The Secret Prince

by Violet Haberdasher

  Mauritz did need the help. At first he’d tried to demand that Henry do the assignment, but Henry had quickly put a stop to that.

  “I won’t do it for you. You have to learn this stuff,” Henry had said with a sigh.

  They weren’t making much progress, as Mauritz puzzled over the simplest rules of Italian grammar.

  “No,” Henry said, biting back his frustration, “look at the words you do know. Does anything look familiar?”

  “‘ Arte,’” Mauritz grumbled.

  “Good,” Henry said. “Now underline the words that modify it.”

  Mauritz hazarded a guess.

  “No,” Henry said through his teeth. “Look at the pronoun agreement. It’s feminine, so you’ve got ‘quella è sola,’ see?”

  “Just translate it for me, if ye can,” Mauritz challenged.

  “Fine,” Henry said with a sigh. “From the beginning: ‘Chapter Fourteen. That Which Is of—no, sorry—That Which Concerns a Prince on the Subject of War.’ As I’ve said, my Italian is rusty. Shall I continue?”

  “If ye want to be punched in the face,” Mauritz grumbled.

  “Sorry,” Henry whispered furiously. “This wasn’t my idea. But I gave my word to help, and if that means forcing Italian grammar down your throat, so be it.”

  And then Garen burst into the chamber, out of breath and brandishing a copy of the Common Comrade.

  “My lord,” Garen said, with a quick bow in the direction of Lord Mortensen, and a deeper bow toward the table where Henry and Mauritz sat. “My lord prince, there is news. A Brittonian man was caught crossing the border this weekend with forged identity papers. There is to be a hanging tomorrow in the square.”

  Lord Mortensen frowned. “Let me see that, lad.”

  Henry craned his neck as the paper passed to Lord Mortensen. He noticed with surprise that the paper was wet, and in the spaces between the articles, violet letters were cramped onto the page.

  “Sir, is that …?” Henry began.

  “Only shows up if ye dab it with the right chemicals,” Garen said.

  Lord Mortensen put down the paper, looking far older and far more tired than he had just moments before. “This could start a war,” he muttered.

  “What’s happening?” Mauritz demanded.

  Garen bowed and explained. A man had been caught crossing the border with forged diplomatic papers. He was being held at the prisoner’s asylum, and there was to be a public execution at dawn.

  “No!” Henry said, surging to his feet. “He was coming to rescue us!”

  “Ye don’t know that, lad,” Lord Mortensen said.

  “I do!” Henry cried. “It must be Professor Stratford.”

  Henry’s heart felt as though it might break his rib cage. He couldn’t sit. He couldn’t stay still. His hands shook as the horror of the situation washed over him.

  It was Professor Stratford—he was sure of it. And if the professor had been caught, it was all his fault.

  Public execution.

  The phrase sounded like something out of a medieval nightmare. With a gulp Henry remembered the gallows in the public square, across from the statue of the chancellor. And then he remembered something else—Lord Mortensen’s explanation of what the chancellor did to prisoners.

  “The doctor has him,” Henry muttered.

  “Aye,” Garen said darkly. “Cure his health before he cure the man of his life.”

  “Don’t say that!” Henry cried, running a hand over his face and trying to think. But all he could conjure up was a hideous image of Professor Stratford, his lips blue and his toes turning black, strapped to a table as a faceless man in a butcher’s apron asked him to describe the pain.

  “I have to go,” Henry said. “We have to get him back.”

  “That is not possible,” Lord Mortensen said sadly, shaking his head.

  “Make it possible, then!” Henry retorted.

  “I cannae do it, lad. An’ where would we hide a fugitive who cannae cross back to his own country? There are greater things at play here, an’ the risk is too high. Our rebellion must tread carefully if we are to succeed.”

  “He’s the only family I have,” Henry said. “You said the doctor takes his patients to the old mental asylum. I’m going. If I can’t rescue him, at least I can say good-bye.”

  “Stop him!” Lord Mortensen cried, but Henry was already forcing open the door to the hallway, and then he was running down the corridor and out of the castle.

