KNIGHTLEY ACADEMY

by Violet Haberdasher

  “Drink up, now,” Examiner the Shorter advised. “You’ve had a long run, and I won’t keep you any longer. You’re free to leave.”

  “That’s it?” Harisford asked.

  “That’s it,” Examiner the Shorter replied.

  One by one, the boys picked up their jackets and ties and headed indoors, leaving their cups in the grass.

  Sighing, Henry began collecting the cups.

  “I’ll take these to the kitchen, sir,” Henry said to Examiner the Shorter.

  “You can’t carry all of those by yourself,” Professor Stratford said.

  Henry had forgotten that he was there.

  “It’s fine, sir,” Henry said.

  “Nonsense, my boy, you must be exhausted. You’ve just run five kilometers. I’ll help.”

  Professor Stratford swept up an armload of cups and started toward the main building.

  “Thank you for letting me take the exam,” Henry told the examiners, and then hurried to catch up with Professor Stratford.

  “Nice touch, there, collecting the cups at the end,” Professor Stratford said. “I’ll bet anything that was part of the test.”

  “I thought it might be,” Henry admitted. “And Cook would just send me back out here to collect them anyway.”

  “So it seems fortune would favor the unfavored,” Stratford said, smiling to himself.

  “Who said that?” Henry asked, not recognizing the quote.

  “I did. Just now.”

  “Thank you for rescuing me earlier,” Henry said.

  They’d passed into the main building and Henry led the professor down one of the servants’ stairways.

  “I’ve seen it happen before. This isn’t the first time these boys have tried that spitting trick.”

  “How chivalrous,” Henry said with a lopsided smile.

  “Isn’t it?” The professor’s face broke into a wry grin. “So how do you think it went today? The exam?”

  “Well, it was odd. I mean, it was as though half the exam was secretly buried in other tests, and what you didn’t do counted as much as what you did.”

  Professor Stratford nodded.

  “I think I did well,” Henry said. “But I’m not certain. I wish they’d tell us already.”

  “Tomorrow, my boy. Tomorrow.”

  They reached the back entrance to the kitchen.

  “I can take everything from here,” Henry said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” the professor said, barging into the kitchen before Henry could protest.

  “Sander, yeh rascal!” Cook yelled, and then took in the scholar’s cap of the man who had just entered the kitchen with an armload of cups. “Sorry, sir. Didja need sumthin’?”

  “Just returning these cups,” Professor Stratford said. “And I’ll be borrowing young Henry to help me for the rest of the afternoon. Hopefully he won’t be missed.”

  Without waiting for an answer, the professor smiled and sailed out the swinging door.

  Henry quickly deposited his armload of cups in the kitchen and followed Professor Stratford. “What do you need me for, sir?”

  “Oh, nothing,” the professor said, smiling. “I thought you could use a few hours to yourself.”

  “Too polite to tell me I need a bath?” Henry joked, grateful for the unexpected kindness. Although, now that the professor mentioned it, a bath wasn’t such a bad idea. His shirt was sticky with sweat.

  “You’ve found me out, Grim. And no lessons tonight. But come find me if you need me.”

  “I will. And thanks again.”

  The prospect of an afternoon free was a wonderful thing, and Henry headed off to the washroom to clean himself up.

  Evening came all too soon, and Henry climbed out of bed, where he’d fallen asleep with a mystery novel on his chest. His legs felt rubbery from running, and his feet had blistered, making every step pinch painfully.

  “Where’s Sander?” Cook asked, pulling a roast from the oven.

  “Haven’t seen him,” Henry said. “I was, er, helping Professor Stratford all afternoon.”

  “Well, now yeh can help me. These need teh be served.” Cook waved a beefy hand in the direction of a table covered with salad plates. “An’ since Sander ain’t bothered teh come down an’ do ’is job, yeh’ll be servin’ his table as well as yer regular.”

  “Wonderful,” Henry muttered, hefting a large platter of salads.

  The boys at his usual service table were the same crowd from that afternoon, and instead of ignoring him, as they had in the past, now the boys took a special interest in Henry.

