The Betrayals

by Bridget Collins

  She goes to the corner furthest from the window and bends down to reach behind a bookcase, dragging out a little metal trunk. She sits back on her heels and wipes a clinging cobweb from her forehead with the inside of her wrist. Then she digs in her pocket for a key, unlocks the trunk and lifts out a package. The old oilskin crackles as she unwraps it. It’s a ledger, covered in blue-grey marbled paper like pebbles underwater; the corners and spine are scuffed leather. An inkblot bulges across the front. When it was fresh the stain gleamed like a coin, a blue-and-copper sheen rising to the surface where the ink was thickest; but time and desiccation have dulled it to a flat black. It still leaves a smear on her finger when she brushes her hand over it, and unconsciously she raises her fingertip to her mouth and sucks it clean. She raises her eyes to the window for a second, letting her gaze linger on the sky over the valley; then she bows her head over the book and opens it.

  4

  First day of Serotine Term, second year

  I meant to get up at dawn this morning but I overslept, so by the time I was slogging up the hill it was getting warm and I arrived at the gate thoroughly drenched in sweat. It’s bloody annoying, having to walk all the way – not because I resent the exercise particularly, but because after all they’ve got a bus and they could perfectly well ferry us all up at the same time as our trunks. I have a theory it’s deliberate: they make us earn the first sight of the school, so that we’re already breathless and reeling when we step into the courtyard for the first time. And then we stand there and look round at the Great Hall and library and the towers, etc., etc., and feel overwhelmed and insignificant. The scale of it all, the site up here where the air is thin and you have to struggle to catch your breath, the austere grandeur of the buildings … It’s pure theatre. (I couldn’t say that aloud, of course. Imagine, theatre! In the same breath as the grand jeu! I remember in the first term, letting slip something about having seen The Knight’s Check at the Empress, and the way everyone turned to look at me. There was a pause, and then Emile waved his hand languidly and said, ‘Don’t judge him, my dears. I have a vast collection of erotic postcards, and Felix here is a great connoisseur of farts …’ We all laughed, and I never mentioned going to the theatre again.) It likes to pretend that the grand jeu has nothing to do with ‘entertainment’, but deep down the school is nothing but a playhouse. It’s drama, that’s all.

  Maybe I’m being disingenuous. There was a moment this morning, on the last stretch of road with the towers looming into sight, when I felt as pleased as Punch to be here again. I felt myself swagger as I walked through the gate. It still comes as a surprise that I’m a scholar of Montverre. And second in my class, no less. I didn’t expect that, this time last year. This time last year I was afraid they’d realise there’d been a mistake.

  It doesn’t matter, anyway. I’m back. Two more years to go.

  Later

  Had to break off because Felix came and knocked for me and we went down to get some lunch. He’s worrying about being near the bottom of the class; apparently his parents gave him a hard time over the summer and they’ve threatened to make him find a job if he doesn’t get at least an Upper Second next year. I told him it was a bit early to be worrying about leaving, but I couldn’t muster much sympathy. He clearly thinks getting a job is about the worst thing that can happen to him. Any job. Presumably earning a living is the sort of thing only the middle classes do. I’d like to see him slaving away in Dad’s scrapyards, the way I did all summer. For goodness’ sake, all these people whose dream is sitting in a country house somewhere, studying the grand jeu while the country goes to the dogs … Not that I’m much better, if what I want is to be Magister Ludi – but at least that’s an honest ambition, it isn’t just trying to avoid hard work. I bit my tongue and didn’t mention the scrapyards; but then, there are a few other things I did over the summer that I’m not going to mention, either. That bit of my life (manual labour, colleagues who only read the Flag, the occasional sweaty fifteen-minute-stand behind the architectural salvage pile) is staying firmly in another compartment. Every so often I wish I could tell him, if only to see his face. But I’m not an idiot.

