A Pretty Mouth

by Molly Tanzer

  “I shall not!” Jones was getting angry now. “I shall not do that! You cannot make me!” Jones shook his head. “We are both students, both Fellow Commoners. After we graduate I will treat you like the lord you are, but for now, you’re just a prank-pulling school boy with an inflated opinion of his own power.”

  The rest of the Company had gone very still. Even Godfrey was no longer tittering. What had started as a simple revenge-jape was becoming a very serious, very volatile situation. All of the boys looked uncomfortable; Neville jumped when Lowell shut the door of the dormitory behind them.

  St John’s face relaxed, and he smiled. It was not a nice smile.

  “You will.”

  Jones snorted. “Or what?”

  St John handed his bat to Henry, who accepted it meekly.

  “You will rise and bow to me, or you will face the consequences.”

  Jones’s hard-on had deflated, if the blankets were any indication. He shifted his bottom slightly and sat up a little straighter on the bed.

  “Make me.”

  St John darted forward and grabbed Jones by the roots of his hair. Jones cried out in pain but choked on his wind when St John wrenched him forward off of the bed, causing Jones to fall onto his shoulder and hip. His bones knocked against the wooden floor of the room with an unsettling thunk. Jones righted himself quickly, but his attempt to rise was thwarted by St John rapping him hard on the head with his knuckles. Jones clutched at his skull and remained kneeling.

  “You’re on your knees now, aren’t you?”

  “And yet I still haven’t bowed,” said Jones through his teeth. He looked defiantly up at St John. “You cannot force me to do you honor, my Lord Calipash. And tomorrow, mark my words, everyone shall know about this Company, and what you’ve been up to of late at the Horse and Hat, and even they, with their Royalist sympathies, will be none too pleased to hear how you’ve abused their trust and ill-used their property!”

  It does not take very long to withdraw a pistol from a coat-pocket, and yet it seemed to Henry to take a thousand years as he watched St John do so. The Lord Calipash’s hand left pale trails in the air as he reached inside the lapel of his jacket and brought out an ivory-handled pistol. It was a beautiful piece, Henry thought—he had never seen a gun so close and thus could not really judge—but its presence was deeply alarming. Someone actually gasped.

  Jones went white as St John trained the muzzle on his forehead.

  “Do you bow to me now, Lucas Jones?”

  “My Lord Calipash,” began Jones, but St John cut him off.

  “Do you bow to me or not?”

  “I do, I do, you crazy bastard,” said Jones, knocking his forehead against the floor. “I bow to you, are you satisfied?”

  St John rotated the cock from half to full.

  “Cousin, don’t you—”

  “Shut up, Godfrey,” snapped St John, without taking his eyes from Jones. “You do me honor, Jones. I acknowledge this. But you have not apologized to our Company, whom you have now twice blackguarded as criminals and threatened with exposure. Do you apologize, Jones?”

  “I do, I do, I apologize, I shan’t say anything to anyone, I swear it!” cried Jones, looking up and eyeing the weapon. “Stand down, Calipash! Please! For God’s sake, man!”

  St John smiled and tilted the muzzle of the pistol upwards so it faced the ceiling. The Blithe Company sighed as one, and Jones slumped, relieved.

  “Christ in heaven, St John, that was a—” Jones began.

  St John again leveled the gun at Jones and time once more seemed to slow as Henry saw the Lord Calipash tighten his finger on the trigger. It was too late to do anything—St John was murdering Lucas Jones, right here in front of everyone, and all for a minor slight! Henry’s hands went over his eyes and both bats clattered to the floor. There was a click as the trigger was pulled—

  The sound of gasping—

  The smell of fresh excrement—

  And St John laughing.

  “You killed him!” cried Henry, his hands still over his eyes. “Oh God, I—”

  “You’re mad!” Jones screamed. “I’d already said I’d not tell!”

  “I needed you to know what would happen if you considered going back on your word,” said St John smoothly.

  Henry looked up. The room was not full of smoke; Jones yet breathed. His brains were not splattered across the floor. Something else was.