  They had him running back and forth to the kitchen to fetch a pot of mustard, which Harisford insisted he must have on his salad, or clean cups, as Crewe and Porter had noticed nonexistent flecks of dirt on theirs.

  And then there was Sander’s usual table, occupied by an unruly group of eleven-year-olds, one of whom dared an unfortunate-looking boy in too-large spectacles to drink a disgusting concoction of salad dressing, milk, pepper, and gravy. Thankfully, the boy didn’t throw up, but he did spill most of the gross-out potion down the side of the table, and Henry was expected to mop it up.

  The meal couldn’t end soon enough. And when it did, Henry found himself rolling up his sleeves to wash dishes, even though that was Sander’s job as well.

  Sander was sixteen, the eldest of the four serving boys, and the most reliably unreliable. He left half his work for Henry to do and was careless with the duties that he did perform. But he was Cook’s nephew, and so he got away with it, much to Henry’s annoyance.

  Finally, Cook dismissed Henry, whose hands were now raw from the hot water and soap. Henry nearly dropped his plate of supper as he staggered up the stairs to the attic. After bolting his cold food, Henry lay on his cot, staring up at the sloping ceiling.

  He didn’t want to get his hopes up. He’d certainly learned that lesson at the orphanage. And yet … what if he did get in to Knightley? Henry closed his eyes, imagining the heft of a practice sword, the well-cut uniform, the essays he would write and the things he would learn.

  Knightley … he’d grown up knowing the school’s history; after all, it was the history of his country. For the past hundred years, all of the Britonian Isles had been at peace with one another. This was because of the Longsword Treaty, named for the famous knight who had inspired the first draft. Back then, Knights really did ride around on horses, fighting in service of their overlords. Back then, there were bloody wars to fight, with thousands of men drafted into the common service every week and shipped overseas or overlands to certain, gruesome death. But with the Longsword Treaty, all that changed. As long as no citizens were trained in combat, peace would remain among the countries. And so Knightley Academy closed down its archery fields and tilting courses, concocted a written admissions examination in place of their annual jousting competition, and hired masters to teach history and languages and medicine. Knighthood modernized—to be a knight was to keep the law and the peace, to be a man of letters before most boys their age ever set foot into university, to swear an oath of chivalry and, with that oath, be given a title in gratitude for one’s service to the realm.

  There was no military, and no need for one, not with all of the neighboring lands bound fast by the same treaty. But the treaty had not stopped revolutionaries in the Nordlands from overthrowing their monarch thirteen years earlier and installing their leader, Yurick Mors, as high chancellor. Lately, Chancellor Mors’s decrees had been the subject of many whispered conversations that Henry often overheard in the kitchen. The new laws levied outrageous taxes against all imports, forbade the employment of foreigners, and set a mandatory curfew for all citizens. It was only a matter of time, most people said, until the Nordlands self-destructed and Mors fell from power. After all, they whispered, that’s what happens when a country does away with its class system. And yet … some people whispered that Mors was more powerful than anyone could imagine, and that an army was gathering, one with new weapons that
they could use without violating the treaty—without being trained in combat. But these rumors were just legends and lies, the stuff of tabloid writers who read too many adventure stories, passed around by those with a flair for paranoia. Professor Stratford read them for a laugh, and anyway, there was no proof.

  Closing his eyes, Henry tried to derail his train of thought into something resembling sleep. After all, he was only thinking of these things because he was nervous, and nerves played off one’s fears.

  But right then, Henry’s greatest fear was quite personal. He feared that he had failed the professor and himself. That he had failed the exam. But a tiny voice inside him insisted that there was hope. Hope that if he went to Knightley, he would have a life filled with opportunity, leading to an assured future. A life in which he would be surrounded by people who would become like a family, something he had never known. And he wouldn’t be just Henry anymore. In four years he would kneel and become Sir Henry Grim. It sounded so grand and yet so … impossible.

  THE BOY WHO PASSED

  When Henry awoke the next morning, he noticed with some relief that Sander had slunk in during the night and was curled up fast asleep in bed.

