The Secret Prince (37 page)

Yascherov was short and plump, with a heavy beard and wickedly pointed eyebrows streaked liberally with
gray. His suit was cut in a military style and weighted down by badges and brocade. He wore no scholar’s gown, and his plump fingers were encased with glittering rings. He ate heartily, with a napkin tucked down his front to catch the frequent droplets of food.

From his post by the door, Henry could see Compatriot Erasmus seated at Yascherov’s side, sipping a glass of cider and wincing every time Yascherov followed one of his own jokes with a booming laugh. Now Henry rather understood why Compatriot Erasmus was rumored to have frequent headaches, and what’s more, Henry didn’t blame him.

Thankfully, dinner passed without incident, and Henry and Adam gathered the soiled linens and carried them down to the laundry.

“Do you know,” Adam said cheerfully, “this staff kitchen isn’t half-bad.”

“I’m glad Frankie was assigned here,” Henry said. He’d felt awful that he and Adam had been able to spend their days together, while Frankie’d been by herself in a different kitchen, but if she’d had to be alone, at least her work had been far more manageable than theirs. But Henry couldn’t shake off the suspicion that their transfer to the staff kitchen had something to do with the secret
meeting they’d inadvertently stumbled upon the night before.

The boys ate supper in the staff kitchen that night, and Garen joined them, along with a handful of other staff who otherwise never set foot in the kitchens. Though Henry and Adam were stuck with the dishes, they finished at a reasonable hour and joined a game of cards with the other serving boys.

But on their way back to the servants’ quarters, Henry poked his head into the common kitchen, where he found Cort still in front of the fire, an untouched plate of supper at his feet. The boy’s face was flushed, and sweat stood out above his upper lip, but he still clutched the woolen blanket around his shoulders.

“It’s time for bed,” Henry said.

Cort didn’t react.

Henry sighed and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder to rouse him from his stupor. The boy flinched. “Cort,” Henry said, his voice firm. “I need you to tell me what happened.”

“Tell ye when I c-c-can’t stand it n-n-no m-more,” the boy muttered.

“Good,” Henry said, although the boy was speaking nonsense. “Stand what? The cold?”

“C-c-cold. So cold,” the boy said, and then he tilted his head and stared at the fire, and didn’t respond when Henry called his name again.

As Henry and Adam crept past the door to the library that night, they were both caught up in their pwn thoughts. Adam had been grinning all evening, delighted by their new positions. But Henry’s expression was quite sober indeed, for he knew that their easier work had been bought, and that they were about to find out the price of the expected payment.

Florian was waiting outside the hidden entrance to the chamber, squinting at a schoolbook by lantern light. He frowned when he saw them. “Dinnae think ye’d be back,” he said.

“Well, ye thought wrong, then,” Henry returned coolly.

“Drop the Nordlandic accent. It’s ridiculous on ye,” the boy retorted as he followed Henry and Adam inside.

The room hadn’t changed. The banner still hung from the wall, reminding them to let their honor be without stain, and the table was once again quartered with dozens of flickering candles.

Compatriot Erasmus rose from his chair when Henry
and Adam entered the room. “Ah, so ye are men of honor.”

“And sons of chivalry,” Henry said with a lopsided grin, finishing the quotation.

It was the first line of the Code of Chivalry they’d signed on their very first day at Knightley. Something about Compatriot Erasmus’s way of quoting reminded Henry of Professor Stratford, and a lump formed in his throat at the memory of those long-ago days in the old flat above Mrs. Alabaster’s bookshop.

“Well spoken, lad.” Compatriot Erasmus nodded solemnly. “And do ye both come here tonight to join us out of yer own free will?”

“Aye, Compatr—” Henry began to say, but Garen cut him off.

“We dinnae use such forms of address among ourselves. It’s ‘Lord Mortensen.’”

Henry nodded. “Yes, Lord Mortensen,” he said.

“And what say ye, Adam?” Lord Mortensen asked.

“Yes, Lord Mortensen,” Adam said nervously.

Satisfied, Lord Mortensen continued. “And do ye swear to act in the best interest of our order and to speak only truth to its members?”

“Yes, Lord Mortensen,” both boys chorused.

Lord Mortensen removed the gold ring from his hand,
clutched it in his handkerchief, and held it to a candle.

“Up with yer sleeves, lads,” he said.

“Why?” Adam asked suspiciously.

Garen sighed and unfastened his crisp cuff, pushing back his sleeve to reveal a mark just below the inside of his elbow: an equal-armed cross inside a diamond. Henry bit his lip. He should have known. These men weren’t playing, and this wasn’t some little club that they could join and then call take-backs a day later. He began to roll his sleeve.

“Henry, be serious,” Adam hissed.

“I am,” Henry said, holding out his arm.

“Good lad,” Lord Mortensen said, pressing the ring into Henry’s arm. Henry gritted his teeth against the pain.

Lord Mortensen held his ring to a candle once again.

“You’re not coming near me with that thing,” Adam said, backing toward the door.

“It’s not so bad,” Henry said.

“You’re mental, Grim, you know that?” Adam said.

Lord Mortensen was suddenly seized by a coughing fit. Henry, remembering the schoolmaster’s headache, wondered if the man was ill.

“I’m not mental,” Henry said. “It’s just a mark. It’s meaningless back home. If anything, I think it might find me favor with the ladies.”

Adam grimaced at the joke, and then suddenly he brightened. “Do you know, I bet they’d never take me back at the yeshiva with one of those,” he said, eagerly pushing up his sleeve. “Do it quickly.”

