The Wolves of Greycoat Hall
INTRODUCTION
CHAPTER 1: A Summer Holiday
CHAPTER 2: The Trans-Bohemia Express
CHAPTER 3: By Land, Sea and Land
CHAPTER 4: Gateway to the Highlands
CHAPTER 5: Discovering a Castle
CHAPTER 6: Fish in the Air
CHAPTER 7: Tea and Tartan
CHAPTER 8: Protecting Castles
CHAPTER 9: Exploring Drommuir
CHAPTER 10: Kiltercalder Palace
CHAPTER 11: Bad News on the Beach
CHAPTER 12: The Battle of the Five Brothers
CHAPTER 13: Significant Wolves
CHAPTER 14: Open Day at Drommuir
CHAPTER 15: In Safe Hands
EXTRACT: A Guide to Scottish Baking for the Morovian Wolf
This is Boris. He is a friendly young wolf who likes meeting people and trying new foods.
This is Boris’s father, Randall Greycoat, who is a polymath. A polymath is someone who is an expert in lots of things. Here is Randall becoming an expert in speaking French and playing table tennis.
Boris’s mother is called Leonora Greycoat. Right now, she is looking in the mirror and practising her warm, reassuring smiles. Wolves need to look reassuring if they are to flourish in society.
Like most wolves, the Greycoats live in the forest. Not in a den or a cave, but in Greycoat Hall, a fancy mansion with twenty-three turrets. Greycoat Hall is in the little-known Principality of Morovia, which is a popular place for respectable wolves to live.
Here is a wolf cake, baked by the famous wolf chefs of Morovia. To make Morovian wolf cake, you will need flour, salt, pig fat, and (worst of all) coconut. Once baked, the cake is iced and decorated with silver sparkles. Wolf cake looks delicious, but sadly it is not.
One of the things that Boris and his parents like most is going on holiday. Travelling abroad is a wonderful opportunity for respectable wolves to learn about other cultures, and to enjoy properly delicious cakes.
In the parlour of Greycoat Hall, afternoon tea was being served. Young wolf Boris Greycoat sat opposite a scrumptious-looking mound of scones, muffins and teacakes. Unfortunately the cakes were rock hard and tasted of old coconut.
Ugh! thought Boris, as he gnawed on a heavy scone.
As if the scone wasn’t bad enough, his parents were “having a discussion” about where to go this summer holiday. (“Having a discussion” is grown-up wolf talk for arguing – but politely.)
“Darling!” said Leonora, Boris’s mother, “Not France again! Remember Paris!”
“My French has improved since then, my love,” said Randall. “Next time I go to a French restaurant, I will take care to ask WHAT is for dinner, not WHO is for dinner.”
“It was an easy mistake to make, Dad,” said Boris. Boris wanted to be kind, as he knew his father considered himself good at languages.
But Boris was worried. Last year, after the Greycoats holidayed in France, the Mayor of Paris had put out a notice: “Beware wolves in tailored clothing!”
This time, Boris wanted to go to a country where wolves were welcome. But where?
Then he saw it! Next to a half-chewed muffin lay a copy of The Lupine Times.
“Mum! Dad!” said Boris. “Look at the news!”
He picked up the paper and read aloud:
WOLVES TO BE REINTRODUCED TO SCOTLAND
Since 1680, there have been no wolves in Scotland. But now The Scottish Royal Conservation Society wishes to welcome us back. Wolves will be reintroduced, starting with the Highlands and islands. Perhaps, one day soon, we wolves can go about our daily lives in Scottish cities without shrieks of terror from the local population.
His parents were staring at one another.
“My dears,” said Leonora, “what wonderful news!”
Boris knew his family had Scottish connections. On the walls of Greycoat Hall hung lots of Scottish-looking paintings. There were romantic, outdoorsy Scottish paintings, with brave-looking wolves standing in front of mountains.
And murky, indoorsy Scottish paintings with serious-looking wolves sipping whisky by the fire.
“We’re sort of Scottish, aren’t we?” Boris asked his parents.
