The Long Man returned their gaze. Above him the cloud was lifting and down the sides of the hill streamed the remnants of the Moot, away to … wherever it was they went when people weren’t watching.
‘In the words of my predecessor – and someone else,’ said the Elf-King, ‘it is done.’
So, as it happened, were the humans. A tremendous weariness assailed them, a draining of obscure reserves being the least consequence of sailing the time-waves. Charles had turned his back on the sights and thus spotted Wilmington’s one inn, The Giant’s Rest. Though humble, it was open and deserted, as alluring as another man’s neglected wife. The King’s policy in both cases was pre-programmed. He entered in.
Now, a few drinks later, they felt better – or leastways, less involved. The Elf did not indulge, regarding them without expression and stirring his ale with a stiletto. If they’d been inclined to return that scrutiny, the men would have seen that he too was tired. Most un-Elflike, signs of age could now be seen about his golden eyes. At length the graph-lines of their revival crossed his declining strength.
‘Soon you will ask questions,’ he said, ‘and I cannot bear that. There is no time. Listen and I will speak plain.’
Something – though not his fading tones – told the men they should pay heed. Even Charles set down his pot.
‘Arthur deems his time has come. He is probably right – he usually was. It is now or never for him. He will take the Celtic peoples with him as his soldiery. There was such an alliance long ago and it can be forged again. His legend has been trivialised but they remember him. He will pose, as before, as the enemy of the English and that will suffice. We do not wish him to prevail and nor should you – you have seen where that leads. Arthur knows us for what we really are and the Celts believe in us more than you. They have cause to, for it was they who dispossessed the first-born races with blades of iron. Their guilt makes them burn inside, and bad conscience turns people sour. Arthur can convince them to finish that holocaust. Your folk, however, came later. You have only second-hand record of us, and a disbelief which suits very well. There is no blood-quarrel between us and we can coexist in mutual disdain. I have shown that you will leave us a niche to live in. Purported to be tiny tinsel-winged creatures we survive under your dispensation. Arthur would be more … realistic.’
Despite the previous admonition, James could not quell the inner Babel of enquiry.
‘But what is A-Arthur? Mortal man has a certain s-span and then …’
‘Would that he was a man,’ said the Elf-King, regretfully. ‘Then there would an end to him. No, Arthur is a force; he both is, and serves, the Null.’
‘And who might they be?’ asked Charles. ‘I thought I knew all my enemies.’
The Elf smiled at such presumption. ‘You have not the slightest idea,’ he said, ‘of the powers that prowl on the edge of this sleepy garden world. There …’ he seemed to draw back from some revelation, though desirous to deliver it. ‘No, I will not deprive you of all illusions. But understand this: you conceive of two opposed poles, “good” and “evil” – which is all very … nice for you. Consider though – just for a moment – an alternative. There is also a choice between a life of the senses or the imagination. For the former stand the Null – and you have seen their aim. They have their emissaries in every dimension. In some I have seen them personified, twice as tall as men, jade-black and blind, with the strength of giants. There they destroy all, the more swiftly to forever enjoy hibernating peace, slumbering in intermingled heaps. Here they do more subtly. They wield reason, and dullness and civilisation.’
‘I always presumed,’ interrupted Charles, dryly, ‘to be serving that last notion myself …’
The Elf-King shook his head. ‘Your race does not understand the term. You are comparatively new on the scene. Centuries of suffering are still required before that boast may be made. On his last outing Arthur lay claim to the great heritage of Rome and the Celts, the Cymry, believed him. Your rough forebears were almost swept back into the sea. Future antiquarians will discern in the ground that slaughter and the sudden end of all your forward settlements.’
‘So how are we here then?’ asked Theophilus. ‘By what means did we endure?’
‘You had help then, as now,’ answered the Elf-King. ‘But it was a close-run thing. We have weakened since, whilst he has rested. His dupes will rally to him again and who can condemn them? What have you to set against all that was Rome and the Empire?’
A few things like beer, cricket, Shakespeare, irony and ‘The Book of Common Prayer’ sprang to mind, but there was no short answer to his point.
