Westbrook was square and solid; a two-storey red-brick place, only thirty years old: not terribly defensible, granted, but comfortable. Its position was good, on a hillside behind Godalming town, with a commanding view of the Portsmouth–London road and Wey valley. If perchance God should frown and the world turn upside down again it could soon present a more … robust face to enemies. In idle moments, Theophilus had already sketched plans for a perimeter wall studded with fortlets. A modicum of effort might convert Westbrook into a useful citadel for legitimacy and right.
Leaving behind its concealing groves of oaks and beeches, Theophilus addressed his boots in the direction of the town. It was an agreeable March morning; the sun giving notice of approaching spring but discreet enough to leave a pleasant chill in the air. Lieutenant Colonel Oglethorpe didn’t hold with excessive warmth: it made one lazy and frumpish. If he had his way each household, be it never so grand, would have one fireplace apiece. Sadly, Ellen didn’t concur – and within the home her views prevailed.
Theophilus studied the trees and hedges along the way, and gravely bade the birds good morning. They replied in song and his spirits, never very low at the worst of times, rose to their moderate maximum. This was settled country and Theophilus approved. Uncounted, uncelebrated, generations had striven here, engaged in improving toil; raising replacements to carry on the work before laying down to well-earned rest. By tiny increments Mother Nature had been cured of her wild excesses and made fruitful and friendly to man. If this wasn’t what the state and order existed to protect, then he didn’t know what they were for. Theophilus’s dim recollections of the ancestral lands in Yorkshire provided the necessary contrast. There was little virtue, to his mind, in a life hid up in stone towers and ploughing one handed, the other resting on a gun. Things were … better here and the natives not minded to believe in bogles, bodach and other beasties of the night.
The tower of Godalming Church was never out of sight in this little valley and mere minutes of steady tread brought him to the ancient structure beneath. If he had not been otherwise engaged Theophilus might have entered in for a swift conversation with the Almighty, but since exercise was the order of the day he chose not to dawdle. Unlike most of his contemporaries, Oglethorpe thought the body merited attention just as much as the soul, in order to preserve its mettle. Besides, he was sure the Lord would understand and if chance presented he would call in on his return. It was a subject of regret to him that he could not share the fervent (albeit papistical) faith of his wife, but regular Sunday communion, topped up with periodic christenings and weddings gave him quiet grounds for meta-physical confidence. It seemed plausible that the Almighty was a kind father, rather like himself, not given to undue chastisement of his children.
The narrow High Street was almost empty, for this was a working day and most people had been at the stocking-weaving looms and paper mills since the work bell struck at eight. Only a few of the more economically blessed had the freedom to be out and about in mid-morning, peering in the shops or just taking the air like Theophilus. He nodded to them all and was gracious enough to briskly pass the time of day with the local notary and surgeon. Then, ignoring the temptations of the Angel and King’s Arms coaching inns, and turning a blind eye to the affront of the Quaker conventicle, he was soon out of Town. Blithely assuming permission to use the privately owned bridge over the Wey, he turned aside from the ford used by lesser mortals and crossed the tributary of the Thames dryshod.
Beyond, in the wide expanse of the common or Lammas, lands, the sights and sounds of industrial Godalming could be set aside. There was precious little here that wasn’t natural creation, innocent of man’s busybody hand. Theophilus could commend its tranquillity and the wide prospect of green but he was not reconciled to it. If the Wey would only refrain from its winter floods, if some Dutch drainage-engineers were set loose on the tussocky waste, then someone might wrench prosperity from it. That might be sad for the birds and conies but there was always somewhere else for them to go. Lieutenant Colonel Oglethorpe had seen too much of ‘light land’ in one lifetime for him to tolerate it in his homeland.
After a few necessary meanders round particularly boggy spots, the coach-road ran pretty straight out towards Loseley and Guildford. To either side what Theophilus called ‘proper countryside’ closed in again. It was a landscape of fields and hamlets, paths and woods, where you could lose yourself if wished – but also earn a living. Since both Godalming and Guildford were tucked out of sight from here, the entire panorama was unblighted by a town.
