The Royal Changeling

by John Whitbourn

‘More f-fool you. I’d have paid it.’

  ‘But … there’s something I should say …’

  James didn’t like the sound of that and ceased to molest his breeches.

  ‘Would it change things,’ she said, mock frightened, ‘if I admitted to a teeny-weeny bit of Elf blood – from way back and long ago?’

  The Duke considered, comically half de-bagged. ‘No, not really,’ he said eventually. ‘Knowing your clan I should have guessed.’

  ‘We don’t keep in touch – hardly spoken for centuries: not till last week anyway.’

  ‘Oh yes …?’ said James, warily.

  ‘They left a message – about the High Moot: about when and where.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Don’t stop, wicked-jimmy,’ she moaned lasciviously. ‘I always mix business with pleasure.’

  Ever-ready, even when thinking of business, James complied and trod out of his drawers.

  ‘And?’ he repeated.

  She drew him down upon her, long-lashed dark eyes widening with pleasure.

  ‘What a waste to memorise the place,’ Arabella giggled, ‘when I’ve got you to remind me, big-boy. They said it’s a week from now – and – oh! – at The Long Man.’

  ‘Though I have now travelled the Sussex Downs upwards of thirty years, yet I still investigate that chain of majestic mountains with fresh admiration year by year, and I think I see new beauties each time I traverse it … For my own part, I think there is something peculiarly sweet and amusing in the shapely-figured aspect of chalk hills, in preference to those of stone, which are rugged, broken, abrupt and shapeless. Perhaps I may be singular in my opinion, but I never contemplate these mountains without thinking I perceive somewhat analogous to growth in their gentle swellings and smooth fungus-like protuberances, their fluted sides and regular hollows and slopes, that carry at once the air of vegetative dilation and expansion: or was there ever a time when the calcareous masses were thrown into fermentation … by some plastic power, and so made to swell and heave their broad backs into the sky, so much above the less animated clay of the wild below?’

  ‘The Natural History of Selbourne’

  Gilbert White. 1789.

  ‘It is amongst these modestly proportioned yet majestic hills that the great, silent figure of the Giant patiently awaits the solution of the mystery of his origin. Known variously as the Wilmington Giant or the Long Man of Wilmington, he stands on a hillside four miles north-west of Eastbourne, some two hundred and forty feet tall in his original state. If – strange fancy – he were able to tear himself from his turf prison, rise up from the hills and stride to Canterbury, he would by several feet overtop Bell Harry, the central tower of the Cathedral … the Statue of Liberty, which is only two-thirds as tall as the Giant …

  ‘The Wilmington Giant’

  Rodney Castelden. 1983.

  ‘… He must be the tallest human figure in Europe, for he is two hundred and twenty-six feet high and the staves he holds in his hands two hundred and thirty and two hundred and thirty-five feet: the outlines are now preserved by a filling of white bricks, having become very faint a century ago … He is first mentioned in the eighteenth century Burrell MSS. where he is shown holding scythe and rake, but he is clearly older. Sir Flinders Petrie ascribed him to the Bronze Age, others to the Druids: some have seen him as Balder opening the gates of dawn. The theory that he was set up by the monks of the neighbouring monastery … is merely perverse … It may or may not be significant that he was set up just below the concentration of earthworks on Windover Hill. Within the last century the outline of another giant could be seen on Hindover Hill south of Alfriston, but he has now vanished.’

  ‘Along the South Downs’

  David Harrison. 1958.

  ‘Eyeless, noseless, mouthless, he is like a face waiting to be born or a revelation that is imminent. He is the familiar spirit of the Weald, the phantom essence of those chalky epochs, the lingering spirit of Downland Man etched upon the green.’

  ‘Gods and Graven Images – The Chalk Hill-figures of Britain.’

  Paul Newman. 1987.

  ‘What a palaver,’ said King Charles, alighting, less than impressed, into what passed for the hamlet’s main street. ‘Why the devil couldn’t they just post an invitation like normal people?’

  The Duke of York joined him in surveying the rustic scene.

  ‘Your query contains its own answer. You thirst in v-vain for “normality”. It’s simply not their way I suppose.’

  Force of habit made the King raise his pomaded handkerchief only to realise there was no need. This wasn’t BabyLondon. The air of the South Downs was sweeter than any artificial concoction.

