A Brief History of Montmaray Read online

  “Running round in circles. And the speckled one is missing. Do you think the others attacked her?”

  “Full moon last night,” said Rebecca lugubriously before disappearing upstairs with another jug of hot water.

  Veronica snorted. “What does she think they are, werechickens?”

  “I could only find one egg,” said Henry. “And I looked everywhere.”

  “It’s probably just the change in the weather,” I said. “You know they always go a bit funny at this time of year.”

  “What’s the bay look like?” Veronica asked Henry.

  “Frothy,” said Henry. “Like God’s been at it with a giant eggbeater.”

  “Bother,” said Veronica, because we were expecting the supply ship. Henry went up on the roof with the telescope to watch for it, and I went outside to see if I could find any more eggs and to have a bit of a think. I couldn’t go back upstairs to think, because Simon was in the bathroom, which leads off the bedroom Veronica and I share, and the door doesn’t close properly. Simon was shaving, which is another unsettling thing—nobody here shaves, usually, although Henry probably wishes she could. Toby doesn’t really need to, and Uncle John has a phobia about sharp objects and blood, so he has an enormous beard instead.

  On my way to the henhouse, I discovered Spartacus, our big red-and-white rooster, flapping his wings and crowing triumphantly. He had cornered the tabby cat, which was cowering against the wall of the woodshed (perhaps that’s why all our cats are a bit mad; they have been driven that way by Spartacus). I told him off, but he didn’t even bother to listen, just strutted unrepentantly towards the henhouse.

  The henhouse and the pigeon loft are built in what used to be the armory, along one of the curtain walls. The Montmaray garrison lived in it while the castle was being built and so it is quite roomy and comfortable, even though there are only arrow loops for windows and the roof has fallen in at one end. As Henry had reported, the hens (and half a dozen of Toby’s pigeons) were in an agitated state. They crowded around me in a ruffled feathery heap; then, realizing I wasn’t about to give them a second breakfast, flapped off to their perches to sulk.

  “What have you lot been up to?” I asked the fluffy white hen, who often snuggles up for a pat, but she only goggled at me and scuttled away. They’d clearly been out exploring yesterday, laying eggs in inconvenient and dangerous places along the cliffs—it’s all Spartacus’s fault; he leads them on. Which suddenly reminded me of that day last week when we’d found half of them in the chapel. I’d assumed at the time that Rebecca had left the chapel door open (she spends hours on her knees in front of that altar, muttering away). But now I wondered if the hens had managed to find one of the old secret tunnels. The tunnels are so old and secret that nobody, not even George, is entirely sure where they begin or end. Veronica says they definitely exist, though; she found references to them on some old maps in the library. The tunnels lead from beneath the chapel to the curtain walls or beyond, and were built to allow the castle dwellers to escape if the castle was invaded and All Was Lost. But not even Henry is prepared to spend days poking around the crypt to find a tunnel entrance, what with the damp, the dark, the unsteady piles of bones, the rats, and so on (ugh, the very thought of going down there makes me nearly sick). Assuming, of course, that any tunnels still exist, that they didn’t all cave in centuries ago. Although perhaps there is one with hen-sized access … Anyway, I had a look around the henhouse, but didn’t find anything except a smallish egg under a pile of straw, and I don’t think it was very fresh.

  After breakfast, Veronica went up on the roof with our little wireless, hoping to pick up a signal from Spain. The reception is never very good, but sometimes, if the Pyrenees are cloudless and the wind is blowing in just the right direction and all the important parts of the Spanish transmitters are functioning correctly, it’s not too bad. She had no luck today, though—perhaps it’s all the fighting going on there. Or else the batteries are dying. Heaven knows how we’ll ever manage to recharge them, or afford to buy new ones.

  Meanwhile, I tidied the bedrooms and Simon disappeared into Uncle John’s room for a chat. Uncle John tolerates Simon, for some reason—it must be because Simon is Rebecca’s son. Rebecca is the only one Uncle John will normally have anything to do with. He ignores the rest of us—except on the odd occasion when he doesn’t, which is worse.

