A Pretty Mouth (28 page)

Whitehall closed the gap that John earlier had put between them, and cast his arm around John’s slender shoulders. “My lord, I knew you for a savant when I saw you walk in, you have that … ineffable sensitivity in your features and bearing that marks the true intellectual, the real lover of the arts.”

“Really?”

“Why, my Lord Rochester! Surely you must have heard that before? From some admirer?”

John laughed. “I have had none.”

“Ah!” cried Whitehall. “None that you know of, you mean! Surely you have broken hearts—who could not love that sweet face, those full lips!” He released John’s shoulders to gently elbow him in the side. “You’re telling me you’ve never made a girl cry? I’m certain you must have a sweetheart back home, that you kissed and left to pine away for you while you filled your head with education?”

“No, sir.” John was surprised to find he was enjoying himself. “No to all of what you say.”

“Well, if you’ve kissed a girl, then she’s in love with you, whether you know it or not.”

“I’ve never kissed a girl,” said John, and then blushed crimson.

This seemed to delight Whitehall, who laughed and laughed and, still laughing, hailed the barmaid, demanding more drink be brought to them. Rochester laughed too, though he felt a bit queer and dizzy. He’d ordered small beer with his supper, and after, but given the state of his head Whitehall must have ordered him something strong. And he’d asked the girl for “another of the same.” Ah, well …

“I’ll buy this round,” said John, reaching into his purse and throwing a few coins on the table when the girl returned with the ale. Surely, as a poet, Whitehall wouldn’t have the money to buy lords drinks all night—nor should he have to! John could distribute some largesse for once in his life.

“My lord is all kindness,” said Whitehall, “even if he is cruel to deny the ladies his attentions.”

“It’s not that I
deny
them,” giggled John, “I just, you know, I am busy. School has been the whole of my life.”

“Has been? Is it not now?”

When he’d come to the Bear, John had felt like if he never saw Wadham again it would be to soon, but after this many pints he was feeling somewhat more reasonable. He shrugged.

“My studies are important to me,” he said, and then more boldly, “but so is life.”

Whitehall gulped his beer in great swallows that made his Adam’s apple bob. “Ahh,” he said. “That’s better. Hard to talk with a dry throat, eh? And I am
so
enjoying talking to you, my lord. Are you enjoying talking to me?”

“I am.”

“Ah! I am glad. To find an enthusiast for the arts among the nobility is rare—and composing verses is thirsty work.”

“Is it?”

“Indeed it is.”

“What exactly,” said John archly, raising his eyebrow, “makes it so thirsty?”

With sudden and surprising agility Whitehall sprang to his feet and then, using the bench for a boost, leaped atop the table. He hoisted his beer aloft.

“My fellow men, hearken to me for only a moment,” he cried, his voice carrying over the ruckus with impressive ease. “I have need of your attention, for there is something I must tell you all.”

“Shut up!” shouted one wag, after the tavern quieted as everyone looked up to see what was happening, but Whitehall only bowed to the heckler.

“I shall, I shall,” he said. “Only let me entertain you for a moment with some spontaneous verse. Only a few lines,” he said, when the groaning began and the volume of conversation increased again. “Only a few short, sweet lines on the subject of a new friend of mine. If I may!”

And then he cleared his throat.

“My love is first in beauty, but in kindness too,

And though young, knows more than I ever learned at Wadham.

My love is perfection through and through,

For also knows my love the joys of Sodo—”

John watched, horrified, but before Whitehall could finish the verse he was hit in the face with a gravy-smeared potato. John, though amused, was glad Whitehall had not been able to finish his impromptu poem. Witty he might be, but so indecorous!

And John had to give credit where credit was due: Whitehall could take it like a champ. He seemed entirely unconcerned by the tavern’s reception of his poetic efforts as he wiped gravy and mash off his nose.

“
That
is why being a poet is thirsty work,” said Whitehall, as he settled down again beside John.

“At least it does not seem to be
hungry
work,” said John, getting out his own handkerchief to catch a smear Whitehall had missed. “One cannot starve if food is literally thrown into one’s mouth.”

“My lord is a wit as well? I am so glad I came tonight. And yet …”

“What?”

“It appears this audience is disinclined to treat artists like ourselves charitably.” Whitehall drained his beer as John’s heart soared. Whitehall thought him an artist! “Would you like to go somewhere else? Or perhaps back to my rooms?”

John wanted to, but he shook his head. “It is late, and I must get back to Wadham. I … am not supposed to be out.”

“I thought as much! They had rules like that at Christ Church, when I was a schoolboy.” The man’s tongue raked over his pink lips after saying this last, leaving them moist and shining. “May I at least escort you back?”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” said John to be polite, though he did like the idea of company on his way back. Dangerous times and all that.

Whitehall put his large hand over John’s small, slender one. “Do me the honor of being your escort, it would be my pleasure.” He smiled, and John felt his resolve melt away as Whitehall said, “It’s dangerous out there for a beautiful boy, all alone, and so late at night …”

Chapter Twelve: The Able Debauchee

The tolling of the bell woke Henry the next morning, but upon dressing in the dark and clattering down the stairs, he found the room below Stygian as his loft, with no indication of St John’s rising.

He idled in the shadows, watching the light coming in from the window gradually brighten, but when time came to pass that he would be late if he did not soon depart, he risked a knock at St John’s bedroom door. He heard a groan from within.

“My lord?” Henry knocked again. “It is nearly time for prayers …”

Another groan.

“My lord? Are you ill?”

“
Go away
,” came the plaintive wail.

Henry hesitated.

“Are you—in need of any assistance?”

