The Secret Prince

by Violet Haberdasher

  “Really?” Adam had asked brightly. “Girls like pirates, don’t they? Do you reckon I should get an earring to go with it?”

  “It might clash with your yarmulke,” Henry had said, barely able to keep a straight face.

  “Oh, right.” Adam’s face had fallen. “Maybe if I just carried around a sword instead?”

  “But then they might mistake you for a knight,” Henry had pointed out.

  Rohan had shaken his head, left his roommates to their preposterous antics, and gone off to find James.

  The morning of Lord Havelock’s funeral dawned unseasonably warm. Henry grimaced as he looked out the window at the bright sunlight, wishing the weather might have conducted itself with appropriate decorum.

  But it was too late for it now. The students gathered solemnly in the school chapel, and only a few of them noticed that the pine box had been replaced by a fine coffin made of yew.

  Valmont sat in the front pew of the chapel, next to a woman in an enormous black mourning hat and veil, whom Henry took to be his mother. She sobbed theatrically through the service in a way that made Henry suspect she had spent the entire weekend shopping for the perfect funeral bonnet.

  The board of trustees came, and a handful of lord ministers. They sat somberly in the back, and Sir Robert joined them.

  Headmaster Winter spoke, and then Fergus Valmont, though Henry couldn’t have told you what either of them said, just that they both seemed to have experienced a profound loss, which had shaken them to their very souls. He was acutely aware of a number of students realizing for the first time that Lord Havelock had been Valmont’s guardian.

  Henry stared down at the gold ring he now wore; it had been inside the parcel from Lord Mortensen, along with three letters: one for him, one for Headmaster Winter, and one for Lord Minister Marchbanks. Henry had kept his letter unopened and had given the others to Headmaster Winter, who had revealed nothing of their contents. But then, what could the letters possibly say that he didn’t already know?

  Henry listened to the dirge of the pipe organ and twisted his ring, reading the inscription etched around its band: Que mon honneur est sans tache.

  “Let my honor be without stain.”

  Well, he thought grimly, it’s a bit too late for that.

  The service ended somberly, and as the students spilled out of the chapel, Henry felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned.

  Valmont’s face was drawn, and purplish smudges beneath his eyes betrayed his lack of sleep. Unlike the rest of the students, he didn’t wear his formal uniform but rather a neat dark suit. He swallowed thickly and glared at Henry through his spectacles.

  Henry had been expecting this. He followed Val-mont over to a stone bench, but neither of them made any move to sit. They stared at each other, and then Valmont broke the silence.

  “You did this,” he accused.

  Henry merely bowed his head.

  Encouraged, Valmont continued. “I wish it had been you instead. You or your precious Professor Stratford.”

  Henry felt anger welling up inside him, and he struggled to master it. “I’m sorry,” he said hotly. “I truly am. I never meant it to happen. I didn’t know—I thought Sir Frederick was gone. I thought he blamed me. I never thought it was going to be your uncle in that cell. I tried to save him; it was just too dangerous, and I …” Henry trailed off miserably.

  “What are you talking about?” Valmont demanded.

  Henry frowned. Valmont didn’t know? “How Sir Frederick killed Lord Havelock,” Henry said.

  Valmont paled, and Henry realized that Valmont had stayed locked inside his room refusing to come out, that he had heard only of his uncle’s death, and not of the circumstances.

  The one thing Henry remembered about the funeral was that Lord Havelock’s death had been called noble, but it had not been explained. Henry had told Headmaster Winter in excruciating detail what had happened, and he didn’t think he could bear to tell the tale another time. But then he saw the look on Valmont’s face and knew that he had to.

  “Come on,” Henry said, nodding toward the woods.

  “I’m not going anywhere with you, you murderer,” Valmont spat, and then he looked instantly sorry.

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Fine. Let’s go, servant boy.”

  Henry told him everything that had happened, up until he’d left Lord Havelock’s cell. Valmont was quiet for a long while. He unearthed a half-buried stone with the toe of his boot.

  “So you were wrong,” he said finally. “There was no combat training.”

