The Royal Changeling

by John Whitbourn

  ‘Let’s start again,’ he said, unleashing every reserve of charm. ‘Be unborn my words.’

  Theophilus remained suspicious and grudging. He’d seen this ‘sweet reasonableness’ before, employed to tip the most virtuous of wives on their backs or to avert the King’s anger. It seemed contrary to the spirit of friendship for those seductive skills to be unleashed.

  He withdrew to the matching partner of Monmouth’s place of rest and looked unhappily round. Why, he wondered, did he have three copies of Burton’s ‘Anatomy of Melancholy’? Why had he got one copy?

  ‘If you must,’ he replied, sadly. ‘If this isn’t the social call I’d hoped for.’

  Monmouth was all false reassurance; every expression and gesture and look – and for the first time Theophilus perceived its insubstantial nature, seeing right through it and out the other side. It was a revelation, and he was unused to those.

  ‘This is,’ protested the Duke. ‘A social call, I mean. Nothing more sinister than a call on an old and valued comrade, I promise you. I’ve not come as some unholy recruiting sergeant. There’s no need for that. You and I took the King’s shilling together long ago.’

  ‘The King’s shilling,’ Theophilus reminded him. ‘Note that.’

  ‘Who else’s?’ Monmouth feigned puzzlement. ‘To what other possible end? Yet surely you don’t maintain there is but one way to serve His Majesty?’

  Theophilus thought about it.

  ‘Well, yes I do actually,’ he answered, frowning. ‘You serve him loyally.’

  At that unhappy moment, Eleanor Oglethorpe chose to enter, leading a train of flunkies bearing vittals. Her curt dismissal, via identical-twin, imperious, waves of the hand by Husband and Guest, so stunned her that she even complied. From behind the re-closed Library door came the sounds of servants being barged backwards and the crash of falling trays. Ellen’s lively curses then joined the rough music. Oglethorpe and Monmouth took no notice.

  ‘But not blind loyalty,’ the Duke countered. ‘There is such a thing as higher duty.’

  ‘Is there?’ Theophilus sounded interested.

  ‘Most certainly. Consider the matter, Oglethorpe. A King occupies his position for a purpose. He is placed there – by God, if you like – to play a role. He must fulfil it, even at the cost of his life if required.’

  ‘Like Charles the Martyr, you mean?’ hazarded Theophilus, willing to be helpful but still uncertain. Monmouth leapt upon the cooperation.

  ‘Exactly. You understand all. Well, the same applies to his son, my father. Now tell me, have you ever heard of Rye House?’

  Nowadays, every glorified merchant’s shack dignified itself as such-and-such ‘house’. Theophilus troubled his memory for the name.

  ‘Can’t say I have. Were we billeted there once?’

  Monmouth smirked at some private joke.

  ‘Not to date – though we might be soon. You may come to know the place well – just before it assumes a glorious place in our history.’

  Theophilus hadn’t thought to go on any travels. His Majesty, and through him, the Army, were allowing him a little time to enjoy his new rootedness.

  ‘How so?’

  Monmouth leant forward; the very epitome of easy-going frankness.

  ‘Said abode occupies a most advantageous position, fortified, moated and discreet; yet beside the London–Newmarket toll-road. I have inspected it most closely accompanied by the present owner, Master Richard Rumbold, and can conceive nowhere better in all Hertfordshire for my purpose.’

  Monmouth was plainly waiting for the next obvious query but Theophilus failed to oblige. As a professional cavalryman he was wary of charging into prepared positions. At the same time, there was something about that precision of siting which jangled certain nerves.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve had the honour …’

  The Duke sat back, disappointed.

  ‘No, you haven’t. I thought it best to keep you apart. Unprepared, you might not see eye to eye …’

  Theophilus was horrified. ‘One of them?’

  ‘One of them,’ Monmouth confirmed. ‘One of the blackest of “them” in your book I expect: an Ironside right from the start and a volunteer guard at the blessed Charles’s execution in ‘49. So there, you see, he already understands all about the self-sacrificing nature of Kingship …’

  ‘Has it come to this? Cromwellians and regicides? Murderers of your own Grandfather? The sort of people who separate hens and cocks on the Sabbath for fear they might have fun?’