‘This is an auspicious time for him,’ the King continued, unopposed. ‘This land is war-tired and wracked and ripe for cantonisation. Your Cromwell-King,’ (and here Charles’s lip curled), ‘who knew us well, feared that and said as much. Likewise “religion” is factious and discredited by chop and change. Recovery from your Reformation is a millennium away.’
‘Ha!’ crowed James. ‘T-told you so.’
‘And thus you hear why,’ said the Elf, indicating the Duke of York to Charles, ‘we would have this man rule after you. The Elves like Catholic kings. Their confident creed can accommodate us, made easy by believing itself possessor of the truth. An indulgent eye is usually turned. Whilst puritans and Protestants condemn and exterminate, they leave us to our own devices. When one considers the alternative …’
For the first time anyone present could recall, Charles looked guilty.
‘Ah …’ he said, tentatively. ‘You mean my son, Monmouth …’
‘Your legitimate son,’ added James, glowering reprovingly at him.
‘The same,’ agreed the Elf-King. ‘It is he who tips the balance and decides Arthur’s timing. We have never had a renegade in all the many years, but fear of it still led us to forbid dalliance with the kings of Men. We never seek to come to undue prominence: all our safety has ever lain in discretion. It is one thing to mate with lesser species, though we find the deed chancy, to make eighth or quarter or even halfbreeds for our amusement. But to permit a full effusion of our pattern, to overwhelm the human type and make an Elf in mortal form, that we deplore. Complete knowledge is granted them but unlike us they are free in their use of it. Lucy Walter knew our law but wilfully disobeyed. She wished to shake the world as the world made her shake beds.’
Again James cast a rueful eye at his brother – which was unfair for he was just as promiscuous as Charles, though, it transpired, more lucky. The perils of promiscuity proved to be not just spiritual or venereal.
‘Well, that’s easily solved,’ said Charles, keen to regain ground. ‘I’ll disinherit the boy.’
‘What would that achieve?’ asked the Elf, dismissively. ‘When you are gone what weight will your word have?’
He was short on detail but supported by history. The humans reluctantly recognised his point.
‘Then dispose of him,’ suggested Theophilus, to Charles’s and – to his credit – James’s distress. ‘He’s one of yours.’
‘Which is why,’ answered the King, succinctly, ‘we cannot. We are not like you. Elves kill their own kind in battle or in jest, but sordid acts are as poison to us. Assassination is a newcomer trait.’
‘Oh …’ Previous notions of superiority – in moral terms at least – evaporated away.
The King was rather pleased about that. It was a nice way to take his leave.
‘So now you know all,’ he said. ‘As tennis-playing men you will understand when I say that the ball is in your court. Strike it as best you may.’
Charles, who got up at six each day for an hour on the courts, regardless of the night before, could see the analogy but wished it were that simple. As he understood it, this particular game was supposed to be doubles, humans and elves versus Arthur and Monmouth. Now his partner appeared to be about to leave the match.
‘But what about you?’ he asked, finding it hateful to be so reliant.
The
King was already on his feet. ‘I am tired,’ he replied, ‘and have an appointment.’
It seemed pointless to protest and so they left together, forgetting to pay the bill. They parted without farewell, within sight of the Long Man, and the humans went off to the Brighton road, to find their carriage, and return to London and the struggle to come. The Elf meanwhile, took the opposite direction.
He knew of a second tally to pay that would not await settlement. The wonders of the High Moot were by no means free and its price, exacted by merciless creditors, already caused his feet to stumble. It had amused them to demand his line should end before he did. Stripped of joy as well as centuries, he might see the futures displayed today, but he would not be glad of it.
It was thus a slow and painful progress for him to re-ascend Windover, in order to see his family die.
‘Hell’s boundaries, you gave me a shock! What are you doing here?’
Ellen Oglethorpe looked over Theophilus’s shoulders at the empty Whitehall corridor beyond.
