Grievous

by H. S. Cross

  The contract was not what she had thought. She had been deceived by the oldest of swindlers, the one who’d delivered her heart’s desire—cure to perfection, instant and complete—while wearing the mask of the Captain she trusted. Watchmen! Watchmen! The Prince has come for his price.

  Prickly heat. Ice-in-bone. Door. People. Da kneeling, floor, settee, across her mother, who …

  Nothing made sense. Everything was clear. Her satchel fell. The light smelled like eggs. She would never wear these clothes again.

  42

  O God, forasmuch as without thee we are not able to please thee, mercifully grant that thy Holy Spirit may in all things direct and rule our hearts, through Jesus Christ our Lord. That had been the collect a fortnight ago, and Pearce was still praying it. He didn’t know if his prayer had failed or if he was simply too stupid and stiff-necked to pray well, but his heart in no way felt ruled. Dramatic choices were the province of literature, not life. People always said to do what was right, but they never explained how to work out what that was if the circumstances were messy, which they invariably were. His most recent interview with Dr. Sebastian had been awkward. After discussing confirmation lessons, Pearce had asked how to know what the Holy Spirit intended him to do. Dr. Sebastian advised him to begin with the truth and then to take counsel. All far easier said than done without Morgan.

  Truth: the Headmaster had forbidden Audsley to stage his plays. Yet, how could brief recitals absent scenery and formal trappings be called plays? Also truth: they were the King’s free subjects whose free time was their own. He took counsel with Moss, and Moss’s view was clear. So long as no one was breaking any rules—and Moss challenged him to cite one regulation being violated—who were they to interfere? This view had satisfied Pearce for a fortnight, but this week, Audsley informed them, the location for the so-called scenes would be tight, requiring multiple performances; hence, some of their own House would have to wait for what Audsley called the Late Showing.

  Pearce took counsel again, but bedtimes, Moss argued, could at best be classed convention. Hours were pushed and pulled all the time, officially and unofficially. It wasn’t as though ten-fifteen had been carved on the tablets at Sinai. Pearce was perfectly aware of that, but if bedtimes were so fluid, why not secure Grieves’s blessing? Moss asked how he proposed doing that when their Housemaster had vanished overnight. The Head had said Mr. Grieves attended urgent family business, so urgent in fact that he’d not even been able to brief his Head Boy. Under the circumstances, hand-wringing over bedtimes was beneath them.

  Nevertheless, Pearce argued, Mr. Grieves trusted them to look after the House. How could they trample that trust by permitting clandestine theatricals in the tunnels Saturday night? At this point, Moss lost his patience. What, he asked, did Pearce imagine prefects were for if not to govern the school while letting masters believe that they did? There was much masters did not and could not understand about harmonious existence, and if prefects were to start confiding in them, chaos would ensue. Furthermore, it was perfectly clear to Moss, and should be to Pearce as well, that the Head had merely shut down the play to avoid contradicting himself.

  —Contradicting himself how?

  —Come on, try. He’s already told Mac he can’t have his blasted extra practices, so he can’t very well allow Audsley extra performances, now, can he?

  But, Moss continued, just as the Head’s edict had not stopped Mac from holding Voluntary Exercise and oppressing them daily with his thirst for victory, so, too, was it perfectly acceptable for performances of Castle Noire to continue on a discreet and unofficial basis.

  —Yes, but lights-out—

  If Pearce was going to harp on the letter of the law, any number of inconvenient consequences might arise. One might, for instance, argue that Pearce ought not, strictly, to have trespassed in McKay’s barn even as a sub-prefect in pursuit of miscreants; he ought not, strictly, to have wielded the cane until a fully fledged prefect; and while they were on the subject, Morgan Wilberforce ought not, strictly, to have done the majority of things that he did, things they both knew were in the best interests of the boys, the House, the school, and probably the nation. Everything worthwhile was done unofficially, and the sooner Pearce made peace with that fact, the sooner he’d get on.

