The Royal Changeling

by John Whitbourn

  The newly christened stranger turned to look at Oglethorpe whilst sweeping wide one hand.

  ‘Why, here, of course,’ he said simply. ‘This land that was taken from us.’

  ‘Ah …’ answered Theophilus. He was used to such expressions of grievance, having heard it ad nauseam from Monmouth’s Celtic ‘court’. ‘Sorry. Nothing personal.’

  ‘I quite understand,’ Suth-Rege reassured him. ‘And in fact our overthrow long predates the arrival of the English. It lies more invasions back than are presently known of. One’s thirst for revenge is not thereby diminished, of course …’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘… but patience is meanwhile acquired. We hope that long patience will soon be rewarded. Do you still have the sword you found?’

  Theophilus’s ‘What sword might that be?’ faltered and expired on his lips. Attempts at deception seemed merely shabby in present company.

  ‘So you know about that then?’

  Suth-Rege mock-apologised for his omniscience. ‘Our little role in its giving earned us some knowledge. Your forgiveness, please. Our scrutiny of you has, I promise, been kept to a decent minimum.’

  Theophilus was untroubled by the news for he fashioned his life into pretty much an open book. It was simpler that way – less things to remember. Besides, his Father had always told him: ‘Never do anything – in daylight – you’d not be happy for your Mother to see’. To date, abiding to that had stood him in good stead – aided by the fact that mother had been a half-wild northerner (and an Anglican Archbishop’s granddaughter!) anyway.

  ‘Yes, I’ve still got it. It’s safe. Can you tell me about it?’

  ‘No.’ The blunt refusal was said so charmingly that it was hard to take offence – but Theophilus managed it. ‘Not yet,’ added Suth-Rege, as swiftly as good grace would allow. ‘The timing is not quite proper.’ His tone was so regretful, so understanding of hurt feelings, that even Oglethorpe was (almost) appeased.

  ‘When will it be proper then?’ he asked, only marginally more florid than usual.

  ‘When we see the King. That is what you must arrange.’ The answer was unhesitating – and Theophilus was silenced. Suth-Rege spoke as though he sought admission to the Mayor of Godalming; something of no great shakes – to be fixed up when he’d a free moment. ‘And bring the blade with you.’

  Oglethorpe re-orientated himself by studying the sky. It remained clear and untroubled – unlike his thoughts. Birds traversed it in a way they’d always done. It was not the world that had gone awry; merely his little portion of it.

  ‘And what, pray, shall I say to him?’ he asked, when words at length returned. ‘That the elves crave audience?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Suth-Rege, unexpectedly. ‘Then tell him this, so he will believe.’

  Before it could be prevented, the Elf’s left hand lightly brushed Oglethorpe’s brow. The charge in those slim fingers singed the skin and caused Theophilus’s wig to stir, but these sensations were neglected nothings compared to the tidal rush of liberated memory and gifted sights.

  Oglethorpe’s gratitude for the flood of remembrance was matched by relief for being lifted from despond’s slough. Once its conjuring-up was recalled, the demon melancholy could be booted back to hell. Not only that, but he was now free to do his duty.

  Theophilus recollected his true conversation with Monmouth; he saw the conspirators meet to plot and then mass for attack at Rye House. He was shocked to recognise so many. The armed mob then faded and the scene changed. In his mind’s eye he witnessed a tall and shadowy figure, not unlike his present companion, raising sorcerous fire in Newmarket. The Spring Race meeting went the way of all the incinerated stables and horses, and Charles came home early. The would-be regicides barricaded the toll-road in vain and gnashed their teeth at the non-arrival. Surveying the scene from angelic heights Oglethorpe observed them dispersing on horse or by foot, but all in confusion, back to Court or Scotland or Holland, and fresh calculations.

  Theophilus looked to heaven. ‘Only give me the chance,’ he vowed, through pursed lips, ‘and they will plot no more!’

  Suth-Rege fastidiously avoided following that particular line of sight. ‘Quite so,’ he agreed, coughing politely. ‘Meanwhile, we have plotting of our own to do. Times are such that humans and forerunners must work together. You will tell and your King will be grateful. Then Charles must hear the awful news.’

  ‘About Rye House, you mean?’ queried Theophilus, looking for some, or any, sign in those aquiline features. ‘About his son’s treason?’