  Monmouth shrugged. ‘If you like. Also the sort of person who put it across us at Marston Moor, Naseby, Preston, Dunbar, Worcester, the Battle of the Dunes … and sundry other places too saddening to mention. The track record suggests we could do with their help. And speaking of tracks …’

  Theophilus understood now, and had to accept that the best might also be most false.

  ‘The races at Newmarket …’ he said slowly, spilling out the extent of his distress in those few words. Strangely, Monmouth did not pick up on it. Wild ambition had swept away his finer judgements.

  ‘To which his Majesty is most partial: precisely. Riding meat, eating meat and putting meat into meat – the three great pleasures of life as my Father explained to me: actually, a proverb plagiarised from the Arabs I believe. Accordingly we can depend both on his presence at the Newmarket Spring Races and his haste to get back to his doxies at Court. There’s been the very closest study made. Father always dashes ahead of his retinue. By the time Rye House is passed there’s rarely more than a half dozen outriders plus his coachman. A haywain toppled in the road will draw forth the guards to clear it – and marksmen in the ditch beside will clear them. Then our horsemen concealed in the courtyard can sally forth to finish the deed.’

  Theophilus looked solemnly at his ex-friend.

  ‘So one King dies,’ he said, ‘and another is proclaimed.’

  ‘Oh no, not so,’ Monmouth lied stoutly, unaware that his batteries of deceit now fired blanks. ‘We shall just deprive the King of his misleading advisors. Then, under our protection, he will perceive the justice of my cause.’

  ‘How could he fail to?’ asked Theophilus, looking out of the window, into a world now drained of comfort and colour. Monmouth was falsely encouraged.

  ‘The Duke of York must die though,’ he added candidly. ‘We know he’ll be with the King. It ties up loose ends. You shall see to that. Rumbold is fiery enough but past his best. I need a dependable warrior who likes to charge home. You’ll enjoy it: the Gentlemen Pensioners will put up a good fight I expect.’

  He looked up in expectation of gratitude for the great favour offered. The handsome face soured upon not finding it.

  ‘What’s this, Oglethorpe? Not enthused? I’ve outlined your patriotic and religious duty. What do you say?’

  Theophilus expelled a held breath through gritted teeth, and numerous illusions fled with it.

  ‘What I say,’ he replied softly, ‘is en garde, traitor. Kindly wait here while I fetch me sword.’

  No one could accuse Monmouth of flat-footedness. His moment of terror was commendably brief.

  ‘Ahh …’ he said sorrowfully, driven to fresh calculations. ‘So you really do believe in all that honour business. How quaint.’

  Theophilus paused on his way to the bookcase where, hidden behind vast volumes of something or other, he’d months before cached two foils.

  ‘It wounds, I confess,’ he answered, ‘to realise you ever doubted it.’

  The Duke spread his hands in a ‘oh well, never mind, that’s life I suppose’ sort of gesture. Unplacated, Oglethorpe continued with his errand of deadly intent. Trusting even where no trust was due, his back remained offered up to a treacherous shot or strike as he hefted the concealing tomes aside.

  The Duke of course considered it, but settled for simpler ways out of present difficulties. There was ample time for him to search his pockets for subtler weapons.

  ‘Replace the swords,�
�� he said shortly. ‘Come back. Sit down. Forgive me and forget all that’s been said.’

  In due course Oglethorpe did exactly as he was told.

  The coach leaving Westbrook contained an unhappy Duke. Yapping mongrels pursued it down the drive. Even the sight of the cloud of green-ribboned outriders, harbinger-vision of glories to come, failed to cheer him. He’d invested a great deal in Lieutenant Colonel Oglethorpe, only to receive pitiful dividends. So now he had to rush matters; a deplorable necessity, contrary to the rules of conspiracy. Where else would he find that rare Oglethorpian combination of savagery and sophistication? The present day contained violent madmen enough, for sure, but precious few so suited to present needs. The mere killing of Kings was not enough; it had to be done with honour, by men the succeeding regime could laud – and then, with great regret, visit justice upon. Theophilus had been a part of their elegant plans so long that they’d forgotten he had any independent existence.

