The Royal Changeling

by John Whitbourn

  Dispute as you may the wisdom of restoring the monarchy to England but it was a great step forward for party people. This particular royal rave at Windsor had really taken off. Two fortunes had been lost at cards, three duels commissioned and a score of assignations arranged (not counting two already consummated behind the curtains) and it was still only seven o’clock.

  ‘You dance well, sir. You are to be c-c-complimented on your facility and g-g-grace.’

  Lord Monmouth, James Walter-Croft-Barlow and maybe Stuart, bowed thanks for the Duke of York’s fulsome, albeit stuttered, compliment.

  Lord Rochester, slumped drunk in a nearby chair, agreed with the Duke of York.

  ‘He gets it from his mother. She used to do a lot of dancing.’

  ‘Just so,’ snapped the Duke primly.

  ‘The mattress minuet, for the most part.’

  ‘We’re obliged for the intelligence, sir,’ insisted the King’s brother, turning his long face on Rochester. When he wished it could look as merciful as marble. ‘We’d likewise t-t-thank you to mind the proximity of the boy.’

  The courtier, soldier, poet and libertine was not intimidated. He knew he was a blazing comet, designed for a bright but brief career.

  ‘His proximity is much on my mind, Highness: such fair skin, such well-formed limbs. He prompts recollection of a recent – alas unpublished, verse of mine:

  ‘and if ever busy love entrenches,

  then thou, soft sweet page of mine,

  doth the trick worth forty wenches …’

  James Stuart, Duke of York and heir apparent, a moralist by the undemanding standards of the Court and already well on his way to Catholicism, permitted his nostrils to flare. Rochester merely took it as a tribute to the muse and toasted his audience from one of the bottles he held.

  The Duke swivelled on his high-heeled boots and guided Monmouth away across the ballroom. The Great Hall of Windsor Castle provided ample room for escape from areas overheated by the flames of Hell.

  ‘You will find no shortage of v-v-vicious company in your new life,’ James advised the youngster, casting a protective arm around his slim shoulders. ‘People will seek to profit from the favours showered upon you. Acquire the w-w-wisdom to spurn them. In this and all other respects, I will always be here to assist you.’

  It was a valuable offer: James was a man of his word: in fact notorious for it. Despite the Restoration and return of Stuart fortunes, he’d even honoured his marriage pledge of exile days to the … buxom (and papist!) Anne Hyde, a mere politician’s daughter. Mighty efforts had been made to dissuade him, his mother even finding a courtier who’d ‘eased the pain of love with Miss Hyde in a water-closet’, but the Duke stuck to his guns and girl. True, she’d do the decent thing by dying early but he wasn’t to know that at the time.

  Monmouth directed disturbing sloe-eyes onto his would-be protector.

  ‘Surely not “always”, sire,’ he said. ‘You are much older than I.’

  James halted in his tracks. The mob of dancing couples respectfully afforded them space – whilst tuning in to every word.

  ‘Well no,’ conceded the Duke, striving to retain the convivial tone, ‘no m-m-man is immortal, but …’

  ‘Do not think me ungrateful: whilst you are still with us I shall learn from you all I can.’

  No one likes reminders of mortality; least of all Princes of the Blood mindful of the Crown. James Stuart bridled at … well, not the words; they were blameless enough, but rather the tone.

  ‘And learn to what end, may I ask?’ he said icily, outrage overpowering his speech impediment.

  ‘Why, for my betterment,’ answered Monmouth, with an innocent smile. ‘And the benefit of England.’

  ‘I’m g-g-glad to hear it, young sir.’

  ‘Though you need not worry overmuch for me. Rochester’s banter did not offend. Likewise, one has heard that you are not always so averse to bawdy. We are already well acquainted with mama’s reputation – and the Earl’s … catholic tastes.’

  That last word was carefully chosen, a silken shoe directed at the groin. The Duke’s sympathies for the Old Faith were open knowledge. York now drew himself up to his full imposing height, looking over the youth; the aggression-display greatly assisted by the scarlet and ermine of Knight-of-the-Garter robes.

  ‘I understand,’ he said, still struggling to be patient, ‘that you have already had one s-s-sojourn in the Tower …’

  Monmouth was merely amused, as though it were a sheep growling at him, instead of the second man of the Realm.

