A Pretty Mouth

by Molly Tanzer

  St John did not come to dinner, either. His absence was noted, though not much commented upon due to the college’s rules. Then, just as Henry began sopping up the gravy from his pie with a hunk of bread, something occurred that drove the Lord Calipash entirely from his mind.

  The door of the dining hall flew open with a bang, and a servant ran inside, waving a sheet of parchment over his head like a flag of truce.

  “Charles has returned!” he cried. “King Charles celebrates his birthday at Whitehall today! We’ve just had word from London—the king rode into the city this morning! Three cheers for England—and long live the King!”

  A moment of profound silence, and then such a roar of shouting, stamping, clapping, yelling, singing as Henry had never before heard. The Masters did not even try to silence the happy throng; they, too, were given over to jubilation. Wadham had more than its share of Royalists among the students as well as teachers, and it was obvious that none among their number felt the need to hide their emotions. Henry observed joyful weeping as well as merriment, and joined in the huzzahing with enthusiasm. He wasn’t so very political, but even he could not but feel a sense of joy that England was once again whole, and ruled by her rightful lord and master.

  The rest of the afternoon was declared a holiday: Classes were cancelled, the campus was opened, and boys ran hither and yon, doing whatsoever they liked without supervision—or danger of chastisement. Most fled to the taverns, brothels, and coffee-houses for hope of more news, but some elected to make merry within Wadham’s walls. Henry hung back, plucking dinner-scraps off of the abandoned plates, and as he did he heard a pack of boys discussing whether they should go and join the gathering mob of Oxford academics who had resolved to throw a sheep’s rump through the window of Vice-Chancellor Greenwood, who had once invited the Roundhead troops to march on Oxford to awe the Royalists among his scholars.

  Henry longed to join in the revels, but he was worried about St John—and Lady Franco. He liked cats, and she seemed a good sort; without her master to care for her, Henry worried she might starve. To that end, after he had gathered a nice selection of meaty morsels into a napkin, he returned to his room.

  It was still quiet; St John’s door was still closed. Henry tiptoed over to the corner and presented Lady Franco with her feast. Shedding her mewling brood she staggered to her feet and stuck her nose in the center of the scraps and began to gobble. Henry watched, happy to have helped. He would never have guessed St John would neglect his pets, but perhaps he had indulged in more vices than one last night. A hangover would account for his absence.

  Henry thought his suspicions confirmed when St John staggered out of his room and out the door, murmuring about the privy. He returned half an hour later looking much better, and came over to see what Henry was doing.

  “Lady Franco!” he said, crouching down beside where Henry sat cross-legged. “Why, you slut! Just look at all those kittens. Did you offer your fanny to all the toms in Oxford?”

  “I think cats usually give birth in litters,” said Henry.

  St John laughed. “Are you defending her honor? Well, with such a gallant taking your side, Veronica, I shan’t risk a duel by further impugning your morals.” He scratched her behind the ear, and she thumped her tail on the ground a little. St John smiled one of his serious smiles. “They all seem very healthy and normal. Excellent.”

  “She’s so calm, too. I’ve never seen a cat so mellow—almost like a dog.”

  “Maybe she is a dog.”

  “You’d know, wouldn’t you?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You were checking her blood to make sure it was cat’s blood, weren’t you?”

  “Oh. Yes, I was, wasn’t I.”

  “And I’ve never heard her meow.”

  “I don’t think we ever reached a conclusion on whether cat’s blood makes cats meow.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  It occurred to Henry that St John smelled wonderful. He inhaled his scent, and, looking at him sidelong, Henry saw his hair was damp. He must have gone to the bathhouse.

  “I do thank you for taking care of her while I was … indisposed,” said St John. “You probably saved her life, poor wretch.”

  “It was my pleasure. Are you … feeling better?”

  “A little.” St John smiled wryly. “I overindulged even after ruining everyone’s night. I do apologize Henry—to act so during your first escapade, it was inexcusable.”