Leonora and Randall were smiling at him, their eyes bright.
“Why,” said Randall, “not just sort of! We have distinguished Scottish heritage. Now! Enough chitchat. I must read more!”
While Randall and Leonora read the rest of the article, Boris looked through The Lupine Times weekend magazine. He was happy to find an article on Scottish food, featuring photographs of fruitcake, shortbread, berry jam and light, crumbly scones.
“Why don’t we go to Scotland this summer?” he asked.
At this, Randall gave a low growl and placed his front paws on his lap.
When Randall put his paws on his lap, it meant he was about to make a Dramatic Statement. Leonora and Boris watched nervously. In the Greycoat family, Randall’s Dramatic Statements often led to Sticky Situations.
“Of course we should go!” declared Randall. He leaped from his chair and stood by the mantelpiece, his paw on his chest. “If wolves are to be reintroduced, we must seek an introduction! We, the Greycoats, shall show the Scottish people how wonderful wolves can be. I propose that we travel to Scotland, our ancestral homeland, on the next available train!”
On the next train! Boris dropped his scone in surprise. It bounced on the floor and crashed into an urn, causing several deep cracks to appear.
But Leonora nodded calmly. “Well, why not?” she said. “There are no romantic glens here in Morovia and the cakes are shocking. And I could do with a nice tartan suit. How clever you are with your ideas, my dear.”
“Now I must make some calls,” she said, making her way towards the Great Hall. “I will get in touch with the Embassy without delay.”
Of course, Boris and his parents didn’t take the train to Scotland that very afternoon. Wolves need to pack and put their affairs in order before travelling, especially to somewhere new. But Leonora was excellent at organising and so, just before teatime the following Saturday, the Greycoats were at Morovia Central Station with their suitcases, waiting to board the Trans-Bohemia Express.
Boris had packed his day bag with just a few travelling essentials: a sketchbook, a pencil set, his tartan dressing-gown, a tin of salted caramels and a large, leather-bound book – The History of the Scottish Greycoats by Baron McLupus the Fifteenth. Randall had found the book in the Greycoat Hall library. It was all about the Greycoats’ Scottish ancestors, he’d told Boris, and had lots of battles, betrayals and Dangerous Misunderstandings.
The wolves planned to spend all summer in Scotland. “This train travels through Europe, up to Rotterdam, on the Dutch coast,” Leonora explained as their baggage was being collected. “It’s a long trip, so we’ll sleep overnight in our own special cabin. Then we’ll get the overnight ferry to England, where we’ll sleep in another cabin. The morning after that, we’ll take a train to Scotland.”
Their own cabin! Boris wondered if they would have beds. Or maybe hammocks?
Their friend Sir Luther Fangdolph met them on the platform. Sir Luther was a well-connected wolf with an interest in Wolfish history. He’d been getting the Greycoats’ travel documents in order.
“Did you know, you are the first wolves to be reintroduced to Scotland!” announced Sir Luther, as he handed Leonora two passports. “The Scots Conservation Society is terribly excited.”
“Ah well, that was to be expected,” said Randall, looking pleased. Sir Luther smiled down at Boris. “Your passport, Boris dear.”
Boris’s cub passport had a Morovian crest on the front. Inside, there was a picture of Boris (with his ears slicked ba
ck and his whiskers trimmed). And something new and shiny on the page opposite.
“That’s your Scottish visa, with the new Lupine insignia,” said Sir Luther. “It’s been designed especially for us wolves.”
Boris stared at the silver visa sticker, with its wiggly patterns and loopy writing. If you squinted a bit you could see a thistle, a paw mark and what could be feathers – or maybe just squiggles.
“The train’s boarding!” said Sir Luther. “You’d better get on. Goodbye! And remember to make a good impression!”
“Thank you,” said Boris, “I’ll try.”
He put the fancy passport in his pocket, heaved his rucksack onto his back (The History of the Scottish Greycoats was heavy) and followed his parents onto the train.
