‘T-tally Ho,’ repeated his brother James, reining in his mount. ‘It is the correct usage when about to give chase.’
‘I don’t follow this at all,’ said the King in exasperation. ‘If the hounds have scented the fox-vermin then let them go after it. Why must we get involved?’
Patience was not the Duke of York’s strong point, but in addition to being a brother, Charles was also his divinely anointed sovereign. He forced himself to go over the ground again.
‘The chase is the p-purpose of the exercise,’ he explained, eager for others to share in the pleasure of his latest hobby. ‘The dogs utilise their snouty faculties and we pursue, over field and b-brake, displaying the utmost of our equestrian skills, to keep up with them. Therein’s the nub of this new sport.’
Charles looked round at the cloud of courtiers who were all waiting to take their tone from him.
‘And I’m expected, am I,’ he queried, ‘to gallop around, at the risk of m’ neck, with no view but dog’s arses, so as to be present at the kill?’
This wasn’t developing as James would wish, but, deficient in humour and the detection of sarcasm, he gamely persevered.
‘Just so. You have grasped the knack of it.’
‘Though we can’t consume what we slay, even assuming we get it off the hounds in recognisable shape, and don’t call to mind what dogs oftimes do with their tongues.’
‘Well n-no,’ conceded the Duke. ‘But there is some utility even so. Brother Reynard is a plague to farmers and keepers of hens.’
Charles was both puzzled and disgruntled. ‘Well, let them kill the fox then. They have guns and dogs, don’t they? Lazy bastards. At least that way their fields don’t get trampled in the process. Now, if it was a deer you could put on a plate I might see the point …’
In his earlier days as a soldier, James was renowned for his reluctance to quit the field of battle, however badly things were going.
‘It is all the rage on the c-c-continent,’ he said, playing his last and trump card. ‘All the most sophisticated courts, including France, have taken it up with relish.’
That did it. Charles resented the craven reflex deference to all things foreign that possessed his upper classes. He was happy to speak French as the language of diplomacy and international polite-society, but that didn’t make Gallic culture synonymous with civilisation – whatever the French might say. If people thought it all so screamingly wonderful why didn’t they go and bloody live there?
‘Ah, well then,’ he answered, ‘that may rule out us coarse-as-coalbunkers, mere beef-and-beer English folk. We’re too plain and simple and slow on the uptake. Still, if King Louis and the Prince of Orange discern merit in something, then that suffices. Say no more. Send this lot off into battle with the fox and we shall watch and be instructed.’
Both brothers, in the course of long lives richly visited by misfortune, had learnt the trick of disengaging their faces from their emotions. Only Charles could tell that the Duke was saddened by his failure to enthuse.
‘Poor old James,’ he reflected, adding a drop or two to his own ocean of sadness. ‘So hard on himself and so easily hurt. When would he learn to sever connections with people? They only ever lead to sorrow.’
‘Stay with me,’ he told him, beckoning him close. ‘Further words from you may yet endear me to this new sport. And you too, Oglethorpe.’
The Duke inwardly brightened and hastened to comply. Theophilus was likewise glad. He disliked wanton destruction of God’s dumb creation (though happy enough to deal with human vermin) and had not been looking forward to this outing. Had he known of it, he’d have sooner been with Ellen, blowing up their garden at Westbrook at that precise moment, rather than sip from this particular cup. The King, who could read men like books, knew it.
‘I thought I’d save you,’ he confided, ‘knowing your tender love for furry beasts.’
Theophilus coloured up. Such weird, unfashionable views were a terrible embarrassment.
The waiting nobles had their smirks wiped away by Charles’s baleful glance.
‘Off you trot,’ he ordered. ‘A terrible foe waits you in the woods. How’s it go? Tally ho-ho!’
They thundered off to the blare of horns and woofing. The King watched them with disdain.
‘It’ll never catch on,’ he muttered. No reply seemed expected. The remaining trio ambled along slowly in the hunt’s noisy, mud-strewn wake.
