A Brief History of Montmaray (3 page)

REBECCA HAS BEEN IN a lather of cleaning all week. She usually gets the villagers up to help, but I think she’s had another row with Alice, so there was No Escape for me. It is very annoying, I haven’t had five seconds to myself to think about Aunt Charlotte’s plan, so I still have no idea how I can convince Veronica to go to England – or even if I really want to leave Montmaray. Also, now I smell of scouring powder and ache in muscles that I didn’t know existed. However, I have
just
enough energy to sit up in bed and write a page or two. Veronica has generously donated her candle (mine is less than a stub and we are down to only five for the whole castle). Handing it over, she told me how wonderful it was to see a FitzOsborne taking the trouble to write a detailed account of life on Montmaray and how historians in two hundred years time would praise my name. I don’t think she was
entirely
joking, so I haven’t had the heart to explain that my journal is subjective and rambling and will be completely useless to historians, especially as I can’t even remember the date (I think it may be November by now, but can’t be bothered getting up to look at the calendar).

Poor Veronica, it’s a source of enormous frustration to her and her
Brief History
that most of our ancestors seem to have been either illiterate or wild fantasists. Take, for example, Edward de Quincy FitzOsborne, the family’s only writer of note. His most famous work is an epic poem that describes how Bartholomew FitzOsborne (then merely a Baron) was forced to flee his Cornish estate in 1542, sailed south, tangled with a sea monster for a day and a night, defeated it valiantly, then landed on the shore of an uninhabited island halfway between France and Spain. This he declared his new kingdom, which he called Montmaray.

In fact, no large ship has ever arrived in one piece at Montmaray – the rocks and the currents are too dangerous. Most likely Bartholomew was shipwrecked as he made his way to Spain, but managed to salvage enough to survive until he could send some men off for supplies. Edward also completely avoids the question of what Bartholomew did in the first place to so enrage his King, Henry the Eighth (although Veronica has pointed out that Catherine Howard, Henry’s then wife, was beheaded that same year for adultery, which may not be a complete coincidence). Furthermore, Montmaray – mangled Latin for ‘Mountain of the Sea’ – was not named until nearly forty years later. Possibly there was some initial dispute over whether Bartholomew was truly entitled to call himself a king. I believe the usual method is to lead an army into bloody battle and emerge the victor, having slaughtered anyone who might disagree with one’s claims to royalty. Still, it wasn’t as though there
were
any people here to conquer, just a lot of puffins and lobsters. And Bartholomew
was
a direct descendant of one of the Norman conquerors of England. At any rate, they must have sorted it out, because Queen Elizabeth referred to Bartholomew’s son as ‘King John’ when she thanked the Montmaray fleet for helping her defeat the Spanish Armada. We have the letter in the library; not that anyone can read much of it except the ‘Elizabeth R’ at the end (spelling wasn’t her strong point).

Also, George did tell Veronica that he once saw a giant squid while he was fishing off South Head as a boy. He said it wrapped its tentacles around their gig, then seemed to realise that long wooden boats are not at all tasty and vanished in a cloud of black ink. So perhaps there is some truth to the sea monster story after all. And even if there isn’t, it does make a nice tapestry over there on the far wall of our bedroom, beside the wardrobe. The sea monster is picked out in silver thread and is devouring one of the sailors, headfirst. The other sailors are lined up glumly along the deck of the ship, awaiting their turn. Bartholomew himself is clinging to a mast and brandishing his longsword – the very sword that Rebecca made me polish earlier this week. It is named Benedict and hangs in the Great Hall over the chimneypiece. In those days, swords were always christened, because they were in the shape of a cross and therefore holy. Isn’t that interesting? Sometimes I quite understand why Veronica spends all her spare time interrogating George about ancient customs and poring over crumbling bits of parchment. She also told me that after Bartholomew died, his son stuck the sword up on the wall of the Great Hall and declared:

‘Benedict will protect the House of FitzOsborne, now and for eternity!’

Except he said it in French, or possibly Latin, so it must have sounded even more impressive. In any case, this has been translated to mean that we need to keep it razor-sharp at all times, no matter how many nicked fingers I end up with whenever I take it down for polishing.

I also asked Veronica tonight whether anyone had ever died in the gatehouse. She said the nearest she could recall was when one of King Stephen’s sentries got drunk on shipwreck brandy and fell through the murder hole, breaking his leg.

‘But did he die?’ I asked.