‘Why so horrified?’ she asked, feigning offence. ‘What’s more natural than a wife should come to see her husband? Up to something are we? I don’t see a giggle of ladies-in-waiting with you. Rochester tells me dressing them as page-boys is the latest lark: was that your plan for the evening ‘fore I spoilt it? It’s an intriguing tickle-me-fancy – and might explain the frigid welcome …’
Theophilus always had difficulty spotting a joke unless it came up close and introduced itself plainly.
‘You’re mad, woman!’ he spluttered. ‘If you listen to Rochester you’d believe all courtiers mate with squirrels and Manxmen. I’ve got better things to do. It’s just … I thought you were at Westbrook.’
‘I was. Now I’m here. There’s a reason.’
Theophilus didn’t hear her. He was justifying his neglect of his family to himself.
‘The King demands my permanent presence. He’ll confirm that. There’s news expected from … somewhere,’ he ended limply.
‘The Elves, Theo, yes, I know.’
‘That’s right, and when it comes he wants me by his side to … what did you say?’
‘I know.’
Theophilus eyed her cautiously. He was well aware that in verbal duels he wore lead boots against her spring-heeled shoes.
‘Do you? Know what?’
‘Everything that you do: about that.’ She lightly brushed the ‘sabre’ Excalibur attached to his belt and smiled flirtatiously. ‘About Arthur and Monmouth and all those other trifles.’
In his mind’s eye, if not in actual fact, Theophilus’s jaw was upon his cravat. He should not have bothered trying to restrain it, for words would have escaped him more easily thereby.
‘How?’ he snapped, not sure whether to rejoice or rage.
‘The knowledge came rearward,’ she explained, ‘and by dint of radical gardening.’
At that point he could have stumbled down a treacherous slope of pedestrian questions and arrived breathless at the bottom, much later but little wiser. Instead, trusting to instincts and first notions, he resisted the temptation to clerkish linear-thought. Taking the easier path of wisdom, he chose just to admire the view and admit that his wife was a remarkable woman.
‘I’m glad,’ he said. ‘Now it’s shared.’
They were silent for a moment and Ellen looked about, recalling pre-motherhood days, now distant and unreal as the stars, when the King’s ripped shirts and Lady Portsmouth’s politicking had seemed important.
‘Our quarters were near here, remember?’ she asked.
‘Opposite each other, I recall. That was handy – being at the back of the Palace, I mean, near the steps down to the Thames barges.’
‘That’s right.’ Ellen smiled again. ‘Charles was very clever in allocating those particular rooms. It meant you could slip in and out very easily.’
The upright military man just managed to stifle an unrequested smirk.
‘There were,’ he admitted, ‘some instances, when your proximity was convenient. One may have crept across the landing once or twice …’
‘As loud as an elephant on heat; always finding that ill-fitting floorboard. Everyone heard and knew – and laughed to see us at last conform.’
‘It wasn’t quite the standard game,’ Theophilus protested. ‘We married.’
‘Eventually, and only just in time. Baby Lewis was well on the way.’
Oglethorpe wouldn’t have it that they were just as bad as the rest.
‘We made the effort,’ he maintained. ‘There’s a difference.’
Ellen laughingly agreed.
‘Oh yes, there was that. Don’t think you got through that door on a whim. I chose carefully – and well, as it turns out. Lewis misses you – as do I. When will you be home again?’
Theophilus shook his wig sadly. It seemed a time for truth rather than well-intended lies.
‘No idea. We totter on the precipice of other parties’ own good time. They dole out the courses of this gruesome meal at a leisurely pace. Charles won’t release me until the next bowel-churning plate arrives. It could be any period, measured in days or months or …’ Theophilus grimaced, rejecting the next increment of time. ‘Besides, Monmouth has fled the realm and an entirely more earthly invasion is expected from that quarter. My services are likewise required for that prosaic eventuality. However, Madame, in the meanwhile you are infinitely welcome …’
His attention had wandered to the panorama of dusk over Whitehall visible through the nearby window. It was seized back by a rustle of silk and cotton from Ellen’s direction.
‘As you are, kind sir …’ she lisped.
Theophilus looked and gaped.
‘Madame! Cover yourself! This is a public corridor …’
‘We spoke of our old accommodation, Theo. Do you recall these quarters?’