Henry was able to discern the words “Thomas” and, again, “go away.” Uneasy, Henry checked on Lady Franco, who looked at him with the same friendly, tired expression. Satisfied she was doing fine for the time being, he closed the door softly behind him, and pelted over the quad to the chapel.

He sat among the Company during church, and after, in Logic class, too. It wasn’t as comfortable an experience as the previous day; St John did not appear, and the other boys were as subdued as Henry had ever seen them. They spoke but little, and seemed unsure what to do without St John to guide them. It wasn’t so obvious during prayers, but when Lucas Jones approached them, before Logic commenced, there was an awkward moment. Neville stood up. Jones bowed to him.

“I was an utter shit to you yesterday, Anthony,” he said calmly. “Please, accept my apologies. I should never have said what I did, and that I even thought it speaks to my poor character. Can we be friends again? Will you shake hands with me?”

“Absolutely,” said Neville, and did so. Jones smiled, and the mood among the Blithe Company palpably improved. “Now, come and sit down. Look—Master Ward approacheth.”

St John did not come to dinner, either. His absence was noted, though not much commented upon due to the college’s rules. Then, just as Henry began sopping up the gravy from his pie with a hunk of bread, something occurred that drove the Lord Calipash entirely from his mind.

The door of the dining hall flew open with a bang, and a servant ran inside, waving a sheet of parchment over his head like a flag of truce.

“Charles has returned!” he cried. “King Charles celebrates his birthday at Whitehall today! We’ve just had word from London—the king rode into the city this morning! Three cheers for England—and
long live the King!”

A moment of profound silence, and then such a roar of shouting, stamping, clapping, yelling, singing as Henry had never before heard. The Masters did not even try to silence the happy throng; they, too, were given over to jubilation. Wadham had more than its share of Royalists among the students as well as teachers, and it was obvious that none among their number felt the need to hide their emotions. Henry observed joyful weeping as well as merriment, and joined in the
huzzah
ing with enthusiasm. He wasn’t so very political, but even he could not but feel a sense of joy that England was once again whole, and ruled by her rightful lord and master.

The rest of the afternoon was declared a holiday: Classes were cancelled, the campus was opened, and boys ran hither and yon, doing whatsoever they liked without supervision—or danger of chastisement. Most fled to the taverns, brothels, and coffee-houses for hope of more news, but some elected to make merry within Wadham’s walls. Henry hung back, plucking dinner-scraps off of the abandoned plates, and as he did he heard a pack of boys discussing whether they should go and join the gathering mob of Oxford academics who had resolved to throw a sheep’s rump through the window of Vice-Chancellor Greenwood, who had once invited the Roundhead troops to march on Oxford to awe the Royalists among his scholars.

Henry longed to join in the revels, but he was worried about St John—and Lady Franco. He liked cats, and she seemed a good sort; without her master to care for her, Henry worried she might starve. To that end, after he had gathered a nice selection of meaty morsels into a napkin, he returned to his room.

It was still quiet; St John’s door was still closed. Henry tiptoed over to the corner and presented Lady Franco with her feast. Shedding her mewling brood she staggered to her feet and stuck her nose in the center of the scraps and began to gobble. Henry watched, happy to have helped. He would never have guessed St John would neglect his pets, but perhaps he had indulged in more vices than one last night. A hangover would account for his absence.

Henry thought his suspicions confirmed when St John staggered out of his room and out the door, murmuring about the privy. He returned half an hour later looking much better, and came over to see what Henry was doing.

“Lady Franco!” he said, crouching down beside where Henry sat cross-legged. “Why, you slut! Just look at all those kittens. Did you offer your fanny to all the toms in Oxford?”

“I think cats usually give birth in litters,” said Henry.

St John laughed. “Are you defending her honor? Well, with such a gallant taking your side, Veronica, I shan’t risk a duel by further impugning your morals.” He scratched her behind the ear, and she thumped her tail on the ground a little. St John smiled one of his serious smiles. “They all seem very healthy and normal. Excellent.”

“She’s so calm, too. I’ve never seen a cat so mellow—almost like a dog.”

“Maybe she is a dog.”

“You’d know, wouldn’t you?”

“Hmm?”

“You were checking her blood to make sure it was cat’s blood, weren’t you?”

“Oh. Yes, I was, wasn’t I.”

“And I’ve never heard her meow.”

“I don’t think we ever reached a conclusion on whether cat’s blood makes cats meow.”

“Perhaps not.”

It occurred to Henry that St John smelled wonderful. He inhaled his scent, and, looking at him sidelong, Henry saw his hair was damp. He must have gone to the bathhouse.

“I do thank you for taking care of her while I was … indisposed,” said St John. “You probably saved her life, poor wretch.”

“It was my pleasure. Are you … feeling better?”

“A little.” St John smiled wryly. “I overindulged even after ruining everyone’s night. I do apologize Henry—to act so during your first escapade, it was inexcusable.”

Henry opened his mouth to say it was all right, that things would be fine, when there came a loud knocking on the door. St John hesitated—he was wearing only his shirt and breeches—then rose and answered it.

It was Lucas Jones.

“Hello there,” he said.

“Mr. Jones.” St John bowed, but did not step aside. “What do you want?”

“Why, that’s hardly friendly.” Jones seemed to think something was very funny, Henry could tell even from where he remained, in the back of the room, in the shadows. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

“No,” said St John. “I’m not well.”

“Too bad,” said Jones. “Given what I know of your political opinions, you should be out in the streets with the rest of the rabble, hailing the return of the king.”

St John straightened up. “What’s this?”

“Haven’t you heard? He rode into London this morning. England’s monarchy has been restored.”