The distant clip clop of hooves warned us something was up. McCallum, the gamekeeper, wasn’t due back from his border patrol for another hour, and our other equines were all here in the stable.

Adamson cocked an ear and looked over at me. “Two horses walking up the south road, sir, one of them unshod.”

Sharp ears, that laddie. Not too canny, but he knew horses.

I nodded. “Find Mr Rutherford.”

He ran out of the stable. I put away my broom and pocketed a revolver from the gun safe. Just in case. Unexpected visitors were usually not welcome here at Baird Estate, especially when Mr Baird himself was absent.

Outside, the fog and drizzle still showed no sign of clearing. A blur slowly resolved into McCallum on his chestnut mare, followed by a riderless shaggy grey, ghostlike in the mist. Seeing me, McCallum nodded and casually scratched his chin, code for “No danger, but stay alert”.

Was the grey a stray? Or a survivor after another of McCallum’s “altercations” with poachers and other trespassers? – although I hadn’t heard any gunshots. It wore no headcollar or saddle, but had a large ragged bundle on its back. Then it turned its head and I saw the long horn on its forehead.

I’d overheard Mr Baird and Rutherford discussing unicorns, perhaps a year ago. There were persistent rumours of a herd somewhere in the forests of central Europe. Mr Baird had considered an expedition, before deciding the rumours were just tavern gossip and fairy tales. Then again, I scarcely knew what fairy tales were anymore – the stable already housed a hippogriff (the pride of his collection), as well as a pegasus. And now a unicorn? Well, so be it. I was just his stablemaster, responsible for any creature with horse ancestry, and I’d do my best for this one too.

Adamson dashed back into the courtyard. He was followed by Rutherford, out of breath and with his jacket misbuttoned. They stared wide-eyed at the unicorn.

The beasty turned, revealing that he was most definitely a stallion, and regarded them condescendingly. In profile, he most resembled a Friesian or Shire, but with odd curly fetlocks and a matching goat-like beard. He did not especially resemble the twin unicorns on the Scottish coat of arms, but then they wore crowns and chains and were safely mythical.

“Found them by the east loch,” McCallum said.

Rutherford frowned. “Them?”

On the unicorn’s back, the ragged bundle sat up, startling everyone except McCallum.

“Please. Baird. Help, please, unicorn,” a girl’s voice squeaked.

“Double trouble,” Rutherford muttered darkly, clearly regretting that he was in charge in Mr Baird’s absence.

I sympathised, grateful I’d only have to deal with a stallion capable of killing me with one slash of his horn. Wee lassies were someone else’s problem.

Or so I thought. But the girl refused to be parted from the unicorn, and made this clear by shrieking like a banshee, biting, and kicking. Equally, if the girl was more than a few yards away, the unicorn grew agitated and lashed out with his hooves and horn at anyone nearby.

“So, the folk tales are true,” I whispered to Rutherford. “Unicorns can be tamed only by a virgin.”

He grunted and rolled his eyes.

#

That evening, Rutherford summoned McCallum and me to Mrs Baird’s parlour. I made sure to clean my boots and brush the mud from my trousers – in my three years at the estate, this would be my first look at the castle’s interior beyond the staff areas. Not that I was complaining.

Shiny, that was my impression as we climbed a grand stairway. I pitied the maid who had to polish all this wood and brass. Shiny, but also damp and cold. Perhaps Mr Baird should find himself a fire-breathing dragon to warm the place up.

“They are settled for the night, Wilkins?” Mrs Baird asked me, once we were seated in the parlour.

“Yes, ma’am. The unicorn smashed two stall doors in as many minutes, but now he seems content to stay put in a door-less stall, provided that the girl is nearby, and no one tries closing the stable door, which he also kicked off its hinges. The girl wolfed down a whole batch of Cook’s fancy shortbread and a venison pie, and is now asleep on hay bales next to him. That’s the best we could hope for under the circumstances, I reckon. Adamson and I will be in our bunks in the tack room, and will keep our ears open overnight.”

“I’ve posted extra guards around the castle grounds,” Rutherford added.

She frowned. “To prevent our ‘guests’ leaving? Or do you fancy that someone may pursue them here?”

“Either or both, ma’am. I... doubt she’s the unicorn’s legal owner.”

McCallum and I nodded.