  “I think our work here is done,” said St John, tucking the pistol back inside his coat. “Shall we leave Mr. Jones to clean himself and his chambers?” St John pinched his nose and pulled a face. “I feel rather overcome, don’t you all? Let us be away, and conclude the night’s amusements elsewhere.”

  But none among the Company seemed particularly amused by the events of the night; indeed, Henry could not detect even the ghost of a smile upon any face, even Godfrey’s. Blithe was not a word Henry could easily apply to them. Thoughtful, perhaps, even meditative—and in Neville’s case in particular, furious—but not blithe. Not blithe at all.

  “It wasn’t always like this, you know,” said Neville, falling in beside Henry. “It used to be just a bit of a lark. Wenching it up in style, drinking fine wine laced with Turkish poppy juice, that sort of thing. But lately …” he shook his head.

  “I’m sorry,” said Henry.

  “For what?” Neville seemed genuinely surprised. “It isn’t your fault, Milliner. The beginning of the end came some time ago. I’m not sure when St John’s entertainments took a turn for the dark, but it was certainly before you joined us.” He shrugged. “I’m leaving Wadham soon anyhow. I’ve proven to be an indifferent scholar, and wish to return to the apprenticeship I abandoned in pursuit of bettering myself. It was a mistake, I know that now. But as for you—you’re really in for it.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes,” said Neville grimly, as St John threw open the door to the Common Room and began to usher the dejected Company inside like they’d all just had a lovely time. “You’re living with him now, aren’t you?”

  Chapter Ten: The Wanton Shepherd

  The Company broke up quickly that night, which soured St John’s mood. He turned gloomy as they began to trickle out, and when Godfrey, the last of them, said he would also take his leave and return to Christ Church, St John sighed and began to blow out the candles and lanterns, reserving only one for their journey back to his rooms.

  “My dear cousin,” said Godfrey, hesitating with his hand on the doorknob.

  “Hmm?”

  “I—I must tell you something.”

  “What?”

  “Well, that this will likely be the last time I’ll be around for one of these little wingdings …”

  “What? Why?”

  “It’s obvious to everyone at Christ Church I’ll never graduate, including myself,” said Godfrey, with a nonchalant shrug Henry couldn’t wait to one day emulate at an appropriate moment, “so I’ve agreed to accompany a friend on his continental tour. We leave for London in a fortnight, to shop for clothes and other things.”

  “Oh,” said St John dully. “Well, yes, it does sound like a good opportunity.”

  “You’re not cross?”

  St John shrugged. “You’ll be missed.” He looked up, eyes suddenly keen. “You do … plan to return, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” said Godfrey, with the first display of sincerity Henry had seen from him. “I would never—will not—abandon you and your sister. I swear to you, I shall do nothing abroad that would interfere with our plans.” Godfrey turned to Henry. “Miss Clement and I are betrothed.”

  “Oh,” said Henry. “I mean, congratulations.”

  “Thank you. I am certain if St John’s father yet lived he would protest the union, but last year passed from a—what was it?”

  “An apoplectic attack.”

  “I’m sure it seems ghastly to call such a thing fortunate, and yet it has allowed Honor and I to pursue our happiness, since my father co
uld have no rational objection to reuniting our families.” Godfrey looked over at St John. “I assume you do not mind me discussing this with our new acquaintance?”

  “Why should I? He’ll be our lawyer one day.”

  Henry almost choked, and tried to play it off with a strained smile. “It seems we are all very fortunate of late.”

  Godfrey raised an eyebrow. “Indeed. Well, I must bid you both good evening,” he said. “And St John—I don’t think I need to tell you that tonight was a complete disaster.”

  “I know it.”

  “Well, do try to keep it together from here on out? There are those who are depending on you to not fuck up, you know.”

  St John acknowledged this with a depressed wave of his hand. Godfrey bowed to them both, then left. St John sunk deeper into his seat, emanating melancholy. Henry stood for a few awkward moments, then sat in a convenient chair with a sigh.

