“Henry, m’boy!” the professor said. “It’s been ages!”
“Mmm ytmm,” Henry said, his face squashed against Professor Stratford’s waistcoat.
The professor let go.
“I said, ‘I missed you too,’ ” Henry said, straightening his uniform. “And it’s barely been a week.”
“A week too long, if you ask me,” Professor Stratford said. “Who’s your friend?”
“Adam Beckerman, sir,” Adam said shyly.
“Well, sit down, the both of you, and tell me everything,” the professor said with a grin.
“Did you know Valmont is here?” Henry blurted.
Professor Stratford suddenly went serious. “I did. Is he giving you trouble?”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” Henry said.
“Well, be sure you don’t get kicked out for ‘handling’ things,” Professor Stratford advised.
Henry smiled, relaxing. It was wonderful to see Professor Stratford again, and the remainder of their free hour wasn’t nearly enough time. Henry was sorry to say good-bye, but he promised to come back soon and to try and bring Rohan along.
“He’s a nice bloke, your Professor Stratford,” Adam said as they walked toward the dining hall in the darkening twilight. “Pity we didn’t get to see Frankie, though.”
“Oh, get over it, Adam,” Henry said.
“Yes, Rohan,” Adam said, grinning.
But Adam didn’t get over it. He stared longingly toward the High Table at supper, sighing.
“Fair Francesca,” Adam murmured over a forkful of peas, “the maiden of my heart.”
Henry and Rohan laughed, as Adam had just tipped the peas into his lap.
That night, Adam was even slower with his reading than usual.
“What’s the point?” he asked, throwing down his military history book in disgust. “It’s the weekend, anyhow.”
Through their door, Henry could hear the other boys horsing around in the common room.
The point, Henry knew, was to make it hurt less that the other boys kept away from them. With a sigh, he returned to his chart, though he’d memorized it long ago.
The noise outside their door grew louder.
Rohan poked his head out to see what was going on.
“Well?” Adam prompted.
“They’re fencing,” Rohan said disapprovingly, “in the common room. With rolls of paper as weapons.”
“That sounds fun,” Adam said, his voice small.
“Well, we’re not invited,” Henry said.
And then there was a knock at their window, and Adam nearly toppled off his chair.
Outside the window stood a ghostly figure in white, its hand groping blindly against the glass.
Henry laughed. “It’s Frankie,” he said, crossing to open the window.
“Hello,” Frankie said, grinning. “Or should I say ‘Boo’?”
“Very funny,” Adam muttered.
“Can I come in? I brought lemon cake.”
“It’s against the rules,” Rohan said haughtily.
“Blast the rules,” Frankie said. “Did I mention the cake has meringue on top?”
“Against the rules,” Rohan repeated.
“Then go study in the library,” Henry said.
“No, I’ll stay,” Rohan said in a long-suffering sort of tone, and then turned to Frankie. “I’m Rohan, by the way.”
“I know,” Frankie said, still poised on the windowsill. “And that’s Adam. Henry’s told me all about you.”
“Do you need a leg up, fair damsel?” Adam asked, a silly grin on his face as he gallantly extended a hand.
“Oh, save it for someone who cares,” Frankie said, boosting herself onto the window ledge. There was a muffled rip. “Petticoats again,” she moaned.
“There is a girl in our room,” Rohan announced to no one in particular, “with ripped petticoats.”
“Must be your lucky day,” Frankie said, landing with a thud. “So who was the boy I smacked with my glove?”
“Fergus Valmont,” the boys chorused.
“What a name.” Frankie made a face. “He even sounds horrible.”
“He’s Lord Havelock’s nephew,” Henry said.
“That would explain the resemblance,” she said, unwrapping a large piece of cake.
Adam stared at it longingly.
“Would you like a slice?” Frankie asked patiently.
“Yes, please,” Adam said.
“Well, you’ll have to win it,” Frankie said, pulling out a deck of cards. “Anyone for poker?”
Rohan put his face in his hands.
“There is a girl in our room …, ” he began again.
