I’ve always thought that the expression ‘my heart missed a beat’ is utter horseshit.
But once we’d all been decanted from the Land Rovers and taken the long walk down the hillside to Longmere lake, and I saw Henry coming towards me, I swear my heart stopped for a moment. I felt terror, excitement, regret; a whole mess of crap was swimming round in my head. The problem was that no one up there in my brain had bothered to tell my heart that I wasn’t supposed to like him any more.
‘Greer!’ he said in his usual surprised-to-see-me way. ‘I missed you after dinner last night. Where did you go?’
‘Bed,’ I said. ‘I was beat after all the drama, you know, what with Shafeen’s accident and all.’ Call it an accident. Act like Henry’s innocent. Put the plan into motion.
I looked out at the long, long silver lake where a stag had once died. The purple hills loomed around us, and the orange trees frilled the water. I could see a long wooden jetty reaching out into the lake, with three neat little boats tied up beside it, and waxed-jacketed servants in waders loading up the boats with rods and plastic containers full of God-knows-what. Piers, Cookson and the three sirens were sorting themselves out into groups to head out in the boats. I just hoped to God I’d be with Henry. I began to walk towards the boats to force Henry to fall into step with me. I spoke low in his ear.
‘Listen. I wanted to say, well, that I was really emotional yesterday. It was a bit of a shock – I’ve never seen anyone get shot before. Even though I live in Manchester,’ I joked. ‘You’ve got to remember, I didn’t grow up with all this.’ I waved my arm, taking in the lake, the mountains and the trees of flame – but the gesture meant more than that. It meant privilege. It meant huntin’ shootin’ fishin’. ‘I think it’s probably different for you guys. I mean, like Cookson said, these kinds of accidents happen all the time. Inevitable, I suppose, with shotguns spraying those tiny little pellets everywhere, that someone’s going to get winged now and again. So I overreacted. I shouldn’t have yelled at you about the hospital. Your house, your rules, right?’
His expression softened. ‘Thank you,’ he said with this little courtly bow. ‘I accept your apology, and I appreciate it very much. And I must stress that Dr Morand is an excellent doctor and very well used to dealing with any little incidents that might happen at shooting parties. He’s been treating the family since my father was a little boy.’
Gasp. I really wasn’t surprised by that, considering how old Shafeen had said the doctor was. But I just nodded. ‘How is Shafeen?’ This too was part of the plan; I had to hide the fact that I’d even seen Shafeen since dinner, let alone spent half the night with him.
‘He’s fine.’ Henry raised a Roger-Moore-as-James-Bond eyebrow at me and smiled. ‘In fact, when I called on him after breakfast he seemed better than fine. He had a very pretty nurse already there. Chanel was attending him.’
We’d planned this too: that Nel would go and have breakfast in Shafeen’s room, so that the servants or any Medieval who dropped by faking concern would see them, and the idea would be seeded that they were now together. Before last night I’d have said that there wouldn’t be much acting required. But underneath all the anxiety of what was to happen today, I held inside of me the warmth of Shafeen’s compliment from last night, the fact that he’d called me beautiful. I didn’t even know what to do with that, but I sure as hell couldn’t think about it now.
‘Yes, they looked very cosy together,’ Henry went on. ‘And as Shafeen can’t fish, obviously, with one arm –’
‘No epic contest today then,’ I said.
‘No,’ he said, just a tiny bit smugly. He’d eliminated the competition all right. ‘So Chanel’s stayed to look after him. I think they’re joining us for lunch at the boathouse.’
I certainly hoped so, for this too had been agreed last night. Then I launched into the speech we’d planned. ‘I don’t think Chanel’s got the heart for any more blood sports, to be honest with you,’ I said conversationally. ‘She’s pretty shell-shocked after what happened the other day. With the hounds, I mean. She’s changed.’
‘How has she changed?’ Henry seemed genuinely interested.
‘She’s a bit … deflated somehow,’ I said. ‘I don’t think she’ll be flashing her cash quite as much.’ I glanced at Henry sideways. ‘Maybe their accidents kind of brought Shafeen and Nel together. Could be a good thing.’
‘How so?’
‘Well,’ I pretended to think. ‘Maybe Shafeen won’t be pulling that Indian-prince act any more. Maybe he won’t be answering you back now. Maybe they’ve both been, sort of, put in their place.’
I saw an unmistakable look of satisfaction flit across his face. Good, I thought. It’d worked. We wanted Shafeen and Nel to have a good reason not to be with the fishing party, but at the same time allow Henry to think that his plan to suppress the plebs was working. We wanted him to think he’d broken them. But if he thought that, he was wrong.
