The Royal Changeling

by John Whitbourn

  ‘Yes, enough,’ he confirmed, shouting to be heard above the shots and screams. ‘Away as you will.’

  Oglethorpe lingered a little, as was only proper, to see his charges safely home. Several bold rebels sought to detain him and he paid them the honour of his full attention. Excalibur was in independent flow, severing heads from shoulders and parting torsos in two, and Theophilus was repelled, wishing he still had pistols to use instead.

  He’d hoped, above all, to meet Monmouth himself and settle the whole issue here, one way or another, but was disappointed in that. By way of compensation, he noted each of his deputed stay-behinds had survived to slip from the saddle and effect plausible capture. Then, as a coda to his composition, he took a pot-shot with his carbine at a Rebel observer in Keynsham Church-Tower. A flukish near-miss caused the man to duck and perhaps parted his hair, provoking a most ungodly flow of abuse. Theophilus was grateful the day should end on a humorous, humane note.

  He rode out, leaving Keynsham and the rebel army resembling a well-stirred ants’ nest.

  ‘How many? asked Monmouth, beside himself with fury.

  ‘Twenty dead of ours, and the same amount as good as,’ answered Wade. ‘And I’d say five score have deserted. Brand, the Captain of horse, died in the cavalry skirmish and …’

  ‘No, no, no,’ interrupted the ‘King’, gripping the ale-house table as though he’d tip it over. ‘I should know better than to ask a land-pirate lawyer a straight question! How many did the prisoners report, you mumble-truth?’

  ‘Plus half a dozen papist dead … sire,’ concluded Wade, very coolly, ‘and the three prisoners to who you refer. Under questioning they report that their army of five thousand is “close at hand”, to use their exact phrase.’

  ‘They all said that? Each one?’

  Wade frowned with a do-you-think-I-was-born-yesterday expression.

  ‘I naturally interviewed each separately, having kept them apart. Their stories tally well, with minor inconsistencies that only serve to convince. Alas, they are to be believed.’

  ‘Have you used torture yet? Gaps in them might put gaps in their stories …’

  The assembled Colonels’ eyes widened – some more than others – but in broad, shocked, agreement.

  ‘You forget yourself, sire,’ reproached Colonel Holmes. ‘It is the crown of England you aspire to, not the Sultan’s turban!’

  Monmouth had a sharp reply ready for that, but saw he’d be wasting his time.

  ‘If they’ve five thousand to hand,’ he said, in a tone of ice, ‘and regulars all, I suspect we must forget Bristol – and much else that was dear to us.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Wade, as though considering a matter of only distant concern. ‘Odds of one to one, against regulars behind walls, run contrary to all military science. Note as well that surprise is no longer on our side. The army will take a full day to recover from today’s visitation.’

  ‘I told you that Oglethorpe would get amongst us,’ snapped Monmouth. ‘That is his way – his only poxing, stupid, way!’

  ‘You did tell us,’ confirmed Holmes, the old Cromwellian Major, who was damned if he’d be taught war by this puppy. ‘On the other hand, what did you do about it?’

  Monmouth had no answer to that but impotent rage – which, mercifully, he kept to himself.

  ‘Well then, sire,’ interposed Wade who, irritatingly enough, believed every mishap was just an opportunity in disguise. ‘We seem agreed that one way is barred. Therefore, where to next?’

  Things had come such a pass that ‘King Monmouth’ could no longer be doing with deception, marching here and there in imitation of a normal rebellion. Frustration let him lay down the burden of pretence and feel a corresponding liberation.

  ‘Back to Glastonbury,’ he said. ‘There’s someone I’d like you to meet.’

  There was consternation round the alehouse-cum-council table. They’d expected to hear ‘London’ or ‘Cheshire’ or some other bold stroke. Why in God’s name should they traipse back on themselves to a half-dead museum of papistry?

  Their King’s first answer was bad enough, but his second, in response to shouted ‘whys?’ caused every chin to grace a chest.

  ‘It’s an Elf thing,’ he said sweetly, dismissing them. ‘You humans wouldn’t understand.’