  ‘You should know,’ he quipped, only momentarily appeased. ‘It transpires our intercourse with Elves is less long-standing than yours – if you see what I mean.’

  The gibe struck home. ‘Only in innocence,’ James protested. ‘And all unknowing.’

  Charles flashed his famous dry smile. ‘Well, unknowing maybe. I misdoubt the innocence of up-ending Elf-maids. Perhaps your confessor can advise you.’

  Leaving his brother to think that one through, he moved on, beckoning Oglethorpe to attend him.

  ‘Master Theophilus,’ he asked, studying without condescension the few humble cottages, ‘kindly remind me of our location.’

  ‘The village of Folkington, in Pevensey-Rape, in the county of Sussex, Majesty. Or so ‘tis spelt. The aborigines remind us, to the point of impudence, it’s spoken as Fowington.’

  ‘Then we shall respect their South-Saxon sensibilities. Fowington it is. Incidentally, where are our loyal local subjects that one may thus oblige them?’

  ‘Evacuated, Majesty: for the duration – at sword point.’

  Charles sighed heavily. ‘Your temper, Oglethorpe, sometimes exasperates. I suppose one yokel corrected your pronouncing …’

  ‘More than one, Majesty.’

  ‘Two or three?’ said the King, with heavy sarcasm. ‘Gracious, these people must be stopped …’

  Anything less subtle than a sabre-cut was wasted on Theophilus.

  ‘Don’t worry, Sire, I put ’em straight!’

  ‘I bet you did. See they each get a florin afterwards. I’ll pay you back – probably.’

  His meditation complete, James hurried to catch them.

  ‘I cannot conceive,’ he blustered, ‘that any blame attaches to me. I mean, the Churchills? Who would have t-thought it?’

  ‘Me for one,’ answered Charles, bluntly. ‘That family-cum-conspiracy makes the Borgias look casual. And don’t talk to me about failing to conceive. Was it four or five bubbies you had by her?’

  ‘Only four,’ replied the Duke, sounding hurt.

  ‘More vipers in our bosom. Didn’t you suspect? Tell me that’s why you threw Arabella over for that Sedley woman …’

  The Duke, alas, was a prisoner of the truth.

  ‘Well n-no,’ he admitted. ‘That was an accident. Coming upon Lady Catherine bent over and packing some linen, I mistook her for a serving maid, and not my wife’s lady-of-the-bed-chamber. S-she was so gracious about … the ensuing confusion that my heart w-warmed to her.’

  Charles clapped his hand to his brow. ‘I am almost reconciled to the ordeal to come. Lead on, Oglethorpe, before he tells me more.’

  Theophilus know that his King had a lively curiosity about the obscurer corners of his Realm, and so had forearmed himself with dreary knowledge. He divested himself of it as they walked.

  ‘To our left is a Church dedicated to St. Peter, the priest of which – who sadly cannot be with us – told me, under duress, that it is of flint-faced stone, built in the thirteenth century of our deliverance. The wretched settlement under its shelter is best known for the cultivation of the teasel plant for dressing broadcloth and as the one-time residence of the herbalist and astrologer, Culpeper. Observe the …’

  ‘Is that where we must go?’ interrupted Charles, raising his eyes to the cloud-topped pro
tuberances of the Downs above them. For once he was not so interested in the by-ways of the land entrusted to him. He had the gut-feeling that his claims over it would today be disputed.

  Windover Hill,’ confirmed Theophilus. ‘That is the appointed place.’

  ‘I cannot see this Long Man.’

  ‘He is only seen from head-on, Majesty, set back in his own fold of the hills. That view is from Wilmington village, which I’ve likewise cleared and secured with soldiery, over a spur of the Downs from here. Fowington, if you please, nestles under Windover and is close beset by trees. It seemed happiest to arrive by the less obvious route.’

  Charles’s history provided ample example of the wisdom of such caution. His subtle mind judged it wasted effort amidst the present suspension of nature, but he could approve the general policy.

  ‘You have done well, Oglethorpe. Our safety seems well provided for.’