As we got closer to the jetty I could see that one of the waxed-jacket squad was Perfect. He came to meet us on the shingle beach and touched his cap to his master. I was well wrapped up, but just the sight of him made me go cold. I remembered him in the library last night, turning around with the shotgun on his shoulder, sniffing us out. I steeled myself to meet his eye, but nothing in his expression told me he’d seen us hiding. His pale eyes passed over me without interest.
‘Ah, Perfect,’ said Henry, ‘everything set?’ He turned to me. ‘Perfect’s going to be our gillie today.’ I had no idea what that was, but I guessed it meant that the headkeeper was coming with us, and so it seemed. ‘He’ll pilot the boat and help out just while you get the hang of the fishin’.’
My heart sank like a stone. Perfect was much less frightening by day, but it was possible that his presence in the boat was going to ruin the plan we’d cooked up the night before.
I drew Henry to one side. ‘I was kind of hoping that you and I would have some alone time?’
He smiled and sort of rubbed his hand up and down the top of my arm. I hate to admit that I kind of liked it. I guess you just can’t switch off feelings, even if the boy you thought you liked is a homicidal maniac. ‘I was hoping that too,’ he said. ‘But he’ll be with us for the morning. This afternoon we’ll find a lonely stretch of water where we can be alone. Sound good?’
‘Wonderful,’ I said. ‘Just what I’d hoped.’
As we walked along the shingle I had a heart-stopping moment when Henry took my bag from me. I hadn’t bargained on his chivalry. I clutched at it jealously for a moment but had to let it go – to make a big thing of it would’ve seemed really suss to him. ‘What’s in the bag?’ he said. ‘A life jacket?’
He was almost right. ‘No,’ I over-laughed. ‘Just some spare jumpers. I got pretty chilly yesterday. And the day before, come to that.’
We walked along the jetty to the first of the waiting boats. It was a little glossy wooden vessel with an outboard motor, one of those nice-looking ones you see in seaside postcards. I knew it was time to put another part of the plan into action. Henry got into the boat first, his weight making it rock precariously. He held out one of his hands, and Perfect, on the jetty, held my other hand. As they helped me into the boat I deliberately stumbled and slipped, clutching at Henry as I lurched. He steadied me and I sat down heavily in the bow, making sure, as I did so, that I was reunited with my rucksack. Perfect got in last and the boat pitched with his bulk. I made a show of clutching the sides of the boat nervously.
‘Actually, it’s a good job Perfect’s here,’ I said. ‘An extra pair of hands to haul me out.’
‘Oh?’ said Henry.
‘Yes. I can’t swim. Pathetic, isn’t it?’
I was taking a bit of a risk here; I was relying on the fact that none of the Medievals had ever seen me in the pool at STAGS. But I didn’t think they had. I tend to get up pretty early to swim, because, having swum competitively, I hated having to stop for people pootling around and splashing each other. I’d certainly never seen any of them in the pool, so I didn’t think they could have seen me. Henry didn’t call me on it anyway – he just said that most Medieval of words: ‘Gosh.’
‘Yes,’ I said ruefully. ‘Not much chance to learn in Manchester.’
Actually there were tons of public pools in Manchester, for the ‘little people’ to learn to swim in, but I was banking on Henry’s innate snobbery, and him assuming that peasants didn’t swim. And it worked.
‘I suppose not,’ he said. ‘Well, it would be my pleasure to teach you that too.’
I laughed a silly little laugh, a bit like Esme’s. ‘Not today, I hope!’
‘God, no,’ he said, laughing too. ‘Bit chilly, eh?’
It sounds weird to say it, but I actually enjoyed the fishin’. I was pretty sure – all three of us plotters were sure – that nothing was going to happen to me that morning. (Even so, Shafeen and Nel were watching me closely, don’t you worry about that.) We thought we had the Medievals’ method bossed by now. Jolly morning of blood sports. Everyone very friendly to the prey, everything very relaxed. Look how nice we are. Look how beautiful the scenery is. Then a lovely lunch, tons of courses, tons of servants. Tons to drink. Then, in the afternoon, when the night was falling, the dark stuff happened. That was when I’d have to be alert.
And I would be. But for now I had to just act as if nothing was different, as if I was having the time of my life, and as if I was in love with Henry de Warlencourt. I decided that the only way I could get through that morning without descending into the palm-sweating, stomach-churning panic that I was only just managing to keep at bay was to pretend I didn’t know what I knew. And it worked.
The thing is, it worked a little too well.
Henry spent the morning showing me how to fish. He really couldn’t have been nicer, or more normal. He was ever so patient with me; he took his time, and made sure I had fun. I watched as Perfect prepped the rods for us.
