A Brief History of Montmaray (20 page)

‘Then it’s a pity she isn’t able to share this information with us in coherent sentences,’ said Veronica. ‘However, we’ll just have to make do with four hundred years worth of documentation from the library. Now, Toby, did the Foreign Office let you know whom they’re sending to represent the British government?’

‘Ah ... Simon?’ said Toby.

‘A diplomat by the name of Davies-Chesterton,’ said Simon. ‘But unfortunately the British royal family is a bit preoccupied with other matters at the moment, what with the abdication–’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Veronica. ‘And the Spanish royal family is in exile.’

‘And the French Ambassador didn’t reply,’ said Simon.

‘Well, that would be because my late father cut all diplomatic ties with France in 1918,’ said Veronica, a note of impatience creeping into her voice. ‘What about the Portuguese?’

‘They sent a very nice letter of condolence,’ said Simon.

‘And the Germans?’ said Toby lightly, but no one laughed except Mr Herbert, who gave a polite, confused titter. Simon frowned, and I wondered how much Toby had told him. Most of it, I assumed. After all, Simon was one of us, really. The Germans were as much his problem as ours.

‘I hope you’ve also informed all the Montmaravians currently living in England,’ Veronica said to Simon.

‘I’m sure they’re aware of the tragic news,’ said Simon, rather evasively. I couldn’t really blame him. They’re probably scattered all over the place by now and even if he had everyone’s address, not all of them can read. It might be asking a bit much, anyway, expecting them to travel all this way to pay their respects to a man who’d been responsible for the deaths of so many of their relatives.

Veronica, of course, took a different perspective on Simon’s failure to contact them. Simon’s jaw tightened as she went on to express this opinion quite forcefully. He shoved an errant lock of hair back and took a noisy breath. I stared at him as he sprang loudly to his own defence. Simon hadn’t changed at all since I’d last seen him – but I realised that
I
had.

It was as though I’d put on a pair of spectacles – or taken off rose-tinted ones, perhaps. He was as handsome as ever, and yet somehow diminished-looking. I could see, finally, that Veronica was right about him in some ways, but that Toby was, too. Simon was clever
and
ambitious, genuinely concerned about Montmaray and even more interested in himself. He was neither as courageous as Veronica, nor as charming as Toby, but was nevertheless compelling in his own way. And I
still
(I’m ashamed to write) wanted him to kiss me! Being a grown-up is very complicated and con fusing...

Not surprisingly, I took in very little of the rest of the conversation.

‘Good, that’s sorted then,’ I suddenly heard Toby say. ‘Who’s up for a game of Squid?’

I excused myself from this, ostensibly so I could come upstairs to organise mourning clothes, but really so I could pace around the bedroom having a big think. After a while, I stopped muttering and pacing, and sat down on the bed to write all this down by flickering candlelight (even more flickering than usual, as I have to keep waving away a huge moth determined to fling itself upon the flame).

There’s not much I can do about our mourning clothes, anyway. Henry refuses to wear her dress, so has appropriated Toby’s old black tailcoat and pinstriped trousers. Veronica’s dress is too tight around the bust, but she plans to leave the top buttons undone and wrap a shawl around herself for decency. Mine is scratchy and in desperate need of a sash, except the only one I can find is a fuzzy tartan one from an old dressing gown...

Oh, really! How can I possibly be worried about how I look, as I prepare for my uncle’s funeral! I will think about
that
instead. Yes, what a relief it will be – that solemn ceremony, the stately rituals set down on parchment centuries ago, a dignified regal farewell. Oh, if only certain other deceased people had had such ceremonies to lay them to rest – I might be having fewer nightmares now.

I READ OVER THAT last paragraph and I shake my head in disbelief. How could I
possibly
have imagined that anything would go according to plan when it comes to FitzOsbornes and Montmaray? I ought to have
known
that Rebecca would ... no, I’ll tell this properly. Life here might be utter chaos, but my journal will rise above the confusion.

