The Prince of Midnight by Laura Kinsale
The midwife had taught her that, and a few other things besides, which Leigh suspected even Mama had not known. Leigh hadn’t forgotten; she had the proper leaves and powdered herbs to protect herself in her satchel. She was no longer so naive. Nor would she let herself be at the mercy of a man like the Seigneur, who made such easy promises of love and radiated sensual hunger in every move and glance.
The little donkey lifted its head, releasing a raucous bray, awakening rasping echoes in the street. As the boisterous noise died away, Leigh heard the sound of slow hoof beats. She pocketed the book swiftly and stood up. The Seigneur and the villager turned the corner, leading a roan horse between them.
Leigh looked skeptically at the thin mare. The Seigneur met her glance and shrugged. “We’ll not do better,” he said.
“She’s moon-eyed,” Leigh pointed out.
“Aye, I know it.” He still sounded nettled. “She’s got a little sight left.”
“And the price?”
He scowled at her. “Four louis for the chaise and the mare. Do you try to chaffer him down yourself, if you please.”
Leigh turned away from him. “’Tis no concern of mine.”
He was silent a moment. Then he spoke to the villager briefly in patois. The little man led the mare to the cabriolet and backed her between the traces.
S.T. drove. He kept his eyes locked on the ground ahead, determined not to display any sign of the queasiness that he felt in the swaying chaise. Leigh sat beside him, gripping the side of the cabriolet against the bumps, wincing every time the blind horse tripped. S. T pretended not to notice.
Across the Rhône at Montélimar, through wave after wave of the strange hills of the Ardèche, volcanic rock and black promontories, the blind mare took her stumbling passage on a road that was sometimes little more than a stony track. As long as S.T. concentrated, and didn’t relax or allow the vehicle to pitch him about, he kept the discomfort under control. More than once, he got out and walked, leading the horse over the roughest stretches.
For distraction, he began to work the mare while he drove the chaise, both reins gathered into his left hand and passed between his fingers so that the lightest squeeze sent a signal. He murmured to her, a soft, tuneless rise and fall of tones, using his voice to precede the cues of the reins.
The little sightless mare was smart; after taking some time to accept the sound and smell of a wolf as Nemo trailed behind, she started to settle down and to respond quite readily: to turn slightly left in answer to a low tone, to the right in reply to a higher one even before he tightened the rein. He was pleased to find that it seemed to help her move. Instead of being pulled off balance by the reins in order to avoid rocks and obstacles, stumbling when she reacted too slowly, the more subtle cue of his voice brought an instant response that allowed her to evade the impediments before she tripped over them. By the time they’d traveled half a day, the horse was walking bravely on long reins, her ears flicked back to catch the signals and her stumbling infrequent. When the road widened into a smooth, new-built stretch, she picked up a willing trot.
Nemo jogged along behind the cabriolet, looking purposeful and content now that they were covering ground. It was for the wolf’s sake that S.T. had chosen this secondary road instead of the frequented highway through Lyon and Dijon. The memory of the man-eating Beasts of Gévaudan, blamed for killing threescore human victims only a decade ago, was fresh all over France. Nemo wouldn’t show himself if he could help it, but the more lonely the country they traversed, the easier for him to find cover.
What would come of taking the wolf into the belly of populated France, S.T. had not yet brought himself to face.
By evening, he judged they had traveled nearly three times the distance they might have made on foot. His back hurt from the tension of sitting forward and resisting the motion of the chaise. His head ached. Just outside of Aubenas, he stopped the cabriolet and looked at Leigh through the chilly evening air. “Would you like your supper served on a table tonight?”
Her eyebrows rose. “What a novel idea.”
He hiked himself out of the chaise, calling Nemo. The wolf came panting up from some side trip, leaping over a clump of broom and greeting S.T. fervently. S.T. led him up off the road into the pines, casting about until he found a promising fallen log. He knelt down and pushed at the pine needles and dirt, scooping a wolf-shaped bed. Nemo joined in, circling and pawing until he finally flopped down, satisfied, and curled his tail over his nose, looking up at S.T. from behind the furry brush.