  Last night, for example, Rebecca made Veronica knock on his door and ask what he wanted on his supper tray, and the moment he caught sight of Veronica, he had one of his fits. This time, he hurled his chamber pot at her. Fortunately, he missed (even more fortunately, Henry had just emptied it); unfortunately, it hit the long looking glass. Then Rebecca rushed in and shouted at Veronica for upsetting him, and Veronica shouted back, and Henry ran in to see what was going on and stepped on Carlos’s tail, making him yelp. So what with Rebecca moaning on and on about how we’d have seven years of bad luck now and Simon and Veronica snapping at each other, it was a thoroughly miserable evening.

  But never mind about that; I need to finish what I was writing yesterday about Spain. Except now I have only a lot of unanswered questions. For example, what is the difference between a Socialist and a Communist? What exactly is Fascism? But the biggest question is: Which side are we supposed to support? The side of our cousin Alfonso and the Monarchists? But from what Veronica said, even if General Franco wins, King Alfonso will not be allowed to return to power. And in any case, how could anyone support Franco, a person whose forces massacred all those civilians in Badajoz?

  And yet—the other side are Communists! And they murdered the Russian royal family, all those poor Romanov children shot dead (and we are related to them, too, distantly, which is why Great-aunt Elizabeth was being courted by that Russian nobleman in the first place). Of course, some of the Russian people did have reason to be unhappy with the Tsar. Not all monarchs are wise, kind, and just. Sometimes they make mistakes, I know that.

  How could I not, when each time I catch sight of the stone cross at South Head, I’m reminded of all those young Montmaravian men who were slaughtered in the Great War? Was it necessary, politically? Did their sacrifice achieve anything worthwhile? Veronica might be able to attempt a response to that question, but I can’t. All I know is that it happened in 1917, when Uncle John had just become King and was, perhaps, overeager to prove himself worthy of the title. At any rate, he decided to give some of his fellow Old Etonians a hand in their war and volunteered a battalion of Montmaray men, with himself as their commanding officer. The men—all fishermen, none of whom had even seen a rifle before their basic training—lasted only two days at the Western Front. Not that rifle expertise would have helped them much—the trenches they were defending were shelled by German aeroplanes. Only six of them survived, all but one wounded badly. And apparently Uncle John was never quite the same after that.

  But to return to the current war, the one in Spain—most of the people of Spain wanted their King to leave, and they did vote the Communists into government. It makes choosing sides very complicated. I don’t suppose my opinion counts either way. It’s not as though it can really affect us, here in Montmaray. And yet watching Simon and Veronica argue so passionately about the war last night made me feel I should care about it, too.

  And there it is, what I wanted to have a think about. You see, I couldn’t help feeling just the tiniest bit envious yesterday as I observed the energy Simon devotes to his dislike of Veronica. All those flashing looks of his, those explosive sighs, those barely reined-in gestures! All those fervent words tumbling from his lips! It’s especially galling when I compare this to the few “conversations” I had with Simon yesterday, the most thrilling of which was as follows:

  Simon: Could you please pass the salt?

  Sophia (reaches out, knocks over saltcellar): Oh dear …

  (Rebecca shrieks, flings spilled salt over left shoulder.)

  Sophia: Sorry.

  Simon (in the kindly tones one would
use when addressing a small child or an idiot): Never mind.

  So I can’t say I blame him in the slightest for preferring to argue politics with Veronica than to talk with me. In fact, I didn’t even attempt to follow their debate last night. Instead, I gave in to Henry’s pleading and read her two chapters of Johnny Hercules and the Diamond of Azoo-Beeza. This is a dreadful book that Toby sent her, full of man-eating pythons and marauding tribesmen and skeletons with tattered maps clenched between their teeth. Veronica refused to have anything to do with it, hoping this would encourage Henry to learn to read by herself. I also suspect that if Veronica had picked it up, the historical and geographical inaccuracies would have driven her to distraction by the end of the first page. Veronica doesn’t really see the point of fiction. When I asked her what she’d thought of Pride and Prejudice, she only wondered aloud how anyone could have written a novel set in the first part of the nineteenth century without once mentioning Napoleon.