  Henry opened his mouth to say it was all right, that things would be fine, when there came a loud knocking on the door. St John hesitated—he was wearing only his shirt and breeches—then rose and answered it.

  It was Lucas Jones.

  “Hello there,” he said.

  “Mr. Jones.” St John bowed, but did not step aside. “What do you want?”

  “Why, that’s hardly friendly.” Jones seemed to think something was very funny, Henry could tell even from where he remained, in the back of the room, in the shadows. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

  “No,” said St John. “I’m not well.”

  “Too bad,” said Jones. “Given what I know of your political opinions, you should be out in the streets with the rest of the rabble, hailing the return of the king.”

  St John straightened up. “What’s this?”

  “Haven’t you heard? He rode into London this morning. England’s monarchy has been restored.”

  “Wonderful.” St John crossed his arms. “Did you come by to tell me the news? Or for some other purpose?”

  “Let me come in, Calipash. I have much to say to you.”

  “I—”

  “I’m of a mind to ruin you, St John. If you’re cordial, I may not.” He shrugged. “You decide.”

  Henry expected some sort of wittiness from St John, or at least some response beyond sighing and capitulating. He was disappointed when St John nodded and waved Jones inside. Jones entered like a lord and looked about with amused detachment.

  “Ah, ‘the laboratory,’ as your friends call it,” he drawled. “Plenty here to darken your character to the Masters should there be an investigation, eh?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Oh hello there, Milliner,” said Jones, coming over. “What on earth are you—my my my,” he said, catching sight of Lady Franco. “A pet! You’re not allowed to keep a pet. None of us are.”

  “Is there a point to all of this, Lucas?” St John’s tone was clipped.

  “Yes,” said Jones. “To be blunt, you embarrassed me last night. Terribly. And don’t claim it was on Neville’s behalf; he and I have already made up—and agree that you went too far. The rest of the Company concur.”

  “I am happy your friendship with Mr. Neville is reestablished,” said St John. “What has that to do with me?”

  “Well, that’s the funny thing,” said Jones. He was really starting to enjoy himself. “My friendship with all the Company is reestablished—well, save for some recent trash you let in. And we’ve been talking—classes were cancelled, you see—and it is our opinion that the Company is in need of some reorganization. Your recent leadership has been … wanting, as have your frolics. None of us want to watch Irish orphans doing it, nor do we wish to suffer the mad rages of an unstable leader.”

  “You’re a liar!” Henry stood.

  “What?” St John and Jones in unison.

  “Well, I can’t say about the latter, but I was there—there at the Horse and Hat, that night—and all of you seemed entertained by what happened there, even if you found it … challenging.”

  Jones regarded Henry with distaste, then laughed. “Well, St John, it looks like your Blithe Company has been reduced to one bulchin nincompoop who was until lately a total pariah. How droll.”

  “So be it,” said St John. “I have more to my life than the Company—I was busy before I founded it, and I shall be busy after.”

  “Will you? What if you were expelled?”

  “Expelled? For what?”

&nb
sp; “And here I thought your Latin was supposed to be good,” tittered Jones. “Or do little lordlings not take the same oath as the rest of us? I personally recall vowing not to disturb the peace of the college with distractions, evil speeches, or abusive language … nor cast odious aspersions upon any member of the college. That sort of thing. Did you not make that same vow, my lord?”

  “I did.”

  “And have you honored it?”

  “As well as you have!” St John’s voice was high with anger.

  “Hmm, is that true?” Jones sneered happily. “If it is, then at the very least I’ve done a better job hiding my indiscretions than you. This room full of arcane nonsense and nesting vermin—piglets as well as cats, apparently.” He stuck out his tongue at Henry. “Did you really go to the Masters to advocate for Milliner to move his sty to your garret?”

  “I did, not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Well, that’s one thing you won’t be punished for, then.” Jones shrugged. “As for the rest, I suppose we’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

  St John rolled his eyes. “What is it you want, Lucas?”

  “What do I want? Why should you think I want anything?”