Mrs Baird sighed. “I telegrammed Graeme at once with the news, and received a reply only four hours later, as by sheer luck he’s back in Valencia already. His expedition was another balls-up – the supposed quagga turned out to be a badly painted zebra. But he’s delighted to hear of the unicorn, and hopes to be back here within a week or so. Naturally, Graeme being Graeme, he fails to grasp why a mysterious girl and unicorn could be the slightest inconvenience. He is hardly the most practical of men.”

We diplomatically said nothing. For all his faults, Mr Baird was a generous employer.

“What if the police turn up tomorrow and ask after the girl?” she continued. “What do we know of her? Not even her name. Her only English seems to be ‘Baird’, ‘help’, ‘please’, ‘food’ and ‘unicorn’. And ‘east’ if one asks where she came from, although any fool could guess that.”

“Gypsy, I reckon, ma’am,” McCallum said sourly. “Listened to her blether to the unicorn. Bits of mongrel French, Polish, German. Bits I recall from my Royal Navy days. And gypsies are infamous horse thieves.”

And McCallum was infamous for thinking the worst of everyone. In this case, he was likely wrong – I knew a little of the Romany tongue and recognised nothing the girl had said, and her accent didn’t match either – but I didn’t wish to cross him. “She was certainly ‘born in the saddle’,” I said tactfully. “I don’t know whether I could ride a stallion, bareback and without reins, up and down every ben and dale from the coast to here.”

“You think they arrived in Scotland by boat?” Rutherford asked.

“Seems more likely than riding up the A1 road from London,” I said. “A unicorn’s horn is difficult to hide.”

McCallum grunted agreement.

“We’ve heard rumours of a feral unicorn herd somewhere in Europe,” Rutherford said.

I shook my head. “That beasty’s hardly tame, I grant you, but he’s not feral – I’m sure he’s been in stables before, and he’s certainly been groomed before. And he didn’t even blink at seeing a hippogriff and pegasus.”

“So, a gypsy girl hears of our menagerie, steals a unicorn, rides halfway across Europe, catches a ferry to Scotland, then trots up here and asks for Baird, bold as brass?” Mrs Baird asked, eyebrows raised. “Ridiculous. She had help, surely.”

“Refugees fleeing Europe arrive in Britain every day, ma’am,” Rutherford said. “Many have been aided by smugglers and well-wishers. Perhaps these are just two more.”

True.

“Aye, perhaps he’s a Jewish unicorn,” McCallum said with a wry grin.

Rutherford glared at him, unamused.

“Or perhaps he’s one of Mr Hitler’s unicorns,” I wondered aloud.

Rutherford turned his glare on me.

#

I slept undisturbed, until woken at dawn by Adamson’s voice from the courtyard. Surprising, as he rarely rose before me.

As I pulled my trousers on, I heard the girl’s babble and the distinctive whinny of Bonny, our elderly one-winged pegasus. (Mr Baird was forever reminding everyone that Bonny was technically a pterippus, not a pegasus – Pegasus was just the name of the famous pterippus from Greek mythology – but frankly, only he and his cryptozoologist friends seemed concerned by this point.)

Looking out from the tack room, I saw the stable was half-empty. No unicorn or hippogriff. In a panic, I dashed outside and nearly ran into the unicorn, which glared at me, snorted, and stomped a hoof in disdain. Two Shetland ponies trotted over and nuzzled me in greeting. Across the courtyard, Vincent the hippogriff strode past as if on inspection. All was well.

“A good morning to you on such a glorious spring day, sir,” Adamson said cheerily. “I was thinking we should take them to the great south paddock for some grazing and exercise. With your permission, sir.”

I’d thought the same last night when the clouds cleared, but was now disconcerted by the sight of the lassie up on Bonny’s back.

Adamson followed my gaze. “Isn’t it grand? Mia and Bonny are fast friends already. Bonny has perked up no end.”

I blinked. “Mia?” The girl?

“Mia!” shouted Mia, with a manic grin that showed half her teeth were black or missing, then bent down to whisper sweet horsey nothings to Bonny.

Bonny had indeed “perked up”. She was usually a timid old nag, often cringing at the gentlest touch, especially anywhere near her wing stump. Perhaps she knew well that she was kept only as a scientific curiosity – an ordinary horse of her years would have been dogfood and glue years ago. But today she seemed almost frisky, flapping her wing playfully at the ponies before setting off around the courtyard in a dainty trot, Mia giggling on her back.

Did Mia have this power over all equines?

