Oglethorpe was slightly unfair to single Churchill out for inconsistency. Not a few others were experiencing similar difficulties in recollection. Arrests of the Duke’s associates were occurring daily, whilst Monmouth’s written summons to his cause to various exalted ones were getting dusty replies. Churchill could well have left it there and claimed vindication, – but he seemed anxious that the full sad truth be known.
‘Understand, Theophilus,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘I’ve since set my feet on a path where friendship is but a burden. What “friends” I may – or may not – have had are long since left behind.’
As he always did when shocked, Oglethorpe frowned – at both Churchill and the World.
‘You speak very plain, my Lord …’ he said slowly. Churchill smiled upon him.
‘I can afford to, Theo. Your obvious fondness for the warmer qualities of life debar you from the heights I aspire to. Consequently you will neither ally or rival be. I can thus be honest with you – and friendly even. How are your charming wife and family?’
The Lieutenant Colonel of the ‘Blues’ was still at sea, hauling in his superior’s frank litany.
‘Very well, thank you,’ he answered, abstracted. ‘As far as I know.’
‘And who might you be?’ asked Eleanor Oglethorpe.
‘Your salvation,’ replied the Elf, ‘did you but know it.’
Ellen wasn’t having that from anyone, no matter how exotic.
‘My only saviour is in Heaven till he comes again,’ she countered firmly, pointing the bread-knife she’d seized at the intruder’s slim chest. She was more peeved than frightened, having plans to chop a lot of logs that morning (Grimes the gardener having not ‘got round’ to it). ‘So I’ll ask you once more: who might you be?’
The disturbingly beautiful youth raised one long hand to his chin, mimicking depth of thought. ‘I’d question the theology of what you state. Surely your Christ person is not detained in Paradise but …’ The blade traversed the space his heart had occupied one beat before. Ellen followed through with all her strength and crashed against the kitchen wall. The Elf’s graceful evasion took him as far away as the room would permit.
‘I am merely that which you have always hoped might be,’ he informed her, not noticeably put out by the attempt on his life. ‘Proof that the world is not yet entirely mankind’s and mundane. We told your husband much the same. You and he are alike.’
Ellen was now content just to talk. If the Elf intended harm he could have struck as she blundered, mad-dog style, past him.
‘Neither of us like uninvited guests, I’ll admit that much. How did you get into Westbrook?’
The Elf ignored the workaday query. Instead he looked round the low-ceilinged kitchen as though in a palace of marvels. Ellen could not detect if he was impressed or dismayed.
‘You know who I am and we are,’ he said suddenly. ‘You have met with others of my kind. Your Theophilus, at length, accepted our existence with good grace, and even pleasure. Will you not follow your husband?’
‘Such is my custom,’ she agreed warily, ‘if he’s going in the right direction …’
‘Our late King saw you spying at the window that day. We conversed with you regarding our Yggdrasil Tree. In years past, others of our race observed your childish play in Tipperary. We know of you and that you will not deny us.’
Ellen was intrigued despite herself. ‘You’re in league with the Elves of Ireland?’
Her guest smiled, a chilling sight, and agreed.
‘We do not recognise your names or frontiers but yes, there is marriage and war between us – sometimes both in the same day.’
‘And what have you come here to do?’ Mrs Oglethorpe enquired, slipping more confidently back into her role as Empress of Westbrook.
‘I have said, mistress newcomer: to save you – and thereby much else. I am your last welcome visitor for some time. No doubt your pup could kill me, but my advice, dispassionately offered, is that he shouldn’t.’
Ellen did not see how the Elf might know that. As best she could judge, her eldest son had entered the room as softly as only a five-year-old can. Well brought up by his father, Lewis now trained one of Theophilus’s pistols on the stranger’s back, holding it firmly in two hands, awaiting his mother’s word.
‘My humble suggestion might be,’ the Elf calmly continued, ‘that he save the shot for those.’
