“I hope they have some leftover strawberry tarts. Those were excellent,” Adam said.
“I hope we don’t get detentions,” Henry muttered.
And then they heard voices. The three friends stopped.
“You don’ go believin’ that the evenin’ curfew in the Nordlands is fer everyone’s own good, do ye?”
“Y’mean it isn’t?”
“’Course it isn’t, Mary, you dunner. Chancellor Mors has a reason fer keepin’ people off the streets. A secret reason.”
It was two servants gossiping just around the corner, Henry saw, peeking around the bend. Two kitchen maids, and from the looks of them, they knew exactly where the strawberry tarts were kept.
“Er, excuse me—,” Henry began politely.
The younger of the two maids stared at him in horror, wringing her apron in her hands.
“Oh! Forgive us fer gossipin’, sir. We don’ mean no harm and we wasn’t s’posed to be doin’ anythin’ else. Honest.”
Henry almost laughed. At the Midsummer School, he’d been bossed around and piled with extra work from the kitchen staff, and now they were terrified of him.
He looked down at his uniform—the sleeves of his shirt rolled, his tie loose and flapping. It didn’t matter if his uniform was in tatters; it still bore the crest of Knightley Academy and the stripes that showed how many years away he was from earning his knighthood.
“I believe you,” Henry said, enjoying the new sensation of being treated as though he were respectable. “Really. My friends and I were just wondering, if it isn’t any trouble, if there might be some of those tarts left from supper.”
“The strawberry ones,” Adam called from around the corner. “The peach are rubbish.”
“I thought the peach were quite nice,” Rohan protested.
Henry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It figured that his friends, who had been the ones to drag him to the kitchens, were shy of the servants.
Well, fine, Henry thought, and anyway, he was actually enjoying this. The kitchen maids’ eyes widened at the sound of Rohan’s posh accent.
“Please?” Henry asked. “If it isn’t any trouble.”
“Well bless ’is soul, Mary. You ever heard one o’ these boys ask fer sumthin’ so polite?”
Mary, still in shock, shook her head.
“O’ course there’s some tarts left fer the likes o’ you. Tell yer friends to stop hidin’ an’ follow me.”
“Thank you,” Henry said with feeling, hoping Rohan would learn a thing or two.
Adam and Rohan emerged sheepishly from around the corner.
“Haven’t got any cream for the strawberry tarts, have you?” Adam asked brightly as Rohan elbowed him. “Owww, what’d you do that for?”
Henry smiled reassuringly at the kitchen maid. “I’m Henry, and these are Adam and Rohan.”
“Well, pleased t’make yer acquaintance. I’m Liza.”
Henry shot his friends a look.
“How do you do, Liza?” they mumbled.
“Not bad,” she cackled, having a grand old time. “Not bad atall. Now yeh wanted what kind o’ tarts? Raspberry?”
“Strawberry,” Adam whimpered.
“Jus’ jokin’,” Liza said, clearly pleased with herself. “Follow me.”
It was strange, Henry thought, as he sat at a stool in the kitchen between his two friends, drinking milk and munching tarts. There was a whole separate world going on at Knightley, parallel to his own. A world of cooking and cleaning and gossiping to pass the time, so similar to what he had known as a servant boy.
And how quickly he had forgotten all of it now that he had a set of textbooks to call his own. Henry wondered after the boy his own age who had helped with Rohan’s trunk on their first afternoon. Did that boy wish he were a knight? Had he sat the exam in the City with Adam and Rohan, his score high but not high enough?
Until he had startled Liza and Mary in the hallway, Henry hadn’t realized that he was homesick—that he had anything to be homesick about. But he was, and he did.
He missed being able to be invisible, and his favorite windowsill where he read books in the dappled sunlight, and the way, after a late-night tutoring session, Professor Stratford would clap a hand on his shoulder and say, “Well, g’night, my boy.”
Henry sighed into his tart.
“Aww, poor little deary,” Liza said thickly, as she had also treated herself to a few tarts. “Wha’s the matter?”
