The Zebulon Fishkill Academy for Unruly Boys, 1805
“Blighted knave!” said Old Fishface as he tossed another boy, this one at least ten years younger than the oldest, by the scruff of his neck, into the heating stewpot of rotting hay, sweaty animals, and ripe manure that comprised the décor of the Academy’s stable. “Muck out a stall, and find yourself a place to sleep, like these scoundrels did,” the schoolmaster told the latest discard. “You keep the animals clean, groomed, and fed, you might fare half as well.”
He regarded the three who’d come first, spines straight, proud despite their punishments. “This one depends on a Lady’s charity for tuition,” Fishface said. “His Lady Bountiful is an aristocrat who does not want the vicar’s son sniffing around her girl. Well, Lord or pauper matters not to me. These are your quarters, the four of you. Make the best of it.” Fishface slammed the door and left them, boys of all ages, to their own devices.
“He set to kick us out of school?” the youngest, the vicar’s son asked.
Justin Devereux, future duke, chuckled. “’Course not. He wants the money we bring in. If he had his way, he’d keep us forever. We grow up and break out is how we leave this place.”
The new rat in the stable raised his chin and regarded the speaker. “Your brother got you kicked in here with a lie. You know that, right?”
Justin gave a half nod. “The problem usually is my brother.”
The Marquess of Andover stepped toward the vicar’s boy. “Be ye knave or scoundrel?”
“Bit a’both, I’d say. Knave of hearts, maybe. He’s right about the girl with the title. I plan to have her.”
“Guess we’re knaves and scoundrels, then,” Andover said. “Each a knave of hearts, and scoundrels all.”
“Absolutely,” Fitzalan added, slapping the newest on the back. “But we have to make this count. Form a bond. Swear an oath.”
“As in . . .be there, if we’re needed?” Andover confirmed. “We show our scoundrel faces to the world but call on each other in times of trouble, whatever life hands us?”
“I like that,” the vicar’s son said. “I might not be rich, but I’m strong. I can hold up my end. Whatever, as you say.”
“Till the end of our days,” Fitzalan cautioned. “We’ve bonded in our rebellion, anyway, and that’s a strong bond.”
So knaves of hearts and scoundrels all, lord and pauper alike, no matter their age, they sealed a lifetime oath, each raising a tin cup of brackish water.