‘Well, I’m sure he did eventually die of
something,’
said Veronica. ‘Everyone does in the end, you know.’

The murder hole is a square cut into the gatehouse floor and covered with a trapdoor. It was built so castle defenders could pour hot sand on enemies who managed to make it across the drawbridge. Apparently hot sand can get inside a suit of armour better than anything and is absolutely agonising, so I’m glad no enemies ever got that far. Imagine how malevolent their ghosts would be. Anyway, the pigeon theory is now looking much stronger than the ghost theory, regarding the mysterious noises coming from the gatehouse chimney. Homing pigeons were one of Toby’s seven-day enthusiasms last year. He and Henry built a loft – more of a pigeon palace, actually – but a few of them escaped.

However, I’m neglecting today’s most important event – the Basque captain’s cargo ship stopped by. Henry, Jimmy and I rowed out in the
Queen Clementine,
our little rowboat, and traded a bucket of Montmaray mussels (Captain Zuleta is inexplicably fond of the horrid, beardy things) for proper food, namely:

He also gave us some newspapers that he indicated he’d found lying around the ship – he knows what little news we get of the outside world. He really does seem a very nice man, even if I can barely understand a word he says.

We gave Alice one of the pineapples and half the biscuits (it was only fair, Jimmy had gathered most of the mussels). I do love visiting Alice – I wish
she’d
been the one, rather than Rebecca, to come up to the castle and take care of us after my parents were killed. Alice is soft and sweet-natured, instead of bony and sharp-tongued; also, she can cook. Today her cottage smelled of thyme and shallots and sweet peppers and codfish, all bubbling away over the fire. One of her cats was crouched beneath the rocking chair, dabbing at a hermit crab with a curious paw, and the other was washing itself on the hearth rug. Sitting down in a puddle of sunlight at the table, I felt a bit like purring myself, it was so warm and cosy (although it’s probably not at all cosy in the middle of a storm – I bet their roof leaks even worse than ours).

‘Well, now,’ said Alice, after she’d finished exclaiming over the pineapples (neither of us had a clue what to do with them, but I promised to ask Veronica and report back). ‘And how are things up at the castle, Your Highness?’

I keep asking Alice not to call me that – it’s ridiculous when there are now as many Royal Highnesses on the island as there are subjects – but she’s very old-fashioned and it’s no use. So I helped her shell a basin of peas and told her what had been happening, which was not much. (Henry had dropped a jar of honey comb and the tabby cat rolled in it and glued itself to the pantry floor; the hens had somehow got into the chapel.) It would have been a lovely, peaceful visit except that Henry and Jimmy were outside the window singing at the nanny goat. The singing is Mary’s idea. Music is supposed to improve the milk quality, although I’ve yet to notice any difference – perhaps it’s because none of us can sing in tune. Alice and I finished the peas and then Carlos wandered in, wagging his tail. He was licking his lips and there were shards of crab shell stuck in his beard. This reminded everyone it was lunch time, so I rounded up Henry before Alice should feel obliged to ask us to stay. (They had barely enough fish stew for the four of them, I checked. It was a pity because Alice’s fish stew is absolutely delicious. If any of us could cook, I’d ask her for the recipe.)

On the way back, we passed Mary, who was weeding the vegetable garden, and George, who was sitting on his doorstep mending a fishing net. He looked rather disappointed to see us without Veronica. He’s fond of Henry and polite to me, but Veronica’s the one he adores. I’m not sure whether it’s because she’s the only one who’ll sit for hours listening to his stories, or because she’s the King’s daughter. George was manservant to our grandfather when he was King, so George is even more old-fashioned than Alice when it comes to royalty. Dear old George! He’s gaunt and leathery-looking, pickled in salt-water and rum, but still agile and sharp-witted. And
so
knowledgeable about the rocks and the currents and the fish and so on – Henry and Jimmy are quite in awe of him.

Speaking of Henry, she made a great ceremony of presenting the Turkish delight to Veronica when we reached the castle. Veronica didn’t go out to meet the ship this time because she was cleaning out Vulcan, our ill-tempered stove. Henry claimed the Basque captain had sent along the sweets as a ‘totem of his affection’.

‘Do you mean a token?’ asked Veronica, pushing her hair off her forehead and leaving a smudge of charcoal. ‘A token is a symbol or a sign, whereas a totem is an animal used in primitive cultures to represent a particular–’

‘Yes, one of those,’ cried Henry gleefully. ‘Cause he’s in
love
with you!’

