The Secret Prince

by Violet Haberdasher

  “That’s not true,” Henry argued. “He’s just tired of being an outsider. And anyway, I quite like Derrick and Conrad. You should give them a chance.”

  “I’d rather be friends with Frankie, thanks.” Adam folded his arms across his chest and sulked.

  “I’m sorry,” Henry said. “I didn’t mean to. She kept calling me ‘Mr. Grim’ and goading me.”

  “So you kissed her?”

  “I didn’t kiss her,” Henry hissed. “It was her hand.”

  “You’re unbelievable.”

  “Just admit it. You’re cross with me because you like her.”

  “Of course I like her,” Adam said through clenched teeth. “Are you blind?”

  “No, I’m just a stupid servant boy who doesn’t understand upper-class customs. Happy now?”

  Adam’s face flushed. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, staring at the ground. “I didn’t mean—”

  Henry never found out what, exactly, Adam didn’t mean, as Frankie chose that moment to interrupt.

  “Hello. Who’s winning?” she asked, innocently twirling a lacy white parasol.

  Colleen sighed. “Miss, we should be gettin’ back—”

  “Nonsense,” Frankie said. “Supper isn’t for nearly an hour.”

  “No one’s winning,” Adam said. “It’s trials. There’s going to be a match against the second years on Saturday.”

  “Why aren’t you playing?” Frankie asked Adam, ignoring Henry completely.

  “I’m too skilled a player. Don’t want to ruin everyone’s self-worth,” Adam said.

  At this, Henry snickered.

  “Oh, hello, Mr. Grim. I didn’t see you there,” Frankie said coldly.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Winter. What a lovely sunshade you’re carrying,” Henry returned, in the same posh, polite tones that had so infuriated her that morning. “Perhaps I could escort you for a turn about the garden?”

  Frankie fake gasped. “But, Mr. Grim, you’re in nothing but your shirtsleeves! It would be a scandal.”

  “Would you two stop it?” Adam fairly yelled in frustration.

  Frankie and Henry glared at each other. “I will when she will,” Henry muttered, looking to Frankie.

  “You treated me like a girl,” she accused.

  “You are a girl.”

  Frankie looked like she wanted to slap him. “You’re just like the rest of them, given half a chance,” she said. “And I know what you were doing last night. I saw you playing chess with Valmont while I stood outside and froze.”

  Henry digested this new piece of information. No wonder Frankie was furious. She loathed Valmont. “I trust you are unwilling to hear an explanation?” Henry pressed.

  “That would be correct, Mr. Grim. Good day.” Frankie shot Henry a look of pure disdain and whirled around, intent on a dramatic exit. Her parasol, however, was intent on making a dramatic exit of its own. It smashed neatly into the side of Henry’s face.

  Henry cursed, cupping a hand to his right eye, which throbbed painfully.

  Frankie’s chaperone was so affronted by Henry’s colorful language, and raised such a racket with her gasps and protestations, that everyone stopped playing cricket to watch the spectacle.

  “Are you all right?” Frankie asked with genuine concern.

  “Just go,” Henry muttered, turning away. “Pretend I offended you or something.”

  “I don’t have to pretend,” Frankie snarled.

  Henry waited until Frankie had left before wincing and removing the hand from his face. “How bad is it?”

  Adam let out a low whistle.

  “What happened to you?” Valmont asked nastily at supper. “Did someone mistake your face for a cricket ball?”

  “If you must know,” Henry said with as much dignity as he could muster, “I was assaulted by a lace parasol.”

  This sent everyone nearby into hysterics.

  “What did you say to her, Grim?” Derrick asked, delighted. “We’re all dying to know.”

  “I called her a girl,” Henry said, shrugging. “And it was an accident.”

  “You called her a girl by accident?” Edmund asked through a mouthful of potatoes.

  “No, it was an accident that she hit me.”

  “Somehow, Grim, I sincerely doubt that,” Derrick said, grinning.

  “Tell them, Adam,” Henry said. “You were there.”

  “Yes, and I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Adam said, the picture of innocence. “You asked if she might favor you with a lock of her hair to place under your pillow at night, and she attacked.”

