The Prince of Midnight by Laura Kinsale
“Take your hands off me,” S.T. said brusquely. He gripped his sword. “I’ve changed my mind.”
Chilton patted his shoulder and let go. “I’m sorry for that, then.” He shook his head. “It happens, sometimes—commitments made in haste are oft repudiated. We don’t wish for you to stay if you’re not fully prepared.”
“You’re not staying?” Dove of Peace came up behind him. “You’re going?”
“Yes,” he said, and only met her eyes an instant before he looked away awkwardly. “I never meant to stay, you know.”
She put her hand to her lip. “Oh. I’m so sorry.” She looked down at the step. “Thank you—for giving me the touch. My headache is gone.”
“I didn’t give you anything you didn’t already have,” he said softly.
Chilton seized his elbow. “If you would be so kind as to wait a moment, I’ll give myself the pleasure of walking with you and my little Dove to the livery.”
S.T. would have gladly foregone that treat, but Dove’s face brightened. For her sake, he waited while Chilton disappeared into the church and joined them again a few minutes later. As they walked down the high street and passed the house where S.T. had met Dove of Peace, Chilton commented that she might consider returning to her chores.
She obeyed without protest, only taking S.T.’s hand and giving it a hard squeeze before she turned away and ran through the gate.
“I’m afraid you may have broken a heart,” Chilton said with a touch of amusement as they walked on. “Foolish child.”
“Very,” S.T. said.
Chilton sighed and nodded. “Few are as innocent as Dove when they come to us from the worst stews of man’s making.”
“Aye, I don’t doubt that,” S.T. said grimly. “I’d never have guessed that she came off the streets if she hadn’t told me. I’d have taken her for gentle bred.”
“I’m gratified,” Chilton said. “Highly gratified. Schooling is an important part of our mission, you see. Ah, here is little Chastity. Is Mr. Bartlett’s mount ready, my beloved?”
“No, Master Jamie, sir, ’tain’t.” The girl who appeared out of the shadows of the stable shook her head. “That horse, ’ee ’us going to throw a shoe. 0l’ Pap—uh—Saving Grace, I mean, beg pardon—he looked it away to fix.”
“I hope you aren’t in a fearful hurry, Mr. Bartlett? Perhaps you’ll dine with us.”
Chapter Sixteen
In the neat, plain dining room of what had once been a substantial family home, every man wanted to sit beside his new friend Mr. Bartlett. They loved him in Heavenly Sanctuary; he was one of the ones they’d been waiting for: his “power” brought them one step closer to the day their Jamie would lead them forward into the future where God’s world would come to pass.
All traces of decoration had been removed from the room, no paintings, no mantel, no rugs—only the carved plaster on the ceiling remained. Two extra tables were crammed in, although the male members of Chilton’s congregation only filled one. When the girls began serving, they had to squeeze between the empty chairs, holding the kettles high over their heads.
S.T. received a huge portion of oatmeal porridge, enlivened by sliced apple and sprinkled with too much salt by an overly enthusiastic neighbor determined to share. He looked at the formidable serving dubiously. They might not eat frequently in Heavenly Sanctuary, but they certainly got plenty when they did.
Everyone quieted, the serving girls lined up along the wall, and all heads bowed. One of the men began a prayer out loud, and when he said “Amen,” another began, followed by someone else, all praying in random order and at random length. S.T. sat on a hard chair and watched his porridge grow cold and lumpy. Hunger was beginning to give him a headache.
Sometime during the prayer, the front door opened and the visiting clergymen came into the hall. With hushed voices, two of the serving girls ushered them past the dining room with its extra tables and chairs, toward the back of the house.
The prayers droned on. After a while, S.T. caught a tantalizing whiff of meat and warm bread, but no one brought anything else to the dining room. He could hear cheerful voices from down the hall. It slowly dawned upon him that the other visitors were being fed, and they hadn’t gotten cold porridge, either.
Finally, a long silence descended. S.T. added his own silent prayer that they could at last begin eating. Twilight was falling, and even lumping oatmeal looked good.