  St John looked up. “Do you wish to leave as well, Mr. Milliner?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “No?” St John pressed the fingertips of his right hand to his temple. He looked so woebegone Henry almost felt bad for him.

  “My lord, are you in need of anything?”

  St John laughed, and looked up at Henry with renewed interest. “And if I was, would you bring it to me? Like a servant?” St John shook his head. “You are more than that, Mr. Milliner. Much more.”

  “Am I? I find myself unsure of that. All I wanted since I came to Wadham was to be a part of your gang and lord it over the rest of the students. Now that I have it, I find myself bemused—unsure,” he thought of Rochester’s face that afternoon. “Regretful, perhaps. It has, I confess, not been quite what I expected.”

  “That is my fault, for planning this evening so poorly.” St John straightened up. “I have myself longed for greatness, Henry, but every attempt I make seems to fail miserably.”

  “You are a good scholar, my lord, and a kind friend—at least, you have been to me.”

  St John shook his head. “A good scholar … well, perhaps. But the rest, it is smoke and mirrors. Everything I do is illusion.”

  “My lord, when I crashed your party at the Horse, that was not illusion.”

  “Was it not? Those orphans weren’t orphans, nor twins. They weren’t even siblings, or even that young, really. Merely actors I made up to look that way. His hair was a wig, and her shyness paid for with coin.”

  Henry was totally at a loss. He had no notion of what to say or do to combat St John’s cafard. How to reassure him, restore his confidence? Henry did not possess any self-assurance, how was he supposed to lend to others what he could not manage for himself?

  “Everyone enjoyed that night at the Horse,” was what he settled upon, though it was a half-truth and they both knew it. St John was looking at him with narrowed eyes. “What I mean to say is that it did not matter to your friends whether those twins were really twins. I mean to say … it was titillating because of your doing, my lord. You created the illusion, you shaped our interpretation of the event. We were not entertained by watching two wantons; we were entertained by you.”

  “The act was preferable to the reality, then.” St John would not relinquish his misery. “This I knew already without your confirming it. It is my lot to know such—to live such.” He leaped from his chair and threw up his arms. “And here you are, telling me that to my face! How dare you—you of all people!”

  Henry scrambled out of his chair when St John seized one of the cricket bats and brandished it at him. Henry began to panic. The Lord Calipash seemed like one possessed, and he could not fathom what he might have said to provoke him so. Henry got up, hoping he could make a run for it if necessary, and every step St John took toward him he answered with a step back, until his bottom collided with a bookshelf. Heart pounding, he raised his hands in supplication.

  “My lord,” he said, cowering as St John continued to advance on him, bat raised. “Please, I do not know how I have offended you, but—”

  “You offend me with yourself, your presence—nay, your very existence! I shall not suffer you to usurp what is mine!”

  “I—”

  There came a knock at the door, in the pattern used as code by the Company. Henry and St John froze as they were, St John looming, Henry cringing. The knock came again, and the door opened. Thomas stepped inside, and raised his eyebrows when he saw the tableau before him. Henry hoped against hope his servant’s presence would deter rather than encourage St John.

  “My lord, you didn’t return,” he said mildly. “I came to see how everything went tonight.”

  “Oh Thomas,” cried St John, and to Henry’s surprise, he dropped the bat with a clatter and stumbled toward his servant, collapsing upon the boy’s neck and sobbing. “It went all wrong, and I think, I think I ruined everything, I’m sorry, I’m so very sorry, I—I—”

  Awkward. Henry looked away, ashamed to behold this spectacle, but after Thomas allowed St John to cry and snot all over him for a while, he helped his master into a chair.

  “He gets like this sometimes, sir,” whispered Thomas, after giving St John a handkerchief to honk on. “We must get him back to the room, and after—well. There’s only one thing for it. You don’t object to … I should, rather, enquire if you are a light or heavy sleeper?”

  “Neither,” answered Henry, bewildered. “Why?”

  Thomas half-smiled. “My lord has found that his blacker moods become easier to shake when he distracts himself with hard exercise. And the exercise he enjoys most is riding.”

  “At this hour?”

  “There are … certain fillies best suited to nighttime sport.”

