S.T.A.G.S.

by M A Bennett

  ‘We were on the veranda, my mother reclining on a couch. The white curtains of the palace, fine as cobwebs, were stirring around us in the warm air, the parakeets calling from the acacia trees. Well, my mother was exhausted, as I’d kept her up all night, and she fell asleep right in the middle of feeding me. When she awoke, hours later, the curtains were still stirring, the parakeets still calling, but I was gone.’

  We were absolutely still, listening. Piers had actually frozen with his port glass halfway to his lips, as if he was under a spell. Shafeen’s place at the table had been transformed; he was not at the lowest place any more, but the highest. He was the maharajah among us. ‘My mother jumped up and called my father and the servants. My father called the palace guards. They searched a hundred rooms, the water gardens, the stables, but I was nowhere to be seen. In the end they left the grounds altogether and went into the forest – where they stopped and could go no further. For under a canopy of acacia trees was a tiger.’

  No one moved.

  ‘It’s famous tiger country up there. But this was the biggest one any of them had ever seen. It was a she-tiger, lying in the shade with her cubs. And they are the most dangerous. Tiger mothers will do anything to protect their young. My mother fell to her knees and started wailing; for she had spotted me crouching in the middle of the cubs, right by the tiger’s belly. She was sure I was dead and the cubs were gathering to devour me. My father told her to be quiet – tigers don’t like noise.’

  They would have liked the Great Hall at that moment – no one even breathed.

  ‘My father’s guards had guns, but they could not shoot for fear of hitting me. In the end my mother walked forward alone. She looked in the she-tiger’s eyes as she went to claim her son. My mother says it was the longest walk of her life – green eyes meeting dark eyes, man and beast, mother and mother. When she got closer, she fell to her knees again, this time to give thanks for the miracle she saw. I was alive; not only that, but I was in no danger at all; I was snuggled in between the tiger cubs, fighting for my place, feeding from the tiger’s nipple.’

  Now there were gasps, and a little nervous laughter. Shafeen remained deadly serious. There was still clearly a punchline to come, and he fixed his eyes directly on Henry. ‘Ever since then they’ve called me baagh ka beta. The tiger’s son. Because I was suckled at a tiger’s tit.’

  He uttered the last word like a challenge. I’d never heard him use even the mildest swear word before, because swear words, as we all know, are Savage. But he’d judged his audience perfectly. The word itself, edgy, but not a curse, was a gauntlet in his host’s face.

  Henry leaned back in his chair. He looked at Shafeen speculatively, as if they were in some sort of poker game. The moment was tense, dangerous. Then Henry smiled. ‘Amazing,’ he said.

  This was the cue for approval; the Medievals started yakking like hyenas. I think I actually breathed a sigh of relief, and I could see Chanel doing the same. Piers gave his little shout of laughter, and repeated ‘Tiger’s tit! Tiger’s tit!’ over and over again. Cookson, who was clearly as drunk as Piers, jumped up and started wrestling with the tiger-skin rug that lay before the great fireplace, kissing the whiskery cheeks and saying, ‘Mummy! Mummy!’

  Shafeen sat still, his eyes on Henry. Then he lifted his glass in a salute to his host. Throwing his head back, he drained it in one go.

  Henry clapped his hands and rubbed them together, brisk and businesslike, but also as if anticipating something delicious. ‘Ladies –’ he nodded to Charlotte – ‘would you excuse us?’ And all the Medieval girls got up, as if they all knew exactly what to do. I’d seen this in Maurice, the men and women splitting into different rooms after dinner. This meant I would not get a chance to talk to Shafeen, and I really wanted to. I had a weird feeling that I had to thank him on behalf of – well, women, I guess – for jumping in to save Chanel. The men stood too, while we left the room, and as we filed through the door to the drawing room I was the last, so I took my chance and grabbed his sleeve. He turned with an odd expression – pent up, excited and impatient all at once. I opened my mouth to thank him on behalf of the world’s women, realised how dumb that sounded and just couldn’t do it. Instead I whispered, ‘Was that true? The tiger-mother thing?’

  He frowned. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘My father runs a bank in Jaipur. You’re as bad as they are.’ And then I had to leave.