  —Honestly, Simon, what would Morgan say?

  * * *

  Audsley’s position in the Upper School, his amiable nature, and his Housemaster’s aversion to corporal punishment had thus far kept him from experiencing the cane, but Moss calculated it was only a matter of time. No one as unorthodox as Audsley would ever make it through the term without running afoul of the JCR. The play and their late-night gatherings notwithstanding, Moss knew he’d have no trouble dispensing justice if (when) the occasion presented itself.

  And the occasion looked as though it might present itself sooner rather than later if the signs were as they seemed. Audsley, like every boy Moss had ever known, was developing the keen curiosity of the un-whacked. His studymate, who ought to be nurturing that curiosity, was no fun at all. As far as Riding was concerned, the less said on the subject the better. Audsley was therefore reduced to wondering, out of Riding’s earshot, what the cane must feel like.

  —Does it hurt like buggery? he asked one night after rehearsal.

  —That depends, Crighton said.

  —On what?

  —On how much you think buggery hurts.

  Audsley hadn’t seen the humor and had left thinking much too hard. Entertaining though it was, Moss felt it wasn’t fair to toy with Audsley. He’d already read enough Boy’s Own Paper to thoroughly warp his mind; the last thing he needed was Crighton egging him on.

  Next day in the changing room, Audsley resumed:

  —Is it really like a red-hot poker pressed against your backside?

  —Oh, grow up! Moss said.

  —It isn’t, then?

  It was so tempting, but someone had to draw the line:

  —Cut Games and you’ll find out.

  Audsley bit his lip in a way that tempted Moss all over again.

  —Ask the Turtle, Halton chimed in. He got his first off Mac yesterday.

  Now was that or was that not a smirk across the changing room? If the Turtle couldn’t make it to Games on time, that was his lookout. What it had to do with Halton was a matter Moss thought best unexplored.

  —Pearce has a better eye, Halton opined.

  —Expert, now, are you? Moss retorted.

  —Had the slipper off Mac enough to know. He works himself up and gets off the mark. Pearce at least has the sense to wait.

  Whatever Halton intended with his treatise, it was uncalled-for. Moss clipped him round the ear:

  —Cut along, before Kardleigh starts to fret about his primo castrato.

  * * *

  —Something isn’t right in Grieves’s House, Burton began.

  It was All Hallow’s Eve, a night for the dead to torment the living, but Jamie thought it was steep for Burton to turn up and inflict the torture himself.

  —Please tell me you haven’t come to get your licks while Grieves is away.

  —Nothing of the sort, Burton said, but I’ve had Pearce in my study the last half an hour, burbling.

  —Whatever for?

  —Heaven knows. He couldn’t bring himself to point fingers, but there’s something afoot, and it’s distressed him enough to come to me.

  —Why should he bring it to you? Jamie asked.

  Burton stared, and he felt ten years old before the man, as he often felt when he let down his guard.

  * * *

  They’d been waiting weeks for the scene to arrive. Only Audsley and Riding appeared in it, and Audsley had maintained strict secrecy even from the rest of the cast. It was being staged in a crevice of the tunnels, so the audience had to crowd together to see. This was Riding’s first appearance in Castle Noire, and Moss was astonished by the performance. Riding’s sullenness, normally so irritating, now conveyed a sense
of derangement, as from an ordeal. While Audsley produced stage tears, Riding grew increasingly remote, as if suffering shell shock, or so Moss supposed. The effect was a heartbreaking futility; for ten long scenes Valarious had sought his brother, only to discover this icy wreck.

  —What’s all this?

  They startled and turned. Moss was near the back, so nothing obscured his view as their lights revealed not a dungeon guard but Dr. Sebastian, torch in one hand, the Turtle’s collar in the other.

  After commanding them to lower their torches, the Headmaster turned his own upon each of them:

  —I can’t imagine Mr. Grieves has given permission for this … gathering.

  He stepped forward and the crowd parted.