“Yes, yes, with ripped petticoats and gambling,” Frankie said dismissively. “So you’ve said. Now you can sit down here on the nice floor and play a civilized game of cards, or you can go out there and whack around a paper stick like a barbarian.”
Rohan sat.
“I shouldn’t warn you,” he said, “but I’m rather good at cards.”
“I’d be disappointed if you weren’t,” Frankie said, shuffling the deck with an expert snap!
“I have a different bet,” Adam said.
Everyone stared at him.
“If I win this hand,” he told Frankie, “you and I fence a match tomorrow after chapel.”
Frankie grinned. “Think you’re up to it, suitor boy?”
Adam didn’t flinch at Frankie’s mocking nickname. “Absolutely.”
“We’ll fence foil,” Frankie said decisively. “Easier to limit the strike zone.”
“Done. Now deal,” Adam said.
Frankie dealt.
And she lost. Badly.
“Ha!” Adam crowed. “I win! Foil. Tomorrow morning.”
“Of course,” Frankie said calmly, shuffling the deck. “Why do you think I threw the hand?”
“You lost on purpose?” Rohan asked.
“That’s what I said.” Frankie smiled. “It was a good bet to lose. I wanted to fence you tomorrow morning.”
After the bet was won—or lost, in Frankie’s case—they settled in to properly play cards, and it was a good time all around. Frankie wasn’t half bad, nor Adam. Rohan was rather good, and Henry held his own, as Sander had often bullied him to play when he first started working at the Midsummer School.
They played for hours, munching on the cake rather than betting on it, and suddenly their slope-ceilinged room was quite cozy. The noise from the common room, rather than serving as a reminder that they weren’t allowed to join in, made Henry, Adam, and Rohan very smug indeed. They were breaking the rules. They had a secret. And—there was no question of it now—they had best friends to share it with.
THE FORBIDDEN FENCING MATCH
The next morning, Adam was the first one awake and dressed for chapel.
“Get up!” he yelled, pouncing on Henry’s bed.
“Aaahhh!” Henry shouted, bolting upright, his heart pounding frantically. “Don’t do that.”
“Sorry,” Adam said contritely. “But guess what today is?”
“Bloody Saturday,” Rohan groaned. “So let me sleep.”
“The moment of truth!” Adam said. “The greatest fencing match of them all.”
Adam kept this up all through chapel, where he bounced in his seat so vigorously that Edmund leaned over from the pew behind theirs and asked him if he needed to use the toilet.
Frankie caught up with Henry after chapel. She carried a large sewing basket and wore a satin ribbon in her hair.
Henry tried and failed to suppress a smile.
“Lovely day for embroidery,” he commented, only to be whacked rather hard with the sewing basket.
“I’ve hidden my fencing kit inside,” Frankie whispered. “Now tell your friends to meet me in the armory in ten minutes.”
“What about breakfast?” Adam asked stubbornly when Henry related the message.
“I’d expect,” Rohan said, “that breakfast is the time y
ou’re least likely to be caught.”
“You mean we,” Henry said.
“I most certainly don’t.” Rohan gave Henry and Adam a severe look and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Girls in the room at night. Fencing girls on school grounds. I’ll be in the library, studying the passé composé. You’ll let me know the outcome, I expect?”
“Rohannnnn,” Adam whined. “Forget the passé composé. Come on. We’re not forbidden from going into the armory. We’re not forbidden from seeing Frankie during the weekend, in a classroom.”
“The Code of Chivalry,” Rohan said stiffly, folding his arms across his chest. “You can’t fight girls.”
“I gave my word,” Adam said. “You all heard me last night. It was a wager. Only a coward like Valmont would break his word to a lady.”
Rohan sighed. “I’ll keep lookout,” he announced.
“Thank you,” Adam said.
“Come on, we’d better go,” Henry said.
Frankie had already changed into her fencing gear when they arrived. She handed Adam a foil and asked with a frown, “Where’s Rohan?”
“Keeping lookout,” Henry said with a warning glance at Adam.
Adam, for once, kept his mouth shut about Rohan’s refusal to take part in their illicit fencing match.
“Well, Henry can referee,” Frankie said.
