The Secret Prince (36 page)

Henry sat back down in his chair, though he couldn’t recall how he’d come to be standing. He was dizzy with the momentum of what he’d just said, and the realization that he’d meant it. His heart pounded like a drum, and the candles flickered in their equal-armed cross, casting eerie shadows across the faces of everyone at the table.

Finally Compatriot Erasmus spoke. “Ye may return here tomorrow night, if ye speak the truth.”

Henry shakily climbed to his feet, realizing they’d been dismissed. “Yes, my lord,” he said without thinking.

Compatriot Erasmus nodded slightly. “Ah, ye know me. But do ye know yerself?”

25

P
rofessor Stratford burst into the sitting room where
Grandmother Winter sat calmly drinking a cup of tea and reading that morning’s
Royal Standard
. She looked up witheringly and took another sip of her tea.

“I am not entertaining visitors at the moment, Mr. Stratford,” she said, returning to her newspaper.

“How could you?” Professor Stratford demanded.

He’d woken in the middle of the night to hear voices in the parlor, and he’d come down the stairs to find the lights blazing and Frankie sitting miserably in a chair by the fire, looking for all the world like a forlorn little kitchen maid.

But his joy at their safe return was short-lived. Now he was furious, and he wanted answers. He glared at the imposing gray-haired woman, not caring that he was overstepping his place or that she’d had him fired once before.

“If you insist upon imposing yourself, take a chair, Mr. Stratford,” Grandmother Winter said frostily. “Do not presume that I will be offering you tea, as I do not wish to prolong your presence in my sitting room.”

“Your son’s sitting room,” Professor Stratford said, taking a seat on the edge of the sofa. “This isn’t your house, and it wasn’t your place to leave those boys behind!”

“Ah,” Grandmother Winter said. “I might have imagined you would misunderstand the delicacy of the situation, Mr. Stratford. Francesca’s bag had been found—only Francesca’s. I did not anticipate needing to forge identity papers for three children, and further more, the impropriety of those three running off together is shocking.’”

“I—,” Professor Stratford spluttered. “The circumstances are irrelevant. You left those boys there in who knows what kind of danger. They’re barely fifteen!”

“They are not my responsibility. Nor are they yours.”
Grandmother Winter arched an eyebrow. “I don’t seem to recall your having any adopted children, Mr. Stratford.”

Professor Stratford glared. He was certain Grandmother Winter knew perfectly well that it was impossible for him to adopt Henry—he was, after all, unmarried, poor, and not yet thirty.

“You’re unforgivably heartless,” the professor spat. “How you could leave those boys in the Nordlands, scrubbing floors and half-starved, is beyond my comprehension. I bid you good morning.” And with that, Professor Stratford stalked from the room. In the corridor he put his head in his hands and tried to regain his composure.

“Professor Stratford, isn’t it?”

The professor looked up. Lord Havelock was coming down the stairs with an armload of papers, his master’s gown swirling around his ankles.

“Yes, it is,” said Professor Stratford.

“I couldn’t help but overhear,” Lord Havelock said. “I am headed to my office while the students are still at breakfast. If you would care to join me?”

Professor Stratford nodded.

“It is not easy,” Lord Havelock continued, “to be
responsible for arrogant boys who do as they please and think you blind to their deception and sneaking.”

Professor Stratford realized belatedly that Lord Havelock was, of course, Fergus Valmont’s guardian, and that he was speaking of his own experience.

“ ‘Deception’ and ‘sneaking’ are strong words for a bit of boyish rebellion,” Professor Stratford said.

“You’re a fool, Stratford,” Lord Havelock growled. “Both Henry and Fergus have always been trouble. I’ve tried my hardest put a stop to their schoolboy rivalry, but it seems I’ve inadvertently inspired them to join forces and drag half the school into a dangerous combat training club.”

Professor Stratford winced. “How long have you known?”

“Since the beginning. And of course I looked the other way. It seemed inspired. A good way for the students to work out their frustration and learn to function as an army.” Lord Havelock shook his head, disgusted with himself. “I thought, ‘Let the boys teach themselves what little they can, before we are shuffling them into ranks and marching them toward the border with their names pinned into their coats, so that we might identify their bodies.’”

Professor Stratford thrust his hands into his pockets, trying to disguise the slump of his shoulders. He felt hollow, not just from Lord Havelock’s brazen mention of war, but at the thought that both of them had known all along what the boys were doing and had sat there and done nothing.

“Your silence makes for unfortunate company, Stratford,” Lord Havelock said.

“Sorry.” Professor Stratford sighed. And then he explained what was troubling him—the knowledge that he had kept to himself, the thought that he’d been protecting the boys, when truly he had sent them to their doom.

