A Brief History of Montmaray

  Henry was in hysterics. She blamed herself entirely, and I can’t say I did much to disabuse her of that notion. If she hadn’t been showing off, hadn’t been her usual foolish, reckless self, Toby wouldn’t have put himself in any danger. It’s a terrible way to learn a lesson, though. We could hear Toby’s screams from outside, even over the wind and the rain. I think Veronica did most of the surgery. Simon said afterwards, rather shakily, that his main contribution had been lying on top of Toby to stop him moving.

  The trip back up to the castle was a nightmare, too. We tried to fashion a stretcher, using a blanket and the oars from the rowboat, but it didn’t work very well, especially up the steep bits. Toby ended up limping part of the way, propped up by three of us, until he put his good foot in a rabbit hole. We managed to catch him before he hit the ground, but he’d blacked out by then, what with all the brandy and the blood loss and the pain. Simon and Veronica carried him the rest of the way.

  Now Toby is lying in Uncle John’s room (former room, I should say; I’ll have to stop thinking of it as his). We evicted Rebecca—there was no way we were going to try getting Toby up that staircase. He has three blankets (held up over his leg with the aid of the folding tea tray) and the warming pan, but he’s still shivering. Henry went out to raise the doctor’s flag, but it was torn off the flagpole at once—it’s probably flapping over France by now. In any case, who would see it? Dusk is falling and there are no ships. There are few at this time of year anyway, but with the war in Spain, shipping around here has almost ceased entirely. Oh, if only the Germans had left their radio equipment! And if only we knew how to use it! What on earth are we going to do?

  9th January 1937

  Toby has a solution. Personally, I think he’s still suffering the effects of all that brandy yesterday, but it’s not as though we have many other options.

  We are going to send his pigeons off with messages.

  Henry has been dispatched to collect them. I warned her not to use the one that follows Spartacus around all day because it thinks it’s a hen, but she says there are a few that keep to the loft Toby built. I’m worried they’ll have forgotten all about their former home in the Stanley-Ross attics. However, Toby says it’s only been eighteen months since Rupert gave them to him, and that during the Franco-Prussian War, one pigeon remembered its way home after four years’ confinement in a palace loft. Besides, he says, he’s tried sending messages to Rupert with them before.

  “And?” says Veronica.

  “Well, I forgot the family’d be at their London house, not in the country, and so… but one of the birds got home safely! We’re just not sure how long it took, because Rupert wasn’t there to check till a few weeks later.”

  “A few weeks—” Veronica begins, but she restrains herself from saying anything further. Toby looks dreadful. I’ve never seen him so pale and pinched-looking. He claims his leg is feeling much better this morning, but if that’s true, it’s only because it must have been agony before.

  I have just finished copying identical messages onto five scraps of cigarette paper, inserted them into their little metal cylinders, and attached each to a spindly red pigeon foot. The message is: “SOS Toby FitzOsb gravely ill at Montmaray. Pls. send help.” I wanted to put in a “Thank you” in advance, but there wasn’t room. At least the sky is clearer today—Veronica found an old book about homing pigeons in the library and it said they can become confused in fog. I’m more concerned about the enormous distance—more than four hundred miles, the first two hundred over sea.

  “In 1862,” Veronica reads aloud, “a champion bird traveled from Saint-Sébastien to Liège, a distance of six hundred and fifteen miles, in a single day, with more than a dozen other birds released at the same time arriving the very next morning.”

  Her valiant attempts at cheering us up may have helped Toby—he has fallen asleep at last—but they’re not helping me much. I don’t think any of Toby’s birds are champions. One of them looks as though it has mange. Even if one arrives intact, even if Rupert is at home and is checking the lofts regularly, even if he is able to telephone Aunt Charlotte at once (does she even have a telephone?), even if she is able to bully the English authorities into sending a ship for us in this weather—it could be a week till help arrives. I’m not sure Toby can manage that—I’m not sure I can.

