The Secret Prince

by Violet Haberdasher

  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 enj
oying 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

  SIR FREDERICK’S REVENGE

  Rohan 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.

  “May I help you with something, Miss Winter?” he asked.

  “Professor Stratford and Lord Havelock just got into an automobile together,” she said. “I think they’ve gone after Henry and Adam.”

  “Are you certain?” Rohan asked.

  “No. Maybe they went shopping for some nice lace curtains,” she said with a derisive snort.

  “Thank you for telling me,” Rohan said, and then he hesitated. “Would you like to come in?”

  “But, Mr. Mehta, you’re wearing pajamas,” Frankie mocked.

  “Come through the corridor,” he said. “I’ll be dressed by then.”

  Frankie knocked as Rohan was fastening his cuffs, and then she barged in.

  “I say!” Rohan exclaimed. “I could have been putting on my trousers.”

  “I would have fainted from the impropriety,” Frankie assured him, and then she sat down on Adam’s still unmade bed just because she knew it would make Rohan bristle.

  Rohan bristled.

  “How are they?” he asked. “You were together, weren’t you? In the Nordlands?”

  Frankie’s shoulders slumped. “We were,” she said, her voice small. “I—Oh, Rohan, it was terrible. They were exhausted and half-starved. It wasn’t as bad for me. And it was all my fault. They stayed because I missed the train back. If it weren’t for me …” She looked up at Rohan, and sniffed.

  He offered a handkerchief.

  And then the door to the room burst open. It was Valmont. Frankie glared at him. Rohan sighed. “Is everyone going to come and go as they please?” he muttered.

  “Uncle Havelock just left,” Valmont said. He was still in his pajamas and dressing gown.

  “We know,” Rohan said. “Go away.”

  “No,” Valmont said. “I’m part of this too. I want to know what you know.”

  “What darling pajamas you’re wearing, Mr. Valmont,” Frankie said.

  Valmont went red. He removed his spectacles and polished them on a corner of his dressing gown. “Thank you,” he said. “And now, if you’re quite finishing mocking me, can we please move on to why my uncle just left in a motor car with Professor Stratford?”

  * * *

  Professor Stratford stared nervously at the identity papers in his hand and fiddled with his borrowed cravat. Across from him in the private train compartment, Lord Havelock dozed, frowning even in his sleep.

  The train slowed as they came to the border inspection, and Lord Havelock came awake with a start. Professor Stratford stared out the window at the squat, low building and the six men in the heavy wool uniforms of the Nordlandic Policing Agency who marched smartly in formation toward the train.

  “Stop gawking, Stratford,” Lord Havelock ordered.

  Professor Stratford nodded. He was so nervous he could hardly breathe.

  And then a sharp knock sounded on the door to their compartment.

  “Come in,” Lord Havelock called.

  Two policing agents saluted. Lord Havelock returned the salute crisply, and Professor Stratford did his best, trying not to feel like a fraud. He was a terrible liar.

  “Papers, please,” the policing agents demanded.

  The men passed forward their identity papers, showing that they were the Lord Ministers Marchbanks and Flyte, and Lord Havelock handed them a sealed envelope explaining their business across the border.

  “Just a minute, compatriots,” the larger of the two policing agents said. He and his companion disappeared into the corridor.

  Professor Stratford watched through the window as the policing agents marched back into the station. Was something wrong? He nearly mentioned his concern to Lord Havelock, but caught himself. After all, he had never crossed the border into the Nordlands before; perhaps this was normal.

  Ten minutes went by, and then twenty. The train still sat at the border, unmoving.

  Lord Havelock’s frown deepened, and he disappeared behind his copy of the Royal Standard.

  Finally the patrollers came back onto the train. There were eight of them now.

  A knock sounded on the door of their compartment.

  Lord Havelock calmly folded his newspaper. “You may enter,” he called imperiously.

  The patrollers didn’t salute. They held their nasty-looking spiked batons in their fists, and they grinned menacingly. “Looks like ye’re not who ye claim,” one of the patrollers said. “Get up, both of ye.”

  Professor Stratford stood, and was seized immediately, his arm twisted painfully behind his back, the patroller’s baton poking painfully into his kidneys.

  “Now march,” the patroller ordered.

  Another patroller did the same to Lord Havelock. The two men were marshaled off the train and into the border inspection office, where they were thrown into a room that rather resembled a cell. There were no furnishings and no windows.

  Professor Stratford sunk to the floor and put his head in his hands. “What went wrong?” he muttered.

  Lord Havelock paced for a few minutes and then gave up and leaned against the wall, glowering. “If I knew that, Stratford, we wouldn’t be here.”

  The men waited in silence for an hour, alone together with their thoughts. And then the door opened. Professor Stratford looked up, hardly daring to hope that they were being released.

  The man in the doorway wore a pin-striped suit and a triumphant smile. His hands were hidden beneath a pair of white gloves; he carried a medical bag in one hand and a journal in the other, its cover a striking peacock blue.

  “Hello, Magnus,” he said. It was Sir Frederick.

  “Frederick,” Lord Havelock growled, “explain yourself at once!”

  “Explain?” Sir Frederick frowned and set down his medical bag. “I should think it was obvious.” He opened his journal, which was not a journal at all but a cleverly disguised case. He removed a syringe filled with clear liquid and idly tapped his thumb against the plunger, sending a few droplets of the cocktail into the air.

  Professor Stratford gulped as he found himself roughly seized by the same patroller who had man handled him earlier.

  Sir Frederick took a step toward Lord Havelock, who was being similarly restrained. “I am here to collect what is due to me, Magnus,” Sir Frederick said, sticking the needle into Lord Havelock’s arm but hesitating before pressing the syringe, drawing out the horror. “You betrayed me and washed your hands of our alliance, but I have not forgotten how you wronged me back at Knightley, and finally I shall
have my revenge.”

  Sir Frederick depressed the syringe.

  “High treason and conspiracy,” Lord Havelock said woozily.

  Sir Frederick merely smiled. “ ‘Yea though we roar with the fire of a mighty dragon, we are but its scales, all cut from the same mold, and of equal worth.’” He calmly wiped the syringe against his palm as Lord slumped forward, unconscious. Professor Stratford swallowed nervously, feeling his knees buckle as Sir Frederick advanced, removing a second vial of clear liquid from his case.

  “Ah, Stratford,” Sir Frederick said. “A shame for you to have come here. I actually quite liked you. And how is little Henry these days, if I may ask?”

  Professor Stratford gulped, realizing that he had to lie. “I wouldn’t know,” he said. “After the boy was expelled at the end of last term, he blamed me.”

  “Liar,” Sir Frederick breathed. And then he grinned. “But I can make use of you yet, Stratford. I could send word of my triumph back to South Britain…. Yes, dread is better than surprise in this case. And you should do nicely.”

  Professor Stratford felt a sting, and then a rush of coldness in his arm.

  “I’ll deliver no messages for you,” he managed weakly. His heartbeat sped, and his breathing slowed, and spots danced before his eyes.

  “As though ye have a choice,” Sir Frederick sneered.

  And then everything went black.

  * * *

  On Monday night Henry was seated next to Mauritz in the hidden meeting room, helping the boy with his Italian homework before the meeting. They bent over the slim volume of Machiavelli, frowning.

  Henry had warned Lord Mortensen that his Italian was out of practice, but the schoolmaster had thought he was being modest.

  “Truly,” Henry had insisted, “I’ve barely even looked at anything that wasn’t French or Latin for a year now.”

  “It will do ye good,” Lord Mortensen had said. “Both of ye. He needs the help.”