  Lunch was plain wholesome food suitable for the grand jeu players of tomorrow, as per, but at least it was copious. Most of the class were already down there, swapping the usual Long Vacation stories. Emile had been in France for most of it (naturally, my dears!) and was regaling the others with tales of the conquests he’d made chaperoning his cousins round Paris – whereupon Matthieu tried to outdo him by announcing that he had met an obliging dairymaid (or was it a shepherdess? I forget) in the Alps and had actually lain hands on the most perfect pair of … etc. etc. Jacob (who has never quite mastered the idiom) was boasting that he’d been invited to Oxford to study. He was telling Felix about the Abacus Collection – his uncle’s the curator, he was invited to the grand jeu soirées with the best players in England, blah blah – until I said, ‘Jacob, the Abacus Collection is in Cambridge,’ and he choked a bit and went quiet. Sometimes I wonder whether any of us tells the truth about anything.

  After I’d picked up my timetable – we have fewer lessons this year, to give us time to work on our games – I came back up here. As I turned the corner I caught sight of Felix outside Carfax’s room, pinning something up on the door. I paused and looked over his shoulder, and he turned and grinned at me. ‘Like it?’ he said.

  It was an advert for fire extinguishers, with a picture of a burning house and two wide-eyed children loitering on the lawn, hand in hand. Why take the risk? it said.

  ‘Are they meant to be the survivors, or the culprits?’

  ‘They’ve definitely got the de Courcy look, haven’t they?’ Felix pushed in the last drawing pin, and stood back to appraise his work. ‘Slightly manic … guilty expressions … ash-smeared hands …’ He looked round and grabbed my arm, but it was too late. Carfax was coming down the corridor towards us. He must have been in the lavatory, because his hair was wet and he was carrying a damp towel. He paused in front of us and read the poster. His face went tight. For a second I thought he was going to go inside without saying anything, but then Felix giggled.

  ‘Hilarious,’ Carfax said. ‘Did you spend the whole vacation planning that?’

  ‘No,’ Felix said, ‘I just saw it and thought of you.’

  ‘Maybe if you thought less about me and more about the grand jeu you wouldn’t be in line for a Third.’

  Felix’s grin slid off his face. ‘You really can’t take a joke, can you?’

  Carfax turned so suddenly I thought he was going to hit one of us. ‘For pity’s sake, will you leave me alone?’

  ‘Or what? Will you burn us in our beds?’

  ‘I’m sorely tempted.’ He looked past Felix, at me.

  ‘What have I done?’ I said. ‘I simply happened to be walking past—’

  ‘I hope one day you realise what a bastard you are, Martin. That’s all.’ He pushed the door open, and then paused, as if something else had occurred to him. ‘Oh, and by the way – congratulations on coming second. Your family must be very proud.’

  The door shut behind him. Felix grunted, and peeled the poster off the door. ‘He is such a sanctimonious prig.’ He caught my eye. ‘Shall we catch him off guard somewhere and scrag him?’

  I shook my head. For Felix it really is a joke. He likes teasing Carfax because he gets a reaction. He doesn’t realise how much I loathe him. How much I would like to see him – all right, maybe not hurt, not badly, but humiliated. No one knows that; except possibly Carfax himself. In some ways we see each other more clearly than anyone else does, I think.

  Felix said, ‘Reckon you can knock him off his perch this year?’

  I took a deep breath and tried to sound casual. ‘If I get the right partner for the joint game. I’m thinking of asking Paul.’

  ‘It should be a walkover. It’s not like anyone’s going to want to work with Carfax, even if he’s the best player. He’ll get stuck with one
of the no-hopers at the bottom of the list.’ He paused. ‘I hope it’s not me.’

  ‘Find someone else, quickly, and it won’t be.’

  ‘Right. Yes.’

  It shouldn’t have bothered me, that Felix called him the best. I mean, he is the best, at the moment. But it galls me even to write the words. Damn him. I am going to be top of the class this year. I swear it. Whatever it takes.

  And one day, I promise, I am going to see Carfax de Courcy cry.