Henry reddened.
“Nothing,” he muttered. “Just thinking.”
“Abou’ the Nordlands, am I right?” Liza crowed.
Henry nodded. He didn’t dare admit in front of his friends that he was homesick.
“See!” Liza said triumphantly. “I was tellin’ Mary ’bout that earlier. Bet you’re studying it in yer classes?”
“Not really, no,” Henry said.
“What’re they teachin’ you boys, then?” Liza asked, scandalized.
“About banks,” Adam said mournfully. “I left home so I wouldn’t have to go into banking, and now I find out that it was the Knights Templar who invented the bloody profession in the first place.”
“Well I don’t know nuthin’ ’bout no Knights Templar,” Liza said, “but I was just tellin’ Mary how the Nordlands got to be hidin’ somethin’ bad.”
Henry resisted the urge to groan. The Nordlands—again. He thought he’d left that rubbish behind to rot in the grubby public houses in the City.
“You don’t say,” Rohan said politely.
“Don’t I just!” Liza crowed. “Women can’t go to school, Chancellor Mors says, and I says, well wot’s happenin’ to those who get caught doin’ it anyway? Not a warning, no sirree. I hear stories that would make yer head spin’ round yer neck ’bout the consequences fer breakin’ laws in the Nordlands.”
As Liza spoke, her eyes took on a faraway look, as though she had seen, rather than heard, the “truth” about the Nordlands.
“We should be getting back to our homework,” Henry said, standing up. He didn’t know how much more talk of rumors and rubbish he could bear. And worse, it just made him even more homesick for Professor Stratford.
Maybe, Henry thought suddenly, he could visit the professor after their lessons tomorrow. The thought cheered him so visibly that when Liza bade them good night and slipped Adam an extra strawberry tart with a wink, she said, “There now, you just let ol’ Liza do all the worryin’ for ya. There’s a good lad.”
THE HEADMASTER’S DAUGHTER
Friday morning dawned wet and dreary. Henry stared out the window at the pudgy gray clouds and sloshy grass while he fastened his tie.
Adam moaned sleepily and curled up into a tighter ball beneath his down quilt. His military history textbook was splayed across the floor by his bed, pages down.
Rohan joined Henry at the window.
“Will it be strawberry tarts for breakfast?” Rohan joked, and Henry smiled in appreciation.
“I don’t ever want to see another strawberry tart,” Henry said, making a face. “Whose bad idea was that?”
“Mine,” Rohan admitted, straightening his cuffs. “Although I have to say, that kitchen girl was rather entertaining. I can’t think why I rarely asked Father’s staff for their opinions on politics.”
Henry bit his lip and shoved his military history book into his satchel. He’d learned that the best response when Rohan went all posh like that was no response at all.
“Oh, get up,” Henry said, yanking at Adam’s blanket. “We’ve got fencing first lesson. That should cheer you.” Adam was always going on about his talents with a sword.
“Have we really?” Adam asked, brightening. “Have I mentioned how talented I am with a sword?”
“Oh, once or twice,” Henry said.
“More like once or twice an hour,” Rohan put in, straightening his tie. “I’m not answering to Lord Havelock for tardiness. I’ll see you at chapel.”
Henry looked at Rohan, and
then back at Adam.
“Go,” Adam said. “If there’s anyone who can get away with being late to chapel, it’s me.”
That was true enough, Henry thought.
“Rohan, wait a moment, I’m coming,” Henry said, looking once more out the window and wishing he owned an umbrella.
***
Adam made it to chapel on time, but only just. His smugness on the matter carried on through breakfast until Rohan stood up and said crossly, “Do put a lid on it, Adam. I’d rather wait outside the armory than listen to you gloat about your good fortune that the back door to the chapel hadn’t been locked.”
Henry rather felt the same way.
“Coming, Grim?” Rohan asked.
Caught in the middle, again, Henry thought glumly.
“All right, I’m sorry,” Adam said. “I won’t mention it again. See? Not mentioning it.”