  So now I knew. He wasn’t their friend after all. He had woven a tale to turn the guns on himself, to make himself the focus and the target, instead of Chanel. And, more than that, he was locked in some strange rivalry with Henry de Warlencourt, fought from their two ends of the table. But, I had to keep reminding myself, just as in the history lesson, Henry had done nothing. Cookson and Piers were his attack dogs. Henry was that Renaissance prince who had trained his hounds to hunt men. He didn’t do the ripping apart himself, but he held the leash.

  The girls made polite, soothing conversation. They reassured Chanel that they’d only been teasing and it was all in good fun. I wondered if it was always the girls’ job to calm things down and put the brakes on when the boys had gone too far. I didn’t believe any of their bullshit.

  All I could think about was Henry watching the carnage at dinner, his eyes glittering like the Friars’.

  The hunting had already started.

  chapter nine

  The first thing I saw when I woke up in the morning was the stag’s head staring down at me from above the fireplace.

  Of course I was used to these kinds of trophies on the walls of STAGS, but even so, a disembodied head seemed an odd thing to have in a bedroom. It’s quite creepy, really, if you think about it. Now it was daylight outside I could see the stubby lashes above the glass eyes, and the moth-eaten fur, but that didn’t make it any better. I sat up in the four-poster bed, and the eyes followed me. It unsettled me a little bit, so I decided to give the stag a name – a real doofus name that couldn’t scare anyone. ‘Hello, Jeffrey,’ I said. The stag stared at me, but he already seemed a little bit less scary. He seemed like he was listening. ‘So, Jeffrey,’ I said, ‘what do you suppose today will bring?’ Glassy stare. ‘No. I’m really asking. I’m really wondering.’

  And I was. After the dinner last night, and the roasting of Chanel, and Shafeen’s crazy Jungle Book bullshit story to put an end to it, the girls had all gone to bed pretty early. We were all aware that we’d need to be up at the crack of sparrows today for the stag hunt. I pointed two fingers at Jeffrey’s head, cocked my thumb and pulled the trigger. ‘Bang, bang,’ I said.

  I got out of the bed and went to the window. The stag head watched me. I opened the heavy curtains and blinked at the view. Practically as far as I could see there were grounds and parklands, including walled rose gardens and a sort of vegetably kitchen garden. Beyond that was a formal woodland area, dotted with statues, temples, lakes and fountains, where the hedges were cut into shapes like peacocks. Further still there was a kind of fenced paddock with, of course, horses in it. And far in the distance was a little frill of forest, and, rising up beyond the trees, the purple hills of the Lake District. It was stunning, and about as far from our terraced house in Arkwright Road, Manchester, as you could possibly get. ‘We’re not in Kansas any more, Jeffrey,’ I said.

  I shivered a bit – the fire was out and it was pretty cold, but that wasn’t what was making me shiver. The drive was a whole bunch of activity already. Land Rovers and jeeps were already pulling up, and there was a horse there too. Not loads, like you see on those films with hunt scenes in them, like A Handful of Dust, but just one, saddled up and skittering about on the drive. I swallowed. Surely I wasn’t going to be expected to ride?

  There was also a bunch of hounds, smart-looking black-and-tan ones, swarming around the horse’s legs, yipping and tail-wagging. Then I saw something that really made my stomach turn over. Loads of these guys in flat caps – including man-mountain and chatterbox Perfect – were loading guns into the back of
the jeeps. The guns had smooth pewter-grey barrels and glossy stocks of caramel-coloured wood. They were being packed into these sort of racks, rows and rows of them. They looked harmless and dangerous all at once. I suddenly felt a bit sick. ‘Well, Jeffrey,’ I said, trying to style it out, ‘shit just got real.’

  Perfect finished his scary packing and suddenly turned and looked up at my window, as if he knew I was watching him. Our eyes met for a long, long minute before I sidestepped behind the curtains as if I’d been caught doing something wrong.

  Just at that moment someone knocked at the door, and then opened it without waiting for a reply. It was Betty, with an enormous tray – silver, of course. It had loads of stuff on it – glasses and cups and a kind of silver dome, and a little crystal vase with a flower in it.

