by Molly Tanzer
“Oh, yes sir, I am sorry sir, it’s my first time, and—”
“First time?” St John frowned. “Boys! This one says its his first time—did we invite anyone new?”
Henry’s heart sank, and he began to sweat into the borrowed coat. He caught Rochester’s eye; the boy shook his head and shrugged, doing nothing to aid him. Henry began to sweat as cries of “no!” and “not me!” filled the room.
Busted. Big-time.
“I don’t know who you are, or what you’re doing here, but you are most unwelcome,” said St John in a low, violent tone that alarmed Henry more than anything he’d seen that night. “If you tell anyone of this, I will personally see to it that you are flogged for leaving school, destroyed socially, beaten within an inch of—”
“I wouldn’t, I swear it,” Henry protested. Masked faces framed by luxurious wigs were closing in all around them. “My lord, it is I, Henry Milliner. After your kindness to me today in Master Fulkerson’s class, I wanted to come, to thank you for showing such mercy. I—it’s that I admire you so very much, you see,” Henry risked putting a hand out to touch St John’s wrist, “and my advisor told me to find a Greek tutor, so—”
“He says he came for tutoring!” said St John, pulling away from Henry. “Let’s give him a lesson, shall we?”
Henry would never forget the conclusion of that night, how hands fell upon him and hoisted him aloft above the mob; how they complained loudly of his weight as they paraded him through the tavern; how they tossed him by the coat into the street, where he landed face-first in a pile of turds that had decomposed to the point that he could not tell if they’d been left there by pig, horse, dog, or man.
“And stay out!” shouted someone after him.
Henry felt the words a kick to the kidneys. How could he? Why would he? What had changed since that afternoon? Tears started in Henry’s eyes, hot, stinging, angry tears. He could not help his common heritage; he hadn’t chosen it any more than St John had chosen to be born a fine lord. It was fate—luck of the draw!
So St John was just like the rest of them, the rotten aristocratic shitwigs. Even Rochester! Talking to him like that at the party, leaving him to be tossed out into the street like a drunken cottar. The indignity of it all!
A few moments later, he felt a hand on him—a gentle hand.
“I told you we shouldn’t come,” said Rochester. “Let’s get you home. Oh, Henry,” he said, shaking his head, “please, after tonight, consider leaving the sheep-chasing to the shepherds?”
The sound that came out of Henry’s mouth was indeed rather like a bleat, but he had no intention of taking Rochester’s advice. He sat up and spat out a mouthful of filth, resolving to keep hope alive in his heart. St John had been showing off, was all. He was simply acting the consummate host for the Blithe Company’s secret meeting. So Henry had violated the rules—well, he knew better now. What he really needed was to catch St John alone. Then he might get to the bottom of why the lord had blown such a tender kiss at him in class, only to treat him in so shabby a fashion later. Henry had no hypothesis about that, not yet—but in that moment, he vowed not even the celebrated philosopher Christopher Wren would investigate the mystery with more diligence.
Chapter Four: My Lord All-Shame
Henry knew he was being petulant when he said tchah in a dismissive manner to Rochester after the latter’s protest that he had stayed behind for a few moments only to enquire of the “official plan” for getting back into Wadham, but that didn’t stop him from saying tchah in a dismissive manner with all his heart. That Rochester, who hadn’t even wanted to go to the party, had done better socially than him—it was too insulting to contemplate. At least Rochester seemed to realize this, and was apologetic. Sort of.
“Please don’t be cross with me,” he said plaintively as they padded back to the college. “I told you, didn’t I? Didn’t I? We could have had a nice night chatting in the garden, just the two of us … alone … but you just had to go! Well, I knew, and I told you, and, and …”
Good Christ, Rochester was weeping! This turn of events took Henry rather aback. Whatever could be the matter with the boy? If he wasn’t crying, after everything, whatever could Rochester be on about?