After the Great Frost of the previous winter, the coldest in memory, it still felt good just to be out and about, however weak the excuse. Charles had enjoyed the month-long Frost Fayre on the solid Thames, a wild carnival of commerce and fun, sword-swallowers, bear-baiting, dancing and plays, all egged on into a frenzy by the suspension of nature. He’d also marvelled to observe the sea frozen two miles offshore, not expecting to behold the like again. In time though it all rather palled and his true favourite pastimes were grossly inhibited by the chill and imprisonment indoors. He was glad to feel the embrace of the Sun (amongst others) again.
Charles drew forth a hip-flask and sipped daintily from it. The rustic view seemed to hold all of his attention.
‘It’s all go, innit?’ he commented meaninglessly, when sufficiently refreshed.
Neither companion answered. For all they might love and serve him, both knew Charles Stuart never said anything in innocence. They also saw a dark spirit had arrived to perch on his shoulders.
‘Any news from Holland?’ he eventually asked Oglethorpe. It sounded a simple enquiry but was not.
‘Monmouth and I are estranged,’ stated Theophilus. ‘He knows not to seek kind words from me.’
The Duke of York nodded wholehearted approval.
‘That was not,’ snapped the King, ‘what one asked.’
‘No news, your Majesty; no word, nor hope or wish of any. I was as much betrayed as you were.’
It was an unhappy assertion, although Charles made due allowance for a less than sprightly mind.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Not by a long chalk – but let that pass. There’s no word from the boy then?’
Theophilus shook his wig. ‘Not to me. I only know what the “Observator” reports: that he skulks in Netherlands exile, tupping his mistress and frequenting with rebels. Your agents can surely tell you more than me.’
They surely could. Charles had turned more blind eyes than a statue and broken all his own rules, desperate to keep his son by his side. Whilst others lost their heads and innards over the Rye House business, Monmouth remained inviolate. Trusted envoys raced back and forth between them to no great reward. Then, when with trouble worse than childbirth, a written confession and expression of regret was at last pulled from him, (and published in the Gazette!) he plain denied it days later. First there was shock and next the stockpiled anger of decades. Face to face, Charles told his son he might ‘go to Hell!’ – and then downgraded that to Holland (which was much the same thing). The order of banishment was signed and the Crown’s few true friends sighed in relief. A King cannot afford to look foolish or appear the prisoner of sentiment if he wishes to cleave to his title.
Nevertheless, a soft heart, even one so selective as Charles’s, is not converted to sense by miles or betrayal. Spies assumed his parental mantle and told him everything. Monmouth had found a new home and love besides, at the Netherlandish Court. His aunt, Queen Mary, and the Prince of Orange made him as welcome as they knew how, and distraction from intrigue was found in the arms and other welcoming places of Lady Henrietta Wentworth. His affection for her was accounted genuine – an eyebrow-raising revelation in that day and age. He had even begun to dance again, using up excess energy and entrancing the anti-vivacious Flemings, with his grace and skill in that innocent art. Charles’s rage-born-of-injury would have been soothed but for stories of the other company he kept. In time though, the regal eyes tended to glaze over when reading those less happy titbits.
‘He’s b-biding his time,’ expostulated James. ‘T
he serpent merely seems asleep. M-m-mark my words.’
‘He’s not the only one,’ growled the King in reply. ‘There’s no shortage of people keeping us waiting at present. When are we going to hear from your damn Elves again, Oglethorpe?’
‘Mine, Majesty?’ protested Theophilus.
‘Well, you appear higher in their confidence than us mere monarchs and princes. It’s nigh six months since our jaunt to Glastonbury. We were led to expect a more sprightly course of events and frequent chats with the fantastic. God’s ankles, man, if a Duchess led me on like that I’d have lost interest by now. You shouldn’t flash the furry hoop and then refuse to play: I detest prick-teasers. If you don’t want to sell, don’t open shop, that’s what I say. Can’t you give ’em a nudge?’
Theophilus flicked at his horse’s ears in exasperation. Life, marriage, the Army: it was all one impossible demand after the other.
‘How do you suggest, Majesty? Shall I dig into Glastonbury Tor and await developments?’
Charles liked sturdy responses – in moderation. He smiled on Oglethorpe.
