Knightley Acadamy 01

by Violet Haberdasher

  For if your honor durst to stray,

  In any moment of any day,

  Then of this warning, please take heed,

  Or else suffer consequences unpleasant indeed.

  A knight is a peer to honor bound

  Whose fears dare not to make a sound.

  With words suffused in honesty

  And deeds steeped long with chivalry,

  A knight defends those in need

  Whether of common or noble breed.

  And on this day an oath I swear

  This Code of Chivalry henceforth I bear.

  Taking a deep breath, Henry touched his quill to the parchment and signed his name.

  Henry couldn't help but grin as he rejoined the crowd of boys. Suddenly, Lord Havelock's imposing manner did not seem nearly as frightening, nor the recent tabloid headlines anything more than preposterous. After all, look where he, Henry, had wound up. At Knightley Academy, in the finest set of clothing he had ever owned, a proper student bound to a code of chivalry and on his way to becoming a knight.

  Henry glanced toward Adam, who stood, hands in his pockets, watching the next boy approach the parchment.

  When Lord Havelock called "Rohan Mehta" and a proud boy with brown skin and dark flashing eyes stepped forward to regally receive the quill and ink, Adam grinned.

  "Like I said, Indian bloke."

  Henry nodded, curious as to Rohan's story. In fact, he was so lost in supposing that he almost missed Lord Havelock call the final student's name.

  "Fergus Valmont," Lord Havelock said with an indulgent smile.

  Henry couldn't believe it. But sure enough, he would recognize that swagger anywhere. Valmont, Henry's tormentor from the Midsummer School who had failed the exam despite boasting of his family's connections, snatched the quill from Lord Havelock. And with a nasty sneer in Henry's direction, Valmont signed his name to the parchment without even bothering to read the message.

  SERVANTS AND SCHOLARS

  The ink had scarcely dried on the Code of Chivalry before Lord Havelock hurried the boys off to their new lodgings. The First Year Corridor, with its adjoining common room, was just a short ways from the Great Hall. Henry and the other first years squeezed through the narrow hallway, which was made even slimmer by the antique suits of armor that stood at attention between every flickering sconce.

  "Your lodgings have already been assigned," Lord Havelock barked, and although he had not turned around, his voice echoed off the polished armor and filled the hallway. "There will be no room changes, not even trading among yourselves. As first years, your doors do not lock. Curfew is ten o'clock, lights at a quarter past."

  Lord Havelock came to a halt with no warning, then turned on his heel to glare at the lot of them, and the boys at the front of the crowd nearly jumped backward to avoid a collision. Behind Lord Havelock was a shabby sort of corridor lined with brass-knobbed doors. Each door bore a plaque engraved with the names of its occupants.

  "You may not, under any circumstances," Lord Havelock said, as though suspecting that they already had, "decorate your doors, rearrange the furniture, disrespect the housekeeping staff, make excessive noise, or neglect to keep your property clean and neat. My own chambers are at the end of the corridor, next to the bath. Bear in mind that I sleep--"

  "In a coffin," Adam murmured, and Henry, despite his worries about Valmont, had to stifle a laugh.

  "--lightly, and do not appreciate being disturbed or woken for any reason short of an emergency," Lord Havelock continued. "The bells will ring half an hour before the evening meal. Supper is formal, and tardiness, for whatever reason--"

  "Short of an emergency," Adam whispered, and again, Henry bit his tongue.

  "--will not be tolerated. That is all, gentlemen."

  Lord Havelock--his gown billowing behind him in a way that, now that Henry thought about it, did make one wonder if he slept in a coffin--marched toward an elaborately carved doorway at the end of the corridor. The door slammed behind him, the lock clicking into place.

  Collectively, the boys relaxed. And then they all raced down the corridor, looking at the names on the doors.

  Henry stayed back by the archway that led to the threadbare common room, watching the others find their rooms. He was so overwhelmed that he could scarcely think. And yet, the one thought that surfaced was a desperate, last-minute wish: Please let my roommate be anyone besides Fergus Valmont, anyone besides Valmont ...

