The Royal Changeling

by John Whitbourn

  ‘And so I have.’

  The Elf looked again at the apparently standard-issue sabre attached to Oglethorpe’s belt. For all that plain sight denied it, he seemed to have no difficulty in accepting Theophilus’s word.

  ‘Good. Are you not joining us?’

  ‘I’m alternatively charged: to ensure you are not disturbed. Be advised; in this engagement I am just a common soldier.’

  The Elf thought he knew better. ‘How can that be so,’ he asked, smirkingly amused, ‘when you carry a general’s weapon?’

  Such talk sounded … inopportune; particularly so given the rewards doled out to ambition and treason just lately. And whilst on that subject, Theophilus called to mind the exalted company gathered just the other side of the antechamber’s second door. It was undesirable, not to mention unwise, that the King, Prince of Wales, Archbishop of Canterbury and (undercover) senior British Jesuit should have their hopes and curiosities tantalised any further.

  Theophilus knocked to gain entry and heard the Regal assent.

  ‘Your Majesty, my Lord, Your Grace, Your Eminence,’ he said, in quiet but otherwise normal tones, ‘His Excellency, the Elfland Ambassador.’

  Oglethorpe was too honourable to eavesdrop through the door but there were parts of the conversation he could hardly fail to hear. It was a thing unknown for the kindly Archbishop Sancroft to raise his voice in anger but Theophilus could make no other attribution. There seemed to be some theological sticking-point which roused him to frenzy; a dervish-style mood made worse by the Ambassador’s calm replies. On several occasions it sounded as if only the Jesuit Cardinal’s bodily interposition prevented an Anglican assault on the Elf.

  Charles and the Duke of York, being seated further back on the throne dais, were less clearly audible. If mere intonation was any guide, they started off the souls of amiable welcome – and then became increasingly troubled. Having less (if any) of a confessional position, the King (supreme head of the Church of England) could be more reasonable than his Archbishop. Likewise, the Catholic Duke and Jesuit-Cardinal, occupying a house built on firmer ground, might listen carefully and provide mutual support. Yet even so, one and all, they seemed less than enthused about the Ambassador’s unfolding tale. The Elf was unfailingly polite but implacable. Theophilus heard him being very persistent about something called ‘childhood’s end’.

  Theophilus held himself – and his gifted sword – in readiness for intervention. The persons of accredited diplomats were meant to be inviolate, but that didn’t give them free licence. He felt responsible in some degree for the behaviour of this invitee of his. Somehow or other, he was caught up in a maelstrom of events greatly detrimental to the peace of anyone it gusted upon.

  ‘That is correct, Oglethorpe,’ came the Ambassador’s voice, clear as a pagan bell, from beyond the door. ‘You are.’

  Before Theophilus could query his proxy-inclusion in the debate, that door opened and the King popped his head through. He seemed … saddened or diminished, and quite oblivious to the scandal of him playing pageboy.

  ‘He wants to see you,’ he told Oglethorpe. ‘Otherwise he won’t go on.’

  Theophilus’s confusion was only heightened by obedience to the call. The Throne Room looked like the aftermath of some bloodless battle. Elements of the defeated were scattered round the edges whilst the Ambassador, unruffled and demure, stood centre-stage in triumph. He acknowledged Oglethorpe’s arrival with a fluid bow.

  ‘We need you,’ he said, ‘rather than these others.’

  The ‘others’ looked glad to hear it. Archbishop Sancroft was slumped in a chair, and refreshing himself from a brandy flask in shockingly plebeian manner. From time to time he shook his snowy head and muttered under his breath, but otherwise declared himself ‘out of it.’ The Cardinal was more composed but deep in thought, staring chin in hand into a private middle-distance. Only Charles and James, soldiers in their time and thus armoured against shock, were still mobile, but even they were both as pale as paper.

  ‘I cannot bear to repeat,’ the Ambassador went on. ‘Usurper company fatigues me. Besides, I am not sent just to bandy words. You must come and see and believe.’