S.T. made the signal to stay. Nemo’s head came up. As S.T. walked away, he knew the wolf’s eyes were on his back. He wasn’t absolutely certain Nemo would remain there until he returned, but he hoped the wolf’s training would hold in the absence of some intense distraction like the pack that had lured Nemo away from Col du Noir.
He returned to the chaise, dusting the dirt off his sleeves. Inside the vehicle, he took a deep breath against the queer sensation that gripped him as soon as the cabriolet lurched forward. Leigh looked at him sideways.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
He wasn’t going to admit it. Not to her, oh, no. He pasted on a confident smile. “Voracious. There’s bound to be an inn at Aubenas.”
She gazed at him intently. S.T. set his jaw and drove on.
Like all French inns, dim and dirty as it was, the Cheval Blanc laid a decent table. Leigh did the ordering: soupe maigre, carp and roasted partridge with fresh lettuce, chard, wheat bread, and mounds of butter. He could see that after weeks of dry black bread and cheese, she found the fare very pleasant.
S.T. was not so cheerful. The travel sickness was slow to leave him. He sat quietly, eating only the soup and the dessert of biscuits and apple, taken along with some wine. Even the bill of nineteen livres—a ruthless extortion equal to all they’d paid for food since La Paire—hardly seemed worth the trouble of disputing. He paid without a murmur and then sipped his coffee, gazing out the window into the dark.
“Are you quite well?” Leigh asked suddenly.
He glanced at her, and then away. “Yes.”
“Perhaps we should put up here for the night.”
“If you like,” he said indifferently.
“I think I should prefer a bed to the ground. Was your wine drinkable?”
He looked toward her again, this time with a little more consciousness, a slight lift of his eyebrow. “Very adequate, thank you.”
“I wonder if they have a chess set?”
“A chess set.” He sat back and gazed at her. “Your disposition becomes friendly.”
She avoided his direct look. “Merely a thought,” she said.
He turned and spoke to the landlord in patois. The variation in dialect caused S.T. some trouble in communicating, but after a long bout of questioning, with recourse to French and much hand waving and repeating of “Échiquier, monsieur?”; Mais oui, échiquier!”, a badly faded chessboard was finally forthcoming. As he debated with the landlord, S.T. began to feel better. By the time he procured the box of game pieces and a smelly candle, he settled in his chair across the table and looked up at her with a grin.
“Will you trounce me in white or black?” he asked, holding out his closed fists.
She hesitated, and then chose the left. He opened his hand on a black pawn.
“Very sinister,” he said. “I’m winning already.”
“Many a gentleman would give up the opening move to—” She stopped herself.
“A novice?” he supplied innocently, knowing she’d been about to claim her prerogative as a lady.
“A younger person.”
“I suppose I’m perfectly primordial.”
“You’re far older than I am.”
“Thirty-three. On terms with Noah.” He dropped a white knight in its place. “For that impudence, I’m afraid I shall be forced to deal with you as you deserve.” He sorted the other pieces and began to place them. “You needn’t worry that anyone here unders
Leigh watched him open with the queen’s pawn. She stared at the board, settling into intense concentration. It took little time to recognize that she’d challenged an experienced player, but his moves were so unfathomable that she couldn’t really judge his ability. The rest of the inn grew dark and empty as they played; only their single candle shed a halo of light on the table, the pieces casting long shadows across the board. The Seigneur lounged back in his chair between moves, his hands folded across his waistcoat, his face composed. She began to feel they were fairly matched. As she closed in with her purposeful strategy, his play quickened, becoming even more haphazard, a sure sign that he was floundering. She kept on until she had him trapped.
“Check,” she said.
He sat forward and leaned on his hand. “Checkmate,” he murmured, moving his bishop.
Leigh slumped in her chair.
“We doddering ancients must take our victories where we may,” he said apologetically.
She bit her lip.
He looked up at her, still leaning his cheek on his hand, and smiled. “You’re only in need of wider experience, Sunshine. And a bit less predictability.”
