The Royal Changeling

by John Whitbourn

  No less reasonable were Monmouth’s personal claims. Though confident of his legitimacy and right to the throne, he left the matter to the decision of an unsuborned Parliament. For the moment he was content to be just ‘Captain-General of the Protestant Forces of this Kingdom.’ Resolving the paradox of there being two would-be James I’s was thus happily postponed.

  Ferguson well knew that speeches were like sex: the aftermath of both contained illogical guilt at getting so worked up. It was always an idea therefore to end by fastening one’s teeth in the listener’s ideals, providing a whimper not a bang. Pitched in general enough terms the targets were thus left exalted instead of furtive.

  ‘People of England,’ the youth concluded, ‘all we ask is that never more may it be in the power of any person on the throne to deprive their subjects of their rights, or subvert the fundamental laws of Government designed for their preservation. Now let us play the man for our people and may the Lord do that which seemeth good unto him! Will you join us?’

  By nightfall of the second day, there were fifteen hundred rebels under arms and blood had been shed.

  Samuel Dassell had been on the edge of the marketplace crowd and, a conspicuous abstainer from the general enthusiasm, had come close to arrest. One of the invaders asked why he was so po-faced? For a while therefore he was obliged to affect ecstasy with all the rest, damning his rightful King with the best invective at his command, whilst an eagle eye was kept on him. It was not until early evening that opportunity arose for escape. Setting out as though on a summer stroll, hatless and in shirtsleeves, he just kept on walking. All the way out of Town his shoulders were hunched as he visualised a musket taking aim to fell him. Poor Mr Dassell felt the focus of every eye and stepped strangely, imagining each pace his last. In the event no shot came, the invaders having other pressing business to attend to.

  Beyond the Town boundaries he let out a mighty sigh and hijacked a passing carriage-and-two. By claiming Crown business, waving his (empty) pistol, and giving every appearance of being a desperate man, he made it to Crewkerne. There were militia there and though their first inclination was to hang him as a highwayman, reason eventually prevailed. The Customs-man was authorised to use post-horses and thus sped to London, raising the alarm (and alarm) as he went.

  As it happened London wasn’t very interested, since everyone was asleep when he arrived. A blunderbuss was shoved in his face when he hammered the door of Winston Churchill, the MP for Lyme, at two in the morning, and he grew weary in repeating his story before it was accepted (and the firearm lowered). Finally convinced, Mr Churchill then rushed to the Royal Chambers, together with his rising-star soldier son, John, and dared to wake his Majesty at that unearthly hour.

  Dassell retold his now embellished tale by the Royal bedside, as he would soon after to the Privy Council and at the bar of the House of Commons. James listened carefully, propped up on pillows and glad that the blankets were thick enough to conceal the giggling strumpet beneath. Pretending not to hear those tokens, his visitors were impressed by James’s lack of concern. This was indeed a King, they severally concluded, who could surface from sleep to look cruel fate in the eye, and still keep a straight face. Dassell was rewarded with £20 and certain promotion before being sent to well-earned rest. The Churchills were told to withdraw but return shortly with their martial proposals.

  Thus no one saw King James fairly leap from bed, not even the young actress under the sheets. She was likewise soon uncovered, thanked and sent on her way. Most unlike a seventeenth-century man in his mid-fifties, there was a spring in James’s step to match the lightness of his heart. Akin to Bunyan’s Christian, he felt like a smothering burden had just slipped from his back.

  For most of his life, forces and factions had contended against him, his loved-ones and ideals, but always keeping to the shadows: remote-striking by malice and intrigue, preferring the alley-assassin’s blow to the fairness of battle. The puritans had been threatening rebellion this last quarter-century but never got round to it. Their allies the deists and atheists issued their sneery little pamphlets without actually doing anything. Monmouth, meanwhile, the friend of all opposition, conducted the cacophonous tune and whipped it to a frenzy. Now all that was ended. Everything James hated had edged out into the light and was standing forth in arms. Previously the spirit of the age was like a fog, all pervading but elusive. Today, Deo gratias, it saw fit to take shape: it had a nose one could bop. A plain and simple military man, disgusted by the cack and distorting-mirrors of politics, James knew that this was the time he was born for.

