The Prince of Midnight

  “I’ve no notion to stay.” She turned away for the door.

  “You’re not the same as the others,” he exclaimed. “I love you. I love you! You’re—God, Leigh, you’re like the sun, you bur so bright it hurts me. The rest… all the rest, they’re candles to it.”

  She put her hand on her heart. “A nicely turned gallantry, ready primed,” she murmured. “I said you should have been a troubadour.”

  “Plague take you!” His feet hit the floor with a thump. Why won’t you believe me? I love you!”

  She snorted. “Decidedly! Which plague will you have dispatch me?”

  He gripped the-bedpost. “Leigh—listen to me.” His voice gained force. “I’ve never felt like this.”

  She laughed outright.

  “It’s true,” he shouted. “I’ve never felt this way; never; I love you! For God’s sake, tell me how I can prove it!”

  She stood with her hand on the door, staring down at the latch.

  “Tell me how,” he said.

  She hugged the shirt around her and shivered. “Leave Chilton alone,” she said slowly.

  “What?”

  She turned to him. “Stay out of Felchester. Forget Chilton. Leave it be.”

  “Forget Chilton,” he echoed. His arm stiffened against the post. “What do you mean?”

  “’Tis plain enough, I think.”

  He shook his head in frustrated bafflement. “Not at all.” He shook it again. “No. This is how I’m to show my love? By failing you?”

  “I don’t care anymore,” she said steadily. “It won’t bring my family back. It won’t change anything. I’ve known that…” She took a breath. “But it seems to have come clearer lately.”

  “And so I’m to abandon it.”

  “Yes.”

  He was silent for a long time. She leaned against the door, holding her arms around herself against the cold.

  “I can’t,” he said at last.

  She lowered her head.

  “I can’t!” he said, louder. “And it makes no sense, anyway. I don’t understand you.”

  She closed her eyes. “Do you understand fear, Seigneur? Have none of these ladies of yours ever dreaded to see you put on that cursed mask and ride out to hazard your chances?”

  “None that ever said. Do you doubt me? How would slinking off like some man-milliner prove aught of what I feel?”

  “Perhaps it might prove that you think of what I feel,” she said fiercely. “But that’s no part of your love, is it?” She shoved the latch open.

  “I think of what you feel! You’d not have me walk away from this; that can’t be love, that can’t be what you truly want of me! To be some spineless—nothing!”

  “As well if I did,” she said scornfully. “Nothing is all you give of yourself. Hide behind your mask, then, if you will. I’ll none of it.”

  “Leigh,” he said, with a faint, desperate edge in his voice. “What if you’re wrong about me?”

  She stepped into the hall and closed the door gently behind her.

  S.T. bowed his head and pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes. Curse her, damn her, how could she know it wasn’t love he felt? She was so sure, so resentful, she twisted his intentions around so far that she made him doubt himself.

  It was different this time. He loved her courage; he loved her when the freezing rain dripped down off her hat and her hair was plastered against her throat and she never once complained; he loved her in her breeches, he loved her when she snarled at Dove and when she made an eye bath for a blind mare. He loved her because she’d followed him; he loved her because she never cried and then he loved her to the deepest raw center of his soul when she did. He wanted to hold her and protect her—and he wanted her respect more urgently than he’d wanted any prize in his life.

  He should have told her. He’d mismanaged it; he should have put everything differently. But how could he say such things? Not to a woman, to her, not when she sneered at him. Not when she doubted him. It made him burn with shame to know she’d so little regard for his skill that she was afraid for him. All the arguments and wavering over Chilton fell into place and made mortifying sense to him now.

  But she came. Why had she come, ah, God, and let him love her, and then told him what she thought of him? A failure, a fraud, so bumbling that she dreaded to see him ride out into danger.

  It always happened this way. One instant of balance, a moment of union, and then everything was fragmenting. This time was different, different, different, and yet it was going to be just like all the others; slipping away into time and memories. He felt frantic at the thought, threw himself facedown on the bed, and clutched a pillow between his hands as if he could strangle it.

