerful fancy to me: I might have to fend him off at sword-point …’

  Lucy couldn’t see the need for such coyness, but it was in her nature to be obliging to people – and men in particular.

  ‘As you please, my fine f
ellow. Attend us back at these cross-roads in … oh, five hours should be ample.’

  The gentleman dismounted and stood to watch the carriage clatter away into the distance and its appointment with Venus. He shuddered. Association with the newcomers was like contamination. They were … warm, with animal heat; they swarmed over each other in bed and in towns, like lizards in a pit. Worst of all, they had emotions.

  He studied the blue, cloudless sky, arching over the unending plain, and wondered whether their God really did look down upon them and ‘love’ them. Incredible.

  A soundless signal was sent to the nearest horse and, soon enough, trembling, unwilling but helpless, a suitable beast answered the call. Its breast was bloodied where it had burst its fence or stable. The gentleman found and fingered the stiletto concealed in his sleeve.

  Yes, five hours should be ample. Then he would be free.

  Sated and relaxed and cosy, Lucy was content to wait a little while when her gentleman-retainer did not show. An hour passed, then another, and still the carriage waited at the crossroads. It came on to rain and the horses stamped and steamed as dusk drew on. Suddenly, independent of any prior train of thought, alarm flared like a beacon in Lucy’s heart. Her eyes narrowed and that which was non-human within her was allowed free rein. Those senses she could not put a name to, let alone describe, reached out into the dark and found that all was not as it should be.

  The sodden, miserable coachman was awoken from his doze by the carriage door being flung aside and his mistress’s scream from below. Crazed, heedless of the rain, she appeared beside him and ordered, in words not to be queried or denied, that they make Schiedam by nightfall.

  It almost killed the horses but it was rather that than thwart the possessed woman who urged the driver on. The lady’s maids were ditched, drenched and protesting, on the roadside, to lessen the burden and the carriage fairly flew along the pitted roads, balanced on two wheels as they took corners, in a way it was not designed to do. The driver dared not slacken the pace for fear of the harpy alongside him. One yard per hour slower she warned him, and she’d reduce the weight still further, run him through with her hairpiece-bodkin and take the reins herself. The servant could tell the difference between threat and promise when he heard it.

  Somehow they made it to town without crashing into gore and matchwood. The carriage availed itself of the Dutch merchant’s house-wall to come to a final halt. Lucy leapt down, regardless of modesty, her skirts billowing outwards, and hit the ground running, armed with bodkin and the coachman’s pistol. A room-to-room search took all of two minutes, the longest of Lucy’s eventful life.

  The place was like it had never been lived in. Merchant, nursemaid and baby were gone.

  Before astounded Dutch citizens, Lucy rent her clothes and tore at her hair, bewailing in an unknown tongue the greatness of the injury done her. Another mad night ride to Maaslandsluys, the nearest port, had already done little to improve her appearance. The Town Mayor and his bodyguard, preparing to embark for the Hague, shrank back from such a terrifying apparition.

  Lucy saw that her passion was counterproductive and was instantly calm, collected and focused; as worthy of attention as an oncoming sabre. She explained, in quiet, rational, words her dilemma and stoked high the fires of sympathy. She blamed Charles, she blamed Cromwell, she blamed herself for the tragedy. A purse full of gold was thrust at the frightened Mayor as token of worldly worth and merit, and genuine intent. If she’d thought it might help, she’d have thrust her mound at the old man, crowd or no crowd. Eventually, by one means or another, he – and all the other Hollanders – were convinced.

  A search of every ship at every quay was ordered by his Worship. His musketeers welcomed the chance to have a nose in other people’s business. Many things of interest fell out in shaking up the town – but nothing of relevance to Lucy. A stop order was then placed on the other ports and people’s lawful transactions were much disrupted in the days that followed. Somehow, across the nation, Dutch sympathies were enlisted on the side of this poor woman and against the machinations of baby-snatching foreigners. Charles and the Royalists were obliged to display their innocence and confirm it by assisting the search-cum-crusade. For a while, everyone enjoyed the interlude of hysteria as a relief from day-to-day life.

  Then, just when interest was flagging and more important matters – such as tulip bulbs – reasserted themselves, the baby was found, healthy and safe and sound, in the little town of Loosduinen. Somebody had left young James Barlow, well wrapped and snug in a basket, in the porch of the Church there. His name and proper address were helpfully attached to the container.

