The Royal Changeling Read online

  ‘The spell is almost impenetrable,’ answered the Ambassador, still walking and with a smile, ‘but not quite. Though not to be overthrown, vast sacrifice prises the door ajar to permit a glimpse. Our coming here will be the death of me but it is worth it.’

  The humans stopped in their tracks and the Elf, surprised, paused with them.

  ‘Literally?’ asked Charles.

  ‘Of course,’ said the Elf, puzzled by their puzzlement. ‘My race rarely joke. The price of this outing is my remaining millennia. A score of my brothers and sisters are likewise surrendered to dark forces to bring you here safely.’

  They thought about it and, alas, it was Oglethorpe’s more forward, less discriminating, mind that framed words first.

  ‘Thanks very much,’ he said, briskly. Both King and Duke grimaced at him.

  ‘It was nothing,’ replied the Ambassador, courteously taking the hobnailed gratitude at face value. ‘If I thought you could hear it and live on I’d speak of the tally paid to set this place up.’

  They followed the line of his hand and perceived for the first time that the altars were thickly coated in something dark. It was not so even-textured as paint and in a few, very few, places the white stone beneath peeped through. Patterns of flow could be observed, minor rivers and streams, ending in long dried pools of purply-black. The very walls and ceiling of the hall-cum-sepulchre, both suspiciously ruddy, now took on a sinister aspect. The men were glad to pursue him when the Ambassador moved on.

  At last, hundreds of paces along, they came to the King-in-glory, set high up on a titanic cube of marble. Even lying supine, they saw he had been a giant and proportionally built. A simple, undecorated, iron crown bit into his skull, increasing his stature to rival Goliath’s.

  The humans didn’t dare to speak but they could still point.

  ‘The bones?’ queried their guide, the sound of his voice causing them to flinch. ‘I mentioned those. Sacrifices. Children mostly.’

  They hadn’t meant the shattered skulls piled at the base of the stone. ‘There’s words,’ hissed Charles, indicating the marble itself.

  They were arranged in that curious, cruciform style seen before and sight of them finally twisted the key of memory in Theophilus’s mind. Recollection surfaced like a whale. That shape, that message – in scaled-down guise – had adorned the neck of Master Boson from Kernow, the night, two decades ago, when Monmouth repelled Pelling, the emissary of the Elves. He didn’t doubt, now enlightenment dawned, that enquiry would have revealed the same about the persons of the Celtic rabble beside Broadwater Lake. This was the fountainhead and founding statement of a widespread fraternity.

  ‘That’s right,’ said the Ambassador, either to Charles or to Oglethorpe’s thoughts – and at alarmingly normal volume, ‘words of power: that’s why they glow. “ANOETH BID BET Y ARTHUR” The language is lost but it could be rendered: “CONCEALED TILL THE FINAL DAY, THE RESTING PLACE OF ARTHUR”.’ He let this sink in awhile before applying the coup de grace.

  ‘So, gentlemen,’ the Elf said, waving them forward like an impresario presenting a turn, ‘as was once said in another context: “behold the man”!’

  To their horror, he then snatched up a long-bone and rapped it upon the blood-dappled bier. ‘A-hem,’ he coughed.

  King Arthur slowly turned his head. The flesh fragments joining it to his body creaked and protested but complied. They then saw that though his eyes were long gone a light still burned in their sockets.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ said the Ambassador, at his most courtly, to Charles. ‘May I present to you: His Majesty.’

  The two Kings looked at one another, neither happy with the sight. It lasted only a second. Thereafter, Arthur only had eyes for Oglethorpe – or at least something he carried.

  ‘Mine,’ he said, a voice from a million miles away and yet hurrying to be amongst them. One withered claw sought to reach out towards the sword. ‘Mine!’

  Theophilus backed away.

  ‘No point,’ observed the Ambassador, politely chiding him – and gloating at the same time. ‘He knows now. There’s no way back!’

  A sound like the lament of souls in purgatory came from behind, a caterwauling powered by long-brewed anger and frustration. The undead warriors were turned towards them, and feebly attempting to rise. Their bony limbs flailed at the still air, grating against armour and rending rotten fabrics, stretching impotently forth to beseech and threaten.

