Prince of Midnight

by Laura Kinsale

  At the house that held the men’s dining hall, no one answered his knock. Following the scent of food, he found his way to the kitchen, but the aproned cooks were politely adamant that no meal would be put on the table until after the noonday service. They wouldn’t even give him a bannock off the tray hot out of the oven. He grinned and talked nonsense and stole one.

  They found him out before he managed to sidle through the door, and seemed so genuinely upset at the loss that he confessed and gave it back, in spite of his watering mouth.

  Turned out of the kitchen in disgrace, he wandered back down the high street. The same girl was still mending lace in her doorway.

  S.T. leaned on the gate. “They aren’t serving yet,” he said sadly.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “Not until after noonday sermon.”

  He smiled wryly. “You didn’t mention that.”

  “I’m sorry. Are you very hungry?”

  “Very.”

  She bent her head over her sewing. Then she looked up and down the street. After a moment, she said softly, “I saved a pork pie from yesterday. Would you like it?”

  “Not unless you’ll share it with me.”

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t—” She looked down at her lap and up again. “I’m not at all hungry. But you may have it.”

  She stood up and disappeared into the house. When she returned, S.T. opened the gate and walked up to the door. She handed him the pie, wrapped in a napkin, and he sat down on the step.

  She hesitated, and he reached up and took her wrist, pulling her down beside him. “Do have a seat, mademoiselle, or I shall look a pretty rudesby if anyone comes by.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  For a moment they sat silent. S.T. bit into the pie. The crust was stale and the pork full of gristle, but he was hungry enough to swallow it.

  “Samuel Bartlett,” he said, “very much at your service, mademoiselle. What may I have the honor of calling you?”

  She blushed and took up her handwork. “I’m Dove of Peace.”

  Lord spare us, he thought.

  “A lovely name, Miss Peace,” he said. “Did you choose it yourself?”

  She giggled faintly, then pressed her fingers to her temple. “My master Jamie chose it for me.”

  He watched her as she rubbed her head and then went back to her needlework. “Do you feel quite well?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, with a ghost of a smile. “I have the headache, but I always do.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Perhaps you should see a physician.”

  “Oh, no—there’s no need of that.” She smiled more firmly. “I’m quite well.”

  “Have you lived here long?”

  “Several years,” she said.

  “Do you like it?” he persisted.

  “Oh, yes.”

  He finished the pie and crumpled the napkin into a ball. “Tell me—how did you come to be here?”

  “I was lost,” she said. “My mother was a wicked woman. She took me away from my father, so that I never knew him. I never had food enough or clothes to keep warm, and my mother taught me to steal. She used to pinch me if I didn’t bring back what she wanted.”

  “Did she!” S.T. said mildly.

  “Yes, sir,” Dove of Peace said. “I didn’t know that I was doing wrong, but I was very unhappy. I was like nothing but an ant, among all the other ants. I was lonely, and there was nowhere to go, and no one cared.” She bowed her head over her folded hands. “And then I came upon some girls who were giving away clothes at the street corer. They gave me a skirt and a cap.” She looked up, with a musing smile. “They seemed so merry. So happy. They asked me to be their friend; they took me to the place where they were staying and gave me food. They said I shouldn’t go back to my mother. When I told them I’d nowhere else to go, they gave me money enough to take the stage to Hexham, and from there I walked here, and was welcomed just the way that you were. It’s a wonderful place. Like a family.”

  “Is it?” He snorted glumly. “Perhaps I’ll join you.”

  “Oh, do!” she exclaimed. “I wish you would.”

  He looked at her sideways, his eyebrows lifted.

  “You’re lonely,” she said. “I’ve watched you walking up and down by yourself. The others—they always stay in their groups when they visit. They don’t understand what it’s like, to be on the outside. They think the Sanctuary is a good place because we work hard—and we do—but the best thing is that we all love each other, and we’re never, ever lonely.” She glanced at him shyly. “Lots of girls come and join us, but not very many men. Only the special ones.”

  S.T. leaned back against the door frame. He tilted his hat down over his eyes. “And you think I’m special, do you?”

  “Oh, yes. You have a noble soul. It’s in your expression. I knew it the moment I saw you. I don’t usually speak to the visitors, but I was glad to talk to you.”

  He smiled and shook his head. It was pleasant to be flattered, to have those wide blue eyes fixed on him in admiration. “You’ve no notion what an agreeable change it is to hear that.”

  She frowned a little. “Someone has hurt you.”

  “I’ve been a fool.” He shrugged. “Same old story.”

  “That’s because you put your faith in the wrong place. Here we don’t despair or feel forsaken or alone.”

  “How gratifying.”

  “It’s warm,” she said. “People are cold, aren’t they? They say cruel things and won’t be pleased. Here we care about you as you are, even if you aren’t perfect in the eyes of worldly men.”