  ‘What?’ the voice was puzzled though the face remained corpse-like. ‘Oh, I see: no, nothing so simple. Much worse. Arthur has awoken.’

  Watching from an upstairs window, Eleanor Oglethorpe saw all – or almost all. Sometimes she could see her husband’s companion; at others he was just shifting grey shadow. The black-haired youth slipped in and out of mortal view according to shifts in an unseen sea.

  And yet, for all that was uncanny, she was less afraid than for some days past. A message of cheer might be read in Theophilus’s renewed vigour and the set of his jaw. This was not the stoic front of last week but a return of purpose. His boundless courage was back. In Ellen’s book, love was trust and trust ought not to be crippled by reason. If Theophilus decreed the spectral visitation was for the good, then, for the moment, that was sufficient for her.

  Even so, as she drew cautiously back from the pane, Ellen had to admit to a little surprise – and a degree of patriotic pique. For all the talk of the ‘Grey Neighbours’ back home in Tipperary, she’d never so much as glimpsed them. How perverse then, that they should wait for a move to Surrey to bless her with a garden party.

  The change in room temperature was so swift and profound that the Duke of Monmouth could not continue. A sudden onslaught of cold deprived him of both the means and will to go on. In front, the Duchess’s derriere grew goose-pimples and was much less fun to board. Husband and wife disengaged with a ‘brrrr’ and adjusted their dress.

  When decent and able, the Duke crossed to the box which had hitherto heated the room. He gingerly tapped it – but to no avail. Its snug-creating properties were gone.

  Now, that meant one of two things: either Oglethorpe was dead or else his memories were free. There was little difference between them. Should the second prove to be the case, then the first must soon follow.

  He snatched up the little casket and shook it, frowning. The expended stone rattled, inert, within.

  ‘Friends!’ he said dismissively; perhaps to the ravished, weeping Duchess, perhaps to himself. ‘You can’t trust anyone nowadays.’

  King Charles II listened, and then raged, and then wept as his heart broke. Even before the news he’d made clear his desire to be elsewhere. A man called Newton was propounding a new theory about the tides to the Royal Society that evening and the King, a keen amateur scientist, had hoped to be present. That was now out of the question and Charles would miss the exposition on ‘gravity’. A similarly powerful, but more metaphysical, force dragged his spirit down.

  From outside came the sound and fury of Piercy Kirke and Samuel Pepys, lost in their episodic, air-singeing argument about the Colonel’s late rule in Tangiers, its ‘bestial depravity’ and whether it mattered, and if ‘canting quill-duelists’ should visit outposts of empire ‘peddling meddling’. Normally it amused the King: now he sent someone out to shut them up.

  He could not conceive what he’d done to deserve this knife twisted into his autumn days. As Kings went, as much as the world permitted, he was a kindly soul. He’d had his carpenter fit a false leg on an injured crane in St James’s Park. And this was the thanks he got.

  The Duke of York stood beside his brother as Theophilus’s tale unfolded, offering what consolation his own battered charity would allow.

  ‘Is this God’s punishment?’ wailed the King. ‘I’ve not been that bad. All this because I tupped a few doxies?’

  ‘Be cautious, Majesty,�
� warned the Archbishop of Canterbury. ‘Our Lord can only act justly. We must endure his stripes patiently.’

  Neither Charles nor James had any high opinion of the Anglican Church but they reined back the ripostes that naturally sprang to mind. For all that his timing and chosen church might be uncertain, the aged Archbishop Sancroft’s integrity was not in doubt. Charles appointed him and kept him at Court for that very reason: a quaint relic of former days and ways.

  ‘Mebbe so,’ growled the King. ‘But I question whether he need lay on with such a will – or if there ain’t backs more ripe for whipping.’

  The Archbishop thought that a fair point and so remained silent.

  ‘Still,’ Charles went on, now rallying a fraction, ‘it remains to check these grave allegations. No offence, Oglethorpe, but you’ll concede they emanate from strange sources …’

  The Duke of York was having none of this prevarication. ‘Done, checked, t-true,’ he crisply advised his brother, causing Charles’s shoulders to slump again. ‘You were warned in general terms before but would not believe. Lieutenant Colonel Oglethorpe has but c-coloured in the picture. Accept.’