A mere mile or so north, along a branching track, was the Manor of Binscombe, which had come to him as part of the Westbrook package. He might well have turned his feet in that direction for a tour of inspection but decided against. The hamlet of that name was easy-on-the-eye for sure, and the ancient wood on the ridge above an ideal place to relish silence, but the inbred, surly natives – Quaker-nonconformists all – had yet to take him to their hearts. Theophilus could do without their joyless sidelong glances today, thank you very much.
Instead, in accord with his inner nature, he pressed on, making good time along the metalled road until encountering a recalcitrant herd of cattle out by Farncombe. The way forward was well and truly blocked. The thought occurred to enforce his will with flat of sword on both beast and drover but he declined to do so. Again differing from so many of his time he found it distasteful to bully the lower orders of whatever sort. He thought they had a sufficiently rough deal from creation as it was, without him rubbing salt in the wound. The herdsman had a job to do and the heifers had a dark appointment to keep; whereas he was wandering free. As a gentleman and proven soldier it was no dishonour for him to ignore the challenge and stand meekly aside.
Happily, ‘aside’ included at this point the Leathern Bottle, the Skinner’s Arms and the Tanner’s Arms: three rustic inns catering to the humbler parts of the passing Portsmouth–London trade. They also turned a penny grazing out the relays of coach horses and refreshing the yokels of Farncombe, Binscombe and Catteshall. Not wishing to show favour, Theophilus’s humane forbearance was rewarded by ale and no-nonsense company in each. Exercise could go hang.
By and by, all thought of beating his personal record for the walk from Westbrook to Shalford and back was similarly abandoned without rancour. He’d shown willing and for once it wouldn’t hurt to grant himself a holiday. The initial rush of John Barleycorn in his veins made him mellow and forgiving – even to himself. Therefore, a gentle turn round Broadwater Lake would serve to cap the outing and appease the spirit of employment.
There were actually two watery expanses under that title, Old Pond and New Pond, the former incongruously half the size of the latter, linked by the Northbourne, a minuscule streamlet en-route to the Wey. No local memory touched on a time when they weren’t there and so the mystery of the naming was now lost. Collectively they served as an incontestable dividing line between the rival civic ambitions of Godalming and Guildford; an obvious border thoughtfully sited by providence to prevent argument. First seeing the light of day to the right or left of the yard’s-breadth Northbourne determined one’s loyalties for life.
Theophilus was a ‘furriner’ and thus exempt from local classification as sheep or goat. As yet, the local geography was, for him, an open book in which he might browse at will. Knowledge of the invisible lines beneath his feet and the hallowed legends lingering in the fields was still some generations away for his family. Yet it would come, he sensed that, and these walks were the foundation trenches of the edifice of affection later Oglethorpes might feel.
Today though, Broadwater was just a view, a pleasant stroll and the promise of good fishing. Old Pond was only fit for ducks and child’s-play but New Pond was more imposing: depth enough to drown in, tree-shrouded and mysterious in parts, and with a population of swans and pike and bream. Early on, whilst seeking somewhere to begin married life, he’d even considered commissioning a brand new house to stand beside it. Sadl
y, although the King had been generous with forfeited Scottish estates (Theophilus even owned a coal-mine up there), that idea was beyond his purse. Westbrook had been as grand as he’d dared go. To compensate, Oglethorpe conjured up that spectral mansion in his mind’s eye as he wandered round the Lake edge. What quirk of personality was it, he wondered, that made him imagine gun emplacements amidst the formal gardens?
A suspiciously circular island, wooded and obscure, presumably man-made, the work of forgotten hands, lay offshore and off-centre in the Lake. Local gentry used it for picnics and alfresco illicit liaisons. More legitimately and in-betweenwhiles, a host of avian life found refuge from humankind there, to rest and raise fresh generations. Theophilus recalled planning a stone tower or citadel to be placed on it; the site for a desperate last stand against … well, someone or other.