  By a quarter-past-four, on the morning of Saturday, the thirteenth of June, 1685, thirty hours after Monmouth set foot in Lyme, King James was at his desk writing orders.

  ‘That’s the way to do it!’ smirked Monmouth to himself, and allowed his cautious soul to give way to exultation. Two days after King James’s early awakening the Duke was high up on Trinity Hill above Axminster. The position gave a fine view of the Axe Valley and, just at that moment, also of the utter rout of the Royal militia.

  The Duke was not only pleased but relieved. After a disappointing skirmish at Bridport he’d begun to have doubts about his recruits. They continued to stream in bravely enough, enabling him to form four regiments of foot, the Red, the White, the Yellow and Green. When they issued in column out of Lyme he had three thousand under command; a riotous expansion of his initial tiny force and an imposing sight with their regimental tokens and hat-badges of green sprigs. Though more accustomed to the drilled-to-idiocy machine-armies of continental Europe, Monmouth recognised the equal value of fervour. If one glanced over the plough-horse cavalry that was all he could get, and the embarrassing mere two-brace of guns, he remembered seeing moderate grounds for optimism. Then the niggling misfortunes began.

  Firstly, he’d lost both his Commander of Horse, Andrew Fletcher, a volcanic Scottish laird but able professional soldier, and likewise his Paymaster, Thomas Dare, a useful local Man-of-Influence with fingers-in-many-pies. One had argued with the other over possession of a horse and the matter was settled with a bullet to the brain. The Duke was thus obliged to put Fletcher back on board ship and Dare in the ground. Not the least disagreeable outcome of that business was that Lord Grey now succeeded to the cavalry command. For creating cuckolds and drinking ordinary mortals dead, one could hope for no better chap, but Monmouth doubted his other manly qualities. Sure enough, his Lordship’s invertebrate tendencies were soon amply displayed. During the try-out probe at Bridport, Grey had fled like a girly at the first shot, snatching a mere draw from a promising situation. There was a nasty fire-fight at the Bull Inn and Colonel Venner of the Reds had killed several gentlemen within before being grievously shot in the guts. Stout Wade, his second-in-command, had saved the day (and secured his promotion) by pulling the foot back in good order. The Militia’s nose was well-blooded and though three times the stronger they did not press the issue. Insults were exchanged beyond musket-shot and honour was shared. Even so, it was not the good start one could have wished for. The retiring force met the Duke at Charmouth and the lawyer Wade gave a far from rave review of Grey’s role. Inexplicably the veteran rake and conspirator was neither replaced or disgraced.

  That was because of one of the other problems: Grey was the only aristocrat they had. For all that the body bearing it was useless they needed his name. It worried Monmouth that no other quality had come in to them. The lower orders were vital, to be sure, and for wielding weapons and dying in the cause, there were no substitutes. Nevertheless, social mountaineers were also required to supply guidance to the top. They alone were able to smooth the slippery paths up the pyramid of the social structure. The sincerity of weavers and farmboys could not, of itself, propel one to the highest altitudes.

  And so, to continue his chosen metaphor, Monmouth decided that he must come to the mountain if it would not heed his call. A push at the present edifice might convince the gimlet-eyed ambitious classes which way things we
re heading and get their juices flowing. The army’s training in Lyme was curtailed and they issued forth.

  It could hardly have gone better. Against them was Lord Albemarle, commander of all the mobilised militias and thirsting for an opportunity to shine forever in his Monarch’s favour. He’d once read that armies were at their most vulnerable on the march, a principle presumably richly multiplied when applied to a rag-tag, new-raised force. My Lord did not agonise overlong. The assembled loyal might of Somerset and Devon converged in a dash on Axminster. Somerset got there first but it turned out not to matter. Monmouth’s men swept in and swept them out.

