"I'll have a go," Valmont said, poking Henry in the back with the tip of his foil to command attention.
Henry nearly refused. "Kick your enemies while they're down, is that the idea?" he asked, walking to position across from Valmont.
"More like watch you fall on your arse."
Valmont gave a weak salute, which Henry returned.
"I want a rematch at chess," Valmont said, surging forward and landing an easy hit into Henry's stomach.
"I'll play you again, but it isn't a rematch," Henry replied. "I beat you fairly the first time."
"Hit!" Valmont crowed.
Henry scowled and willed himself to do better. He couldn't let Valmont beat him 3-0.
One hit, Henry thought desperately. One lucky hit, that's all I need.
Henry concentrated on his footwork and managed a passable advance. Through some miracle, he was able to disengage his weapon and put his back arm down to signal attack, giving him the priority. Hardly daring to believe it, Henry lunged forward--and tripped.
He sprawled hands-down onto the wooden floor, landing with a theatrical slap! Valmont, in the middle of an attempted riposte, lost his balance as well, tripping over Henry.
Henry, his face crimson with embarrassment beneath his mask, climbed to his feet.
"Sorry," he said, offering Valmont a hand up.
Valmont sat on the floor, his sword forgotten at his side, his gloved hand grasping his ankle.
"You filthy servant," Valmont sneered, pushing Henry's hand away.
"I'm sorry," Henry said again, angrily this time, hating that he was apologizing to Valmont for something that wasn't even really his fault. "But are you going to be all right?"
Valmont struggled to his feet.
"Fine," he snapped. But Henry could see that Valmont was favoring his right leg, making no move to put any weight on it.
"Is it sprained?" Henry asked, only now aware of their audience. The other boys had abandoned their bouts, preferring to stare at Henry and Valmont, who were known to be rivals.
"Of course not," Valmont snapped, bending to pick up his sword.
Valmont adjusted his grip and made as though he wanted to continue the bout.
Henry switched the foil to his left hand, deciding to ignore the hindrance of having a right-handed grip plate.
"You're certain you're all right?" Henry asked again.
Valmont grunted and gave a small salute. His weight was still on his left leg, Henry noticed.
Valmont took a step forward, but it was more of a limp.
Henry lowered his foil to his side. "It is sprained," he accused.
"Mr. Grim! Mr. Valmont! I saw you take a spill. Is everything sorted?" the fencing master shrilled.
Henry shook his head. "No, sir. Valmont's injured his ankle."
"So many injuries!" the fencing master cried, throwing up his hands in defeat. "Mr. Grim, please take Mr. Valmont to the sick matron for a cold compress."
"Yes, sir," Henry said, and then to Valmont, "come on, let's go."
"I'm perfectly fine, servant boy," Valmont snapped.
"Don't call me that," Henry returned. "And no, you're not. You need to put cold on or else it could swell."
"Look at you, playing nursemaid," Valmont taunted, taking off his mask and glove.
"More like remembering what we've been taught in medicine."
Valmont took a few careful steps, putting as little weight as possible on his right foot. "I can go myself."
"So go, then," Henry snapped.
Valmont hobbled toward the door of the armory. The other students, although feigning that they had resumed their bouts, stared.
Henry felt a knot settle in the pit of his stomach as he watched Valmont limp off toward the sick matron by himself. It's just Valmont, he told himself severely. You hate him. But even so, he looks hurt and ... alone.
Henry sighed and followed after Valmont.
"What are you doing?" Valmont asked. He'd stopped in the corridor outside the armory and was leaning against the wall.
"I'm helping you to the sick matron," Henry said. "What does it look like?"
Henry slung Valmont's arm around his neck, and they made their way to the sick bay in horrible silence.
"You again!" the sick matron clucked at Henry.
Henry reddened. It was rather starting to seem that way.
"Valmont's hurt his ankle," Henry said, and then turned and marched out of the sick bay.