  ‘Indeed,’ he answered glibly. ‘And there, though young in years, I met the arch-monster Cromwell – and outfaced him. I don’t believe you can say the same …’

  Onlookers thought that James’s eyeballs would venture forth to dangle on his cheeks. A famous, history-changing, dynasty-disrupting, ‘Stuart Explosion’ seemed in the offing. No one had ever thought to impugn the Duke’s bravery; not even the blackest republican. After the unhappy, neglected, childhood that had tied a knot in his tongue, he’d spent his life fighting. From the age of nine all dolled-up in a padded buff-coat at Edgehill, through sterling service for the French Sun-King, to killing Englishmen if need be, he’d been in the thick of everything going. Though he’d felt fear he’d never shown it – and that was true heroism. It was hardly his fault if fate deprived him of a tussle with Old Noll himself.

  Charles II set down his spoon. From the vantage point of a temporary throne at the Hall’s end, he saw the disaster-in-the-making. Exile and a decade of conspiracy had given him a sixth sense in such matters: the one and only benefit from that heart-tearing period. Whenever the atmosphere became toxic beyond a certain expected level, Charles knew of it, whichever way his eyes were facing, whatever he might be about. The (suppressed) memoirs of Nell Gwyn recount even an interrupted romp when the King surmised, she knew not how, that the infamous Lord Shaftesbury had entered the Palace. ‘A plotter has come – and so I must not’ she records him as saying. A falling-out in the Royal Family was of even greater import than an ambitious politician and Charles left his pease-pudding to cool.

  The king was half a foot taller than the average guest present, taller even than the chosen guardsmen at the doors. Thus his upper portions and periwig were easily visible above the heads of the dancing throng, ploughing through them like a shark amidst sardines. On arrival at the epicentre of ill-will a pretend-friendly Regal embrace soon separated the antagonists.

  ‘Well, isn’t this nice?’ he asked, in a you-might-be-family-but-watch-it … tone of voice he retained for special occasions. ‘Chatter, chatter, chatter, best o’pals, eh?’

  James, Duke of York, told his brother all he wanted to with a look. Monmouth’s oval face was a blank palate. A long silence ensued.

  The King had an ironic expression at the best of times. He intensified it.

  ‘Asked a question … not speaking Abyssinian … Waiting …’

  ‘Quite so,’ obliged the Duke. ‘I’m finding our c-c-conversation most instructive …’

  ‘Me too,’ replied Monmouth.

  ‘Well, knock me down and call me Nelly, I’m pleased to hear it. Can’t have any discord in the regime, can we? We don’t want to go on our travels again, do we? No indeed not.’

  He bore down on Monmouth. ‘So then, how’s married life? Plenty of the old cuckoo-in-the-nest, chase-you-to-the-cornfield, business, eh!’

  Monmouth shrugged.

  The Bride’s mother – may she grow a tail – feels it is best we wait awhile. She says delay consummation till we are both fifteen: something to so with childbearing hips or the like.’

  Charles made a noise of derision.

  ‘Modern nonsense! Don’t hold with it myself. There’s a poem Rochester wrote:

  ‘When roses are red, they’re ready for plucking.

  When girls are fourteen, they’re ready for …’

  ‘Good-day to you b-b-both,’ snorted the Duke, interrupting the recitation and
stalking off.

  King Charles watched his brother go, not showing the sadness he felt in order to deprive the onlookers of their pleasure.

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself with my favour,’ he whispered to Monmouth, never ceasing to gauge reaction all around. ‘I only spoke saucy to soak the gunpowder. Though a garter-grasper of the first order – save for redheads apparently,’ the King paused and puzzled for a second, ‘the Duke does not like such talk. I knew he would leave.’

  ‘I’m obliged to you, father,’ answered the boy, with smooth confidence.

  Charles looked down upon him from a great height.

  ‘Oh it’s that you are,’ he said firmly. ‘Let me tell you about it.’

  He bore Monmouth off to a refreshments table at the side of the hall.

  ‘Here,’ he said, thrusting a slice of duck at Monmouth, ‘stop your mouth with this and pretend you’re listening to chit-chat.’ The boy daintily obliged, shredding the dark meat with perfect teeth.

