STAGS 5, page 7
‘Oh, let me not hear of thy being wounded. Grey do thou become duly. May thy nose grow sharp ere the close of thy day.
‘Oh! not of Clan Kenneth art thou! Oh! not of Clan Conn. Descendant of a race more esteemed; that of the Clan Leod of swords and armour, whose fathers’ native land was Lochlann.’
I didn’t really understand a word of the lullaby, but the haunting song seemed to cast a spell over the twins and their mother. When it was over Cass snapped to, laughing at herself. ‘God, I nearly went to sleep! I really almost went to sleep! It still works, Nanny.’
‘Of course it does, my poppet. It’s worked for centuries. The old ways do not die.’ The old lady smiled, her head drooping. The song had obviously tired her.
Lady Fiona got to her feet, and of course all the ‘gentlemen’ stood up too. ‘Come on, Nanny. Let’s get you to bed. Perry.’ Lord Peregrine came to heel as obediently as the gang of fat Labradors and followed his wife from the room.
I watched them leave and thought about what Nanny had said. The old ways were damned well going to die this weekend, if I and my little army of rebels had anything to do with it.
Because either the old ways died, or I did.
12
Once the ‘grown-ups’ had left the room I thought I’d actually be able to go to bed. The evening had been plenty weird, but I’d not been in any direct danger, and I wanted to keep it that way. I just had to get through tonight, and tomorrow Henry would be with me. At least then I would have an ally.
But it didn’t look like the evening was ending just yet. Louis called for more wine, and all the Medievals readily agreed. Back at Longcross on Boxing Day I thought they’d been hinting that they’d known Henry wasn’t dead. Now I didn’t think that. They were really butt-kissing Louis, the same Pick Me Tryhards they’d always been, but this time for a different heir. They’d swapped teams as seamlessly as the guys in The Departed. As far as they were concerned Louis was now head of the family and heir to the twin fortunes of the de Warlencourts south of the border and the MacLeods in the north. Only Cass, with a small and secret smile on her face, knew what I knew; that the real King in the North was alive, and biding his time. Louis, oblivious, and comfortable with his borrowed power, lined up the multiple bottles of red the compliant servants had brought. Then, to my dismay, he dismissed them for the night, and a feeling of foreboding settled over me.
When people of this class got rid of the servants, that meant things were about to get messy.
Louis opened the bottles himself and filled everyone’s glasses. ‘What shall we drink to?’ He looked directly at me. ‘Greer?’
Any casual observer might think he was politely deferring to a guest, but I knew this was more of a challenge than a courtesy. Luckily I had my answer ready. ‘I like to drink to the Siege of Gibraltar.’ Screw you, I thought, trying to mess with me. I knew the rules better than he thought I did. All the Medievals laughed – never a pleasant sound – raised their glasses and chinked. Apprehensively, I wondered what came next, but I was not kept in suspense for long. Louis uttered the chilling words: ‘Let’s have a game of STAGS.’
The Medievals all clapped and cheered, banging the table until the silver cutlery leaped about, but I didn’t like the sound of that at all. I didn’t know what ‘a game of STAGS’ was, but I definitely didn’t want to be a part of it. I wondered if I could just excuse myself, but Louis sloshed more blood-red wine into my glass, right up to the brim. ‘Who’s going to be Mr Chairman?’
‘I will,’ said Piers.
‘Seconded,’ said Cookson.
‘Then, Mr Chairman, please explain the rules to our guest.’
‘Better concentrate, Greer,’ warned Charlotte. ‘It’s bloody complicated, and if you lose you have to drink, so you can end up absolutely battered if you’re not careful.’
‘Right,’ said Piers. ‘The rules. We’ll start easy, just to give you a fair crack of the whip, and introduce the more complex bits as we go.’
STAGS did begin as a fairly simple drinking game. When Piers – or Mr Chairman, as he must now be known – called out ‘On the hover!’ all of us had to extend both hands horizontally in front of us and waggle them from the wrist in a hovering motion. When ‘Mr Chairman’ dropped the hover he placed his thumbs on his temples and spread his fingers like a stag’s antlers. This position was known as ‘having the stag’.
