The Beasts of Clawstone Castle

CHAPTER FOUR

It was not till the following day that Madlyn really understood what Mrs Grove had told her, because that was the day when she and Rollo were driven through the gates of Clawstone Park. They went in Sir George’s ancient Land-Rover and, as he stopped to take out a large iron key and unlock the padlock, it seemed to Madlyn that a change came over her great-uncle. He seemed to become taller and more upright, less stooped and weary-looking, as if he knew that what he was to show them could be equalled nowhere in the world. They moved forward, and as the gates in the high stone wall closed again behind them they seemed to be entering a kind of Paradise. It was silent except for the calling of the curlews on the hill; the trees standing in full-leaved clumps looked as though they had stood there since the beginning of time; the stream beside which they drove was as clear and clean as rivers must have been in the Garden of Eden. No artificial sprays or chemicals were allowed inside the park, so that the grassy banks were studded with wild flowers, and the blossom on the gorse bushes dazzled with their gold.

They bumped their way across the fields, and crossed a shallow ford.

Then: ‘Oh!’ said Rollo.

Sir George nodded.

‘Yes, there they are.’

And he stopped the engine and they sat in silence, and looked at a sight one could see nowhere else in England: the Wild White Cattle of Clawstone Park.

Madlyn had never been interested in cows. If she thought of them at all she imagined stolid, square-rumped animals who stood humbly in stalls with machines clamped to their udders and said ‘Moo’.

But these creatures were not like that. They were not like that at all.

They stood in the shade of a clump of oaks and every line of their bodies — the graceful lift of their heads, the long legs of the calves standing beside their mothers, the proud strength of the wide-horned bulls — spoke of grace and nimbleness and speed.

‘I was stupid,’ said Madlyn to herself. ‘I didn’t understand.’

Where they had come from, these fabled beasts, no one knew. Some said a ship from Spain had been wrecked on the coast and the cattle had swum ashore and made their way across the hills to Clawstone. Others said they were descended from the wide-horned aurochs who had lived in the primeval forests of the north. Whatever their beginnings, the cattle had roamed free inside the seven hundred acres of Clawstone Park as long as anyone could remember — and the owners of Clawstone had protected them.

But they protected them from a distance, for the creatures were as wild as wolves. No one milked them; they were never brought inside in bad weather or to have their calves; no one fed them cattle cake or took them to the vet — indeed, it could be dangerous to handle them; they could not endure the touch of human beings.

And each and every one was as white as snow.

‘Can we get out?’ asked Rollo.

‘No. But we can go closer.’

It was like an African safari as they drove slowly towards the herd, hoping they would not take flight.

‘They were the cattle of the ancient Druids,’ said Sir George, and it was easy to imagine how those wise wanderers would have prized such a herd, both as givers of food and as a source of sacrifice. It was always white bulls that the gods wanted when they thirsted for blood.

They had come very near to the herd. Sir George turned off the engine and they let down the windows as far as they would go. The king bull stared at them, unafraid, knowing that nothing could threaten him. Beside him grazed the oldest of the cows, with her scars and her crumpled horn. Two calves butted each other, playing; another drank from its mother, who flicked the flies from him with her tail. One cow was lying down a little way from the rest; a salad of dark green plants hung from her mouth.

‘Are those stinging nettles she’s eating?’ asked Rollo.

Sir George nodded. ‘Cows know what plants are good for them, especially when they’re going to have their calves. She’s due any day now.’

They watched in silence. Then quite suddenly the herd took off, the king bull leading, stampeding across the shallow ford, racing away towards the high ground.

‘Was it us?’ asked Rollo, worried.

Sir George shook his head and pointed. A red deer, an antlered stag, had appeared between the trees.

‘They’ll take off suddenly like that if anything startles them.’

Rollo said nothing as they drove back through the gates, and nothing when they returned to the castle. In silence he made his way up the main staircase, and the second flight of stairs, and the third. When he reached the top floor he walked from room to room till he found a window that overlooked the park and the hill where the cattle were grazing. Then he pulled a table over to the window and found a chair, which he put on top of the table, and climbed on to it and pressed his nose against the glass.

Sir George found him there an hour later. Rollo’s eyes were dreamy, his nose was pale where the blood had left it.

‘Are they always white?’ he asked his great-uncle. ‘Always and for ever?’

‘Yes. Always. They have bred true for a thousand years.’

Rollo nodded. ‘Are they your cows? Do they belong to you?’

‘They belong to themselves. But I guard them.’

Then: ‘I will help you,’ said Rollo.