  ‘Disputes weaken families,’ said Charles. ‘And the family is everything. Out of the little kindness in his thin heart the Duke would be good to you. I will not have him thwarted in that.’

  Monmouth signalled full comprehension and agreement.

  ‘You’ve come very far; from the wrong side of the blanket to dizzy exaltation. The view from high up is wonderful: enjoy it and have a happy life. From where I’ve put you there’s a long way to fall.’

  Monmouth conceded the point with an economic nod and freed his mouth to reply.

  ‘But that won’t happen,’ he said, smiling.

  The King could not help but frown.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you love me.’ It was a bald statement of fact.

  Charles started to reply but found the words would not come. He was considerate of the few fondnesses he felt and lacked the strength to abort any of them.

  ‘Look,’ he said finally, a caricature exasperated, fond father, ‘I’m not Methuselah; I’ll be off elsewhere one day. There’s more poison than sunshine in this world, especially at our rank. You need to have other friends.’

  ‘But I do,’ answered the boy, looking along the table for fresh diversion. ‘Don’t worry.’

  The King closed his eyes for a second, wondering why everything good was just that little more effort than it was worth. Opening them again, he beheld necessary reinforcement for his argument.

  ‘You boy, yes you, over here if you please.’

  The Page, much the same age as Monmouth but stockier and less blessed with looks and grace, hastened to them.

  ‘Now,’ said Charles, ‘here’s just the lad. You’re an Oglethorpe, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Majesty, Theophilus, son of Sutton Oglethorpe.’

  ‘Couldn’t be better. What do you think of family loyalty?’

  Theophilus wasn’t expecting that, anticipating instead a request for food or for a message to be run. Even so, his reply was sure.

  ‘Well, Majesty, it’s everything, isn’t it?’

  The King beamed on him. If only all his subjects were so plain and simple and obliging.

  ‘Exactly: my very words. Now mark this, Monmouth, this boy’s family gave all for my father’s cause; they fought and suffered, they lost loved ones and endured harsh penalties, penury and exile for us. Not one of them broke ranks and brought shame on their name. They did not count the cost and now they have come into their reward. Have I stinted in my gratitude, young Oglethorpe?’

  The page-of-honour shook his head vehemently.

  ‘No, sire. My dad never ceases to praise providence. Our fortunes are restored, my brothers hold position in the law, the army and at court. You and the Lord have been good to us – in the long run.’ He seemed troubled by the slight qualification – but obliged in honesty to make it. Charles appeared not to notice.

  ‘And this despite my exchequers calling me mad to repay all my debts of honour. So then, Master Theophilus, if you are grateful for what you and yours have received, what would you say if someone were to marry you off to an heiress – say the Countess of Buccleuch – with long white legs (so I’m told)? What then if your patron festooned you with titles: Duke of Buccleuch, Earl of Dalkeith, Lord Scott, Baron Tynedale, Earl of Doncaster, Duke of Monmouth and – this very day – Knight of the Garter? And that’s not to mention M.A.s at Oxford and Cambridge, new houses in Whitehall and Chiswick, a pension of £6000 per year from the excise rights for Yorkshire and £8000 on the export of Welsh white draperies. God smack me but I’ve even turned over the receipts from wrecks and salvage! Now, would you be mildly pleased or what?’

  Theophilus looked at Monmouth, knowing full well that it was he they were talking of. The page could hardly fail to be aware; that flood of fortune was on every educated tongue and this very ball was in honour of Monmouth’s en-gartering. Lavish festivities, bonfires and fireworks had not abated since his marriage three days earlier. The lucky recipient returned the gaze without malice, indicating he might speak his mind.

  ‘Um,’ answered Oglethorpe – and, seeing from the Royal visage this was not the reply required, added, ‘well, truth to tell, I’d say my cup runneth over.’

  ‘And you’d say right,’ confirmed the King. ‘Forget your present duties. Here’s one of these new-fangled gold guineas to stir your zeal. Stay with Monmouth and repeat your last statement at five minute intervals. Pray do me the service of convincing him, for I weary of the task.’

