“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 very 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 with 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’s 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 the blanket, as though they belonged to someone else. “Well. The queen became tired of the mad king, 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 to leave. The queen belonged to the king, you see, and he knew the king would be very angry with his manservant if he just … just allowed her to go. So he tried to argue with her. She wouldn’t listen. She climbed into the rowboat and picked up an oar. Well, of course he had to climb in after her—anyone could see she didn’t know one end of an oar from the other. He took up the oars and pulled away from the wharf, still arguing all the way out onto the deep water. He could just see the black hulk of the ship on the horizon. And then he stopped rowing. He refused to go any further.”
Veronica looked down at her hands. I held my breath, waiting.
“She was very angry by this time,” said Veronica. “She lost her temper, and she hit him and hit him. He raised his arms to protect himself, to restrain her, but he still had hold of the oars, and in the confusion she stumbled and fell against the side of the boat. Her head slammed into the edge. She went very still then. 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.
“The big ship sailed past the island and off into the darkness, and she continued to lie there, silent, unmoving. So he took a long white shawl out of her suitcase, and he wrapped it around her. And then 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 anymore, he told himself, 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 realized 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 she 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 most 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 of 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.
5th January 1937
I have never been so glad to see Toby in all my life. Veronica, Henry, Carlos, and I practically dragged him out of the boat when it docked this morning, barely stopping to acknowledge the other two passengers.
“Ugh,” said Toby, trying to disentangle himself from Henry, who’d thrown herself around his neck. “Don’t squash me, I’ll be sick again.” And he did look a bit green, although nowhere near as bad as the short, round stranger next to him, who had one hand over his mouth and the other clutching at his stomach.
“Sick as dogs, both of them, all the way from the Channel,” said Simon, coming up behind with the bags.
“You needn’t sound so smug,” said Toby. “Just because you spent the trip strutting round on deck, scoffing bacon sandwiches.”
“Well, it might have helped if you hadn’t drunk all that brandy the night before.”
“Gentlemen,” groaned the stout man. “Please.”
“Oh, I do apologize,” said Toby. “Everyone, this is the Reverend Webster Herbert.”
“Are you the Bishop?” asked Henry, looking at his black suit with interest.
“No, afraid we don’t rate a bishop anymore,” said Toby cheerfully. “But never mind! Mr. Herbert, may I introduce my cousin, Princess Veronica, and my sisters, Princess Sophia and Princess Henrietta-who-prefers-to-be-known-as-plain-old-Henry. Oh, and this is Prince Carlos.” Carlos gave the Reverend Mr. Herbert a friendly whack in the stomach with his tail. Then there was a lot of jostling over the luggage and we all started up the path, everyone talking at once.
I positioned myself behind Simon and I heard him say to Veronica, “My condolences on the loss of your father.” And Veronica nodded and said “Thank you” in a very civil manner. It may just have been the calming presence of Toby, but nevertheless I took their lack of open hostility as a good omen, particularly as the clouds had parted for a brief moment and there was a hazy glimmer of rainbow over the sea. Miraculously, the peace held all the way up to the castle, all through the complicated allocation of bedrooms, all through luncheon, coming unstuck only when the grown-ups (for the first time, I had no hesitation in classifying myself as one) sat around the table afterwards discussing the funeral arrangements.
It was a pity Aunt Charlotte couldn’t have been there to tell us all what to do, but her foot was still in plaster and the doctor had forbidden her to move further than her drawing room. Unfortunately, Toby seemed to have misplaced the lengthy list of instructions she’d given him, and it turned out that Mr. Herbert hadn’t had much experience in burying kings.
“It’s quite straightforward,” said Veronica. “The funeral service is mostly out of the Book of Common Prayer, and Toby, as the new King—”
I blinked. I’d always known Toby was heir to the throne, but to think that now he actually was King—or would be, after the coronation ceremony…
“—leads the responses throughout. Then we carry the body down into the crypt and Toby removes the Royal Seal—”
“That round thing with the FitzOsborne crest engraved on it?” asked Toby.
“Yes, according to tradition, the King wears it round his neck on a gold chain,” said Veronica. “It’s for stamping into sealing wax on official letters, so you’ll need to—”
“No!” said Rebecca from the doorway of the Great Hall. We all turned around.
“What’s the matter, Rebecca?” said Veronica. It was the most Rebecca had said since Uncle John had died. We waited a bit, but nothing else was forthcoming. Veronica sighed. “As I was saying, Toby puts the Royal Seal around his own neck, and then … well, he should remove the crown as well, but I think that’s in Aunt Charlotte’s safe. At least I hope it is, it certainly isn’t here. It wasn’t part of the original ceremony, anyway. After that, Toby grasps Benedict in his right hand and—”
“No!” cried Rebecca, still in the doorway, now shaking her head wildly. “No!”
