The Secret Prince (17 page)

“Careful!” Henry cautioned. “You don’t want to hit someone—or knock over a lantern.”

Jasper made a face, but his next go was much more subdued. Satisfied, Henry moved on.

Edmund was struggling to perform the move against scrawny Percy Barnes, and Valmont impatiently corrected Edmund’s forward recovery in a manner nearly as terrifying as that of Lord Havelock.

“Could you be a bit nicer about it?” Henry whispered after Valmont had moved on to the next pair.

“Why? He got it right in the end, didn’t he?” Valmont snapped.

“Fine. Do what you want,” Henry snarled in return.

By the time everyone was reasonably sure that they
could disarm an opponent, it was so late that it was actually rather early. Henry began to gather the sabres.

“Not too shabby, Grim,” Jasper said, handing Henry his blade. “I have to admit, I came mostly just to see whether or not you could pull it off.”

“Really?” Henry asked with a grin. “Is that why you brought along three friends?”

“Pure entertainment value,” Jasper said, waving his hand dismissively.

“Right,” Henry said with a knowing smile.

“Oi, Henry, are these from the armory?” Adam called across the room. He had an armload of sabres, and Rohan stood next to him with the gloves.

“You don’t have to help,” Henry said, walking over.

“Well, you’ve done enough,” Rohan put in. “It can’t have been light work, organizing this.”

Valmont broke away from his conversation with Luther and noticed that Henry, Adam, and Rohan were carrying most of the equipment.

“Here you are, Grim,” Valmont said with a brutal smile, dumping five more blades into Henry’s arms and picking up the lantern at Adam’s feet. “I’ll see you at chapel.”

“Oi, that isn’t fair!” Adam complained.

Henry sighed. He should have seen this coming.

“I don’t mind,” Henry said, in a tone that suggested he minded a great deal.

“You see? He doesn’t mind,” Valmont gloated.

“Give me that,” Rohan said, snatching the lantern. “If you insist on being rude, you could at least have offered us the lantern.”

“That’s not how being rude works,” Adam explained patiently.

Henry stifled a laugh. “See you at chapel, Valmont,” he said coolly.

With a huff Valmont felt his way up the dark staircase.

“No sense giving him any lamplight after pulling a dirty trick like that,” Rohan said primly.

Once they were certain Valmont had a long head start, they set off to return the equipment to the armory.

“Do you know,” Adam whispered thoughtfully, “you and the arse-toad actually make a decent team.”

“I thought it was useful,” Rohan whispered. “Since disarming doesn’t count in a bout, I’ve never been allowed to try it before.”

Henry bit his lip at the unexpected praise from his friends.

After depositing the equipment in the armory, they
crept back to the dormitory in silence and changed into their pajamas.

“This might really work,” Henry whispered, half to himself. A few days before, he hadn’t even dared to think those words, but now he was confident of their inherent truth. The battle society would make a difference, somehow. It would change things.

And, strictly speaking, Henry was not wrong. But secrets, shameful or otherwise, have a way of getting out. Like wild animals captured and caged, they cannot be kept easily, for their dearest ambition is to run free.

13

O
ver the next two weeks the battle society met
regularly. Henry or Valmont would flip the fleur-de-lis before chapel, and when they’d arrive at breakfast, there would be an indefinable change at the first-year table—a sort of smug knowingness that put Theobold on edge and made Argus Crowley’s face take on a pinched expression, as though someone had slipped a dung beetle into his tea.

“You didn’t slip a dung beetle into Crowley’s tea, did you?” Rohan whispered to Adam on the morning of what was to be the fourth battle society meeting.

“It wasn’t me,” Adam promised. “That’s just how his face looks.”

Henry snickered.

“You shouldn’t make fun of people’s faces,” Rohan snapped.

“I wasn’t,” Henry replied. And then, because he couldn’t resist, he said, “I was laughing while Adam did.”

“Hey, Henry?” It was Edmund, his face pale and his eyes shadowed.

“What’s wrong?” Henry asked, shifting his grip on his satchel so he could turn the fleur-de-lis back to its normal position.

“I don’t think I can make it to—well,
you know
,” Edmund admitted miserably.

“Why not?” Henry asked, falling into step with Edmund as they headed toward their fencing lesson.

“Theobold suspects something. He’s being even worse than usual. I think he wiped his boots on my pillow. Well, I hope it was his boots.”

“That’s awful. I’m really sorry, Edmund.” Henry certainly sympathized. It couldn’t be easy having Theobold as a roommate, especially after Edmund’s brother had gotten into a fistfight with Theobold’s.

“You should go down to the laundry and ask for another pillowcase,” Henry suggested.

“I will.”

“Actually,” Henry said, holding open the door to the armory and dropping his voice to a whisper, “when you have a moment, could you ask Peter if he’d show us how to throw punches?”

“He’d be delighted,” Edmund said dryly. “He’s wild about boxing. Spent one summer traveling around on a caravan playing his fiddle with the gypsies and starting alehouse brawls.”

“No!”

“That’s where he got the earring.” Edmund said. “Our father wanted him betrothed to some girl who did nothing but embroider his initials onto handkerchiefs, and he ran off to create an enormous scandal so her family would refuse.”

Henry shook his head in awe at Peter’s nerve, as the fencing master strode into the room. They went through the usual warm-up stretches and lunges before the fencing master cleared his throat and removed a foil from the weapons cabinet.

“We’re learning the
flèche
today, gentlemen,” he said. “Kit up and choose a partner.”