"Not staying with your friend, dearie?" the sick matron called after Henry.
"He's not my friend," Henry muttered.
Valmont hadn't returned by the end of the lesson, so everyone headed to languages without him.
"He's probably faking to get out of lessons," Adam said as they passed beneath the gruesome unicorn tapestry on the way to Professor Lingua's class.
"If he fakes too convincingly, perhaps they'll amputate it," Rohan said with a small smile.
"We can only hope," Adam said. "Oi, Henry. Look alive, mate."
"Sorry," Henry said, shaking his head to clear it. On top of being lost in thought about visiting the Nordlands that weekend, he couldn't forget how Theobold, Valmont's only friend, hadn't cared at all when Valmont limped off to the sick matron.
"Listen, Adam, we should be partners today," Henry said after far too long a silence.
"Really?" Adam asked. "Because I thought you were all about my learning French rather than copying your work."
"That was before," Henry said.
Before. Already it seemed like ages ago, the days when Frankie would climb through their window with a deck of cards and a sly grin, convincing them to put aside their homework for a game or two. The days when their biggest worry was Valmont's bullying, when Adam's enormous appetite prompted midnight forays to the kitchens.
Professor Lingua waddled into the classroom with an armload of books, plunking one down between every two seats.
"Bonjour, classe," he called, and waited for a response.
"Bonjour, Maitre Lingua," the students called.
"We shall be finishing our unit in French and turning to a review of Latin at the end of next week," he said, his many chins quivering as he tried to catch his breath. "Thus, during the time we have left, we shall make use of the French you have learned."
Henry made a mental note to put aside some time to review Latin.
"Translations," Professor Lingua announced. "From French to English. No dictionaries on the first draft. You'll be working in pairs."
He assigned pages to each pair for translation, and then, with an enormous sigh, heaved himself into his chair.
"Page forty-two," Adam muttered, staring dubiously at the unopened book.
Henry took out a sheet of paper and his pencil, then glanced at the book's spine to see what they would be translating.
"It's Dumas!" Henry cried.
"Who?" Adam asked blankly.
"No, this is good. I've read it before in the original French, so that should help."
Henry turned to page forty-two. A sheet of paper fluttered out of the book and landed on the floor.
"What's that?" Adam asked, reaching down to retrieve it.
"Dunno," Henry said. "In any case, it's not mine."
Adam opened the piece of paper.
" 'Full of ideas, he sped off as if on wings toward the Convent des Carmes Descheaux--a building without windows.' What's this? It's like a page of a novel."
Henry grabbed it from Adam.
It couldn't be--but it was. Henry smoothed the paper down on the desk next to their copy of The Three Musketeers and compared.
It was a finished translation of page forty-two.
Henry frowned, his eyes scanning back and forth between the documents. He could find no fault with the translation.
"Adam," Henry whispered, placing the open book on top of the paper to hide it. "This is a perfect translation."
"Really?" Adam asked. "Then let's use it. Assignment complete."
&nb
sp; Henry shot him a look.
"I'm only joking," Adam said, as though hurt that Henry thought he'd meant it. "I wouldn't really. So, what d'you reckon we should do?"
"Tell Professor Lingua," Henry said, standing up and sliding the paper out from beneath the book.
"He'll think we cheated," Adam said, frantically tugging on Henry's sleeve to make him sit back down.
"No," Henry said, shaking his head. "He'll think we cheated if we don't turn it in."
"Cheated?" Theobold called, turning around from two desks in front of theirs. "Who cheated? You?"
"What seems to be the problem?" Professor Lingua asked, struggling out of his chair and waddling toward them.
"Grim and Beckerman are cheating," Theobold said, as though commenting on the weather. "Pity."
The other students glanced up curiously from their texts.
"Mr. Grim, Mr. Beckerman, I'll need to see your translation," Professor Lingua said.
Adam shot Henry a horrified look.
"We haven't started, sir," Henry said.