“Wait, I hardly know anything about fencing,” Henry protested.
“A hit is valid anywhere on the torso,” Frankie said, “and you’ll know about right of way?”
“Er, a little.”
“If a hit is scored without a riposte, arm signal, or forward step, it doesn’t count,” she said. “That’s it. Adam, you ready?”
“No,” Adam complained, holding up the gear that Frankie had brought. “This is huge on me.”
Frankie bit her lip. “It’s my father’s. I thought it best not to borrow school equipment. Can you go without?”
Adam pushed up his sleeves. “Why not? After all, I’m fencing a girl.”
Frankie’s eyes gleamed.
“Take that back,” she demanded, striking an “on guard” position. She was left-handed, Henry suddenly realized.
“Make me, fair damsel.” Adam grinned.
“First to five hits?” she asked.
Frankie, in her full fencing gear, and Adam, in his glove, mask, and shirtsleeves, readied themselves on opposite ends of the piste. They saluted each other with their swords, and then turned and saluted Henry.
“Ready?” Henry called from the midpoint. “And fence.”
Frankie sprang forward, her sword extended. Adam met her sword with his, and they parried so rapidly that all Henry saw was a blur of metal dancing forward and backward across the piste.
Suddenly, Frankie’s back arm went down to signal an attack and she lunged forward, leading with her blunt-tipped sword straight into Adam’s stomach.
“Hit!” she called, looking to Henry for confirmation. He nodded.
“One-zero, Winter,” Henry called. “And fence!”
Again, their swords clashed, and again, the point went to Frankie.
Adam managed a swift hit, and then Frankie retaliated.
“Three-one, Winter,” Henry called. “And fence!”
Adam shot forward, and so did Frankie. Their swords met, and Frankie riposted, freeing her sword to the outside. Even though he didn’t have the right of way, Adam struck out, and Frankie, surprised by Adam’s move, did as well.
Her sword struck Adam’s exposed arm.
The point was blunted for practice, but it had been the edge that caught Adam just above the elbow.
An angry red welt sprang there, trickling blood into the crook of his arm.
Frankie stared in shock, her hand to her mouth. “I’m so sorry!” she cried.
“It’s fine,” Adam said stiffly.
But it wasn’t fine. It wouldn’t stop bleeding, even when Henry bound Frankie’s ribbon around it the way Sir Frederick had shown them.
Rohan poked his head into the armory.
“It’s awful quiet in here,” he said, and then saw Henry rewrapping the blood-spotted ribbon around Adam’s arm. “Oh. Er, that looks bad.”
“It’s fine,” Adam said crossly. “Just a scratch. Can we get back to the match?”
Henry nearly laughed.
“The match is over,” Henry said. “It’s a draw.”
He shot Frankie a look daring her to argue otherwise.
“We should take him to the sick matron,” Rohan said.
“And say what?” Henry asked. “Sorry, we were fencing without proper padding and with no supervision, please don’t tell Lord Havelock?”
“I’m fine,” Adam insisted, and then he looked down at his arm and winced. “That’s a lot of blood,” he said weakly.
“Sir Frederick!” Henry said. “We’ll take him to Sir Frederick. He’s medicine master, he’ll know what to do. And he wouldn’t tell Lord Havelock.”
“Let’s go,” Frankie said.
“Frankie,” Adam said. “Can I lean on you for support since I’m dying of blood loss?”
Frankie rolled her eyes. “Is he always like this?”
“Always,” Rohan said.
“Never speak ill of the dying,” Adam complained.
“You’re not dying.” Henry did a final sweep of the armory to make sure everything had been put back into place. “Come on, to see Sir Frederick.”
Sir Frederick kept his office in the thatch-castle thing, on the first-floor corridor. By the time Henry wearily raised his fist to knock on Sir Frederick’s door, Adam’s dramatics had tripled.
“Is this an angel I see?” Adam marveled, staring at Frankie. “I must not be long for this world.”
“Only because I’m going to finish what I started,” Frankie muttered.