  The select gathering in the throne-room saw him do so, observing the grim notions proceed from brain to eye to body. A few seconds on, Charles seemed a smaller, older, man.

  ‘Very well,’ he said in a voice from far away, ‘let it be done. Remind me of these vipers, this “Council of Six”.’

  ‘Lord William Russell,’ recited Theophilus.

  ‘High Treason,’ answered the King, and a secretary noted it down. ‘The Tower. The axe. Though he insisted on proper execution of drawing and quartering for my father’s innocent servant, Stafford, I am more merciful. He also has great estates I recall: his widow and orphans may retain them.’

  ‘Sir Algernon Sidley.’

  ‘A republican,’ said Charles, his lip curling. ‘He approved my father’s death. Let him feast from the same table.’

  ‘The Earl of Essex.’

  ‘Likewise – though he may look for reprieve. Since his father died for mine, I owe him a life.’

  ‘John Hampden.’

  ‘We had enough trouble with his father of the same name. The blood of that tribe scalds when spilt. Let him live, but break him with fines.’

  ‘Lord Howard of Esrick.’

  ‘He’s invertebrate. Allow him to turn King’s evidence and convict the rest before a Grand Jury. Then let me see him no more. Use the lesser fry in similar manner but ensure only a brace or two get as far as Tyburn. Just a little gore serves to drown treason; excess only makes it grow.’

  He sighed and sat back, tired of all this worldly wisdom. ‘And thus there’s an end to it.’

  James Stuart disagreed. ‘Not so,’ he said, coldly, ‘unless my numeracy’s at fault. We are dealing with a “Council of S-six”.’

  ‘So?’ The King’s voice contained a warning but the Duke of York ignored it.

  ‘I,’ he answered, ‘have only heard five names.’

  ‘That is true,’ said Theophilus, speaking out of turn and out of duty. ‘The sixth and chief conspirator is James Croft, Duke of Monmouth.’

  Charles visited Oglethorpe with the most glacial of gazes. ‘We are obliged to you, sir,’ he said. ‘May you one day have someone so … remindful of a child’s ingratitude. Yes, my Lord Monmouth, son and snake: he too must have his reward as he has rewarded me. A bill of High Treason and £500 for the man that hunts him down.’

  The Duke of York was unwise enough to rejoice in at last seeing justice done. His brother saw and noted it.

  ‘As to the other thing, Oglethorpe,’ Charles commanded, ‘you may proceed. We have seen much in a long life, perhaps too much, but one is still attended by surprises. Tell them the English Realm is honoured by Elfland’s diplomatic recognition.’

  ‘It is the ripest half a thousand pounds we are ever like to see,’ said Lord Rochester to Oglethorpe. ‘But who would dare collect it?’

  Tipsiness led the perfumed courtier-poet to misconstrue Theophilus’s status, mistaking him for a mere guardsman and possible pick-up.

  The room was still decorated festival-style for Princess Anne’s hilarious marriage to Prince George of Denmark. Charles in particular found it hard to credit a man as boring as George might still remain observable to the natural world. The thought of his conjoining with lumpen, lesbian, Anne had kept the King amused for months and culminated in embarrassing outbreaks of laughter during the ceremony. ‘I’ve tried him drunk and I’ve tried him sober’, he confided to the prospective father-in-law, James, ‘and there’s nothing in him.’ Nevertheless, the politic, Protestant match went ahead and something of the associated unkind lightness of mood lingered in the palace.

  ‘I suppose, my dear,’ the Earl inadvisedly surged on, ‘it depends on just what you’d do for money. I mean, the whole world knows that Monmouth lurks at Toddington in Bedfordshire, enjoying the company – and so much else, I don’t doubt – of Lady Henrietta Wentworth. You might say, ho, ho,’ and here he went so far as to nudge the Oglethorpian ribs with his elbow, ‘he’s hiding in “Beds”; get it?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ answered Theophilus, calmly. ‘And you get this.’

  Thereafter the Earl took little interest in proceedings. Falling-down drunks were hardly unknown at King Charles’s Court and soon enough some flunkies dragged him away to sleep whatever it was off.

