Back at Marlborough. Very very upset.
John is calling me through the door.
“Moppet Moppet Moppet!”
He is calling me like a cat.
I will not respond.
I’ve had it with the man this time. Yes, I know I’m always saying that but this time I really mean it!
“Moppet! Don’t make me come in there!”
I’ve just told him to go away and that I hate him.
“That hurts, Moppet.”
Yes. Well. I’d better go back to when Oscar was puking all over the library floor. Hodierna swept him off to clean him up. I was about to go back to my emails when I saw, or rather heard, someone I recognised: Sir Gloucester Debrett-Burke.
“Tally ho!” he was roaring into his mobile phone. “Keep hunting!”
“Hello, Sir Gloucester. How are you?”
“Tolerable, tolerable. Just been on the blower to an MP friend of mine. Supports repealing the hunting ban.”
“But no-one takes much notice of it, anyway.”
“It’s the principle, Moppet. Fox-hunting is the most basic of English privileges. It’s in Magna Carta, you know.”
“No, it’s not,” I said.
“It’s not?” He was horrified.
“Well, there’s plenty about forests, but I don’t recall a clause specifically about fox-hunting.”
Hodierna stumped back into the room, carrying Oscar. She made a little bob to Sir Gloucester, who nodded to her approvingly.
“Oscar’s got his colour back,” I said.
“Oh aye. Better out than in, my lady.”
“Best thing for young ‘uns when they’re feeling a bit queasy,” said Sir Gloucester, “ is a shot of whisky. Works every time.”
“I’ll remember that. Well, I must be going. I’m having tea with Simon and his new girlfriend. Have you met her?”
A glazed look came into his eyes.
“She’s got eyes like a dragon’s.”
God, he’s really lost it, I thought. Hope he’s not getting out too much these days.
Sir Gloucester kindly saw us to a taxi and held an umbrella over our heads as we got in. Rain was pelting down and thunder was growling in the distance. It seemed to get louder as we headed towards Buckingham Palace.
To make matters worse, Oscar decided to start howling for no reason. I promised him Maltesers; Hodierna told him that when the wind changed his face would stay like that. In vain. He would not shut up.
Until we hauled him bodily into Simon’s sitting-room, that is. Then he fell silent so abruptly that I checked to see if he was still breathing. (He was).
“Moppet! You look like a drowned rat!” said Simon, laughing.
“It’s pissing down, Simon, in case you hadn’t noticed.” I turned to the woman who had risen gracefully from her chair at our entrance. “Hello, you must be Melissa.”
“Melusina,” she corrected me with a smile. She was blonde, and her eyes were heavy-lidded. Like a dragon’s? Maybe if you were really, really drunk, I thought. Or really, really off your rocker. I didn’t think she was particularly pretty, but she gave the impression of sleekness and elegance, although she was wearing jeans and a sweater. It could have been the Kelly bag at her feet. Of course, she did have the benefit of not being soaked to the skin.
“Poor old Moppet!” said Simon. “Ring for some more tea, darling,” he added to Mel. “This is stewed. Well, Oscar, nothing to say to Uncle Simon?”
So it appeared. Oscar opened and shut his mouth like a goldfish; no sound emerged.
The tea arrived and Mel poured it out. I told myself to start making an effort. “What an unusual name you have.”
“And yours is so unusual too! I have to ask, are you descended from Lady Moppet of Yorkshire?”
I shot Simon a glance, but he was busy putting out more biscuits.
“As a matter of fact,” I said pleasantly, “yes. She’s rather obscure, I’m surprised you’ve heard of her.”
“Everyone will have heard of her when I publish my book. I write historical novels – I don’t know if Simon mentioned it?”
“He didn’t, no.”
“Slipped my mind,” explained Simon through a mouthful of chocolate biscuit. “These are awfully good, Moppet, do have one.”
I ignored him. “So Lady Moppet features in your book?”