To ensure a comfortable journey, the wolves decided to eat first. As the train left the station, they settled down to an early lunch in the Emperor of Prussia dining carriage.
“I’ll have the shrimp bavarois to start with,” said Leonora to the waiter. “And the venison to follow. And for you, Randall dearest?”
“Mmm,” said Randall, “I’ll make do with the truffle poached eggs . . .”
“And the leg of lamb,” he added, licking his chops. “Boris?”
Boris was distracted. Two well-dressed ladies at the next table were staring at them. One was frowning at Randall, her lips pursed disapprovingly. The other lady was nervously clutching her handbag.
Leonora had noticed their distress. To ease their anxiety, she gave the ladies one of her warm, reassuring smiles.
Maybe it was the way Leonora’s teeth popped out to the side, or the way her upper lip curled, but the ladies did not seem reassured. The nervous lady grabbed her handbag and hurried out of the carriage. The other lady tutted. “Wolves in first class!” she said loudly. She gathered her fur shawl, tossed it round her neck and got up. “Disgraceful!” she added as she swept past.
Leonora raised an eyebrow and looked towards Randall, who was engrossed in the dessert menu.
Boris scowled at the lady. How dare she!
The lady pushed past the waiter and turned to glare at the wolves, not seeing Boris’s bag, which had tipped over into the aisle.
“Ow!” said the lady, as she stubbed her toe on The History of the Scottish Greycoats by Baron McLupus the Fifteenth. Red-faced, she hopped up and down, and her fur shawl came loose.
Nearby, an elderly gentleman was tucking into a big bowl of pea soup. The fur fell in.
“My mink!” the lady shrieked.
“Hoy!” cried the man. “There’s hair in my soup!”
The lady snatched the fur away, spattering thick green soup over the poor gentleman.
“Now there’s soup in my hair!” he said miserably.
“They started it!” the lady screeched, pointing at the wolves. She hobbled out of the carriage and slammed the door.
“Serves her right,” whispered Boris to his mother.
“Be polite, Boris!” said Leonora. But Boris thought he saw her suppress a smile.
Some staff came to help the man, and Boris checked the menu. Their waiter was getting impatient. He clicked his pen and tutted.
“Perhaps some chicken nuggets for the . . .” the waiter looked at Boris, “. . . cub?”
Chicken nuggets! No way! This was a holiday and Boris wanted something fancy.
“I’ll have the whisky-soaked prawns, please,” he told the waiter, “then the brandy chicken.”
The waiter stared.
“But leave out the whisky and brandy, of course,” added Boris.
The waiter frowned and made a note.
“Is there cake?” asked Boris.
“The correct term is dessert,” said the waiter. He pointed at the menu. “Dessert includes cakes.”
Boris was fond of cake.
“Oh, good!” he said. “Then I’ll have a cream scone, a piece of pear flan and a chocolate eclair. That’s three desserts, please!”
“To use the correct term,” he added, to be polite.
After a long, delicious lunch, followed by a game of wolf scrabble and a light, tasty supper, the Greycoat family retired to their private quarters.
Boris was entranced by the cosy, wood-panelled sleeping compartment. By one window were the beds – a single bunk up high and a double bunk down below. A foil-wrapped candy lay on each of the pillows. By the other window were two curved, padded sofas. There were lamps in nooks that gave off warm light, clever shelves that folded out of the walls and soft velvet curtains around the beds. There was even a little sink with gold taps.
It was perfect luxury. Boris stashed his candy and snuggled into one of the sofas by the window. While Randall trimmed his whiskers and Leonora perched on the bed to write in her diary, Boris watched houses, then forests, then mountains flit past in the evening light.
Soon it was dark outside. Boris unwrapped his candy. It was a sugared chestnut and surprisingly delicious. He flattened the foil wrapper and stuck it inside his sketchbook. Then he climbed up into his bunk and got out The History of the Scottish Greycoats.
It was an entertaining read, full of dramatic stories from hundreds of years ago. Boris read about Lambert McLupus, the first wolf to become a Scottish baron. Lambert looked very proud in front of his castle, Wolfemina Hall, in the middle of a Scottish glen.