Leigh met his eyes. Like an instant flame, it was there—the powerful awareness of his physical presence: of his body relaxed in the chair, his arm resting easily on the table. The candlelight caught and emphasized the upward curve of his eyebrows and sprinkled gilt on his lashes.
After the concentration of the game, the intimate glance took her by surprise. For a moment it seemed to rush in her blood. She felt strangely fragile, felt how it might have been in another time and place, how he might have turned and caught her with a look: across a gay ballroom, a silent invitation amidst the polish and refinement, a temptation to reckless things.
Forbidden worlds. Wild joy and romance. A midnight ride with an outlaw prince, and life, and life, and life. He burned with it.
And she would have gone. Her throat grew thick with longing. She thought: you should have come sooner. You should have come when I could feel.
He sat silently. His faint smile pierced her, wounded her in its tenderness, like a sweet note vibrating on the evening hush, a joy too intense for the heart to bear.
It terrified her. She felt the cliff, the crumbling edge—how easy it would be to fail. Her back grew stiff. She sat up straight in the chair, her mouth curled into scorn. “What will you have for a prize then, monsieur?” she asked.
S.T. did not immediately understand her. He’d been gazing at her, watching her droop in the chair, smiling at her chagrin over the loss. She’d really thought she was going to beat him, little tigress, settled over the chessboard with that fierce scrutiny and charming frown.
He would have grinned and said, “a kiss”: he almost did—and then the cool, contemptuous way her lips curved as she spoke struck him with abrupt and vicious effect. The moment of affinity evaporated. He saw himself manipulated again, set up and mocked, what he felt perverted deliberately into what she chose to make it.
A mercantile transaction. A profanity, a desecration, a conscious attack.
His mouth tightened. “Nothing.” He pushed back sharply from the table and stood up. “Hire yourself a room,” he said, low and hostile. “I’ll sleep outside.”
Leigh watched him use the door frame to catch his balance as he pivoted. The door slammed behind him.
She bowed her head. She stared at the table, hardly able to breathe.
Let him trifle with her. Let him flirt and romance her, use her as a whore… anything. Just let him never look at her with that open tenderness again.
Not now. Not yet. Not ever.
The moon-eyed mare stood quietly in her stall, her nose in the empty trough. By the light of a tallow lamp S.T. fondled her ears, leaning his shoulder against the lava wall. She nodded gently beneath his touch, lipped the trough and sighed.
He passed his hand over her cloudy eyes, trying to make her blink. He thought she could still see a little; in a month or two the progressive moon-blindness would render her completely sightless.
He ran his hand along the top of her neck. “What’s to become of you, chérie?” he asked softly. “Who’ll take a blind mare?” He massaged her thin withers. “Damn… damn… damn… who’ll take a sorry relic of a highwayman? Not she. Oh, no.” He leaned on the mare’s shoulder and put his arm across her neck. “It’s hard, chérie. I wish to cherish her, and she spits on me. She doesn’t believe in me.”
He scowled, stroking the unkempt roan coat. The mare rubbed her chin on the edge of the feed trough.
“What shall I do about it, eh?” he muttered. “Shall I show her?”
Carefully, he set his hands on the mare’s back. With one swift move, he hiked himself up and swung his leg over, grabbing at her mane as his balance whirled. He almost went off the other side. For a long moment he hung onto her neck like a child with its first pony, his face buried in the long mane.
The mare stood steadily, braced on all four legs against his awkward position. Slowly S.T. pushed himself upright.
“Quite the cavalier, no?” he murmured. “What do you know of the high school, madame? Can you show me the courbette? The capriole?”
He stroked her neck, smiling grimly to himself at the thought of this angular mare suddenly rearing up and leaping on her hind feet, rising free of the earth in the courbette. Or more absurd, perform a capriole, spring into the air to thrust forward and kick out with her hind legs in the most spectacular and difficult of all the airs above the ground.
“Ah, would that you had seen my Charon before you lost your sight,” he told her. “You would be in love, little peasant. A handsome stallion he was; all black as pitch. A great one for the ladies.” He leaned over and slapped her on both sides of her withers. “I miss him. My God, look at me, Charon, my friend. Look what it comes to. I’ve lived too long.”
