The Prince of Midnight

by Laura Kinsale

  Harmony and Chastity were first to catch up. The mounted figure turned his head; the outlandish mask stared at them.

  They instantly came to a panting halt. Sweet Harmony pulled her shawl closer, wanting to go closer, torn between fear and fascination.

  “Do ’ee be the Prince o’ Midnight?” Chastity’s demand was bold enough, but her breasts were heaving beneath her woolen gown.

  The mask turned toward her. Beneath the painted pattern, he smiled; there was just enough light to see his mouth curve upward.

  The gray horse swung around, facing Chastity. It lifted one front hoof, extended the other—and bowed, its fine neck arched and its long forelock dangling to the ground. “Je suis au service de mademoiselle,” the rider said in a wonderful low voice.

  A shivery, anxious murmur of delight came from the press of girls behind them.

  “What’s that mean, then?” Chastity quavered.

  Sweet Harmony put a hand on her shoulder. “He said he’s at your service,” she murmured hastily. “Don’t talk to him.”

  “Ah! Cette petite lapine parle français.” He sounded amused. The white horse came upright. It shook its head and snorted, dancing on its forelegs. “Why shouldn’t she talk to me?” he asked in English. “She’s braver than thou, little rabbit.”

  “Begone!” Sweet Harmony tried hard to keep her voice steady, but the cold made her shake like a leaf.

  He put his hand over his heart. “You wound me!” he said dolefully. His black gauntlet glittered, studded with silver.

  “Master Jamie won’t like you here.”

  “Then let him come and tell me so himself, ma petite. I wish to have the honor of an introduction.” The church door opened; a broad ray of candlelight spread over the steps and then disappeared as Master Jamie let the door fall closed. If the horseman and the crowd surprised him, he showed no sign of it. He stood a moment at the top of the steps. Beneath his hat, his powdered hair looked dusty in the moonlight.

  He held up both his hands.

  Harmony tensed. She was certain he was not pleased; she was afraid he would call down something terrible on the man and the white horse, require some punishment worse than what they’d done to Mr. Bartlett—for what could be more insolent, what could be more unholy than this ominous, laughing figure that dared stand in silence before him? The Prince of Midnight was a highwayman, an outlaw, a renegade: challenge and discord and defiance; all that Master Jamie said was the wellspring of corruption.

  Master Jamie began to pray aloud, and the words chilled her. “The Lord God of Hosts has declared: I loathe the arrogance of Jacob,” he prayed. “For behold, the Lord is going to command that the great house be smashed to pieces and the small to fragments.”

  Harmony could feel the girls around her shift uneasily. Some of them moved back, and they all knew what was to come.

  “You have turned justice into poison”—Master Jamie lifted his voice—“and the fruit of righteousness into wormwood, you who rejoice in a thing of nothing.” He lowered his hands and stared at the man before him. “For behold, I am going to raise up a nation against you,” he said softly, menacingly, and Harmony saw from the comer of her eye two of the others bend down and search on the ground for stones.

  She opened her mouth, and closed it. She wanted to warn him, and did not dare. Divine Angel was right behind her; kneeling down to gather a rock. Harmony would be punished if she warned him; she’d be ostracized and unloved. She was shaking all over, sinking to her knees.

  “And they will afflict you!” Master Jamie cried suddenly, “From the entrance of Hamath to the brook of the Arabah!”

  The pale horse moved, stepping onto the first stair of the church. It leaned forward, pushed out its nose, and nuzzled Master Jamie’s face.

  Harmony fell on her knees and stared. Everyone grew still except Master Jamie, who kept praying, shouting with his eyes closed as if the animal weren’t there. The horse nibbled at his hat brim, took it between its teeth, and pulled the hat away. Then it swung and faced them, dangling the headgear from its mouth drolly. The animal walked over to Divine Angel. She shrank back as it flipped the hat upward, bringing it down to rest on her head at a crazy tilt.

  The horse stepped back, tossed its head up and down, and lifted its forefeet off the ground, picking them up together in a neat and elegant advance.

  “Most ravishing,” the Prince murmured.