  It certainly was. Theophilus had commissioned the first ever detailed map of the area and, employing same, arranged it to be sealed off from the world. All human life had been ‘persuaded’ out of the way. Small detachments of the Duke of York’s Horse, of which he now had the honour to be Lieutenant Colonel, stood over the approaches to ensure a degree of privacy. A larger group were held in reserve for darker duties. Should Theophilus not countermand the order and confirm the King’s welfare by nightfall, they were to sweep the Downs clear of life – of whatever sort they might find.

  Theophilus reconsidered his plans for the thousandth time and ‘saw that they were good’. He was then punished for his misuse of Holy writ by the King’s attention to detail.

  ‘No wonder I’m always broke,’ said Charles, good-naturedly, as they started to ascend the hill-path out of Folkington, ‘when my troops sport uniforms as gaudy as that.’ He pointed to the ring of armed sentinels they now glimpsed through the trees. ‘What regiment are they?’

  Theophilus looked and then ground his teeth.

  ‘I couldn’t say, your Majesty,’ he replied, sadly. ‘It’s not our army.’

  The sun came out to accompany their climb along the narrow chalky track. Charles took the lead, striding ahead with his long legs, although the oldest of the group. James, Duke of York, and Theophilus puffed along after him as best they could.

  ‘Nice day for it,’ the King shouted back at them. ‘Is that this Long Man?’

  Indeed it was, glimpsed obliquely on what antiquarians suspected was the artificially levelled side of Windover. He looked blankly out over the Weald, patiently awaiting his own purpose and putting mere transient ‘Kings’ and ‘Dukes’ into proper perspective. As the path wove up the hill-spur, a few yards to left or right removed him from view.

  ‘Marvellous panorama,’ said Charles, coming to a sudden stop. ‘Can see for miles. What’s that booby-shaped thing?’

  Theophilus almost cannoned into the regal back. He followed the pointing arm.

  ‘Mount Caburn, sire. An outpost of the Downs. There’s an ancient citadel atop it and legends of a Roman buried in a gold coffin. I’ve stationed lookouts there.’

  The King stared. ‘That’s thoughtful,’ he said, after a long pause. ‘Though perhaps wasted effort. They’d be better employed hunting that gold. It seems our person is already well guarded.’

  Theophilus took the reproof in silence. He had no explanation for the other sentinels who’d walked through his cordon.

  ‘Sulk not, Theo, at least we’re alone now. Our friends have left us behind.’

  That was true. The Elf-soldiers had suffered them to pass and they now had the hill to themselves.

  ‘Never mind,’ laughed Charles. ‘Onwards and upwards, lads. Let us ascend, like Christ, into the clouds.’

  This was also true. The cloud-cover had dipped even as they walked, hiding the top of Windover in ethereal white.

  It was hard going and the slope in places sheer. Their riding boots slipped and rolled on the crumbly chalk. In other circumstances it would have been a relief to gain the summit but as it was they were in no hurry to leave the world behind. In the end, however, neither inclination, nor gravity or terrain could forever postpone their arrival at the High Moot of the Old Ways.

  A sound of disapproval, like a distant threatening storm greeted them. They could not see all of the groups gathered on the hilltop, or any of them at all distinctly. In the ebb and flow of cloud groups of figures presented themselves for inspection and then were gone. Hostility enhanced the chill.

  The congregation was gathered in a circle, bunched into discreet little knots right round the top of Windover, crowning it with strange life. By luck or design, the humans emerged at the one point on the circumference where they might enter safely. They were met and escorted in.

  ‘And so it begins,’ said the Elf-King, portentously, to his train of lieutenants. They scattered at his command, each to their separate clans on the outer reaches of the hill.

  He was much like his predecessor, blandly beautiful and glorious in mud-besmirched cloth-of-gold. His cool neutrality was tantamount to friendship in the present context and they were glad to see him.

  ‘If you please …’ he said to Theophilus, gesturing him forward.

  ‘If I please what?’ he asked, not used to being spoken to first in Charles’s presence.

  ‘The sword: display it.’

  ‘You do it.’ He wasn’t keen on stepping out into the field of fire.

  ‘We cannot touch Excalibur,’ explained the King, as patient as could be wished. ‘It is abomination to us.’

  Theophilus looked to Charles and received the Royal assent in a shrug.

  ‘To the centre,’ commanded the Elf, ‘but no further. There are some here you best not approach.’

  ‘But the c-cloud,’ quibbled James. ‘They won’t see.’