  “You’re trying to blackmail me, aren’t you? Get on with it. What do you want—money?”

  “You would think that,” scoffed Jones. “But no. What I want is simply everything you have. Not money, not clothing—I’d take the looks, but that’s impossible—what are you smirking at?”

  “Nothing, go on.”

  “I want your power. I want your status here. I want the Blithe Company.”

  “Have it, then—and much good may it do you!”

  This brought Jones up short. “You’re done with it?”

  “Whether or not I am, I give it freely to you this instant. May you enjoy your new rôle, I shan’t say a word but in support of your regime.”

  Jones looked annoyed. “I … bugger you, St John Clement!”

  St John raised an eyebrow.

  “No—not—God damn you!” Jones spat on the ground. “There is what I think of you and your devil-may-care attitude! I know it’s killing you to give me what I want!”

  “Is it?”

  Henry said nothing, enjoying seeing St John reclaim the upper hand. He might be scary and a bit mad, but Lucas Jones was a total shitwig.

  Jones seemed to sense the shift in power, too. Displeased, he shrugged and sniffed at St John.

  “You’re playing a dangerous game, Calipash. I could ruin you, and it’s only by my goodwill that I don’t.” Jones’s voice was even quieter than St John’s now, and sounded more dangerous. “So just remember that as you sit in class with all the college looking to me, and as you watch the Company hail me for providing brilliant distractions, and as you eat your supper at the Master’s table while I’m down with the rest of the lowly commoners. I may not have your privilege, or your wealth, or your airs and graces—but I have you by the whirlegigs, and you know it.”

  And he stormed out.

  St John leaned back against his desk for support, and exhaled through his mouth. He looked very tired.

  “There’s nothing for it. I shall have to leave—return home, to Devon, to Calipash Manor.”

  Henry came over and dared to put an arm around St John’s shoulders. “Cheer up! You might not.”

  “No, it is finished. My indiscretions, as Lucas called them, have caught up with me at last.” He smiled at Henry. “Do not mourn, Henry. Calipash Manor is not such a terrible place. You shall come there one day, I think.”

  “You mentioned something last night.”

  “Well, even if you desire a different patron, you shall come as a friend.”

  More than anything in the world Henry wanted to embrace St John, to kiss his beautiful lips, to make him happy. He was so very pretty … and perhaps he sensed something in Henry, for he reached up and moved one of Henry’s lank locks away from his forehead.

  “Henry …”

  “Yes, my lord?” He almost choked on the words, so moved was he by the touch.

  “Henry, I wonder, do you love me?”

  Henry took a deep breath. “I … have been presumptuous, perhaps—impertinent—but … yes, my lord. I do.”

  “I thought so. That poem you wrote me … and I think you did not even know then how I love poetry, am I correct? You wrote it out of passion, not interest.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Well,” said St John. He stood and latched the door, “would you like to love me? It is a sin, but so is much I have already asked of you.”

  The next thing Henry knew St John was leaning over him, looking anxious. He was lying on something very soft—St John’s mattress!—and there was a cool cloth on his forehead. St John was sitting on a chair beside his own bed, his shirt untied at the neck; his hair, now dry, was curling winsomely.

  “You fainted,” said St John. “Oh my dear Henry … I don’t know if I can ask this of you, to be so wicked on my behalf—”

  Henry sat and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Taking St John’s face between his hands, Henry kissed the Lord Calipash like he had always wanted to kiss him. The taste of his mouth was almost painfully erotic, and when St John began to kiss him back, Henry had to break away or risk embarrassing himself.

  “I apologize, my lord. I was overcome.”

  “Don’t … apologize.”

  His tone gave Henry pause—did St John look nervous?

  “Henry, I have not been entirely honest with you.”

  “My lord?”

  St John pulled off his shirt and stood there in the dim light of his bedroom. He was slender and pale, lean but strong. He also had a strange bandage wrapped many times around his chest.

  “Are you injured, my lord?”