  "You coming, Grim?" Adam asked. "Got to figure out which room we'll be sharing."

  "How do you reckon, sharing?" Henry asked.

  "Well, it's obvious they've put us together. I mean, do you honestly think Theobold Archer IV would share a room with me?"

  Henry sighed in relief. Of course Adam was right.

  But there was just one problem: out of the fourteen rooms, many had plaques that bore the name of a single student, and a good number bore two names, but not one of them said "Henry Grim" or "Adam Beckerman."

  The corridor was emptying now as the other boys disappeared into their rooms, shaking hands with a new roommate or checking to make sure all of their bags had arrived safely.

  "Do you think they've forgotten us?" someone asked, and Henry and Adam turned.

  Rohan Mehta stood, arms crossed, in the center of the hallway.

  "I expect so," Henry said miserably.

  This was even worse than rooming with Valmont. Henry's mind churned with possibilities of what was going to happen next: they'd have to live in the servants' quarters or on a corridor with bullying fourth years or be sent home because there wasn't enough space.

  "Well, this certainly won't do," Rohan said, and with his chin in the air, he strode confidently toward Lord Havelock's door and knocked sharply.

  The door clicked open.

  "My, my, emergencies do happen quickly." Lord Havelock glared. "Who has died?"

  Rohan went pale, but he swallowed and bravely said, "No one, sir. However, the three of us have not been assigned rooms. I trust there is a good reason."

  Henry and Adam exchanged a look of shock. Rohan's accent was unbelievably upper-crust, but even more surprising was how he faced Lord Havelock without fear.

  Lord Havelock also seemed taken aback, but he reached into a fold of his master's gown and produced a small, grubby plaque.

  "I'm afraid your nameplate was ordered late, and arrived only this morning," Lord Havelock said, brushing past them. "And here we are, gentlemen. Your chambers."

  Lord Havelock stopped at a shabby wooden door across from the common room. It was not a grand door--the wood had gone warped in places, and the doorknob was made of unfinished wood rather than shining brass. Henry would have thought it was a broom cupboard if he had noticed it, but it was not a very noticeable sort of door.

  Lord Havelock tacked the plaque--rather crookedly, in fact--to the door and, with a cold smile, turned on his heel and returned to his chambers.

  "Shall we?" Adam asked, hand on the doorknob.

  It wasn't so bad. This was Henry's first thought as he surveyed the room. Certainly it was a bit cramped with three beds, desks, and chairs--none of which matched. But the far wall held a lovely large latticed window that looked out onto an expanse of lawn and, in the distance, the limestone walls of the headmaster's house. Unfinished wooden beams sloped overhead, angling to the right, where a battered wardrobe had been wedged, rather exactly, into the space between the floor and the ceiling.

  "The bed on the right is mine," Adam called, flopping onto the down-filled coverlet nearest to the window.

  Henry and Rohan stared at each other with polite smiles until Henry motioned toward the two remaining beds and asked, "Which would you prefer?"

  "I'll take the one on the left, thank you," Rohan said, but remained standing. "It's frankly a disgrace the way they're treating the three of us, and I have a mind to write home about it. If you've noticed, our things have yet to arrive."

  And then, as if in answer to Rohan's complaint,
there was a timid knock on the door.

  "Come in," Rohan called imperiously.

  A serving boy of about their age ducked his head respectfully and said, "I've brought yer bags, if you'd please t'let me bring 'em inside?"

  "Of course," Rohan said. "You can set my trunk at the foot of my bed and my valise next to the wardrobe."

  "Ver' good, sir," the boy said, and then looked to Henry and Adam.

  "Oh, er, anywhere's fine," Henry said, his cheeks flushing. He didn't think he'd ever get used to giving orders. "And, uh, sorry it's so heavy."

  "'S quite alrigh', sir," the boy said, struggling with Rohan's trunk.

  Adam swung his feet over the side of his bed.

  "I can get my own," he said, disappearing for a moment into the hallway and returning with his suitcase.