“Buck up, John.” Henry awkwardly clapped his friend on the back. Wadham was in sight: It wouldn’t do to be seen returning from somewhere while wearing a borrowed coat covered in excrement, to say nothing of being accompanied by a teary-faced Lord Rochester. Rochester looked at him, clearly surprised. Henry but rarely used his Christian name. “It’s not so bad?” said Henry. “You’re not up to your eyebrows in shit, are you? And you weren’t shamed before your friends?”
“Friends? Pray tell, who back there is your friend?”
It stung like a switch, but it was true—and Henry, in that moment, hated Rochester for saying it, hated him more than anyone he’d ever met before in his entire life. The little bitch! It wasn’t enough, apparently, that he was richer, smarter, better-bred, as well as being Henry’s superior in beauty, grace, and talent. He also had to get the upper hand when it came to society, too.
“Do forgive me, my lord,” said Henry, pausing to bow to Rochester as low as he could, so low he swept the ground with his cap. “I am but an ignorant lawyer’s son, and have experienced no real friendship since coming to Wadham and mixing with the noblesse. Twice now I seem to have mistaken impersonal courtesy from my betters for real camaraderie, to my shame. I shan’t make such an error again, I assure you.”
Rochester stared at him, lower lip trembling—and smacked Henry across the face.
“You—you ninny!” said Rochester; Henry, shocked, was thwarted in his attempt to raise his hand to where his cheek smarted when Rochester, standing on his tip-toes, kissed Henry wantonly on the mouth.
Henry had kissed a girl just once in his life. When he had lived in London, before attending Wadham, his cousin Abigail, two years his elder, had come to town with her mother to see the sights. Smitten, Henry had purchased her a costly pomander he’d seen her eyeing at the market, and, catching her alone, had dangled it before her, telling her it was hers forever if she would pay for it with one single kiss. Henry had been perfectly aware the lust he’d seen in her eyes was for the souvenir she could show her friends back in Norfolk, but so what to that—the feeling of her face so close to his; the way her mouth had tasted of small beer, garlic, and beef-and-barley stew when he’d briefly parted her lips with his tongue—well, it had gotten him through the lonely nights on more than one occasion.
Kissing Rochester was surprisingly similar except he was much shorter than Abigail, and he tasted better, too. Henry’s heart fluttered a little in his chest when it occurred to him that he was kissing a boy. He didn’t like boys … well, except St John, of course, and it was true that one of the things he’d liked so much about Abigail was the faint mustache that adorned her upper lip. It made her look rakish and daring, like a cavalier. Contrary to fashion, they sometimes wore a little facial hair.
Rochester pulled away, and for a moment, Henry could see a thin dotted strand of saliva connecting them, but it snapped, and Rochester wiped his face, looking even younger than his thirteen years.
“You’re a silly ass,” he said, his mouth turning upward at the corners. “I’ve, Henry … I confess, since I met you …” Rochester canted his head to the right. “What’s wrong, Henry?”
Henry felt as though his feet had grown roots; could not ascertain if his heart was still beating.
They were being watched.
Eyes glinted in the darkness just beyond the locked front gate of Wadham College. Henry opened his mouth and closed it again, unable to speak, unable to move, unable to think of what the fucking fuck he would do if his father learned he’d been out of bed after curfew, kissing noblemen in the dead of night.
“Henry?”
“Shuttup!” He hissed at Rochester through his teeth, not moving his lips. “Someone’s watching us.”
“W
hat?”
Christ, Rochester was such an idiot! The little fool was now casting about, looking for the spy like a housewife hunting for the best radishes to be had on market-day. Things could not get any worse.
“Stop that!”
“Where did you see him?” asked Rochester. “Oh!”
The boy’s backbone had suddenly straightened, and he’d stopped his worthless head-waggling. Then he turned around with a big stupid grin on his face.
“It’s just a dog, Henry!”
“What?” Henry felt a sudden deep lassitude in his limbs after taking a few steps forward and realizing that Rochester was right—the eyes belonged to a smallish poodlehound that was …
It was just staring at them. Utterly motionless, the dog sat behind the gate, looking at them keenly. Its tail was swishing back and forth lackadaisically, but it made no noise at all. It gave Henry the creeps, big-time.