  I love you, he thought ferociously. I’ll show you it’s different. He sat up with the pillow and socked it against a bedpost. It’s different! He gritted his teeth and hammered it back the other way. I love you… I’ll show you… I love you… I’ll show you… it’s different, it’s different, it’s different… he kept on pounding until the feathers exploded and fluttered around him, impossible to catch or combat or master.

  Chapter Twenty

  At twilight Sweet Harmony heard it and straightened up from her sewing. Her eyes met Chastity’s.

  The sound echoed in the quiet street: horse’s hooves chiming against stone in a solitary rhythm.

  It had been four days. Chastity’s hands were pink and bleeding, swollen from the nettles that she had to carry everywhere as a symbol of her contrition for pushing Divine Angel. The nettles lay in her lap now, dried to winter stiffness, their stinging hairs rubbed away by hours of contact. In the morning Angel would go with her to the midden to see that she cut a fresh bouquet of penance.

  Harmony lowered her eyes, afraid to betray the frantic leap of her heart. He was back; he’d said he would come again and he came—and Harmony could see the scarlet color flood Chastity’s face.

  Don’t get up, Harmony wanted to cry to her. Don’t move, don’t speak.

  But she dared not acknowledge the sound in the street while Divine Angel sat with them. She held her breath and went on sewing, thrusting her needle through the linen in jerky moves.

  “I hear Master Jamie calling us,” Divine Angel said, setting aside her work.

  Harmony heard nothing but the sound of horseshoes on the cobblestone.

  “Come.” Angel rose. “You must bring the nettles, Chastity.”

  Harmony stood up. Chastity made a little sound as she came to her feet, but whether it was pain or anger or fear or protest, Harmony couldn’t tell.

  “Did you speak, our dearest sister?” Angel asked kindly.

  “No, Angel.” Chastity lowered her face.

  “Your time of affliction will soon be over. You must bear it with grace and submission in your heart.”

  “Yes, Angel,” Chastity whispered. “I do be very sorry.”

  “Master Jamie wishes us to join him in destroying the evil that threatens,” Angel said serenely, and waited for them to go ahead of her out the door.

  In the deep evening shadows, others were gathering, lining the street near the piles of stone they had collected. It was to defend themselves, to crush the devil’s influence. This time they were ready, and down the street the devil came, riding on his pale horse, masked in dazzling mockery.

  “Go away,” someone cried, a shrill, single voice in the silence. “We don’t want you here!”

  The horse walked ahead, drawing slowly nearer. Harmony wished she could cry out the same thing, to make him go away, to stop what was going to happen. He must know, she thought frantically. Surely this time he must know.

  The church bell tolled once. Master Jamie appeared around the corner of the churchyard, carrying his Bible. It was time for dinner; every evening he made this passage at precisely this moment, to say his blessing over the ceremony of obedience in the men’s dormitory.

  He halted at the top of the street, facing the approaching devil.

&nbs
p; Harmony looked away from him, back toward the advancing rider. One of the men picked up a stone and threw it. He missed, and the gray horse suddenly wasn’t walking anymore; it moved at an easy, collected canter, past Harmony and Chastity before Divine Angel even had time to take a rock from the nearest pile.

  Stones fell in the street, most of them thrown lightly, an instant too late. Harmony realized with horror that she hadn’t even picked one up; she glanced at Angel, and stooped quickly to grab the nearest as the men moved into the street, brandishing larger rocks. Some of them had pitchforks, and one even carried a blunderbuss. The girls threw weakly, without their hearts in it, but for days the men had scowled and talked and promised what they’d do if the intruder came again.

  She glanced desperately back toward Master Jamie as the horse and cloaked rider cantered down on him. Someone shrieked. Harmony sucked in her breath, frozen in place as Master Jamie lifted his Bible in both hands.

  “Stone him!” he cried in a mighty voice that echoed all the way to hill. “Cast out the devil!”

  The big rocks came hurtling past. But none of them touched the target; the horse was well beyond range and had gone right past Master Jamie.

  He lowered the book and yelled, “We are triumphant! See how he flees from the righteous hand of God!”

