Chapter 573: The Crown on a Knife’s Edge
A storm hung heavy over Madrid, rain streaking the ornate windows of the royal council chamber and drumming on the slate roofs of the capital beyond.
Inside, beneath the high coffered ceiling, Spain’s king stood braced at the edge of a vast table cluttered with dispatches, intelligence folders, and a sprawling map of Iberia pinned with colored flags.
Alfonso XIII’s hand rested on the table’s edge, knuckles pale. His eyes dark, sharp, increasingly haunted these days, swept over the map again and again as if by sheer force of will he could rearrange the loyalties of provinces and regiments.
To his right hovered General Barrera, a thick mustache twitching whenever a fresh report arrived. To his left, the Minister of the Interior shuffled through communiqués that smelled of damp ink and sweat.
Across the map, the Chief of Intelligence cleared his throat, tapping a trembling finger on a cluster of pins south of Zaragoza.
"Your Majesty, the anarchist cells in Aragón have doubled in number since the collapse of the textile consortium last quarter. They’ve begun coordinating strikes with CNT syndicalists in Catalonia. And now..."
He slid a thin slip of paper across the table. "They’re openly calling for arms. For land seizures. For the execution of local nobility."
Alfonso read the printed handbill, its lurid promises of bread and liberty, and dropped it with a faint curl of disgust.
His gaze shifted to the bright red pins scattered through Barcelona, Valencia, Sevilla.
"And what of these Français exilés still clogging our southern ports? Has not a year of harbor charity softened their revolutionary spirit?"
The Minister of the Interior shifted uncomfortably. "Your Majesty, with respect, many of these men are not harmless laborers but petty officers and rabble-rousers driven from Marseille and Toulouse when de Gaulle’s purges began. They refuse to take Spanish oaths. They congregate in foreign clubs, trading seditious pamphlets. We even found caches of pistols marked with old French Republican seals."
General Barrera slammed a thick palm on the table, rattling crystal decanters. "Then expel them! Drive them to Portugal or the sea. Spain is not their refuge if they spit on your crown."