The two players on either side of the player with the stag (in this case, Piers) had to ‘mirror’ the stag with the hand closest to the antlers, by placing the adjacent thumb on the temple next to the stag and waggling the hand. The object of the game seemed to be to fool or catch out the other players with the speed, complexity and cunning of the various different ways it was possible to ‘pass the stag’. When the stag was passed another player must recognise that he was the recipient of the stag and then ‘take’ possession by putting his own thumbs to his temples and waggling his stag antlers. Then, of course, the players on either side of the new possessor of the stag must ‘mirror’ the stag. What made the game more difficult was that there seemed to be various ways of ‘dummying’ a pass, by nodding or staring at other players, whereas in fact the stag couldn’t fully be passed unless both of the player’s thumbs had left their forehead. Picking up the stag from a dummy pass resulted in having to take a drink. How much you had to drink was determined by ‘Mr Weights and Measures’, in this case Cookson. He would ascribe one, two or even three fingers of red wine as a penalty, depending on the stupidity of your mistake. Just to make things even more complicated, one of the players (Esme) was elected to be ‘Mr Thumb’. Mr Thumb could at any time place his right thumb on the table. Every other player had to do likewise, and the last player to realise what was happening was also given a drinking penalty. Of course, the game was further complicated by the fact that everybody was getting progressively more drunk, and there was one more role – that of ‘Mr Chief Sneak’ – who would point out to Mr Chairman when someone had breached the rules or made a blunder. Lara was appointed Mr Chief Sneak, a role perfectly suited to her bitchy, snitchy personality.
It was extraordinary watching these young people, supposedly the future of our nation, sitting there pretending to have antlers. The stags’ heads on the walls looked down with patent disapproval, and I remembered my old friend Jeffrey, the stag’s head from Longcross. What would he have said? Watching them all glorying in their daft posh game with its daft posh rules, I could quite understand why people despised elites like them. No: elites like us.
Fortunately, I was a quick study. I hadn’t eaten much during the meal, but I hadn’t drunk much either. That meant that even though I was the newbie, I still managed to stay ahead of the game and didn’t have to drink nearly as many penalties as the others. Louis was the worst – he had to drink the most, as he kept making silly mistakes. This was compounded when it moved into ‘Olympic stags’ mode, when it was played at double speed and you had to ‘pass the stag’ within three seconds. The penalty to be dreaded most was the ‘Evie’, which apparently stood for EV or empty vessel. If you’d had to drink so much that your glass was empty, you had to suffer the indignity of being asked a question to which you had to – absolutely had to – answer truthfully.
Luckily I avoided this penalty too at first, although the questions were pretty asinine:
Q: Who’s hotter, Prince William or Prince Harry?
A: (Lara) Prince William.
Or:
Q: What’s the weirdest place you’ve made out with someone?
A: (Piers) The stables at Windsor Castle.
But then, of course, the rules began to break down as people got progressively more smashed, and the questions got deeper and darker. The rest of the STAGS game was abandoned, and it all just became one massive game of Truth. And once that happened, perhaps inevitably, there was only one subject of discussion.
Henry.
Pretty much everyone there had a complex relationship with the ‘deceased’ head of the house.
Charlotte was some sort of cousin and liked him. Cass was his actual cousin and loved him. Louis was his actual cousin and hated him. Piers was his friend and liked him. Cookson was his friend and hated him. Lara used to be his girlfriend, until he abandoned her and started hitting on me. And as for me – well, I didn’t know what I was, or how I felt. So when Louis (as Mr Chairman) asked the next question, we all had to face our personal truth.
‘All right,’ he slurred. ‘I’ve got one for the whole table. Who was glad when Henry died?’
It was like some sick election. Louis raised his hand to his own question at once. Lara, a woman scorned, also held up her hand. Cookson, who’d been cuckoo-quick to step into Henry’s shoes as the head of his cohort of Medievals, raised his hand too.
Cass’s hands stayed determinedly in her lap, and she looked neither left nor right. Charlotte and Piers looked discomfited. And Louis laughed his head off. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘he can’t see you!’