  ‘It seems we Stuarts are faced with ruin and displacement, Oglethorpe,’ said the King, setting off to prise the brandy from the Archbishop. ‘And not just us either. We’ve all rather had an excess of straight-talk right now but I commend your attention to the quandary. Run along and sort it out will you, there’s a loyal chap. Good luck.’

  ‘You shall come too,’ added the Elf, confounding him. ‘And the Welsh Prince.’

  ‘P-Prince of Wales,’ James corrected him, courageously resigned and master once again of his own features.

  ‘Whatever. You three have been allocated parts. You must play them.’

  ‘Must,’ growled Charles, glad to have some affront to bite on, ‘is not a word to speak to Kings.’

  ‘I agree,’ replied the Ambassador, as cool as you like. ‘But equals may so converse. Amongst my own people I am accounted a King.’

  ‘Of where?’ asked Charles, genuinely curious, despite all the distractions. Having once lost a crown made him particular in accounting others’.

  ‘You wouldn’t know the name,’ answered the Ambassador, minus his usual verve and suddenly all sad staccato. ‘Don’t like to speak of it – painful memories. But it was a good place: before you vermin came. Sorry: realise not diplomatic terms: no offence.’

  He was on his way to one side of the room, and for the merest second no longer moved as though feather-light and panther-strong. Burdensome thoughts broke his graceful stride and turned his boots to lead. If you blinked you might have missed it, but Oglethorpe did not. There were, it seemed, keys to their hearts after all. He noted that.

  ‘Well, where is it then?’ persisted Charles.

  The Ambassador, his poise restored, was distracted by a close search of the wall. He played his elongated fingers upon its surface, and peered intently at the papered surface.

  ‘I beg your pardon? Where? Ah, yes, that is easier answered. It is here.’

  ‘Where?’ repeated Charles.

  ‘Here,’ replied the Ambassador – and opened the door he had discovered.

  Life might have dealt them some interesting hands before now but Charles and James could not but look on gap-mouthed. There’d never been a door there; certainly not a massive old oak-and-iron-nail job like that. And even if there had been, it would have revealed the cardroom they knew full well lay the other side of the wall. Nothing in the natural order of things could have permitted the view of the great torch-lit, descending corridor revealed by the Ambassador.

  ‘It is here,’ he said, as though asserting his right. ‘And everywhere.’ A sweep of the hand regally invited them through. ‘My land is connected with all parts of your “England”: should anyone wish it to be. Most homes have such an entrance. Step forward.’

  This was all very well, if opaque, but they no longer knew where ‘here’ was. Moreover, it was contrary to state policy for both monarch and heir to venture together into unknown seas.

  ‘If I wished you ill,’ said the Ambassador, privy, it appeared, to their innermost thoughts, ‘it would be done by now.’

  As bald statements of fact go, it was plausible – if insufficiently respectful. Charles and James silently conferred, using the code constructed by a shared and troubled childhood. Agreement was swift and the Stuarts stepped forward as one.

  The Ambassador had already gone on and they followed him. Theophilus brought up the rear, the one member of the group not blessed with royal blood and thus landed with mundane matters like security.

  ‘Your blessings please,’ he asked the Archbishop and Cardinal. ‘And hold the fort till we return.’

  Sancroft wasn’t up to complying but the Jesuit had rallied sufficiently to oblige.

  ‘May the eternal Eye shine love upon you,’ he said, with great sincerity, ‘even though you forget him.’

  T
heophilus closed the door in the clergyman’s face and left the world behind.

  They hadn’t waited for him and he had to run to catch up. There was no opportunity to inspect the wonders of this shadowy labyrinth which joined Windsor to … somewhere else. It was enough that the floor was paved and flat, and the flares sufficiently bright to see your footing. He rushed on until in hailing distance of the Royal party.

  At least he assumed it was they. His greeting met with more surprise and less welcome than should have been the case. The trio who turned to respond were pasty-faced, curly-headed men in white – and strangers: though the rough crosses about each neck prodded some elusive recollection.

