The Prince of Midnight (44 page)

She tried to help then, struggling, trying to draw her knee up beneath her.
The horse turned. She felt herself sliding. She whimpered frantically, making a
desperate heave with her arms and elbows to stay on. Steel clashed; the horse
whirled again. Beyond the saddle and the Prince's thigh she caught a glimpse of
the stranger.

His wig had flown askew, but his face was set in murderous intent. He ducked
the Prince's sword and attacked with his own. Harmony pulled her bound hands
over her head and turned her face into the horse's shoulder as the blade came at
her, heard the ring of steel and harsh breath of the man above her as he fought.
Her chin banged painfully on the saddle; the pommel pressed sickeningly into her
stomach.

The horse moved, rocking her forward as it plunged down the stairs. She began
to slide off, feet first. A solid hand clamped down on her buttocks and shoved
her back to bumping equilibrium.

She let herself go limp. For an instant, she turned her head, opened her eyes
and saw the pews flicker past upside down. The rider leaned forward over her.
They passed the inner door, the air growing frigid on her bare legs. She saw
splintered slats of wood on the floor and one great oak door hanging loose on
its hinge, just before the horse jolted down the outside stairs into the night.

The white horse hit the pavement at a bone-jarring trot. Shouts followed
them, all male, receding into the distance while Harmony wriggled and panted and
tried to hold on to her position.

"Merde,"
the Prince muttered, shoving at her rump. "Leave off
squirming, will you?"

The horse broke into a gentle, rocking canter, making it far easier to obey
the command than it had been at the bouncing trot. The loose reins flapped in
her face. She felt his body twist above her, heard the hiss and rattle of metal
as he sheathed his sword. With both hands, he hauled her upright against his
chest.

She flailed at the change in balance. His arm pressed into her middle like
iron, choking her breath. She managed to kick her legs over the horse's neck and
took a deep gulp of frigid night air as he loosened his hold.

"Th-th-th-thank you," she gasped, her teeth chattering in fear and cold.

"You're welcome," he said, in an amused voice.

She shuddered, trying to draw her torn shift together. He brought both arms
up around her, enveloping her in the warm folds of his cloak.

Harmony sat with her bare legs against the saddle and his thighs, staring
dully at the white shadow of the horse in front of her. "Ohh," she whimpered,
swallowing a sob. Her head drooped forward. "I'm afraid I—I might be sick!"

The horse danced suddenly sideways and halted. The cloak opened and he bent
her over the stirrup, holding her by the shoulders as dry heaves racked her
body.

When finally the nausea subsided, she closed her eyes and hung feebly, unable
even to straighten up. Just breathing was an effort.

"Better?" he asked, in that low, sweet voice she knew she would remember all
her life.

She nodded. He lifted her upright and let her rest back against him, drawing
the cloak up again as the horse began to walk forward. Harmony looked around at
the shadowy road. They were just passing beyond the last house.

"We should run," she said in a shaky voice. "They'll be after us."

"We can outdistance them."

"You saved me," she said. "You saved me."

"Aye." His gloved hand rested solidly over hers.

"I love you!" she blurted, and began to cry, breathing in deep, throttling
sobs.

He chuckled softly. The horse lifted its poll and broke into another easy
canter, without the guidance of the slack reins.

Harmony managed to suppress her sobs. "Did you kill him?" she asked.

"What a bloodthirsty lot you damsels are. Kill who?"

"That awful man. He tore my shift. He was going to .. . to—" She struggled
for breath.

"Ah. That man."

She shuddered.

The Prince said quietly, "I didn't manage to kill him, more's the pity. I
couldn't maneuver in there, not with you aboard. But I don't think there will be
another of Chilton's 'ascensions' soon."

"No," she whispered. "Everything's falling to pieces. Everything's mad. The
beast . . . the witch with the sword ..." She swallowed. "Perhaps it truly is
the devil, come to torment Master Jamie."

"Then he'll have to queue up and wait his turn."

She leaned back against him: the only secure warmth in a shifting world. Each
swinging stride of the horse pressed her into his chest.

Tears ran down her cheeks. She lifted her hand beneath the cloak and brushed
it against her face. "Forgive me," she mumbled. "I shan't cry."