  The Reverend Stephen Toogood of Axminster beheld the sight and was inspired, along with all the male members of his little congregation, to join this patently God-blessed crusade. The Lord’, he later wrote, ‘eminently appeared … sending an hornett of fear amongst those who came to oppose … so that a dreadfull consternation of spirit ceized on them … some ran away in amazement, some were so strikken with terror that they were even bereft of their reason, and like distracted persons. Others threw away their weapons of war, and would take them up no more: and many watched opportunities to leave their colours and old officers, and came and joyned with this new company …’

  Monmouth couldn’t quite believe it and came to check. He posted Wade and the Red Regiment at the further approaches to the Town, dissuading him from pursuit, and placed Buyse and his guns in support. When the men of Devonshire belatedly arrived, they chose to mistake these few poor pieces, together with some logs protruding from the hedgerows, for a mighty array of ordnance. Thus finding cause to join the great impromptu ‘fun-run’, they fled away, screaming like stuck pigs and shedding their red-coats and muskets. Added to the yellow-jackets of their Somerset brethren, a pretty effect was unintentionally made upon the green fields.

  The Duke had no eye for it, being given to even stranger considerations. He could come to no harm amongst these headless chickens and so rode out amongst them, the better to ponder. Looking back he saw that Wade’s position was good but no grounds, even so, for such an excess of terror. He frowned, not knowing whether to be pleased or annoyed, but was not given further time for doubt. The conclusion he was sadly edging towards came to meet him.

  Arthur killed men as he came, striking left and right with an empty scabbard. Those struck fell silently, torn from life by something more shocking than the gentle taps they took. The King’s leather face contorted into his own version of glee but he was gracious enough to withhold the great terror from the Duke and his army. It seemed that only Monmouth could see him.

  Traversing the intervening fields like a slow arrow, unhurried but purposeful, he made straight towards the Duke. In the places where his war-boots skimmed the turf it died. An interposing hedge shrank away from him, dividing like the scriptural Red Sea. Arthur passed through the gap but his broad shoulders still brushed against the branches insufficiently drawn back. They shrivelled and warped and perished.

  ‘You see how good I am to you,’ he said upon arrival. Your enterprise thereby … inches on.’ His voice was like the whisper of an advancing glacier.

  Monmouth’s mount only stood its ground because it was frozen, bulging-eyed and froth-mouthed, into the last extremities of fear. Dumb beast and yokel militiamen knew the truth though they neither saw nor heard. The Duke was less wise and stayed to converse.

  ‘It was not needed. We could have prevailed alone.’

  Arthur smiled again, mockingly this time. He directed his empty eyes beyond the Duke to the ranks of his army.

  ‘Do you think so?’ he asked, making his own opinion clear.

  The Duke allowed himself to rage. He had been promised a more … spectacular advance to London and the Throne. Valiant though his West-Country men might be he wished for regiments of regulars and trains of cannon, gloriously attired and backed by every evidence of supernatural support. His daydreams envisaged the highest and the best of England swearing allegiance under the eyes of an unanswerable army, and sweating in awe of his weirder allies.

  ‘If I am just the King of Lyme Regis,’ he spat bitterly, ‘with an army to match, whose fault is that? Where are your much vaunted Celts? Where the columns of your undead Knights?’

  The giant spectre was unmoved, though it was relief to see his false amusement go.

  ‘The former are for the most part sunk in sleep,’ he replied, ‘forgetful of their history. When I rise again at last then they will remember me and serve. Meanwhile it suits that you land among the English and divide their strength in civil war. Likewise, my knights, my first and best myrmidons, are harboured and reserved. I cannot commit them yet. You must make your own way to London.’

  For all that he used betrayal, Monmouth powerfully misliked being betrayed.

  ‘A bargain was struck!’ he shouted angrily. ‘It’s me that keeps the Elves from your back. Recall that nothing we attempt can prosper without the wardings I supply!’

  ‘Supplied,’ Arthur brutally corrected him. ‘You have delivered was what contracted. I will pay the agreed price … probably … in my own good time.’

  The Duke knew it was undignified to fume and bluster but couldn’t help himself. Arthur was merciless.

  ‘You have divulged the secrets necessary to divert the antipathy of your race,’ he went on. ‘I do not think you have held anything back. Your shop is empty of stock. Therefore, do not ever again try to wield the whip over me. I will impose my will in my own time and you must abide with that. Do you understand?’

  Monmouth forced himself, with maximum effort and minimum grace, to signal wordlessly that he did – all too well. His fingertips left pinch marks in the tough leather of the reins he held.

  ‘Besides,’ the King continued, more conciliatory than before, ‘there are reasons for my lack of faith. I am weakened and unable to exert my best on your behalf. This is all you shall see of me before the final battle.’