  Henry blushed, finally understanding. “Of course. I shan’t be a bother … only …”

  “Hmm?”

  With a sheepish grin, Henry said, “How ever do you smuggle them in?”

  “The same way you snuck out, or Mr. Fitzroy snuck in. There is an establishment close to the college, I shall fly thither and return quickly.” He glanced back at St. John. “Perhaps you should go on ahead, and make yourself ready for sleep. I shall attend to my lord.”

  “Yes—yes, of course. Thank you, Thomas. I—” He swallowed. “I do not know what I should have done without your intervention.”

  Thomas shook his head. “You are very new to all of this. You’ll learn, in time.”

  “Hope so.” Henry smiled at Thomas, he was finding that he rather liked the servant. “I shall go, then. And—happy hunting, should I say?”

  “Take with you the lantern. I know the way well enough.”

  Henry nodded, and then did so; after closing the door behind him, he ran all the way back to their rooms. By the time he got up the stairs and inside, he was panting. What a night!

  His intention had been to go directly to bed, for he did not wish to intrude upon the Lord Calipash’s privacy—but as he put his foot on the first stair, it occurred to him that the room smelled strange. Earthy would be a good word for the odor, and so would metallic. Henry sniffed, and realized the scent was coming from the corner where Lady Franco had made her nest. Of course! Henry smiled, and navigated his way across the cluttered chamber to see whether the expecting mother had delivered.

  She had indeed. Four wriggling, blind kittens of various colors pawed and suckled at her teats, as she licked a fifth clean of mess. When Henry cooed at her, she looked up at him with a bland but friendly expression, whined, thumped her tail several times against the blanket-covered floor, and went back to her work.

  “Must be hungry,” murmured Henry, but he did not want to poke through St John’s belongings to see if he kept a store of snacks. If only he hadn’t depleted his own cache through late-night munching! Surely Lady Franco would not eat the few dried apples he had upstairs—but perhaps she would take a biscuit? He’d seen cats rooting through trash before, and sometimes they would eat an old roll when there was nothing better …

  Racing upstairs, he grabbed his sack of treats and found a
handful of stale, crumbly crackers. Gathering what he could into the palm of his hand, he went back down and offered the largest piece to Lady Franco. She considered it for only a moment before gobbling it. Henry left the rest with her, and then went to refill her dish with water from the cistern that hosed down St John’s weird plants. After doing so, he ambled back over toward the plant table.

  Jars full of plant essences, he thought. And these strange plants. A rose that bloomed tulips; a cactus that loved wet soil. Did stripping an essence lead to … bizarre growth patterns? And how had St John managed the feat?

  Henry inspected the plant table. Pulling out the top drawer—and feeling like the snoop he was—he discovered nothing more sinister than a book of poetry—Abraham Cowley’s The Mistress. Henry opened it to a page, and it was “Platonick Love,” which, he realized after scanning the verses, was the poem St John had earlier quoted at him.

  Next to the poem was a note, in St John’s clear script:

  “A rose by any other name.” The house of Tudor looks painted by Rembrandt, but is proof of what? Retaining some but not all of orig. body? What, really, is the soul of a flower? Of an animal? Of a man?

  St John’s interests certainly veered toward the strange!

  Henry heard voices, approaching footsteps. He replaced the book, shut the drawer, and scooted up the stairs lest it be St John, Thomas, and whatever creature Thomas had procured for St John’s “hard exercise.”

  It turned out his hunch had been correct. As he undressed, Henry heard the door open, then low voices. A woman spoke; a man laughed, and then there was silence.

  Henry relaxed, blew out the lantern, and got into bed. He had very nearly fallen asleep when sounds began to drift up through the floorboards: a rhythmic thumping, and muffled groans. Instantly awake, he tried not to listen, but failed completely. He had not heard the sounds of coupling since his mother died when he was eight years old—his father had not remarried—and it was intensely exciting. Envisioning St John enthusiastically ploughing a rented field, as it were, Henry’s cock quivered, and without his touching it once, lengthened and throbbed under the blankets of his bed.