The Prince of Midnight (34 page)

They began to sing a hymn he didn't know, feminine voices rising sweetly in
the night. How had he possibly gotten himself into this, chained on his knees in
front of a crowd of schoolgirls? It was mortifying. They weren't going to stone
him; they didn't even seem angry.

Chilton appeared out of the blackness beyond the torches and slowly mounted
the steps, singing along with his congregation. As the last verse died away, he
raised a plain porcelain cream pitcher between his hands and began to pray yet
again, asking God to make his will known to Master Jamie and his flock.

S.T. twisted his hands behind his back. The praying in this place was
incessant. No wonder they were all balmy.

Dove knelt a few steps below him, her eyes closed, apparently praying with
all her might. Chilton's voice began to break and quiver with emotion in another
of his one-way conversations with God. The crowd rustled, catching the
excitement, even though S.T. could make nothing of Chilton's garbled phrases
beyond, "Yes, yes! I understand, I understand. Happiness and peace for your
followers. For those who truly love you," and other such profundities.

It was the church service all over again, droning on and on. S.T. shivered in
the freezing air. Suddenly Chilton lifted the little pitcher over his head, then
lowered it and poured a few drops on the limestone step. It sizzled faintly,
bubbling.

"Sweet Harmony," he said. "Do you love your master?"

One of the girls at the foot of the steps hurried forward. "Oh, yes," she
cried.

"You have a task. Take this cup. If you truly love your master, you will
drink of it. A nonbeliever would be burned. A nonbeliever would feel the fires
of hell on his tongue if he drank. But if you have true faith, it shall be as
water to you."

He held out the cup. The girl called Sweet Harmony took it in trembling
hands. A sound like a sigh came from the invisible crowd beyond the torches. As
S.T. watched in helpless horror, she lifted it unhesitatingly to her lips.

As the vessel touched her mouth, Chilton shouted, "Abraham!
Abraham!"
The whisper of the crowd rose to a wail. "I am the angel of the Lord!" Chilton
cried, his voice carrying into the night. "Lower the cup, my child. Do not
drink. You have proven yourself, as Abraham was tested and proven."

Sweet Harmony lowered the cup, and Chilton lifted it from her hands. Her face
was radiant as she watched him.

"Dove of Peace," he said. "Come forward and take the cup."

S.T.'s back grew rigid. He began to breathe harder.

"Your task is more difficult," Chilton said. "You must have faith enough for
two. The man you have brought among us is one of the children of rebellion. His
soul is the soul of wicked men, which God has said is like the restless sea that
cannot be quiet, and its waters toss up mud and refuse."

Dove took the cup from his hands, her head bowed over it.

Chilton put his hands on her shoulders. "It is in you to save him. The faith
of Sweet Harmony would have turned acid into water as it touched her lips,
because she believed in the word of her master. Do you believe in my word?"

Dove nodded. S.T. wet his lips and swallowed.

"Hear me, then. You must take this cup, and pour the liquid into his left
ear, so that the spirit of rebellion will issue forth from his mouth and be gone
forever, and he may be at peace."

The shock of it went through S.T. like a great jolt.

For an instant he was frozen, unbelieving. Then his lips drew back. "You
bastard," he snarled. "You unholy bastard!"

Chilton stroked Dove's hair. "Only you can give him this gift, my child. Do
not hang back from your appointed task."

Dove turned, holding the pitcher in both hands. S.T. couldn't help himself;
he shoved back away from her, as far as the shackles would allow him.

"What do you want, Chilton?" he demanded. "What's your price?"

"The Lord saith: 'Listen to Me, you who know righteousness, a people in whose
heart is My law,' " Chilton intoned. " 'Do not fear the reproach of man, neither
be dismayed at their revilings.' "

Dove of Peace walked toward S.T., her face composed. She knelt beside him."

"Don't do this," S.T. said, breathing fast. "Dove—you don't know what you're
doing. Think about it, for the love of God."

She smiled, but he thought she didn't even see him. "I can give your soul
peace," she murmured. "I'll make you happy."

"No!"
His voice rose. "I won't be able to hear. My other ear's
gone—oh, God. He knows it, Dove! He's using you; what does he want? Ask him what
he wants."