  The big horse moved forward leisurely, and no one, not even Divine Angel with the hat balanced absurdly on her head, stood firm in its path.

  “Au revoir, ma chérie courageuse.” He leaned down to touch Chastity’s cheek as he passed. “I’ll come back for you one night, if you like.”

  Master Jamie had stopped speaking. In the silence, Divine Angel lifted her hand and threw her single stone, but the horse was already walking away, out of Angel’s poor range. The rock hit Chastity between the shoulder blades.

  “Here!” Chastity jumped and turned. “Blasted maggoty-head, what’d ye do that for?” She thrust through to Angel and gave her a shove. It landed the other girl on her rump, but Chastity didn’t pause to see what came of her wickedness; even as Master Jamie spoke her name, she began to run up the street after the horse.

  Sweet Harmony ran, too. The horse and rider had already disappeared into the night. She caught Chastity halfway down the road, grabbed her by the arm, and turned her into their own gateway. That was the only hope now—that Master Jamie might have other things to think of and forget that Chastity had lain a hand of violence on one of the most favored of his flock.

  On Divine Angel, who wouldn’t let him forget.

  “Kneel down, kneel down,” Harmony said urgently as they reached the top of the stairs. She could hear the others coming behind them. “Pray for forgiveness.”

  Chastity threw off her arm and turned sullenly away. But she knelt down on her mat, and when an hour later Divine Angel and Master Jamie came in person, she nodded and cried and asked Angel to forgive her, and they went away, and everything was peace again.

  After the church bell tolled the end of midnight prayers, Chastity and Sweet Harmony lay on their mats, close together in the chilly room.

  “Harmony,” Chastity whispered, barely audible in the darkness. “The Prince, what did ’ee say to me?”

  Harmony bit her lip. She didn’t answer.

  “Please,” Chastity whispered. “What do sharee’ mean?”

  Sweet Harmony bent her head into her blanket. “It means ‘darling,’ she said softly. “He called you his courageous darling.

  “Oh.” It was a breath: a faint, awed whisper. “Oh my bloomin’ Lord.”

  S.T. had expected to slip back into the carriers’ inn unobserved, but Leigh was waiting for him, out in the cold moonlight, a black shape that rose up from the side of the road and made Mistral shy a bit. Nemo had found her first; he bounded between them, leaping and twisting in excitement at the reunion. She was still the only female that the wolf accepted. Nemo wouldn’t even go near Heavenly Sanctuary, and only firm orders would have made him creep inside the Twice Brewed Ale where they’d taken rooms two nights since, so S.T. let him go on running free on the empty moors.

  S.T. still wore the harlequin mask, reluctant to relinquish the Prince and become himself again. He loved the mask; savored the fascination it created, relished the astonished faces of the girls in Heavenly Sanctuary. He’d made the mask himself, painted his soul onto papier-mâché the same way he had years ago, the first time, whistling a rigadoon as he worked alone in the empty loft over the stable.

  He’d kept his intent to himself, stealing away after the others were abed, but now that things had gone so well he’d no objection to asking Mistral for the beginning of a little passage, a few steps of elevated trot, like a victory dance. The horse snorted, unsure of this new request, but the weeks of relentless teaching and practice on the road north had instilled the cues. Mistral tried. He managed one springy stride in his earnest attempt to go forward and st
ay in one place at the same time, and S.T. instantly allowed him to relax, leaning over to rub his poll in praise. Mistral shook his mane, his ears cocked back questioningly.

  “Seigneur,” Leigh said with a bow, and he couldn’t tell if it was awe or awful sarcasm in her voice—but he suspected, with a little lapsing of his elevated mood, that it was sarcasm.

  He removed his hat and pulled off the mask. “Lady Leigh,” he murmured, with a slight inclination of his head.

  “Where have you been?”

  “I’ve been to visit the Reverend Mr. Chilton,” he said, and somehow the announcement wasn’t as gratifying as he’d envisioned. He’d get nothing from Leigh, damn her—as if he hadn’t known it.

  “I thought we’d agreed that you wouldn’t do anything alone.”

  “No,” he said. “We agreed that you wouldn’t do anything. Alone or otherwise.”