  “No,” Henry admitted. “There wasn’t. Just another secret battle society.”

  “I really do hate you, you know,” Valmont said.

  “Good. You should.”

  “Good, because I do.”

  But Henry could tell that Valmont didn’t truly mean it. They’d become friends somehow, without their realizing.

  When Admiral Blackwood pulled Henry aside and told him that he wouldn’t be marching with the rest of the students in the King Victor’s Day parade, he wasn’t surprised.

  “It’s the headmaster’s orders,” Admiral Blackwood said.

  “Of course.” Henry nodded. “I understand completely.”

  Which was why Henry stayed behind at school while the rest of his classmates went off to the city for the day, dressed in their formal uniforms and hats, laughing and joking as they crossed the quadrangle.

  From the window of his room, Henry watched them go.

  He pulled a knight detective novel from his shelf and settled at his desk to read, but it was no good; the story merely reminded him of the career he would have chosen, if the choice were still his.

  Henry threw the book across the room, watching it smack into the wardrobe and then flop onto the floor in defeat. He put his head in his hands.

  And then, without quite knowing what else to do, he pulled out his ethics textbook and began to study for the end of term exams. Not that they mattered.

  Henry glared glumly at the textbook for the better part of an hour, until someone knocked on the door to his room.

  “Come in,” he mumbled.

  It was Lord Minister Marchbanks.

  “Er,” Henry said, surging to his feet and giving the proper bow. “Good afternoon, my lord minister.”

  Lord Marchbanks bowed in return, and Henry’s cheeks colored as he recognized the bow. It was one Frankie often teased him for using by accident, though he never had. It was the bow used when addressing a foreign prince.

  “Good afternoon, lad. May I call you Henry?”

  “Yes, please,” Henry said with much relief.

  “I was wondering if I might have a word?”

  “Certainly, my lord minister.”

  “Come, let us take a walk about the grounds. It is lovely this time of year.”

  Lord Marchbanks was right; the weather was lovely, and the pathways through the quadrangle were bordered with vibrant sprays of bluebells and primroses. As they walked through the quadrangle, Lord Marchbanks frowned at Henry.

  “I really should have suspected,” he said.

  “Suspected what, my Lord Minister?”

  “That you were one of my son’s irresponsible friends from school.”

  “You mean during the envoy,” Henry said, cringing.

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong, lad. You made a very convincing serving boy. I was sad to hear you’d taken ill on the ride back. I had quite a horrible boy who steeped tea as though it were dishwater.”

  Henry grinned in spite of himself.

  “But enough of that,” Lord Marchbanks continued. “Let’s get down to it, shall we?”

  “Down to what, sir?”

  “I’ll admit the letter certainly shocked me. But then, it is a remarkable fortune. We were all worried they’d scare up someone quite unsuitable—a campagnard who could barely read, for example, or else someone horribly spoiled in an exiled court.”

  “I’m sorry, my Lord Minister, b
ut I don’t follow.”

  “You, lad!” Lord Marchbanks said. “It’s perfect. I couldn’t have dreamed of someone better—though a few years older wouldn’t have hurt, but you’ll grow up fast enough.”

  Henry sighed. He still wasn’t exactly following Lord Marchbanks’s train of thought, but he could certainly venture a guess. “So you know, sir, about Lord Mortensen and his … plan?”

  “I suspected. That’s why I set up the envoy—so that I might have my suspicions proven and so that I might have an excuse to speak with the man in person. If only that dratted Dimit Yascherov hadn’t been keeping an eye on me the entire time, we might have been able to speak at length. Mortensen’s letter was quite informative. I thank you for carrying it, Henry.”

  “Not at all,” Henry said, wishing he’d read it. Derrick had mentioned something once about steaming letters open….

  “As I was saying, lad,” Lord Marchbanks continued, “we at the Ministerium were worried about what might happen in the aftermath of a war with the Nordlands, not to speak of the horrors of the war itself. But if your Lord Mortensen and his men can prevent a war, I would do everything in my power to help them.”

  “As would I,” said Henry.