So, yesterday. We woke to find ourselves encased in fog, the dense, grey suffocating sort that feels as if the castle has been hoisted into the middle of a bank of clouds. It wasn’t until midafternoon that some wisps of clarity began to appear. Henry went up on the roof with the telescope, but there was no sign of any ships, let alone ones bearing diplomats.

The rest of us took turns keeping vigil in the chapel, at Mr Herbert’s request. He was worried Rebecca would wear her knees to nubs in front of the altar and insisted she take a break. Surprisingly, she gave in – either she was impressed by his clerical garb or she remembered that Simon was here and needed her to cook him meals. Veronica took PAYN–POLK of the
Encyclopaedia Britannica
in with her for her stint (she’s been working her way through its twenty-eight volumes ever since I can remember). I took Carlos. I thought he might come in handy if Herr Brandt made a gruesome spectral appearance. Nothing unexpected happened, though, except for a mouse scuttling across Carlos’s tail in the near-dark. I’m not sure whether Carlos or the mouse was more horrified.

Actually, I didn’t mind taking my turn in there, once I’d found a spot that allowed me to avoid looking at Uncle John, who was laid out in front of the altar. For one thing, I didn’t have to worry about accidentally bumping into Simon when I was in the chapel (the castle is feeling rather crowded at the moment). For another, the cold flagstones and austere surroundings made me feel a little like a mediaeval penitent – rather appropriate given my confusing thoughts of the day before. I knelt down and asked God to take away my desire to kiss Simon, or to transfer it to someone more suitable. I think it worked to
some
extent. I did feel a twinge of irrational jealousy at dinner when Toby draped himself across Simon’s shoulders in his usual familiar manner – but at least I recognised this for the lunacy it was.

Then, today, we awoke at dawn to the most tremendous crash. My initial thought was that Henry had finally figured out how to make gunpowder, but no, it was merely a thunderstorm, the heavens deciding to clash right above the castle. It lasted for a good three hours – torrents of rain, zigzags of lightning, thunder-claps that seemed to shake the very foundations of the castle. Veronica and I ran around in our nightgowns putting chamber pots under all the ceiling leaks, then got started on boiling up enough water for everyone to have a proper wash, which took quite a while.

We all looked most peculiar when we finally came down in our mourning clothes – except Rebecca, who has worn her black dress for the past five days and consequently looked very familiar, if a bit dishevelled. She also seemed a little more like her regular self – she clipped Henry over the ear when Henry spilled the milk, glared at Toby when he took a piece of toast meant for Simon and hissed at Veronica for no reason at all that I could see. She still wasn’t speaking in actual words, but she looked intimidating enough that Mr Herbert cornered Toby, Veronica and me after breakfast.

‘I just wondered if ... are you
quite
sure Mrs Chester is all right about the funeral arrangements? Only she seems a little ... and I would rather not upset anyone at this tragic time...’

Toby said that Simon would have let us know if Rebecca had said anything.

‘Oh,’ said Mr Herbert. ‘Well! I’m sure it will be fine.’ Then he chuckled. ‘After all,’ he added, ‘it’s not as though Mrs Chester is likely to have any violent objections right in the middle of the funeral!’

Toby, Veronica and I glanced at each other. I knew they were thinking the same thing I was – that that was
exactly
the sort of thing Rebecca was likely to do. But just then the black cat scampered up to present Veronica with a twitching, headless rat. And what with all the screaming (it turns out Mr Herbert has an even greater aversion to rats than me) and mopping up of blood, we forgot about Rebecca for the time being.

The storm, still churning away over the bay, had put paid to any hopes that the British diplomat (or anyone else) might arrive, so after a quick squint through the telescope at the turbulent, empty seascape, we decided to begin. Toby and Simon had carried half a dozen of the uncomfortable chairs from the Great Hall into the chapel and arranged them in a row in front of the altar, but Rebecca disapproved (non-verbally, but heartily), so they took them back out again and found some old cushions and we knelt on those.