  She stared up at him, her face smooth and ivory in the moonlight. Lovely—so lovely that he felt a sudden twist in his chest and didn’t want to argue, didn’t want to resurrect the quarrel over Chilton and the danger and the risks. He wondered what it would be like just to talk to her once, just to lie in bed and speak of commonplace things. Insignificant things, like how Mistral had learned to pick up the girth and hand it to him when he asked and whether the landlady would kill the old rooster for stew tomorrow or sacrifice three pullets to be roasted.

  He wiped the back of his gauntlet across his cheek and stowed the mask in his saddlebag. “Take you up?” he asked, offering his hand.

  “I’ll walk.” She stood still, and then shivered suddenly, pushing her hands down into the pockets of her greatcoat. “Did you ride Mistral into the town?”

  He dismounted and began to lead the horse. “Not very clever, to walk in on foot.”

  “They’ll recognize him. They’ll be able to describe him.” She fell in beside him. “Did you kill Chilton?”

  He could tell that she’d tried to say it casually. But it sounded a fraction out of breath, just a little waver on the last syllable.

  He wanted to turn around and hold her close and kiss her forehead… just that, as if she were a child—tell her Chilton wasn’t her worry anymore. But they’d fought about it for the two days since she’d joined him, fought it to a standstill, mired in a strange suspension at a carriers’ lodge in the middle of nowhere, arguing in whispers and behind doors over what came next.

  S.T. knew what came next. He had his own reasons for revenge now, and he intended to have it, but she was wavering: she had a dispute with every plan, or she got emotional and bottled up and wouldn’t speak, turning away from him as if she had something to hide.

  It made him angry: they’d come all this way and now it almost seemed as if she didn’t want him to do it, wouldn’t break in front of him and wouldn’t give it up to him, even once telling him to leave Chilton be, she didn’t care anymore, as if it all ought to go away because she’d decided so. Looking at him shaky and furious, as if it was somehow his fault that it didn’t.

  He couldn’t understand what she wanted. He didn’t think she understood it herself.

  “No, I didn’t kill Chilton,” he said flatly.

  “You should have done,” she said. “While you had the chance.”

  He wrenched down hard on his temper. “My thanks for the advice. But cold-blooded murder is not my way.”

  “He saw you, didn’t he? He’ll guess that you’re Mr. Bartlett. He’ll be prepared now. He’ll be afraid. He’s dangerous, you reckless blockhead—haven’t you learned that yet?”

  Mistral twisted his head and pranced, protesting the sudden drag on his bit. S.T. eased his hold. He strode forward, keeping his eyes on the shadowy ground. “I’ve learned it. We’ve had this conversation before. Several times. It begins to grow tedious, you may believe me.”

  “Don’t play with him,” she said. “It’s not a game.”

  “Oh, but it is.” He stopped and faced her. “You want revenge, madam, you want justice—there’s no measure in skewering the fellow from behind. I want him to know who’s killing him. I want him to see his malignant little kingdom smashed to nothing. I want to pull it down piece by piece around his ears before he dies.” He stared down into her face. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten what he’s done to you. I haven’t.”

  She didn’t flinch. “And then what?” she hissed. “Then I fall down on my knees and say I adore you? Don’t hope for it.”

  That wounded. He felt embarrassed and furious, the worse because it was halfway to true. He still had hopes which he hadn’t realized until he heard her say it.

  God alone knew why. She was fine enough to look at, the condescending shrew, but hardly cordial company. He could do better. Far better, curse her if he couldn’t.

  Just one small part of him held on, kept going back to the memory of that moment when she’d put her hand against his heart.

  Together. You and I.

  The rest of him said: certainly… and no, the sun won’t come up tomorrow, either. Fool. He had his faults, but he’d never been feebleminded.

  Together. You and I together.

  No one had ever said that to him before.

  They’d said, “I love you.” They’d called him handsome and charming and devilish exciting, and couldn’t he stay longer and come more often and bring some pretty bauble they might show to their friends and whisper who it came from, because it was all so exotic and exhilarating and they’d never felt such passion, not with anyone, never known this fervent devotion that would live on forever, and did he love them truly?