When Professor Stratford finished, Lord Havelock simply raised an eyebrow and unlocked the door of his office. The room had only the barest of furnishings, though they were of impeccable quality, and the walls were covered with maps. There were maps of ancient empires and of Roman battle encampments, of sea routes to the American states, and of constellations.

“You’re planning to go after them yourself,” Lord Havelock said, dropping the armload of papers onto his desk. “I can see it in your eyes.”

“I can’t live with myself any other way,” Professor
Stratford said. “Tutoring Francesca, seeing her every day as a reminder—”

“Enough,” Lord Havelock said with an impatient wave of his hand. He settled himself behind his desk and removed a pipe and a pouch of tobacco from a drawer. “You’ll get yourself killed if you’re not careful about it.”

“Then, tell me how it can be done.”

Lord Havelock tamped down the bowl and lit his pipe, filling the air with the spicy, sinister scent of his tobacco. He closed his eyes and blew a ring of smoke.

“We shall leave for the city tomorrow morning,” Lord Havelock said. “Wear a good suit—if you own one.”

26

I
can’t believe you told them we wanted to join,” Adam
whispered as they got dressed the next morning.

“What other choice was there?” Henry retorted. “And if joining means answers, I want in.”

Adam was about to say something in return, but Henry never found out what, as Garen appeared in the doorway to the boys’ bedchamber. Everyone turned.

“Henry, Adam, can I see ye in the corridor?” Garen ordered.

“Aye, Compatriot Garen,” they chorused, following him into the hallway.

“Yer promoted to the staff kitchen,” Garen said, handing them each a striped waistcoat. This wasn’t what
Henry had been expecting, but then, with Frankie gone, he supposed that kitchen was in need of staff.

“Senior-ranked students dine with the staff on Fridays,” Garen reminded them, as though nothing at all had happened the night before. “Ye’ll be expected to serve a formal meal, and if ye have any questions of the protocol, ask them now. Come with me.”

Henry and Adam hurried after Garen. Henry asked a lot of questions, mostly for Adam’s benefit. When they reached the staff kitchen, Garen appraised them critically, and then jabbed a finger into Adam’s chest.

“Keep the heathen prayers to yerself,” he warned. “Ye don’t want to find out what happens to those that don’ keep the faith of the Nordlandic Church.”

Adam gulped. “Aye, Compatriot Garen,” he said.

The staff kitchen was rather a welcome surprise. They were given a hot breakfast of porridge and coffee, and then set to folding napkins and arranging coffee and cakes on the sideboard in the dining room.

The rest of the serving staff took Henry and Adam’s presence in stride, although one of the older boys made it plain he’d preferred Frankie, or, as he put it, “the wee tasty lass.” Henry nearly hauled back and hit him, but mastered his temper and returned to ironing napkins with a sigh.

* * *

When Henry finished delivering the post to the schoolmasters’ offices later that morning, he made the turn that led him back to the main kitchens without thinking.

And there, sitting on a stool in front of the fireplace, was Cort—the boy who had been missing for two days. His lips were a sickly shade of bluish-gray, and he shivered heavily despite the wool blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

“What happened?” Henry asked, gently placing a hand on Cort’s shoulder.

The boy continued to stare into the fire as though mesmerized.

Henry frowned, and then bent down until he was eye level with the boy. “Can you look at me?” Henry asked. The boy’s eyes flickered toward Henry, but then they unfocused.

“What are ye doing?” a voice demanded.

Henry looked up guiltily. Brander’s arms were folded across his chest. He sneered at Henry’s waistcoat.

“He’s ill,” Henry said.

“Aye. The doctor cured his health,” Brander said, his lip curling sarcastically.

“When did he come back?”

“Stumbled through the door ’bout two hours ago, while ye were dinin’ on yer hot breakfast. Now get ye back to the staff kitchen. Yer no longer welcome here.”

Henry made it a point to look in on Cort throughout the day. The boy didn’t move from the fire, though his color gradually returned. The maid who Frankie had claimed was sobbing into the butter churn at Cort’s disappearance resumed sobbing into the butter churn. The serving boys shot one another dark looks, as though Cort’s return had only confirmed their worst fears, and they wondered which of them would be next.

Henry and Adam were made to serve supper along with two older boys. They stood at attention on either side of the door, refilling glasses of cider and wine and whisking away serving platters. There were twenty schoolmasters and twenty senior-ranked boys, but Henry was aware only of the presence of Dimit Yascherov, whom he had been fortunate enough to avoid during his life at Partisan so far.