  The serving boy grunted with the effort of dragging Rohan's trunk along the floor beams.

  Rohan, arms still folded, merely stood and watched.

  "Here, let me help," Henry said, grabbing one end of the trunk. The serving boy stared at Henry in shock.

  "Ugh, this is even heavier than mine," Henry said, shoving the trunk into place.

  As the serving boy tackled Rohan's valise, Henry retrieved his own bag from the hallway and tossed it onto his bed.

  "That will be all, thank you," Rohan told the serving boy, reaching into his pocket and flipping him a coin.

  "Yessir," the boy said with a grin, giving a proper bow this time as he closed the door.

  Henry opened his suitcase and hung his spare uniform, blazer, and scarf in the wardrobe. He was so curious about Rohan that he could hardly stand it. The other "common" student didn't seem common at all. And the way Rohan had tipped the boy for bringing his bags, as though he had always done that sort of thing, as though he had the sort of pocket money that never ran short at the end of the week ...

  "You from the City, mate?" Adam asked.

  "No, but we keep a house there for the Season," Rohan said, staring at his trunk as though he expected it to unpack itself.

  Henry met Adam's glance and shrugged, as if to say, I dunno either.

  "Yeah, so, don't take this the wrong way or anything," Adam said cheerfully, folding together two mismatched socks from his luggage, "but I was sort of wondering about the accent and the, uh, 'house for the Season' and all that."

  Rohan, with an audible sigh, unzipped his valise and extracted a small set of leather-bound books.

  "Well, I was adopted after my mother died," Rohan said, placing his books on the least battered of the desks. "She'd been the housekeeper for an English couple, and they had no children of their own. I was just a baby, so they couldn't very well pack me off to an orphanage."

  No, Henry thought, somewhat bitterly, of course they couldn't. As soon as he'd thought it, Henry was ashamed. It was just that ... he wasn't sure he liked Rohan all that much. It was clear that Rohan felt he was being treated far beneath his station.

  "So did they send you off to Easton and all that?" Adam asked.

  Rohan's cheeks flushed dark, and Henry realized that all of Rohan's confidence and pride had been a mask, which had just slipped.

  "No, actually. My father, er, thought it best for me to have private tutors because ..."

  Because no respectable school would take an Indian boy, no matter who had raised him, Henry said to himself. At least, that had been true until now, until anyone was allowed to take the Knightley Exam.

  Well, that explained everything. Rohan had never been away to school before, or been around other boys his age. He'd thought they would treat him according to his father's status, and it had been a bit of a nasty shock when they hadn't done. Henry was almost sympathetic toward his regal new roommate.

  "Blimey!" Adam exclaimed. He'd wandered over to have a look at Rohan's books and was pointing at the gold-leaf library crest on the front cover. "Your father's the duke of Holchester?"

  Rohan ducked his head but didn't deny it.

  Well, Henry thought, at least I let him choose beds first.

  When the bells rang, signaling a half hour until supper, Henry's stomach lurched--not out of hunger but habit. At the Midsummer School for Boys, this was when he'd dash down to help Cook in the kitchens, staggering under the hot, heavy serving platters, eating only when everyone else had finished and long after the food had gone cold.

  Now, for the first time, the half-hour bells meant something different: comb your hair, straighten your tie, and for God's sake, don't embarrass yourself. Because Henry's place was no longer in the kitchen, it was at the table.

  There were four long tables in the Great Hall, one for each year of students, and a High Table for the professors and headmaster.

  The first years, terrified by Lord Havelock's warning that tardiness would not be tolerated, had arrived early. Gradually, the older students trickled in, laughing and horsing around, yelling across the room to say hello to friends they hadn't seen over the summer.

  The scene was so similar to the one Henry had watched during his first week working at the Midsummer School that it gave him chills. A little voice in the back of his head that he didn't know how to switch off kept shrilling, Everyone knows you don't belong! Everyone knows! He tried his best to ignore it.

