Adventures in Time Travel: Deeper Undercover (part one)
The urgent text message arrived while I was at the Little Princes and Princesses Nursery, towards the close of what had been rather a difficult interview.
Mrs Kensington, who ran Little Princes and Princesses, hadn’t called it an interview. She’d called it a ‘chat.’
“Miss Moppet, you understand that we want to keep Oscar. But you must also understand that he is a difficult child.”
“You mean – the temper tantrums?”
“To a certain extent, that’s to be expected. They don’t call it the terrible twos for nothing, do they?” She laughed. I didn’t.
“It’s more his attitude towards the other children,” she continued. “He insists that he is ‘the king of the castle’ and that they are ‘the dirty rascals.’ He refuses to let anyone else play with his toys. He takes toys from others and if we ask him to give them back he says, ‘I took it so it’s mine.’”
“Not very good at sharing,” I murmured.
“Quite,” she said briskly. “And there’s more. Oscar is hardly what you’d call a biddable child. In fact, if he is thwarted in any way whatsoever, he throws himself on the floor and screams until he passes out. Perhaps he’s better at home?”
“Not really,” I said.
“Miss Moppet, we want to work with you and Oscar to model appropriate behaviour. When I say ‘we’ I include our counsellor. It would help her to know a little more about your circumstances. Does Oscar have any contact with his father at all?”
I sighed. “Oscar’s father – doesn’t know about him. I thought it best. You see, his father’s way of life is… somewhat unorthodox.”
“Even so – “
“Look,” I said. “Sieges, murders, executions, hostage-taking – that’s all in a day’s work for Oscar’s father. It’s not the ideal environment for an impressionable child.”
“Oh! Dear me. Well, perhaps if we make an appointment with the counsellor…”
That’s when the text message came through.
‘NEED 2CU ASAP @BP,’ it read, ‘RE: PROJECT MATILDA.’
“I’m awfully sorry,” I said. “Do make the appointment by all means. I have to go, I’ve got to be somewhere else.”
“Oh, somewhere interesting I hope!”
“Buckingham Palace,” I said, and I let her think I was joking.
***
Normally I enjoyed my chats with my Palace contact, the Hon. Simon Debrett-Burke. But today even the scent of Earl Grey rising from the silver teapot and the selection of Duchy Originals biscuits couldn’t lighten my mood. I tried to sound calm as I asked, “Is there a problem with Matilda?”
(I hoped to God they hadn’t overpaid me or something, because I’d already spent quite a bit of the fee. The Sister Agnes Maternity Clinic hadn’t come cheap – even with the Royal Household discount – and neither did Little Princes and Princesses.)
“Not with Matilda as such, no,” said Debrett-Burke. “The Client was extremely pleased as you know. No, the problem, Ms. Moppet, concerns the – shall we say – fallout from Matilda – God damn you, you little devil, how did you get in here?”
For a second I thought Oscar must have followed me somehow. But there was a corgi ripping at Debrett-Burke’s trouser leg. He ejected it from the room and continued:
“Yes. Well. Of course, for you personally Project Matilda had some unforeseen consequences.”
“If you mean Oscar, I know it looks careless. But there’s a difference of ten days between the Gregorian and Julian calendars – I got a bit confused and, well – “
“Of course, of course. We’re not questioning your professionalism. Far from it. I was just wondering. Has Oscar had any contact with his father?”
Not this again.
“His father,” I said, “has the lifestyle and moral code of a Colombian drug lord. I do not want Oscar exposed to that. And in any case, I can’t go anywhere near the Angevin court until Prince John is safely dead. He won’t have forgotten that I stuck him with that fake crown. If I did try to see him, I might not have time to explain who Oscar was before he slit my throat.”
“So Prince John has no idea that Oscar exists?”
“None.”
“In that case, I’m confused,” he said. “I had the impression that he did.”
“Why?”
“Because after he became king, he granted his son Oscar Fitzroy lands in Hexhamshire, Cumberland, County Durham and,” he opened his Smythson jotter, “Yorkshire.”
“Oh, that’s just a coincidence,” I said. “John had plenty of illegitimate children. Why shouldn’t another one of them have been called Oscar?”
“That’s what the Genealogist Royal thought,” said Debrett-Burke. “Until last week. The GR was sniffing around the records of an abbey this Oscar Fitzroy founded, and he tells me the charter clearly states that Oscar founded the abbey so that the monks could pray for the souls of himself, his father, King John, and his mother, Lady Moppet of Yorkshire.”
“Oh God, no,” I groaned.
“I’m afraid so. It looks as if, for whatever reason, you decided that Oscar would be best off with his father.”
“But I didn’t.”
“But the historical record says you did. So you have to. That’s been agreed at the very highest level. If you refuse to hand Oscar over to his father you could change history. The GR has got in touch with someone who’s doing her PhD on him – turns out he was a major northern baron and had a much more important role to play in the Second Barons’ War than anyone supposed. You wouldn’t want to deny him that, would you?”
He paused to take a sip of Earl Grey.
