As we looked out of the spinney at the rain, a lone horseman rode into view.
The height, the banded boots of the Master of Foxhounds and the golden gleam of the horn at the saddle told us it was Rollo.
I had a niggling doubt. If we passed on that information for Ty, what exactly were we complicit in? What lurked in Acre Wood? I’d seen enough crime movies to know about being an accessory before the fact.
But Shafeen had no such qualms. He rode straight up to the earl. ‘I’m sorry about before.’
Rollo turned in his saddle.
‘You were right. You were right about everything. I see it now.’
Rollo looked genuinely touched and raised a friendly hand again, but this time, instead of patting Shafeen’s shoulder, he cupped the younger man’s cheek. It was a weirdly intimate gesture. ‘Attaboy,’ he said, a word I didn’t understand at all, but it was clearly a compliment.
‘And I think I’m getting the hang of it,’ Shafeen went on. ‘I think the hounds picked up a scent in Acre Wood.’
Rollo looked at Shafeen as fondly as a son. ‘Good enough for me,’ he said, and raised the horn.
The terrible song brought the hounds and riders running, and above the melee Rollo shouted, ‘To Acre Wood!’ We were carried along like cavalry – we could have been those ancient crusaders who charged across the mosaicked walls of the STAGS Club. I lost the others as Sweetbriar found herself shoulder to shoulder with Rollo’s stallion. I remembered what the head groom had said about Sweetbriar and Harkaway being stablemates and resigned myself to being right in the thick of the action. Aware that it was absolutely forbidden to get ahead of the MFH, I reined Sweetbriar back a little, but I was right behind Rollo when we plunged into the twilight darkness of Acre Wood.
I was right behind him when the branches whipped at our faces as we followed the speeding hounds through the murk.
And I was right behind him when it happened.
We reached the centre of a clearing and Rollo reined back his horse and stopped. I hauled on Sweetbriar’s reins and stopped her too, before we could cannon into the back of him. Rollo held up his hand. Everyone stopped. The hounds washed about his horse’s legs like sea foam, seeking the next scent. There were about five different ways we could go from there, five pathways leading into the dark, and no one seemed to have a clue. Except Rollo. He was very still, listening, sniffing the air like Hannibal Lecter, a born hunter.
Then something extraordinary happened. A little figure trotted out of the trees. He was also wearing a red coat, his four paws black like little boots. His face was a pointy mask, his ears sharp as blades.
He was a fox.
I swear he stopped for a second to look at us from amber eyes – he regarded us, we regarded him. He was brazen, cocky and utterly unafraid, just like Fantastic Mr Fox. For that split second we were all as still as Rollo, even the hounds. Then Rollo spoke a single word. Not to us, not to the hounds, but to the fox.
‘Reynard.’
At the sound of his name, the fox turned and ran.
The spell was broken. Rollo plunged after him, crashing through the undergrowth. Sweetbriar followed her stablemate closely. And we were once again in the darkness of the undergrowth. It was hard to see even your hand in front of your face, it’s true. But I’ll swear to my dying day that I saw what I saw.
Despite being in the thickest undergrowth, the path was true and straight and led downhill. Rollo was gathering speed when suddenly a figure rose up out of a hidden stream. It was dark, enormously tall and black-clad. The Grand Stag, said my rabbit’s heart, but this was not he. There were no antlers, and no empty cowl, because this figure had a face underneath a black slouch hat. And even in the dim twilight I could see the face clear as day because it was a mask of glowing white, all except for the quizzical black eyebrows, the grinning red mouth, the curling moustaches and the neat goatee beard.
It was the face of Guy Fawkes.
At the sudden sight of the spectre, Harkaway spooked. He stumbled and checked, then reared in a flash of flying hooves and whiplash reins. Rollo fell hard, and the stallion stood for a moment on his haunches, statuesque.
Sweetbriar wheeled and backed away, and I fought just as I had done at Speaker’s Corner, to calm my mount. Now, as then, Shafeen arrived to lay a firm hand on the reins, closely followed by Nel. By the time we’d slid to the ground to run to Rollo, there were already other huntsmen there. Sweetbriar pulled away and I let her go to nuzzle and comfort Harkaway, who was carrying one of his legs as if he couldn’t put weight on it. His reins were trailing, and he was shaking and shaking his head as if bothered by a fly.