Vincent ignored her, but then Vincent always treated everyone (human and equine alike) with regal indifference. In particular, today he was also pretending the unicorn didn’t exist, but that was probably for the best – the last thing we needed was a power struggle between two stallions.

“Sir?” Adamson asked. “The great south paddock, sir?”

“Aye, make ready to leave in fifteen minutes,” I barked, and stomped off to the kitchens in search of breakfast.

As I cut myself a doorstop of bread and cheese, Rutherford entered the room. “Ah, Wilkins. Any overnight developments?”

“The lassie’s name is Mia, if you’d call that a development.”

He grimaced. “A common name throughout half of Europe.”

“Also, it seems that every equine has fallen in love with her, with the possible exception of Vincent, but he may be hiding it out of masculine pride.”

“Ah. Well then, do be careful, old chap, or she’ll be after your job next,” he said with a grin, but then saw my face and grew serious. “For heaven’s sake, Wilkins, don’t worry yourself about the girl – she is my responsibility until Mr Baird returns. Your job is to keep an eye on that unicorn. He hasn’t further demolished the stable, I hope?”

“No, you may as well start repairs. Adamson and I are taking the equines to the great south paddock for a few hours.”

“Excellent. A nice safe spot, far from our borders. Although you will take precautions?”

I nodded curtly and left without another word. Did the man think I ever rode out of the castle grounds without a loaded rifle and shotgun in my saddle scabbard?

I daresay we made an odd procession. Adamson on his cob took the lead, with Mia next to him on Bonny, and the unicorn close behind. The other beasties, horses and ponies arranged themselves into some mysterious equine order, with Vincent keeping order in the middle as he usually did. I was the rear guard.

As we passed the outer walls, McCallum rode up and joined me, claiming he was headed the same way – I doubted this, but was grateful for any reinforcements.

“So,” he said, as we wound our way up the road. “Will there be another Great War?”

Where did that come from? He wasn’t one for chit-chat about current affairs. “I fear that Mr Hitler may start a war soon, yes,” I replied.

“Hitler,” he snorted. “A bowler hat and a cane and he’d look like Charlie Chaplin. Newspapers say Germany and Austria have united. Now he’s ranting about some place called Sudetenland. But his army’s still nae big enough to start a war. Or do ye ken otherwise? What was it ye said last night – ‘Hitler’s unicorn’?”

“Just a theory of mine. Every cryptid menagerie in Germany is under state control – that professor who visited here last year from the menagerie near Berlin, he admitted as much. So presumably, the same is now true in Austria too.”

“Hmmmph. Heard about that professor. Heard he was suspiciously eager for a sample of pegasus blood. And quite rude when Mr Baird refused him. And even ruder when Mr Baird inquired how he’d known we had a pegasus – for ‘tis hardly something we scry to one and all. A shame I wasn’t around to teach that professor some good manners.” He frowned. “So, ye reckon some canny Austrians have been breeding unicorns on the quiet. And Hitler’s lads have just taken them over. And now they’ve lost one stallion and one stable lass. Aye, indeed, that’s maybe no coincidence at all. Could explain our current palaver. But what has it to do with war?”

“Imagine a cavalry charge by soldiers on unicorns, McCallum. Imagine an aerial assault by soldiers on pegasuses, hippogriffs and dragons.”

“Aye, well, Wilkins, ‘tis a great imagination ye have there. But does Hitler have enough virgins to ride a herd of unicorns into battle? And doesn’t machine-gun fire have the same effect on cryptids as on ordinary beasties?” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Talk to Rutherford if it eases your mind. He can have a chinwag with Mr Baird on his return. Now, I have a border to patrol. Noticed a wee aeroplane at dawn. Zig-zagging high across the sky, as if searching. Or watching. I’ll keep my eyes and ears out for strangers. Especially irate Austrian unicorn breeders.”

He laughed and rode off, leaving me no happier, although everything he’d said was true. Was I fretting over nought, or was I still missing something?

At the great south paddock, the equines gorged themselves on spring grass. Even Vincent, whose eagle front half preferred meat (we surely had the only rat-free stable in Scotland) found the lush growth to his liking.

I watched the unicorn with interest, but he munched grass with the same enthusiasm as any other equine. His only quirk was following Mia around, and vice versa, as if they were connected by invisible hat elastic. Although, I noticed that he also tolerated Adamson, far more so than me. Hmm, presumably the lad was still a virgin. That might prove useful, if the unicorn was ever to be properly tamed.