  ‘They are stirring,’ said the Elf-King, rather redundantly. ‘Agreed?’

  Charles, James and Theophilus were in no position to refute his opinions. Yet he awaited their reply, calm and more alien than ever amidst the hellish chorus. They hastily affirmed.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  They certainly were.

  ‘Good.’ The Ambassador nodded grave approval as Arthur loomed, huge and horrible over his left shoulder. Only then would he relent to save them – and contradict himself – and show a way back.

  ‘I know where this is,’ said King Charles, wildly grateful just to be free. ‘I’ve been here.’

  ‘L-likewise,’ confirmed the Duke of York. ‘It’s Glastonbury. There’s the ruined Abbey.’

  ‘Ynys-witrin, the “Isle of Glass” as your first ancestors termed it,’ agreed the Ambassador. ‘And were perceptive in so doing. It was once a means of glimpsing somewhere else. We’ve arrived on Wearyall Hill,’ he added, making himself elegantly at ease on the springy turf, ‘where once grew St. Joseph’s Thorn. Over there is the Tor from whence we came.’

  That killed conversation as they looked at that conical eminence, surmounted by St. Michael’s Tower. They’d left not a moment too soon. The Elf had relinquished the power permitting their trespass, and the scene had suddenly changed. They’d thought to find themselves back at Windsor but this sunny hilltop was just as welcome. Compared to beneath the Tor, a dunghill in Dundee would have been paradise itself.

  The Ambassador failed to share in their unease. He was catlike in his focus on the present moment alone; content now to play at tourist-guide.

  ‘Do not look for the Thorn,’ he informed them. ‘Your Puritans took exception to the pleasure it gave, and chopped it down in the Civil War times; thereby severing roots they could not suspect. It was once a fine sight: Crataegus oxyacantha praecox: a Syrian breed – rather like your religion that claimed it. We who were here before called it an Yggdrasil Tree and knew it bound Earth to the realms above. Still,’ he conceded reasonably, ‘it was good of your Jesus and his Uncle to bless it when they came here. They were charming people.’

  Then he faltered, forcing them to pay fresh attention to him. The Ambassador now looked drawn, insofar as it was possible for his kind to descend from perfection. His companions realised that it was not just languor that drew him to the ground.

  ‘That is right,’ he answered their unspoken queries. ‘My time is short and strength diminished. I regret you must make your own way to London; I cannot reach there. It also seemed … apt to finish at “Weary-all”.’

  ‘You appear unconcerned,’ said the Duke, frowning down at him. ‘Are you so c-certain of s-salvation?’

  ‘Sure of its irrelevance,’ replied the Elf, shocking James. ‘We are barred from Heaven – and the other place. My story just ends. What more solace is needed?’

  The Duke had an answer to that but was Christian enough to see this wasn’t the time or place.

  ‘There are a few other things,’ the Ambassador went on, lying back, his hands crossed behind his head, ‘before I go. Mere odds and ends. It’s tedious but I must be thorough. Listen: Arthur may lie in Avalon but he fell at Camlann. He left his sword there and this man … found it.’

  The King and the Duke looked at Oglethorpe but met a blank wall of wilful innocence.

  ‘That was our doing and choice – besides being amusing. It is more than a blade to Arthur and he will seek it. Don’t oblige him. And what else is there …? Oh yes, we once had a pet called … Nostradim, I thin
k that was its name – or something similar. He scribbled down things he overheard. Book 6, number 22 might amuse you. Also you’ll have to track down the Armes Prydain. Raid Monmouth’s house in Soho; there’s bound to be a copy there.’

  Again he stumbled and had to pause to revive.

  ‘That will do,’ he said, perhaps to himself. ‘I have done what I can.’ The Ambassador looked up, to check they were attending. ‘You are equipped to attend the High-Moot,’ he told them, as though presenting a prize.

  It was not like Charles to be pedestrian but he failed to restrain himself in this instance.

  ‘What is the “High M …”?’