  The first-year table hooted with laughter.

  Henry glared.

  “All right, so that didn’t happen,” Adam admitted. “It was an accident.”

  “I’m getting a cold compress from the kitchen,” Henry said, abandoning his half-eaten meal.

  “We’ll be in the library after supper,” Derrick called.

  “I’ll stop by,” Henry promised.

  “Bring your Latin exercise,” Conrad said.

  “I’ve already finished it,” Henry admitted.

  “I figured you had,” Conrad said, “which means you can help us.”

  Henry shook his head. He was still chuckling at Conrad’s nerve when he pushed open the door to the kitchen.

  Although the main course had already been served, the kitchen was still oppressively hot, steam-filled, and bustling. Serving boys and kitchen maids rushed back and forth at the cook’s orders, ladling custard into serving dishes from a large pot on the stove, readying teapots, arranging cups and saucers onto trays, and preparing counter space onto which they could remove the soiled dishes from the tables.

  Henry glanced around the kitchen for a moment, still unnoticed. He watched as a skinny serving boy of about thirteen removed a tea towel from a shelf near the larder and wiped some splatters of custard from the counter. Once the boy had gone, Henry crept over to the shelf and helped himself to a tea towel, tucking it absently into his trousers pocket as he tried to guess where he might find some ice.

  A half-arranged tea service was on the counter, and he couldn’t help but nudge the teacups into place, arranging their handles on a perfect diagonal, as he hadn’t done in quite some time. He neatened the stack of napkins and turned around, nearly colliding with the serving boy he’d noticed earlier.

  “Er, sorry,” Henry said.

  “No, sir, ’twas my fault. I di’nt see you there,” the boy muttered, going red in the face. He glanced toward the tea service, noticed it fully arranged, and gawped at Henry.

  Henry gave an apologetic smile. “I was wondering if I might have some ice for my eye?”

  “Cor, sir. That’s a shiner!” the boy said, letting out a low whistle.

  Henry followed the boy through a narrow annex and into a pantry, where he spotted a large wooden ice box. “Thank you,” he said, crouching down to unlatch the door and scooping up a handful of ice chips. He put them inside the tea towel and pressed it to his eye, sighing at the instant relief.

  “Ain’t no trouble,” the boy mumbled, regarding Henry thoughtfully. “Di’nt you—Ain’t you the one who used to be a servant?”

  Henry nodded. “I did.”

  “Is that what you’ve been fightin’ over?”

  “Fighting?” Henry was taken aback. “I wasn’t fighting.”

  “Split lip, ’bout six days old, I’d reckon. Fresh shiner.” Henry bit his lip, which was nearly mended. “Four days,” Henry corrected. “How could you tell?”

  “Had my fair share of ’em boxing down at the Lance. You could come, if you’re keen. Tuppence a bet, pays back triple, an’ they’re fair about it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Henry said, “are you talking about pub fighting?”

  “O’ course,” the boy said. “If yer fightin’, might as well come watch how to do it all proper. Maybe put down a bet or two.”

  “You shouldn’t be fighting,” Henry said with a concerned frown. The boy was sma
ll for his age, barely old enough to be legally hired. But worse, Henry rather suspected he was taking on much older—and larger—opponents.

  “Well, you shouldn’t be in the kitchens,” the boy pointed out. “But ain’t neither of us goin’ to turn the other in.”

  Henry laughed aloud, and the serving boy suddenly remembered he was talking to one of the students. “Right, sir. I’ll be gettin’ back now, but if yeh need any-thin’ else, just ask for Ollie.”

  The boy called Ollie dashed back down the corridor, leaving Henry to find his own way back to where he belonged.

  8

  FLAG TWIRLING KNIGHTS

  The first years were scheduled for drills the following morning with Admiral Blackwood, to meet directly after breakfast in the quadrangle behind the thatch-castle thing. It was a typical blustery January morning, and while a few students shivered inside their coats, the cold felt good on Henry’s black eye.

  The night before in the library, some of the boys had come up with a dirty Latin translation from one of the exercises, and they now laughingly repeated the joke as everyone waited for their professor to arrive.