  In fact, Charles had noted an unfamiliar cleavage, insecurely constrained in scarlet silk. The engines of passion lumbered into life, forcing him to move on. Monmouth and Oglethorpe were left alone.

  The young Duke, Earl, etc., etc., subjected Theophilus to the closest scrutiny, as though on a tour of inspection of his soul. Monmouth’s face would not release the page’s more homely counterpart. Oglethorpe, a very literal boy, submitted to the search whilst counting down the minutes to the first of his repetitions.

  Monmouth at least released him, having read what he wished.

  ‘You need not heed the letter of his Majesty’s instruction,’ he said, friendly as you like. ‘I accept the sentiments already.’

  Theophilus was glad to hear it. Keeping track of each five minute interval would stilt conversation.

  ‘Do you know what I think?’ asked Monmouth, passing a dainty parcel of chicken-cornflour wrapped in pastry. Oglethorpe waited for the second part of the question but it did not arrive. He had to assume it to be a genuine enquiry.

  ‘No,’ he said, truthfully. Monmouth was unreadable when he so chose.

  ‘I think our meeting was no accident. I detect that we shall not part. Are you content for our fates to entwine?’

  Theophilus bit into the confection, at ease now that frankness was the order of the day.

  ‘I can think of worse predictions,’ he admitted. Monmouth looked approvingly at him.

  ‘That is because you lack imagination – at present. However, your acceptance is good: for it is futile to fight destiny.’

  ‘If you say so, Lord …’

  ‘I do, though I cannot yet see the end of the matter between us. Its conclusion is presently shrouded by contingencies. What I do say is …’

  His attention was suddenly severed. He looked about, scenting the air like a wild animal.

  ‘I suspect,’ he said, as though to himself and just the smallest part alarmed, ‘that someone seeks me.’

  So it proved. Within moments a note was passed to Monmouth requesting his presence in the antechamber. Theophilus had to read it to him, for Lucy Walter had not laboured overmuch on his education. He was surprised at the Duke’s acceptance and willingness to comply. Every exalted gathering attracted its swarm of petitioners and importuners and generally they were greeted with as much joy as wasps at a picnic. For one so presumptuous as to interrupt a ball only stern rebukes seemed appropriate. Instead Monmouth was keen to meet this ‘Mr Pelling’.

  Indicating Theophilus should follow, the Duke swept from
the room, glorious in his cut-down garter-robes, and a Yeoman-of-the-Guard opened the door into the adjoining waiting area. The echoing buzz of conversation from the patient hordes ceased at the sight. Hope flared briefly in the eyes of those seeking appeal from some outrageous legal verdict or finance for a pet project. The bearers of new popish plots and informers on priests hurriedly rehearsed their lines. Monmouth conceded them a smile but nothing else. He appeared to know with whom his business lay. A tall man at the far end of the vast hall answered the Duke’s summons.

  Theophilus studied him with just as much interest as the guards. He moved with grace, equal in easy balance and economy of effort to that shown by Monmouth on the dance-floor. The confidence he displayed did not seem entirely fitting to his status: a plain ‘Mr’, in simple clothes, begging from his betters. Such boldness, and the honour shown him, awoke hatred in the assembled cadgers and caution in the sentinels. Yet as he passed each, the hostility simply fled away and he was looked upon with favour. Even Theophilus, a no-nonsense youth, found himself smiling at his approach.

  Close up he was of still greater interest. Oglethorpe could not decide whether Pelling was of advanced years but well-preserved, or prematurely aged. Fifty years before he would have been the height of fashion – amongst the mercantile classes; but now appeared a strange visitation. He did not boast a wig but retained his natural hair, worn long and flowing. His low bow was exquisitely executed.

  Only Monmouth appeared immune from the charm offensive. He too wore a smile, but it was more challenging, less charitable.

  ‘Why, sir, Mr … Pelling,’ he said, ‘at long last, eh?’

  Pelling’s voice was clear and musical but curiously short-ranged. Though Theophilus heard well enough, he felt sure it did not carry far. The mendicants strained to eavesdrop but puzzled faces betokened failure.

  ‘Long postponed,’ agreed Mr Pelling, ‘to some perspectives perhaps. We do not think our timing is amiss. At least, such is our hope.’