“Why isn’t it barking?” he whispered.
“What?”
“Look at it. Why doesn’t it care we’re here?”
Rochester took a step forward. The dog got up, rubbed its great square head against the metal grate, then fell over onto its back and began to roll around, looking at them plaintively.
“You’re right. Never seen a dog act like that before. How odd.”
“It’s more than odd. It’s unnatural.” Henry thought back to that morning—well, yesterday morning, at this point—listening to the boys gossiping in class, and shivered. “Do you think …”
“It’s not bloodied, or dead-eyed,” said Rochester firmly. “The others were, you know.”
“No, I don’t.” Rochester knew more about the queer dogs, too?
“The one yesterday—the day before—whatever, its heart had,” Rochester swallowed. “There was a hole in its chest, plugged with a bit of cork. When they finally put it down, they noticed. And the one before that, the whole back of its head was missing. Its brain had been … violated.”
Henry knelt down in the street, feeling faint, but Rochester tugged him up to his feet again.
“We’ve got to get back,” he said. “We’ve got to get you cleaned up, and you know. Dispose of the evidence and all that.”
“To the devil with your evidence.” Henry felt more nauseated than he had at the Blithe Company gathering. The dog continued to roll about, silent and weird. “I just want to go to bed.”
“You can’t go to bed until we’re back inside the gate.” How Henry hated it when Rochester used that oh-so-reasonable voice! “Come on, the plan was to head through the Fellows’ Garden, Thomas apparently set out a ladder!”
“Who’s Thomas?”
“The Lord Calipash’s man.” Rochester shook his head. “Don’t you ever pay attention to anything?”
“Honestly? Not really.”
They left the dog, scurrying along the side until they had to cut down the side street to reach the wall that guarded the Fellows’ Garden.
“Should we tell someone?” Henry swallowed. “About the dog?”
“Why?”
“Just, that it’s there, and … mad, perhaps.”
“And confess we were out of bed?” Rochester was the one to say tchah now. “See you first.”
“All right, all right.”
“There’s the ladder.” Rochester pointed.
Henry heard a creak from back the way they’d come, as of a gate swinging open.
Sounds of a brief struggle, then a feeble cry.
“Did you hear that?”
“I don’t care,” said Rochester. He was very pale. Henry would not have gone to investigate the matter by himself for love or money, so he nodded, and followed the boy up the ladder, over the wall, and down a second ladder onto the green lawn.
“Nothing to be done about the mess you’ve made of poor Robert’s coat, he’ll just have to wash it tomorrow,” said Rochester. “You, however, we must clean.” He took off at a canter toward the shadowy fountain at the center of the garden.
Henry, a less able runner even when not sleep-deprived and sore from misuse, nearly stumbled when a sudden motion and then a clang caught his attention. Glancing over his left shoulder, he saw … he didn’t know what he saw, but it looked like someone in school robes—maybe Wadham’s, maybe another university’s, he couldn’t tell in the starlight—carrying a squirming creature away from the shut gate, back towards town.
The weird thing was, it looked like … ah, but it couldn’t be! He would still be at the Horse, with his friends. And anyways, this person had dark hair, and St John tawny …
“Will you come on!”
“You sound like a goose when you hiss like that,” said Henry, but he obeyed Rochester’s command and headed away from the gate.
The water was freezing cold, what with the dismal, wet spring they’d had, and Henry had to make sure to get as clean as possible. After this late of a night, he doubted he’d be able to get up in time to wash before class tomorrow.
“I know this was hard for you,” said Rochester, after using his handkerchief to wipe behind Henry’s ears. “But I’m—well. I, ah, I’m glad we went tonight … if not for the reasons I should be, I mean to say …”
Henry shook the water from his hair, looked into Rochester’s limpid, adoring eyes—and took a brief moment to consider his situation. He could, to his mind, embrace the lad, and see where such a romance might take them. Fun places, no doubt. The lordling, though a goody-goody, could be a way to get into more of the right kinds of gatherings, gatherings like the one they’d attended that night … well, better ones than that, in content if not company. And once Henry had his degree, well, presumably Rochester would be in the position to need a lawyer one day, would he not? As a lover, or—better—former lover, Henry could put the idea of engaging him in the boy’s head without much trouble at all. With such a patron, surely Henry would be set up for life, and with minimal effort, too …
“John,” he said, moving a curl of the boy’s wig away from where it clung to his smooth cheek, “if the tale of our night together becomes common knowledge, it will not be from my lips.”