  The men raised an uneven cheer, but Harmony stood silent with the others, watching as the white horse halted just behind Master Jamie and came sidling back, moving sideways with one hoof crossed over the other.

  It stopped behind him, close enough to touch, with the rider’s boot just even with Master Jamie’s back.

  The man in the mask stared at them all over Master Jamie’s head. Harmony couldn’t see his mouth in the shadow beneath the harlequin design, but she was certain he was grinning.

  Master Jamie didn’t turn. He must have known what was there, but he stood straight, beginning to walk toward them as if he was continuing on his way to the dining hall.

  The white horse came right behind, prancing sideways. Every two or three steps it bumped into Master Jamie, sending him stumbling. He stopped, and the horse nipped his hat away and shook it up and down.

  Someone giggled. The men stood with their rocks lowered, unable to throw them without the risk of hitting Master Jamie. Suddenly the man with the blunderbuss lifted the weapon to his shoulder.

  The Prince drew his sword instantly, dropping the reins. He held the blade against Master Jamie’s neck.

  “Throw it down,” he said, in that low, carrying voice.

  Evening light seemed to pulsate along the steel. Harmony realized with deep shock that Master Jamie was shaking, his face white and red.

  The horse moved sideways again, bumping up against his back. He lurched forward, and then turned, grabbing the sword. “Fire!” he shouted. “Kill the devil!”

  His fingerless mittens closed around the blade. It swept upward; Harmony saw blood, heard screams and Master Jamie’s own screech as the cutting edge swept across his fingers.

  The sword came up, free. The Prince leaned over and caught Master Jamie around the chest with one arm, dragging him halfway up into the saddle as the big gray rocked back on its haunches and reared.

  Master Jamie’s feet dangled off the ground. “Fire!” he shrieked. “Fire!”

  “I can’t!” the man shouted. “I can’t—Master Jamie—get back; get away!”

  But the Prince gripped him while he kicked and writhed like a madman. He made squealing sounds every time the horse reared.

  The man dropped the blunderbuss. “Put him down! Let go of him!” He was almost sobbing with frustration. “Leave us alone, you fiend! Why don’t you leave us alone?”

  The Prince let go. Master Jamie fell to his knees and scrambled upright. He started to move rapidly away, but the white horse shifted around and caught him by the collar of his coat. The horse began to back up, and Master Jamie stumbled and fell on his rump.

  “Poor fellow,” the Prince said. “It’s not such capital fun on the other side, is it?”

  Master Jamie pushed off the frozen ground and rolled onto his knees. He gripped his hands together. “‘O Lord, thou hast seen my oppression! Judge my case! Thou hast seen all their vengeance, all their schemes against me. I am their mocking song. Thou wilt recompense them, O Lord; thy curse will be on them. Thou will pursue them in anger and destroy them from under the heavens of the Lord!’”

  Divine Angel dropped to her knees and began to pray aloud with him. One by one the others followed. Harmony looked around at them and at Chastity standing with the nettles in her arms. Chastity was staring up at the Prince. Her body shook; suddenly she threw down the nettles and ran forward toward the horse.

  “Thee said—” She stopped as Master Jamie lifted his head. He never paused in his praying; he just looked at her with an unblinking gaze. She crossed her arms over her breast, staring back like a bird frozen before a snake.

  “Chérie.” The Prince held out his black-gloved hand, his voice a vibrant undertone to the march of Master Jamie’s prayer. “Do you wish to come with me?”

  Chastity whirled toward him. “Yes!” The word was a quivery piping. “Thee said I could, afore! ’Ee said! Please!” She reached out, and then gasped with an audible whimper as his gauntlet closed over her swollen fingers.

  He let go, but she clung to his arm. Harmony saw him lean down and take her hands gently on his open gloves. Then the mask came up; the deep eyes stared past Chastity at Master Jamie.

  Harmony swallowed. She saw the wrath in that look. Even the pinwheeling black and white patterns on the mask couldn’t hide it.

  “Aye—you’d best pray for all you’re worth, Chilton,” he said. “Because I’m not nearly finished with you.”

  In the early morning light beneath a dirty window of the Twice Brewed’s taproom, Leigh bathed the girl’s hands in Gilead oil and wrapped them in lint.