"We all want you to be happy," she said. "You'll find peace with us when the
spirit of rebellion is driven out."

She lifted the pitcher. He shook his head frantically, and then jerked his
shoulder, trying to knock the pitcher from her hand.

Someone grabbed his hair, multiple hands, holding him still by force. "You
must believe," she said. "You must know I would not hurt you. Have faith."

"Don't do it." His eyes watered. "He's crazy. He's made you all crazy."

She shook her head and smiled, as if he were a small and frightened child.
Behind her, Chilton began a prayer. She lifted the pitcher. S.T. fought the
tight grip that twisted his head. "Be still," she said. "Pray with us."

"Please," he whispered. "Please." All his muscles shook with resisting the
hold. "You can't do this." The pitcher rose and tipped in her steady hands. He
squeezed his eyes shut. "You can't; you can't; you can't." He was crying, unable
to comprehend it—God, to be deaf, to have the door slammed completely, to be
helpless in a silent world ... the burning cold liquid hit his ear and flooded
it, blocking out the sound of Chilton's praying, muddling the voices.

The silence became real. They let him go. S.T. bent his head over his knees
with a sob.

It looked the same to Leigh as it always had, this vast and empty country.
Desolate. Gray sky and bleak moor, with the backbone of the Roman wall draped
across the tops of the long ridges like a serpent. Strange weather rolled over
the hills: huge flakes of snow melted when they touched the black ground and
thunder muttered above the clouds.

The wind whipped the chestnut's mane as Leigh rode along a muddy track. The
horse lifted its head nervously, staring around as if there were tigers liable
to leap from the shadowy hollows, alternating a mincing prance with long,
impetuous strides as it slogged through the deep footing.

Leigh prayed they wouldn't come to any actual puddles they couldn't go
around. The animal's timidity about water had been the plague of her journey,
adding a fortnight to what should have been a twenty-day trip. The Seigneur had
said he could take care of it, but he hadn't lingered to prove his claim.

He'd left her, there in the dark and drizzle of the stable yard at the
Mermaid. Oh, he'd not actually left physically, not at that moment But he hadn't
spoken to her again; he hadn't come to the room to sleep, and in the morning
there was only a message. She was to stay until he returned. Her room and board
was paid; she could ask for anything she wanted except cash. He took the black
and the gray rogue. He left her the chestnut that wouldn't cross a bridge.

He'd stranded her there, penniless. Waiting on him like a handmaiden.

It still made her furious, and it hadn't stopped her for half an hour.

The chestnut, however, had slowed her down considerably. She'd tried to sell
it in Rye, but they all knew the animal too well, so she'd taken her pearls and
her dress to the pawn shop. The broker carried them into the back of the shop to
examine the necklace, and then came out and laid ten shillings on the counter,
instead of the four pounds that S.T. had predicted. When she'd protested
ferociously, the broker just shrugged and handed her a pawn ticket. He wouldn't
give the pearls back, and when she threatened to go to the constable, he leaned
on he counter and said she could do what she pleased, and see where it got her.

They knew her, that was why; they all knew that Mr. Maitland, with his
reputation for liberality and swordsmanship, had left his wife in keeping in
Rye. And Rye-unscrupulous smuggler's den that it was—was perfectly willing to
keep her, on speculation of the reward.

At tuppence the mile, she'd calculated it would take at least three pounds
just for stagecoach fare as far as Newcastle, even riding on the outside. She'd
thought she could sell the chestnut once she was out of the neighborhood, but
that too had proved impossible. It had been difficult enough just to
get
the horse out of the neighborhood. Once she'd coaxed and tugged and beaten it
over the seven water crossings between Rye and Tunbridge Wells, she found that
horse copers were a sharp-eyed lot, suspicious, accustomed to sizing up anyone
who brought them an animal to sell. The sight of a breech-clad "boy" on a
sidesaddle made them jeer, and they recognized the chestnut's failings almost
immediately. She'd had to kick one coper in the face, when he put his hand on
her thigh under pretense of adjusting her stirrup.

The best offer she got was from a knacker in Reading. Two pounds.