  “Which is why you must stay at Knightley Academy,” Lord Marchbanks said.

  “Sir?”

  “I can see it in your eyes, lad. It is the same hurt that Derrick carries, knowing he must take up my position one day, that he cannot choose to be a secret service knight as he wishes. And yet he took the Knightley Exam knowing his fate. For him, a taste of the life he wishes is preferable to sulking about his obligations in a less prestigious school, or at home with private tutors.”

  Henry frowned. He’d nearly forgotten, having become friends with Derrick and Conrad over the course of the term, that neither boy could choose his future, that they were both due to inherit their fathers’ seats in the House of Lord Ministers.

  “I’ve only ever dreamed of becoming a knight, sir,” Henry said honestly. “And that seemed an impossible enough thing to wish for. But what good does it do me to stay here when I’ll never live in South Britain? It’s as though I’m taking another boy’s place, a boy who might actually become a knight. And the professors are already treating me differently. Even if my classmates don’t know, it can’t be long before they find out.” Henry shook his head, angry with himself for saying so much, especially to a man he hardly knew.

  “If you truly feel that way, I would be willing to arrange for you to have private tutors.”

  Henry nearly snorted. Private tutors indeed! Without Knightley Academy, he had nowhere to live.

  “Unfortunately, another boarding school would be out of the question, as your enrollment would cause quite the sort of attention we are hoping to avoid.” Lord Marchbanks frowned, misunderstanding.

  “That’s not what I meant, sir,” Henry said carefully. “I am a bit lacking in funds, you see. I would need to find a job so that I might pay rent.”

  Lord Marchbanks let out a sharp barking laugh. “I thought the letter was clear, Henry. You are to be my ward.”

  “Wh-what?” Henry spluttered. “What letter?”

  And then he guiltily remembered the unopened letter from Lord Mortensen, stashed in his desk drawer.

  “I’m sorry, Lord Minister,” Henry said, “but I never read it.”

  “There is no need to apologize, Henry. I often vent my frustrations through ignoring the post myself.” Lord Marchbanks’s black whiskers twitched with amusement.

  “So I have to live with you?” Henry asked.

  Lord Marchbanks nodded. “It’s best that way. I am the minister of Foreign Relations. You can be Derrick’s.”

  At this, Henry laughed. “Good one, sir.”

  “I’ve been saving that one for days,” Lord March-banks admitted with a chuckle. “But in all seriousness, lad, I will not force you to return to Knightley if you don’t wish it.”

  “No, sir, I do want to come back,” Henry said, and was surprised to realize that it was true. Everything was changing, perhaps not the way he’d wished, but not unbearably so.

  “I had thought so,” Lord Marchbanks said. “You will spend the summer with my family at our town house in the city. But, then, it’s all in the letter, should you have a chance to read it.”

  With that, Lord Marchbanks glanced at his pocket watch, gave his apologies, and walked briskly toward the headmaster’s house, where a chrome-nosed automobile waited at the curb. Belatedly Henry realized that, somehow, without his noticing, he had been adopted—out of political obligation.

  * * *

  Henry couldn’t find the letter anywhere. He was certain he’d put it in one of his desk drawers, but the search turned up only pencil stubs, empty ink bottles, and a black checkers piece.

  He was still searching for it when Adam and Rohan straggled into the room that evening, loaded down with sweets Rohan had purchased at the train station. “Catch,” he said, throwing Henry a large bag of salt-water toffee.

  “Thanks.”

  “Oi, that’s no way to treat a foreign prince, throwing food at him,” Adam joked.

  “I’m not a prince. It’s just a courtesy title. Oh, never mind.” Henry gave up on explaining and offered round the toffee. “So, how did it go?”

  “It was fine,” Rohan said cautiously.

  “Brilliant!” Adam enthused. “It was really rubbish you couldn’t come! We got to meet the king, and everyone cheered the parade, and the police knights came as mounted guards and everything!”

  Rohan sighed pointedly.

  “I mean it was boring,” Adam said. “Absolutely horrible. Especially when Theobold farted.”

