The Prince of Midnight by Laura Kinsale
S.T. spoke to Leigh in an even tone. “You want to stay a little behind him when you make him move.” The horse flicked an ear toward the sound of his voice. “When you ask him to turn, take a step into his path, use the whip and your voice, but give him plenty of room. If you fear he’s going to run you down, get out of the way. Don’t comer him. And don’t just stand there as if you’ve been planted. Move him on, now.”
She was awkward at it, getting her feet tangled in the whip for a moment before she managed to make it snap. The horse jumped and stood its ground, still staring at her.
“Move him,” S.T. repeated. “Show him the drill sergeant’s got here now: he can’t just slouch around and do anything he likes. He’s got to move, and you’ve got to tell him which way.”
She took a step toward the animal’s rump, snapping the whip with a motion that didn’t quite result in a real crack. But the big gray got the notion. He gathered his haunches and took off running, careening around the paddock at a breakneck pace.
After several minutes of this pounding gallop, S.T. realized she wasn’t going to do anything. He raised his voice over the pumping sound of the horse’s breathing.
Make him turn. Just hold out the whip if you’re afraid he’ll run you down.”
“I’m not afraid,” she said instantly.
“Then do it, Sunshine.”
She took a large step sideways. He thought she looked luscious, spread-legged in her breeches and boots. The gray skidded to a stop as if a nightmare had suddenly materialized in its path, hauled around, and galloped the other way.
“Good,” S.T. said. “We’re not here just to wear him out—you have to convince him that you’re worth listening to. This is a lesson. Turn him again. Keep on until I tell you differently.”
She did it, getting tangled in the whip again as she transferred it to the other hand. The gray broke to a wild trot, and her chirrup drove him back to a canter without S.T.’s prompting.
Her face had grown absorbed as she watched the animal move and tried to anticipate its attempts to evade her. The whip seemed to fit more naturally into her hand. She repeated the turning exercise once more, and then again and again.
S.T. watched the horse critically. It took far longer to work the powerful rogue than the black—this animal had a true mind of its own, and convincing the beast that it was responding to direction rather than just desperately escaping a threat was a long, slow process. For a solid hour, he said nothing, just let her turn the horse and turn it again, drive it on and turn it, until the animal’s pale coat had gone dark all over with sweat and the sound of its breathing was like steam exploding from a boiler.
“Can’t I let him stop?” Leigh cried at last. “This is going to kill him.”
Perspiration trickled down her own: face. Her cheeks held a bright flush, but she never took her eyes off the circling horse.
“Sweeting, that horse could run for the next three counties. See the way he scrambles around when he turns? He’s still convinced you’re the devil himself.” S.T. squinted at the winded gray. “But he’s thinking about it. There—did you catch the way he looked at you instead of stargazing off at the countryside? Next time he does that, lower the whip, relax your stance, and offer to let him turn toward you.”
S.T. watched patiently as she missed the first half dozen chances, overlooking subtle changes in the fatigued horse’s posture that were as clear as a shout to S.T. The animal gave her every opportunity, dropping its nose and flicking its ears slightly back and toward her as it cantered recklessly along.
S.T. began to feel a twinge of affection for the gorgeous, muddled beast. He always did as his horses approached this point, getting exhausted and earnest, blowing hard with each stride, looking around like confused children for somebody to take charge. Somebody to say it was time to stop running.
“Lower the whip,” he said quietly. “Give him a chance to look toward you.”
Leigh’s mouth was set. She gripped the whip even as she lowered it, her knuckles tight. She stepped forward to turn the horse—and the gray still scrambled around with its rump defiantly toward her as it turned. Its flanks were heaving, sucking air with every desperate breath, but the animal would not surrender to her.
She tried twice more, without S.T.’s encouragement. Both times the horse turned tail, declining to swing its head inward as it changed direction. He could see her frustration in her back, in the way she carried her shoulders.