"That's not cheating, Mr. Archer. That's just plain laziness," Professor Lingua said, and then he caught sight of the piece of paper in Henry's fist. "Or is it? Mr. Grim, kindly hand me the paper you're holding."
Henry's heart quickened, and he knew, without a doubt, that he wouldn't be able to talk his way out of it this time. He was finished.
"We found this in the book," Henry said, handing the paper to Professor Lingua.
The professor glanced down at the paper and then at Henry and Adam's book.
"It's a perfect translation of our assigned page," Henry said. "At least, the first few sentences are. I've not had a look at the rest. We didn't know what to do when we found it, which is why we hadn't begun the assignment."
"You found it in the book?" Professor Lingua said, his mouth curled into a deep, disapproving frown.
"Yes, sir," Henry and Adam said.
"I find that hard to believe," said Professor Lingua.
"It's the truth," Henry said simply. "And besides, it's not as though I would need it anyway."
Even though he hated showing off, Henry knew that it was the only way to salvage their situation. So he flipped the page over to forty-three and translated on the spot.
" 'Upon my honor I assure you that you hurt me confoundedly. But I will use my left hand, as I usually do under such circumstances. Yet do not imagine that by this means I do you a favor as I fight equally well with either.' "
He made it halfway down the page without an error, reading at a normal pace, as though the text were truly written in English rather than French, before the professor stopped him.
"I'm aware of your skill with languages, Mr. Grim," Professor Lingua said. "And I am also aware that there is no reason you would require a cheat page. However, the matter at hand is that you and Mr. Beckerman did not come forward immediately. You've not broken the Code of Chivalry, but you've certainly taken some liberties, and I have no choice but to rebuke you for your actions."
Henry took a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever the punishment might be.
"I hereby forbid the both of you from participating in the Inter-School Tournament," Professor Lingua said. "I shall inform your head of year. And now, if you please, a translation of page one-fifty-eight. And I'll know if Mr. Grim does all the work."
"Yes, sir," the boys said, slumping in their seats.
Adam looked devastated about the tournament.
"That's not fair," he moaned. "I was going to fence foil."
"You're injured," Henry reminded him.
"It's nearly healed," Adam protested.
"I'm sorry about the tournament," Henry whispered, "but at least we're not in worse trouble. Now come on, we have to translate this. How would you start?"
With a sigh, Adam turned his attention to the text.
"Banned! Can you believe it?" Adam wailed during their hour free.
"I was there, Adam," Rohan said, calmly flipping a page in his military history textbook.
"There's always next year," Henry said to make his friend feel better.
But then both boys stared at him, and Henry muttered, "Never mind."
They'd avoided talking about what Professor Stratford had told them since the night before, hinting at things rather than saying what they really thought, as though not speaking the words would make it all untrue. And Henry couldn't stand it.
Through the door to their room, they could hear the other boys in the common room chattering excitedly about the tournament.
"We need to talk," Henry said, and Rohan sighed.
"It's about time," Rohan said, and Henry was so relieved that he nearly laughed.
"What are we going to do?" Henry asked his friends.
"Earn better marks," Rohan said, indicating the textbook he was studying during their hour free.
"No, I mean besides that," Henry said.
"What else can we do?" Adam asked.
"We can find out who's behind this and stop them," Henry said.
Adam snorted. "Easier said than accomplished, mate."
"So I suppose you don't want your necklace back?" Henry asked.
"I never said that," Adam protested. "I'm just saying that it could be anyone behind this."
"Anyone besides Valmont, you mean," Rohan said.
"Could be," Adam insisted, and then sighed. "Yeah, I know. Not Valmont. By the way, Henry, excellent job tripping him today."
"Thanks," Henry said glumly.
He didn't think it was an excellent job at all. Professor Stratford had made it clear that Valmont wasn't behind any of this, and Henry had already expected as much. They'd plastered Valmont's textbook shut in retaliation for letters Valmont hadn't sent, they'd threatened to make him pee his bed in his sleep, and Henry had taunted him in the hallway about their chess match. No wonder Valmont hated them.