  Oh! I have just had another thought!

  What if Simon has fallen in love with Veronica? And, rather like Mr. Darcy regarding Miss Elizabeth Bennet, hasn’t yet recognized his true feelings for her? Although Veronica’s more like Mr. Darcy than Simon is. And actually, Simon’s brow is a bit Rochester-ish. Or even Heathcliff-ian. Well, perhaps Simon has realized how hopeless and doomed his love is (she a princess, he the mere son of a housekeeper) and has decided to mask it with a display of passionate hatred.

  Oh, Sophia. Change the subject.

  So—I am currently sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for the others to return. They’ve taken the gig out to meet the supply ship and Rebecca went because Simon did, so I am left to look after Uncle John. Fortunately, he’s asleep. I’m hoping he stays that way for a bit longer. I need all the peace and quiet I can get in here. Outside, the wind is whipping the royal standard above the gatehouse into a frenzy and sawing the kitchen shutters back and forth (the latch has snapped off again), and an ominous rattle has started up in Vulcan’s flue. I can hear the Blue Room ghost moaning and shuffling around upstairs, too. I’ve just finished ironing the only dress that still fits me, an apron, and some pillow slips. I did ask Veronica if she wanted me to do her blouses while she was gone, but she looked at me as though I’d offered to wash some toast—she can’t understand why I bother with ironing when there’s no one here who cares what we look like…

  Heavens, I nearly died of shock just then! An enormous crash sounded from Uncle John’s room! I whirled around just as the bolt rattled and shot back. Then the door creaked open an inch and a bloodshot eye appeared.

  “Where’s Rebecca?” demanded the eye. Or rather, the mouth below the eye, except I couldn’t see it, what with all the grimy, tangled hair in the way.

  “Oh, she’s … she’s just gone out to meet the supply ship,” I managed when I was able to breathe again. “Can I get you something?”

  The eye blinked. The door wavered on its hinges.

  “Why don’t you sit down?” I said. “And I’ll make you a cup of tea.” I stood up, but he just shook his great shaggy head at me. His beard straggles halfway down his chest now. Even his eyebrows have grown feral—it’s a wonder he can see at all from beneath them.

  “Where’s Rebecca?.” he said again.

  “She won’t be long,” I assured him untruthfully (they’d only been gone twenty minutes) as I put the kettle on. We’d finished the last of the Basque captain’s crackers the night before, but I found some bread left over from breakfast and pushed it through the gap at Uncle John, feeling like a zookeeper feeding a caged mountain bear. He gnawed at it while the water boiled. I snatched the kettle off Vulcan at the first faint hint of a whistle for fear the sound would set him off, but he didn’t seem to hear it. He just stood there, wedged against the doorframe, his one visible eye staring at the sooty kitchen ceiling.

  “I was married,” he declared suddenly.

  “Yes, I know,” I said, pouring boiled water into the teapot and sloshing it around. He still hadn’t sat down, and it was making me nervous.

  Then his eye narrowed on me. “You’re Robert’s girl,” he said.

  “That’s right,” I said carefully.

  But all he said was, “Robert had three children, not just two.” Then he refused his tea and slammed the door shut. I kept thinking of Hamlet and “There is method in his madness,” but I can’t see that there is much method in it for Uncle John. Unless his method is to make Rebecca feel so sorry for him that she waits on him hand and foot, but she would do that anyway—she reveres him. Also, I’m not entirely certain he’s mad. I think it’s just that he prefers to stay in bed (I sometimes feel that way myself, especially in winter) and that he has a lot of thinking to do and sometimes this leaks out into talking to himself. After all, I talk to myself all the time—this journal is nothing but talking to myself. And the awful things he must have seen and heard during the war would make anyone dislike sudden loud noises and the sight of blood. Not that Veronica has much sympathy for this point of view. Still, I suppose if he wants Veronica’s compassion, he should stop shouting and throwing things at her. She always seems to get the worst of it when he’s in a rage. I suppose it’s because she looks so much like her mother.

  But I can hear voices now—the others are back! I had better go and help with the packages.