  Henry has just tiptoed in to say the birds got off safely—she went up on the roof to release them. I’ve never seen her so subdued. It would be an immense improvement if it weren’t so disconcerting, particularly as Rebecca has also stopped talking to us. She isn’t even talking to Simon anymore. She’s probably sulking about Toby having taken over “His Majesty’s” room and Simon agreeing with us about it.

  Rebecca really has gone crazy, I’m sure of it. I heard her in her room upstairs yesterday, having what sounded like a loud conversation with Uncle John. Of course, she could have been talking with his ghost. It would be just like him to ignore the rest of us, especially at a time when we’re desperate for any help, supernatural or otherwise.

  10th January 1937

  What a day.

  We were startled from our luncheon (all of us except Rebecca perched on chairs around Toby’s bed) by the buzzing of an aeroplane engine. My heart immediately leapt into my throat. I’d been too worried about Toby to dwell on Gebhardt’s threats—the whole thing had started to seem like a nightmare I’d had months ago—but all my apprehension returned in an instant. Could the Germans have returned by aeroplane? Had they sent fighter planes? Judging by Veronica’s expression, she was thinking the same thing. But then Henry, who’d dashed out to the kitchen to peer through the doorway, ran back in.

  “It’s Julia!” she cried. “Julia and Anthony!”

  Close enough. It was Anthony. Even Toby, the only one who’d had any faith in the pigeons, was astonished. It had been just twenty-four hours since we’d sent off our SOS.

  “Rupert found your birds in the loft this morning—the poor chap’s been home with the flu since Christmas,” Anthony explained as I pushed a mug of soup into his hands. “I telephoned Julia from Brest this morning, just about to fly home after delivering medical supplies to the boys in Spain—and gosh, Toby, I should have kept some back for you, you look absolutely—”

  “Never mind about that,” said Toby faintly. “How many birds?”

  “Oh … two, three? Not sure. But there I was, all refueled and ready to take off—more than ready, actually. Had some Fascists take a few potshots at me near Madrid, and those French mechanics are hopeless.”

  “Oh, Anthony!” I said. “Did they actually hit you?”

  “Well, there was a bit of damage,” he said. “Need to get her back to England, really, to find out what’s what.”

  “But it’s safe to fly now?” asked Veronica anxiously.

  “Oh, yes!” said Anthony, a bit too heartily. “Except …”

  “Except?” urged Veronica.

  “Well, she’s only a two-seater, you know. Toby, of course—need to evacuate him, but I can’t say I feel comfortable leaving you ladies here alone even a day or two with whatever those bloody… er, those awful Nazis are planning.”

  “What?” we all cried. Because we hadn’t said anything to Anthony about Otto Rahn or Gebhardt, not one word.

  “Er … didn’t you get Julia’s telegram?” he asked.

  “We haven’t received any mail since Christmas,” said Veronica. “We don’t get regular deliveries in winter, the weather’s too rough.”

  “Oh,” said Anthony. “Er. Right.”

  “What did it say?” I asked.

  “Well, that’s the thing. I don’t know, exactly. Only that Julia’s father—well, you know he’s a cousin of Churchill’s …”

  We all nodded impatiently.

  “And his brother’s something in intelligence and, er, they picked up something about the Germans and Montmaray.”

  “The Nazis are planning an attack?” said Veronica sharply.

  “
Well, I don’t know an attack, exactly,” he said. “Actually, I’m not sure what…but it will be fine, I’m sure, if you’re out of here by then. I’ll fly Toby back and I’m sure we can squash in young Henry. Then I’ll come back for all of you ladies straightaway. Or send someone—one of the chaps I was at school with has just bought himself a de Havilland Dragonfly, beautiful twin-engine, seats five.”

  Toby was shaking his head violently and shoving at the blankets, trying to push himself upright. “No, Ant, take the girls and come back for me.”

  “Toby, lie down!” said Veronica.

  “Simon’s here, he can look after me and—”

  “No,” said Veronica firmly. “You need a doctor. Besides, you’re King.” She held up a hand as Toby began to protest. “We don’t have time to argue about it; it’ll be dark in a few hours.”