  Monmouth was now reminded of that fact by the fierce heat pulsing out from the little box beside him. Despite a lining of lead and dense heartwood construction, the casket couldn’t contain all the warmth of Oglethorpe’s emotions. The sorcerous leech-stone within must be fairly throbbing with its burden of stolen anger, too hot to be long held in hand or pocket. Fear of scorching to his parts had obliged the Duke to thrust it aside as soon as he was out of sight. By the time the coach was on the London road the box had become a tongs-job, blackening the expensive upholstery. It was quite some man they’d lost.

  Nor was that all. Monmouth had hoped to husband the limited supply of ‘leechers’, reserving them for more important minds. His Cymric wizards courted perilous company to gain them, sacrificing years of earthly life and risking the one beyond. That was nothing to the Duke, of course, but their quest carried problematic side-effects. One mage had just … disappeared, along with his London lodgings, leaving only a sulphurous smell and difficult questions to answer. Besides, he needed their knowledge of the ‘unseelie realms’ – for the moment.

  Theophilus had frowned at the leech-stone at first viewing, and then queried Monmouth’s triggering phrase. Soon enough though the harsh face had softened and all his fury flowed away, along with certain … inconvenient memories. With those safely stored in the stone, the Duke could draw a happier picture on the resultant blank canvas. Theophilus would recall a jolly chat, a verbal refight of Maastricht – and perhaps a bit too much sack at midday, an explanation for the headache he’d have. Nothing was lost – but on the other hand, nothing was gained either. Dealings with humans – under the present dispensation – was like that. What a nuisance.

  Monmouth realised he was hungry. The fiasco at Westbrook meant they’d gone without sustenance – and Madame Oglethorpe questioned that when he’d left. ‘Getting too grand for plain rations, are we?’ she’d asked, in a tone less respectful than appropriate; as though they were still friends like in days gone by. Things had moved on since then. He’d mumbled some excuse about poor appetites but saw she wasn’t deceived. Mouthy cow – though mettlesome perhaps: likely good fun to shake the sheets with. He’d bear that in mind when his time came. In the meanwhile, people should accept he was not the rough-edged lucky bastard King Charles first brought over. He was on his way up – and to places the unenlightened didn’t even suspect existed. There’d arrive an occasion of reckoning for these over-familiar types, and it wouldn’t be long delayed. That Irish colleen Theophilus had bred with would be just one of many to sing a different song under the new regime.

  It then occurred to him he could buy some bread on the way to Soho and toast it over Theophilus’s anger.

  ‘So what did you talk about then?’

  Theophilus, in the grip of powerful emotions, swept the wig off his head and hurled it to the ground.

  Tor the ten-thousandth time, woman,’ he roared, ‘I’ve already told you. I’ve had nothing else this week. What d’you want? Blood? An affidavit from Almighty God?’

  ‘I’ll-tell-you-what-I-want,’ replied Ellen Oglethorpe, punctuating each word with a jab at her husband’s chest and driving him back. ‘I want the truth!’

  Theophilus reached the wall and could retreat no further. He looked to the heavens (or the hallway ceiling in present context) for assistance.

  ‘I’ve told you the truth.’ His hands cupped involuntarily en-route to Ellen’s throat but were reined in just in time. ‘We talked. We joked. I went on about the siege of Maastricht and he told a risque story about Nell Gwyn’s tongue. That’s it. C’est tout. Is this song the only one you sing?’

  ‘It is – and you’ll jig to the tune before I’m finished with you; you see if you don’t. I know James Croft Duke of Monmouth and that was no chit-chat face he had on him. His eyes didn’t even take my clothes off like normal. He was embroiling you and don’t you dare deny it!’

  She could have bit her lip on saying so. What possessed her to pick on the one wrong word in the Oglethorpian universe.

  ‘Dare?’ Theophilus shrugged himself free from the wall. ‘Dare is it! Don’t you dare me, Madame. You attend to your duties and, by God, I’ll discharge mine! Be so good as to clear the way.’

  Ellen had lost the skirmish but not the war. She stood by, hands on hips, whilst the Theophilian forces quit the field, in passable order but under token verbal pursuit. The Lieutenant Colonel scooped up his abandoned wig (now a little dusty and dishevelled), and having replaced it, swept from the house. Mrs Oglethorpe followed as far as the door.

