Stags 5, p.9
STAGS 5, page 9
Unwilling to interrogate this thought, I scrubbed all the grime and sweat of panic off me, washed my hair and listened to some music I’d downloaded on my phone. Once I was clean I felt about a thousand per cent better. Back in my room I dried and put on the lace dress and examined myself in the mirror. The dress was fitted, with scalloped cap sleeves and a long skirt, which swept the floor – definitely a ballgown. It was perfectly nice but a bit bridal, and it reminded me of the aborted debutantes’ ball that was supposed to be held at Longcross on the night of the fire, when all the women wore white like at Queen Charlotte’s Ball. There were gloves to go with it, which came up to my elbow, but the dress definitely needed something else. I didn’t have any jewellery with me to speak of, and definitely nothing that was posh enough to complement that dress. Hoop earrings and my Mean Girls necklace wouldn’t really cut it, so I slicked on a wing of black eyeliner and a scarlet lip – that would have to do. Perhaps it was the red of the lipstick that reminded me; I took the red thread from my pocket and pushed it down my bra, beneath the bodice of the dress.
At seven o’clock by my signal-less phone I left the room – locking it this time. In the dimness of the stone stairs I looked for the way up that Henry had described. Sure enough, in the shadows, I could see that a dark doorway led to an even smaller stairway, leading upwards. I climbed it, holding my skirts clear of the stones, feeling as if I’d gone back a couple of centuries. At the top was another door, which led directly onto the roof. A strong sea breeze greeted me, snatching at the skirts of my lace dress and blasting my damp black bob completely dry. A tall blond figure was pacing the crenellations, looking out to sea.
Henry.
He reminded me of Kenneth Branagh wandering round on the battlements of Elsinore looking for the ghost of his dad. ‘Are you doing a Hamlet?’
And since Hamlet was (so I’ve heard) a play before it was a film, he got the reference. He turned. ‘Except I wasn’t waiting for a dead old man so much as a living young woman. You look flawless, Greer.’
So did he. He always suited evening dress, but I’d never seen him like this. He was wearing a black jacket with gold buttons and a white lace cravat – so far so STAGS. But below the waist it all got interesting. He was wearing a full-on kilt and a sporran. And of course his legs were excellent – long but muscular, and surprisingly tanned. He had on these kind of thick, cream knee socks – one of them, I’m not kidding, had a small silver dagger stuck in it – and black shoes with complicated lacings. I wondered, of course, if he was doing the proper Braveheart thing of wearing nothing under the kilt, but I couldn’t exactly ask. It would seem a bit like flirting, and I didn’t want to encourage him.
As it turned out, he didn’t need any encouraging. He took my hand and I thought he was going to kiss it, but he pulled me towards him and kissed my cheek. He took his time, placing his lips on my skin slowly and tenderly, and I remembered the time he’d kissed me on the rooftop at Longcross. I could feel his warm breath and it seemed to kindle something within me. It would be so easy to turn my head and place my lips on his, and I felt for a moment as if it was inevitable, as if nothing could stop me doing just that. My blood heated and I felt as if I was going to fall down, and before the dangerous fire could consume me I wrenched myself away. ‘How many times do I have to tell you that I’m with Shafeen?’
‘Let’s go for one more.’
‘I’m with Shafeen.’
He smiled. ‘We’ll see. We’ve got a whole weekend together. That’s a lot of time, and I intend to spend every second of it wooing you.’
‘You just put it all out there, don’t you?’
He looked beyond me, over the battlements to the silver horizon. ‘Life’s too short, Greer. I’ve already died once. There’s nothing like dying to make you focus on what you want from your life. And I want you.’
Well, he was honest, you had to give him that.
‘And just to get the wooing off on the right foot, I got you something.’ He brought a folded cloth from behind his back and placed it in my hands. It was prickly and woolly.
‘What’s this?’
‘At The Gathering the women wear white lace dresses, and the men full Highland dress, but if the women are members of a clan they wear a sash of their clan tartan. This is yours – the tartan of the MacDonald. Here, let me help you.’
He draped it across one shoulder, beauty-queen style, and secured it at my hip with a little Celtic brooch studded with nuggets of amber.
