The Royal Changeling Read online

  The Royal Changeling

  JOHN WHITBOURN

  www.sfgateway.com

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Gateway Introduction

  Contents

  The Year of Our Lord 1685

  The Year of Our Lord 1648

  The Year of Our Lord 1663

  The Year of Our Lord 1674

  The Year of Our Lord 1679

  The Year of Our Lord 1683

  The Year of Our Lord 1684

  The Year of Our Lord 1702

  Epilogue

  Website

  Also by John Whitbourn

  Dedication

  About the Author

  Copyright

  The World, according to: Theophilus Oglethorpe, gent as drawn from sketches in his commonplace bk and from his sundry comments.

  Ye field of Sedgemoor 6 July in ye year of our Salvation; 1685, according to ye best recollection and recounting of: Theophilus Oglethorpe, gent.

  Ye forces of his Majestic King James II. Commanded by Lt General, LEWIS DURAS-Earl of Feversham.

  DUMBARTON‘S REGIMENT – Scotsmen

  First regiment of Kings Guards (or Coldstreamers)

  Queen Dowager’s Regiment – Kirke’s Lambs, so called, commantled by a Godless Rogye

  Queen Consort’s Regiment – Taelawney’s

  Our gonnes in a useless place and the fighting Bishop of Winchester

  Myself and the Blues

  The Wiltshire Militia, two miles off, where they can do no harme

  Ye forces of ye pretended James II but actually James Walter or Barlow or whatever; Duke of Monmouth

  Red Regiment, Col Wade, an estimable rebell, though a lawyer

  Yellow Regiment, Col Mathews.

  Green Regiment, Col Abraham Holmes, a savage Warrior and anabaptist

  White Regiment. Col Ffoulkes.

  Blue (Taunton) Regiment. Col Bovett or Buffett

  small gonnes – splendidly deadly under the direction of a stout foreigner.

  My Lord Grey of Warke and the rebell cavalry

  More rebell cavalry probably.

  History does not tell it this way, but I recount an equally true tale.

  Some dates are herein wilfully changed, and events transmogrified: because the records have been known to lie and the victors write them all – and because it suited me so to do.

  If in my actions I thus offend, or should my liberties with lives and language upset, may the more accountant-minded find in their hearts to forgive.

  ‘He wanted no other monument than a bare stone with the words “Here Lies King James”. He had told his priest to insist on this, but Louis said it was the only thing he could not grant him.

  ‘When everything had been prepared for carrying away his body, the Duke of Berwick, the Earl of Middleton, James’s chaplains and other servants set out at seven o’clock in the evening to take it to the church of the English Benedictine monks in Paris. The country people stood silent, and crossed themselves as the cortege passed. When it arrived in Paris, Dr. Ingleton, Almoner to the Queen, delivered the body with an elegant Latin oration to the Prior, to lie in a side chapel “until it pleased God to dispose the people of England to repair in some measure the injuries they did him in his life by the honours they shall think fit to show him after death.”

  ‘In the parish church of Saint-Germain, across the square from the great bulk of the chateau, is a splendid memorial to him:

  In This Church Lies

  JAMES II

  King of England

  Born in London

  in 1633

  King in 1685

  Dethroned in 1688

  Welcomed

  in France by Louis XIV

  He held his Court in the

  Castle of St. Germain en Laye

  Where he died on the 16 of September

  1701

  ‘His body is not there. Like so many other things it disappeared during the Revolution.’

  James II Jock Haswell. 1972.

  Herewith, some (small) measure …

  THE FAIRIES’ FAREWELL

  Bishop Richard Corbet 1582 – 1635.

  (Extract)

  Lament, lament, old abbeys;

  The fairies lost command.

  They did but change priests’ babies

  But some have changed your land:

  And all your children stol’n from thence

  Are now grown puritans,

  Who live as changelings ever since

  for love of your domains.

  Witness those rings and roundelays

  of theirs, which yet remain

  were footed in Queen Mary’s days

  On many a grassy plain;

  But since of late Elizabeth

  And later, James, came in

  They never danced on any heath

  As when the time hath been.

  By which we note the fairies

  were of the old profession;

  Their songs were Ave Marias,

  Their dances were procession.

  But now, alas! They all are dead

  Or gone beyond the seas,

  Or farther for religion fled

  Or else they take their ease …

  THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1685

  The army was strung out in a column over a mile long, all the way from the Bridgwater road to right past Peasey Farm. Two abreast, they struggled along in the dark and damp, ignorant of everything bar the back of the man ahead. The Duke had ordered that ‘whosoever made a noise should be knocked dead by his neighbour’ and contrary to every expectation, the great silence was kept.