  The student guard took in Henry’s staff kitchen waistcoat and the expression on his face and pulled back the gate without comment. Henry slipped through, the cold night air of Romborough making him shiver. He passed the graveyard, that ominous place where men became slabs and memories, buried again over time, and he passed the church with its funny circular roof quartered by blackened beams, and the first of the pylons that loomed up ahead, marking the widening of Cairway Road.

  The streets were rough at night, with gangs lurking in the entrances to the closes, and ladies calling after him from the skeletons of the market stalls.

  And then he was in the square, with the bronze statue of Yurick Mors waving the banner of the revolution. There. The gallows.

  Henry saw the gentle sway of the rope in silhouette, and the gruesome stage, its stains buried deep beneath a layer of sawdust.

  No.

  This enormous statue of the chancellor couldn’t be the last thing Professor Stratford saw. Henry swallowed back a desperate sob as he crossed the square toward the small white building with no windows.

  THE PRISONERS’ ASYLUM, a sign read, hanging from the rusted gate.

  Henry ignored the voice in his head that shrilled for him to turn back toward the castle, toward the hidden chamber where the rebellion convened at midnight, where they sat as old-fashioned knights loyal to the overthrown king, at a round table like something out of legend.

  For the place he was about to enter was like something out of his nightmares. He took a deep breath and passed through the gates, but no one stopped him. He opened the door of the prison, where no one stood guard.

  And he walked down a hallway with electric lights ablaze, harsh on his eyes after more than a week of old-fashioned gaslight and candles. He squinted, wondering why there were no guards, and then he realized belatedly that those who came here were meant to escape and carry with them the warning of this place.

  No, he didn’t want this main corridor. He wanted some place far worse. The building was small, and there was only one place he could think to look. The basement.

  Or the dungeon, he supposed, for when he found it, the subterranean stone tunnel certainly looked like one. The left wall was lined with cells, and there was no guard, no chance to overpower the warden and wrestle away the key, or steal it from his belt as he slept. The doors to the cells gaped open, as though awaiting the embrace of their future occupants.

  But one door at the end of the corridor was closed.

  “Professor?” Henry called, hurrying toward it.

  “Ah, Mr. Grim,” a chilling voice said. Henry looked wildly around the corridor, but could not place the speaker. And then he reached the closed door and gaped in surprise at the occupant of the cell.

  “As you can see, Mr. Grim, I have come to rescue you,” Lord Havelock sneered. The military history master had deep circles under his eyes, and his cheeks were hard with stubble. His suit was horribly wrinkled, and his left arm drooped as though it had been pulled from its socket.

  “Where’s Professor Stratford?”

  “I don’t know,” Lord Havelock said. “We were stopped at the border, but he dosed me first. I was here when I woke, and Stratford had vanished.”

  Henry frowned. “But—”

  “A special torture has been reserved for me,” Lord Havelock said, answering Henry’s unspoken question. “He wishes me to enjoy every last ounce of his revenge.”

  “He?” Henry asked.

  “Dr. Von Izembard.” Lord Havelock’s brow
s knitted together. “Of course, you know him by a different name: Sir Frederick.”

  “Sir Frederick?” Henry didn’t think he’d heard correctly.

  And then it all made sense. Sir Frederick, who had betrayed them all last term, who had wanted a war so that Chancellor Mors might rule the full of the Brittonian Isles, had talked of opening a hospital. He had asked Henry and Adam to join him.

  Just a few months ago Henry had been so certain that Sir Frederick would return to enact his revenge, but he’d never thought that revenge would be meant for Lord Havelock.

  It made a horrible kind of sense. And news of Nordlandic medical experiments had surfaced only months after Sir Frederick’s disappearance. No wonder he hadn’t been apprehended; he had fled to the Nord-lands. He had rejoined the chancellor and become something out of a hellish fable: the doctor who cured your health.

  “Listen to me, boy,” Lord Havelock growled. “You have to get out of here. Tomorrow, after they—after it is over, Sir Frederick will send my body back as a warning. You must get on that train. They are superstitious of corpses here and will not check the compartment carefully. Do you understand?”