Lord Mortensen, who had regained his breath, pressed the mark into Adam’s arm. Adam winced. “Blimey, that stings,” he said philosophically, pushing his sleeve down over the mark. Henry gaped at his friend. He’d been expecting a show of dramatics.

“Stop staring,” Adam muttered. “I got run through the stomach with a sword last term. I can handle a burn.”

“Take yer seats, lads,” Lord Mortensen said.

Henry and Adam sat.

Lord Mortensen introduced everyone around the table using titles that were forbidden in the Nordlands. Nearly everyone was “lord,” but Lord Mortensen stopped when he got to the handsome older boy, the one who had given orders the night before.

“An’ this is Prince Mauritz.”

Henry gulped and inclined his head. But Adam snorted. “Sorry,” he said. “But wasn’t the royal family, well,
killed
?”

“Aye, they were indeed,” Lord Mortensen said gravely. “And the dukes and barons and counts, and their
wives and heirs. Ye have hit upon why we are here, lad, and what we aim to do.”

Henry stared at Lord Mortensen in shock, suddenly understanding everything. “But—,” he began.

“Yes, lad?” Lord Mortensen gave Henry an encouraging smile. “Have ye guessed it as well?”

“I think so, my lord,” Henry said. “You mean to overthrow Chancellor Mors and to reinstate the monarchy. And if you don’t mind my saying, the round table is a nice touch.”

“Thank you, lad,” Lord Mortensen said. “And that is it precisely. We have seen enough of Chancellor Mors and his absurd and ruthless policies. We have suffered, and we have endured, and we are ready to reclaim this country and return it to the old ways.

“The Draconian party was right to challenge the aristocracy, for we had grown entitled and lazy. But we have learned from our mistakes as well as seen the ill effect of heavy-handed rule.”

As Henry listened to Lord Mortensen speak of their plans to rebuild the Nordlands as a fair monarchy, he saw the grief and strain fall from the man’s face, to be replaced by hope. And a small spark of hope was kindled within Henry as well, because what Lord Mortensen
wanted was to overthrow Chancellor Mors—and perhaps a civil war would happen, but everyone in South Britain would be able to go on with their lives, no longer waking up in fear of an invasion.

What Lord Mortensen was proposing would mean that peace would prevail among the countries of the Brittonian Isles once again. Adam seemed to realize this as well; when Lord Mortensen was finished, he applauded.

“That’s brilliant, sir,” Henry said. “But what good can
we
do?”

“Oh, I’m certain ye’ll find your place,” Lord Mortensen said. “Have ye any questions?”

“Only about a million,” Henry admitted. “What is this legend of the doctor? I can’t seem to figure it out.”

“Ah, the mad doctor,” Lord Mortensen said. “With his little blue book where he writes down your every scream. Is that the legend you mean?”

Henry and Adam nodded.

“He is one of the chancellor’s men,” Lord Mortensen said. “This is all we know. The law here is that if ye are claimed to be a criminal, whether that be for breaking curfew or killing a man in cold blood, your body belongs to the chancellor. And so his good doctor performs experiments on these prisoners. I dinnae what the purpose of
these experiments may be, but it is a sinister practice, and a newer one. There is an old mental asylum by the town square that was cleared at the start of the year, and the rumor is that he runs the experiments there.”

Henry bit his lip, remembering the story he’d read in the
Tattleteller
about gruesome practices in a Nordlandic mental asylum. He just wished he knew
why
the doctor was performing these experiments, and what he was looking to find. Something to do with hypothermia, Henry supposed.

“Is there anythin’ else?” Lord Mortensen asked.

“Well, sir,” Adam said, absently tracing a finger over the mark on his arm, “we did come here because we were worried the students were being trained in combat …”

“Not trained,” Garen said with a shake of his head. “But they’re learnin’. I hear ’em sneakin’ around the corridors at night, and of course the muck on their boots gives it away. Some of the lads were wantin’ to learn to fight, should the Brittonian aristocracy invade, an’ so they’ve been practicin’ with old weapons out in the carriage house, and punching one another black an’ blue in the old stables.”

Henry felt as though the chair had fallen out from under him. “They’re teaching themselves?” he asked, trying not to panic.

“Aye,” Garen said.

Lord Mortensen nodded and leaned back in his chair. “Some of the lads wish a war. They’re enjoying the privileges of the Partisan School and the power it affords them. But they are young and full of big ideas. I say let them fight among themselves rather than take their bloodlust to the streets.”

Henry put his head in his hands. There was no combat training. The room he’d seen, and the boys who’d whispered of it, were doing the same thing that he and Valmont had done—taking battle preparations into their own hands. It wasn’t illegal, and it wasn’t a violation of the Longsword Treaty.

They had come all this way for nothing.

No, not
nothing
, Henry corrected himself. There was still this conspiracy, this secret group of aristocrats in hiding. And if these men could overthrow the chancellor, that would change everything.

So there was hope yet.

Henry glanced at Mauritz, the future king, who lounged in his chair, absently playing with the gold ring he wore, which bore the mark of the rebellion, the same mark that Henry now carried.

27

R
ohan was asleep when a rock banged against his
window. It was Saturday morning, and he intended to sleep in. He rolled over and promptly ignored it.

And then another rock hit.

He sighed and threw on his dressing gown, opening the window. “What?” he asked.

It was the first time he had seen Frankie since her return. She wore her hair plain, without a silk ribbon, and it made her look older. He bristled, pulling his dressing gown tighter as she stared at him solemnly.

“Hello,” she said.