‘We’re after brown trout today,’ said Henry, ‘so we use a light spinning rod –’ he showed me the spooling wheel-thing on the rod’s handle – ‘which is best for browns. They’ve got really good eyesight so we use the finest line we can – this is monofilament.’ He showed me the line in his fingertips and you could hardly see it – it looked like a piece of glass thread.
‘Is this the part where we put worms on hooks?’ I asked, suddenly remembering my dream.
‘Actually, no. Browns don’t really go for bait. That is, they do, but they have pretty sharp teeth, so they can often bite through the line. It’s better to use lures, like this one.’ He reached into one of the plastic containers and brought out, not a maggot as I’d expected, but something rather beautiful. It was a shiny, tiny fish made of foil and plastic, with coppery, shimmery scales of golds and gilts and bronzes and a little triple hook instead of a tail. It was kind of jointed, so when Henry wiggled it, it looked as if it was swimming. ‘Authentic fish-like action,’ he said.
I’d happily have worn it as a necklace. ‘It’s cute,’ I said.
‘That’s a lure. It’s called a Rapala. Irresistible to brown trout.’
‘So they eat other fish?’ I wasn’t sure about the cannibal angle.
‘Worse than that. This lure is supposed to replicate the markings of their own young. Brown trout eat their babies.’
I looked at the poor little shining thing. ‘Jesus.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘nature can be cruel. Man isn’t the only predator.’ He stood up in the boat. ‘Let’s try our luck, Perfect. Greer, sit tight for this one and we’ll try you next.’
I won’t lie. There was a fair bit of chugging around in the boat, and stopping, and waiting, and let’s try over here. But the sun was out and I could watch the amazing lake-and-mountain scenery and it was all really nice. Most of the time, if I’m honest, I watched Henry confidently casting the line into the water, looking like he was born to fish, which I guess he was. I remembered seeing Brad Pitt in A River Runs Through It. Ever seen that movie? Brad was pretty fine in it, but he had nothing on Henry. I did think about Shafeen and Nel, and hoped they weren’t worrying about me. I wished there was a way to tell them that I was fine. That I was finer than fine.
I was really relaxed when suddenly it got all exciting, and the lure bobbed under the water and Henry grabbed the rod and started to pull madly. It looked as if the fish might get the better of him, when he jerked the rod back with a practised little flick and this huge bronze fish flipped out of the water and into the bottom of the boat. I snatched my wellies back out of his way and watched Henry free the lure from the trout’s mouth, then bash its head in against the side of the boat. All at once, everything was calm again and the fish was still, lying shining in Henry’s hands, scales shimmering in the sun, eyes open and beady, but dead.
‘Peace out, brown trout,’ I said, a little sadly.
Henry laughed. ‘We don’t have to feel too sorry for him. They’re not very nice fish.’
I remembered the kill-your-babies speech. ‘OK, but just because you don’t like something is not a reason to kill it.’ Suddenly I remembered the game books, and the human names, but it all seemed like a far-off nightmare.
‘Then how about this for a reason,’ said Henry, as Perfect placed the fish in a plastic container and snapped closed the lid. ‘They are food, and jolly tasty food at that. You’ll find out at lunch. Nothing like eating fresh trout that was swimming around half an hour ago.’ He picked up another rod and tested it in his hand. ‘You’ll notice from our menu this weekend that we eat everything we kill.’
I narrowed my eyes against the sun.
‘So you wouldn’t just hunt for fun?’
‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘Fun is the by-product. You have to hunt for a reason.’
He was so believable.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Your turn.’
He stood me up in the boat, holding my hands all the time. Then he did that Tom Cruise in The Color of Money thing again, getting behind me and putting his arms around me, only this time instead of a pool cue (or a gun) it was the fishing rod. He showed me how to spread my feet for balance and cast the line with a flick of the wrist; how to dangle the lure so it didn’t catch under the slipstream of the boat. There was lots of waiting, but to wait in that setting, with Henry’s strong arms around me and his warm body at my back, was something I was happy to do for as long as it took.
But then my rod jerked down, bending like an archer’s bow.
‘Go on, pull,’ cried Henry, suddenly animated, yanking at my arms. The fish was incredibly strong, and I didn’t know if I could hold on to him, even with Henry’s help. Heart beating, I pulled back with all my strength. ‘Now reel!’ shouted Henry in my ear.
Fumbling, panicking, I reeled the spool and Henry pulled; he reeled and I pulled. We both reeled, we both pulled. I don’t know which one of us landed the trout, but at last the silvery fish cleared the water, flicking its tail madly, crystal drops showering from it, glittering like chandelier brilliants in the low autumn sun.