  St John chuckled. “No. I am not injured. But I am also not St John.” He began to tug at the bandage and unwound it, revealing, eventually, a small but feminine bosom. “St John is at home in Devon. I hope you are not disappointed, Henry, but … my name is Honor. I am St John’s twin, and have been playing him here at Wadham. It was the only way.” She seemed to be pleading with Henry now. “Have you never noticed there are no women on campus? None of the servants, even—just the laundress, who comes to the gate, and never inside. I had to pretend I was a boy if I wanted to get an education. Not embroidery and penmanship, I mean—a real education. Oh Henry, you’re not cross with me, are you? Do you only like boys?”

  “Only you, St John—I mean, Miss Clement!”

  “I think you may call me Honor now that you’ve beheld me in my nakedness,” teased Honor. “Will you still make love to me?”

  “I would do anything for you!” Henry leaped to his feet, his heart felt like it might pound its way out of his chest. He had never dreamed of such a turn of events, not St John loving him, nor him being a girl, but no matter, all was right with the world. St John—Honor—whoever! She loved him—and wanted him!

  Honor untied the waist of her britches and shed them, revealing long slim legs and a gilded pudenda. She sat down upon the bed and reclined against the cushions.

  “Then enter the town which thou hast won,” she said, with a glance up at the poster of Abraham Cowley. Henry, disrobing with all possible haste, fell upon her like a jackal on a carcass.

  Chapter Thirteen: An Empty Source of Solid Harms

  Fucking Honor was tremendously exciting. She suggested all kinds of dirty things, including swallowing his prick to the balls and showing him, in turn, how to lick and suck at her slit, which seemed to delight her even though Henry despaired of deciphering her anatomy upon first glance. She even begged him to poke his tongue inside her bottom-hole, which he thought outré but ended up enjoying. She let him do whatever he liked with her, too, so he played with her tits and never thought he should have enough of them as he kissed and gently nibbled the shell-pink nipples. When he twined his fingers through her pubic hair she moaned and bucked against him wantonly.

 
; When she broached the subject of intercourse, Henry would not believe she really wanted him to penetrate her, and initially refused for fear of injuring her—in the moment, to say nothing of nine months hence—but Honor was strong and agile. She flipped him onto his back and pinned him fast, begged him to, as she put it, ‘roger her properly.’

  “But I don’t—how can you—it is—”

  “Henry Milliner,” she said, tossing her short tawny mane defiantly, “do you think I am the sort of person who doesn’t know what she wants?”

  He was hard-pressed to deny this, and so, trembling like a spent horse, he allowed her to straddle him and lower herself down upon his cockstand.

  She was very slick, and moaned as she took him into herself, grinding her hips against his.

  He immediately came inside her in great gushing bursts.

  “Oh God, oh God, I’m so sorry,” Henry babbled as the last spasms shook him, hiding his face with his hands. He did not know much about lovemaking, but he certainly knew to spend so quickly was considered impolite.

  “Why are you apologizing?” Honor climbed off his wilting, dripping penis and snuggled up next to him on the bed. “Don’t tell me you can only manage one go-round?”

  “I have never managed even one go-round before today,” said Henry, running his hand over her body from moist neck to moist thatch. “How can I know if more is possible?”

  “Have you never frigged yourself more than once?”

  Henry blushed. “Mayhap, once or twice.” He hesitated, then whispered in her ear, “I stopped at one last night, listening to you.”

  “You heard?”

  “Yes … at least, I think I did. I thought, of course, that Thomas had brought you a … and you were a …”

  Honor nuzzled his neck. “Thomas is a good servant.”

  “Will he be …”

  “Jealous? Cross? I suppose so, yes.” She smiled sadly. “He loves me dearly.”

  “How could he not? All who behold you must.”

  “Sweet creature.” She kissed him, sticking her tongue inside his mouth and cradling his balls with her left hand. He jumped, they were feeling rather sensitive, but soon her attentions to his vitals had him yearning to once again explore her charms.