  No,’ commanded the Elf, lost now in a study of the sky. ‘My business is concluded. Enough.’

  And so they were silent, honouring his occasion. They sat cross-legged beside him, three respectful Englishmen, providing quiet company for the departure of a King.

  A strong wind blew up, streaming back their hair and causing the grass to dance. Black clouds raced to intrude on the sunshine. The Ambassador sighed.

  ‘It is time for my last song,’ he mused, ‘so what can I say? I’ve learnt that both sky and time are infinite – and that is very beautiful. It would be good to see more but I have lived, and touched the universe, and that also suffices. I thus declare that nothing is true and everything is permissible!’

  The Duke of York tutted disapproval.

  Exquisitely courteous, even at the end of things, the Elf-King regretted giving offence. He raised himself, in evident pain, on one elbow.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, the effort making him wince. ‘I realise that is not to your tastes. I shall think of something else. Forgive me.’

  James happily did so, though aware absolution could not avail the soulless.

  The Elf settled back and smiled once more. He looked wickedly at the surrounding humans.

  ‘How about,’ he said, ‘“It is done”.’

  That was his second scriptural borrowing of the day. The oval eyes then closed for the last time and he faded into the turf.

  It was akin to the melting of ice, although his substance flowed more like molten gold. For a second the ground around was gilded and shone more glorious than a treasury, and then he was gone, streaming down into the earth from which he came. There were no remains or memorial to say he’d ever been, save that the grass where he’d lain now grew more verdant and lush. His last words echoed awhile and ascended the sky, but weakened and died as he had, falling far short of Heaven.

  THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1684

  … The warriors will scatter the foreigners as far as Caer weir [Durham]

  They will rejoice after the devastation,

  And there will be concord between the Cymry and the men of Dublin,

  The Gaels of Ireland and Anglesey and Pictland, the men of Cornwall and

  of Strathclyde will be made welcome among us,

  The Britons will rise again …

  They will ask the Saxons what they wanted,

  What right they have to the land they hold,

  Where are the lands from which they set out,

  Where are the kinsfolk, from what country, are they come?

  Let them begone as exiles

  Ere the Welsh are stripped of their land …

  There will be widows and riderless horses,

  There will be woeful wailing before the rush of the warriors,

  And many a wounded hand before the scattering of armies

  The messengers of death will gather

  When corpses stand one by another …

  For the English there will be no returning.

  The Gaels will return to their comrades.

  The Welsh will arise in a mighty fellowship,

  Armies around the ale, and a throng of warriors,

  And chosen Kings who kept their faith …

  The English race will be called warriors no more,

  But bondsmen of Cadwaladr and his hucksters …

  From the Armes Prydein Vawr: The Great Prophecgy of Britain. Written circa 930 AD, probably by a southern-Cymric monk, on the occasion of the High King, Athelstan of Wessex, Rex Angul-Sexna and Northhymbra Imperator Paganorum Gubernator Brittanorumque Propugnator, extorting tribute from Wales, after harrying Scotland, by land and sea, as far north as Caithness.

  ‘In the land of the great heavenly temple a nephew at London is murdered through a false peace’

  Nostradamus. The Centuries, Book VI, number 22.

  ‘I’m waiting …’ Ellen moved the fizzing taper closer to the fuse. ‘My patience is wearing thin …’

  By contrast, those she addressed – whoever they might be – appeared possessed of boundless restraint. Her threats provoked no response.

  At the time it had seemed a promising idea, the lusty bastard child of desperation. When the Elf creature visited Westbrook that day, Ellen had covertly observed his respectful bow to the ancient yew before joining Theophilus on the bench. It was evidence of some attachment between the two and thus something she might work upon.

  ‘Mebbe thousands of years’, Grimes the gardener had told her. ‘Man’s like a mayfly compared to father yew. Why jew arsk?’