‘If you like. And wave your magic sword whilst about it. That should get a response.’
‘I should imagine it would,’ commented Theophilus dryly. His hand dropped instinctively to Excalibur-in-disguise which now rarely left his side. ‘Though whether you’d hear any more of me is another matter.’
‘It’s a t-thought,’ mused James, embracing the ‘plan’ with apparent relish. He had all of Oglethorpe’s thirst for battle – and none of his sense.
Charles sadly shook his head. Sometimes he couldn’t credit they had the same mother.
‘A thought – but not a good one, brother. The Lieutenant Colonel is a faithful servant and, not being overburdened with such, we’d be sad to lose him. Moreover he’s our link with the worries in question. Now that he has been good enough to confide in us …’
‘I didn’t see how to explain about the sword,’ protested Theophilus. ‘No one would have believed. Besides, I shot the Lady …’
Charles stopped his horse abruptly, taking them by surprise.
‘It’s in our power,’ he said, ‘to pardon such trifles. Deception’s another matter. Are you sure there’s no other … difficult items to disclose?’
‘On my oath not,’ answered Oglethorpe.
‘Good enough for me,’ snapped the King and moved on. ‘Then there’s nothing to do but wait their good pleasure. Perhaps no slight’s intended. We shall calm our thwarted thirst for prodigies. Maybe such weird issues have a pace all their own. We’ve made what preparation we can.’
‘And the balance is up to G-God,’ added James.
‘Or someone,’ commented the King, tweaking the Duke’s tail. ‘We’ve dutifully acquired the ‘Army Friday’ and that Nostril chap’s book …’ Charles knew very well it was the ‘Armes Prydain’ and ‘Nostradamus’ but he wasn’t going to accord them the honour of twisting his tongue on their behalf. ‘We’ve even gone so far as to peruse the balderdash within …’
‘I’ve memorised both!’ boasted James.
Charles grimaced. He defined a gentleman as someone who could recite poetry but didn’t. Fortunately, the Duke desisted from proving his achievement.
‘The first,’ said the King, before James could, ‘speaks plain enough of its intentions – damned cheek! The second is a black cat in a dark alley and about as useful.’
‘The Druidic construction at Stonehenge-by-Salisbury might be termed a temple,’ suggested the Duke of York, revealing unsuspected private researches. ‘Its alignment may well relate to the heavens.’
‘As does St Paul’s,’ retorted Charles, ‘and m’ chapel at Windsor and Glastonbury-cursed-Tor for all we know. Does this propel us the slightest bit forward, brother?’
‘And Monmouth is my nephew,’ added James, out of painful honesty.
‘And mine also, for regal bastards are often so described. Are either of us to murder him?’
‘No.’ The Duke’s straight answer could be readily accepted.
‘Nor I. And as for “a false peace”, well … We stumble and guess like drunks at a barndance. So, whilst comprehension eludes us, let us forget King Arthur and Celts and Elves, and other such rings on the bath-tub of history. Maybe they will moot this “Moot”, maybe not. We shall not hold our breath. Meanwhile let us enjoy life as though the bad dream is over.’
A dream of another sort cantered back to join them. Though too pale and streamlined for some contemporary tastes, Lady Arabella Godfrey, nee Churchill, had boyish charms rated highly by those in a position to know. James might be counted an expert on the subject, having fathered four children upon her.
‘Sorry to spoil the men-talk,’ she trilled, blasting them with volleys of charm, ‘but the buggers have gorn and left me behind.’
‘M-madam,’ answered the Duke, a pushover as always, ‘you are never less than welcome.’
Charles grinned, effortlessly giving his cares the heave-ho. He liked anyone (though particularly women, of course) who were eager to please, who met you halfway. Arabella was practised and polished but not so much so as to be brassy. This was the world he felt more at home in.
‘My dear Lady,’ he husked, joining in the fun, ‘your behind should never be so neglected.’
Madame Godfrey shrieked in amusement.
‘Wicked boy!’ she said, wagging her finger. ‘What I meant was they went so fast I couldn’t keep m’ seat!’
