A Brief History of Montmaray (18 page)

‘We will start outside,’ interrupted the officer. He barked orders at the men, four of whom scattered out the door at once. ‘Then, if we have no success, we will search in here.’

‘If you’ve already decided to invade our home, I hardly know why you bothered asking for permission,’ said Veronica, sending Herr Rahn a scornful look. He looked down at the flagstones, his face colouring.

Gebhardt thrust out his jaw. ‘The nephew of our esteemed Führer’s personal physician has gone missing. On your territory, may I remind you. We would expect
every
cooperation from you.’

‘And may I remind
you,
’ snapped Veronica, ‘that Herr Rahn and Herr Brandt trespassed upon sovereign territory when they docked without notice at our wharf. We generously allowed them to stay. We also warned them against approaching the castle and explained the dangers of the cliffs, and yet now I discover that Herr Rahn, for one, chose to disregard my warnings and break into our library at midnight–’

‘Sovereign territory!’ scoffed Gebhardt, aiming a contemptuous kick at the nearest chair. Carlos started up a deep, almost inaudible rumbling in his chest. I edged closer to him, still hanging on to Henry’s shoulder.

‘And now Herr Brandt, apparently sharing his colleague’s disregard for common sense, has disappeared in the middle of the night and you hold
us
responsible?’ Veronica went on.

‘You,’ said Gebhardt, pointing a bony finger at her, ‘ought to–’

‘WOOF!’ shouted Carlos, startling Gebhardt into a backwards stagger. He tripped on the chair he’d disarranged, lurched sideways and would have dashed his head against the sink if Herr Rahn hadn’t grabbed his arm.

‘Control your dog!’ Gebhardt yelled, his face suddenly crimson. ‘Or I will shoot it!’

‘Don’t you dare!’ Henry wrenched herself away from me and threw herself across Carlos. Veronica stepped quickly in front of both of them, while I tried to drag them backwards.

‘Now, there is no need...’ Herr Rahn began, glancing anxiously at Gebhardt. At that moment, two of the men appeared in the doorway.

‘Ja?
’ snarled Gebhardt.

The men shook their heads. Gebhardt pointed at the tower stairwell behind me and rapped out something in German. The men brushed past us and ran up the stairs. I was pleased to hear one of them bang his head against the lump of rock at the first bend, placed there for the exact purpose of thwarting invaders.

‘And do you suppose Herr Brandt is hiding in our laundry hamper?’ said Veronica in her most caustic voice. ‘Has fallen asleep in the bath? Became engrossed in the alphabet mural on the nursery walls and forgot to return to camp?’

‘Veronica!’ I whispered urgently. ‘Don’t antagonise him!’

‘You should listen to the girl’s advice,’ spat Gebhardt.

‘And you, Gebhardt,’ said Veronica, ‘should be advised that landing soldiers on sovereign territory without permission and threatening innocent women and children breaks international law. Your Führer may think he got away with it in the Rhineland, but I assure you that there are no German sympathisers in Montmaray and we will use every diplomatic means to ensure you face the consequences of your contemptible actions!’

The other two men marched in from the courtyard and were directed towards the Great Hall, as I clung on grimly to Henry and Carlos, who were both shaking with fury. Then the men upstairs clattered back down, one rubbing his forehead, the other shaking his head apologetically at his commanding officer.

‘Where else is there to search?’ snapped Gebhardt.

‘You could try the cliffs,’ suggested Veronica coolly. ‘Or the sea below.’

I saw the indecision in Gebhardt’s face. He had almost accepted that Herr Brandt had fallen to a watery death; he was nearly ready to turn and march out. The only thing stopping him was his pride, which refused to concede that Veronica could be right. I held my breath as several long seconds went by. Finally he snorted, shook his head and took a step towards the doorway.

And then it happened.

There was a heavy thump and the door to Uncle John’s room rattled.

‘Who is in there?’ cried Gebhardt. He strode over to the door and hammered on it. ‘Open at once!
Schnell!
’

There were a few more thumps and then the door was wrenched open from the inside. Uncle John suddenly appeared in all his unkempt glory, Rebecca hanging off one arm. She tried to tug him back towards the bed, but he had caught sight of the German men (all six of them now gathered back in the kitchen) and he let out an almighty roar.

‘Huns!’ he bellowed. Then he threw his chamber pot at Gebhardt.

Gebhardt shrieked and flailed at himself; Rebecca screamed; Carlos leapt at Gebhardt; the German soldiers ran around the kitchen, tripping over chairs and one another; and Herr Rahn attempted to placate Uncle John, receiving an elbow in the stomach for his pains. Suddenly Uncle John stopped roaring and crumpled onto the flagstones.

‘You’ve killed him!’ howled Rebecca.