  I went to help her, but she said coldly, ‘That’s all right, miss,’ and placed it on the bed. She stood back, clasped her hands and pursed her lips. She obviously hadn’t forgiven me for that crack about her freaky husband. Looking at the floor the whole time, she said, ‘There are fresh towels in the bathroom, miss; if you’d like to take your bath after breakfast, I’ll get the fire lit and lay out your clothes.’

  She just stood there. ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

  I wasn’t sure that I could eat anything, but once she’d gone and I clambered back into bed I found that I was ravenous. There was toast wrapped in a crisp white napkin, orange juice, coffee in a little silver pot, a basket of pastries and, under the silver dome, a full English breakfast: bacon, eggs, sausages and black pudding. It was the best breakfast I’d ever tasted, and I was willing to bet that was because every animal on the plate had very recently been walking around the Longcross estate. I even ate the black pudding, which I don’t usually do because I’m always a bit freaked out that it’s made from blood. Today it was delicious; perhaps because it was just the right thing to eat on a huntin’ day. Blood for breakfast, I thought.

  Full up, I went to have a bath (no showers at Longcross – I guessed they were Savage) and when I came out, all wrapped in this big white dressing gown, the bed was made and the fire had magically been lit; Jeffrey’s eyes were shining again and his fur was all orange under his chin. You know that bit in the Disney Cinderella when she’s chopping all the vegetables in the kitchen, and the fairy godmother comes, and when she looks back all the vegetables are chopped and the fires lit and the pots and pans are sparkling? That. On the bed was a neat array of clothes, beautifully laid out. Esme had been right; I hadn’t needed to bring any more than underwear. There was a shirt with a discreet green check, a sludge-coloured cashmere jumper, a kind of silk scarf (I wasn’t sure where to wear that – on my head like the Queen?) and a waxed jacket. For my bottom half there were khaki trousers made of this kind of tough material and the inevitable green wellies. There was a hat too – a brown, brimmed Indiana Jones thing. As ever, nothing looked brand new. All the clothes had really good labels from the really posh outfitters that the Medievals favoured, names like Turnbull and Asser and Harvie and Hudson. They were great quality, but a little … second hand. I wondered who had worn them before.

  I looked in the mirror. I looked like one of them. I took the hat off again and threw it, Indy style, on the bed. It felt like a step too far.

  Then I just kind of sat about, getting more and more nervous. I kept going to the window and watching the increased activity on the drive. Now I could see Henry and Piers and Cookson, all in tweed jackets and flat caps, laughing and smoking by the Land Rovers, completely at their ease. I wasn’t sure what to do, but soon there was another knock at the door. ‘His lordship’s compliments, miss,’ said my grumpy fairy godmother, ‘and would you join him and the other guests downstairs on the drive?’

  chapter ten

  It was only when I went out onto the driveway that I realised how truly beautiful the house was.

  And how massive. Ever seen Brideshead Revisited? Remember that fricking huge house with the fountain and the dome and the massive servants’ wings and stable blocks and the thousands of windows and dozens of pillars? It was just like that. It was so huge, and so stunning, that it was hard to believe that it belonged to one family. Then I remembered that the de Warlencourts didn’t just own this house, they had a London house too. And probably a ton of other houses. I was definitely in the Land of Oz.

  I walked towards where the cars and the boys were, my wellies crunching on the gravel. Servants in long black coats went about with silver trays, handing out some small strong drink. I took one and downed it, as that seemed to be the thing to do. I thought it was a mistake to start with as it mingled vomitously with my black pudding. But after a while it began to warm my stomach, giving me the courage to stride up to the boys.

  Henry said, ‘Greer! Good morning. Did you sleep well?’

  I smiled at him sweetly. ‘Yes, thanks,’ I said. I wasn’t sure what I thought about him now – I thought I had seen, last night, some sort of relish in his eyes, a keen enjoyment of what had happened to me, to Chanel. But today it was hard to believe. He was friendly, very normal and very, very handsome.

  Piers and Cookson, taking as ever their master’s lead, smiled too, the cracks about my mum and Chanel’s apparently forgotten. In the cold light of day it seemed hard to believe that that nasty little scene at dinner had really happened. They looked completely at home in their hunting clothes, and that was saying something, because Piers, I’m not kidding, had on a deerstalker, exactly like you see Sherlock Holmes wearing in films. But he didn’t even look ridiculous, I guess because we were about to go, well, deer-stalking. I didn’t really know what to say to any of them; their very ease was intimidating. But the hounds came to my rescue; they circled around me, jumping up and licking, and thumping my wellies with their tails, until Henry and I both collapsed with laughter. ‘Sorry,’ he said, and shoved them off. ‘Arcas, behave! Get down, Ladon! Down, Tigris!’