  Somehow the army stayed, more or less, together – for where else could they go? The cavalry that had surprised them at Keynsham circled like wolves round a fold, wary of getting too close to the shepherd but ravenous to devour strays and lambs. In the field of treason the only safety lay in numbers and staying together.

  James Stuart didn’t help in that respect by offering amnesty to all those who laid down arms within eight days. Whispered word of it, like report of the exaggerated Royal Army strength planted by Oglethorpe, did the rebel rounds. Some who were now less than convinced of a Protestant God’s protection, and who had families and farms to think of, slipped away. They’d considered the revised odds and decided to take their chances with the Royal ‘shoot-first-and-offer-pardon-later’ patrols. There was general loss of confidence and verve from wildest Colonel to lowest scythe-man. The former, still reeling in Monmouth’s stunning revelation and in a state of shock, steered clear of their ‘King’. He in turn allowed them to find solace in activity and giving orders. Thus, though not to be ranked amongst the most notable battles of history, Keynsham proved to be a turning point: literally so in terms of the rebels’ line of march. Thereafter, thanks to Theophilus’s insubordination, in the eyes of the work-a-day world the insurrectionists had nowhere to go.

  ‘King Monmouth’ knew better. It didn’t greatly matter to him if his army frayed at the edges as they retraced their rain-plagued steps. So long as he had a force of some kind at journey’s end that would suffice. He abandoned thoughts of London or Cheshire or anywhere else that plain men thought important. His one wish now was to dump this squalling baby in Arthur’s lap, and thereby force him to act.

  That being so there was no great hurry, and they took a circuitous, easier, route back Glastonbury-wards, avoiding the depressing paths they’d already churned to mud. Therein was also the added amusement of putting a blast up Feversham’s feathers, once again dissembling ambitions on London. The united Royal Army, a mere half as strong as Oglethorpe had suggested but now a formidable balanced force of horse and foot and guns, scuttled respectfully in their wake. It entertained Monmouth to lead them a dance similar to the one he’d endured.

  The welcome on the return route was not as warm as before. Their promised ten thousand ‘Clubmen’ recruits proved to be a hundred-odd bumpkins armed with pitchforks, hoes and flails. When the rebels summoned Bath to surrender their herald was shot down like a dog.

  Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Grafton, was enjoying this. All his life had been spent in the shadow of the graceful, glorious etc. etc. James Walter/Croft/Barlow/Scott, Duke of Monmouth and now King of Lyme Regis. King Charles II had been generous in affection, as in all else, to each of his bastard children, Henry no less than Monmouth, but the mantle of favourite had unmistakenly settled on Lucy Walter’s boy.

  Henry had tried his hardest and never given cause for grief. Ceaselessly helpful and obedient he’d offered all in his father’s wars. When opportunity presented he’d been among the first to take ship and face the Dutch broadsides. Yet, returning to shore, he invariably found precious Monmouth had performed a slightly braver deed – or so he said. Charles loved and commended Henry at every stage, but always Monmouth earned the warmest smiles. Unlike some, Henry Fitzroy didn’t plot with Charles’s enemies or arrange his father’s death – and being the side-dish at the feast was his reward for it. Even so, he never complained, though mother, Barbara Villiers, Duchess of Cleveland, constantly incited him to. Instead he kept his peace and accepted second best, doggedly hopeful of justice in God’s good time, or even in the world to come. Nevertheless, the waiting rankled and itched his sense of justice.

  Now the Good Lord had put h
is spurs on, and Grafton was duly grateful for a spot of justice on this Earth. Monmouth was widely judged the lowest of the low and it was the pleasure of loyal types to hunt dear Golden Boy through the West Country. Fitzroy had been entrusted with command of the Footguards to this purpose and there were hours on end when he found it hard to keep a straight face. That was doubly true when, as now, he was permitted to lead the chase.

  Suddenly the mood changed. He saw movement and the hedgerows to either side sprang to life with musketeers: rebels with more confidence than they’d martial or social right to. It was yet more unfairness. Beaten foes had no business setting traps for their pursuers.

  For a second Grafton looked at them and they at him and then the lane dissolved in powder smoke.