‘How so?’ exclaimed the King, poking the disapproving Duke with his riding crop. ‘My brother here used to say you had a very fine seat!’
‘And so she did,’ said James, firmly and not in the least amused. ‘The Lady was one of my f-f-finest equestrian pupils.’
That only prompted his tormentors to fresh hilarity. Even Theophilus’s straight face was sorely tested. The whole world knew that James’s liaison with her had begun under the cover of riding lessons.
The King wiped a tear from his eye. It was an abiding joy to him that his brother couldn’t just admit to worship of the female form in addition to his Catholicism. He wasn’t so troubled. Though no theologian, it struck Charles as disrespectful to God to think Him so concerned about little sins.
‘Come on Oglethorpe, we’d best be off. To work, brother! Arabella stands in need of further instruction. Who better than you to re-teach her control of a powerful beast between her legs?’
The King spurred his horse away, with Oglethorpe close behind, before James could sufficiently master his stutter to reply. Arabella put an end to those sputterings by leaning across to peck his brow. Time, separate ways and marriage had not dimmed her affection for him.
‘He’s a tease,’ she said, her voice less strident, less theatrical, now she wasn’t acting for the King. ‘Don’t rise to it.’
‘Good j-job he can’t hear you,’ answered James glumly. ‘“Rise to it” – d’you see? Can’t say anything r-round him if there’s a lady present.’
Arabella snorted dismissively.
‘Well, Jimmy, you should know I’m no lady. Come on, let’s ride side by side and depart from their sight.’
She led on, away from Windsor, away from the distant sounds of the hunt, out into the silence of the green fields. James jogged amiably along, resuming the companionable ease that had dignified their years together. He meanwhile noted there was nothing at all amiss with her horsemanship – the minx!
At length they chanced on a woodland arbour and, without a word passing between them, both consented to stop. Private, dry and well provided with springy turf, it might have been designed by Venus herself. Thus mugged by fate, James hardly felt guilty at all about the thoughts that surged into his loins.
Arabella surveyed the scene with knowing eyes.
‘It reminds me of somewhere,’ she smirked.
‘Likewise.’
‘Do you remember that first time?’
The Duke’s snort dismissed any doubts of it.
‘We were hunting just li
ke now,’ she went on, reminiscing dead days as much for her benefit as his.
‘Greyhound coursing,’ James corrected her. ‘We got t-thirty hares.’
‘You didn’t.’
‘Ah, no … not me personally.’
‘You played the hero, charging to the rescue of some young gel whose horse had bolted and thrown her.’
‘I was concerned for your safety.’
‘And relieved to find me prostrate but alive, in a swoon but unhurt. Alas, cruel chance decreed the disarranging of my dress. M’gown was round m’neck, no less. Quite inadvertently, I was displaying the grotto of delight for your delectation.’
‘A slave to the s-sight, I dismounted my s-steed.’
‘And mounted me instead.’
‘And you woke up and asked for a j-job for your brother.’
Arabella laughed, unabashed.
‘I was only seventeen, a mere Maid of Honour to your wife, starting out in life and in a hurry. Us Churchills have a way to make. Do you regret taking John as your page?’
James shook his head.
‘I regret nothing I took that day,’ he said firmly.
‘I’m glad to hear it. Johnny-boy has proved a fine soldier and servant of the Crown: he’ll be a great general one day, for he’s even more ambitious than I. You see, greater good can sometimes come of minor naughtiness …’
James frowned. If only he could accept that, life would be so much easier … Lady Godfrey noted the slump in his shoulders – and wasn’t having it.
‘Do you know,’ she said, raising one white hand to her brow, ‘all this … recollection is so exhausting. I declare I feel quite woozy …’
With one suspiciously liquid and elegant motion, she slid slowly from horseback to the ground.
James couldn’t help but smile. Looking over the neck of his mount, he found a recreation of that delicious scene from years ago. Mere seconds later he was beside her.
‘This time,’ she said, miraculously restored to full awareness, ‘there’s no price tag.’
The Duke was wrestling with his hunting jacket, and finally taught it a lesson by just bursting the buttons.
The Royal Changeling Page 16