Sir Frederick opened his door a crack, surveyed the scene, and then burst out laughing.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but you’d better come inside. I’d hate to have it on my conscience if Mr. Beckerman perished in the corridor.”
Sir Frederick’s office was rather larger than Henry had expected, and it was wonderfully strange.
Brass-knobbed objects cluttered the shelves—well, the shelves that weren’t already filled with preserved specimens in cases, laboratory beakers stained with brightly colored residue, thick medical books, or daguerreotype photographs of old men in white coats.
With a severe look at the four of them, Sir Frederick opened a drawer in his paper-piled desk and took out some antiseptic and bandages.
“Give me your arm, Mr. Beckerman,” Sir Frederick said.
Meekly, Adam obliged.
“Was there rust on the sword?” questioned Sir Frederick.
“How did you know we were fencing?” Adam asked in surprise.
Sir Frederick merely raised an eyebrow. Frankie was still in her fencing gear. And carrying a large basket filled with knitting. No wonder Sir Frederick had laughed, Henry thought.
“No rust,” she said, looking at the floor. “It was an accident.”
“Well, of course it was an accident,” Sir Frederick said. “Do you think I entertained the possibility, even for a moment, that you purposefully impaled Mr. Beckerman with a sword and then came to me to confess your crime?”
Sir Frederick finished fixing up Adam’s arm and dusted off his hands.
“You’re not going to tell my father, are you?” Frankie asked.
“Nor Lord Havelock,” Henry, Adam, and Rohan put in.
“That depends on one thing,” Sir Frederick said.
Henry forced himself to exhale. “What’s that, sir?”
“Whether or not you’ll stay for tea and biscuits.” Sir Frederick smiled.
“Well, I am dying of hunger,” Adam said.
“You’re not dying of anything,” Rohan said crossly.
“We’d be delighted,” said Frankie, with a stern look at the boys.
Sir Frederick rang a bell on a thick cord behin
d his desk and, when an out-of-breath maid appeared, asked for a pot of tea. With a calm smile, he took a tin of biscuits out of his desk.
“Which one of you bandaged Mr. Beckerman’s arm with that ribbon?” he asked, prying the lid off the tin.
Henry felt his cheeks flush. “I did, sir.”
“Not bad at all,” Sir Frederick said, proffering the biscuits.
“What kind are they?” Rohan asked, peering into the tin.
“Longbread biscuits, imported specially from the Nordlands,” Sir Frederick said. “Try one.”
Henry warily bit into his, as he wasn’t certain what a biscuit with “bread” in the name would taste like. A rich, buttery flavor filled his mouth, with just a hint of cinnamon.
“This is brilliant,” Henry enthused.
Encouraged by this, Adam, Rohan, and Frankie nibbled at their own biscuits.
When the tea came, Sir Frederick began to talk. He told them of his work as a young man in a hospital in the Nordlands, and of the strange foods the Nordlandic people ate: animal jellies and purple soups and raw fish. He asked the boys how their classes were going, and even inquired of Frankie how her lessons were getting on with Professor Stratford.
“I am on the edge of triumph,” she said, her mouth twisting into a wry smile. “I feel certain I’m about to master the art of not dribbling paint onto my smock when I watercolor fruit.”
Everyone, even Sir Frederick, laughed.
When a second-year student in his green and white tie knocked on Sir Frederick’s door and reported that he definitely smelled pipe smoke coming from someone called Jasper Hallworth’s room, the four friends were sorry to leave. Sir Frederick had treated them as though they were worth something—as though they were adults and not first-year students whom the other boys would not befriend, or a girl who wasn’t very good at being one.
“Come and visit me anytime,” Sir Frederick said with a little wave, and then followed the second-year boy down the hallway in the opposite direction, muttering about wooden beams and stray sparks.
“That was lucky,” Adam said as they returned to the main building, passing a group of first years playing cricket in the patchy sunlight.
“I know. I can’t believe he’s not going to tell Lord Havelock,” Henry said.
“I meant that Sir Frederick fed us, since we missed breakfast,” Adam replied. “Owww, don’t shove me, Frankie.”
KNIGHTLEY ACADEMY Page 11