  Just as Derrick was saying the dirtiest bit rather too loudly, Admiral Blackwood burst out of the back doorway of Throgmorten Hall. His silver muttonchop whiskers bristled, and his black boots were shined to perfection. He wore a safari hat and khaki explorer’s outfit that stretched across his stomach, suggesting that he’d been much younger—and thinner—when it had been issued.

  “Form a line,” the admiral commanded.

  Henry and the other first years shuffled into a scraggly line.

  “Double time, lads!” Admiral Blackwood ordered, growing red in the face as his orders caused a chaotic scramble, during which Edmund bumped front-on into a freckled, scrawny boy called Pevensey.

  “In the future,” said Admiral Blackwood, “you shall greet me with a salute and the phrase ‘Good morning, Drills Master.’ I shall expect to find you at attention, alphabetically.”

  Another frantic scramble.

  By the time they had it right, Admiral Blackwood was very red in the face indeed. He made them salute twice before he was satisfied. With a sour frown he paced the line, calling roll. Everyone tried very hard not to fidget, and although the cold weather caused a lot of desperate sniffling, no one quite dared to reach for a handkerchief.

  “Grim?”

  “Here, sir!” Henry called, saluting smartly.

  “How’d you get that black eye, lad?”

  “Cricket, sir,” Henry fibbed, while the other boys snickered.

  The admiral harrumphed loudly and continued with his role call.

  For the rest of the morning, Admiral Blackwood had them marching in formation back and forth across the field. Henry, who was stuck in the back of the ranks, tried to scrunch down without being obvious about it, as he was visibly the tallest and didn’t fancy being singled out again.

  Finally Admiral Blackwood called them back into line outside the thatch-castle thing. “Next time, lads, we’ll try you with the flags.”

  Everyone stared blankly.

  “Flags, sir?” asked Derrick.

  “You’ll be marching in the King Victor’s Day parade in the city this April,” Admiral Blackwood explained, as though it were obvious. “Three boys leading the drill, three with flags, and the rest with peacekeeper’s batons.”

  At this, Derrick snorted and whispered something about “flag twirling knights” to Luther, who grinned broadly. Even though Henry also found the idea of their marching in formation and twirling flags to be absurd, it prickled at him worryingly during ethics. Why would a man like Admiral Blackwood come to Knightley to instruct them on marching in a parade?

  Frankie pointedly ignored Henry at supper, and disappeared the moment chapel ended the next morning. Well, Henry thought, at least Adam had warmed to the idea of being friends with Derrick and Conrad.

  Everyone was relieved to have fencing first thing Friday morning. As Henry helped Adam do up the back of his fencing kit, he noticed Valmont struggling with his own fastenings.

  “Do you want help?” Henry asked.

  Valmont glared. “Did I ask?”

  Valmont scowled, but turned so Henry could fasten the back of his kit.

  “You’re welcome,” Henry said coldly.

  The fencing master cleared his throat for attention.

  “Last term you were divided into intermediates and beginners,” he said. “But I can see that such rankings no longer hold. From now on you are all intermediates. I’ll be evaluating individual performances and will reassign the most promising students to an advanced group in a few weeks’ time. For today, partner up.”

  Henry gladly partnered with Edmund, and they were set with practicing the length of their lunges, parrying only when they thought the attacks would hit.

  “It’s a bit like old times,” said Edmund, who hadn’t fenced against Henry since Henry’s move to the intermediates partway through last term. Forgetting to signal his attack, Edmund stepped into a long lunge, which Henry parried easily.

  “Old times, right,” Henry said, thinking it was anything but. “Go again, but watch your back arm and mind your seat.”

  When the fencing master called an end to the exercise, Henry frowned. Surely there was more time left in the lesson?

  “Let’s discuss the strategy behind that exercise,” said the fencing master. “Why is it to your advantage to vary the length of your lunge?”

  “It’s less work,” called Theobold.

  “That’s not an advantage. That’s laziness,” said the fencing master.

  Henry caught Adam’s eye, and they grinned. It was immensely gratifying to see the fencing master lay into Theobold for his poor form and even poorer strategy.