Ellen looked, as directed, out of the kitchen window to see that a modest army of half-formed monsters were hurtling house-wards across Westbrook’s lawns.
‘I agree,’ she said, unable to tear her gaze from the oncoming soldiery. ‘Do as the nice man says, Lewis.’
The sturdy boy obediently changed his aim and shot the first one through the open door. As it screeched and thrashed about and died others trampled in to take its bestial place. They looked like eel/man hybrids; humble aquatic life much promoted, though little pleased by the honour. Each owned an unseemly amount of teeth and tusks.
From beneath his cloak the Elf drew a complex little crossbow and baroquely formed blade.
‘So begins,’ he told them, with every appearance of sunny cheerfulness, ‘the siege of Godalming.’
Churchill and Oglethorpe raced ahead with only a light escort. They got to Axminster on the eighteenth of June, just three days after the great rout of the County Militias. Monmouth’s army was long gone by then, permitting shamefaced Albermarle to reoccupy the Town and hang a few malcontents.
By ‘mighty strivings’, he said, attempting some salvage of his reputation, he had rallied a few battalions and they might suffice for minding road-blocks and prisoners – though he advised they not be put to any test. The good news was that the Wiltshire Militia was on its way. The bad news was that most of their musket locks were discovered to be rusted away – and there were no bullet moulds to make ammunition in any case. Oh – and London was probably safe for the moment because the Surrey Militia had mobilised at Croydon, and ferocious ‘Old Patch’, Bishop of Winchester, was on his way because he had property interests in the rebellious area.
Churchill had picked up fifteen hundred half-dependable men of the Dorset Militia en route. His younger brother, John, was heading West with five companies of Trelawney’s Regiment, escorting an artillery train drawn off the Portsmouth garrison. If all went well he might just muster four hundred horse and a thousand (discounting the Militia as all sensible men now did) foot against Monmouth’s reputed five thousand men.
Relieved, in every sense, of command the Duke of Albermarle could now afford to smile and tell Churchill he had complete faith in him. They had nothing to fear he said: the enemy was miles away, twenty-two of them to be precise – in Taunton. Some saving miracle would come along he was sure.
By the time they spoke, England had two Kings.
Anthony Wharton LLb., Vicar of Godalming, liked to stroll a mile or two after matins, and commune with God and nature – on the faulty assumption they weren’t one and the same. Some days he would strike towards Farncombe and Shalford, on others, according to merest whim, he’d proceed in the contrary direction, through Ockford out to Milford and even Witley. On the morning of Ellen’s surprise visitation, he happened to plump for the latter route, the genesis of which took him along New Way and past the Westbrook Estate.
It had come as no surprise that neither of the Oglethorpes graced his service with their presence. The Master of the House was away fighting His Majesty’s enemies and his wife was a known and entrenched papist. A tolerant man by the undemanding standards of the time, Wharton was prepared to live and let live in that respect, in deliberate contrast to his predecessor, the martial Dr. Speed. That clergyman, renowned in verse for ‘praying like a Christian and fighting like a Turk’ (against the Dutch) had harried his nonconformist fellow-countrymen with equal zeal – and arrest and imprisonment and snatch-squads of licentious soldiery – sometimes unto death. Parish life was still wounded by the case of Quaker Patching of Binscombe Manor wh
o Speed said he’d see in either Church or Hell – and who perished of harsh treatment in gaol.
No matter what the issue the Reverend Wharton had vowed before the altar to have no more of that. It seemed contrary to the spirit of the texts he daily preached. Besides, he doubted the wisdom of force employed to drag Oglethorpes to orthodoxy. Should Speed have tried his tricks with that particular tribe he’d most like have left Westbrook a head shorter, or be blunderbuss-distributed across the lawn.
The Reverend puzzled over the source of these tumultuous thoughts on a morning of such beauty. Godalming was at its greenest and the Oglethorpe home presented a surpassing picture of domestic peace. Lady Oglethorpe sat on the terrace with her babies, eating breakfast. He waved a cheery greeting but got no reply. Most likely he concluded, engrossed in her cup of chocolate and family concerns, she’d not seen him. Though no admirer of the Anglican cloth, she had no quarrel with him as a man.