Experimentally, he pressed his leg against the mare’s left side. The horse ignored him, snuffling in the trough after stray corn.
“What a sad ignoramus you are, chérie.” He tugged at the base of her mane. “You came along smartly enough today—I shall have to teach you something else. What should a blind mare know, hmm? Perhaps you would like to learn a proper curtsy? Shall we cultivate your manners and see you fit to make your bow to the king?”
She blew out a noisy breath against the wooden box.
“Mais oui. He braced himself on her neck and carefully dismounted. Untying the lead, he backed her out of the stall and began the first stage of the lesson.
By the time he was finished, the lamp had long since burned out and they both worked blind. He thought that fair: it gave him a better notion of what the mare’s world was like. Since she’d already done a full day’s labor, he didn’t try to finish the trick in one session, but only taught her the signal to place her foreleg. Then he gave her another half measure of corn and tied her in the stall.
He slept in the stable yard, sitting up in the cabriolet with the leather hood raised to keep off the dew. Sometime very late in the night, the chaise rattled and bounced wildly. He woke to find Nemo trying to crawl into his lap. S.T. grunted and shifted while the wolf sprawled heavily across his legs. Nemo licked S.T.’s chin, sighed, and settled himself, bushy tail and one hind leg hanging off the cramped seat.
Just at dawn, the wolf woke suddenly and pushed upright, digging clumsy paws into S.T.’s stomach. S.T. groaned sleepily and shoved, but Nemo was already jumping down.
A female screech rent the morning quiet. S.T. jerked awake, thrusting himself forward, catching the dashboard and stumbling down from the vehicle. In the half light, a dark-eyed barefoot girl was at the stable door, shrieking in patois, “Wolf! Father, come! Help! Father, Father, it’s a wolf.”
S.T. grabbed her around the shoulders. “Hush!” He bent his mouth to her ear. “Hush, hush—be quiet; it’s nothing; you’re safe.”
“I saw a wolf!” She whimpered, c
“Non, non, little foolish one.” He cradled her in his arms. “You dream. Le bête noire, oui? A nightmare.”
He could hear the commotion from the main house. The landlord came pelting around the back of the inn, followed by a fat woman brandishing a broom.
“C’est bien,” S.T. called, still holding the dark-eyed girl. “Only a fright.”
She leaned against him. “I saw it,” she cried. “I saw it! Father, a wolf!”
S.T. patted her cap and kissed her forehead in urgent reassurance. “There was no wolf. I’m certain. I was out early, to see to my horse.” He looked up at her father. “A witless little sparrow, eh?”
The innkeeper relaxed. He regarded S.T. and the girl, apparently not displeased with the arm S.T. had around her waist. “Witless,” he agreed gruffly. “Don’t pester the man, Angéle.”
The fat woman broke into voluble patois, called Angéle an idle hussy, and gestured with the broom toward the barn. S.T. gave the clinging girl a squeeze of encouragement. He chucked her beneath the chin.
“Do your chores,” he said. “There’s no wolf, I promise you, sweeting.”
She loosened her hold reluctantly. Her parents went back around the house, but Angéle adhered to S.T., holding his coattail in her fist, her black eyes round.
“I saw it, monsieur,” she insisted. “I saw a wolf, big as life. Beside your chaise!”
“No-you’re mistaken—”
“I did!” Her voice grew shrill. “I did, monsieur!”
“Silly child; just forget it!” By way of distraction, he drew her back, tilted her chin up, and kissed her mouth.
Angéle’s body went rigid. After an instant, she softened against him, and seemed willing enough to pass over the incident in those circumstances. She stared up at him as he lifted his head. “Monsieur!” she murmured.
“Would I could stay another day,” he teased.
She ducked her head. S.T. let her go. She looked up at him beneath her dark lashes, the tip of her tongue just peeking between her lips. Then she giggled and dashed into the stable. S.T. watched until she slipped inside, and began to walk toward the inn.