  Carlos is a hero. One of the bags went overboard when they were loading the gig, but he leapt into the sea and dragged it back. Veronica was worried that there may have been some letters lost, but I’m not too concerned. The only letters we really care about are from Toby, and we’ve just had one from him. At any rate, the two big hams were saved, as well as the flour and the candles—six dozen of them! So we gave Carlos the best spot in front of Vulcan to dry out and scratched behind his ears the way he likes, all of which he accepted solemnly as his proper due. At the moment he is lying on the hearthrug looking very noble, despite Henry and Jimmy being draped all over him. It’s mainly his furrowed brow, I think, and his penetrating black gaze. The Portuguese water dog is such a majestic breed. We’ve had them here at Montmaray for hundreds of years, although Carlos is the only one left now, George’s poor old Missy having died two winters ago. Portuguese water dogs were supposedly carried on the Spanish Armada. Then, when the battle was lost and the ships were scuttling home, the dogs were tossed overboard with the mules and the horses, and the dogs managed to swim here. Or else they were brought here by Portuguese fishermen. Although I prefer the Armada story; it’s more dramatic.

  Anyway, now we are all slumped around the table, recovering from an enormous luncheon. All the villagers stayed except for George, who always makes excuses (I think Uncle John’s brooding presence behind the door intimidates him). We had ham with a honey glaze, boiled potatoes with parsley, a salad made from nasturtium leaves and spinach, and afterwards, oranges and walnuts. I am now so full of good food and so unwilling to move that I think any of Aunt Charlotte’s reproaches about our idle, extravagant lives would be quite, quite justified.

  It is much later, and Veronica has just finished giving Henry her spelling lesson (I did all the washing up instead and think I got the better end of the deal). Henry was in a very bad mood because firstly, Jimmy went back to the village to mess around with fishing nets and she wasn’t allowed to go with him, and secondly, Rebecca called her Henrietta all through luncheon. Veronica had to promise a Gory Story to get Henry to pay any attention at all, and even then, Henry spelled “city” with an s and “cake” with the k in the wrong place and no e. Her reading is almost as bad. And she doesn’t even care. She says George can’t read and he knows everything anyone would ever need to know, so why should she have to learn? She then recites a list of FitzOsbornes who lived perfectly happy lives despite being unable to spell their own names, beginning with our great-grandmother, who signed the marriage register with an X. Veronica now regrets having told Henry this fact.

  It’s hard to believe Henry and Veronica are cousins, they’re so different. Veron
ica begged and begged for us to be allowed to go to boarding school, just for a year or two, when Toby started at Eton. It did no good, though. There wasn’t enough money, of course, but Aunt Charlotte also has a horror of overeducated females. The way she told it, the English counties are littered with aging spinsters who accidentally displayed a spark of intelligence at a debutante dance and were banished forever from civilized society.

  But now Veronica is telling Henry the promised Gory Story. It is about Robert FitzOsborne at the Battle of Hastings (not my father, obviously, but the much earlier Robert FitzOsborne). Heads are getting chopped off with battle-axes, arrows are taking people’s eyes out, and horses are coughing up bloody froth, then falling down dead right on top of the Saxons. Henry is loving it.

  “And after the battle,” Veronica continues, “as one of William of Normandy’s most favored knights, Robert FitzOsborne was given a hundred men and sent south to cross the Tamar, and there he built a castle…”

  This is my favorite part. I watch men scurry like ants, quarrying flat the solid rock, cleaving the rock into vast blocks, hauling barrels of sand and lime up onto the mound. At night, the work continues by the light of burning rushes. The round walls of the keep rise ten feet high, twenty, thirty. Not for the FitzOsbornes a flimsy wooden motte-and-bailey castle, but a proper stone keep, right from the beginning.

  “Just like the Tower of London,” says Henry proudly.

  “Only because there was a great deal more stone than timber in Cornwall,” Veronica says, never one to let a good story get in the way of the facts. “And the castle was really quite small. A couple of rooms, a chapel—”

  “And battlements,” Henry says. “And they hid behind them and rained down arrows, while their enemies catapulted dead horses over the top. SPLAT!”

  I think I’ll go and finish this in the gatehouse.