  Henry, Adam, and Rohan sat in the middle of the long table, suddenly glad that they had one another to talk to. Many of the boys who had been assigned single rooms sat silently, afraid to start or even join a conversation.

  Nervously, Henry and his roommates examined the professors who took their seats at the High Table. That one looked kind, that one looked ancient, there was Sir Frederick, and there! Henry couldn't stop his face from breaking into a wide grin. There was Professor Stratford in his rumpled tweed, seated next to his pupil.

  Henry hadn't been around a lot of girls. The ones at the orphanage had gotten by because they acted like the boys, with rough clothes and even rougher manners, and the few scullery maids at Midsummer had been timid little things, always getting fired for stealing something they hadn't actually stolen.

  This girl, in her sweet lace dress with its modest collar, looked to be around Henry's age. She reminded Henry of a doll, with her blond curls and wide eyes and fair, pale skin.

  "Who's the girl?" Rohan asked.

  "The new headmaster's daughter," Henry said, pleased he knew something--anything--the others didn't.

  And just then a hidden door beside the vast fireplace swung open and Headmaster Winter stepped into the Great Hall, out of breath and still fastening his cravat.

  Everyone quieted.

  The headmaster finished with his cravat and turned his attention toward his left cuff link as he made his way to the center seat at the High Table.

  Everyone waited.

  The headmaster nervously cleared his throat, slumped his hands into his trouser pockets, and gave an apologetic grin. Even in the soft candlelight at the High Table, Headmaster Winter looked every one of his forty years, his ginger beard gone patchy with gray, his skin pale and drawn as though he were recovering from a recent illness.

  "Wel-welcome to the new term," he said, gaining confidence now that the worst of it--the beginning--had already passed. "I shan't trouble you with long-winded introductions. It's been a tiring day for us all, and there is a warm supper waiting to be served. But we do need to go over some preliminaries, to refresh ourselves on the rules and all that rot."

  Some of the older boys laughed, and Headmaster Winter grinned sheepishly.

  "You may laugh, but rules do molder with time and need to be tossed out or reformed on occasion. This is not one of those times. There shall be no bullying on my watch, and I hold no tolerance for boys found tormenting any of the first years. Class attendance is not optional, and sleep is to be done in your rooms, not at your desks or in the chapel pews."

  Again, some laughter.

  "I'm sure your heads of year have already covered the rest. Do I hear some grumbles of disagreement, or is that just my stomach wanting
its supper?"

  Even the first years couldn't help laughing this time.

  "Well, that's all I can bring to mind at the moment. Welcome, welcome to Knightley Academy! I know this shall be the best term yet," Headmaster Winter said, taking his seat to enthusiastic applause.

  "What was that?" Rohan asked.

  "Headmaster Winter," Adam said with a shrug. "Bit of an eccentric bloke, but what d'you expect--he did decide to open the exam to commoners for the sake of 'progress.' "

  "It's all the better for us," Henry said as the doors to the kitchen swung open and servants in school livery staggered out with platters of food. "I mean, could you imagine two Lord Havelocks?"

  Adam shuddered, and even Rohan made a face at the thought.

  Piping hot baskets of bread arrived at the table, and suddenly every boy remembered how very hungry he was.

  "Can you pass the butter, please?" Rohan asked the blond-haired boy across from him.

  The boy looked as though he wanted to say something quite horrible, but then he remembered his manners and stiffly pushed the butter dish toward Rohan without comment. Rohan pretended not to notice, but Henry saw that when Rohan took a second roll, he ate it dry.

  When the main course of roast duck was served, Henry chanced to look up and find more than a few boys staring in his direction.

  "It's terribly surprising," Adam said, just a bit too loudly, "when us commonfolk don't eat with our hands like savages, isn't it?"

  Henry elbowed him under the table.

  "What?" Adam protested. "That's why they're watching. Not because I'm such a terribly handsome fellow or because you happen to have a gigantic spot on your face."

  Henry tried to ignore it. He told himself that the boys would realize there was nothing to see and eventually lose interest, but even so, he felt as though he and his roommates were having their supper on a stage.