The visiting clergymen came back down the hall, shepherded by Chilton, who bid them a pleasant good night at the front door, assuring them that the wagonette was waiting at the livery, ready to return them to Hexham.
Several of the men at the table grinned. One of them gave S.T. a conspiratorial shove in the elbow. “We don’t got to eat with outsiders if we don’t want,” he whispered.
“How delightful,” S.T. said, and picked up his spoon.
He received another jostle in the elbow. “Not yet, not yet,” his neighbor whispered. “The girls eat first.”
S.T. put his silver down. Chilton came into the dining room and stood at the door, his hands raised in benediction and his head bowed. He said another lengthy prayer, droning on in an affable tone about the weather and the harvest and the amount of lace the girls had made, recommending improvements as if God were a colleague who could stand a little friendly advice. S.T. was beginning to feel light-headed.
“Amen,” Chilton said at last. “Share our blessings.”
At that, the girls lined along the wall came up to the table. S.T. frowned as each one knelt beside one of the men. His eyes widened when the men took their bowls of oatmeal and began to feed the girls cold porridge by hand, spooning meal into their mouths. More girls filed into the room and lined up behind the ones who were kneeling.
A demure figure knelt beside him. The girl tipped her face upward. It was Dove of Peace. She waited as if for holy communion, her eyes closed, her hands folded and her lips slightly parted. His patience finally broke. He’d had enough of this place; he really had. S.T. grabbed his bowl of porridge, stuck his spoon in it and held it out. “Here, it’s yours. You don’t have to act like this, for God’s sake.”
Her eyes opened. She stared up at him. “You don’t wish to share?”
“I’ll share,” he said gruffly. He had to turn his head to catch her soft voice with his good ear. “But I’m not going to feed you. Get up off the floor. It’s idiotic.”
The clatter of tableware grew quiet around them. She bit her lip, glancing away. “You shame me,” she whispered in sudden silence.
“He does not understand,” Chilton said warmly. “You must teach him, Dove.”
She swallowed. “I—I don’t know how.”
“I am with you. The way will come. Have faith.”
She nodded and looked back at S.T. pleadingly. “Sharing shows that you care for me. It shows that you will nurture and protect me, as man is commanded to nurture and protect woman, which is the will of God.”
“It shows that the woman is joyfully obedient,” one of the men added earnestly. “She appears graceful and submissive, as is her nature. Dove is very good; she’s happy and meek; you needn’t fear anything else.”
“This is absurd,” S.T. said.
“Please share properly,” Dove whispered. “You’ll feel better if you do.”
“I could hardly feel worse,” he said, and shoved back his chair. He put the oatmeal on the floor. “There, Fido. Eat as if you’re somebody’s pet if you like.”
A murmur of disapproval rippled around the room. Dove covered her face with her hands. “Please,” she said. “Please!”
S.T. hesitated. They were all glaring at him as fiercely as if he’d beaten her-all except Chilton, who smiled benevolently on the scene.
Dove snuffled quietly and plucked at his leg. S.T. turned his head again to hear her. “I’m so ashamed,” she was mumbling between her fingers. “Don’t you love me?”
“Love you!” he repeated dumbly. He looked down at her huddl
She shook her head without lifting her face. Then she dropped her hands, pulled the bowl of oatmeal toward her, and lifted the spoon to her mouth, eating cold porridge off the floor.
“If this is what you wish, I submit to your will,” she said. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. “Please don’t go.”
“Share with her!” one of the men said urgently.
“Can’t you see that you humiliate her by this?”
Another man patted Dove’s shoulder. “Aye—why do you hurt her? Poor Dove! Don’t cry, darling. Come and let me share with you.”
Dove shook her head violently. “I’m obedient,” she cried. “I am! I’ll do as Mr. Bartlett commands me.”
They all watched as she kept on eating, hunched over the bowl on the floor.
“Pride!” It was True Word’s voice. “Wicked arrogance, that abuses a helpless female to no purpose.”