  He swore he did, he brought the gifts, he stayed as long as he judged it safe, sometimes longer than was sane, because he believed in it all. But somehow that was never enough. Somehow there was always soft coaxing that turned to pleading and then to tears.

  “There’s no use in this silly swashbuckling of yours, do you understand?” she was saying belligerently, as if he’d been arguing with her. “I don’t want you on my conscience.”

  He didn’t answer her, didn’t see any use in it. He just put his hand on Mistral’s neck and walked silently on, all the elation of his encounter in Heavenly Sanctuary drained out of him.

  Dove was wide-eyed, dewy, her blonde hair waving freely down her back in public in a way that Leigh had been brought up to think vulgar, if not promiscuous. “You’ve been out.” Dove put her hand on the Seigneur’s arm. “Lady Leigh was right… you went there?”

  The Twice Brewed was still noisy, the hall packed with a caravan of carriers that had arrived late. All the carters at the table stared at Dove between gulps of ale and huge bites of roast beef.

  “Shall we retire upstairs?” S.T. grabbed Dove firmly by the elbow and turned her around. Leigh went up behind them. He headed for the little chamber Dove shared with Leigh, which put her in a worse temper than before.

  As soon as the door closed, Dove took both his arms. “Lady Leigh was right, wasn’t she? You went back to the Sanctuary!”

  He gave Leigh a sour glance. “I’d not thought to have it common knowledge.”

  “You truly did!” Dove exclaimed. “What did Master Jamie say? Did he see you?”

  S.T. tossed his hat and saddlebags on a chair and stripped off his sword belt. “I trust he didn’t recognize me, in any case.”

  “Oh.” Dove sounded a little disappointed. “You stole in?”

  He drew the mask out of the saddlebag, dangling it from his fingers. “Not precisely.”

  Dove put her hand over her mouth. “You wore that? Oh!”

  He smiled and held it up to his face. Even in the candlelit room it changed him, made him mysterious and strange, his face impossible to focus upon beneath the intricate patterns that danced on the mask. His eyes glittered faintly in the depths; he might have been watching either of them, or no one. It was impossible to tell.

  “I’ve seen pictures of that. ’Tis a highwayman’s mask,” Dove whispered.

  He lowered the camouflage. “Not just any highwayman’
s, love. Mine.”

  Dove absorbed that, standing with her lips in an “O” of wonder. Leigh had no great opinion of her wit, but the truth appeared to dawn upon her with surprising promptness. “The Seigneur du Minuit! You’re him! Oh, are you him?”

  He swept a bow.

  “I had no notion,” Dove cried. “And you’ve come to punish Master Jamie? You planned it all along? How brave you must be!” She sat down on a chair and gazed up at him. “How wonderful and brave to do that for us.”

  “Wonderfully ill-advised,” Leigh murmured.

  He gave her a brief glance. Then he smiled at Dove. “Honored to be of service, fairest.”

  Dove slid off the bed onto her knees. She took his hand and kissed it, holding it against her mouth. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Oh, thank you. You are so good.”

  Leigh thought that at least he would look chagrined at this outburst, but instead he allowed Dove to cling to his hand. He actually seemed gratified; he chuckled complaisantly and even reached out to touch her, brushing her long hair back from her face.

  Leigh wet her lips and turned abruptly away. Silly man! Let him wallow in brainless adoration, then. She crossed her arms tightly over her stomach and leaned against the wall, staring out the window.

  “When you are quite finished,” Leigh said, “may I ask if Your Highness has given a thought to the king’s men in this scheme?”

  He caught Dove’s arms and raised her. “Chilton won’t call on the Crown.”

  “Won’t he?” Leigh watched Dove look up at him shyly through the shining curtain of her hair. “You can’t be certain of that.”

  “Soldiers? That would be the last thing he’d care for—a power above him in his own kingdom. You needn’t worry for my neck on that score.”

  Dove still held on to him. She brushed back her hair and clasped both hands on one of his. He glanced down, gave her a faint, indulgent smile, and squeezed her fingers.