But the Earl of Longcross did not move. Ice cold, I jostled to see the red-clad figure stretched on the winter earth. Two hooves on the ground, killed in battle. Was he dead? He had a little crowd around him, and it was difficult to see through all the riding boots and crouching huntsmen, but after what seemed like a lifetime I did hear the fallen figure give an unmistakable groan. ‘He’s OK,’ I said, with a warm rush of relief.
I ran to the stream and looked to the left and right. Night had fallen, but I thought I might see the flash of the white mask as the phantom made its escape.
Shafeen and Nel followed, questioning as they came.
‘Greer, what the hell?’
‘Who are we looking for?’
‘Him,’ I said, ‘Guy Fawkes. Did you not see?’
Shafeen grabbed me by my shoulders and looked at both my eyes in turn, as if he was diagnosing concussion or something. ‘Greer. Did you fall?’
‘No!’ I pulled away. ‘I’ve had about enough of people thinking I’m crazy. I saw him.’
‘You saw Guy Fawkes?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘No. I mean, I saw the mask. A man, all in black, with a big black hat. And he was wearing a mask, one of those V for Vendetta ones that all the Fawkeses were wearing at Speaker’s Corner.’ I pointed. ‘He jumped up out of the ditch to frighten Rollo’s horse. The horse got spooked and reared, and that’s how Rollo fell.’
Nel said, ‘You’re sure it was a man?’ It was an odd question, but at least she seemed to believe in the idea of a figure.
I considered. ‘Well – he seemed pretty tall. Who else would it be?’
‘Well,’ said Nel, ‘think about it. Ty told us to bring him here. To Acre Wood.’
I could not think that of her. And if she’d done that, then the enormity of what we’d done swelled to scary proportions. We’d led Rollo into a trap. ‘No,’ I protested. ‘No. He was tall. Really tall. He was as tall as …’ I turned to Nel, wide-eyed.
‘No,’ said Nel.
‘… as tall as the Abbot,’ I finished.
‘Well, it can’t have been him,’ she said decidedly.
‘No, no, of course not,’ I agreed uneasily. ‘And besides, the figure didn’t lead him here, Reynard did.’
‘Reynard?’
‘The fox. There was one here, in the covert. He led Rollo down the path. I know it sounds like mystical bullshit, but he led Rollo the right way. Or rather, the wrong way.’
While we talked there was a buzz of activity as the hunt gathered round Rollo like red ants. Princes and prime ministers knelt in the dirt to give him aid, all concerned for one of their own. I had a massive sense of déjà vu as the hunt servants took the five-bar gate from beyond the ditch off its hinges and laid Rollo on it, just as we’d done with Shafeen after he’d been shot. Rollo was conscious, but his normal florid colour had drained away and he looked as pale as paper – as pale as the Guy Fawkes mask.
Six red coats carried the gate like pall bearers, and Caro had appeared from somewhere and walked alongside her husband, holding his limp hand. She was very bright and British and keeping her emotions in check, but she looked as pale as her husband, and the hunt was clearly over for the day. None of us had the appetite to ride, so we led our horses out of the covert and down the hillside towards the cruise-ship lights of Longcross Hall, sailing on the black sea of night.
One of the huntsmen led Harkaway home, and the stallion was still limping, carrying one leg.
‘I hope he’ll be all right too,’ I said uneasily.
‘He’ll be shot,’ said Shafeen shortly.
‘No way,’ I gasped.
‘Yes way,’ he countered brutally. ‘He’s no use for hunting now. You think they’re going to send him to a farm in the countryside? There’s no point keeping a horse you can’t ride just to eat its head off and cost you vet bills.’ He pulled the peak of his hat down against the rain, a flourish of finality. ‘He’s dogmeat, Greer. That’s how you reward a hunter for years of loyal service.’
As we walked the horses back in the freezing rain, all I could think of was what a brutal world this was that I’d ridden into, for humans and animals alike.