The damp of the flagstones seeped through immediately, chilling my kneecaps. Not a single ray of sunlight pierced the stained-glass window. There were candles fl ickering on the altar and in the niches in the walls, although not nearly enough of them – they merely served to intensify the gloom. Worse, I had an uninterrupted view of Uncle John, who lay with his hands wrapped around Benedict’s hilt. For one dreadful moment, I thought I saw a smear of blood on the blade. I squeezed my eyes shut and said my anti-ghoulies prayer, though, and when I opened my eyes again, the bloodstain had disappeared.

Once everyone was arranged to Rebecca’s satisfaction, Mr Herbert cleared his throat and began. We got all the way through ‘In the midst of life, we are in death’ and ‘The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away’, all the way up to Toby standing before the altar and saying, ‘Let us commend our King, John Edward Stephen Tobias Henry Bartholomew, to the mercy of God’, when Rebecca lurched to her feet.

‘Stop!’ she cried.

Veronica groaned. Simon shuffled sideways on his knees and tried to tug his mother down beside him, but she was having none of it.

‘Stop!’

Mr Herbert looked over at Toby helplessly.

‘What’s wrong, Rebecca?’ Toby whispered – as though there were other mourners in the chapel who mustn’t be disturbed.

‘You have no right to stand there!’

Toby looked down at his feet, bemused. Henry started shaking with silent giggles. I poked her hard in the ribs and she subsided into hiccups.

‘You are not the heir of His Majesty!’ Rebecca shouted. ‘You are not the true King!’

Her face was red, her chest heaved with emotion, her hands were clenched – she seemed utterly mad and utterly sincere. I just knelt there, gaping up at her. But Veronica got to her feet and dusted off her knees.

‘Go on, then,’ she sighed. ‘As you are determined to turn this funeral into some histrionic travesty–’

‘How dare you!’ Rebecca cried. ‘You don’t care about this funeral! You never loved His Majesty!
I
loved him!’ And to everyone else’s embarrassment, she broke into noisy weeping. Simon stood up and tried to push his handkerchief at her, but she shook her head. Instead, she grasped his shoulder and turned him to face the altar.

‘Here,’ she sobbed,
‘here
is the true King! Yes – my son! Simon, the first-born child of King John the Seventh!’

If she had hoped for exclamations of shock or outrage, she must have been disappointed. Apart from Henry’s hiccups and the hissing of the candles, there was complete silence.

Simon was the first to speak. ‘Mother,’ he said quietly. ‘What...?’

She clutched him closer. ‘I promised His Majesty, I
swore
I wouldn’t tell a soul while he lived. But he always meant for you to be King, you were always his favourite.’

‘How interesting,’ said Veronica, through what sounded like clenched teeth. ‘But perhaps you could save your fantastic tale for a more appropriate time – after dinner, say, when we often read each other fairy stories by the fireside. For the moment, the Reverend Mr Herbert has a funeral ceremony to conclude. Simon, perhaps you could escort your mother to her room so that she can have some sorely needed rest. No doubt she is hysterical after a difficult few days. Mr Herbert, please continue.’

‘Oh,’ he said, glancing around. ‘Well, should I perhaps...?’

‘I
think,’ Toby said. We all turned to look at him. ‘I think that ... that we should hear what Rebecca has to say.’

Finally, there was uproar. Veronica started shouting at Toby. Rebecca continued to wail. Mr Herbert made squeaking noises and batted his arms around, and Carlos started barking loud enough to wake Uncle John.

‘Enough!’ I cried. ‘Please!’ I gestured at Uncle John. ‘Can’t we just ... I mean...’ I ran out of words then, but it seemed to be sufficient. Everyone quietened.

‘Perhaps,’ Mr Herbert ventured, suddenly remembering he was supposed to be in charge, ‘Mrs Chester could ... er ... speak? And then Her Highness could...’ Veronica, white-faced with fury, glared at him but gave a sharp nod.

Rebecca, still clutching Simon’s arm, grew teary again as she gazed at Uncle John. ‘It’s true. Simon is His Majesty’s son. Look, look at his face.’