I looked down at the tartan. It was a striking plaid in blood red, overlaid with a stinging check of green. I liked it a lot, but I had my doubts about going downstairs draped in enemy colours. ‘At a MacLeod ball? I might as well be wearing a suicide vest.’
He laughed lightly. ‘That’s all ancient history.’
‘Well, it seemed pretty modern to your aunt.’
‘The stuff about the Bloody Stone? She tell you that, did she?’
‘Like it was yesterday.’
‘Well,’ Henry said comfortingly, ‘even if they peeve about a MacDonald in their midst, there’s going to be at least one guest who’s less welcome than you.’
‘Who’s that?’
He grinned. ‘Me.’
That reminded me. ‘Actually, I’ve got something for you.’ I took the red thread from my bodice and wound it round his wrist, tying it securely. He looked like one of those celebrities that suddenly decide they’re into Kabbalah. Somewhere far below in the belly of the castle, someone started playing the bagpipes, scoring the moment with the most Scottish soundtrack ever. ‘I have it on good authority that “Rowan-tree and red thread keep the devils frae their speed”,’ I explained.
He smiled. ‘Ah, Nanny.’
‘Yes. We really hit it off. I’m thinking of going as her for Halloween. But she certainly seemed to know her folklore.’
‘She does indeed.’ He adjusted the thread on his wrist. ‘Thank you.’
I touched the scratchy tartan that crossed my heart. ‘Well, it’s hardly as nice as this.’
‘Still, I’m touched.’ He seemed genuine and it occurred to me then that perhaps Henry had not had many people to care for him – a smothering mother, a distant father, a girl cousin who liked him a little too much and a boy cousin who wanted him dead. Maybe to this golden boy who’d had every material thing given to him all his life, a bit of old string given with genuine concern did mean something.
‘Let’s go and do the big reveal, shall we?’ He tucked the thread under his cuff and crooked his elbow into a right angle like you see in the movies. I curled my gloved hand around it, and together we went down to face the music.
16
We went down the stairs of the North Tower and Henry led me to a part of the castle I’d never been to before.
The drone of the piper got louder and louder until we were standing outside an immense oak door, set into a stone arch and studded with iron bolts. We were a bit late after that little scene on the battlements, so everybody else must’ve already been inside. The skirl of the pipe was incredibly loud now, and I could feel it in my ribs, in competition with my thudding heart. My mouth was dry, my breath quick, and if I felt like that, goodness knows how Henry must have felt. He was about to come back from the dead after eighteen months in hiding. I gripped his arm very tightly and he turned to smile at me. If he was nervous he showed no sign of it – the only tell was that the de Warlencourt eyes were very blue. ‘Ready?’ he asked.
‘Ready,’ I replied, although I felt anything but.
Then Henry rapped on the door with his fist, as if he was a marauding invader come to besiege the castle. Which, I suppose, he was.
The door opened to a wall of sound: the piper, and hundreds of loud conversations as people screeched to make themselves heard.
We were at the top of a short flight of stone steps and there was a kind of announcer guy at the top of them – like you see in films such as My Fair Lady – whose job it was to call out the names of the guests. Henry spoke in his ear and I saw the guy’s eyes flare in surprise as he looked at him. There could be no doubt, from this latecomer’s appearance, that he was who he said he was, and this smooth servant was obviously thinking about how the hell he was going to announce that the long-lost heir of the de Warlencourts, presumed dead, was back from the grave.
Then there was this really awkward pause while we had to wait for the piper to finish his tune before we could be announced. I had one of those weird moments of clarity when you notice everything, in intimate detail, about your surroundings; like those life-flashing-before-your-eyes moments people say you have before you’re about to die. I got the feeling that if you asked me years later I’d be able to tell you everything about that ballroom. I’d remember the long, oak-panelled room with a minstrels’ gallery crowded with musicians at one end. I’d remember the high, pointed windows with the sun setting over the hills and heather. I’d remember the wooden dance floor, polished to such a high shine that it looked more like an ice rink. The summer flowers banked against the rostrum below the gallery; those same flowers wreathed into the antlers of the stags on the walls and arranged in the empty fireplace. The men in their Highland dress, the women with the tartans of their clans draped over their dresses, just as I wore mine. The vast silver cauldron of punch with little silver cups hanging off its lip by their curved handles. Each detail was burned into my brain – I’d remember all of it.