  Third day of Serotine Term

  First grand jeu lesson today, but we didn’t do much. Magister Holt told us about our joint games, which are due in at the end of this term. I caught Paul’s eye as Magister Holt was speaking, and he gave me a look to ask if I was up for partnering him, and I gave him a thumbs-up, so hopefully that’s that sorted out.

  Afterwards, as I was picking my exercise book off the floor (Felix had sent it flying in his eagerness to sprint downstairs for lunch), Magister Holt said, ‘Mr Martin, I’d like to speak to you, if I may.’ Everyone else was already pushing out of the classroom door, and the Magister waited for them to leave before he shut it and gestured to me to sit down. For a moment I thought he was going to stand on the dais and address me from there, but he stood staring at the diagrams of notation on the wall and didn’t say anything.

  ‘Yes, Magister?’ I said, in the end.

  ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘On your coming second in the class. No doubt you’re pleased.’

  I said, ‘Yes, I am. Naturally.’ There was such a long silence that I had time to wonder why, if congratulations were in order, he hadn’t kept Carfax behind, to congratulate him; but then, of course, they’d be surprised if a de Courcy wasn’t at the top of the class.

  ‘How would you say you were getting on, Mr Martin?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘At Montverre. You are the first of your family to come here, I believe.’

  I thought about making some crack about having crawled to the top of the rubbish heap, but I didn’t. ‘That’s right, Magister.’ I was hoping I could leave it at that, but he was giving me the Magister Ludi look, which makes you squirm until you’ve come up with a better answer. ‘I’m – all right, I suppose. Glad to be doing OK.’

  ‘Do you feel at home here?’

  ‘Does anyone?’

  That got a smile out of him, but only for a second. ‘Please, Mr Martin,’ he said, ‘don’t imagine that I am trying to make you feel uncomfortable. But I …’ He sighed and went back to looking at the notation charts. I dug my hands into my armpits to stop myself fidgeting. ‘When we marked the games, at the end of last term, I must say I was very impressed with your progress.’

  I said, ‘Thank you,’ but he hadn’t finished.

  ‘You have certainly developed a great vocabulary, a sophisticated grasp of the grand jeu, a facility with the idiom,’ he said, with a glance at me to acknowledge my interruption. ‘But I don’t think I would have awarded you quite those marks, if the rest of the masters hadn’t insisted.’

  I said, ‘Oh.’

  ‘Not that your game was in any way deficient. Not at all. But there is … how shall I put this? I worry that there is something … inauthentic. That what you produce is a very clever imitation of what you think the grand jeu should be, rather than a true game. Do you understand what I mean?’

  I think I said, ‘Not entirely, Magister.’

  ‘You are intelligent. Very intelligent.’ He paused, but this time I didn’t thank him, and I don’t think he expected me to. ‘You have assimilated the culture of Montverre, the practice of the grand jeu … You produce, let us say, a flawless imitation of a Montverre scholar, complete with flawless, accomplished games. And yet there is something …’ He plucked at his ear. ‘I hesitate to say – cold, but … insincere, perhaps. There is something missing.’

  I cleared my throat. ‘What is that?’

  He gave a rueful laugh, as if this was some intellectual problem we were trying to solve together. ‘I’m not exactly sure. But I think I would know it if I saw it. And without that, I think you will never be more than a competent player. Extremely competent – but only competent.’

  There was a pause. I was trying not to let anything show on my face. I said, ‘Are you saying, Magister, that I play the game as if it’s a game?’

  I thought he’d tell me not to be impertinent. But he said, ‘No, Mr Martin. I’m saying you play the game to win.’

  I stood up and swept my books into my arms. I nearly knocked them all on to the floor and had to scramble to catch them. ‘Well, thank you, Magister,’ I said. ‘Next time I will do my best to lose.’

  He held up his hand. ‘Don’t get angry, Mr Martin. I’m telling you this because I think you have promise.’