  As a soldier he should have known how fatal assumptions can be, especially in foreign climes. It had never occurred to him that these corridors might not be for his use and instruction only. Even with the evidence of normality’s suspension beneath his boots, he’d discounted the chance of opposition somehow interposing betwixt himself and his companions. In his refusal to accept life’s tricky tendencies, Theophilus would always be the proverbial bull-in-a-china-shop.

  Still, that simplicity also could stand him in good stead, or extricate him from the snares he blundered into. Whilst lesser or more reasonable men might have queried the black looks he was receiving, or sought to turn aside the hostile reception, Theophilus was content to eat the meal laid before him. He drew his sword and advanced.

  They weren’t expecting that. The distance between them was too short and the corridor too confined for safe retreat. Turning their backs on the stranger would only expose them to a steely thrust and oblivion from behind. Neither, it seemed, were they armed. Their options limited, the three men settled for moderating their malice and speaking to the stranger. Theophilus slowed, and listened, and didn’t understand. He told them so.

  That short speech converted shock into full-blown horror. They gaped – and gestured – and looked at each other in disbelief.

  ‘Saesneg!’ said one, expelling the word like vomit.

  Whatever it meant, it had the effect of impelling them to action. Two moved forward to block the way, whilst the third fell to his knees and implored the heavens (or roof) with a flood of words and frenzied shaking of hands.

  Theophilus was puzzled. Who were these apparitions in gowns and why did they dislike him so? He tried to think it all through but, being realistic, recognised that wasn’t a promising approach. All he could conclude was that prayers were being offered, to some or other deity; and not for his continued health and happiness either. Unfortunately for them, Theophilus believed in the power of prayer.

  ‘Stop that wailing,’ he advised the man, and leaning forward, nicked his ear with the sword.

  It did the trick. They all of them looked at the blade and their horror – even the blooded man’s – blossomed wonderfully into something else. Theophilus got the impression they weren’t beholding the plain state-issue sabre that he was. If true, what they saw served to inspire them. They forgot their fear and positively fell on Oglethorpe like furies. He was obliged to take a whole step back and kill them one by one.

  ‘Odd people,’ he thought, as the last went down – and then trod over the bodies to press on.

  Actually, the King and Duke and Ambassador weren’t that far away. Hearing sounds of conflict, and with every faith in Oglethorpe’s direct way with such things, they’d paused for him to deal with it and then catch up.

  ‘But how did they miss you?’ he asked, having briefly explained the hold-up. ‘You must have come through them.’

  ‘The very word,’ agreed the Elf, loftily. ‘We penetrated them unseen, unheard, like wraiths. My sorcery permits that. If you’d be so good as to keep up, you’ll be included in it.’

  ‘But the corpses …’ protested Oglethorpe, practical and prosaic even at this inappropriate moment. ‘An alarm will be raised.’

  ‘It is raised already,’ said the Ambassador, matter-of-factly.

  King Charles cocked his head to one side and listened.

  ‘I don’t hear it,’ he whispered.

  ‘It is raised nevertheless,’ the Elf answered. ‘If you were as evolved as I you would feel it. Do not fear, they will not see us.’

  Nor did they. Time and again they passed through clouds of scurrying acolytes, much the same as Theophilus had disposed of, all bearing the asymmetric cross but in various stages of panic or armed preparation. They emerged from branching corridors, massed in the wider spaces or disappeared down forks in the path to pastures new, taking their drill from the flock-of-sheep school of military thought. If there was some coordinating intelligence to their actions, it seemed to be a jittery one – and prone to frequent changes of mind. The Ambassador’s little group went on, unhindered, ever downwards.

  ‘There’s enough of ’em!’ said Theophilus, curiosity leading him to speak out of turn.

  ‘They attempt great things,’ replied the Ambassador. ‘History cannot be conquered by one man and a dog.’

  There wasn’t the material for a sensible argument in that. James, Duke of York recognised the technique. Politicians often employed enigma to kill a promising line of enquiry stone-dead. He wouldn’t have it.

  ‘Then, s-sirrah,’ he asked impatiently, ‘what are they about? Likewise impart where we are. Also kindly c-confide the nature of this place. Do we wander in a subterranean cathedral?’