  —Audsley, Riding, surely my eyes deceive me, for it does appear from your costume that I’ve interrupted a reprise of your dramatics.

  Moss glanced to Pearce, but he stood frozen, staring at the middle distance.

  —It’s much too late to discuss this now, the Head continued, for if I am not mistaken, lights-out is still quarter past ten, is it not?

  Moss didn’t know if the Head was addressing him, or whether answering would make things better, or worse. The audience mumbled vaguely.

  —In that case, as I’m sure your Housemaster would look unfavorably upon this assembly, it seems the least I can do to gate his House—

  Torch swooping directly on Moss.

  —All of it. And I’ll see you two—

  Light on the players—

  —tomorrow after tea.

  The Head let his edict settle and then turned his spotlight back to Moss:

  —Is the JCR capable of seeing everyone to bed?

  —Yes, sir.

  —Then I shall leave the House in your capable hands.

  How long had it been since he’d felt so small and wrong?

  * * *

  Gray woke in the morning still feeling ill. He knew it was all part of the punishment, making them wait through the day before learning their fate. He knew they should distract themselves—do work, take exercise, prepare their explanation as much as possible—but knowing and doing were entirely different things.

  At breakfast Gill made the rounds of the cast. It was only the two of them, he said. They were all to conform to the story: no one else had anything to do with the play. They agreed without much protest, and Gray couldn’t even blame them. No one wanted to risk having Moss and Crighton stripped of their badges, and as for Halton and the Turtle, they had enough on their hands without coming to the Headmaster’s notice.

  It was a relief, somehow, that they’d been discovered by the Head and not Grieves. Gray knew he should be frightened, and he was; everyone knew the Head’s talent for making boys blub. Still, the weight felt lighter because they would not be facing their Housemaster. Perhaps Grieves wouldn’t even hear about it. It was far-fetched, of course, but wasn’t it possible that the Head would take the gentleman’s position—jaw them, thrash them, and then mercifully say, The matter is closed?

  As for explanation, Gray knew they had none. They’d been caught in flagrante, and the best strategy was to say as little as possible and have the grace to appear repentant. He himself may not actually feel ashamed, but he could act it. Guilford was another matter. All the long, gated afternoon Gray took up the mantle of Keeper, tutoring, or trying to: what to do, what not to do, what to say and not say, how to dress, how to stand.

  —Will we be beaten? Guilford wanted to know.

  Gray thought it likely, though it was possible that as members of the Upper School they’d be jawed half to death and landed with a gruesome array of impositions. Gill flooded him with questions, but Gray kept his instruction brief:

  —If it comes to it, I’ll go first. Watch and do the same.

  —But—

  —Yelp if you have to, but don’t move. And when it’s over, don’t forget the thank-you.

  * * *

  Headmaster’s study, seven o’clock, Audsley and Riding at attention before the desk, Jamie pretended to consult a file. He’d been consulting it for several minutes, all part of the technique. He’d begin when their composure started to crack. Riding obviously knew which way was up, but Jamie wasn’t sure if Audsley grasped the offense. He looked, in posture and expression, not as distressed as he ought. Perhaps he thought it was merely a question of disobedience, but did he not see that with his underground theatricals he had made a mockery of Jamie’s authority, unsettling the equilibrium between past and present, inciting fervent I-told-you-so’s from Burton-Lee, and showing up their Housemaster as weak and naive? When he finally asked if they’d anything to say, Riding stepped into the breach:

  —No, sir, except that we’re sorry.

  It was a start. At least they didn’t propose to talk their way out of it.

  —I most certainly hope so.

  The school, Jamie began, Mr. Grieves’s House rather, could not be permitted to congregate after lights-out, in his absence, in the tunnels, clogging them dangerously, all because one boy seemed to have difficulty following direct orders.

  —No, sir.

  And why had Audsley not seen fit to follow a perfectly clear instruction? Riding assured him that they did not know.

  —Audsley can speak for himself, can’t he?

  Riding’s face darkened.