Due to lack of maintenance, there were parts of the bank where water merged into land with no clear division. Away from positions favoured and revetted by anglers the ground often turned to marsh and Theophilus had to watch his step. He’d already nigh on lost one boot in a quagmire by the Portsmouth Road and now trod with caution. Therefore the arm might have been visible for some time before he chanced to see it.
Sighting the shapely protruding limb from the corner of his eye, he paused, looked again – and almost went headlong into a clump of reeds. He could not, in the truest sense, believe it, and swivelled round, hoping for another human to confirm or deny the hallucination. There was no one about. Theophilus was on the Farncombe side of the Lake and the people of that little hamlet had business to keep them indoors on a weekday morning. He turned again and the problem was still there – a white, slender arm in a wide sleeve of silk, emerging from the middle of the Lake and brandishing a sword.
His first rational thought was that this was a joke: and a very good one at that – which would have sad consequences for the prankster when he caught them. He’d see if they still thought it so funny with a foil up their fundament. Then closer observation brought doubt with it and his anger ebbed away. The arm was absolutely still, whereas a submerged yokel would thrash about and disturb the still face of the water. Nor would they be able to remain under for so long without being claimed by death. And besides, the arm was that of a fine lady, unspoilt by the kiss of the sun or muscle-enhancing labour. This was no farm-girl put up to a jape by a mischievous Lord Rochester type and Theophilus could hardly conceive any lady of quality would play such a game. In his experience, most of them found getting out of bed exertion enough.
Also, there was the matter of the sword. Even from a distance he saw that it was a kingly blade, broad and well-crafted, pommeled in gold. It was not a type he’d ever seen in any modern military context, though he’d observed the kind before. Its poorer relations hung in ancient Castle halls and in the Tower’s Royal armoury.
The arm held its position, thrust from the water like an offer or accusation, pointing the sword to the sky. A chill, quite independent of earthly weather, now promenaded Theophilus’s spine.
A less intrepid man might have walked on, relying on fallible memory and the myriad cares of life to one day erase the sight. Theophilus could not be so dishonest. Centuries of duty and honour grooved into the family genes obliged him to investigate and see off this assault on normality, one way or another. Never lifting his gaze from the vision, even at the risk of falling headlong, he made his way closer.
At one end of the Lake there was a small boathouse, where gentlemen kept rowboats for summer’s-day jaunts or for the purpose of keeping aloof from more hoi polloi fishermen. Though it was fastened shut during the winter months, Theophilus’s cavalry boot secured him gate-crashing entry to the select little club. Likewise, the boats themselves were moored up with cunning and intricate knots, proof against ordinary would-be borrowers – but not against Oglethorpe’s more direct approach and sword. Similar means soon procured him two sprays of broom, good enough oar-substitutes for an inelegant row. Minutes later he was upon the water.
He’d hoped (one-quarter) or feared (three-quarters) that the racket would scare the strangeness away, but it had not. The arm and blade were still there, unmoved and unchanged. Theophilus dared to look around, still anxious for some onlooker to share the scene, but there was no one. If this was oncoming madness, there was at least benefit in it being unwitnessed. On the other hand, it would have been nice to have someone to applaud his daring or report his end.
The arm was right in the middle of the Lake and with such inefficient propellers Theophilus’s course to it was slow and erratic. There was ample opportunity for him to think again and head for home, but he could no more do that than walk away from his children. Even with no mortal observers present, the shades of all the Oglethorpes back to Eden were around the Lake shore, urging him on. They were a tribunal he could not outface.
Eventually, with painful effort, he was there. The arm and hand stretched out of the water three yards to starboard. Shipping ‘oars’ he awaited developments. Curiously, there were none.
Close up, the lustrous skin of the sword-bearer was too white to be human – although it might have had that status once. The fingers gripping the pommel were long and elegant and tipped with gleaming black nails. They looked dainty and refined enough but Theophilus got the impression of crushing strength within. He noticed also that the cream-silk sleeve was not dampened by immersion.
A minute passed without event. Ever one to bring matters to a conclusion, Oglethorpe kneed fear aside and paddled closer. Rising unsteadily to his feet, he peered gingerly over the edge.