Acting independently of orders his hands formed claws and advanced – only to be leashed back at the last moment.
‘Most nights,’ he husked, answering truthfully. ‘And mornings and afternoons.’
‘Is that your room nearby?’
‘It is.’
‘Then ignore my piteous whispers of no, no, oh!’
Oglethorpe had swept her up and over his shoulder, like a sultan taking his choice of captured Constantinople. Then, halfway over the threshold and engaged in intimate study of her nearest portions, he noticed something.
‘You’ve been stung,’ he said.
Ellen proved she was just as capable of encouraging, flattering feminine ploys as the more practised Arabella Churchill.
“Twas only a little prick,’ she teased. ‘I hardly felt a thing. Whereas now …’
‘Naughty boy, you shall stay as long as you wish. We love your presence in our country.’
From Mary Stuart such words could be accepted at face value. Monmouth knew not to make that mistake about Dutch William’s agreement.
‘Just so,’ said the pale Stadtholder, aware that myriad courtiers were listening in. ‘Our welcome to you no bounds knows.’
The only other time Monmouth had seen a face so consistently devoid of expression was on a hanged man brought to the dissection table. If William of Orange ever had any human emotions in him they’d died long ago for lack of sunshine, through never being allowed out to play.
‘You are too kind,’ answered the exiled Duke, bowing his thanks and going along with the charade. ‘But I hesitate to impose. Perhaps I could find employ with the Holy Roman Emperor – though that might involve campaigning near the Rhine which, for private reasons, I am loathe to do. Still, there are bound to be outlets for my talents somewhere. One would rather take service with the Turk than cause you embarrassment or harm.’
Mary’s warm nature was happily missing all the sub-texts in the conversation.
‘Stop your jabberment,’ she said, smiling down on him from her tulip-festooned throne. ‘If Uncle Charles and you have had another falling out, that need not concern us. You will stay here
and brighten our court until he comes to his senses.’
‘Yesss,’ “agreed” William, nodding his wigless, avian head. ‘Our tulip – I mean guest you will be absolutely – if nothing more.’
Monmouth took that to be a reference to the incident during his previous visit. William had pinched his bottom and then, not meeting the desired response, passed it off as a joke. For sure, the Duke was keen to cement powerful alliances – but not at any price. The Stadtholder had sulked for a day but then accepted he’d drawn a blank. After that he was as icy to Monmouth as he was to everyone else. It was as near to forgiveness as he came.
King Charles of England however, had never been pardoned. His tipsy jests before, during and right through William and Mary’s wedding day six years before, remained fresh in the Stadtholder’s memory. That merry monarch had accompanied them right to the nuptial bed with jests about ‘putting his past behind him’ and ‘forsaking the Netherlands tonight’. Even the innocent Archbishop of Canterbury eventually got the point. Drawing the four-poster curtains on them, Charles had ringingly recommended ‘Now nephew, to your work! St. George for England! A change is as good as a rest!’ William had smiled like he was sucking razorblades but vowed to have revenge. That long-awaited moment had now arrived. This viper in England’s bosom would find nurture here.
Mary only saw a handsome young rascal-relative who’d gotten into hot water. In the same way she rescued cat-savaged birds or depressed-looking dogs, it seemed only right to offer sanctuary. She didn’t understand there might be deeper implications. In fact she was blessed in not understanding much at all. Raised in the all female and fervidly lesbian atmosphere of Richmond Palace, along with Ann her sister and half a dozen other aristocratic gels, her education had solely concerned the depravity of papists. That, once drummed in, was deemed sufficient, and if she cared to ‘marry’ an older girl, Lady Apsley, as Ann did with Sarah Churchill, no one paid much heed. In consequence, the ways of the world brushed only lightly against her – to the great benefit of her happiness. On being told, at the age of fifteen, she must marry – for real and to a man, Prince William – she’d cried the whole afternoon and following day, but ultimately her innocence was her salvation. She did not see her husband’s strangeness or ponder on their lack of children or how good-looking all the male servants happened to be. Then, because it was what one ought to do, she made herself fond of William. In the end it had all worked out rather well.
The Royal Changeling Page 19