  Henry buttoned his shirt and gave Sander a nudge. “Wake up. You’re on for breakfast.”

  Sander groaned.

  Henry laced his shoes. “Up, Sander. Come on. You’ll be late.”

  Sander opened an eye and rolled over, his cheeks sunken and peppered with stubble. “Don’ feel so good.”

  “Stop faking,” Henry said sharply. “Five minutes.”

  “Uuuugh, I shouldn’ta bin gamblin’ at the pub las’ night.”

  Henry yanked the blanket off Sander. “No, you shouldn’t have been at the pub in the first place, much less gambling there. Now stop laying about and do your job. I’m not getting stuck with your work two days in a row.”

  Sander groaned but swung his feet over the side of the bed. “I los’ at cards again,” he moaned. “This week’s wages an’ the last.”

  “You’ll lose more than your wages if you don’t watch it,” Henry said, his hand on the doorknob.

  Henry performed his morning tasks without thinking, mechanically scrubbing the blackboards and laying out fresh pieces of chalk. It wasn’t until he reached Professor Stratford’s classroom that he snapped out of his fog.

  But the professor wasn’t at his desk.

  Henry quickly washed the blackboard, his heart pounding. It was nearly time for morning announcements, and for the first time, he was impatient to hear them. He’d tried to put thoughts of Knightley out of his mind that morning, but they had taken up permanent residence and stubbornly refused to budge.

  “Even if I pass,” Henry murmured to himself as he wrang out his washrag, “they won’t let me go. I never really thought that they would.”

  But this was a lie, and not a very good one at that. The examiner had seemed so kind yesterday, and why else would he have allowed Henry to take the exam? Furthermore, why would Professor Stratford have urged him to take the exam if the results didn’t matter? They had to matter; after all, they mattered to Henry more than anything.

  Henry slipped into the dining hall just as breakfast ended, glad that he wouldn’t be forced to take care of the dishes. The large hall smelled of sausage and egg and strong tea, and Henry’s empty stomach grumbled. Sander, pale and sweating, cleared the last of the plates from the High Table and staggered back toward the kitchen.

  Suddenly, Henry felt dizzy. He didn’t want to know the results. Not like this, in front of everyone, his disappointment on display. Why couldn’t there have been a list posted quietly outside the library?

  Headmaster Hathaway rose from his seat, and Henry gulped, leaning back against the wood-paneled wall for support. His heart thundered, and he felt as though he had flu, or maybe one of Sander’s hangovers.

  “Students,” Headmaster Hathaway said, clasping his hands in front of his large belly, “this day’s announcements are brief, as our term draws to its close at the end of next week. We have only one announcement, and I hope you will give a warm welcome to Sir Frederick, chief examiner of Knightley Academy.”

  Henry watched nervously as Examiner the Shorter—Sir Frederick—rose and walked to the lectern next to the High Table.

  “Thank you, Headmaster Hathaway. As you boys are no doubt aware, eleven of your own took the Knightley Entrance Exam yesterday, and my colleague and I have spent the night evaluating their performance. Admission to Knightley Academy is not granted lightly, and for those of you who did not make it, do not despair. But for any of you who did”—at this, the hall filled with curious whispers—“congratulations.”

  Sir Frederick paused for effect and stared at the whispering students until they quieted.

  “Yes,” Sir Frederick resumed. “This year there are congratulations in order—to one boy. I would like to extend my sincerest admiration and welcome to the newest pupil at Knightley Academy …”

  Smiling apologetically for the interlude, Sir Frederick reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope bearing the Knightley Academy crest. Valmont had half risen in his seat, a look of smug triumph on his face.

  “… Henry Grim.”

  Instead of filling with applause, the hall remained silent. The Midsummer School for Boys had fifteen students per year, and every boy there could tell you that no one in year eight was named Henry. Valmont’s look of triumph had changed to one of unbelieving rage.

  And then, in the awkward silence, Professor Stratford stood up at the High Table and began to cheer. “Huzzah, Henry, m’boy! I knew you could do it! Get up here!”