We all stared at the dead man and then at Simon. It was true, there was a suggestion of Uncle John in Simon’s face. But I had no idea what Phillip Chester, Rebecca’s husband, had looked like. Perhaps he’d also had that brow, that nose. And in any case, the most striking feature of Simon’s face was his deep, dark eyes – Rebecca’s eyes. Although now I came to consider it, they were also Veronica’s eyes...

‘Are you claiming,’ said Mr Herbert, ‘that ... that your son is the legitimate issue of yourself and...?’

‘We were as good as married,’ sniffed Rebecca, scrubbing at her face now with Simon’s handkerchief. ‘We made private vows in front of this very altar.’

‘Don’t be absurd,’ said Veronica at once, very coldly. ‘The late King may or may not have had ... dalliances with village women before the war, but there would never have been any question of him marrying one of them. He was always destined to wed someone of noble birth and so he did. And even if there
had
been a child–’

‘Simon,’ interrupted Toby. ‘Did you know about this?’

Simon shook his head. He was as pale and tense as Veronica, but unlike her, his eyes held a faint glimmering of excitement. He didn’t believe it ... and yet, if it turned out to be true, he would be very, very pleased about it, there was no doubt about that.

‘I promised His Majesty,’ whispered Rebecca. ‘Not to tell, not while...’

‘How convenient,’ sneered Veronica. ‘Now that there’s no one left to contradict your ridiculous story, you think you can spread a lot of lies to further your son’s ambitions.’

‘Veronica, really,’ said Toby. ‘Simon had no idea.’

She turned on him then. ‘And you! The only reason you’re giving this any credence is that you’re terrified at the thought of taking on the King’s responsibilities! How much easier to hand them over to Simon Chester, who’s cleverly made himself so indispensable to you!’

‘Stop it,’ said Toby, in a very low voice. ‘I know you don’t mean it, Veronica. It’s just that you’re upset and I can understand why, it must be awful, especially with your poor mother...’

‘Don’t you dare mention her!’ snapped Veronica, and before anyone could move, she had stormed out of the chapel. Toby, looking distressed, took a few steps after her, then stopped.

Henry tugged on my sleeve. ‘I don’t understand,’ she whispered to me. ‘How could Uncle John get married to Aunt Isabella if he was already married to Rebecca? And why is Veronica...’

‘Not now, Henry,’ I said.

‘Soph?’ said Toby, falling to his knees beside me. ‘Please, could you go after Veronica? She’ll talk to
you.
’

Rebecca had moved closer to the altar and was staring down at Uncle John’s face with a ghastly, triumphant expression. It was this more than anything else that made me tug Henry to her feet and lead her and Mr Herbert into the kitchen, where I sat them down and made them tea. I left Henry teaching Mr Herbert the complicated rules of Squid and went in search of Veronica, eventually finding her, as I should have known, in the library. She was halfway up a ladder on the second floor, her face buried in a morocco-bound volume stamped with the FitzOsborne crest.

‘Veronica?’ I said tentatively. ‘Are you all right?’

‘What? Oh, hello.’ There was a dust-coloured smudge across her black skirt and a cobweb dangled from her ebony hairclip. ‘Ha! Just as I thought...’ And she backed down the ladder, a couple of thick books tucked under one arm. She sat on the lowest step, placed the books on her lap and beckoned me over. ‘Look at this. Village child claims to be the grandson of King Stephen, appears to be the very image of King Stephen’s eldest son. The court rules that illegitimate offspring have no claims to heredity and Bartholomew the Second retains the throne. The story’s confirmed in Edward de Quincy’s journal.’ Veronica gave the thickest book a friendly pat.

‘But, wait a minute,’ I said. ‘Does that mean ... do you think Rebecca’s telling the truth? That Simon really is ... who she says he is?’

Veronica shrugged. ‘If Rebecca had any proof, she’d be waving it in our faces, and she’s not. Doesn’t matter. What matters is that Simon Chester can’t possibly inherit the throne. Toby is the eldest living legitimate male relative of the late King – the throne is his.’