Still troubled by violent notions and, now he thought of it, the curious stillness of the family group, Wharton plodded on his way.
Arthur’s illusion had deceived him, as it would all other casual beholders. The Vicar’s gentle mind had caught the merest backwash of the savage battle before the House even though he could not see or hear it.
For once Ellen might have welcomed a pastoral visit from the Reverend. Anyone who could wield a musket in the defence of Westbrook would not be turned away. Gardeners, flunkies, coachmen and even nursemaids were all at the windows seeking to stem the implacable tide. Gnarled old Grimes in particular proved to be an unsuspected Hercules in their midst, rallying the defence and dealing death with a steel-tipped dibber. Revealing happy knowledge of all his master’s covert arms dumps, he ensured that the second wave of attack met a very warm welcome. In-between volleys he bewailed the quantity of blood on his nice trimmed lawn. It was worse than what ‘Master’s damn-nuisance strays’ did on it.
Ellen yelled that she’d read gore was good for grass, even the black oily stuff these creatures spilled, all the while giving thanks for Theophilus’s obsessive military hoarding – the same she’d previously deplored. Then another wave of Eel-men broke against the front of the house, pounding the doors, attempting the defended windows and slithering sinuously up the walls. She called for another, primed, pistol from the frantic loading teams of seamstresses and lady’s maids in the day-parlour and meanwhile plied a hatpin on the hands and flippers grappling the windowsill for purchase.
The first, surprise, assault had been a close run thing. Two of the demon-soldiers had actually laid cold hands on her and sought to carry her off, before the Elf’s repeater crossbow cleared the kitchen of unwanted life and the door could be barred. There’d followed a chaotic up-and-down fight through the house, as the alarm was spread and they sought to secure each entrance. The Elf had saved the day a dozen times over, locating those who’d already got in and putting them to death. Even now they were unsure that every last one was found and dealt with. There were plentiful dark corners and obscure cupboards where a survivor might lurk and bide its time.
Though murderous to all others they seemed to want to seize any Oglethorpes. Ellen found three in the nursery binding up her shrieking infants with noisome ropes. Whilst determined and well advised of Westbrook’s geography, the raiders had then showed themselves as hungry, undisciplined things. One, its task forgotten, paused to feed upon the nursemaid they’d slain. The other two sought to elude Ellen’s fury and clung on to life long after hope was vain. She’d not required help in clearing that room.
Other invaders assisted them by delaying to attack harmless cats and dogs and were found as they feasted. Thereby, in providing a diversion and in being devoured, Theophilus’s pets at last repaid their owner for all the years of hospitality.
Even so, Westbrook barely escaped overrunning, mainly thanks to the Elf’s warning and valiant aid. Vital time was gained to organise the defence and prepare a more considered reply to the next attempt. It wasn’t long delayed. There was just opportunity to lock the children securely away, save for Lewis, very much his father’s son, who demanded to bear arms by his mother’s side. The bodies, human and otherwise, had to be left where they lay.
From above there came a rain of roof-tiles and the sound of sundered beams. Dispatching her most immediate opponent, Ellen ordered the crack reserve of sabre-armed laundry girls aloft to the attic to deal with this second front.
They saw Reverend Wharton pass by and wave, and called to him, in no uncertain terms, to come in or fetch help. When he merely walked on at a stately pace they cursed him with equal vigour and the Anglican Communion lost a score of baptised members there and then. They were not to know Arthur’s magic hid the fray from outside eyes.
At the extremity of the zone of falsehood, another regiment of almost-men materialised. Its officers hissed orders and dressed the ranks of musketeers and pikemen, heedlessly closing the gaps torn by snipers up in Westbrook’s upper stories. Then, when all was ready, yet another wave charged in.
Grimes the gardener shouted that ammunition was low. Ellen ordered Cook to prepare a pot of boiling oil.