  ‘And don’t go bothering with the hollow tree,’ she yelled after him. ‘I found those swords.’

  Theophilus’s shoulders stiffened but he made no other response. A column of gardeners passed him along the drive, politely oblivious to the domestic fray amongst their employers. They were used to it.

  ‘Morning, Master,’ said their foreman, Mr Grimes. ‘Don’t fret, I gets far worse from my wench.’

  ‘And don’t be embroiled!’ Mrs Oglethorpe’s parting shot bowled down the drive before she withdrew indoors. Theophilus snarled at either or both bits of advice and turned aside into the grounds.

  Mutually invisible, he could not observe Ellen’s anguished closing of her eyes and biting upon her knuckles. She never saw him pausing for thought. Anger born of affection has a short but lusty life.

  In no fit state, sartorially or otherwise, for company, Theophilus abandoned notions of a trip to Town and distraction of the fire-water type. Instead, he took his confusion to a yew-shaded wrought-iron bench thoughtfully set on the edge of the estate. It was there that in years to come his fanatic-Jacobite daughters would construct sturdy fortlets commanding the narrow valley, in anticipation of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s arrival. However, in 1683, that was generations of low-politics and betrayal away and the site was still innocent of any martial presence – save Theophilus’s own swirling-purple thoughts. It should have been a citadel of calm and orderly sensations – and yet it was not. Somehow its flint wouldn’t spark; its powder was wet and the civil stronghold was betrayed to malign forces.

  He sat and studied the prospect of the Wey and Godalming-town seeking respite from the undefined unease he felt, but comfort proved elusive. For Ellen to be right, and he wrong, was bad enough in itself. Yet, worse still, was this girlie malaise. He’d always thought himself proof against the scourge of melancholia, only to find he was on the same rack as any poet. All through the last week, Theophilus could not rid himself of a vast feeling of … disappointment.

  ‘It is hardly surprising,’ said the tall man suddenly alongside him on the bench. ‘Feeling lost in the universal expanse your kind put such value on attachments.’

  To his credit, Theophilus remained seated, the master of his feelings. The impulse to rise or attack lived out a mere mayfly span. He didn’t even challenge the stranger’s trespassing presence. He could guess.

  The newcomer approved and was willing to assist. Prosaic queries were aborted by the most expressive, if silent, reproof. ‘No, of course thi
s isn’t normal,’ said the message in his golden eyes, ‘but don’t demean yourself with dull questions.’

  ‘I see …’ said Theophilus, in due course. ‘Well, good morning to you then.’

  The visitor smiled and leaned back, stretching out his long legs and making himself at ease on the bench. He appeared to find some imperceptible fault in the green and gold splendour of his sleeve.

  ‘That’s right,’ he explained, eventually. ‘I am.’

  Theophilus studied the uninvited guest, recognising the aristocratic spirit when he saw it.

  ‘You’re what?’ he asked, lost in contemplation of the too-fine features and dead-white skin.

  ‘I just am. It seems only polite to permit you at least a “who?” or “why?” – just to get preliminaries out of the way. We are only what you’ve long suspected; that which you’ve half-glimpsed in the landscape – and then rejected as fancy.’

  ‘I never disbelieved in elves,’ said Theophilus, ‘only kept it quiet.’

  The visitor was suddenly weary. He expelled his breath and its glancing blow was like the most seductive of perfumes.

  ‘That name again. We do so tire of it …’

  Even alongside the numinous-made-flesh Theophilus’s temper was still in working order. ‘Is that so?’ he snapped. ‘Well, then perhaps you’d oblige with an alternative.’

  The stranger left off examination of his cuff and the arm thus released settled gently to his side like falling gossamer.

  ‘Therein lies a problem,’ he replied. ‘I have no name all to myself as you do. We are less … separated. I could perhaps, for present purposes, adopt the name of my homeland …’

  ‘If it’s all you have,’ agreed Theophilus, helpfully.

  ‘Suth-Rege it is then. How do you do.’

  ‘Well enough up to now. And where might Suth-Rege be?’