She'd looked at the chestnut. It had refused to approach within ten feet of
the knacker; it rolled its eyes fearfully as it sidled against the post to which
she'd tied it a few yards away. The bally horse was afraid of everything, she'd
though in disgust—they'd have a job just getting it into the slaughtering yard.

She walked over to the horse and it danced around, backing up frantically as
soon as she untied the lead. It was trembling, too frightened even to bolt. "So,
so, boy ... be calm," she murmured, the same thing she always said when the
horse grew anxious. "Be calm; nothing's wrong. Nothing will hurt you."

As she spoke, it dawned upon her that that was a lie— the ultimate lie—a
final betrayal of what little trust the horse put in her.

The animal did calm at the sound of her voice, just slightly, just enough to
stop the backing and trembling. It froze next to her, neck stiff, mouth tight,
obeying when she asked it to halt—a very small measure of faith in her judgment;
a timid, nervous trust that what she asked it to do was safe.

She changed her mind.

The knacker's offer went to three pounds, enough to pay for the stage, but
she led the horse to a mounting block and managed to get on in spite of the
jumpy shifting and prancing. At the first water crossing she regretted it, and
at every water crossing since.

But they had made it to Northumberland. Whatever the chestnut's other
foibles, the horse had endless stamina, and the energy to shy and bolt even if
they came to a ford at the end of a thirty-mile day of rain and muddy road. It
took longer, but they'd made it.

The chestnut stopped suddenly, staring off into the lowering afternoon where
the clouds drifted over the moors to the north. Leigh tensed for the shying leap
at whatever bogeyman the horse had discovered now, but instead it threw up its
head and whinnied shrilly.

An answer came from the distance. Leigh looked up at the gaunt silhouette of
the Roman wall, blinking against the fat flakes of snow. Through a tumbled gap
in the masonry, a pale horse picked its way, head down as it navigated the
fallen stones. The chestnut whinnied again, and the other horse stopped and
answered. Then it leaped forward and came plunging down the slope of the ridge
toward them.

Leigh dismounted. She let go of the excited chestnut's bridle. She'd ridden
the beast long enough to know she couldn't control it, mounted or on the
ground—not with an unknown animal at large. The chestnut wheeled toward the
approaching horse, galloping to meet it.

They came together halfway down the slope, necks arched, ears pricked.

Leigh stood there in the mud, feeling a sudden tight uneasiness in her chest.
It was the gray rogue, she was certain of it: she could see the scars on its
face from where she was.

So he had come. He was here. She waited, watching the two horses snort at
each other, touching noses. Suddenly the rogue squealed and struck out with its
forefoot, and they both took off running.

The horses pounded along the slope, circled away from her and back, and then
came galloping toward her, sending mud flying amid the snowflakes. She stood her
ground as they tore past, and then the gray seemed to take an interest in her,
for it slowed and came prancing back.

The chestnut followed, trotting up to within a yard of Leigh. It dropped its
head, snuffling for grass beneath the snow and mud. She moved up slowly and
caught it, now that the first ecstasy of meeting appeared to be over. The gray
rogue stopped and stared at them, nostrils wide as it drank in the snowy wind.
Leigh turned the chestnut and began to walk it along the track. After a moment,
she heard the even footsteps of the gray come behind them. The gray hesitated an
instant, and then walked up to her, its hooves squelching in the mud.

She patted its neck, and let it rub its face against her body.

"So where is he?" she asked. "Has he managed to get himself killed yet?"

The rogue nibbled at the trailing end of her scarf. Then its ears pricked.
Both horses lifted their heads as the long, lonely howl of a wolf came floating
over the moors.

* * *

She thought he must be dead.

The rogue might have escaped or been set free, but Nemo would never have
voluntarily left the Seigneur to wander alone.

The wolf seemed pathetically glad to see her. She remembered how S.T. had
always greeted his lupine friend, and she squatted down and allowed Nemo to lick
her face and put his muddy paws on her cloak. She rubbed him and shook his head
between her hands, digging her fingers deep into his damp coat to the warm
dryness next to his skin. He wriggled delightedly, whining and making half barks
of excitement.