  It had seemed like a good idea at the time to boot the rebels out of Philips Norton. Their meandering path from Bristol had taken them to Feversham’s one-time bastion on the London Road, but they were long since past tackling that great target. Perceiving the rebel army was on its way out and to elsewhere, Earl Feversham decreed a probe in force to assist them along at sprightly pace.

  Grafton, granted that honour, dived in with five hundred of his guards, backed up by horse and guns, only to discover that the enemy had learnt a thing or two from Keynsham. This time they weren’t taken by surprise. Strong positions were established to cover their retreat and an ambush temptingly set. When the noble Lord saw the hedged lane leading into the heart of Norton, and the rebels apparently streaming out the other side, it seemed only natural to pile on in.

  Monmouth heard the firefight and was near enough to turn the Army round. Wade’s Red Regiment and Holmes’s Greens were ordered on a pincer movement round the trapped Royalists and both did well. Feversham was compelled to puff up in support of the abortive push, desperately committing each unit piecemeal to the struggle as it arrived, in order to stave off defeat.

  Grafton, his beloved steed shot from under him, was rescued; out of breath and puzzled and only just. He got out on another man’s wounded mount – along with remnants of the Guards – by dint of Feversham throwing in some sacrificial Grenadiers. Meanwhile, the Royalist Foot of the Line were being bustled out of Norton, field-hedge to field-hedge and garden by garden by doughty Wade and Holmes. Lord Grey’s horsemen postured and posed threateningly at least, and things looked grim for the Red-coats until the Royal Cavalry arrived in force. After several hours of distinctly difficult moments, Earl Feversham was at last able to draw off his mangled troops.

  As the rain came down again, the two sides drew apart and set up for an artillery duel: the Royalists’ complete train against Monmouth’s four diminutive, if well-served, pop-guns. Fortunately, the technology of the age was still sufficiently civilised such that little was thus achieved and at length the original King James II’s Army drew off to lick its wounds. A dose of their own Keynsham-style medicine, particularly dispensed by amateurs, proved hard to swallow, and the regulars now required some time to be alone.

  Feversham reproved the Duke of Grafton (his escapade being ‘too much of a good thing, though all very well once in a while’) and drafted his report to King James, absent-mindedly neglecting to mention three-quarters of the four-score dead they’d left behind. Colonel Holmes meanwhile celebrated his great victory by noting the loss of his son. He wept awhile accordingly and then marched to the kitchen of The George in Norton to self-amputate his own musket-ruined right arm.

  Despite all this drama, the most significant encounter of the day occurred just before the rebels departed at eleven, leaving vast campfires burning to mask their retreat. Lieutenant Colonel Oglethorpe, through no fault of his own, had appeared late on the scene, being far distant when affairs were at their height. He arrived at the head of his detachment of Blues and was commanded, in terms vigorous enough to get through even to him, that he was not, not, not to attack but to cover the Army’s inglorious escape. Eighty dragoons were supplied to both reinforce and restrain him. Unlike the Blues, they might actually question his more ‘interesting’ proposals.

  In the event, Theophilus obeyed, though far from content. When evening fell and the guns made long, ineffective, and monotonous, conversation, free at last of pettifogging duty, he rode forward alone. Both proud possessors of perspective-glasses, he and Monmouth spotted each other across the battle-field at the same time.

  Two great – if very different – minds thinking alike, they both stood high in the saddle and raised a hand to point, each mouthing to himself ‘very soon …

  ‘Kitchen-staff, fire! Well done. Retire to reload. Chambermaids forward. Pick a target, wait for it … and fire!’

  Eleanor Oglethorpe moved up and down the ragged line, brandishing a sabre and directing the defence. Her hair and face were wild and weirdly streaked with smoke, her gown cut to a cloud of ribbons in half a dozen places. By now the enemy tried to avoid this Celtic goddess of war, but that rarely proved possible. She seemed everywhere, rallying her domestic warriors and laying on herself when occasion demanded, always present when resistance faltered or an eel-soldier attempted some obscure entry.

  The last three or four attacks on Westbrook had each promised to be the last. The enemy were infinite, their fallen instantly replaced at the edge of the exclusion zone, whilst her troops were merely men – and women, and boys and girls. Supplies of powder and food were low and there was friction within the house over questions of precedence. Maxted the Butler fell out with Grimes over whether gardeners, however, redoubtable, might issue orders indoors, and they were no longer on speaking terms. Kim the nursery-maid thought it outrageous – loud and often – that she had but a half-pike whilst scullery girls went about with proper muskets.