“Do you think,” Veronica snapped at Simon, “that you could possibly attempt to discover what it is that your mother finds so objectionable?” Simon, who’d already risen from his chair, scowled at Veronica. Mr. Herbert, sitting across the table from me, looked overwhelmed and still slightly seasick. I felt a bit queasy myself, remembering the last time the King had grasped Benedict.
“Why don’t we discuss this later?” Toby suggested brightly. “Mr. Herbert probably wants to unpack and have a rest, anyway.”
“Good idea,” said Simon, herding his mother towards Uncle John’s room. Veronica stood up, glared at Simon, and then led Mr. Herbert upstairs. Toby slumped back in his chair.
“I thought they were being too polite to last,” he sighed. Then he looked over at me and reached out a hand. “Oh, Soph! Poor you. Has it been just dreadful?”
“Yes,” I said, considering. “Yes, it really has. And you don’t even know a quarter of it.”
He grimaced. “I gathered that, what with Henry babbling about Nazi pirates trying to shoot Carlos, and Rebecca reduced to monosyllables.”
“We’d better go up and get Veronica, and then you can find out—”
“No, you tell me,” he said. “Honestly, Soph. I’d rather hear it from you.”
“Let’s go up to the gatehouse, then,” I said after a moment. “So we don’t get overheard.”
We took a blanket and two hot bricks with us, and huddled together on the floor. Then I told him everything—about the Nazis arriving on their futile and possibly Simon-inspired quest for the Grail; about Hans lying bloody and mutilated on the kitchen flagstones; about the terrifying trip down the tunnels with the corpse; about Uncle John throwing the chamber pot at Gebhardt—all of it. I’d forgotten what a good listener Toby could be—he gasped in all the appropriate places, urged me on when I stumbled, asked all the right questions. I hesitated when I came to Isabella. But I knew Veronica would want him to know, so I went on, describing my dream and my vision at George’s funeral, and then Veronica’s terrible revelation.
“My God,” he breathed at the end. “And George actually… my God.” He stared at me. “Oh, Sophie. You sound so calm. You’ve been so brave and … oh, Sophie!” He flung his arms around me.
“No, I haven’t,” I mumbled into his shoulder. “I was absolutely terrified all along and—”
He let me go so he could peer into my face. “That’s what I mean. You were so scared and you did it anyway. That’s even braver than Veronica—because she’s always had nerves of steel.” He frowned. “How is she, anyway? I haven’t had a second alone with her yet.”
I shook my head. “The usual, just quieter. And when I think about how awful I felt when … well, when Mother and Father died.” He nodded quickly. “And the same thing’s just happened to her, losing both her parents at once.”
“Except it’s not as though she actually liked Uncle John. And Isabella’s been gone for years.”
“Toby!” I said crossly. “Even so! And finding out about George…”
“Yes, I know,” said Toby. “She really does need to have a good howl or something. Well, maybe she and Simon can have one of their enormous rows and she can throw a plate at him, let it out that way.”
Henry burst in at that moment, desperate to show off her new knot-tying skills to Toby, and she dragged him down to the courtyard. I gathered up the blanket and no-longer-hot bricks and went back to the kitchen, where I found Simon peering inside the kettle.
“How’s
Rebecca?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I gave her a sleeping powder. I’m just making tea—would you like some?” It turned out Toby had brought with him not just tea, but white sugar, tinned shortbread, and my favorite fig-and-ginger jam, all of which he’d appropriated from Aunt Charlotte’s pantry.
“Oh,” I said. “All right, then. Thanks.” I sat down and realized I hadn’t once blushed since Simon had arrived. Perhaps I really had become Sensible after all. Then our fingertips brushed as he passed me the sugar, and I shivered. Or perhaps not.
“So,” he said, looking at me over his cup. “How are you?”
“Um,” I said. I couldn’t remember his ever asking me this before. “I’m …” I couldn’t think of any polite yet truthful way to end that sentence, so I cleared my throat and began again. “You know, I really can’t believe that Toby is … well, that he’s King.”
Simon’s face lit up in a rare, uninhibited grin. “I know! King Toby! Imagine!” Then he sobered at once. “But this does change things, of course. I know you were planning to leave Montmaray anyway. But the others—well, you understand that things are different now. With the villagers gone and my mother not … er, able to look after you, not at the moment …”
As though Rebecca had ever looked after us! Simon must have seen me suppress a snort, because he went on hurriedly.
“They can’t stay here, Sophia, it simply isn’t practical.” He leaned towards me and gazed earnestly into my face. I felt my heart begin to beat a bit faster. “The Princess Royal’s expecting all of you to return with Toby and me—I’ve arranged for a ship to pick us all up in a few days.” He half smiled at me and sat back. “I’m so glad I can rely on you to help me persuade them to do the sensible thing.”
My heart went back to its usual speed. Simon didn’t care how I was at all—he just needed to tick off another one of his duties on the list Mr. Grenville had given him: “Item 7(a): Ensure all three (3) FitzOsborne girls board ship for England.” I put down my cup heavily, sloshing tea into the saucer.
A Brief History of Montmaray Page 17