  For all that it was July and supposedly summer, a ground mist arose to assist their secret progress and hopes rose with it. The God-given guide seemed to know his way through this maze of brimful ditches, out into the squelching marsh. The house of the government supporter in Bradney Lane was circumvented. No alarm was called, no shot rang out. Soon enough they would be at the Langmoor Stone, which marked the upper plungeon across Bussex Rhine. Then the way would be clear to a surpassing victory. Muskets and pikes and mounted scythe-blades
were clutched all the more closely. After all the years of sullen endurance and turning the cheek, they would assuredly be put to good use. In the mighty camp at Zog-by-Zoyland, the Royal forces continued their negligent sleep.

  The soldiers of God did not pass entirely unobserved. In purportedly loyal Chedzoy, two men of the village watch stood and quietly observed the long column parade past into Bradney Lane. Strangely enough, it didn’t occur to them to discharge a warning blast or hot-foot it to the King’s Camp. Instead, ‘out of country dullness and slowness’ (in the later, charitable, explanation of their Rector) they just strolled off and made themselves comfortable in a nearby windmill. When dawn came and the mist rose, they’d have a grandstand view of the fight to come.

  A young Bridgwater lady, more zealous in his Majesty’s cause, had stolen out of the town when the rebels were standing to arms in Castle Field, and hastened to Zog, to warn the Royal Army of impending doom. Unfortunately, the men-in-arms she met had learned their manners in Scotland and Tangiers and were inflamed with Zoyland cider. Brutally dishonoured, she fled in anger and tears, her message undelivered, leaving her ravishers to death in this world and damnation in the next.

  Before the rebels marched, their foremost minister, Robert ‘the Plotter’ Ferguson, had preached to them from Joshua, 22, challenging God to turn his face against them that day if their cause was not truly his also. His angry Scottish tones ensured the meaning was largely lost on the West-country audience but the Almighty presumably heard. So far the Presbyterian’s rash request had gone unrebuked. On the contrary, his blackmailing of the Infinite was meeting with miraculous success.

  On the opposing side, Lieutenant Colonel Theophilus Oglethorpe, attached to the Royal Regiment of Horse, the ‘Blues’, likewise believed in miracles. It was implausible, he granted, that an army of 5000 should promenade at night, undetected – but not impossible. Moreover, their ‘king’ and general, The Duke of Monmouth, wasn’t averse to asking favours of Lady Luck – and gaining them by his audacious charm. Thus, for all that it was chill and inhospitable, and the hour of the soul’s lowest ebb, Oglethorpe decreed that the intricate dance of the Royal scouts round the rebels must continue. The troopers of the Blues, dreaming of firesides – and other warm spots – in London, were reluctant to comply. Oglethorpe pretended not to notice; once out and about they’d soon rekindle some enthusiasm. Dozing and saucy dreams were better, but there was still a measure of fun to be had in hounding nonconformists.

  At his station up on Knowle Hill, that last outcrop of the Poldens, at rest on the old Roman road which crossed it, Theophilus had been tempted to kindly thoughts. Back at Westbrook House, far away in Surrey, his children would be abed and he wondered what they dreamed of. A curiously clear picture of his home hovered before him, blotting out the weirder landscape below. He saw the River Wey, heading leisurely to the Thames, and the valley-confined streets of industrial Godalming. The Lieutenant Colonel missed those familiar sights more than a man bred to arms sensibly should. The next step would be to consider if he would ever return; an unhelpful meditation for a soldier on the brink of battle. He harshly willed the vision to be gone.

  The real view spread before him was less endearing. Out of the moonlit sea of mist rose the steeple of Bawdrip and the Towers of Chedzoy and Westonzoyland Churches. Of the watery world between nothing was visible. Somewhere down there was an insurgent army hell-bent on the overturning of order – and the ending of his own tiny story, given the chance. He had clashed with them once before, at Keynsham, and had the better of it on that occasion. Now it was time to put away soft considerations and bring matters to a final trial of strength. Once, not so long ago, he had fought alongside the Duke, in Scotland and the Low Countries; they had been friends, insofar as men of blood ever are. Now his vaunting ambitions threatened Theophilus with seeing Westbrook no more – not to mention more universal ruin. Their paths, once parallel, had parted and now converged only to collide. It was sad – but the Duke of Monmouth had to go.

  Lieutenant Colonel Oglethorpe also had to go: not to the executioner’s block and thence to Hell, but down into the white sea below Bawdrip. It was his duty to hazard the Bridgwater ‘Long Causey’ road and see what went on at the end of it. Feversham and Churchill feared the rebels might flit away by night for another try at Bristol, thereby to prolong the agony. Theophilus was thus minded to rouse them up and pin them down, ensuring a speedier return to Godalming. At his command, the two hundred Blues mounted up and jangled down the hill, along what passed for a road hereabouts, towards Bridgwater.

  Ever after, History held Oglethorpe to account for strange inattention. How was it, later scholars not unreasonably asked, that he did not detect the rebels had quit the town? 5000 insurgents were not the sort of thing you easily overlooked. ‘Anything else to report?’ ‘Oh, yes, I nearly forgot. There’s 5000 maniacs on their way here to slit our throats as we sleep.’ Did it not occur to him, ask the omni-competent commentators, to check that enemy were safely tucked up in their Bridgwater beds? Must not, at one point, the whole rebel army have passed below his position? The night march of the rebels under Oglethorpe’s nose was the one great unsolved mystery of Sedgemoor.