  And to everyone’s shock, Simon stood up at once. “She’s right. Henry, get dressed in your warmest clothes. Sophie, could you pack them some food for the journey? I’ll get a stretcher organized. Toby, what do you need from upstairs?”

  Sometime in the last few weeks, “capable” has replaced “handsome” as the attribute I most admire in a man, so I very nearly fell back in love with Simon at that moment, and I thoroughly regret ever having said anything bad about Anthony’s mustache. Between them, they got Toby all the way to the aeroplane waiting on the Green, settled him and his strapped leg in a comfortable position, and fitted Henry in beside Toby. Then Simon helped Anthony do something vital regarding the propeller.

  Despite the urgency of the situation, it was so hard to let them leave. I couldn’t help feeling that I’d never see them again, or that they would never see Montmaray again—a feeling only intensified when Veronica thrust a hastily wrapped bundle at Anthony and asked him to deliver it to Aunt Charlotte.

  “Of course,” he said. “Er, what is it?”

  But the rest of us had already worked it out. It was a collection of the most important pages of her Brief History of Montmaray. Henry started howling then and tried to scramble over Toby’s lap to throw herself at Veronica. Toby’s eyes also started welling up (although that was possibly physical, rather than emotional, pain—there wasn’t much room in the cockpit, and Henry wasn’t being as careful as she ought). And I sobbed unashamedly into Carlos’s fur.

  “Oh dear,” said Anthony. “Oh dear.”

  “Anthony, just go!” shouted Veronica, stuffing Henry back into the cockpit. “Please.”

  But Anthony was already pulling down his goggles and fiddling with the controls, and Simon was kicking away the rocks propped in front of the wheels. The plane started to trundle down the Green and we ran for cover, ducking our heads. As before, it seemed impossible that such an enormous, unwieldy machine could lift into the air, but there it went—a hop, another hop, and then it was gathering itself up and soaring off over the island. Within minutes it was impossibly distant, a silvery blur against a leaden sky, and I prayed harder than I ever had before that it would arrive safely.

  12th January 1937

  I know this journal is important. Keeping a careful record of these last days at Montmaray is my duty—my only duty now. But there’s nothing to write. We have been waiting for nearly two whole days and still no one has come—neither Germans nor rescuers.

  Simon and Veronica spend the time bickering; Rebecca sits and stares into space and mutters away to an invisible companion. I busy myself with housework, despite knowing that it’s a complete waste of time and energy. I’ve also made several halfhearted attempts to pack some essentials into Veronica’s satchel in case we need to leave in a hurry. (But what is truly essential? Food? Photographs? Bandages and iodine? And what about all those things that can’t fit inside a satchel—the sea monster tapestry, the portraits in the Great Hall, Benedict?) I also showed Simon the entrance to the tunnels in the crypt, in case we need an emergency escape route… but truthfully, none of us wants to consider this too deeply, not even Simon. The rest of the day, and long into the night, I read and read till my head aches, hoping to avoid sleep as long as possible. But it’s no good. Isabella’s always there, waiting for me to close my eyes. It’s as though she doesn’t ever want me to forget that she’s floating below the surface of the bay, the ends of her shawl trailing behind her, her dead eyes open and watchful. What does she want? What is she trying to tell me? I feel so terribly sorry for her, but I can’t do anything to help her.

  And now Simon has just stormed through the kitchen and out the door. I can hear the squelch of his boots as he picks his way through the mud of the courtyard—he seems to be heading towards the gatehouse. He’s forgotten to take a macintosh and it’s raining again. He’ll catch his death of cold if he’s not careful. And here comes Veronica, equally grim-looking, although at least she has a word for me.

  “Library,” she says. Now she’s disappeared, too.

  Oh, this is mad. I’m going to go upstairs to sort through my clothes and decide…

  What’s that noise? It sounds like… Now Simon’s running in, he’s shouting, it’s …

  Aeroplanes. Seven. German.