It’s true that we always seem to get a better trade for the mussels when Veronica goes out in the rowboat, and it doesn’t surprise me that men would be attracted to her. After all, her mother was a Celebrated Beauty (according to an old
Tatler
I found, which had a whole page about Isabella’s engagement in it) and Veronica looks more and more like Isabella each day. Except that Veronica doesn’t always bother about brushing her hair or that sort of thing, because she generally has more important matters on her mind.

Anyway, she was far more delighted by the newspapers than the sweets – Veronica likes facts, especially fresh ones. (Oh, there’s an idea – could Veronica be lured to England by the promise of unlimited supplies of newspapers?) Actually, it’s a pity Veronica didn’t go out in the boat today – she could have asked the Basque captain for candles or some paraffin for the lamps, as she’s the only one of us who speaks Spanish. Still, the supply ship is due next week, so we will just have to do without until then. In the meantime, I suppose I should confine my writing to daylight hours. And give Veronica her candle back.

THIS MORNING, I CAME downstairs in my threadbare nightgown in search of my hairbrush (Henry had borrowed it when I’d not been awake enough to object) and found Simon Chester sitting at the kitchen table.

‘Simon!’ I gasped. ‘What ... how...?’ Then I remembered that I’d outgrown my nightgown bodice some months back and hurriedly crossed my arms, meanwhile turning an unflattering shade of scarlet (I could even feel my elbows blushing). I wish I didn’t blush so easily. Veronica never blushes. This is because she has Poise, something I sadly lack.

‘Good morning, Sophia,’ said Simon, glancing up with his usual half-smile. (I’ve yet to figure out whether this is because he’s never
wholly
happy or because he’s worried about displaying his slightly uneven teeth.) He politely ignored my embarrassment and began to explain how he’d got a ride on a steamship headed for Lisbon.

Halfway through his account, Veronica walked in with the egg basket. ‘And I don’t suppose you thought to bring any candles with you,’ she said, as though they were continuing an argument, which they probably were.

‘No,’ said Simon, glaring at her. Veronica gave him a withering look in return and stalked over to the sink.

‘But does Rebecca know you’re here?’ I asked.

‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘She’s just gone in there.’ He nodded towards Uncle John’s room, glanced at Veronica’s rigid back, then lowered his voice. ‘And how
is
His Majesty?’ Simon asked me.

‘The same,’ I said, as Veronica smashed an egg with unnecessary force against the rim of the mixing bowl. (Veronica maintains that her father’s odd behaviour is pure self-indulgence and attention-seeking, and that Rebecca just encourages him.) Simon nodded slowly.

‘Well, I brought some papers that need his signature,’ he said. Simon works as a clerk for Mr Grenville, our family’s solicitor. ‘And Toby needs more pocket money. The account’s almost empty. I’m afraid the Princess Royal...’ But he didn’t need to explain to
us
that Aunt Charlotte had paid for the bare essentials this term and nothing else.

‘How much?’ asked Veronica, turning.

‘Twenty-five pounds should do for the term,’ he said. ‘With some left over for next.’ Toby tries to be as thrifty as he can, but there are all sorts of things outside school fees to pay for – sweets and postage stamps and bootlaces and so on. Although he does spend most of it on presents for us, I must admit.

‘I want to see the accounts,’ Veronica said, swinging the cast-iron frying pan down from its hook in a rather threatening manner.

‘Of course,’ said Simon, and they glared at each other a bit more.

Meanwhile I was wishing I could tidy my hair (it must have looked a complete fright), but my hairbrush, lying on the draining board, was matted with Carlos’s black curls. So I switched to thinking about what we could sell next. All the good china and crystal went a long time ago, along with the small, valuable bits of French furniture and the coin collection and the Ming vases. Despite the various antiques cluttering the Great Hall, I couldn’t think of anything that a stranger, or even a FitzOsborne, would pay good money for. But then I remembered Great-Aunt Elizabeth’s Russian suitor.

‘What about the egg?’ I wondered aloud. Veronica frowned down at her mixing bowl. ‘The
Fabergé
egg,’ I added quickly.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Veronica. ‘I’d forgotten about that.’

‘What
are
you talking about?’ said Simon.