  “Nettles, wasn’t. The landlady had brought a tray herself, her sleeves rolled up to her freckled elbows. She set it down with a clatter. “Fell doin’s, that is,” she said forbiddingly. “Dinna care for it, that thy laddie gaes pokin’ aboot that place o’ night. We bide nae trouble here.”

  Chastity looked at the woman with terror in her eyes. “Please, mum—will’ee turn me out?”

  The woman crossed her arms. “Dinna hold wi’ turnin’ out. ’S only this, nae good weel come o’ stirrin’ that cauldron, an’ if the laddie do’t mair, ye ken there be nae welcome here.”

  “I’ll speak to him,” Leigh said quietly.

  The landlady frowned out the window, where the Seigneur worked with Mistral in the stable yard. This morning, like all the others, he was up at dawn and training the horse, riding it in circles and figure eights and serpentines; mount and rider quiet, intent on the task, with only the rhythmic snort of Mistral’s breath for tempo. Dove of Peace stood by huddled in her cloak, the Seigneur’s dogged shadow, always willing to fetch or carry or help in any way.

  “Aye, speakit—for the good ’twill do.” The landlady shook her head. “I’ve haird ye scold an’ fume, miss, an’ still he gaes, dinna he?” She trod heavily to the door and turned. “He’s a bonnie, skellum lad, good for no but blethering and fechtin’ and wooin’ yon silly lassie wi’ his airs. Ye speakit to him!”

  The door slammed, leaving them alone in the empty taproom. Chastity sat with her head bowed. “I do be that sorry, mum, t’ make trouble for ’ee.”

  “’Tis not your fault,” Leigh said. “But you must listen to me.” She lowered her voice. “You’ve seen him in that mask—and if you have a care for his neck, or mine, or yours, you won’t ever mention it to anyone. They don’t know who he is here. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, mum,” Chastity said in a tiny voice. “I do.”

  “We’ll change this dressing in the afternoon. Try not to scratch at your hands.” Leigh poured out a spoonful of medicine. “Take this.”

  Chastity swallowed it. “Thankee, mum,” she whispered.

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; Leigh gathered up the cloth and balm, and set the tray near Chastity. “Can you use your hands to eat?”

  “Yes, mum.”

  The front door opened. The Seigneur ducked through, dressed in leather coat and black top boots, with Dove at his heels. He ignored Leigh as if she weren’t there, pulling off his fingerless mitts and stuffing them in his pocket. For four days he’d not spoken directly to her, only worked Mistral all day and then disappeared into his chamber. Leigh had begun to believe he might not go back to Felchester.

  But he had, of course.

  She saw Chastity look up at him. The girl’s eyes fixed on his face with unblinking devotion; she didn’t touch her food or speak or look away.

  “Tu va bien, petite courageuse?” he asked her cheerfully.

  Chastity turned scarlet. She worked her hands in her lap, plucking at the lint and gazing at him mutely.

  Leigh contained a sigh. “She’s in a little pain, I think,” she answered for the speechless girl. “I gave her a light dose of laudanum.”

  He gently flicked Chastity’s cheek and sat down on the high-backed pew near the hearth. Dove settled beside him, close enough to touch his sleeve. She slanted a sideways glance from beneath her lashes, full of admiration and promise.

  It wasn’t precisely as if he demanded it. He never did more than smile and accept what was offered. But Leigh could see how it pleased him, the silly block, to be fawned upon and cooed over and doted on.

  “The landlady has warned we’re not welcome here,” she said coldly. “Not if you go back again.”

  He took a deep breath and leaned back against the settle. “Ah. That’s difficult.”

  “Only if you insist on continuing this madness.”

  He bent to unbuckle his spurs. “And if I stop? We’d as well pack up and go anyway.”

  “She’s afraid of what you’ll bring down upon them.” Leigh stood up, unable to sit quietly. She faced the small morning fire that smoked and sputtered inside the huge hearth. “You should have killed him right away,” she said in a low voice. “What do you think, that you can steal his converts one by one until you’ve freed them all? Some may not want so badly to go.”