  We are in the firewood cave. The tide is rising. The waves lap at the rocks, inches below us. I write this by the last slanting rays of afternoon light—in English, as you can see, not Kernetin, because I want whoever finds this journal to know what happened to us.

  The German aeroplanes came from the south, early this afternoon. They swooped low over the island, the village their immediate target. Veronica, on the top floor of the library tower, saw the first bomb hit. She said it not so much fell as seemed to be drawn down, as though George’s cottage had hooked it on a line and reeled it in. She saw the cottage walls bulge and shatter before the explosion reached her ears; by that time, she’d already snatched up the King James Bible and was hurling herself down the stairs and out the door.

  We all raced into the chapel, clutching whatever we’d had close at hand—this journal, in my case. Simon scooped up my half-packed satchel; Rebecca had a blanket around her shoulders; I dragged Carlos along. Veronica pushed the Bible towards me and turned to run back into the Great Hall for Benedict, but Simon grabbed her arm.

  “No!” he roared. “No time! Get down!”

  And he was right: the engines were whining louder and louder. I looked up through the stained-glass window just as the leading aeroplane roared over the courtyard. A white flash lit up the gatehouse, and the drawbridge folded up and plummeted into the Chasm. The noise was like nothing I’d ever experienced. It was more than noise; it was a rush of fury, a shock wave that set all the bones in my skull vibrating. Just as I threw my arms over my face, the glass exploded into a storm of glittering jewels. Then I felt someone tug me around the altar and suddenly we were stumbling down into the crypt, groping our way through the darkness as crashes far above us shook the pillars and the floor. Carlos pressed close to my legs, trembling all over.

  “Sophia!” I heard Simon bellow. “Over here!”

  Veronica had located Benedict’s tomb, and they were tugging at the lid. Already, acrid smoke and the powdery smell of crushed stone were filtering into the crypt. Veronica vaulted down into the tunnel first; then Simon helped his mother over the edge of the tomb. I gave Carlos a leg up and a shove, then stuck my journal in the waistband of my skirt and followed him. Landing awkwardly on one ankle, I set off at a limping crouch, Simon so close behind me that I could feel his heart hammering against my back.

  It was quieter down there, with only a dull rumbling and an occasional thud to remind us of the destruction going on above. Not being able to see what was happening only made it worse, though. I was terrified that the next hit would bring hundreds of tons of rock crashing down upon us. We reached the place where the tunnel split in two and turned left, our path twisting and sloping downwards. My feet slid about on the slippery rock. Behind me, Simon cracked his head against the roof and swore. All at once, Carlos stopped, so abruptly that I tumbled over his back and into Rebecca. Looking ah
ead, I could see the glow of daylight outlining the walls of the tunnel.

  “Where are we?” Simon shouted.

  I could hear the crash of the ocean, could taste it in the dank air. With a thrill of horror, I realized that we’d trapped ourselves in a tunnel that led straight into the Chasm. The tide was rising—we could drown here or climb back up into the castle to burn to death, if we weren’t crushed to pulp first. I must have whimpered; Simon put a hand on my shoulder.

  “Move over, I’m going through to the front,” he said. “Veronica!”

  But there was barely enough room for me to turn around. There was no chance Simon could squeeze past. At any rate, we soon heard Veronica’s voice.

  “What?” shouted Simon. “What did she say?”

  “We’re below the drawbridge,” I relayed. “Not far from the firewood cave.”

  “How far above the water?” asked Simon.

  “A foot or so,” came Veronica’s reply. Then, “There’s a ledge. I’ll try to reach the cave.”

  “Veronica!” I screamed. “Don’t!” Now that we were close to the open air, the whine of the planes had become audible once more. I imagined a pilot spotting her tiny figure and veering round to capture her in his sights.

  “Damn it!” said Simon. “I should have gone first.”

  At our urging, Rebecca crawled forward a bit and flattened herself against the rock. Craning my neck over her shoulder, I was able to see a little more. From the tunnel mouth, a narrow ledge, overhung with tatters of drawbridge, wound itself up towards the castle. Veronica had squeezed herself onto the ledge and was peering ahead.