S.T. pushed his chair aside and went to the door amid a chorus of censure. He nodded to Chilton. “I’m sure my horse is ready by now,” he murmured, and caught up his hat and brandy-colored cloak by the door.
Escape to the cold evening air was a vast relief. He strode down the quiet street and around the comer to the livery. In the deep twilight, the dark interior smelled of hay and horses, but he could see nothing. He stopped and listened for Sirocco’s welcoming whicker. The place was silent.
For the first time, S.T. felt little prick of alarm. He swore viciously and turned on his heel. Temper made his stride jerky. As he turned the corner, he could see the unlit mass of Silvering against the dark rise of the fell. The sight made him pause.
They were all ludicrous: this freckled charlatan with his electrical card tricks that wouldn’t fool a child; these self-righteous prigs and their pathetic girls off the street, begging on the floor for cold oatmeal.
He felt his sword hanging against his left leg, simple and unambiguous. He wanted his horse back-if he had to force. Chilton himself to his knees to get it.
The sharing ritual was still in progress when S.T. threw back the front door and stalked down the hall. Everyone ignored him. Chilton was speaking earnestly with Dove, who stood with her head bowed, nodding and weeping. She was the only one who looked up as S.T. stood in the doorway.
A great smile spread over her face. “You’ve come back!”
“Where’s my horse?” S.T. scowled at Chilton.
Dove was already halfway across the room. She grabbed his hands and fell on her knees in front of him. “Forgive me! I’ve been selfish and disobedient. I’m so unhappy! Please say I’m forgiven, please, my lord!”
“My horse,” he repeated, frowning past her and trying to extract himself at the same time. Her hands clung, small and desperate.
Chilton smiled. “I think you must confront something more important before we find your horse, Mr. Bartlett. You’ve wounded Dove very deeply. Before God, I ask you to apologize to her and to us.”
“Apologize for what, damn it? For not treating her as if she’s a brainless babe?” He gave up trying to evade her clutching hands. “Where the devil did you dream up this nonsense, Chilton?”
Chilton regarded him calmly. “My word is God’s word.”
“How convenient!” S.T. said with scorn.
“Please,” Dove whispered quickly. She pressed her face to his hands. “You mustn’t speak so!”
He gestured violently at the table. “Why not? You don’t truly believe this is some order from on high, do you? You don’t think there’s some God up there who expects you to get down on your knees and abase yourself for a trifling spoonful of porridge? And even if he did, you can’t believe he’d confide his wishes to this sack of wind and humbug!”
“Don’t say such things!” Dove cried. Hysteria edged her voice. She caught his hand back, and then hugged his legs. He could feel her body trembling.
“Never mind.” He tried to soothe her, touching her hair. “I’m not going to be struck dead by lightning, you may believe me.”
Chilton chuckled. “Certainly not. But you have not apologized. Your soul is distressed. The true course will be revealed to you.”
Several of the men stood up. S.T. watched them as they moved toward him. He couldn’t tell what they meant; his hand went to his sword, but Dove’s clinging interfered with his reach. “Don’t touch me,” he said sharply. “Keep your distance.”
The nearest one made as if to seize his arm, and S.T. dragged the sword from its sheath. Dove cried out. She caught the blade in her bare hands. “Don’t do it!” she shrieked. “Kill me first!”
His instincts betrayed him. In the instant he hesitated, unwilling to pull the sword across her already bleeding hands, they had him. He dropped the blade and swung his fist, but her body at his feet hindered him; he missed, tried to back up, and lost his balance within Dove’s squeezing embrace. He fell backwards into the door frame, and they were all on him, holding him down everywhere, fighting like children, suffocating his curses with hands and arms and butting heads.
How long they kept him in the dark, he didn’t know. He sat on the floor of a musty room with nothing to lean against; blindfolded, trussed, and utterly furious with himself.