  Theophilus had little patience for mollyfrocks at the best of times and right now was hardly that. Rochester had no business being around at this, by Royal command, most private of audiences. Goodness only knew how he’d managed to blag his way into Windsor. It being Oglethorpe’s assigned duty to keep the ante-chamber clear, even a ‘Southwark Hello’ (or head-butt) for an Earl was regally permitted. Rochester wouldn’t mind, even assuming he remembered.

  The incident was in keeping with the times. Just lately, joke-weddings aside, the Royal Court was not a pleasant place to be. Aside from increased security, the steady drip-drip-drip of blood from the Rye House business cast a dampening pall. Lords Howard and Russell had gone well, with the fortitude of true Christians. My Lord Essex had pre-empted his King’s forgiveness and, in emulation of the ancient stoics he so admired, slit his throat in the Tower. By unhappy coincidence, Charles was inspecting the fortress at the time, giving rise to all kinds of insinuations. Lord Howard played his expected part and betrayed all, whilst John Hampden thought himself lucky just to be £40,000 poorer – and thus very, very poor. Monmouth meanwhile, awaited developments.

  Left to himself, Theophilus would have gone and fetched the Duke, regardless of past affections. If asked to he’d have even visited sentence upon him. In the end though, his lust for justice was restrained by the King’s example. That silly, doting, father pretended ignorance of his son’s whereabouts and wanted nothing but the merest expression of regret to make all things well. Lieutenant Colonel Oglethorpe might not approve but it ill-behoved him to take more offence than the worst wounded party.

  The door leading to the great Hall of Approach was tapped upon with the agreed signal. Theophilus hissed at the last remaining servitor-elements to begone and they slipped away through obscure exits back to the flunky labyrinth which honeycombed the Castle. Only then, and assured that he was alone, could he cross the chamber and crack the double-doors ajar.

  A shrouded visitor awaited beyond, muffled and coated and nondescript. Amidst the aspirant peacocks of the Windsor Castle community he could hardly have stood out more. Theophilus was mortified.

  ‘You misunderstood,’ he said, in distress. ‘I told you inconspicuous.’

  ‘And so I am,’ maintained the stranger. The glorious, cultured, liquidity of his voice negated his counting-house appearance. Whatever he might at first seem, this was no book-keeper.

  ‘For a Quaker orgy mayhap,’ Theophilus answered, with heat and speed. ‘But this is the Court, man!’ The stranger’s eyes widened to be thus addressed and Oglethorpe glimpsed their golden core. Even h
is Etna-style temper was accordingly cooled.

  ‘I am not a “man”,’ came the icy reply and Theophilus drew back before its frigid breath. The doors parted for the arrival to pass through and then closed with great violence behind him, all without assistance. ‘And it would be well for you to recall it. We might well … speak to you, but do not expect concern for your feelings or a study of your ways, newcomer. Lengthy consideration of humanity we find … distasteful.’

  He seemed minded to develop the theme, a passionless sort of fury building slowly in tone and stance. Fortunately fresh considerations intruded. ‘However,’ he added, and more temperately, ‘I recollect I am an ambassador and should dissemble and oblige. Here, is this more likely to suit?’

  The dowdy mercantile coverings were gracefully swept aside to reveal a glory of scarlet and thread of gold. He was like the visitor to Westbrook but not, Theophilus suspected, the ‘man’ himself. In their unpleasant beauty and poise, the breed tended to similarity. This one’s inky locks were shaved, the better to reveal the sharp long lines of his skull, but otherwise he was much like the previous specimen. The whole was less than the sum of promising parts; nominally appealing ingredients adding up to excess. ‘Nature’, Theophilus thought, ‘has over-blessed them. The first-born child is often spoilt.’

  Whether the gold was showing or not, they were also unable to keep the … neutrality from their eyes. That was both unwise and impolite. Theophilus had observed men look at midges that way.

  ‘Far more fitting,’ he lied. ‘If, that is, one overlooks the mud and rips.’

  The Elf was undismayed. ‘We reside in forests,’ he said proudly, ‘because you drove us there. We do not fear them out of guilty conscience or wish them ill as you do. We live therein and love and use them. Why then should we not bear signs of their embrace?’

  Theophilus was not sure he could answer that. Far better for him to take refuge behind pressing time. ‘They await you,’ he hinted.

  His opponent operated to his own unhurried schedule and would not be rushed. ‘You were asked to bring the sword …’ The tone was reproving.