  Shocked, Henry walked numbly forward.

  There was no applause, just whispers and accusing stares. Henry didn’t dare to look over at Valmont again.

  Henry approached the lectern, and Sir Frederick smiled, stuck out his hand for a brief handshake, and gave Henry the envelope containing book lists and school instructions.

  “Is it my imagination,” Sir Frederick mused, “or is there a decided lack of congratulations?”

  “It’s not your imagination, sir,” Henry muttered, his face growing hot.

  Professor Stratford sank back into his chair, his silence heavy with meaning.

  “Ahem,” Headmaster Hathaway said, his mustache twitching in fury. “Might I see the three of you in my study? Now.”

  Henry had never been in Headmaster Hathaway’s study, and for this he was thankful. The room was large and filled with expensive-looking sets of books, their spines immaculate, as though they had never been read. Most of the room was occupied by a large, imposing desk and three chairs.

  One of the maids had lit a fire in the grate, which blazed hellishly, enveloping the room in stifling, smoky heat.

  Henry ran a finger around the inside of his collar, trying not to sweat. There were only three chairs. He stood against the back wall as Professor Stratford, Sir Frederick, and Headmaster Hathaway settled into the seats.

  The dangerous silence held, and then suddenly broke as Headmaster Hathaway exploded. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “The meaning, Headmaster?” Sir Frederick said calmly. “I should think that would be self-evident. Young Henry here has passed. Congratulations to you all!”

  “But this is absurd!” the headmaster thundered, his face a horrible shade of puce. He took a few calming breaths. “I mean, this boy is not a student; he is a servant.”

  “He’s a resident of the school,” Professor Stratford put in. “And as a resident was eligible to take the exam.”

  “No doubt this is your doing,” the headmaster accused, his finger pointed at the young professor in warning.

  “Yes,” Professor Stratford said. “I told him to sit the exam.”

  “No, he didn’t,” Henry interrupted. “It was my idea. The professor didn’t—”

  “Hold your tongue, boy!” Headmaster Hathaway roared.

  Henry nodded meekly.

  “Nevertheless, the boy h
as passed,” Sir Frederick said. “With very high marks, I might add. We would be happy to have him. I don’t understand the trouble.”

  “Servants,” Headmaster Hathaway said, straining to keep calm. “Do. Not. Become. Knights.”

  “I’ll admit it is a bit unusual,” Sir Frederick conceded. “But then, so is Henry. And for a servant, he’s remarkably educated.”

  Professor Stratford slumped in his chair, chewing nervously on the corner of his mustache.

  “Jonathan Stratford!” the headmaster boomed.

  “Yes, sir?” Professor Stratford gave the headmaster an innocent stare, although a telltale wisp of his mustache was darker than the rest.

  “Have you been helping this boy?”

  Henry had never before heard the word “help” sound so contemptible.

  “I have been tutoring him in the evenings, yes.”

  “So you decided to help a servant pass the exam while you let all of your students fail?” the headmaster accused.

  “Now hold on a minute. You can’t blame me for Valmont and Harisford and the rest.”

  “I most certainly can, and I will,” Headmaster Hathaway roared. “In fact, I think it would be a very good idea if you resigned. Today.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Professor Stratford protested, but they could all see that the headmaster meant what he had said. “Fine. You have my resignation. I’ll pack my things directly.”

  With a sidelong glance at Henry, Professor Stratford strode toward the door and threw it open, his footsteps echoing along the hallway.

  “Have a seat, Henry,” Sir Frederick said, motioning toward the empty chair.

  “I forbid it,” the headmaster threatened.

  “I’m fine standing, sir. Thank you,” Henry said, still in shock.

  The last ten minutes had been like something out of a bad dream. He’d passed the exam. Gotten into Knightley. But it didn’t feel exciting or wonderful. It was horrible. Professor Stratford had practically been fired for helping him—and why? Because awful boys who didn’t deserve to go to Knightley in the first place had been rejected. Henry didn’t know what to think. He just knew that the conversation in this stifling room was far from finished.