  —We had to, sir, Audsley said at last.

  —You had to? Were buccaneers holding your sisters hostage?

  —I haven’t got any sisters, sir.

  —Don’t be cheeky. Answer the question.

  Audsley hesitated, but his voice remained clear:

  —We had to, sir, because people expected it.

  Jamie took the sympathetic tone:

  —They expected it, did they?

  Hook, line, and—

  —Yes, sir. If only you’d seen last week.

  Sinker.

  —We couldn’t leave them hanging just as Valarious found the Elf Rider. We simply couldn’t!

  —I see. And how many installments have you presented thus far?

  —Only four, sir.

  —Only four?

  —Yes, sir. It’s a serial—

  —In nine parts, I recall.

  —Yes, sir!

  At this point Riding threw his accomplice a look that convinced Audsley to shut his mouth.

  —Might I ask if these performances have been limited to your House, or has the entire school been permitted to partake?

  Another murderous glare from Riding answered his question.

  —I see.

  Worse than he thought. Jamie brought out the silken tone:

  —Riding, you appeared in this entertainment.

  —Yes, sir.

  —And what other business have you with it?

  —Well, sir …

  The inside of the lip probed, hopefully not for lies.

  —I wrote it.

  He wrote it.

  —I see.

  Of course, he would have written it. He’d written the one about the Wright brothers, and now that Jamie thought of it, hadn’t there been something in the McKay’s barn fiasco to do with writing, Riding claiming to have gone there to fetch a box of stories, or some such tripe? How many awkward situations could one boy get himself into? Jamie couldn’t deny that Riding had a gift with the pen and, unlike many of his age, could wield it without cloying irony or sentiment. Why couldn’t he misbehave like an ordinary boy, break simple rules, pay the price, and go his merry way? Why, with him, was it all overdone? McKay’s barn and now clandestine theatricals—this boy was on his last nerve, impossible to warm to, and even more impossible to dismiss. Threats last spring notwithstanding, Jamie did not like expelling pupils. He’d do it if he had to, but in this instance …

  —What are we going to do with you two?

  Technique, and more technique. Make them ask for it and cheerily oblige. Riding took the silent tack, but Audsley screwed up his courage:

  —You could let us finish the se
ries, sir. If it was official, everyone could see it together Saturday afternoons.

  —I see.

  —You do, sir? I knew you would! There’re only five more parts to go. Riding and I promise not to let our lessons slip.

  Riding looked as though he’d rather be swallowing hornets than standing where he was. Riding understood what Jamie was saying. Audsley, however—

  —That will do.

  Jamie employed the muted voice he reserved for his greatest displeasure.

  —There will be no more theatricals.

  —But … sir—

  —I will not have my instructions disregarded.

  He’d let this go on far too long.

  —You are both on tic for a fortnight. You will report to me for the first three days, and afterwards to your Head Boy.

  They blanched.

  —Yes, sir.

  A fortnight was a long time, and Jamie rarely had boys report directly to him. It ought to send a message.

  —Now, Audsley, if you would please wait outside.

  A bold move, one already yielding results: first, the realization that justice had not been fully dealt; next, Riding’s expression of naked shock. Likely he’d been expecting the dual execution typical with boys who cooperated in their crimes. What’s more, they were studymates; it was an insult to separate them. It also upset the usual order, in which the junior boy by tradition went first. In this case Riding was the younger, but Audsley the junior, convention arguably moot. Last, it was customary to deliver the tick-off before the punishment. Going straight for the cane and making Audsley wait outside was bound to unsettle them both. Good. They deserved to be unsettled.

  * * *

  Jacket off, hands on the desk, he could feel the Head at his side, smell his aftershave.

  —You have been disobedient, immoderate, and extremely unwise.

  Hand on his shoulder adjusting his posture, tightening the stretch in his legs.

  —You are a terribly awkward boy, Riding. In your Housemaster’s absence, we shall have to do what we can to encourage common sense, shall we not?