“I can’t do it,” she said, without looking away from the horse.
“You’re losing your temper,” he said.
“I’m tired!” Her voice was quivering. “I don’t want to do this. You can do it, if you want.”
This was where he had intended to take over. To stride out and assume control and prove his competence.
Instead, he heard himself say, “Try again.”
She tried again. It didn’t work.
“See?” She glanced at S.T., defiant and vulnerable.
“See what? Don’t tell me you’re tired; that breaks no squares with me. You’re telling him you’re angry with every muscle in your body—do you think he’s going to stop and ask you why?”
She wiped at a trickle of perspiration with her sleeve and looked away from him with an irritated move. The horse cantered relentlessly on, its shoulders and flanks dark with sweat.
She lifted the whip again, asking the rogue to turn. Once again it spun away from her. Three more times, she repeated the attempt, and three times failed to coax the willful, weary horse to yield her its head. The fourth time the gray showed her its rump, she gave a harsh, defeated sigh and threw down the whip, turning to the gate.
And the gray came to a complete halt, its head hanging, facing toward her at the center of the paddock.
“Hold up,” S.T. said instantly.
She looked back.
“Just stand there,” he said.
She stared at the blowing horse. They both looked bewildered—a little amazed at the sudden stalemate.
“Let him rest. Let him stay there-as long as he will, but the minute he takes his eyes off you, drive him on.”
Someone coughed, and the gray jumped, swinging his head toward the sound. Instantly, Leigh’s whip came up, and the horse scrambled into a canter.
“Give him another chance,” S.T. said after a moment.
She lowered the whip and stepped toward the horse’s course. The gray swung its head inward and bounced to a halt, staring at her.
“Good,” S.T. said. “Good. Drive him on if he takes his attention away.”
But the rogue had made a choice. He stood with his nostrils flaring, drinking in air frantically, his eyes locked on Leigh. She stayed still, the tension in her body gone at last.
After a few minutes, S.T. instructed her to walk in a slow arc around the horse. The animal swung its head as if magnetized, shifting its hind legs, turning in a complete circle around its forefeet in order to keep her in view.
“Take a step straight toward him,” S.T. said softly. “If he starts to back off, don’t chase him. You walk away before he does.”
She obeyed. The horse lifted its head suspiciously. She took another step. S.T. tensed as the horse did, but she caught the signs in time and turned away. The gray lowered its head and walked a few steps after her.
She stopped. The horse stopped. Once again, she took a few steps toward it. The gray looked nervous, moving its head away, and then snapping its attention back to her when she ducked quietly.
“That’s it,” S.T. murmured. “That’s the trick.”
In small increments, the horse allowed her to come closer. When she was within a yard, S.T. told her to walk away. The gray followed her.
She faced it again and took a few slow steps forward. Several times the horse almost turned away to run, indecision in every trembling line, in the way it lifted its head and twitched its nose an inch away and then back again at her soft warning chirrups. He could see the horse trying desperat
“Let him come,” S.T. said quietly. “Let him make the choice. Turn away.”
She turned her shoulder to the horse. It took a step, gazed at her doubtfully out of one eye and then the other. And then, with a great sigh, it dropped its head and ambled forward to stand with its poor battered nose a few inches from her sleeve, asking for rest and comfort in the only way it could.
“Very slowly,” S.T. murmured. “See if you can touch his face.”
She lifted her hand. The gray’s head came sharply up again, and the animal watched her with liquid brown eyes. She dropped her hand, and the horse relaxed. She lifted her hand again, and this time the gray didn’t shy, only raised its nose a little. She touched the blood-spotted forehead lightly. The horse’s ears were flicking back and forward anxiously, its nostrils still swelling with the quick pants. But the animal stood its ground.
She moved her hand down, barely stroking its nose. She touched its ears and ran her hand down its neck as S.T. had done to the other horse. The rogue stood steady, its sides heaving. She rubbed its poll. The horse turned its head, pushing upward into her hand a little, as if to ask for a harder massage.