  “You’re making that bit up,” Rohan said.

  “Ask Edmund!” Adam insisted. “We nearly fell out of step, it was so bad!”

  Henry laughed so hard he thought he might choke on the toffee.

  Henry, Adam, and Rohan spent the rest of the evening in the first-year common room in the company of their classmates. Derrick had unearthed a meerschaum pipe from somewhere and was coughing and spluttering on the thing as he frantically fanned the fumes out the window.

  “I say,” Derrick choked, “do I look distinguished?”

  “Extremely,” Henry said dryly, returning to the chess game he was playing against Valmont.

  Derrick gave up on the pipe and joined Adam, Conrad, and Edmund, who were playing cards and betting with peppermint candies.

  “It’s your go,” Valmont said.

  Henry looked down at the board and moved his knight.

  Valmont, a look of incredulous triumph on his face, captured it with his bishop. “Check,” he said.

  And then a shadow fell over the chessboard. It was Theobold.

  “What do you want?” Henry asked irritably.

  “Who’s winning?” Theobold grunted.

  Crowley, who was forever at his side, peered at the game and said, “Valmont.”

  “Really?” Theobold said delightedly. “Anyway, Grim, thought I’d return this.” He reached into his pocket and removed an open envelope with a hastily folded letter stuffed inside.

  “Where did you get that?” Henry asked, his hands clenching into fists. He seized the envelope and pushed back his chair.

  “Hmmm, now where did we find that again, Crowley?” Theobold mused. “A drawer, wasn’t it?”

  “You went into my room?” Henry snarled.

  “Easy, Grim. I was merely curious. I’d heard you were ill. I was rather hoping you’d succumb to the fever and pass on to the great beyond, but apparently you pulled through. Although not before infecting Lord Havelock with that same deadly illness. I think that’s the story we were meant to believe, isn’t it?”

  “If you ever touch my things again …,” Henry threatened.

  “You’ll do what, you piece of Nordlandic scum?”

  And then Valmont pushed back his chair and punched Theobold in the jaw. It was a solid hit, and Theobold reeled with th
e force of it.

  “What kind of a punch was that?” Henry asked curiously, not caring that the rest of the common room was staring.

  “An undercut,” Valmont said smugly. They both peered at Theobold, who sat on the floor, rubbing his jaw in shock.

  “Works well,” Henry said.

  “I could teach it to you,” Valmont offered.

  “Yeah, all right,” Henry said.

  “There’s just one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If you ever throw a chess match against me again, Grim, I get to use it on you.”

  Henry grinned. “Fair enough,” he said.

  The school term came to a close, as school terms tend to do, though they sometimes seem determined to plod on forever. Students brought their textbooks outside and studied for their exams under the shade of the gnarled old oaks trees, and the heat made it a bother to put on jackets each morning.

  Theobold hadn’t forgotten that night in the common room, and he’d taken to referring to Henry and Valmont as “the prince and the pauper” whenever he saw them playing chess before bed. Henry sighed and set his jaw, refusing to let Theobold’s taunts goad him.

  One afternoon Derrick put together a game of croquet and dared everyone to whack the balls into the boys who were studying outdoors. No one took him up on the dare, although Edmund hit a ball at Geoffrey Sutton by accident.

  Henry had never played croquet before, and was relieved to find it far easier to master than cricket. It was strange, thinking that he’d be back. That after the long stretch of the summer holiday, he’d return as a second year, with a room on a different corridor, and with Sir Robert as their head of year.

  Sir Robert had been named the new chief examiner, and while the Knightley Exam wasn’t open to commoners, the school had decided to reserve the now traditional three places for any fourteen-year-olds who wished to sit the exam in the National Gallery.

  Somehow the shock over the passing of Lord Havelock had receded. But it was still there, the hovering ghostly memory of his death, creeping up behind Henry as he studied for the military history exam given by Lord Ewing, the temporary tutor.

  The battle society did not meet again before exams, and often Henry saw Valmont slip out to the graveyard beyond the woods before supper, as though he preferred the company of the dead to that of his classmates.