‘Out of the way!’ ordered Veronica. ‘All of you!’ The Germans fell back and she dropped to her knees by his side, groping for a pulse, then turning her cheek to his gaping mouth.

‘He’s breathing,’ she said. ‘You,’ (she pointed to the two nearest Germans), ‘you carry him back to bed. And you,’ (she glanced at Gebhardt, who was still spluttering), ‘radio for medical assistance at once. Tell them the King of Montmaray has had a stroke.’ She got to her feet and followed Rebecca as Uncle John was carried into the bedroom.

‘Well?’ I cried. ‘Aren’t you going to get help?’

‘We will radio immediately,’ said Herr Rahn, answering for his officer. Gebhardt was otherwise occupied, stripping out of his drenched, foul-smelling tunic with one hand and clutching at his torn trouser leg with the other. The two Germans shuffled out of the bedroom. Then, with a final snarled vow of retribution from Gebhardt, all six of them departed.

They did radio for medical assistance, it turned out, but it was on behalf of Gebhardt rather than Uncle John. Carlos had torn a chunk out of Gebhardt’s leg and they were worried about rabies (unnecessarily, as we’ve never had rabies here on Montmaray; not that I felt any desire to reassure them). Herr Rahn sneaked back just before nightfall to tell us this and to enquire about Uncle John’s health.

‘He’s the same,’ I said. ‘Breathing, but not moving.’ We were beneath the gatehouse again – Rebecca had threatened Herr Rahn with a red-hot poker when he’d appeared at the kitchen door and I’d had to chase after him.

‘I am so sorry,’ he said, looking miserable. ‘But you and your cousin and sister – you will be leaving now?’

‘Leaving?’ I frowned.

‘Leaving Montmaray,’ he said. ‘You have family in England, yes? The young princess told me about your brother and aunt. It will be safe there.’

‘Safe from what?’ I said, my heart starting to beat harder, but he only bit his lip and shook his head and glanced over his shoulder.

‘I must get back,’ he whispered. ‘I am sorry. For everything.
Au revoir.
’ Then he gave one of his heel-clicking bows and was gone, swallowed up in the descending darkness.

And now I hear the old French clock in the Great Hall striking six, which means it must be past midnight. It seems the New Year has staggered in without anyone noticing. Oh, when I recall the New Year’s Eves when Isabella was here – the champagne, the fireworks, the music...

But what is that awful wailing noise? Is it Rebecca? Do I even
want
to know? No, but I had better go down and find out.

KING JOHN THE SEVENTH of Montmaray is dead, may he rest in peace.

It is evening now, and I’ve yet to feel any emotion at all. Maybe it’s lingering shock after all the other events that preceded it. Or perhaps it’s simply that he was such a small part of our lives. He shouted a bit and threw things on occasion, but we’d learnt to ignore that. Mostly he was merely a brooding presence on the other side of a closed door. Isn’t that sad, that the most positive thing I can say is that I was largely indifferent to him?

I’m more worried about the effect this will have on Veronica, who has never really been indifferent to him. Of course, she was the target of most of his furies, increasingly so as she grew more and more like Isabella – in looks, at least. I think that sometimes, he actually believed Veronica
was
the wife who’d left him. Veronica hasn’t said a word about him today though, nor cried (Veronica never cries), nor behaved in anything other than her usual manner. This may be because she’s been kept so busy, mostly with letter writing – to Aunt Charlotte, to Toby, to Mr Grenville, to the bank, to various diplomats and foreign ministers, to the Anglican bishop who conducted my parents’ funeral service, and to a dressmaker in London who specialises in mourning clothes. By some miracle, a northbound steamer stopped this afternoon upon seeing our doctor’s flag, which we’d forgotten to take down, and they agreed to take the letters for us.

As for me, I’ve also been occupied – cleaning up the disarray left by the German soldiers, mostly. Meanwhile Rebecca is keeping vigil by Uncle John’s side in the chapel. Freshly bathed, his hair cut, his beard trimmed, dressed in clean robes, he looks a good deal better than I can ever remember him looking when he was alive. He really does appear as though he’s sleeping. It seems almost unfair that he should be so at peace when he’s caused so much trouble. But I daren’t allow myself to start thinking about whatever revenge Gebhardt is plotting – even if he doesn’t suspect Uncle John had a role in Herr Brandt’s disappearance, he certainly wants retribution for the chamber pot throwing. Not to mention Carlos ripping his leg open and Veronica’s defiance and ... no. Not thinking about that. Not thinking about any of it, it’s just a waste of energy when there’s nothing I can do about it.