But the Baron had enemies. His treacherous brothers, Lyall and Lowell McLupus, plotted to take Wolfemina Hall for themselves.
They sneaked into the Hall and hid in suits of armour, planning to attack at midnight. But the wicked wolves got stuck in their armour. They wandered onto a balcony, tripped, and fell to their doom in the castle moat.
According to the book, the ghosts of the two brothers then spitefully haunted Lambert McLupus for the rest of his life.
How mean of them! thought Boris. It wasn’t Lambert’s fault they fell in the moat.
As he brushed his fangs, Boris was suddenly very sleepy. He snuggled under the covers and, despite the spooky tale he’d just read, Boris dozed off, dreaming of castles, romantic glens and chocolate eclairs.
Boris woke to the smell of fresh baking. It was morning, and there was a pile of hot, buttered croissants on the little table by the window.
“Yum!” said Boris cheerfully. He put on his fluffy dressing-gown, sat down and tucked in.
Then he looked out the window. The train was stopped on the platform!
“Dad!” said Boris. “We’ve stopped! And it says ‘Rotterdam’! Don’t we need to get off?”
“Don’t worry,” said Randall, looking up from his book, Learn Scots Gaelic in 30 Days. “Your mother had a chat with the train staff and we can stay on board for an hour or so. Our ferry doesn’t leave Rotterdam Port till the afternoon, you see.”
Outside, on the platform, the rude lady from the restaurant was arguing with one of the train porters. Boris pricked up his ears. He did like to hear what people were saying.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the porter was explaining, “but everyone must disembark at Rotterdam.”
“But I hadn’t finished my breakfast!” said the lady, indignantly. “And that carriage is still occupied!” She pointed at Boris.
“Certainly, ma’am. But those people have made arrangements.”
“People? They’re wolves!”
The lady glared at Boris. Boris would have loved to press his snout up to the glass, cross his eyes and pull a face. But he had been taught to be polite in public.
So, instead, Boris grinned at the lady and slowly took a huge bite of his lovely, flaky croissant. Then he settled back in his chair, making it plain that he was extra comfy in his carriage.
The lady’s mouth fell open. She picked up her bags and stalked off down the platform.
“Are you finished, sir?” It was the waiter from last night.
“Mph hmph!” said Boris, his mouth still full of croissant. The waiter raised his eyebrows.
“Apologies,” said Boris, “but these croissants are delicious! Do
you have the recipe? I’ve had croissants in Morovia, but for some reason they didn’t taste nice at all.”
“Up at last, Boris!” said Leonora, as Boris wrote down the last of the croissant recipe.
Croissants were fiddly to make, the waiter had told him. But worth it, thought Boris.
“Och ya glot me floot,” said Randall, suddenly.
Boris and Leonora stared.
“What?” said Boris.
“Pardon?” said Leonora.
“I said ‘what a stunning standing stone’,” replied Randall, “in Gaelic. The native tongue of the Scots. I want to make sure we blend in.”
Boris wondered how his father, a large wolf wearing glasses and tweed trousers and reading Gaelic loudly from a phrasebook, was going to blend in. So far, on their family holidays, the wolves had mostly attracted attention, and not always in a good way.
“How wonderful, darling,” said Leonora, “but I think most people in Scotland can speak English . . .”
“Mmm,” said Randall, “maybe so, but I do have a gift for languages. And I’ve been learning Gaelic since Tuesday. I can’t let all that effort go to waste.”
As a young Morovian wolf, Boris already knew four languages. And his father spoke many more. As well as being a polymath Randall was also a polyglot, which is someone who can speak lots of languages.
Sometimes though, Boris wondered if Randall was saying the right things in all of these languages.
Finally, after a late lunch, the wolves left their comfortable cabin and disembarked the train.
They spent the afternoon wandering around the Port of Rotterdam and looking at a lot of ships and bridges. Then it was time to take the ferry.