There ought to have been comfort in the discovery it was no disembodied arm. The limb continued down to join with a shoulder and head just beneath the surface. However, that discovery was spoilt by study of their owner.
The woman looked at Oglethorpe, as he did at her, and with equal fascination. Her eyes were black and fathomless. Theophilus had never beheld anyone so beautiful – or so cruel.
She proved less impressed. ‘You,’ she “said”, ‘are not the one.’ There was no movement of the ebony lips, stark in contrast to the parchment pale skin around. The speech just … arrived in Oglethorpe’s head, sounding like the Queen of spiders.
‘I beg your pardon?’ he replied politely, unable to think of anything less lame.
‘Not the one,’ she repeated, in similar manner. Her golden, floating, tresses shook in agitation. A second arm reached out of the water towards him.
No matter what Ellen said, Oglethorpe never went anywhere without a concealed firearm. One practised motion drew the little lady-pistol from its pocket. A steady thumb cocked the flintlock.
‘I am for you!’ he retorted, and shot her through the head, just before the claw could reach him.
The Lady of the Lake lowered her wonderful face, now alas spoilt, and sank slowly down. Theophilus watched her progress without regret; for even chivalry made allowances for self-defence. Within seconds she was lost to sight in the lower depths. Oglethorpe was left alone on the Lake as the shot echoed round the fringing trees and birds rose cawing from them in protest.
The suspension of nature continued a little longer. From his seat in the boat, where he’d retired to reload, he noticed the sword remained, resting on the water in a way that it strictly should not. When armed again, he ventured to reach out and grab it. Half-expecting the witch to intercept him and aiming into the water, he was not prepared for the weight of the thing, almost losing his balance. Wobbling on the edge, he was minded to release the sword rather than share the Lake with the Lady, dead or not, but stubbornness prevailed. Then, stowing the great object in the bottom of the boat, he made haste for land.
To his relief, she did not surge from the water to board him, either for revenge or to recover her charge. There was no sign of her at all, though in Theophilus’s experience, Neptune invariably offered up its victims in due course. Once assured of survival he began to wonder how he should recount what had passed. This was not Argyll or Connaught wh
ere floating dead females were nothing to get excited about. Presumably he’d need to make some kind of confession and clear his name of murder. However, second thoughts soon arrived as to just what that confession might be, and how it would sound in the cold light of Law. They gave him pause. He waited awhile, recharged pistol to hand, waiting for her to show. Five long minutes passed but the still surface of the Lake remained unbroken. To break the monotony he replaced the boat and re-hung the door of its shelter. A gold guinea piece left on the row-board would pay for repairs and assuage his conscience – in that minor matter at least.
Once again at the Lake’s edge and at a loose end, he detected no change. The criminal damage to the boathouse, two murdered sprays of broom, the expenditure of a shot and a little powder, these were the only evidence of the bizarre event – those and a certain sword.
In the excess of other worries Theophilus had given no thought to his trophy. He’d used it to force one edge of the sundered door back into approximate place and then, suddenly fearful of contamination, planted it in the ground. For want of anything more constructive to do he now went to retrieve the Lady’s ‘gift’.
It was not there. No one could have visited the spot in the few intervening moments without Theophilus’s knowledge, and so he was forced to more radical conclusions. In its place, in the exact place where he had thrust it, now sat a more prosaic blade. Oglethorpe had seen hundreds, if not thousands, of the type in every cavalry barracks he’d ever frequented. The standard cavalry sabre was much the same right across Christendom and hadn’t changed since the Roman spatha went out of style. He supposed a spontaneous change in shape was not out of the question, given the greater strangeness of its delivery, but even so … Just when he had one dark miracle to cope with, fresh wonders were as welcome as plague boils.
The unhappy notions continued to disembark. Theophilus rehearsed interesting conversations with ascending levels of Justice: none of which concluded in a meeting of minds. The more he pondered the less promising the options seemed. Revealed for promiscuous delectation this morning’s work might well land him at the loon-house or Tyburn: places where pleas for ‘benefit of clergy’ went unheard.
The Royal Changeling Page 10