The only bright spot is that Toby and Simon will be coming home now for the funeral, perhaps as early as Tuesday, if they can find a ship straight away. To think that I was once concerned about how I would behave the next time I saw Simon! That I worried about my incessant blushing and my inability to put sentences together in his presence and my unmanageable hair! How trivial it all seems now, how silly and childish...

It’s nearly midnight. But I have to get this down on paper, and there is no chance whatsoever I will sleep now, not tonight.

I was writing in bed earlier this evening, when Veronica sat down abruptly by my side.

‘I have to tell you something,’ she said.

I looked at her face and felt my heart clench. ‘Oh God,’ I said. ‘What now?’

‘Not ...
now,
’ said Veronica. ‘No. A long time ago.’

I took a deep breath. ‘Go on.’

But she stayed silent, her hands clenched in her lap, her knuckles chalk-white. She shook her head and stared at the rug.

‘It’s all right,’ I said feebly. ‘I mean ... well, if it was a long time ago, it doesn’t...’ I was about to say it didn’t matter, but judging by the set of her mouth and her shuttered eyes, it mattered a great deal, and all at once I knew the only thing that could make her look like this. ‘Is it ... to do with Isabella?’ I whispered.

Veronica glanced at me, startled. ‘How did you know?’

Again, I saw the shroud unravelling in the icy water, the face falling to one side, the dark eyes with all the life washed out of them. I bit my lip. ‘Is she dead?’

Veronica stared at me and then nodded.

‘Oh,
Veronica,
’ I said, tears welling up. I wanted to put my arms around her, but her face, pale and bleak, held me back. I groped for the words that would unlock hers. ‘But ... how do you know? What’s happened?’
A long time ago,
she’d said and I remembered Isabella’s unlined face in the water.

Veronica closed her eyes for a moment. Her bottom lip was bloody where she’d been gnawing at it, but her eyes were dry. How does one comfort a person who never cries? I pushed my blanket aside and moved closer, but didn’t dare to touch her. ‘You can tell
me,
’ I said.

‘I thought I could, but I can’t,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how.’

‘Pretend,’ I said. ‘Pretend it’s a story for Henry. A made-up story.’

‘A Gory Story,’ said Veronica, with a harsh sound that could have been a laugh.

‘Yes,’ I said, inching closer until finally my side was tucked against hers. She was freezing. I tugged at my blanket until its folds covered her legs. ‘Go on. Once upon a time...’

Veronica nodded. ‘All right. Once upon a time, there was a queen...’ Then she stopped.

‘Who was very beautiful,’ I urged.

‘Of course,’ said Veronica, with a twist of her mouth. ‘According to
Tatler,
anyway. She wasn’t born a queen, though. She was only one because she married a king.’

‘Was he handsome?’ I said, slipping my hand into the crook of her elbow and squeezing it. I was heartened when she didn’t push me away. I moved my head closer to her shoulder.

‘No. Nor was he particularly rich. Still, he was a king.’ Veronica paused. ‘She thought he looked very distinguished in his uniform when she first saw him. She was only eighteen then and easily impressed. She didn’t understand what war does to soldiers. Especially soldiers who manage to get most of their men killed.’

‘It wasn’t his fault,’ I said. ‘Not really.’

‘It was,’ she said. ‘He knew it was. It changed him. He took it out on everyone around him. Especially her. Especially when she didn’t do her duty, when all she could produce was a
daughter.
’

‘But everyone celebrated when you were born! There was a feast in the village, George said. With fireworks and dancing and everything.’

‘That was for Toby,’ said Veronica. ‘Six weeks later.’

I opened my mouth, then closed it.

‘Only boys counted, you see,’ said Veronica. ‘The kingdom followed Salic Law–’

‘Followed
what?
’ I said, unable to stop myself. But I’d said the right thing after all – Veronica started to sound more like her usual self.

‘It’s a law governing succession, thought to have originated from the Salian Franks about fifteen hundred years ago,’ she said. ‘Although it only stated women couldn’t inherit land. Later it came to mean that a kingdom couldn’t be inherited by a woman or her descendants. Or so the French argued in the fourteenth century when Edward the Third of England tried to claim the French throne through his mother, who was the daughter of Philip–’

‘Right,’ I said. I had a vague recollection of Toby and Veronica arguing in a desultory manner one rainy afternoon about whether Toby would still inherit the throne if Veronica had a son before Uncle John died – assuming Isabella hadn’t returned in the meantime and given birth to a boy. I shook my head. ‘Your story,’ I said firmly. ‘Go on about the queen.’

Veronica sighed. ‘Well, the queen didn’t have a boy. She didn’t even like the child she
did
have, especially when the child turned out to be far too interested in books and not at all pretty.’ Veronica ignored my protests. ‘Fortunately,’ she went on, a bit louder, ‘the king’s younger brother had a sweet wife who not only produced a boy, but two girls besides. However, little did they know that there was a curse on the kingdom–’

‘There was not!’ I said, sitting up straighter.