  “But, sir, I can’t. There has to be a way that—”

  “There is no hope for me, boy. I have been given my medicine, so to speak. But there is small comfort in knowing that some good may come of my demise.”

  Henry nodded, not knowing what to say. “Yes, sir,” he whispered. “I understand.”

  “Poor Fergus,” Lord Havelock said, half to himself. “The boy’s father was one of the first to go in the uprisings. He rushed in to break up a riot and save the children.”

  “I know, sir,” Henry said, his throat dry. “I’m so sorry.”

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Lord Havelock said harshly. “You must leave before the doctor returns.”

  “But, sir—”

  “Go,” Lord Havelock spat. “Do not make me tell you to get out of here a third time, Mr. Grim.”

  “No, sir,” Henry said with a heavy heart.

  As he left the basement, his eyes brimming with tears, a hand closed over his mouth, and his arm was twisted painfully behind his back.

  28

  THE FUTURE KING

  Henry struggled against his captor until a voice hissed, “Stop that, lad. Ye’ll disjoint your arm.”

  “Lord Mortensen?”

  “It’s Compatriot Erasmus here,” the schoolmaster whispered, releasing him. “Hurry. We must get ye back to the castle.”

  “I don’t understand,” Henry whispered, hurrying after the schoolmaster, but Lord Mortensen shook his head and held a finger to his lips. It was only when they’d passed through the gates to the prisoners’ asylum that the schoolmaster breathed a sigh of relief.

  “What don’t ye understand, lad?” Lord Mortensen asked as they passed by the gallows. He shivered and made the sign of the cross.

  “You said it was too dangerous,” Henry said. “And yet you came.”

  “Too dangerous for ye, not for an old man such as myself.”

  Henry frowned. “But, sir—”

  “Don’t argue with me, lad. That was a foolish thing ye did. Foolish, yet noble.”

  “I had to see for myself,” Henry said. “I—Oh, God, everything is ruined. I never should have come here.”

  “Listen to me, Henry,” Lord Mortensen said fiercely, putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. They were outside the gate to the graveyard, and the moonlight glittered on the roof of the old church. “Coming here is the best thing ye could have done.”

  “How can you say that?” Henry asked, angrily brushing the hand from his shoulder.

  “Come back to the meeting room, lad, and I shall explain everything.”

  Adam knew.

  That was Henry’s first thought when he saw the look on his friend’s face. Whatever it was that Lord Mortensen wasn’t saying, he could see the secret threatening to burst from Adam at any moment. Everyone was assembled around the candlelit table, and they went silent as Henry and Lord Mortensen entered. Adam bit his lip and didn’t meet Henry’s gaze.

  Was it that bad?

  “Sit, lad,” Lord Mortensen urged.

  “No,” Henry said, folding his arms across his chest.

  “Very well.” Lord Mortensen gave Henry a grave look, and one by one the men around the table rose, even Mauritz, who shot Henry a reproachful glare.

  “Why is everyone standing?” Henry asked.

  “Because you stand,” Lord Mortensen said.

  Henry snorted. That didn’t make any sense. Experimentally he took a seat.

  “Thank ye, lad. The walk has tired me,” Lord Mortensen said, lowering himself into a chair with a grimace.

  “Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” Henry demanded.

  Lord Mortensen reached into his pocket and removed a daguerreotype, passing it to Henry. It was the picture from the restricted library, the one with Lord Mortensen as a boy, and with the youth who looked so like Henry.

  “This is my father,” Henry said.

  Lord Mortensen nodded.

  “You knew him?” Henry asked.

  Again Lord Mortensen nodded.

  “So this was back when he was a student at Knightley,” Henry said.

  Lord Mortensen smiled sadly and shook his head. “Turn it over, lad.”

  Engraved on the back of the picture was a list of the champions.

  “I don’t know his name,” Henry said.

  “Will,” Lord Mortensen said. “Wilhelm.”

  “But—,” Henry began, and then he saw it, like some cruel joke. ORATORY CHAMPION: WILHELM GRIMAULDI. PARTISAN SCHOOL. “What?” Henry said. “No. I can’t be Nordlandic.”