My stomach, already acid with food and folklore, lurched with sudden nausea. If this toxic, divided crowd of privileged darlings felt edgy now, that was nothing to how they would feel when the object of their discussion actually turned up tomorrow night, like Banquo’s ghost.
Then Lara leaned in, all languid, sleepy beauty. ‘My turn. And this one’s for Greer.’ My sick stomach flipped over like a pancake. She fixed her luminous grey eyes on me. ‘Are you in love with Henry?’
Esme inaccurately sloshed wine into her glass. ‘Henry’s dead, dummy.’
Lara did not shift her gaze from mine. ‘Were you in love with him before he died?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘absolutely not.’ It was true. I’d always thought he was drop-dead handsome, if you’ll pardon the pun, but I’d only become drawn to him once he’d begun to change his ways. When Shafeen had once remarked it was harder to battle the ghost Henry than the real Henry, he’d been right. I’d only got to like him after he’d ‘died’.
I stood abruptly, before anyone could refine the question. I knew what was coming next. Do you love him now? And that was the one question I couldn’t face. ‘I’m going to bed.’
‘Good idea, Greer,’ said Piers, relaxing back in his chair. ‘You should conserve your energy.’
‘You might need it this weekend,’ added Cookson.
They all laughed like hyenas, but, oddly, both the twins just sat there with indefinable, identical, uncomfortable looks on their faces. Their expressions were twins too.
Navigating my way back to my room in the North Tower was even more spooky than finding my way down to dinner. The atmosphere wasn’t helped by the fact that I could hear footsteps following me – sounding rapidly on the flagstones and climbing the spiral stairs in my wake.
As it turned out, I wasn’t being pursued by some ghostly child or headless phantom but by Louis, who caught up with me just outside my door. On balance, I think that was worse – I’d have taken the child or the phantom. In a horrible imitation of one of the more romantic moments of my life, he posed like a pound-shop Henry, leaning back against the ancient stones, bow tie carelessly unknotted just as Henry’s had been that night he’d waited for me outside my room in Longcross. That night Henry had taken me up to the roof and kissed me. I just hoped his cousin wasn’t about to do the same.
That hope was in vain. It was very clear what Louis had come for, and it wasn’t conversation. He pushed himself off the wall, in an inelegant parody of Henry’s grace, and lurched towards me until I could smell the wine on his breath.
‘I could still save you, Greer,’ he said thickly. ‘There’s one way you can survive.’ His words chilled me as effectively as the old stones at my back. So it was confirmed. This was to be my final act.
‘Become my consort,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll call off the DOGS. I’m Grand Master now, as well as Earl of Longcross.’
I cast about for an excuse to reject this lovely offer. I couldn’t reveal, of course, that I knew what was planned for me at the Red Hunt. Then inspiration struck. ‘What about Ty?’
He waved a hand dismissively. ‘Ty was just prey.’
‘Like me.’
‘You’re different,’ he said, attempting a seductive gaze. ‘You’ve always been different. Ty’s not the sort of gel who could be … you know …’
‘No, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘What?’
‘You know,’ he said, his gaze wavering. ‘Lady of the manor. She’s not the right … sort.’
This made me mad, and anger chased away the fear. ‘What on earth,’ I said frostily, ‘do you mean by that?’
‘Well –’ he waved his hands around – ‘not quite … top drawer.’
‘She’s out of exactly the same drawer as I am,’ I pointed out.
‘I know, but you … you, Greer, you’re … special.’ He leaned in towards my lips, eyes unfocused.
I turned my head. ‘Louis,’ I said patiently, ‘I’m with someone.’
I meant Shafeen but he misunderstood. ‘You’re still hankering after him, aren’t you? Henry’s dead. I’m very much alive.’
I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him. His face was very close to mine, as close as Henry’s had once been, the one and only time he’d kissed me, on the silver roof of Longcross. But this time there was no fire, only disgust. Disgust and perhaps a little pity. ‘Louis.’
‘Yes?’
‘Go to bed.’
I shut the door gently in his face, then placed my back against it, heart thudding. I turned the key he himself had given me, in case he tried to kick it in.
I’d been afraid ever since I came to Castle MacLeod, but now I was cold-sweatingly, bowel-shrinkingly terrified. Had I just thrown away my only chance to save myself from the Order?