‘Yes, there was,’ said Veronica. ‘A bad luck curse. Due to the king smashing up all the looking glasses in the castle, on account of going mad after sending his men to their deaths during the war. And sadly, the king’s brother and his wife were the ones who paid the price.’

‘They died,’ I said softly.

‘Yes,’ said Veronica and we sat there in silence for a moment, pressed against each other.

‘But the queen,’ I said at last.

Veronica said nothing.

‘Pretend it’s a story,’ I reminded her.

She looked down at her fingers, pleating at the blanket, as though they belonged to someone else. ‘Well. The queen became tired of the mad king – who by then had lost what little money he’d had – and her unsatisfactory daughter and having to look after her nephew and nieces and being stuck on an island far away from parties and ... and things. So she decided she needed to go away for a holiday.’

‘A holiday?’ I asked. ‘Just a holiday?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Veronica. ‘Maybe a holiday. Maybe she wanted to leave forever. Nobody knows, except perhaps ... except the king. And he was mad, remember. And violent. Afterwards no one dared ask him. Anyway, she happened to see a ship passing by, just as she was thinking of leaving. So she packed a small suitcase and she left the castle. She went down to the village and ordered a man on the wharf to row her out to the ship.’

‘George?’ I whispered.

‘That ... that may have been his name,’ said Veronica, her voice faltering for a moment. She took an uneven breath and went on. ‘It was evening. Winter. There was a storm brewing. And the man – George – well, he happened to have been the manservant of the king’s father, a long time ago, before the war. He knew the king wouldn’t want the queen leaving. The queen belonged to the king, you see, and he knew the king would be very angry if she were just ... just allowed to depart. So the man – George – he tried to argue with her. She wouldn’t listen. In the end, he said he would row her to the ship. They could just see its black hulk on the horizon. It was a very dark night, with the clouds covering up the moon. They kept arguing all the way out onto the deep water. And then ... well, she was very angry by this time and she lost her temper and she slapped him, so he ... he hit her with the oar. He panicked. He had to stop her from escaping the king, you see. He was only doing what he thought the king would have wanted. She went very still after he hit her. Perhaps she was dead. He wasn’t sure.’

I felt an icy shudder wash over me.
I
was in that boat, surrounded by all that cold, black water.

‘So he wrapped her in a long white shawl he took out of her suitcase. And he buried her under the waves. That was what they did in that kingdom, with people who died. Unless they were part of the royal family – then they were laid to rest in the crypt beneath the castle – but this woman wasn’t part of the royal family any more, she’d tried to escape, she wasn’t worthy...’

‘Don’t,’ I said, tears starting to roll down my cheeks. But I knew this was the only way she could tell it. The words were spilling out of her now, mercilessly.

‘And then he rowed back to the island. It wasn’t until he reached the wharf that he realised he should have thrown her suitcase overboard too. But who could say, perhaps the gathering storm would have washed it ashore and then there would be questions, and the man didn’t want his king to have to answer any questions. After all, everyone talked about how the king had become mad and violent and perhaps – perhaps they would think the king had killed her. So the man hid the suitcase in his cottage. He lived by himself, so it was safe there. He was going to tell everyone that he’d seen a launch from the ship collect the queen, that she’d had it all planned out. But only one person ever asked, and that was the king’s housekeeper. Maybe the king had sent her to investigate. The housekeeper didn’t care much, anyway – she’d never liked the queen and was glad the queen was gone – so the man hardly had to bother to get his story straight. It was a bit sad for the queen’s daughter, but she was better off without her disloyal mother. And the man was always careful to take special notice of the daughter and he indulged her whenever she wanted to talk about history – did I mention she was very interested in books and things?’

‘Stop,’ I said, my breath hitching on a sob. ‘Stop it.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Veronica and finally her voice broke. She put her arm around me and pulled me closer. Taking a ragged breath, she whispered, ‘I’m sorry, Sophie. It’s just a story.’

‘That cloth you had,’ I said at last, wiping my face with my palms. ‘It was from her suitcase.’

‘Yes,’ said Veronica.

‘And George told you all this,’ I said. ‘Just before he died.’

‘Not all of it,’ she said. ‘He told me where the suitcase was hidden. He told me some of it. Some, I guessed. It makes sense.’ I glanced at her face, which was pale but composed now. ‘I’m glad I know the truth.’

I wanted to tell her of my dream, but I couldn’t think how it would be any comfort to her, so I kept silent. And after a while she stood up, tucked the blanket around me, said she was going to check on Henry and left the room. Then I wrote all this down.