  The Lieutenant Colonel was never able to defend his good name with the truth. Fortunately he more than made amends later in the day and so didn’t have to. It would have been but a poor defence in a court martial to plead prior, pressing, business with a ghost.

  The King of Logres came floating out of the mist he had created, his rotting boots skimming over, but not touching, the soil of his realm.

  ‘Stand, in the name of the King!’ he said. The commanding voice sounded not from the regal body, but from some vast and echoing place far away.

  Oglethorpe had gone ahead with four good troopers. Each obeyed directly, despite their advantage in numbers – and their mounts likewise. Men and beasts were frozen, mid-canter; suspended in fluid poses of motion. Theophilus noted their blank, unknowing expressions and saw that the stars had ceased to twinkle. The hooves of the main body following on were heard no more.

  Only partly pleased by exemption from the cessation of time, he wheeled his own horse to meet the King. The animal first shied away and then was overcome. It went down on one front knee and made obeisance. Gravity and dignity obliged Oglethorpe to dismount.

  The King held out his armoured hand.

  ‘Will you not also do homage?’ he hissed, so very reasonably. The Lieutenant Colonel did not approach.

  ‘I know you can speak,’ he persevered. ‘My spell did not include you. Speak words to your King.’

  Theophilus did not demean himself by reaching for sword or pistol. He knew that they were vain tools in present circumstances. Integrity was his best remaining weapon.

  ‘I cannot address my King,’ he said, quietly. ‘He is not here.’

  The great figure hovering before him tilted its head, the better to catch the Lieutenant Colonel’s speech. It listened, and then the vast helm of iron shook slowly from side to side.

  ‘Such … sadness …’ said the voice from elsewhere.

  Courage begat more courage, and therein Theophilus found the strength to burn his bridges.

  ‘My King is James, not Arthur,’ he stated calmly. ‘I will not betray him as you have me.’

  Deep in the shadowy depths of the King’s helmet, leathery flesh was drawn back to manufacture a smile.

  ‘Mortal man: he comes … and then is gone. His word is like unto his life: mere painting on water.’

  Oglethorpe leant on his horse, desperate for contact with any real, truly living, thing. He found that it was trembling. The Lieutenant Colonel was often mocked (behind his back) for soft-heartedness towards the lesser creatures of God. Even friends accused him of compassion to an almost feminine degree. Today however, his weakness stood him in good stead. Pity for the poor beast gave him fresh resolve.

  ‘I have read a different text,’ he said stoutly. ‘I know that my redeemer liveth.’r />
  Again the royal head rocked, in disappointment and disbelief.

  ‘Hath not childhood ended yet?’ he asked. King Arthur’s reply was more in sorrow than in anger. ‘You have something of mine. I shall ask it of you again – once more: later this very day. By then you will have grounds for a wiser reply.’

  Happy not to be just … swept away forthwith, Theophilus did not answer. He had done enough to merely stand his ground and save his soul.

  The King looked about, taking in the frozen troopers.

  ‘These,’ he said, ‘might now have tales inconvenient for you. I am kind and slow to anger. They will die today.’

  Before Oglethorpe could protest, Arthur swept up his arm and a beam of light detached itself from each soldier. What was sent forth departed reluctantly, torn from its shell of flesh with a scream, before rocketing up into heaven. Theophilus tried to avert his eyes but could not. He saw in every glowing shape the frightened face of its owner. The troopers’ souls were not prepared for judgement and they were afraid.

  ‘A new day is dawning,’ said King Arthur – and it was. Hours of Oglethorpe’s allotted span had been stolen.

  The Guardsmen, who’d lost much more but did not know it, looked in puzzlement at their commander. Why was it suddenly light and why did they feel so … forlorn?

  The King was gone. In his place was a distant sound of cannon and combat.

  The Reverend Stephen Toogood had a spring in his step – or at least he would have had but for the quagmire beneath his boots. The Lord constantly led him into the desolate places of the Earth but he did not begrudge it. On the contrary, he hoped for eternal reward for his cheerful treading of God-forsaken places. Wading through the freezing waters of the Langmoor Rhine, he had forced himself to thank the Almighty for so putting him to the test.

  The Reverend’s pious fortitude was strengthened by there being some immediate point to his travails. King Monmouth was, under God, leading them to victory. The fires of the Royal camp at Zog were now less than a mile away. But for the tramp of men and their laboured breathing, all was quiet and their progress remained secret. The Lord had blessed their unbelievable march in the dark, watching over them as he had the soldiers of Gideon. Meanwhile, the warriors of Babylon slept on, spending their last night before the everlasting flames, deep in the arms of Morpheus.