  Lucy was straightaway fetched and, a good mother after her fashion, finding him clean and cared for, sang sweet thanks to the sky. It was only later, for the first time ever preparing him for bath and bed herself, that she found the band of parchment around his tiny wrist. The swirling, spidery script thereon would have been meaningless to most – but it had significance for Lucy. Decipherment took a whole evening and unaccustomed mental exertion but, by the dawn succeeding the day of her deliverance, she had it.

  ‘We cannot harm him,’ said the message. ‘He will be King but he will break your heart.’

  As her baby slept alongside her, Lucy considered the proposition – but only for a second.

  ‘Fair enough,’ she thought.

  There were other, more earthly, attempts on the child as he grew straight and strong and a better dynastic proposition. King Charles’s advisors could not accept the boy’s continued connection with such a ‘flighty trollop’ – as they termed her – for all she might be his mother. A head that one day might wear the crown of England should not have its character formed in a den of iniquity. Charles waspishly answered that he didn’t see why not: it would fit that head for the company it would later keep. However, he took their point. By that stage it was all over between him and Lucy. Her magic had faded and he was puzzled – and shamed – by the fierceness of the first attraction. He did not mean to be cruel; that was never his pleasure or his way. It was just that the stern idol, Duty, required another sacrifice at its altar. He had put valued portions of his own life to the knife there, and now it was Lucy’s turn.

  Mrs Barlow didn’t see it that way. Lucy had never accepted that mere concepts like ‘honour’ and ‘duty’ should abort even a moment of human happiness: heaven knew that there was little enough of it around. Instead, she rented a large and secure house at Boxtel, near Breda, and kept James ever close by her. There was a second miracle by now, a baby girl called Mary, by the Dutch Lord Taafe (maybe), though Lucy had withheld her exotic side on that occasion and the girl was purely human. She loved them both equally, like a scatty tiger.

  The Royalists were angered by her stubbornness, but not deterred. First, whilst Charles was downing great draughts of humiliation in Scotland, his lackey, Lord Craven, laid crafty hands on James. Lucy went to Dutch Law, pawning her jewels to a Jew and her body to a judge. Between the two she got her verdict and her boy back.

  Then, one cold Brussels night, when James was eight, Lucy let her snarling guard slip. Deceived by the monstrous rectitude of Sir Arthur Slingsby, the great and good Cavalier, she accepted accommodation with him arranged by Charles. Indeed, her greater fear was for the Knight’s reputation. She would, she said, offer him a signed document to the effect that, though they passed a night under the same roof, she had made no assault on his honour. He had gravely thanked her for her consideration.

  In fact, the crusade he had given his life to had just made its greatest demand on him. He had been asked to act in a squalid manner – for the very best of reasons, of course – and fealty was (mis)used to bludgeon him into surrender.

  It was all done simply enough, for he could not be bothered with cunning in such a cause. The Officers of the Court Guard were ordered to arrest Madame Barlow in respect of an unpaid loan. Strictly speaking, though the spirit of hospitality was thereby ravished, he was entitled to do so
. Lucy owed money to most of the kinder-hearted members of the Cavalier community, since her preferred lifestyle, even subsidised by an ever-changing cast of lovers, didn’t come cheaply. Moreover, though she never forgot an ill-turn, her recall of favours was more shaky. However, Slingsby’s sudden zeal for repayment seemed suspect. Certainly, that was Lucy’s assessment. With her locked up, however briefly, James would be theirs; perhaps for ever.

  Her octave ranging and ear-threatening screams were remembered in the vicinity for generations to come. Whole blocks around were awakened. When the soldiers fell back, scratch-marked, from their first attempt, she grasped the child to her ample bosom and would not let go. The fight continued through the house, wrecking the fixtures and spilling out into the street. There the deeply embarrassed Sir Arthur found an audience of night-attired Netherlanders come to see the show.

  Lucy screeched a highly biased resume of the play so far and the mood of the mob swung against him. Then the Town Watch arrived, muskets, lanterns and all, to add their pompous two-penneth, till Slingsby wasn’t sure if he was at a pantomime or the start of a lynching. For a moment, tormented by the Babel of noise, he was minded to shoot his way out and get some sense and peace that way. Fortunately however, discretion, and the sentiments of religion, prevailed and he backed down. His charges were withdrawn and slowly, very slowly, the mob dispersed. Lucy and James went with them, dishevelled but victorious.

  Sir Arthur withdrew indoors for a stiff ministration of brandy. He would, he reflected, sooner face Cromwell’s Ironsides, any day, than tangle with that banshee and her unnaturally calm child again. He’d caught young James’s eye as they parted and it had unnerved him. That knowing half-smile wasn’t normal or nice. Let ’em go; into hiding and damnation: the House of Stuart was better off without them.