Needless to say, I found it pretty hard getting to sleep that night. In that half-land between wakefulness and nightmare I saw myself, as if from a drone, on the slopes of Ben Horneval. I was slung across the back of a garron, bound to the pony’s back by ropes, naked and pale as death. For some reason Henry was holding the leading rope, and behind us, in a procession, walked perhaps a hundred figures in red robes with cowled hoods drawn up. Imperial antlers were attached to my bleeding forehead like a crown of thorns, and at every bumping step the Highland pony took down the slopes of Ben Horneval, blood dripped from my antlers to the ground.
Bump, bump, bump.
Drip, drip, drip.
I slept.
13
At breakfast Louis didn’t mention our late-night conversation. He looked a little bit green – not surprising really, considering the amount of booze he’d put away – and was busy medicating himself with a cooked breakfast. The sunny morning room had a breathtaking view of the sea, so once I’d filled my plate from the contents of a row of silver domes I went to sit next to Cass, facing the windows. The Medievals weren’t up yet – also not surprising – and nor was the creepy nanny. It was just the nuclear family, and never had that description seemed more fitting. There was some weird undercurrent, fizzing away radioactively, as if at any moment something would explode.
‘What will you do today, my dear?’ asked Lady Fiona distractedly.
‘Oh, I think I’ll go for a walk,’ I said vaguely. ‘It’s a beautiful day.’
It was. The summer sun buttered the black hills and made them look a little less foreboding, and the pewter sea was a flat calm. ‘Do take care,’ said Lady Fiona. ‘The mist can descend like a guillotine, and before you realise it you don’t know your up from your down.’
‘That’s true,’ said Lord Peregrine, whose mission in life seemed to be to agree with his wife. ‘The weather on Skye can change without warning.’
‘And you don’t have any of the proper gear,’ said Cass. ‘The black hills can be tricksy. Especially Ben Horneval.’ Then she looked like she wished she hadn’t said anything.
I was not fooled by their touching concern for my welfare. The only reason they cared is that they did not want to lose their prey for their little weekend of fun. And besides, I knew exactly where I was going. I was going back to the Peel Tower to share the intel I’d gleaned last night with the rebels. Of course I didn’t say any of that – I was deliberately vague about my plans. ‘Oh, I’m not going up any mountains,’ I said. ‘Just a nice wander. You know, enjoy the scenery.’
As I spoke I feared I’d made a mistake – presumably there would be a whole timetable of events for me to participate in. But the noble couple just nodded and sipped their tea. Seemingly there was nothing in the diary until the ball later on.
Finishing my breakfast as quickly as I could to avoid the sticky small talk, I escaped to my turret. As I climbed back up the North Tower I could see why they hadn’t tried to manage me – long, sleek cars were already arriving, decanting expensive-looking guests. Clearly the family had enough to do, getting ready for The Gathering that night.
I didn’t have any proper walking kit, but I had my trainers on and zipped myself into a hoodie; despite the family’s scaremongering I was sure that would be fine. I took a last look from my window before setting out, just to double check the route, but it looked pretty easy. The Peel Tower, once more reminding me of a rook on a chessboard, could be clearly seen. Unless it had the power to move like the chess piece it resembled, all I had to do was walk towards it – and I set off from Castle MacLeod to do just that.
The sun was already warm, and I could see for miles around. I wasn’t quite sure what the family had been wetting their knickers about – it was the easiest stroll I’d ever taken. I glanced up at Ben Horneval as I walked. There were people milling around again, still building that bonfire or whatever it was, the sticks propped together like a scaffold, climbing higher and higher. I guessed this was all part of the Lammas festivities the creepy nanny had talked about.
It took me less than a quarter of an hour to get to the Peel Tower, so close was it to the castle. As I approached a figure came out of the door, at a half-run. It was Shafeen. He enfolded me in the sort of embrace you see in the movies and gave me the most passionate, last-reel-of-the-film kiss. He literally swept me off my feet, and to be kissed like that, by a tall, handsome guy, in that saturnine landscape, left me weak at the knees. ‘You must be psychic,’ I stuttered, attempting to recover my composure. ‘How did you know I was coming?’
