A Brief History of Montmaray by Michelle Cooper Read Free Book Online

were-chickens?’
    ‘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 egg beater.’
    ‘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 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 armoury, 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, realising 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. It 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 existed, though; she found a reference 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. I took it inside and then realised I had forgotten to have a think while I was out there.
    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