  He’d got an answer to that in being told to bury a brandy-barrel of black-powder around the tree’s base. There was a near mutiny amongst the outdoor staff at such wantonness but Ellen was equal to quelling it. Spartacus himself would have risen in vain against Madame Oglethorpe’s regime. Grimes in particular had gone purple and supplied his considered opinion in thankfully opaque Surrey-Saxon terms. In return she’d been indulgent and dismissed no one, merely boxing a few ears. Their insolence sprang from the purest of sources and the resultant torrent could thus be forgiven. Besides, there ought to be no need to actually carry out the deed.

  ‘Last chance. Tell me all or else!’

  There was also the matter of the ruin. Several times she and Theophilus had wondered how so age-old a tree might have what looked like a wall incorporated within its very trunk. Previously they’d doubted any structure could have predated the yew and put it down to a freak of nature. Now Ellen was less sure. Whilst tumbled and moss-rotted the blocks of stone had been most delicately, precisely, laid, though cyclopean enough to defend a city. The few surviving yards above ground also suggested far longer spans in the silence below. In short, there were all the signs. If it was some relic of theirs they might be eager to preserve it.

  Ellen had anticipated trouble in procuring such a quantity of gunpowder, especially in these troubled times, but was pleasantly surprised. In the event, no one, from Godalming supplier to Chilworth producer, expressed suspicions or thought it strange.

  ‘A gift for your husband I take it, Madame,’ was the only comment – and she found it instructive.

  ‘Right, I’ll count to five and then …’

  All Ellen wanted to know was the same story told to Theophilus. Surely that was only a courtesy and not too much to ask. If he would not impart it then someone else must, even at the cost of some prompting.

  There was no reply, no sudden granting of enlightenment.

  ‘It’ll be your loss. I’m not demanding the moon.’

  Apparently she was. Ellen continued to address only empty air. Her hand hovered over the powder trail.

  ‘1 … 2 … 3 … 4 … I’m serious … 5!’

  She couldn’t do it. Perhaps she was just haranguing a silence, threatening nemesis to a blameless tree and appearing ridiculous. A sigh of relief rose from the watching gardening staff gathered out of earshot to witness the cruel execution.

  Ellen spat on the taper and swung away, leaving savage footprints on the turf. She didn’t like being faced down.

  Come to that, she didn’t like being face down either. However, that’s where Mrs Oglethorpe found herself after the explosion. A humid giant’s breath flung her to the ground, acquainting her face with the springy, scented grass. In passing, the powder-gale also shredded Ellen’s skirts and blew the ribboned remnants
round her waist, granting the gardeners a compensatory eye-full. It was a pleasing side – amongst other places – of the mistress not seen before and, lost in contemplation of these hills and valleys of delight, they forgot to bemoan the murdered yew.

  Stone and soil and splinters rained down on Ellen and a lancing pain in one nether-cheek convinced her she’d been struck. However, this proved not to be the tree’s revenge – or not directly so – for the cause of the white-hot discomfort buzzed round to her face to admit liability.

  Ellen had been stung by wasps before but never by one with an Elven visage. It flitted before her nose and smiled at her.

  ‘We are not put to the test,’ it chittered. ‘Nor swayed by fondness of mere earthly things.’

  ‘But …’ wailed Ellen. ‘Who …?’

  ‘Our Yggdrasil tree and last remnant of our capital is gone. We are saddened: but only a little, only for a while. We do not allow the material to bind us.’

  ‘I just wanted …’ said Ellen, scrambling to her knees and strewing off a layer of dirt and bark and leaves. It was hard to express oneself properly whilst grovelling and clutching an agonised backside.

  ‘As always in your life,’ the insect-elf interrupted, still smiling, ‘what you want you shall have. The knowledge is yours. It is injected along with my sting, for they share the same properties. Likewise they both leave a permanent mark.’

  Then the wasp-toxin hit Ellen’s bloodstream – with understanding riding pillion. In an instant she knew all that Theophilus knew – but was not made glad. She was afflicted with two types of poison.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ she told the wasp.

  It flipped and spiralled in celebration of insectoid mobility.

  ‘There are more tears over answered prayers …’ quipped the altered Elven voice.

  Ellen tried to swat it but the creature laughingly evaded her and streaked away into the wide blue sky.

  ‘Tally Ho!’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Charles, frowning in disbelief.