The piper finished his tune, and into the sudden silence the announcer guy said, loud as an actor:
‘Lord Henry de Warlencourt and Miss Greer MacDonald of the Clan MacDonald.’
Two things about that. One: he definitely put a special stress on the name Henry, presumably to distinguish him from Louis, whom he’d obviously already announced. Two: he’d made a point of stating not just my name, but my clan – so that every single person at The Gathering knew that the enemy was in their midst.
‘Thanks a lot,’ I said ironically from the corner of my mouth, but the announcer dude merely bowed obligingly.
If I’d thought the walk last night to the dining table in the Great Hall was long, it was nothing to descending those four stone steps on the arm of Henry de Warlencourt and walking the miles and miles to the middle of that polished wooden dance floor. There was utter, utter silence as we passed, as everyone stared, open-mouthed. As we arrived at the centre of the room the orchestra in the minstrels’ gallery struck up a lilting Highland waltz. ‘What do we do now?’ I hissed at Henry.
He turned to face me and raised both his arms. ‘Dance, I suppose.’
This was unbelievable. My entire knowledge of dancing had been gleaned from Strictly Ballroom, and now here I was, in a ballroom of fleet-footed Highlanders, opening The Gathering with what was destined to be the most awkward exhibition dance ever. I kept my head up, kept my frame locked and moved when Henry moved. He led me admirably, and I managed not to fall over, stand on his feet or trip over my skirt. I couldn’t look at anybody else, locking my gaze onto Henry’s blue eyes. After that dreadful period of total silence, I heard the murmur of talk start up again. ‘Is anybody watching?’ I whispered.
‘Everybody’s watching,’ he said, with a smile. I thought, He’s enjoying this.
It seemed like the tune was going on for ever, and I felt, just like Lizzie Bennet in Pride and Prejudice when she’s having her awks dance with Mr Darcy, that we had to have some conversation. We had to style it out, since every eye was on us, from the servants to the guests to the stags’ heads on the walls. As we danced, their glassy gaze reminded me of something that only Henry de Warlencourt in full Highland dress could have jolted from my mind.
‘I had quite a scare on the way home,’ I said. ‘There’s a huge wicker stag on the side of Ben Horneval, woven out of branches and sticks. Frightened the life out of me.’
‘Oh, you mean the Damh.’
It sounded like he’d said ‘damn’. ‘The what?’
‘Damh. It’s old Gaelic for stag. They burn the wooden stag at midnight on Lammas Eve.’
‘They do what?’ I almost forgot the entire ballroom of people watching.
‘They set fire to it. The burning of the Damh. It happens every year.’ He looked down at me. ‘What? You look as if your flabber couldn’t be more gasted.’
‘It’s just … just … so Wicker Man.’
He shrugged lightly. ‘I don’t know what that is.’
‘It’s a film from the 1970s. These weird villagers build this huge man out of wicker, and then burn it, as part of a creepy local ritual.’
‘Oh. That does sound similar,’ he said calmly. ‘It’s quite a sight to see.’
‘I’ll bet,’ I said grimly. ‘And that explains something Nanny said at dinner. She said that revellers jump under the bonfire. I just thought she was getting confused, but now I can see she was right.’
‘Flitting the fire,’ said Henry. ‘Yes, they run under the belly as the stag burns. Of course, it’s not without risk, because burning branches can fall, and eventually of course the whole thing collapses.’
‘Jesus.’ But as I uttered that sacred name, I realised how inappropriate it was. What I’d just heard had nothing to do with Christ. I reflected that when good ol’ St Aidan the Great had travelled the North of Britain telling everybody about Christianity, there were some parts he clearly hadn’t reached. This was about a much older religion than Christianity, something dark, and pagan, and primal. And I was right in the middle of it.