“Oh, God,” she said in a cracked voice. “Oh, God.” Her mouth opened, and she put her hand over a sudden, wrenching sob. She took a step back, and the gray threw up its head in startlement. Then the horse turned, following her. It stood with its nose at her waist, breathing more steadily.
Suddenly she turned and began to stride away. Her face was white, as if she’d just seen a terrible accident. The horse trailed behind her. She stopped and turned. The rogue stopped beside her.
No one spoke.
“Oh, look at you,” she cried in a broken voice. She put her hand over her mouth again, and reached out with the other. As she rubbed the horse’s ears, it bobbed its head gently. “Look at you!” Tears began to tumble down her face. Her expression seemed to crumble, to lose its substance and shatter into something wild and awful. She stood there with silent sobs racking her body, massaging the horse’s poll.
S.T. felt as if the breath had been knocked out of his chest. He almost went over the fence.
But he didn’t. He was paralyzed. He whispered, “See if you can put your arms around his neck.”
She did that, breathing in distraught hiccups. She bent down when he told her and picked up one of the rogue’s forefeet. It stood peacefully, only turning its head to nudge at her as she bent over. She was crying all the time as she went around the animal and handled each of its feet. He told her to walk away again, and the gray plodded along at her side.
She looked at it as if it were something terrible, some strange and terrifying vision as it came to a placid halt beside her. Her face was wet, splotchy with tears. She swallowed painfully. “Oh, how did this happen?” She stroked the animal’s face again, its neck and ears, making little whimpering sounds. “Oh, God, you’re so beautiful; why are you coming to me?”
She wiped the tears away with her arm. The horse nudged her. She shook her head and sobbed frantically.
“I didn’t want this!” She shoved at the animal’s head, as if to make it move away, but it only shifted around and faced her again. “I don’t want it!” She put her hands over her face. Her shoulders were shaking. The gray pushed its nose against her body and tried to rub its face on her coat.
She sank to her knees, her face buried. S.T. moved at last, hiking himself over the fence, savagely curbing his impulse to run, moving with slow deliberation to reassure the horse.
The rogue’s head lifted in startlement at this new intrusion. It took two steps backward, and he jerked his chin up and spoke sharply to drive it on. He reached for the whip where Leigh had dropped it and sent the animal cantering around the paddock.
“I had to make him go,” he said inanely to the huddle at his feet. “You’ve got to stand up, Sunshine; it’s too dangerous.” He caught her arm, tugging gently. “Stand up, sweeting—you can’t lie down here.”
She lifted her face, and he felt a shaft of pure agony at the dazed misery in it. He pulled her up, allowing the whip to fall. The gray instantly dropped to a trot and turned inward, walking toward them. When she saw that, another huge sob welled up, and she turned her face into S.T.’s chest, holding on to his coat.
“Damn you!” she shouted into his shoulder. “Why did you do this to me?” She curled her fist and smashed it against him. “Why—why—why?”
He stood there helplessly, holding her close with one arm and stroking the horse’s offered head with the other. The gray seemed to take her hysterical voice as a matter of course, adjusting to it as quickly as to S.T.’s presence. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “It’s all right.”
“It’s not all right!” she cried against his chest. “I hate you!” She gripped his coat in her fists. “I don’t want you. I don’t want this.” She was breathing as if she couldn’t get enough air. “I can’t—bear it!” she cried, with her voice breaking in a shrill whimper like a frenzied child’s.
He didn’t answer. The three of them stood there in the middle of the paddock, with twenty pairs of yokels’ eyes on them. He kissed her hair, said incoherent soothing things, blew a loose lock of his own hair out of his face. She felt soft and shaky against him, as if she’d lost the ability to command her own body.
“Do you want to sit down?” He stroked her back. “Do you want me to finish this?”