So I took Simon into the Great Hall to show him, snatching up Rebecca’s shawl to wrap around my top half as we passed her chair. I have to say that the Great Hall is probably my least favourite part of the castle. The portraits all seem to glare, and there is simultaneously too much cold empty space and too much clutter, most of it ugly. There are moth-eaten bear rugs, five enormous clocks (none of which work properly), an elephant’s foot bristling with walking sticks and broken umbrellas, dozens of uncomfortable chairs, a Steinway grand badly in need of tuning, and a vast collection of battle-stained halberds and maces (and I don’t care what Veronica says, it’s
blood,
not rust, on that dented mace over the chapel door).

It’s such a chore keeping the place tidy, too. Rebecca has been making us tackle it bit by bit over the past week and yesterday we had to do the flagstones. Henry sat on a rag and tried to get Carlos to pull her up and down on the section of floor she was waxing, but Carlos got over-excited and ran into the suit of armour. After we put it back together again, we found we had a bit left over, but Henry hid it inside the piano before Rebecca could find out. Not that it would be any of Rebecca’s business if we decided to toss the entire thing off South Head at high tide, but she does get rather worked up about certain family possessions – generally souvenirs of that time, long past, when we were rich and powerful. One would think Rebecca was a FitzOsborne herself, the way she fusses about the family heritage.

Anyway, I dusted the egg two days ago, so I knew exactly where it was – in the big glass-fronted cabinet, tucked away behind Montmaray’s only Olympic medal (fencing, Paris, 1900) and an old silver hurling ball engraved with the words
‘Guare wheag yu guare teag’
(‘Gentle play is handsome play’, according to George, who can remember the hurling matches that used to be held each Shrove Tuesday, Castle versus Village, and were anything but gentle). I opened the cabinet, picked out the egg and held it up for Simon’s inspection. It was the size and shape of a hen’s egg, but enamelled red, green and blue, studded with a swirling pattern of tiny rubies and emeralds.

‘Great-Aunt Elizabeth always thought it was rather vulgar,’ I told Simon. I flicked the catch at the side and the top swung open, revealing a hollow lined with blue velvet. ‘There used to be a miniature portrait of her in here, on a little gold easel, but I don’t know where it’s got to. What do you think it’s worth?’

Simon peered at it, sunlight glinting off the gems and streaking his black hair gaudy colours. His eyelashes, as long and thick as Veronica’s, were a terrible distraction.
‘Who
did you say gave it to her?’ he asked.

I shook my head. ‘Some Russian nobleman. Veronica will know.’

‘If he were one of the Romanovs, it might be worth more,’ he said. ‘The Bolsheviks sold some Imperial eggs a few years ago and the Americans paid a couple of hundred pounds each.’

‘Really? A couple of hundred
pounds?’
I said, looking at the egg with new respect (even though I couldn’t help agreeing with Great-Aunt Elizabeth’s opinion). Imagine all the dresses and shoes and things that two hundred pounds could buy! Then the loudest and ugliest of the clocks started to toll and kept on going till thirteen o’clock. ‘It’s a pity you can’t take one of
them
to sell,’ I sighed. I put the egg back on its gold stand for the time being and two of the other clocks started up. ‘Or all of them,’ I added. Then Henry yelled that breakfast was ready and we went back to the kitchen.

Simon must find us terribly primitive after living in London for so long. He rides an underground train to his office, and his landlady has a refrigerator and an electrical machine for making toast. Watching him eat scrambled eggs with one of the bent forks, I was painfully aware that our window pane, broken last Christmas, still hadn’t been mended, that our dishcloth was little more than a rag and that one of the cats had been sick on the doorstep again.

Not that Simon gave any indication that he disapproved, or had even noticed. Although this may have been because he was too busy dealing with Rebecca’s questioning. Was his landlady giving him meat at every meal? He was so pale, was he
sure
he wasn’t anaemic? Had he been taking his tonic? Was his room wellaired and his mattress turned weekly? And on and on until Veronica couldn’t bear to hear another word, and asked for the latest news on the war in Spain. The news papers the Basque captain had given us had turned out to be mostly in Portuguese and Veronica was still trying to decipher them. At any rate, Simon said, how could anyone expect Portuguese newspapers to tell the unvarnished truth when everyone knew that Salazar supported Franco? Then he went on to inform us that Madrid was under attack, the Nationalists had closed Spain’s border with France, and the Basques had established an autonomous government in the north.

This meant almost nothing to me, but Veronica started chewing on her lip.

‘There’s an international committee been set up in London to discuss the situation,’ he added. ‘No one wants it turning into another Great War. And if there’s a non-intervention agreement signed, as there
will
be, then I believe...’ He cleared his throat.
‘I
believe that Montmaray should be part of it.’

