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."