She shoved away from him. “I want to be free of you!” Her cheeks were flushed, her voice high and strident. “You importune me. You inconvenience me. You’re a fraud. I wish you gone.”
“Leigh—” he said, but she went on speaking, glaring at him, her voice rising.
“You’re deaf, cocksure dolt—deaf—and bungling, and trying to be what you aren’t any longer! Do you think you impress me with this?” She flung up her chin. “Do you think I want your help or your horse or your bloody bribes to make me sleep with you?”
He felt himself growing cold.
“I’m just waiting for you to fall flat on your face,” she cried. “You’re so proud of yourself because you can stand up and walk instead of reeling like a drunkard. But you’ll never know if it’s to last, will you?” she sneered. “And neither will I. I can’t trust you. I can’t depend on you. You’ve run entirely mad and useless.”
In public. In full view and hearing of a crowd of fascinated bumpkins, she said these things. She paused in her abuse and caught her breath in a sob. Her eyes glittered, swimming blue with tears as she stared at him defiantly.
“As you will, madame,” he said, keeping his voice low. He drew a breath of freezing air. “I will not importune you any longer, that’s certain.”
Leigh whirled away, wiping fiercely at her eyes with the back of her cuff. The cold air made her damp cheeks feel icy. She stalked across the grass, trying to get her breath, still hiccupping with every inhalation.
Before she reached the wall, she heard the sound of slow hoof beats behind her. She glared at the men standing beyond the gate, hating them for their shocked and curious faces.
“Go away!” she screamed. “What are you staring at?”
They gawked at her. The gray came up behind and nudged at her with its nose. Leigh put her elbows over her face.
“Go away!” she shouted. She dropped her arms and hit wildly at the horse.
It shied off, trotted in a small circle and came to a halt, looking at her: After a moment, it took a step forward.
“Go on!” She flung up her hands, running toward it. The rogue started to shy and then faced her, backing up as fast as she moved. The instant she stopped, the horse did. And then it came toward her again, closer than before.
“Don’t! Don’t! Don’t!” she shouted, lunging toward it, waving her arms frantically. The gray stood its ground, head lifted, nose bobbing with the wild motion of her hands as she attacked. It raised one hind foot, as if to step back, and then put
The horse lowered its head and walked up to her. It stopped with its nose at her elbow.
“Admirable job of sacking him out,” the Seigneur said sarcastically. “Care to try it with a blanket?”
She closed her eyes. When she opened them, the horse was still there. The Seigneur was still there. She was still hurting, still alive, still drowning in love and grief and rage.
Oh, Papa. Oh, Mama, I can’t do it. I’m not strong enough; I can’t hate enough; I’m going to fail.
She looked at the swollen cut that marked the rogue’s face where the coper had clubbed it across the nose. There were other scars, older than that one, and the horse’s straight profile was marred by an ugly lump from some past concussion.
She was aware of the Seigneur, still standing in the center of the paddock.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered to the gray rogue. She put her hand on its shoulder and leaned her forehead against its neck. The horse stretched out its nose and shook its mane vigorously.
She turned away, walking toward the gate, avoiding looking up at their audience. They gray followed her, but this time she didn’t stop; she only climbed the gate and passed through the spectators. At the tree where she and the Seigneur had eaten lunch, she sat down, cradling her head on her knees.
For all of the dark and drizzling afternoon, the Seigneur worked the rogue, flapping blankets and banging on tin buckets and creating any other noise and excitement he could manage, until the big gray stood calmly, refusing to even blink.
He rubbed the horse all over with the whip and hung a coiled lead rope on its ears while it followed him around the paddock like a child. Then came the long, deliberate process of saddling and bridling an animal that had known nothing but pain and terror from such things.
The Seigneur had unending patience. It made Leigh want to weep. At times during the endless afternoon, she found her eyes filling again and her breath coming in short sobs. She felt shattered, helpless, as if she should tag behind him compliantly the same way the gray did.