Re: Blood and Iron

Chapter 568: Sanguine and Sable

Dark red drapes were drawn tight against the blistering sun of Madrid, casting the royal chamber into a dim, oppressive gloom.

A half-circle of statesmen, generals, and whispering aristocrats gathered before King Alfonso XIII, who sat rigid on his high-backed chair, knuckles whitening as they gripped the gilded arms.

On a long table before them lay reports from Catalonia and the Basque provinces, places no longer content to merely grumble about Madrid’s taxes and priests.

Anarchist pamphlets circulated openly in Barcelona’s taverns. Radical speeches stirred Bilbao’s crowded squares.

Even in the countryside, peasants gathered in sullen knots, clutching ancient rifles and talking of land reform.

Spain had always been a fractious kingdom, a patchwork of old grudges bound loosely by crown and church. But now, in the long shadow of Europe’s shifting powers, it felt as though the stitches were tearing.

A general with a heavy black mustache, one of Alfonso’s more reactionary commanders, slammed his fist on the table.

“Your Majesty, this cannot stand! Workers in Seville march under red flags. The Catalans whisper of independence. The Basques stockpile arms. Worse yet, there are exiles from France bringing their poisonous syndicalist rot with them. Paris may have its own turmoil, but its plague infects us here.”

A younger minister, eyes sharp with calculation, countered carefully.

“Or perhaps, general, it is exactly because France rebuilds that we must tread lightly. De Gaulle’s government has already stabilized. He would seize any chance to extend French influence by guaranteeing your throne against these rabble. A treaty of mutual security might spare Madrid the barricades.”

This sparked immediate outrage among the older nobles.

“You would invite French regiments to march on Spanish soil again? After what they did under Napoleon? Shall we become their lackey, as Portugal once was?”

Another voice broke in; the Marqués de Montoro, an aged diplomat whose family had served the crown since Habsburg times. His words were slow, careful, but carried a certain dread.

“There is another option, sire. Berlin. Or rather, the shadow behind its throne in Tyrol.”

A shiver of discomfort passed through the chamber. Everyone knew what invoking the name of Bruno von Zehntner meant. It meant inviting the Lion of Tyrol into Spanish affairs, with all the terrifying guarantees, and equally fearsome expectations, that entailed.

“Germany is secure, wealthy, and has shown no tolerance for socialist insurrection,” the marqués continued. “If your Majesty were to quietly extend feelers to Berlin, we might secure arms, perhaps even advisors, to… quell these disturbances before they blossom into open revolt.”

The general barked a dark laugh. “Trade Madrid’s independence for security bought in German iron? You forget, Montoro, the Reich plays a longer game than France ever did. Invite them now, and see your grandchildren speaking German in court.”

“But perhaps they would still have a court to speak in at all,” Montoro shot back coldly.

Throughout it all, King Alfonso XIII remained silent. His dark eyes flickered from speaker to speaker, weighing each argument.

He had gambled once before, aligning himself with military strongmen, thinking he could control them. That had nearly lost him his throne.

Now he faced a subtler but equally dangerous wager. French patronage might save his crown from the mobs, at the cost of becoming Paris’s puppet. German favor promised order, and the dread shadow of being yet another chess piece in Bruno’s vast continental designs.

At last, Alfonso leaned forward. His voice was hoarse, heavy with sleepless nights.

“Have our envoys prepare discreet channels to both Paris and Berlin. I will not place Spain’s fate in the hands of one foreign power or another until I am certain which can best preserve our sovereignty, and my dynasty.”

His words left the room icy. It was not quite a decision, more a delaying maneuver, as all waited to see which titan of Europe would prove the lesser threat.

Outside the palace walls, the bells of Madrid’s old cathedrals rang out the hour, echoing through streets where hungry men spoke of revolution and landlords spoke of vengeance.

Somewhere in those crowds, the future of Spain was already stirring; and it was doubtful it would wait patiently for kings to decide its course.

—

King Manuel II sat in his office in the palace at Lisbon. For years, he had owed his crown to the moves Bruno played on the chessboard that was the globe.

He had been a silent and willing partner in Germany’s ambitions. And why wouldn’t he be? Gold and silver flooded his vaults thanks to the trade that linked their nations.

That wealth bought men, rifles, and artillery to guard his borders. While Spain crumbled under the weight of French refugees during the Great War and the civil chaos that followed, Portugal remained secure.

Many of those same refugees now sowed instability within Spain’s borders. And that caused Manuel great concern.

His wife, Hedwig von Habsburg, older now, mature, long past the childish crush she once had for Bruno, clung to her husband’s side as she saw the seal embossed on the letter that caused him such grief.

She recognized the sanguine lion rampant regardant crowned in gold, its foreleg standing proudly upon a sable Totenkopf on a field of argent, with a black wolfsangel embedded in the corner.

It was a coat of arms so uniquely regal and defiant, so modern yet ancient, it struck dread in all who received it.

For a long moment, Hedwig was silent, as if her very breath had been stolen. Only after what seemed an eternity did she finally stir.

“Well… are you going to open it?”

Manuel, who had been quietly nursing the finest port his cellars could offer, debating whether to break the seal from the devil himself, finally cracked the wax and read.

A heavy sigh of relief escaped him as he handed the letter to his wife.

“He wishes to visit with his family. A much needed vacation after Japan. It’s… nothing serious.”

Hedwig, who knew Bruno far better than her husband ever could, scanned the contents again and again for hidden meanings. Finding none, she finally sighed as well.

“Then I suppose we must become the most gracious of hosts, wouldn’t you agree?”

Manuel only smiled faintly and raised his glass, taking a long, thoughtful drink. The act was answer enough.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!