‘He’s a beauty,’ crowed Henry. ‘Don’t let him go whatever you do.’
I turned so the fish dangled over the boat, and Perfect took him down, dumping him in the bottom of the boat, where he wriggled like a mad thing. He was so strong he actually made a knocking sound on the wood. ‘Got ’im.’
‘You did it!’ said Henry. We clung together, gasping and laughing, both soaked with lake water. The words He’s a beauty – don’t let him go whatever you do were echoing in my head. I was ecstatic. The previous night, and all thoughts of a dark conspiracy, were totally forgotten in that sick moment of triumph. I was one of them. I was a Medieval at that moment and it felt great. I loved fishin’. I loved Henry. I even loved grumpy old Perfect, who became almost chatty at the sight of my first catch, as if I’d joined some sort of club or something. He forgot himself so far as to actually speak to me. ‘Tek ’old of ’im, miss. Don’t let ’im muck yer abart. He’s a reet wick one, that un.’
I bent to try to get hold of my prey.
‘Watch out, Greer,’ warned Henry. ‘Brown trout have really sharp teeth. Be careful when you’re handling him.’
I managed to pick up the fish. He was surprisingly heavy, and his scales felt very slippery. I held him behind his head, my fingers clear of the gaping jaws, but I didn’t know what to do next.
‘Shall I?’ asked Henry, looking at me very directly with his blue eyes.
‘No,’ I said, suddenly sure. ‘I’ll do it.’ The fish was wriggling madly, but I bashed his head sharply against the wood of the boat, and, to my great surprise, he fell still, as if he’d been switched off. I held on to him, in a sort of trance, and was still hanging on to him about a minute later. Perfect had to prise him from my hands and place him with the other fishy corpse in the plastic coffin.
I sat back down beside Henry, suddenly in something like shock, and he threw an arm around me. ‘You did well there, Greer. Unlike deer or pheasant, trout are the kind of prey that can bite back. They can really do you some damage.’
I thought about that as Perfect turned the boat around to chug back to shore. I’d thought I was going to be the fish today. The prey with the power to bite back. Now I knew it was all stupid. Our plan, cooked up in the estate room in the small hours, was ridiculous. This was the way to live. I wasn’t afraid, or sorry, I was totally pumped. I’d cried for the stag, I’d mourned the poor feathery pheasants, but the fish I’d killed with my own hands and I’d loved it. I remembered at school, back in Lightfoot with Esme, when I’d thought I wouldn’t mind the death of a fish. What I hadn’t known then was that I would absolutely revel in it.
Henry, looking at me beadily, saw it straight away. ‘Feels good, doesn’t it?’
I nodded, speechless for a moment.
‘There’s a light in your eye,’ he said. ‘A predator’s look. You’re beginning to understand.’
‘Understand what?’
‘Huntin’ shootin’ fishin’, of course,’ he said. ‘Why we do it.’
‘I’m not sure about the other two,’ I admitted, ‘but I don’t really care about fish.’
‘Fish can be amazing too,’ he said. ‘Think about the eels that swim for thousands of miles every year to spawn in the Sargasso Sea. And the salmon, so determined to breed that they will leap up the steepest of waterfalls.’
‘I suppose they have a reason,’ I said, suddenly aware of his arm still around me. ‘They are fulfilling their biological mission. They want to … reproduce.’
There was a charged silence. ‘Yes,’ he said heavily. ‘Nature will go to any lengths to replicate itself, to ensure that its kind survives.’
By the time the boat returned to the jetty for lunch, I was almost convinced that Shafeen and Nel and I had made the whole huntin’ shootin’ fishin’ thing up. I’d worked so hard on pretending to have a good time and like Henry that I’d actually had a good time, and I actually liked Henry. All that creeping around at midnight seemed like some stupid gothic fantasy.
At least Shafeen and Nel would be at lunch. I needed to talk to them. Now I had a different plan to the one we’d spent the night crafting. I wanted to talk to Henry. Maybe the entries in the game book were some kind of sick joke. Maybe it was some bizarre tradition, or an accident book just like Shafeen had said. Maybe the aniseeds in the jacket were a coincidence. Maybe Henry’d put them there to keep his hounds to heel – it was his jacket, after all – and forgotten all about them when he’d given the jacket to Nel. Perhaps the names of the hounds were just a classical joke; it was just the kind of intellectual gag the Medievals would enjoy. I was reaching, I know, but I just couldn’t go through with what we’d planned. I couldn’t believe that this shining golden boy, this charming young man who’d taken pains to give me a really nice morning, could be a monster. Maybe, I thought as I walked hand in hand with Henry to the boathouse, we’d invented the monster, in the darkness of the midnight library.