‘I come to defend the truths in this book, and seal it with my blood if there be occasion for it!’
Monmouth handed the Bible back to the overheated schoolmistress, whose meagre charms now fairly heaved with passion and the sheer romantic … whatever of the scene. Her schoolgirl charges likewise trilled with excitement. The Duke pondered the wisdom of granting this Miss Blake a private interview, but was dissuaded by discretion and her angularity. Sadly, he was a guest in a supporter’s house, deprived of privacy and under earnest nonconformist eyes at all times. He had an image to maintain – for the while – and the Crown was worth a temporary suspension of mattress-savaging.
In fact, apart from the hamstringing of his social life, things were going rather well. There was even the delicious rumour doing the rounds that King James the usurper was dead. The Duke couldn’t quite believe in such luck but, true or not, it brought over a few waverers. Fortune seemed to be swinging his way, Arthur or no Arthur, and he dared to dream of being the architect of his own success. Those few troops the Government had managed to gather were overawed by his own force, merely following them around, snapping at the army’s heels but no more. It was a pity his imperious letters to Albermarle and Churchill received only a rude noise in reply but he knew not to take that for their final answer. When dealing with pure businessmen like them there were no absolute yeas or nays, just haggling over terms.
Meanwhile, this unsolicited visitation of the Maids of Taunton was an example of how well he’d been received everywhere he went. As the Duke looked down the main street it seemed each window bore a sprig of Protestant green, and all the plain and simple folk sported similar favours in their hats.
There’d been a militia garrison in Taunton, veterans of the Axminster Gallop, but they’d fled the town at midnight on hearing of the insurgents’ approach. Their arrangement was to rally at Bridgwater the next day but no one showed – not even the Officers who’d commanded it.
Colonel Hucker of the Duke’s cavalry, a rich merchant of Taunton, probed forward and liberated his own town in the late afternoon of Wednesday the seventeenth of June. He freed some likely supporters from the gaol and made a happy discovery in the arms and powder the Militia had left behind. Apprised of a new regime in force, the townsfolk were told their Protestant Duke would be with them shortly.
When he entered Taunton, the whole population emerged to meet him with hosannas, strewing the streets with flowers. The sole sour faces were on the Town magistrates and aldermen, royalist appointees and half-fearful of a noose. They’d been herded at gunpoint, arrayed in the glory of their civic robes, to hear the great proclamation read with everyone else.
People had opened their houses to the invaders like long-lost family and all kind of supplies were offered gratis. The Duke wisely knew not to presume on such generosity of spirit and parked his lower class partisa
ns out of town. An order of the day was given, forbidding pillage on pain of death. It was hardly necessary but made a good impression. As armies went, his was most well-behaved, being sober, pious men on crusade. Even so, a cider frenzy could descend on the best of crusaders when it was doled out free and frequent.
Fortunately there were no incidents. Nine months after the army’s stay there was but one solitary illegitimate baby requiring baptism in the Town – and even he was fondly named ‘Gustavus’ after the great Swedish Protestant hero. Such restraint was unprecedented. Taunton was convinced and willing to be – politically – seduced. Enough recruits flowed in to form another battalion: the ‘Blue’ regiment.
The next day, Monmouth had been minding his own business, sprawled out in Colonel Hucker’s Taunton town-house and sipping brandy, when a kerfuffle outside announced the arrival of another delegation. The high-pitched calling of his name suggested this one to be a bit out of the ordinary and, emerging to investigate, he’d thereby made the acquaintance of Miss Blake’s little academy.
The pupils proved to be quite sweet, though indoctrinated to fanaticism by their governess, and he’d granted each a genuinely chaste kiss. Apparently they’d marched through the main street from their place of confinement, Miss Blake to the fore bearing a drawn sword and Bible. Her girls each waved a banner, made, it was intriguingly revealed, from their own silk petticoats and lovingly embroidered with supportive texts.
The Royal Changeling Page 23