  ‘Or an underground university?’ added Charles, who, as usual, had been saying little and learning much. ‘God knows it’s as musty as Oxford.’

  There were grounds for both identifications. They’d traversed places which in other contexts would be counted chapels or halls of learning.

  The Ambassador considered as they marched.

  ‘As to where,’ he said, at long last, ‘this was mine once and I do not care to speak its name. As to what: well, a slice of both suggestions. Prayers are offered here and there are courses of instruction. One might justly term it a church and an academy – each devoted to your demise.’

  This last morsel was delivered with a smile.

  ‘But for the most part,’ the Elf added, forestalling their protests, ‘it is a tomb. Look.’

  They did so and saw he spoke the truth.

  As royal residences go, it was none too impressive.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ said Charles, as though hearing news of a very distant relative.

  The Ambassador seemed to want more.

  ‘Is that your full reaction?’ he asked. ‘I expected something less insipid.’

  ‘Don’t hold your breath,’ growled the King. ‘It’s all you’re getting.’

  Actually, all three humans, King, Duke and Lieutenant Colonel, were as shocked as could be wished, though brought up not to show it. But for that they would have been gap-mouthed – through both amazement and necessity. The over-powering charnel-house smell made nasal respiration painful.

  They knew they were intruders, the sense of detection was acute. Each had the feeling of hostile intent, invisible but there all the same, standing just behind them.

  ‘We are not welcome here,’ said James.

  ‘No,’ agreed the Ambassador, little to their comfort. ‘Far from it.’

  The long low hall was dimly lit but from no perceptible source. The torches in brackets stopped at its start, precisely where the change in atmosphere began. The endless corridors had been bad enough but there was a division between there and here. This place was alive and aware and full of malevolence.

  Theophilus experimented by retreating a pace over the threshold. Instantly the ill-will ceased like stepping out of a too-hot bath. For a second he relished the relief – and then rejoined his King.

  Charles’s title was not in doubt and the Ambassador’s bearing bore out his regal claims, but both were mere impostors compared to the Master of that hall. He lay in state at its far end, in a starburst of light from nowhere. It ebbed and flowed with the beat of his heart. They could see the red pulse within his ruined chest, throug
h black chainmail and exposed ribs, pumping sometimes with ease, at others in spasm, but without cease. The great King’s body was composed in an attitude of prayer but one decayed gauntlet gripped an empty scabbard. For all that he was just dry sinew and bone there was an expression of energy to him, a force so very nearly able to lift him from his grave. They were thankful the crowned head was turned away from them, not wishing to behold those empty eyes.

  ‘Approach,’ the Ambassador asked them, in a whisper.

  Charles looked at the ground, not from fear, but unsure of his path. He noted that the floor was thick with undisturbed dust.

  ‘We are the first,’ he said quietly, warning the Elf, ‘for many a long year. Is this wise?’

  ‘Yes, we are first,’ came the reply. ‘The stolen babes that top up the life force are merely flung in. You will observe their little unformed bones all about. And no, it’s not wise. Others are forbidden entry and we only come here at great cost. You must look and learn.’

  The term cost was always a goad to Charles, who’d spent a lifetime considering expense and the hold it gave Parliament over him. He stepped boldly forward, leaving a line of prints in the virgin grime. The others followed.

  Their way lay down an avenue of altars, placed regularly to either side. On each reposed a warrior. They had been put to rest embracing a sword, with a war-horse set beside them. Time had tarnished their glory, visiting flesh with decay and metal with corrosion, and though all were recognisable for what they had been, some had tumbled into final disarray.

  ‘The magic failed them,’ the Ambassador informed his companions, noting their gaze, ‘or they it. The centuries were a test and trial. Only the most implacable can cross the gulf of years. But note the others.’

  They did so and observed a scarlet beat in all the better preserved chests, of man and beast alike.

  ‘Most linger on,’ said the Elf, almost sadly, ‘unaware but biding still. We cannot touch them.’

  ‘Then how are we h-here at all?’ asked James, Duke of York, permitting his flabberghastment just a minor sortie.