Henry almost felt sorry for Valmont, for the way Theobold hadn't cared when his friend was absent from languages because he was still in the sick bay.
"Hello ... Henry?" Rohan asked.
"Sorry," Henry said. "I was just thinking that maybe we've been too hard on Valmont."
"Seriously?" Adam snorted.
"Hmmm," Rohan said. "We were hasty to react with the textbook incident, but it didn't cause him any harm. Havelock cut his assignment in half."
Henry nodded. "I know."
But he couldn't help replaying in his head all of his past encounters with Valmont.
"You deserved it," Henry had told him about the textbook plaster.
"Who are you to judge what I deserve?" Valmont had responded.
"I think it's Lord Havelock," Adam said. "He loathes us. If anyone wanted to rid the school of commoners, it would be him."
Rohan considered this.
"And you have to admit, he's not particularly keen on the headmaster," Rohan commented.
Henry had to agree that Lord Havelock was the most likely to be behind everything. After all, Lord Havelock had detested Henry on sight. He had singled out Henry and his friends again and again. Havelock certainly could have pretended to lose Henry's term paper and then neglected to tell the librarian that Henry was staying late. He could have swapped the swords and changed the menu at breakfast and gone into their room. He could have done the French translation, a translation of which Valmont certainly wasn't capable. They just needed proof.
But first, Henry needed to do something else.
THE CAUSE OF THE CURSE
Oh, it's you," Valmont said sourly when Henry turned up at the sick bay. "What do you want?"
Valmont was slumped in a chair, his ankle wrapped in a bandage and propped on a stack of pillows. In his lap was a thick pile of magazines.
Which means no one has brought 'round his assignments, Henry thought.
"Look," Henry said, "can we talk?"
"Say what you need to say, servant boy."
"When my friends and I plastered your textbook," Henry began, sitting gingerly
on the edge of the bed and accidentally jostling Valmont's pillow tower in the process. "Sorry about that. It was because we thought you'd been the one behind something worse. But now we know you weren't the one doing those things, so I wanted to apologize."
"You're apologizing?" Valmont asked incredulously. "You're apologizing to me about the textbook?"
"Yeah, I am," Henry said quietly.
Valmont gave a hollow little laugh.
"I don't care about the textbook," he said. "The worst part is that you don't even know what you've done--what you've cost me."
"What are you talking about?" Henry asked.
"You really want to know?" Valmont asked angrily. "I was supposed to be the one to pass the Knightley Exam. Not you."
"We're back to that?" Henry groaned. That had been nearly six months ago.
" 'We're back to that?' " Valmont mocked. "Yes, we are. Because I was supposed to pass the exam."
"Supposed to?" Henry asked. "What? It's not like the exam was rigged ..." Henry stopped, his eyes wide with realization. No one had passed the exam at the Midsummer School for years. Everyone thought the school was cursed. But what if the school hadn't been cursed? What if the exam had been rigged to make the boys fail?
"Maybe it was," Valmont said coolly. "Uncle Havelock used to be the chief examiner, you know. Maybe he made sure that none of the boys at Midsummer passed the exam for just long enough that the next boy who passed would have the glory of restoring honor to the school. So that the next boy who passed became a hero. And then the headmaster up and quit and Sir Frederick was appointed the new chief examiner and instead of me passing the exam, it was you."
Valmont was glaring furiously at Henry, as though Henry ought to have known. As though Henry had purposefully taken away his glory and honor, relegating him to one of the late-admit spots based on family connections, stealing his place as a golden boy and demoting him to the role of Theobold's second in command, when back at the Midsummer School he had had cronies of his own.
"So that's why you hate me?" Henry asked, surprised. "Because I stole your glory by passing the exam back at Midsummer?"
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