"Don't regard it," he said comfortably. "I'm perfectly accustomed to female
watering pots." He picked up the reins and turned the horse off the road,
heading up onto the starlit heights of the fell.

It really was too bad, S.T. thought, that Leigh hadn't been there to see him
ride into the church and rescue Sweet Harmony.

Too damned bad. He hadn't needed his rapier, after all.

Harmony lay back against him, her face turned into his chin, as Mistral
picked the way in the dark. S.T. could feel her light breath on his throat.

She'd
believed in him. She'd been sure he'd deliver her. No doubt it
was for the best if she never realized just what a near-run thing it had been,
arriving in time.

The cave for which S.T. headed was of Nemo's finding, discovered one night
while he fed the wolf secretly, slipping out with a brace of pheasant or hares
or whatever he could manage to acquire without causing comment. Nemo could hunt
everything from fish to ravens to mice for himself; he could survive for days on
nothing at all, but if he went hungry enough- to begin killing sheep, it would
raise the whole countryside. There'd been no wolves in Britain for generations,
but memories were long.

S.T. wasn't sure if anyone else had heard that one lonely howl this morning.
Likely the wolf had been drawn off after Leigh when she'd ridden out, for which
S.T. was grudgingly thankful. She'd still not returned by the time he'd managed
to force the girls into leaving with him, but there'd been no time to go out
searching for her.

Mistral lifted his head and uttered a soft nicker. S.T. ducked to avoid the
low hanging branches as they plunged down a small path through the underbrush.

Properly speaking, it wasn't a cave at all, but an ancient, underground room
built of arched stones, the entrance stairs and heavy iron door completely
obscured by dirt and bushes. The area around was a mass of Roman ruins, a lonely
outpost near the river. When Charity and Dove had adamantly refused to go to
Hexham, S.T. had piled them together on black Sirocco with a promise that they
could help him, and led them here.

Amid wails of protest, he'd left them.

He didn't really expect them to be waiting in the dark; he'd reckoned they'd
head for the nearest farmhouse, but Sirocco was still staked out where S.T. had
left him. When S.T. called their names, a pathetic pair of voices floated out of
the murky opening.

Harmony stirred in his arms. S.T. swung down, shoving aside a branch, and
peered into the dark cavern. "Halloo! What's become of the candles I left you?"

"I dropped 'em where'us can't see," said Charity in a small and trembling
voice.

"We're afraid of rats," Dove added wretchedly.

S.T. walked back to Mistral and gave Harmony a lift by the waist. When she
was on the ground, he dug a flint and taper out of his saddlebag. In the
flickering light, two pale faces stared up at him but of the shadowed hole.

"Harmony?" Charity said on a waver. "Oh, Harmony!" She came scrambling up the
stairs through the branches and threw her arms around the other girl. They both
began to weep, Charity pulling her own cloak around Sweet Harmony's shivering
shoulders. "I didn't never think to look on 'ee again! Yer poor dress—an' yer
hands— oh, Harmony, what ha' they done to 'ee?"

"There was a m-man!" Harmony cried, while Charity worked to free the knotted
cord around her wrists. " 'Twas horrible; Master Jamie said I was to ascend, but
they put a
rope
around my neck, and he ... and he—" She broke off into
a sob and turned away, chafing her wrists. "But . . . but now I'm safe. The
Pnnce came—on his horse-in the church, with his sword and everything! Oh—'twas
the most tremendous thing. I wish you could have seen it!"

All three of them looked toward S.T. in awe.

"You've got me wishing I'd seen it myself," he said, handing the taper to
Charity. "I'll build you a fire before I go."

"You're going to leave us again?" Dove cried, her reverence dissolving into
dismay.

"There's no time for anything else. I intend to be virtuously sipping punch
and toasting my feet beside the Twice Brewed's hearth before Luton returns."

"Had best hurry, then," Charity said. "I can make a fire," she added
staunchly. "Now that there be light."

"Good girl." He caught up Sirocco's lead rope and guided the horse around,
dragging the saddle off Mistral and tossing it onto the black. "Can you find
your way to take him down to the river for water?"