  ‘They will see,’ replied the King, with quiet confidence.

  So there was nothing else for it but to put best foot forward, as bravely as possible for the honour of his race. All unknowing, Theophilus trod over the bumps and dips that were the barrow-graves of long lost dynasties, till he stood clear and alone. The counterfeit sabre was then whisked free of its sheath and brandished aloft as though to signal a charge.

  It met with an octave-transcending acclamation from all round. Hisses and howls and lamentations soared briefly as if he’d opened the door of Limbo.

  ‘He is rising!’ announced the Elf-King, in a clear, unraised, voice that somehow covered the hill. ‘I spoke the truth!’

  Amidst the maelstrom of noise Theophilus glimpsed some of the more outlandish participants – and wished he had not. He had not been aware that man shared the Earth with such a variety of life. Without waiting for permission, though with creditable calm, he returned to his own kind.

  The Elf-King heard more than just sorrow in the cacophony.

  ‘We need them,’ he told the Moot, matter-of-factly. ‘We must treat with them.’

  The angry babble was heard again. Though it inspired them to draw closer together, the three humans could make no sense of it. The Elf-King, however, found cause for exasperation therein.

  ‘Old grievances must be set aside,’ he replied over the roar. ‘Dream no more! We are weak! We can influence and meddle and appear strong, but that is not enough. Only these fast-breeders, these swarming soul-bearers, can grasp the world and swing it round. This day is the usurpers’. It is their time: ours is gone or not-yet!’

  He seemed to gain a measure of agreement to that: Reluctant, grudging acquiescence perhaps, but good enough for his purpose.

  ‘Do they mean us?’ asked James, out the corner of his mouth. ‘Should we b-be offended?’

  ‘If you like,’ replied Charles, sardonically. ‘Oglethorpe here’s a duellist. Mebbe he should call the fellow out.’

  The Duke couldn’t spot humour at five paces. ‘Later, perhaps,’ he gravely advised Theophilus. ‘Now’s n-not the occasion.’

  Oglethorpe wasn’t going to argue. Unlike his companions, he had seen the more
monstrous delegates close up. Some of the larger entities would require cannon-fire to finish off.

  The Elf-King pointed back at Charles. Monarch though he might be, the King of England, Scotland and Ireland shrank back under the scrutiny of a thousand non-human eyes.

  ‘This one’s faction must now be our own,’ announced the Elf. ‘Our interests for once coincide. Who here thinks to survive the coming storm without allies? No, we must ignore our disgust and confess our needs …’

  He left the audience to stew on that awhile. The circling growl of disapproval diminished as they thought on. Then, picking his moment perfectly, the Elf-King stepped forward to harvest the crop of doubt.

  ‘And lest you think otherwise,’ he said, theatrically sad, ‘my own people must also confess. We are not given to the pain of “guilt”: that is a newcomer notion. Yet I say to you this day we have wronged you; you survivors of better times, and we shall therefore bear the brunt of what is to come. We have dabbled among the usurpers, for mischief and for sport. We have put our changelings amongst them, for our amusement and their tears. Yet not until now, never in all the ages since the last High Moot, not since the ice last retreated from this flank of Mother Earth, has there been a renegade-elf. Only now are all our secret thoughts betrayed to the enemy. He rises and exults, and that is our fault. I confess it.’

  Strangely, the revelation didn’t provoke the spontaneous rage that earlier rose to greet the human delegation. A new realisation of peril instead gave rise to silence. Like a cuckolded spouse, the gathering seemed crushed by disappointment.

  ‘Monmouth is with him,’ the Elf-King admitted. ‘And we suffer for it. But with the newcomers’ help, we will repay in full. The traitor will sorrow even as we made his forsworn mother, our disobedient half-breed and this King’s wife, sip the cup of wormwood.’

  Even amidst such wonders, there was a lot in those few words for the humans to reel in. A number of skeletons surged from the cupboard of the past to cavort before them. Each had had their suspicions about Monmouth but the blow of confirmation wasn’t thereby softened. Still worse was the ‘wife’ thing. Five years back Charles had published a solemn declaration that ‘on the word of a King and Faith of a Christian’ he and Lucy Walter had never tied the knot. Doubt was thus cast on his right to either title. His brother looked at him and saw a stranger.