“Well, rather! She’s the main character. It’s called The Wicked Mistress.”
I did take a chocolate biscuit then. I needed the sugar. And the caffeine.
“The Wicked Mistress?”
“Well, she was King John’s mistress, as you’ll know, and evidence has recently come to light that she was responsible for most of his crimes.”
I could find nothing to say.
“All the chronicles agree he was mad about her, despite the other women – “
“It doesn’t follow that she influenced him in political matters.”
“That’s what I thought. Until I found this.” She pulled a very ratty-looking bundle of parchment from her Kelly bag. “The Historia Moppetae. It’s been recopied, of course, this is a sixteenth-century version. Almost certainly the only one in the world. It belongs to the library of Christ Church College, Oxford. They were awfully sweet about letting me borrow it. Well, the author is Brother Walter of Waltham, who also wrote the Waltham Chronicle of the Universe. The funny thing is that he gushes about Lady Moppet in the Chronicle, it gets positively tedious. I’m guessing he wrote all that stuff out of fear of King John. Or rather, of Lady Moppet. This,” she tapped the manuscript, “is the real story.”
“I don’t understand – why would he fear Lady Moppet? What would she do to him?”
“What wouldn’t she do? She had no mercy on her enemies, Brother Walter makes that plain. The barons looked down on her because she was common – “
“I’m sorry?”
“Well, her origins are very murky to say the least. Most historians think John picked her up in a brothel somewhere. Anyway, she couldn’t forgive the barons for their lack of respect and she encouraged John to fine them and imprison them and kill them and so on. That whole Magna Carta thing would never have happened without her. Brother Walter says there’s a clause in an earlier draft saying that John had to put her into a convent and never see her again. Of course, she wouldn’t stand for that.”
“I see. Tell me, when is your book coming out?”
She frowned. “I’m not exactly sure. I do have a publisher interested. But they want me to cut it, and not to have more than five sex scenes in a chapter. As an artist, I’m very uncompromising. So it may not work out.”
“Don’t let anyone boss you around,” I advised. “Are there a lot of sex scenes?”
“Heaps!” She beamed. “I love writing them. Just as well! I could hardly get out of it. The hold Lady Moppet had over King John was mainly sexual, Brother Walter is clear about that. Did you know they had a secret sex dungeon?”
“No.” It came out as a squawk.
“They did! At Marlborough Castle. And there may have been more in other residences. Any time King John showed signs of thinking for himself, Lady Moppet lured him down to the secret sex dungeon and – “
“You’re making her sound like some kind of dominatrix!”
“Oh, she was, she was. That demure exterior was all a front.”
I didn’t say much after that. The tea party dragged on. I was determined to outstay Mel, and eventually she went. (The moment she walked out of the door, Oscar began to cry again). I turned on Simon.
“You have to stop this.”
“Moppet, be reasonable. What can I do? I can hardly tell her the truth. And really, I don’t think the book maligns Lady Moppet. It paints her as a strong, empowered woman – “
“It paints her as some kind of cross between Catherine de Medici, Nell Gwyn and Barbarella!”
“Moppet, calm down. Nobody knows Lady Moppet is you. And anyway, you heard what she said. It probably won’t get published. We could try something at the other end. If you could talk to Brother Walter – “
“I already have talked to Brother Walter! I’ve given him five or six interviews. I knew he was writing a biography, I just didn’t know it was going to be like this!”
Of late the Waltham Chronicle of the Universe had developed a passionate interest in all things Moppet. In fact, John had said that they ought to rename themselves the Waltham Chronicle of Moppet. Brother Walter was never out of the castle, usually referred to in the Chronicle as ‘Lady Moppet’s lovely home.’ I was described as ‘the dark-eyed beauty who has tamed Europe’s most ferocious king.’ I didn’t mind a bit (even though my eyes were blue) and when Brother Walter mooted the idea of an authorised biography, I’d been happy to go along with it.
Now I realised that I’d made a terrible mistake.