“Henry?” Derrick said, and at the same moment Pevensey caught Henry’s attention.

“Partners?” Edmund asked cheerfully, tossing Henry the left-handed glove.

Henry snorted in amusement. He hadn’t anticipated that after three meetings of the battle society everyone would want to be his partner in fencing. He looked over to Valmont, who was handling the same problem with apparent relish.

“Er, right, Derrick,” Henry said. “And Edmund can go with Pevensey?”

Edmund shrugged.

“Why not?” Pevensey said, passing Edmund a blade. “I thought you were rubbish at giving orders,” Derrick whispered.

“Guess I’m getting better at it,” Henry whispered back, trying to pay attention to the fencing master’s explanation of how to transfer one’s weight onto the front foot and cross the back leg over, simultaneous with an attack.

“Do you know,” Derrick said sadly, “this move isn’t really my forte.”

Henry snickered at the pun.

“Gentlemen!” the fencing master called.

“Sorry, maestro,” Henry and Derrick chorused.

* * *

The fourth battle society meeting brought with it two more students from second year. Following the chapters in
Pugnare
, they practiced falling so as not to get hurt, slapping the ground as they went down to make it look as though they’d sustained a greater injury. Peter taught everyone how to set an opponent off balance and burst his eardrums by cuffing him around the ears. He showed them how to deliver an elbow to the chin and temple, and how to break an opponent’s nose with the palm of your hand. And despite his earlier worries, Edmund crept in only a little late, grinning triumphantly at his escape.

There was no denying it—the battle society was a success, but not only in the way Henry had thought. Jasper and Geoffrey had taken to the role of mischievous older brothers, tousling the first years’ hair in the hallways and shooting contraband peas at their backs in the library. Edmund’s fencing improved, and Henry noticed new friendships forming among the first years. Theobold was so baffled by the subtle changes among his classmates that he sometimes forgot to order Valmont around the way he had at the beginning of term. And when the newspapers carried a troubling piece of news from the Nordlands—the public hanging of a corrupt
government official—the first years discussed the news openly, debating theories over breakfast and hastily pulling down their sleeves over fresh bruises from weapons practice.

“I think we should start archery,” Henry whispered to Valmont after chapel one morning.

“Absolutely not,” Valmont snarled, pulling Henry into a corner so that they wouldn’t be overheard. “We’ve barely begun the broadsword.”

“But the broadsword has a limited range,” Henry argued.

“I thought we were following the book, Grim,” Valmont retorted.

“We don’t know how much time we have,” Henry pressed. “We could be found out at any—Oh, no.”

Frankie had caught sight of them. She flounced over in a horribly impractical dress composed mostly of ruffles.

“Be nice,” Henry muttered to Valmont.

Frankie had been largely ignoring Henry and his friends ever since the incident in Professor Stratford’s office, and the truth was, Henry had been so caught up with the battle society that he’d scarcely noticed her absence, although Adam was forever whining about how much he missed beating her at cards.

“Well, if it isn’t the most popular boys in first year,” said Frankie.

“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,” Henry returned.

“Don’t you?” Frankie asked, blinking her wide blue eyes at him, a picture of innocence. Henry realized with a sinking feeling that perhaps they weren’t being as discreet about the battle society as he’d hoped.

“Er, how’s your French coming?” Henry asked, trying to change the subject.

“I’m actually doing Greek,” she said with a grin.

“Greek!” Valmont scoffed, and Henry elbowed him.

“She isn’t really,” Henry patiently explained. “She just wants you to say something horrible so she can feel superior. Isn’t that right, Frankie?”

Frankie made a horrible face. “I’m not the one who has a problem with feeling superior,” she shot back. “You two are hiding something, and I’m going to find out what it is.”

“Ooh, I’m terrified,” Valmont mocked.

“You should be,” Frankie warned. Without giving either boy the chance to respond, she stomped away, leaving Henry to brood about her threat for the rest of the morning.

* * *

“Frankie thinks I’m hiding something,” Henry complained to Adam as they slipped into their seats in Medicine.

“That’s because you are,” Adam whispered back.

“Should I be worried?” Henry asked.

“Nah.” Adam wasn’t very convincing.

Henry brooded some more as Sir Robert explained the purpose of a tourniquet and asked Conrad to help with the demonstration.

Conrad went pale. “Can you do someone else, sir?”

Sir Robert nodded. “Adam Beckerman, you’re up, lad.”

Adam gave a weak smile. “Don’t suppose I could pass as well, sir?” he asked hopefully.

“Nonsense!” said Sir Robert. “Roll up a sleeve and get going. We haven’t got all morning.”

“Of course, sir,” Adam said as he walked to the front of the room and rolled up his left sleeve. His arm was mottled with bruises, one of them a particularly lovely shade of mustard, the rest in varying tones of purple.

“What have you done to yourself, lad?” Sir Robert asked with genuine concern.

“I, er, tripped,” Adam said.

Sir Robert didn’t look for a moment as though he believed it. “The other arm, then,” he said.

Adam rolled up his right sleeve. There was a large fading bruise along that forearm as well. “Cricket, sir,” he said sheepishly.

Sir Robert shook his head and continued with his demonstration.

After the lesson Conrad caught up with Henry and Adam. “Sorry, Adam,” Conrad said. “I was practicing extra falls last night, and my arms are frightful. He wouldn’t have believed I’d tripped.”

“I don’t think he believed me, either,” Adam said.

“Well, really,” Henry admonished. “
Cricket?
No one’s played in weeks. The grounds are covered in ice.”