It took Rochester a moment, but comprehension eventually dawned. Henry almost felt bad to see the look of transcendent joy that slowly crept over the boy’s face like warm sunlight inching across the stone wall of a manor-house—but he purposefully recalled to mind the way Rochester had looked whilst sniggering at him along with the rest of Master Fulkerson’s rotten class.
And yet he also understood that sniggering a little better in that moment: The taste of power was, apparently, sweeter even than a lime-tree’s blossom …
“Goodnight,” he said, and, taking Rochester’s head in his hands, he bent down and kissed the boy on his forehead. “Thank you—for everything.”
“Oh—I, I am glad you, well.” Rochester smiled at him. “We shall have even better nights in the future, I am sure. Henry, if only I had known—that I risked, dared—oh, I am so very, very happy.”
Rochester scampered toward the stairs to the Fellow Commoners’ rooms on the upper storey, clutching Robert’s shit-stained coat in his little hands, and Henry, feeling quite pleased with himself, tiptoed toward his room. There were no lights in the windows; it was very late indeed, and dark—which is why, perhaps, Henry was able to detect the pale glow of a folded piece of parchment sticking out from under his shoe after he stepped inside. Surprised, as quietly as he could he bent down and held the object to the faint light that came in through the doorway. His heart swelled: There, barely visible on the wine-dark wax sealing the letter shut, Henry could just make out the embossed image of a tortoise.
Chapter Five: I Will Not Change, As Others Might
Henry could not risk lighting a candle, so it was not until very early the next morning, under the pretense of visiting the jakes before prayers, that he was able, with fingers all a-tremble, to crack the wax sealing the missive and finally—finally!—peruse its contents with his sleep-bleared eyes.
He tried not t
o be disappointed, but all it said was:
Do not speak or even look at me at all today. Instead, meet me after dusk in the Grove, at the Doric Temple. Come alone. Tell no one.
‘Till then,
I remain,
St John Clement
Even after reading it for a fourth time, squinting in the pre-dawn light, Henry could not make heads nor tails of the letter. Why should St John wish to meet with him if he didn’t want to speak with him? Why in the garden? And “after dusk?” After dusk could mean practically any time—right after dusk? Just before prayers, at eight in the evening? Midnight, technically speaking, was “after dusk.”
The bell calling all students to morning prayers tolled as Henry sat alone in the outhouse, the wood of the seat cutting into the flesh of his bottom. He swore, stuffed the parchment down the front of his robes, and scurried off to chapel. He slunk in the back door just in time, and safely took a seat in the back before anyone noticed him.
Christ was not the lord on Henry’s mind as the priest led them through the usual prayers. He kept glancing up, trying to locate St John’s lion’s mane of curls among the sea of bowed heads—and once he did so, he tried with his eyes and willpower to bore a hole into that well-formed skull in order to discern its contents. Such a strange young man, a chimera in more ways than one … what interest could he possibly have in Henry? Did he want to apologize for his actions? Humiliate him further?
That thought sent a chill down Henry’s spine, and he shivered on his pew. The thought of coming, innocent, to the Temple—only to discover the Blithe Company there, wild and womble-ty-cropt, ready to tear him to pieces like the horde of howling maenads they were …
Henry smiled to himself as he took his feet—Master Fulkerson and Mr. Berry would like that rather classical analogy, would they not? Well, they could expect that sort of intelligence from him from here on out. He’d show them all. Whatever happened that evening—even if St John wouldn’t be his tutor, even if the meeting was an ambush—he had finally found a reason to care about academics: Rochester.