  He sighed, propping his arm on his knee. “Well, I’m far from perfect—in anyone’s eyes, I assure you.”

  “All of God’s people are perfect,” she said. “And so are you.”

  He allowed that to pass without comment. A bell began to ring, and she gathered up her lace.

  “That’s noonday service. Will you go with me?” She darted inside before he could answer, and came back a few moments later, closing the door behind her. As he stood up, she took his arm and started down the steps. “Everyone will want to meet you.”

  He’d intended to slip away quietly long before this particular threat materialized, but Dove of Peace drew him along with such enthusiasm, and introduced him so affectionately to everyone they passed that he couldn’t seem to find the proper moment to take his leave. He found himself inside the little stone church, seated in the first row of pews before the bell stopped pealing.

  He was in the middle, hemmed in by the prayer rail in front, a visiting clergymen on one side, and members of Chilton’s congregation on the other—all men in the first three rows, while the rest of the church was filled with females, overflowing the seats and standing three deep in the aisles. He sat with his hat in his lap, looking around uncomfortably. Dove of Peace had melted back into the crowd after introducing him to the fellow on his right, who rejoiced in the interesting name of True Word.

  “I’m most impressed, aren’t you?” the clergyman murmured in S.T.’s good ear. “It’s very moving. Everyone we met in the street seemed energetic and satisfied.”

  S.T. nodded and shrugged.

  Mr. Word appeared to be disinclined to conversation, which suited S.T. perfectly. He stared gloomily ahead, where the altarpiece, the pulpit, and all the front of the church were hidden behind long lengths of purple silk sewn together and hung from the roof to form a billowy wall.

  The disorder of seating gradually softened to rustling and coughs, and then to complete silence. A single girl padded forward and knelt in front of the purple silk, her face hidden from view by a long white veil draped over her cap.

  S.T. waited, expecting organ music or a choir.

  Nothing happened.

  He shifted a little on the hard bench. A quick look beneath his lashes showed him that True Word was staring straight ahead at the purple silk, not blinking or moving. The clergyman seated to S.T.’s right had his head bowed, his lips moving in silent prayer.


  S.T. closed his eyes. He let himself drift, thinking back to other churches, the gorgeous Italian cathedrals of his childhood, the bell-like voices of boys at vespers amid stained glass and soaring stone. He thought of paintings he hadn’t finished and images he still wanted to try. He wondered if he could reproduce that incredible awesome hush, that arc of light and darkness that was the cathedral at Amiens.

  Perhaps he’d turn it into a forest, and paint Nemo as a shadow with yellow eyes. Or just the wolf and the horses silhouetted on the open moor, the way he’d left Mistral—free except for Nemo’s watchful escort.

  Suddenly the church bell began to peal madly, and True Word took S.T.’s hand. S.T. cleared his throat and disengaged himself politely, but amid a general movement of the congregation, the clergyman clasped his other hand firmly just as True Word renewed his grip. S.T. sat with his lips pressed wryly together, entrapped.

  Chilton appeared from behind the billow of purple silk, dressed in simple black. Standing at the front of the church, he began another of his sermons, a long perambulation about salvation and his flock. S.T. tried to float back into more appealing thoughts, but the hands clamped to his own bothered him. When he attempted to withdraw unobtrusively, the grip tightened. He tried glaring at the clergyman, but the minister appeared to be lost in Chilton’s sermon along with Mr. True Word.

  Frustrated, S.T. stared down at his hat. An unpleasant moist warmth grew where his palms were pressed against the other men’s. From the corner of his eye, he could see that the whole congregation appeared to be linked, even the girls in the aisles, the nearest of whom held the hand of the man at the end of the row.

  Chilton’s voice swept on, rising and falling with increasing emotion. S.T. thought the man looked bizarre, with his hair powdered to orange and his wide, childish eyes that moved over the audience with a pendulous rhythm, pausing only to focus on some individual for a moment as he made a personal pronouncement about Sweet Harmony’s transgressions or Sacred Light’s penitence. He named a large number of the congregation, speaking for several moments of each and receiving heartfelt answers to his urges to acknowledge sin. When he cried, “True Word!” S.T. felt the clutch on his right hand tighten.

  “True Word…” Chilton’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Your master knows. Will you confess?”

  “Avarice!” True Word shouted. “Unholy desire and covetousness!”

  “Will you let it go?” Chilton asked softly. “Will you bow down in shame and sorrow?”

  “Oh, master—forgive me!” True Word bent over his lap. Chagrined, S.T. tried to drag his hand away, but the grip tightened violently. “Don’t!” True Word sobbed, shaking his head. “Don’t refuse me the healing touch!”

  “Bugger off,” S.T. muttered, and wrenched his hand free.

  True Word groped, caught it back, and lifted it to his cheek. Everyone was looking at them. Under the weight of this collective scrutiny, S.T. drew in a deep breath and suffered the embrace, feeling heat rise fierily in his neck and face.

