A Brief History of Montmaray

by Michelle Cooper

  “What’s the chance of that happening?” said Veronica bitterly. “You know he’ll throw a fit when he sees men in uniform, let alone hears them speaking German.”

  “Well, Rebecca will just have to keep him quiet,” I said. “It’s not as though she’s doing anything else useful at the moment.”

  Then there wasn’t much else to do but wait for the ship with the blue swastika to reappear, which it did today at noon. A motorboat much like Herr Rahn’s was soon launched off the side, but Henry, telescope glued to her eye, reported that this time there were four men aboard. “Maybe five,” she added as the boat neared the shore.

  “Ought we to go down and meet them?” I asked Veronica in a low voice, drawing her away from Henry. “It might seem more welcoming.”

  “But we aren’t welcoming them,” she pointed out. “We don’t want them anywhere near here. They shouldn’t have been here in the first place.”

  “Still, if we’re friendly, they might be more sympathetic when we say we don’t want Uncle John questioned.”

  Henry’s shout interrupted our discussion. “They’ve docked! Ooh, that motor’s fast. Don’t you wish we had a motor like that?”

  “Are they wearing uniforms?” Veronica asked.

  “Brown, with big black boots. No, one of them’s wearing all black. Now Herr Rahn’s talking with them. He’s sticking his arm straight out and the others are sticking theirs out, too, like in that newspaper picture of Hitler.” Veronica and I exchanged anxious looks. “Now they’re unloading things … they’re going into Alice’s house, no, one of them’s gone behind a rock and he’s undoing his trousers …”

  “Yes, thank you, Henry, that’s enough,” said Veronica, taking the telescope from her. “No, Sophie, we’ll wait for them to approach us.” She sighed. “Pity we can’t raise the drawbridge any more, or lower the portcullis.”

  “Pity I haven’t got the cannon working yet,” said Henry. “But I’ve got my catapult all ready.”

  I then explained to Henry that this was a moment for diplomacy rather than battle.

  “Why?” she asked. “Veronica just said they were trespassing.”

  “Why were you eavesdropping on my private conversation with Sophie?” said Veronica.

  “It wasn’t private, you were standing right next to me! What was I supposed to do, pretend my ears had fallen off?”

  “Anyway,” I interrupted, “the point is that there are six of them and—”

  “Six of us,” said Henry.

  “Six men, six armed men,” I said.

  “As opposed to three girls, a feeble old man, his useless housekeeper, and a dog,” said Veronica.

  “Don’t call me a girl,” snapped Henry. “And I bet Carlos is a better fighter than any of them.”

  “We are not fighting anyone,” I said firmly. “We are going to help their search as much as we can and ask that they leave Uncle John alone. You know he isn’t well and that sometimes he can be a bit—”

  “Mad,” said Henry, nodding.

  “And so we’ll ask them—nicely—to stay away from the castle.”

  “Tell them,” said Veronica.

  “Tell them nicely,” I said.

  An hour later, I looked out from my post on the roof to see the men come marching—well, not exactly marching, but certainly not strolling—towards the drawbridge. We ran downstairs and hurriedly arranged ourselves in the kitchen. Veronica seated herself at the head of the table facing the unlatched door, her hands folded in front of her, her head straight and still, looking as though a heavy golden crown were balanced on top of it. Carlos stood at attention at her right, trembling with alertness. Henry and I placed ourselves on her left, my hand on Henry’s shoulder part reassurance and part restraint. Rebecca had already locked herself in the bedroom with Uncle John. We waited silently, the very air tense.

  At last came the knock on the door.

  “Come in,” said Veronica sharply.

  All at once, the room darkened as half a dozen men crowded through the doorway. Herr Rahn managed to push his way through to the front.

  “Your Highnesses, may I present SS-Obergruppenführer Gebhardt,” said Herr Rahn. A tall man with white hair and eyes the color of ice gave a perfunctory bow. “SS-Obergruppenführer Gebhardt—Her Royal Highness, Princess Veronica of Montmaray. Her Royal Highness, Princess Sophia. And Her Royal Highness, Princess Henrietta.”

  We each nodded, even Henry, who had scowled at the sound of her full name.

  “Your Highnesses,” said the tall man, in a voice as cold as his eyes. His English was impeccable. He was clearly very important—his posture alone managed to indicate he outranked every other German in the room. “As you know, one of our men is missing. We have not found any sign of him on the island. We request permission to search this … this castle.” He glanced around the kitchen, at the broken windowpane and shabby dishcloth, and I knew I wasn’t imagining the disdain in his expression.

  Then Veronica stood up, her invisible crown seemingly welded in place, and all of a sudden, the German officer looked much shorter. “As you know,” she said, “we have helped Herr Rahn search all the possible places on this island a man could become lost. You are welcome to search the henhouse, the woodshed, the gatehouse, even the cucumber frames if you wish, but we have already searched the house and I think it highly unlikely that—”

  “We will start outside,” interrupted the officer. He barked out orders at the men, four of whom rushed out the door and scattered. “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 coloring.

  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 I discovered 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 continued.

  “You,” said Gebhardt, pointing one 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 to 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 antagonize 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 sympathizers in Montmaray and we will use every diplomatic means to ensure that 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. Meanwhile, Veronica and Gebhardt glared daggers at each other. Eventually 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; 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 seek 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 half an hour later to tell us this. He and one of the soldiers had stayed behind for a final search of the island, while Gebhardt and the others had returned to their ship.

  “And your uncle?” asked Herr Rahn.

  “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 sorry,” he said, looking miserable. “But you will be leaving now?”

  “Leaving?”

  “Leaving Montmaray,” he said. “You have family in England, yes? The young princess told me. It will be safe there.”

  “Safe from what?” I said, my heart starting to beat harder.

  He glanced over his shoulder, then leaned closer. “Sophia, Gebhardt is a man who … He cares nothing for the Grail, nothing for wisdom! Gebhardt… il veut la vengeance.”

  “Vengeance?” I said.

  “I am a scholar,” he said urgently. “Not a soldier. I join the Nazis because I must, but I… I do not agree with …”

  There was a shout from the other side of the Chasm.

  “I must go,” he whispered. “I am sorry. For everything. Au revoir.” Then he gave one of his heel-clicking bows and was gone, hurrying over the drawbridge.

  And now, as I sit here writing, the old French clock strikes once, 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.

  1st January 1937

  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, or cried (Veronica never cries), or 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 specializes 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 searchers, 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 remember him looking in years. 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’s 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 straightaway. 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 unraveling 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.