“The Client,” he said,” is concerned. So are MI5, but that’s by the way. You see, without Oscar’s intervention in the Second Baron’s War his half-brother, Henry III, might not have kept his throne. It was thought that Oscar was always on the royalist side; now it seems he changed sides at the last moment and threw his forces – which were considerable – behind the King. If he hadn’t…”
“The King might not have won,” I said. “Meaning…the Royal Family wouldn’t now be the Royal Family.”
“Exactly,” said Debrett-Burke. “As I said, the Client is concerned. She doesn’t want to wake up and find that she no longer exists – or, worse, that she does exist but she’s living on a sink estate in the North of England. She is very anxious that Oscar join his father just as soon as can be.”
“Well, that’s all very well and good,” I said, “but I’m Oscar’s mother and I’ll decide what’s best for him.”
“Of course, of course. You needn’t decide anything here and now. What about taking him back to the past for a brief visit so that John can meet the little chap and you can inspect the childcare facilities for yourself? You said yourself Oscar wasn’t getting on well at Little P&P. You might find that a change of regime is just the thing for him.”
***
I’d had to sedate Oscar for the time travel, the way you do cats on aeroplanes. So I had to carry him across the drawbridge of Marlborough Castle. He was feeling very heavy by the time I spoke to the guard.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m an – old friend of King John and this is his son. If you could – “
“Yeah. Into the bailey, man by the well, man with a clipboard, he’ll show you where to go.”
“Um. If you could actually send a message to the King. This is his son – “
“Yeah. Man with a clipboard? By the well in the centre? He’ll show you where to go. Yes, love,” to a woman behind me.
I stalked into the bailey, where I had to wait while the clipboard man talked to a girl who was breastfeeding her baby.
“I’m Daisy the milkmaid,” she said shyly. “The King told me that if ever he came into his own – “
“Yes, my dear. Join the queue over there. And don’t forget to claim your jug of ale and loaf of bread as you pass the kitchens.”
She went off to join a queue of loudly chattering women, all with babies or small children. Slightly disconcerted, I stepped forward.
“Hello. I’m one of the King’s old friends and this is our child, so if you wouldn’t mind – “
“Plebeian or noble?” asked the man.
“Noble.”
“Sure?”
I realised that since I had no escort and was actually carrying my own child, this seemed unlikely.
“I am Lady Moppet of Yorkshire,” I said haughtily. “My servants were killed by a freak lightning strike just outside Ogbourne Maizey. It’s made things rather difficult for myself and my son and your sarcasm certainly isn’t helping matters.”
“So sorry, Lady Moppet. Please, step this way.”
A large reception room had been set aside for the noble mothers. It was fairly quiet apart from the crackling of the fire. There was a murmur of conversation from some little knots, and occasionally a louder exclamation: “Oh, then we’re fifth cousins!” or, “Barking, that’s where my sister took her vows,” but most of the mothers only spoke to their offspring. Whenever anyone said, “John, sit still!” or “Don’t do that, Joanna, please,” most of the children in the vicinity turned their heads. A maidservant was serving hot wine and little cakes. Then two clerks came in and began distributing forms entitled: ROYAL NURSERIES: REGISTRATION FORM FOR 1200 ENTRY. There was a note underneath:
All registered children will be accepted into the Royal Nurseries for one week pending our application process. At the end of this time those mothers whose children cannot be offered a place will be notified when and where to collect their child. In order to avoid any case of mistaken identity, please (a) attach a token to your child or its clothing by which it can be recognised (b) fill out the form as fully as you can. Thank you.
Late applications can be considered.
I was in luck. Of course, now that John was king all his ex-mistresses were turning over their children to him to bring up. Well, if there were so many that they had to fill out application forms, my request could slip in unnoticed among the rest.
I faked a date of birth for Oscar and told the truth about everything else. Until I came to this:
The Royal Nurseries guarantee a place for every child born of the lord King’s body. We therefore ask you to state as completely as you can the circumstances of your child’s conception in addition to any subsequent relationship, romantic and/or financial, with the lord King. Thank you.
This was more tricky. I could hardly put, ‘One night stand following plot to steal a crown, Christmas 1184.’ If I’d stayed in the past my child would have been born in September of the following year and would now be a teenager. Finally I wrote:
‘Met the lord King at my castle in Normandy when he came to inquire re: overdue rent. Sorry cannot provide more details about the evening as both became somewhat intoxicated during the course of it.’
Finally there was a large circle with below it AFFIX SEAL HERE and in very small writing:
By affixing this seal I confirm that all information provided is true and complete to the best of my knowledge and agree to pay a non-refundable registration fee of twenty-five marks to be received by the Treasury not later than the first of January, 1201. An interest charge of two pennies will accrue for each subsequent day. Anyone found to have supplied false information will incur a surcharge of fifty marks for wasting the lord King’s time.
And underneath that it said in even smaller writing:
With my seal affixed above I do hereby assign grant transfer and convey my above named child to the care guardianship and trust of John of England to whom I resign release bequeath bequest and forever unconditionally discharge any and all parental rights and interests in the person and property of the above named child.
It seemed a bit…final.
All the other women were messing about with candles and sticks of sealing wax. I decided to leave off the seal and see what happened.
What happened was that not long after the forms had been collected one of the clerks reappeared.
“Lady Moppet of Yorkshire? Is there a Lady Moppet…?”
Five minutes later I found myself in the presence of the King of England.
***