Henry watched as Luther Leicester and Edmund Merrill gathered their things and left breakfast early.
“I bet they’re going to the armory,” Henry said.
Rohan consulted his gold pocket watch. “Hmmm, we’ve still got ten minutes. But it is the first lesson and we might get lost on the way …”
They didn’t get lost. In fact, they arrived early, joining seven other students who had turned up early out of excitement, forming a crowd around the half-open door.
“Why’s no one going in?” Henry asked, unable to see past everyone’s backs.
“There’s a private lesson on,” Edmund said, turning around. “Whoever he is, he’s rather advanced.”
“Like you can even see from all the way in the back,” a familiar voice scoffed.
“Well, not everyone is rude enough to shove his way to the front, Valmont,” Edmund said crossly.
“I say, stop crowding me. We might as well wait inside the armory,” Theobold drawled. And because Theobold said it, everyone did it.
Henry and his friends followed Edmund into the armory, which was a converted ballroom and absolutely cavernous.
Sure enough, the fencing master was engaged in a bout with a student, the two of them blurs of white jacket padding and silver masks across the piste.
Henry, who knew nothing about fencing, turned to Adam for an explanation.
“They’re fencing foil,” Adam said knowingly. “You can tell from the strike zone and the swords. Only the torso is fair game for a touch.”
“I bet he’s a third year,” Henry overheard bespectacled Luther whisper to one of his friends.
“Well, he’s rather small for a third year,” Adam said, and then let out a low whistle. “Brilliant footwork, though.”
So swiftly that Henry barely knew what he was watching, the student took a huge lunge and scored a touch on the fencing master.
“Touché!” The fencing master called and removed his mask for a handshake.
The first years leaned forward eagerly to see who the student was.
The student reached up and unfastened his mask.
But it wasn’t a he.
It was Frankie, her hair tangled and her face red and sweating in a rather unladylike manner. She grinned as she stowed the mask under her arm and shook hands with the fencing master.
The crowd of first years began to whisper:
“A girl!”
“The headmaster’s daughter, I heard.”
“Still, a girl!”
“She wasn’t that good, actually. My mistake.”
“I could have done the same my first time with a sword.”
Henry could hardly believe how ready the other students were to write off Frankie’s skill once they realized she was a girl. One moment they had been watching in awe, and the next moment she was utterly unremarkable.
“I still think she was brilliant,” Henry muttered, nettled.
“Well, Theobold doesn’t,” Rohan said with a small smile.
The fencing master finished talking with Frankie and turned to the boys.
“Being early will earn you no points with me,” he said, and then paused. “Get it? Points? As in, fencing?”
A few boys smiled politely.
“Right,” the fencing master said. “Anyone here left-handed?”
With a sinking feeling, Henry raised his hand.
“I’ll have to fetch a left-hander foil and glove from the storeroom, then,” the fencing master said, half muttering to himself as he disappeared through a doorway.
Frankie stood there calmly removing her glove, regarding the crowd of boys as though she knew a particularly hilarious joke that she had no intention of sharing.
“Girls should stick to sewing and piano, in my opinion,” Theobold said loudly.
“Yes,” Valmont agreed with a sneer in Frankie’s direction. “I rather support the Nordlands’ banning women from schools. An educated woman is the same as a ruined woman, in my opinion.”
“That’s enough,” Henry said sharply, whirling to face Valmont.
Everyone quieted.
“Look at that, you’ve gone and upset the servant,” Theobold said. “How sweet, he’s going to defend her honor. Have at it, then, Grim, we haven’t got all day.”
“I can defend my own honor, thanks,” Frankie said with a derisive snort.
Before Valmont could react, Frankie had crossed the piste, slapped him across the face with her glove, and told him exactly what she’d embroidered on her pincushion.
The boys gasped.
Valmont stood there, rubbing his cheek.
“Why aren’t you hitting back?” Frankie asked, casually twirling the glove around a finger. “Or are you afraid to hit a lady?”