  ‘Cute names,’ I said, and fell to my knees to pet them while they slobbered all over me.

  ‘How lovely,’ he said, looking down fondly, hands in pockets. ‘I didn’t imagine you would like animals.’

  ‘I’ve grown up with wildlife,’ I said.

  ‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘Your father and his filming.’

  I was a bit surprised – I didn’t know he’d heard my conversation with Piers at dinner. Maybe the boys all compared notes last night after the girls had left. I was still pissed off about what had happened at dinner, and I didn’t want to let him off the hook so easily. ‘Do you like animals?’ I asked. ‘Or just killing them?’

  ‘Both,’ he said, and as if to prove his point his groom walked the horse up to him, and he stroked its velvety neck. Despite my wildlife boast I backed off a bit from the massive creature, the hounds yipped and Henry, like the Crusader of whose blood he was born, vaulted onto the horse and gathered the reins. It was an impressive move, and I had to fight hard to be all wry and sardonic and all the other things I prided myself on being in the face of Henry’s charms. Henry called down, from horseback, ‘If you’ll forgive me, I’m going to ride ahead; I’m the harbourer today.’

  Still brave with the fiery little drink, I said, ‘I don’t know what that is.’

  The perfect smile widened. He leaned down to place a warm glove on my shoulder, but didn’t explain. ‘See you up there. You’re coming with the girls in the shooting brake. Have fun.’ He turned the horse’s head with the reins and kicked its glossy sides. The horse took off in a whirl of hoofs and Henry rode it easily, thundering down the drive with the hounds running in his wake.

  I watched him, feeling a bit like Guinevere in First Knight watching Lancelot ride away. I’m not going to lie; Henry riding down the drive of that palace of a house, on a black horse, with the hounds at his heels, was one of the most exciting things I’ve ever seen. I decided in that moment that while Piers and Cookson were clearly tossers, Henry was really OK.

  A dry voice spoke at my back. ‘The harbourer rides ahead of the r
est of the hunt party on horseback.’ I turned to see Shafeen standing behind me. Once again he looked absolutely right. He suited the muted autumnal colours as much as he’d suited the white tie last night. At the same time he looked somehow different from the others, without looking out of place. He had decided against the hat, as I had, but it had been the right choice – his dark hair, no longer slicked back, blew softly around his face. But he still looked stern, and he sounded it too. ‘The harbourer’s job is to single out a stag from the herd to be hunted by the rest of the party.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. I didn’t really know what to say to him either – last night he’d jumped in to save us with his tiger-mother tale, but then he’d told me I was just like the Medievals. Having imparted his lesson, he didn’t seem inclined to go on chatting, so I looked around for other company. I could see the Medieval girls walking up the drive, and I did a double take.

  There were four of them.

  As they came closer I could see that there were the three sirens, and Chanel. They were all talking and laughing, their blonde hair bouncing as they walked. They looked like an advert, and actually appeared to be walking in slow motion. There were tiny variations in their costume, the colour of their hats, the cut of the waxed jackets, the knot of the silk scarves at the throat. Charlotte was wrapped in one of those massive tartan shawls that are so big they look like a blanket. But from a distance they looked completely interchangeable.

  As they got nearer I could actually see there was a difference, and the odd one out was Chanel. I knew immediately that all the clothes she was wearing were her own – they hadn’t been put out on her bed by a sulky servant. She’d bought them all, brand new. As she got close I could see that her wellies were box fresh – with a little red-and-white tab saying ‘Hunter’ on the front. Her jumper was too bright, her trousers too tight, her waxed jacket not weathered and seasoned like mine but pristine. Whichever one of the Medieval girls had been sent to dress Chanel before she left STAGS must have struck out – Chanel obviously already had all the right gear, probably ordered the best of the best the minute she’d got The Invitation. And, man, did she look excited. Her eyes were shining and her cheeks as pink as they had been last night at dinner – before, you know, the incident.