"Aye, m'lord!" Charity said, eager and proud. "And I'll give'un the nose bag
'ee brung."

S.T. mounted. Harmony, with Charity's cloak hugged around her, hurried
forward and put her hand on his boot.

"Thank you," she said in a soft voice. "Oh—how much I thank you!"

He reached down and slid his gloved finger under her chin. Her upturned face
was very sweet, the trace of tears still glistening on her cheeks and lashes. He
leaned over, tilted her chin upward, and kissed her mouth. Then he put his heels
to Sirocco and sent the horse lunging up the path.

Really, he thought, it was too bad Leigh wasn't there to see it.

Even avoiding the main road and following the wall, he made good time on a
rested horse, stopping well off from the dusky lights of the Twice Brewed to
remove the mask and change his black and silver gauntlets for plain
open-fingered mitts. Sirocco blew restively, swinging his hindquarters in a
manner that made S.T. pause and look up, squinting into the dark where the horse
was looking.

He heard the sound of the hooves, and leaned over to put his hand on
Sirocco's nose, hoping to discourage any equine welcome. But the irregular thud
drew nearer; he heard the rattle of stones and then saw the dark shape moving
toward him in the night.

He drew his sword. "Declare yourself!"

There was no answer. The shadowy form jogged nearer, until he could make out
the dim white blaze and stockings.

"Leigh!" Relief rolled through him for an instant, and then the chestnut
dropped to a walk and stuck out its nose to greet Sirocco. S.T. saw the reins
dangling into the murk.

He swore. He caught at the chestnut's bit and dragged it forward, trying to
see evidence of a fall. In the dark, he could find no sign that the horse had
gone down, no mud nor marks on the saddle—small comfort, but a little. It was
hard to be tossed from a sidesaddle, with the leaping tree to hold a rider in
place, but if a horse reared and toppled backwards that same brace became a trap
to entangle her beneath a half ton of flailing horseflesh.

She might be lying somewhere in the dark, crushed and unconscious. Or dead.

"Leigh," he shouted, standing up in his stirrups. "
Leigh
!"

The ghostly frost of his breath disappeared into blackness. He didn't care
now if anyone heard him; he didn't care what Luton might suspect—he'd turn out
every soul at the Twice Brewed in the search. He listened, damning his bad ear,
straining to control his breath and the horses' movements so he could hear any
faint response. The light, cold wind brought silence. He turned the horses
toward the north.

"
Leigh
!" he bellowed again, and his voice came echoing back in the
night.

He held his breath—and heard an unmistakable whim-per. He stiffened, trying
to guess the direction, but no hunt proved necessary. The horses both turned and
stared, nostrils flaring, as a bobbing gray shape in the obscurity took on the
solid outline of a wolf, trotting doggedly forward in spite of an awkward limp.

S.T. sheathed his sword and dismounted. Nemo pressed up against his legs in a
subdued vestige of the wolf's usual leaping greeting. S.T. knelt and allowed his
face to be washed, searching gently over the thick, cold fur until he felt the
matted wound just above Nemo's foreleg.

He didn't probe it, not caring to disturb Nemo's friendly humor. There was
little he could see in the dark anyway. The wolf didn't seem too much the worse
for his injury, on his feet and able to move, but S.T. had a lump of
apprehension in his throat, a nagging sense of dread.

He knelt with the wolf, stroking the deep fur, trying to grasp something that
danced at the edge of his memory.

The beast. . . the sword . . . the witch . . .

Nemo. The colichemarde.

The witch—and the way she'd ridden out of that stable as if the furies of
hell were at her back.

Like a spark struck into sawdust, he understood. Realization of what she'd
done burst full-blown upon him.

"Oh, you little fool," he breathed. "You hare-brained little fool." He stood
up and stared around him, feeling blank, feeling the full implication sink into
his heart.

Chilton. She'd gone out alone to take him. And she hadn't come back.

"Damn you, Leigh!" he yelled to the night sky. "Damn you, damn you,
damn
you
!"

Leigh was not afraid of the dark. She loved the night; had always felt
defended by the darkness when she'd walked out alone beneath the stars. Not
specters nor fiends nor fears of the devil's eldritch beasties disturbed her, if
she was outdoors and free.