  It took an effort not to reply. I stared at the diagrams of notation and tried to estimate how often I’d used each symbol in my last game.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Martin … It has occurred to me to wonder whether your admirable work ethic is driven by a rivalry between you and Mr de Courcy.’

  He waited, but it wasn’t a question so I didn’t answer.

  ‘From what I have observed, that rivalry strikes me as somewhat … unfriendly. Am I right?’

  ‘I don’t particularly like him.’

  ‘I believe I know the reason for that.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, Magister.’ Lucky I was still holding all my books, or I’d have been tempted to pick up the volume of Hondius on his desk and hit him over the head with it. I thought he was going to say something else, so I added, ‘I don’t think anyone likes him much, to be honest.’

  ‘A shame. I believe you could learn a lot from each other.’

  I didn’t reply.

  ‘I’m sorry. I see that I have upset you.’

  ‘I’m not upset.’

  ‘No doubt you need your lunch.’ He took a step back and gestured to the door. ‘Anyway, Mr Martin … Welcome back to Montverre.’

  I wrote all that down this afternoon and then went off to meditation, but I’m still furious. What gives him the right to judge me? My life isn’t a game that he gets to mark out of a hundred and pontificate on. If he wants to dispense his infinite wisdom he can stick to his bloody grands jeux.

  Right. I’m going back to the library. If the Magister wants authentic, that’s what he’s going to get. It can’t be that hard. I have a cunning plan: I’m going to find the most authentic game ever written and work out how to copy it.

  Later

  I cannot fucking believe it.

  Chapter 4

  5: the Magister Ludi

  The first-years fall silent as she walks into the classroom for their first grand jeu lesson. She’s late, deliberately; they’re all seated, tense and waiting, unsure of themselves and one another. It’s an art, finding the right moment, before their unease tips over into nervous chatter or bravado, but it’s the same instinct that guides her through a grand jeu, and she knows as she crosses to her dais that her timing is exactly right. She pauses before she looks up. Then she lets her eyes sweep across their faces, noticing who meets her gaze and who looks away, which ones shift in their seats or cross their arms. Which will resent being taught by a woman.

  There’s a small movement by the window. It’s a tousle-haired young man with a thin, good-humoured face, fiddling with his collar.

  She recognises him. Simon – Charpentier, is it? She was at his viva. He was charming then, incoherent with enthusiasm, stumbling over his words. He described the Four Seasons as if no one else had ever heard of it. The thought of it makes her want to smile, now. ‘It’s the way it isn’t – it shows how music and maths and – it’s all different but it isn’t, it’s still the game, the game is—’ he’d said, and stuttered to a halt. She’d leant forward, in the pause, and said, ‘I think, Mr Charpentier, you’re talking about beauty.’ Yes. He was so young; but everyone is, to start with.

  Abruptly he realises what he’s doing and drops his hand, ducking hi
s head. He was trying to cover a stain – was he? – no, a rip – no. Her heart gives a little flip. There’s a cross sewn to the fabric of his gown. A Christian. She knew that, although she’d forgotten. There’d been a Party official at the viva, too. ‘I’m afraid,’ he’d said, with a sort of sigh, ‘that no matter how enthusiastic you believe yourself to be, there may be a time when you realise that as a Christian you are not quite fitted – and you have your own culture, of course, far be it from me to disparage your faith, it is a very ancient one, if somewhat melodramatic – that, in fact, you cannot participate fully in the life of the grand jeu and thus in the life of Montverre …’ She’d bitten her tongue, raging. Later she’d taken particular pleasure in signing Charpentier’s acceptance letter.

  He looks up and registers her eyes lingering on his gown. He shrinks down in his chair, hunching his shoulders so that the cross disappears into a crease of material. There’s something in the gesture that looks habitual. The pang in her chest turns into a deeper misgiving. The crosses have only been law for a few weeks – this is the first time she’s seen one – and yet he has already developed this reflex, to make himself look smaller. She wants to snap at him to sit up straight. Show weakness here, and you’re doomed.