The tune eventually came to an end, and I wondered what would happen next. Would everyone ostracise Henry? Would he be asked to leave? Would we be politely ignored for the rest of the evening? Or would everyone break into a chorus of boos? But as it turned out, the reverse happened. Everyone converged on Henry, pushing and jostling like it was the Black Friday sales. No one could get ahead of Cass, who cannoned into Henry’s arms. ‘I knew you would come,’ she said. He hugged her back and kissed the top of her head fondly. ‘Hello, little cuz.’ Watching Cass so blissful in that embrace, however brotherly it was, I felt a little jag of jealousy. Then I gave myself a good talking-to. Shafeen was the only one I wanted to snuggle up to that way.
This cousin love-in was short-lived because Louis walked through The Gathering as if in a dream, the guests parting for him like the Red Sea. Henry watched him approach with a sardonic eye, and the visual of him and Cass as a team versus Louis was such a strong dynamic. Louis came right up to Henry, ignoring his sister completely, ignoring all of us. For that moment, by some weird alchemy, there was only Henry and Louis in the room, eyeballing each other with that de Warlencourt blue gaze. Their family resemblance was clear, and even more marked in their identical Highland dress and MacLeod tartan kilts. But their expressions were vastly different. Henry looked all-powerful, confident, even a little amused. Louis looked filled with hate – hate as black and ancient as the hills.
‘I thought you were dead.’
‘Yes,’ said Henry, raising one eyebrow like Roger Moore’s James Bond again. ‘It was a widely held opinion. But, fortunately for me, quite untrue.’
‘How the hell,’ hissed Louis, ‘did you survive?’
Henry looked down at Cass, where she nestled in the crook of his arm. Cass said, ‘I know.’
Her twin looked at her as if she was a stranger. ‘What do you know?’
‘Don’t you remember all those summers we spent at Longcross as kids? Skating up and down the long gallery in our socks, playing in Longwood, swimming in Longmere?’
‘Yes, of course I do,’ he said stiffly.
‘And do you remember Henry and I jumping off the waterfall? Jumping off Conrad’s Force?’
Dawn broke across Louis’s face. I could see that, up until that moment, he’d all but forgotten.
‘Do you remember,’ repeated Cass, almost as if she was hypnotising him, ‘what we did? Henry’s special dive: the Dead Man’s Drop? You always funked it, but he taught me how.’
As if in a trance, Louis said, ‘Remind me.’
Cass said instructively, as if schooling a child, ‘You take a deep breath before you go over the edge. You make sure you jump far out, clear of the rocks. You wrap your arms over your head and press your nose into your elbow to help seal it from the water. You tightly close your eyes and mouth, tense your muscles and press your feet together. Then, on impact, you swim away from the falls immediately, without breaking the surface.’
So I had my answer at last to the eternal question – how had Henry survived when his fingers slipped from my grasp at the top of Conrad’s Force? I could see him now, like a scene from a film, grasping at air and tipping backwards, falling down into the torrent like Harrison Ford in The Fugitive. Now I knew he’d been practising that fall ever since he was a kid. Clearly the cousins’ special jump, forgotten since childhood, suddenly sprang back, perfectly, into the forefront of Louis’s mind. ‘That’s how you did it?’ he said, incredulous, transforming just as suddenly from a boy to an angry young man. ‘That old kids’ trick?’
‘That’s right,’ said Henry gently. ‘That old kids’ trick.’
The moment was broken by Peregrine, who embraced Henry with an emotion that probably had a lot to do with the fact that Henry was the image of his dead brother Rollo. There were real tears on his florid cheeks. Lady Fiona’s greeting was far less heartfelt. As she applied her thin lips coolly to each side of Henry’s face in turn you could see the cogs turning behind her eyes. I could tell she’d already come to the realisation that Henry being alive meant her precious Louis would lose the inheritance of Longcross, the earldom and all that lovely fertile English land ‘below the oat line’. Nanny was nowhere to be seen – perhaps it was past her bedtime, and I imagined she was far too ancient to dance. Either that or she burst into a thousand ravens at sunset. I noticed too that Henry’s mum Caro wasn’t here either. Maybe her fragile grip on sanity had fractured and she was banged up in some posh version of Arkham Asylum.