Valmont’s fists clenched.
“Code … of … Chivalry,” he managed to growl.
“Pity,” Frankie said. “I was so hoping to discover that you hit like a girl.”
Things might have gotten very sticky indeed if the fencing master hadn’t chosen that moment to walk back into the room, his arms full of fencing gear.
“Francesca, is there a reason you’re still here?” he asked.
“None at all, maestro,” she said with a curtsy that, judging from the look of surprise on the fencing master’s face, was purely for show. “Thank you for the lesson.”
With a wink in Henry’s direction, Frankie held her chin high and strutted from the room.
“Well, line up,” the fencing master commanded. “Two rows, face the mirrors. We’ll start with a review of footwork and then split the beginners from the intermediates.”
Henry, who had never fenced before, fumbled with the advance-retreat for a bit, but managed to get it right after watching what the others did. Valmont, to Henry’s dismay, could do the exercise with his eyes shut—and, not surprisingly, so could Adam. Rohan was excellent as well.
Theobold, however, was another story.
“Archer, you’re too heavy-footed,” the fencing master said, coming around to Theobold’s side and demonstrating. “You must step like a feather, on the balls of your feet.”
Theobold sneered and went again, making no adjustment.
“Think of feathers, boy! Feathers!” the fencing master shrilled, as the rest of the class dissolved into snorts and giggles.
Theobold, red in the face, rushed through the move, just as thundering as ever.
“No, no, no!” the fencing master cried.
“What’s the difference anyway?” Theobold retorted. “Footwork doesn’t matter if you lose.”
“With form like that, I would be shocked if you won,” the fencing master said. “Beckerman, come here and demonstrate. As I call it: advance … retreat … advance … retreat … advance … lunge.”
Adam did as the fencing master said, trying not to grin at Theobold’s humiliation.
“Do you see?” the fencing master said, now addressing not just Theobold but the entire class. “Exactly like that.”
Adam couldn’t have wiped the grin off his face if he tried.
And when the fencing master divided the class into
beginners and intermediates, he hesitated so long over Theobold that Henry was rather disappointed when Theobold was finally sent over to the intermediates.
While they put away the equipment, sweating and exhausted, Henry reminded his friends that they had an hour free after Havelock’s class.
“Yeah? Well, we’ve always got an hour free after second lesson,” Adam said.
“I’m going to visit Professor Stratford,” Henry said. “Want to come?”
“To the headmaster’s house? No, thanks,” Rohan said.
“Will Francesca be there?” Adam said, a very strange look on his face.
“She’s called Frankie,” Henry said. “And I’d expect so, but then, why does it matter, since we’re not allowed to visit girls?”
Adam turned crimson. “Just wondering,” he muttered.
“Do get over it,” Rohan said, rolling his eyes at Adam.
“Over what?” Henry wondered aloud, and then he understood. “Oh.”
“I’m coming with you,” Adam mumbled.
“Isn’t she fantastic?” Adam asked Henry as they crossed the quadrangle toward the headmaster’s house during their hour free. “When she struck Valmont with her glove and told him to—”
“I was there, Adam.”
“Oh. Right.”
Not a moment too soon, they reached the headmaster’s front door.
Henry rang the bell, and a maid opened the door and stared at them.
Henry thought that the headmaster probably didn’t have many students turn up at his front door.
“Er, hello,” Henry said. “We’re here to see Professor Stratford.”
The maid frowned. “Wot’s yer names?”
“Henry Grim and Adam Beckerman,” Henry said.
“Wait here,” the maid said, shutting the door with them still outside.
A moment later, the door opened.
“Professor Stratford will see you in his study,” she said, as if she rather wished the professor had declined to receive them. “This way.”
Henry and Adam followed the maid through a handsome sitting room with bright imported carpets and a merrily flickering fireplace. They followed her up a carpeted stair, through a wallpapered hallway, and into a book-strewn room where Professor Stratford promptly crushed Henry in a massive hug.
KNIGHTLEY ACADEMY Page 10