  The Duke was interested. More than ever now he needed to know about faults in his patron’s armour. ‘How so?’ he asked politely. ‘I thought you grew in power towards your coming day …’

  Arthur seemed willing to be candid about his problems.

  ‘I am stretched,’ lie said, ‘forced to turn my face to many fronts. The trip to London to kill Charles the King fatigued. Likewise, our enemies held a summit against us, beside the old chalk-god in the South-country. Though I strived mightily against it I could not disrupt or overhear their deliberations. These things have depleted me.’

  Monmouth nodded sympathetically, taking the revelation about his father commendably in his stride.

  ‘You should know,’ added Arthur, ‘that much of me is backed up in Excalibur and I am still deprived access to it. Exposition of my full glory, my liberation and resolution of all our troubles awaits its recovery. Your friend, Oglethorpe, will not relinquish possession. What do you suggest?’

  ‘Former friend,’ the Duke advised him, just to be on the safe side. ‘He and I have a one-sided score to settle. Does the blade really have to be freely given?’

  ‘Sadly so, Elf. It is monogamous and faithful, albeit in this case with reluctance and regret, to each happenstance owner. That is the primary law of its forging. The weapon, for all that it is, must obey. Fortunately, the Oglethorpe human is slow and does not think to draw upon its full services.’

  The Duke was glad to hear it, mindful of Theophilus’s ridiculous devotion to joke virtues like loyalty and duty. Then he almost cheered up as that led him on to consider how apt it would be if those same weaknesses were to be made his ruin …

  ‘Come to think of it,’ he mused, ‘one idea does occur to me …’

  By the fifteenth of June the Royal flying column of four hundred troopers, all King James could muster at short notice, were just beyond Salisbury. If any had cared to look back the Cathedral spire was still in sight. Five companies of the Queens Regiment of Foot, Colonel Piercy Kirke’s ‘Lambs’, fresh from educational times in Tangiers,
trudged on more sedately a day’s march in their wake. It was a beautiful day and, being headed for his native West Country, their joint commander, John Churchill, might be expected to entertain cheerful thoughts. If so, he gave no sign of it.

  ‘So you feel no conflict of loyalty? How interesting.’

  Coming from someone as paint-smooth (and slippery) as Churchill, the query could be taken in any way one liked: a simple enquiry, an accusation, a reproach, a metaphysical musing …

  Theophilus Oglethorpe settled for one of the downside interpretations and reined in his horse – but not his feelings.

  ‘None whatever – since you ask,’ he replied hotly. ‘No more than the Royal Dragoons we ride with. They were once Monmouth’s own, and with him in France and at Bothwell Brig, the same as I. Another now commands and we – being loyal – obey. Are you doubting me?’

  Churchill looked back at the jangling column of cavalry behind. The four troops of the Royal Regiment of Horse or Blues, were to the fore and thrown into confusion by their colonel’s sudden halt. The two troops of Dragoons beyond them cantered obliviously on to add to the anarchy. They were not expecting any unscheduled stops in the dash West ordered by the King.

  ‘Monmouth was but their commander,’ countered Churchill, ‘albeit well-loved. You were his friend.’

  Again it was difficult to take offence, since the remark was so innocently phrased – but Theophilus managed it.

  ‘As you were!’ he sallied, ever believing one should attack to defend. ‘I well recall your constant attachment to Monmouth’s side after Maastricht fight and …’

  Churchill both conceded the point and silenced him with a gracious nod. He indicated they should ride on.

  ‘All true, quite true,’ he said, as the march resumed. ‘I don’t deny it. But that was twelve years back. Times change. Take Titus Oates, for instance; latterly the hero of the hour and saviour of his nation from papist conspiracies. Last month I watched the hangman whip him half dead through the streets of London. The treatment’s to be repeated annually during his life imprisonment. One day fortune kisses and the next she spits. There’s no constancy in this world, Oglethorpe. Likewise with our … acquaintance, Monmouth. Once the apple of every eye but now there’s a £5000 “dead-or-alive” reward on his head. Parliament’s passed an act of attainder against him and voted £400000 to his destruction. In these altered circumstances I find my memories of past fondness suddenly grow hazy.’