  “I dunno, mate. You are rather tall,” Adam said with a shrug.

  “Thanks,” Henry said, rolling his eyes. He appreciated Adam’s attempt to lighten the mood, as he suspected there would be nothing more to laugh at for a long while.

  “So my father went to Partisan,” Henry said, and then he looked up. “He’s dead, isn’t he? He and my mum?”

  “Aye, lad. I’m sorry,” Lord Mortensen said.

  “How—,” Henry began. “How long have you known who I was?”

  “I suspected,” Lord Mortensen continued. “They had a son called Henry. He’d be your age, and the resemblance is striking. You’re left handed, for one, and that speech you made was so like your father. And the way Adam called you ‘Grim.’ Your dad went by the same.”

  “It isn’t a nickname,” Henry said. “That’s my name. It’s Henry Grim.”

  “Grimauldi,” Lord Mortensen corrected gently.

  “No,” Henry said. “I have a birth certificate. ‘Baby boy found on church steps’ or something.”

  “Have ye seen this certificate, lad?”

  “Well, no,” Henry admitted with a frown. “But the orphanage said they had a copy.” And then a thought occurred to Henry. “If I’m Nordlandic, why was I brought to an orphanage in South Britain?”

  “Ah,” Lord Mortensen said, lacing his fingers. “Good, lad.”

  Henry glanced at Adam, who squirmed in his chair, still unable to meet Henry’s eye.

  “Your father was a speech writer,” Lord Mortensen continued. “A scholar. He preferred the company of his books to the applause of an audience. Does this sound familiar, lad? We were all fighting against the rise of the Draconian party, but speeches are dangerous things, and words have a way of being traced back to their maker. Before your parents died, they told me they were taking ye where your life might not be touched by the revolution. They were killed just days after they returned without ye. It was a profound loss.”

  “Thank you,” Henry murmured, overwhelmed. He had never known his parents, and yet the story Lord Mortensen told made Henry feel as though he were staring at their freshly packed graves. And then Henry realized why his parents had hidden him away—to save him. After all, Midsummer was little more than an hour’s train ride from the Nordlandic bor
der. And if his father had attended the Partisan School … If his family had died during the revolution …

  “My father was a lord,” Henry said, looking to Lord Mortensen for confirmation.

  “No, lad,” Lord Mortensen corrected. “Your father was an earl.”

  Back at Knightley, Professor Turveydrop had tested them on the different levels of the peerage in a protocol exam. An earl, Henry knew, ranked below a duke but above a viscount.

  “But you said that everyone was killed,” Henry accused. “The royal family and the dukes and earls and barons and their heirs.”

  “Aye, and the lesser lords could renounce themselves and live in shame,” Lord Mortensen said sadly. “So ye see, lad, we are fortunate ye have come.”

  At this Mauritz sighed loudly and rolled his eyes once again, and Henry realized with sudden, horrible clarity exactly what was going on.

  “No,” Henry said, pushing back his chair.

  One by one the men around the table did the same.

  “Stop that,” Henry cried. “I can’t—I’m the—No. This is absurd. I spent my whole life scrubbing floors and dreaming of becoming a knight, and I finally got the chance to attend Knightley. Not Partisan. Knightley.”

  Henry sunk back into the chair, burying his face in his hands. He’d worked so hard to learn all he could so that he might have the chance to rise above his miserable lot in life. He’d never even dreamed he would be admitted to Knightley, much less that he would excel at his studies and find friends among his aristocratic classmates.

  Even now, the thought of Derrick and Conrad helping him to smuggle a picnic out of the dining hall, of nights playing chess in the common room, of midnight forays to the kitchens with Adam and Rohan, of Frankie climbing through his window—even of Valmont and the battle society. He was painfully aware of how wonderful all of it had been, and how much he didn’t want it to end.

  “What happens now?” Henry asked dully.

  “We go forward in our plans to do away with Yurick Mors and his men. We restore the monarchy,” Lord Mortensen said.

  “You mean me.”

  “Yes, lad. Mauritz is the younger son of a minor viscount. You supersede him in his claim as the heir presumptive to the Nordlandic throne.”