Veronica’s expression went from thoughtful to scathing in an instant.

‘As one of Spain’s closest neighbours,’ Simon continued, squaring his shoulders but unable to prevent a faint (and, in my opinion, rather attractive) flush creeping into his cheeks, ‘if any nation has an interest in avoiding an international conflict, then surely Montmaray–’

‘And how exactly is Montmaray going to contribute to this international effort?’ Veronica asked. ‘Send George out in the rowboat to stop German submarines smuggling arms to Franco? For that matter, whom do you propose to send to these diplomatic meetings in London?’

Simon shifted in his seat. ‘Well,
Toby
is heir to the throne...’

My brother Toby is the dearest person in the world, but I’m certain he has even less of an idea about Spanish politics than I do.

‘With you as his advisor, I suppose,’ scoffed Veronica.

‘And why not?’ said Rebecca indignantly, turning from the stove. ‘Henry, run and fetch some of that blackberry jam Simon likes from the pantry, and mind you don’t let the jar slip this time.’ Henry dropped her napkin in her egg and dashed out, not wanting to miss any more of the argument than she could help. ‘And anyhow,’ said Rebecca, setting a fresh pile of egg and chives in front of Simon, ‘there’s only
one
who can decide on matters of state.’

Simon half-smiled at Veronica. ‘And it isn’t you,’ he said, as his mother gave Uncle John’s closed door a reverent look.

‘And it isn’t you, either,’ said Veronica in equally sweet tones, and I got the impression that I was witnessing the opening round of yet another of their epic battles, one that would probably still be in progress long after the dust had settled on the Spanish war. I also decided to ask Veronica to explain the whole Spanish situation to me as soon as possible, so I could sit through at least one meal while Simon was here without feeling a complete idiot.

I managed to catch up with her in the library, after lunch.

‘We’re going to have to do something about Simon Chester,’ Veronica announced, before I’d even settled myself on the chaise longue.

‘Er ... what?’ I said, feeling a little thrill of pleasure at the very sound of his name – even though I knew Veronica would have nothing good to say about him. ‘I mean, why?’

‘Because,’ she said, ‘he has Ambitions.’ She began pacing the flagstones and waited for me to ask what she meant, which I did at once. ‘It was a mistake to allow him that job in the first place,’ she said over one shoulder. ‘A few months of carrying files between offices and he fancies himself capable of taking over diplomatic duties for Montmaray! How he ever managed to talk my father into letting him ... all
Rebecca’s
influence, of course...’

Watching her was making me dizzy, so I concentrated on poking some of the horsehair stuffing back into the chaise longue.

‘But it’s too late now,’ Veronica said. She whirled around. ‘What’s important is that we keep a careful eye on him. And the accounts.’

‘Are you saying that Simon is ... taking money from us?’ I said, trying to keep up.

‘Perhaps not,’ Veronica admitted. ‘I’m not sure he wants money, as such. No, no, he wants to be
important.
’ Her lip curled. ‘He wants to join com mittees and dine with Cabinet ministers and be interviewed by news paper men,
that
sort of thing.’

Which all sounded terribly boring to me, and it wasn’t as though any of us could do it instead. Veronica and I are girls, Toby is still at school and Uncle John is out of the question, even if he
is
King. As far as I was concerned, Simon was welcome to it and I said so.

‘But he’s not a FitzOsborne!’ cried Veronica. ‘He doesn’t have the best interests of Montmaray at heart, the way
we
do. He doesn’t even live here! And that’s another thing. He has
far
too much influence over Toby. It’ll be even worse now that Toby is at school in London – he’s barely two miles from Simon Chester’s doorstep. Who knows what he’s capable of talking poor Toby into? And you know how sweet and trusting Toby is...’

I wasn’t so sure about that. I think Toby might be far stronger-willed than he appears. For example, look at how he managed to get himself thrown out of Eton. He’d hated everything about it (except Rupert Stanley-Ross, his best friend from their very first day), but Aunt Charlotte was determined Toby should stay. All the FitzOsborne men had gone there, he would be breaking a tradition that had lasted hundreds of years, he ought to think of all the important social connections he would make ... But Toby had his way in the end. He generally does, it’s just that he’s so charming about it that no one minds or even notices. Also, it seems perfectly natural to me that Toby would look up to Simon a bit, Simon being five years older and rather charming himself.