Dove came. She sat on the floor with him and talked for a long time, stroking his hair and his forehead, speaking endlessly of how happy everyone was here, and how much they loved him, and how nice it would be when he learned how to go on; it was a little strange at first; she remembered it had been strange to her, too, but he’d quickly come to see how much better was their way of life than the wicked outside. She wanted him to stay, though of course he could go if he liked; they never forced anyone to do anything they didn’t want to do, but she did so hope he would stay and be happy with her. Master Jamie had said Mr. Bartlett might be her own particular spouse, which was a very special favor that was only granted when a girl had been very, very good and Master Jamie loved her very much and thought her wise and agreed with her choice. Dove was really, truly, joyfully obedient.
S.T. said nothing. Dove cried and hugged him and tried to kiss his mouth, but he turned his face away.
Chilton came then, sent Dove away, and walked around S.T. in a slow circle, speaking sometimes in a loud voice and sometimes very softly. S.T. paid the words no attention. A few times, Chilton stopped and stood in one place for a long time, silent, and once or twice S.T. could hear a peculiar soft hissing sound. He couldn’t help himself; he turned his face toward it, his nerves stretched taut with uncertainty. Then the long monologue went on, interspersed with the hissing, until he paid neither any attention.
They never left him alone. True Word came in and talked of pride and arrogance until S.T. was ready to kill the man with his bare hands. He pushed off the floor and made it to his knees, but blindfolded, he couldn’t even tell which direction to throw himself, and so he just knelt there, breathing hard. Suddenly a quick shove came out of the dark, and he landed back on one trussed elbow with a grunt of pain.
Chilton’s voice came from somewhere, softly chiding whoever had pushed him. S.T. lay on the rough floor, his mouth set sullenly. When they tried to make him stand up, he went limp, and they had to carry him. He had that small and bruising triumph until the clumsy devils dropped him, and then he decided he’d rather keep his bones intact and forgo his pride.
It was already mincemeat anyway. He’d not felt so ashamed since that terrible moment three years ago when he’d realized his sweet Elizabeth had betrayed him and he’d walked right into her trap—and lost Charon and his hearing and his last illusion that someone loved him.
His chin lifted. Strangely, he felt better thinking of Elizabeth, dirty little traitor that she’d turned out. To be caught and tethered by a pack of prigs and females was embarrassing, but it was a long way from total devastation.
Damn all women. They turned his brain to m
He moved carefully on the stairs. The blindfold brought back a trace of his old dizziness, and the multiple grip on his arms threw him off. Then he was on level ground, surrounded by bodies that packed close; bearing him along out into the frigid night air. He could smell torches, and the gathering murmur of a crowd that followed him and his captors in the street.
More stairs, upward this time. They were in front of the gates of Silvering; they had to be. His body was tight with the desire to throw himself sideways and break free of the suffocating prison they made of themselves, but with his hands tied he couldn’t even rid himself of the blindfold.
They turned him around. Metal rattled: the wrought iron gate of Silvering. He felt many hands on his arms, pulling his elbows backward. Something ice cold touched his tied wrists.
Shackles.
He went stiff, and then lunged away without thinking; he fought as he had the first time, only it didn’t last even as long as that, with his hands tied and endless arms and clutching fingers to catch him back and push him against the gate until he was driven down to his knees under the soft, crushing onslaught.
No one shouted or hit him. There was talk aplenty; voices telling him to be calm: kind, soothing voices. He would be happy, they said. He would learn the true way. Be good, be calm, be tranquil; it was Master Jamie’s wish.
He could hear Dove close by, pleading with him not to struggle, not to shame himself and her. He knelt, panting, the pavement hard beneath his knees. They’d gotten the shackles on him, chained him to the gate, and when he tried to stand up, the fetters held him down.
He wondered if they’d deep telling him how happy he was while they stoned him, or whatever it was Master Jamie had in mind. His heart was pounding, but he wasn’t quite afraid. It seemed so unreal.
Someone took the blindfold off him. He shook his head, squinting at the intense blaze of light from the torches circled close by. He could see nothing but blackness beyond them, but he could hear the crowd; Even that sound was mild, a softer and higher note than any normal mob.