  “An advantage?” the fencing master continued. “Marchbanks?”

  Derrick ran a hand through his dark hair thoughtfully. “Well … your opponent is never quite certain from how far away he might be attacked,” he said.

  “Excellent, Marchbanks,” said the fencing master. “You retain the element of a surprise attack. You can catch your opponent off guard. You undermine his confidence in his defenses. Is he out of range? Or have you merely orchestrated it so that he thinks this is so?”

  Theobold scowled.

  “St. Fitzroy, mask on,” called the fencing master. James nervously tugged on his mask and took his place on the demonstration piste across from the fencing master.

  The fencing master drove James backward across the piste with a double advance and a lunge that stopped half an arm’s length short of a hit.

  “You see? He panicked when I made a short lunge. Watch again.” The fencing master resumed his on guard position. He advanced quickly, and then made a lunge identical to his first. “Now St. Fitzroy is convinced that he knows my attack distance. At that range he does not expect to be hit.”

  Again the fencing master faced James across the piste. This time he followed his double advance with a longer lunge, his foil striking cleanly against James’s chest before James could react.

  “Short lunge,” said the fencing master, demonstrating. “And long lunge. It is up to you to decide whether you want your opponent to know and fear your attack distance, or whether you want to mislead and surprise him. Class dismissed.”

  Frankie apparently decided that she was speaking with Henry again that night, as he was leaving supper with Derrick and Edmund and discussing the next morning’s cricket match.

  “Cover your eyes, lads. The deadly sunshade approaches,” Derrick noted dryly.

  “Hello, Miss Winter,” Henry said, flashing his most winning smile, noting with satisfaction that Frankie looked upset at his black eye.

  “Professor Stratford wants you to come for tea tomorrow,” Frankie muttered.

  “Oh, er, right,” Henry said, guiltily remembering that it had been nearly a week since he’d last seen his former tutor. “Of course. Tell him I’ll be there.”

  “He said
to come by at noon,” Frankie said.

  “All right,” Henry said. An awkward silence passed. Henry was painfully aware that Derrick and Edmund were standing there, waiting for him.

  “Anything else?” Henry asked coolly.

  “He said to invite your roommates as well. Good evening, Mr. Grim, Mr. Merrill, Mr. Marchbanks.” Frankie gave a pathetic curtsy, and then flounced away as though delivering the message had been some sort of traumatizing ordeal.

  “Ugh,” Henry said as they headed toward the common room. “Girls. They just stay mad at you, don’t they?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Derrick said. “I’ve never been unlucky enough to upset one.”

  The maid frowned at Henry and Adam when she opened the door to the Headmaster’s house.

  “Is someone expecting you two?”

  “Yes, we’re here to see Professor Stratford,” Henry said.

  “Well, come on, then,” she said, and sniffed, acting rather put out. She marched through the foyer and made a sharp left, leading them up a servants’ staircase.

  Henry rolled his eyes, and Adam pulled a face at the maid’s back. There weren’t many students who turned up at the headmaster’s front door, and apparently Ellen didn’t appreciate the interruption—or the mud that Henry and Adam tracked in from crossing the quadrangle, no matter how carefully they wiped their feet. Hence her insistence on sending them up the servants’ staircase.

  With a satisfied grin Ellen straightened her apron and knocked on the door to Professor Stratford’s study.

  “Come in,” the professor called, but when he saw Henry and Adam, his eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “Good heavens, is the cricket match over already?”

  “It just started,” Adam said. “Rohan’s playing.”

  Professor Stratford extracted his pocket watch from beneath an overturned—and, thankfully, empty—teacup on his desk, and frowned. “You’re two hours early.”

  “Frankie told us to come around noon,” Henry said, realizing belatedly that she’d given him the wrong hour on purpose, knowing that Henry would miss cheering on his friends’ cricket match, and that Rohan wouldn’t be able to come.

  “We could, er, come back later?” Adam suggested.

  “No, no, I wasn’t doing anything of great importance,” Professor Stratford said, closing a thick book on his desk. “Thank you, Ellen, and if you could bring up the tea?”