  In the end, Ellen invented martial law, declaring future mutineers and grumblers would be cast forth to feed the eel-men. The garrison rank and file, mulish Godhelmians all, took only partial notice till Ellen was as good as her word and dangled a boot-boy out the window. Thereafter good discipline prevailed.

  Thoughts of such penalties reminded Mrs Oglethorpe that even if they should win clear of all this her problems would be far from over. How, she wondered, would she explain such a plethora of dead servants; some of them abundantly chewed-over?

  Then the next wave came in, freeing her of concern for anything but the fleeting moment. The Westbrook defenders fired, and those not blessed with guns flung turnips spiked with nails. Gaps appeared in the oncoming lines and then order was lost as they hit the zone Ellen had strewn with tacks and glass. Some monsters howled and hopped in crazy dance but the majority rushed on. They reached the barricade made of their fallen predecessors and wetly surmounted it by sinuous crawling. Bathtubs of boiling water were then tipped up by sturdy footmen to wash away the first line whilst pots of molten oatmeal fell on those behind, as clinging, though less welcome, as an ardent lover. The scalded screamed and fell away – but were soon replaced. The besieged’s ingenuity at last exhausted, plain and simple combat was joined.

  Whenever all seemed lost the Elven visitor would appear, driving back the enemy with graceful ease. Both he and his blade seemed too slim for all that they aspired to but, combined, proved equal to the task. The serene and untroubled foundation stone of their defence, he rarely spoke, save to point out some new threat. Lewis Oglethorpe chose to remain near him and Ellen was happier in her mind for that.

  Noting, on the first or second day, that his crossbow was out of quarrels, she offered him a pistol to use. It was declined. ‘That is newcomer distant-killing,’ he said graciously enough, ‘and not our taste at all.’ Though not following such inhibitions, she accepted this one island of independence in her command and left him to ply his saw-edged sword. It transpired there could be no complaint about his use of it.

  Somehow this umpteenth assault was thrown back, improbably and perhaps irrepeatably. It wavered and hesitated at its fierce reception – and was lost in that second of self-doubt. The blood-marked housemaids and stableboys redoubled their efforts and contriv
ed to assemble another volley which blasted the clinging few back out the windows. They then rushed forward to belabour the ensuing confusion with various sharp objects.

  One parlourmaid leant too far forward, the better to wield her knitting needle. A slimy jaw stretched up to fasten several hundred pin-teeth round her swan-white neck – and snapped. The girl slid back and fountained red around the room.

  ‘Again!’ ordered Ellen, averting her eyes. Young Deborah had been like a friend to her. ‘Musketeers step forward.’

  ‘No, madam,’ countermanded Gardener Grimes. ‘We’re powerful low on shot. And powder barrel – her’s almost empty. We must husband both.’

  ‘I was going to say that!’ complained Maxted the Butler.

  ‘You are equally correct,’ said the Elf softly, somehow surmounting the tumult. Ellen’s emotional rebuke to the menial classes was forestalled. She knew her wish for one further punishing volley was mere indulgence. The eel-enemy were flapping away.

  ‘Talk about heroes!’ exulted a stable-boy, finishing off a half-dead intruder and having the adventurous time of his life that he’d never thought to enjoy. ‘We’ve done it again!’

  ‘And for the last time,’ whispered the Elf to Ellen. ‘A private word if you please, newcomer-mistress.’

  They convened in her sewing-room and shared a bottle of old brandy. Though he drank for sociability’s sake it did not seem to affect him. The Landlady imbibed and felt better for it, all the while keeping one eye on the window. Rather than lay down her pistol she knocked off the bottle’s head. It was the first time for many hours that they’d had any opportunity to speak.

  ‘Do you know how my husband is?’ Ellen asked. She was ashamed to have not enquired before, for all the excusing distractions. Now she knew that soldiers’ neglect was not always born of cruelty.

  The Elf seemed almost to scent the air, looking round and about as though this room were all the world.