  Chilton stared at him and smiled. He didn’t go on with the sermon, as he had with the others. He just gazed at S.T. without blinking.

  “I feel the power,” he whispered into the waiting silence. “I feel the healing power radiating from you, Mr. Bartlett. Into me. Into the man named True Word. Into everyone here!” He lifted his arms and shouted, “Do you feel it?”

  A murmuring started in the back of the church and swept forward. S.T.’s palms began to tingle, a faint itching that grew quickly into a sensation he’d never experienced. His scalp and arms prickled; his whole body felt queer, horribly pulsating, as if all his muscles had gone wobbly and out of his control. Strange patterns began to sparkle and coalesce in the purple silk before his eyes.

  He could hear moans and cries around him, Chilton’s voice rising and rising, calling him to come, calling him by name. The ghastly sensation intensified. He thought he was going to pass out, that the patterns in the silk would grow and grow and overwhelm him.

  “Give it to me!” Chilton cried. “Give it to me—don’t suffer; come to me. Let the power come to me!”

  S.T. yanked his hand away from the clergyman. Instantly, the deep pulsating feeling vanished, leaving only the prickling of every hair and the pinwheeling sparks before his eyes. He stood up blindly, wanting out of this, but True Word would not let go. S.T. blinked and found Chilton just in front of him as the bright patterns faded from his eyes.

  “Pass it to me,” Chilton cried, reaching out. “Give your vitality to me, that I may use it as it was meant to be used!”

  S.T. lifted his free arm to fend the man off, and between them a brilliant arc of light jumped across a hand’s span, from his fingers to Chilton’s. The pain made S.T. jerk back, swearing.

  The weird prickling in his scalp evaporated. The whole congregation moaned, a single sound, like a huge animal in the last throes of life.

  “Dove of Peace!” Chilton thundered.

  The kneeling figure at the front of the church rose and came toward them. S.T. saw her pretty young face, her eyes locked on Chilton with awed hope.

  “Dove of Peace,” Chilton intoned, “you’ve asked for an end to the terrible pains in your head.”

  She nodded quickly.

  “Come here, my beloved,” Chilton said gently.

  She moved to him, going down on her knees.

  “Take off your veil and cap.” She obeyed, allowing her blonde hair to fall down over her shoulders.

  Chilton reached out, holding his hands over her, his palms hovering an inch above her head. S.T. could see the fine golden hair rise up, clinging by single strands to his palms. Dove of Peace gasped softly and lifted her hands, touching the delicate halo that stood out from her head. She brushed Chilton’s hand, and S.T. heard a faint crackle. Dove of Peace started and said, “Oh my!”

  “This is God’s healing power,” Chilton said. “God’s blessing on you for bringing Mr. Bartlett to us. Is your pain gone, precious child?”

  “Yes,” Dove of Peace sighed. She sank down onto her heels and looked up at Chilton with wide eyes. ’Tis gone.”

  The congregation murmured. People began to stand up and pray out loud, including the visiting clergymen. True Word kissed S.T.’s hand and started to blubber again.

  “The Lord has brought Mr. Bartlett to us,” Chilton pronounced over the devout clamor. “Mr. Bartlett—” he looked at S.T.—“will you come? Will you give us the gift that the Lord has given to you?”

  S.T. cleared his throat. “For God’s sake,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Are you—”

  “For God’s sake!” Chilton cried. “Yes! For His sake!” He held out his hand. “Will you come, then? Mr. Bartlett, don’t think you can do this alone. Don’t make the mistake of hubris. You cannot go out and perform the miracles that we see here every day—but if you’ll join us; if you’ll become a part of our family in God, you have the healing power in you, to be used by me to help others. You have it in you, Mr. Bartlett—a power as strong as I’ve felt in all my many years of service to the Lord. Will you come?”

  “I’d rather not,” S.T. said. “Thank you.” The moans and murmurs around him sank into silence. Dove of Peace gazed at him. There was no reproach in her look, only sadness. She stood up and came to the prayer rail, reaching over to take his hands. He felt a tiny snap of sensation as they touched, a pale echo of the painful spark that had crackled between him and Chilton. She had felt it too; he saw her draw her breath sharply, and then gaze at him in adoration.

  “Please,” she whispered. “Please stay and help us.”

  Chilton could have preached all day and True Word wept his eyes out, and not had the effect of those bright, hopeful female eyes. S.T. tried to say no: it was impossible, it was preposterous, it was all a sham of some sort—but he could not find words to say so at just that moment.

  He took a deep breath and set his jaw. “All right. What do you want me to do?”

  “Pray,” Chilton said in
stantly, and the congregation began to kneel. “Come up with me and with your beloved Dove of Peace, and join with us in prayer.”

  So he had to go and kneel down and hold hands again and listen for an interminable length of time, until his legs were aching and his stomach growled and the sunlight through the stained glass crawled across the floor in ever-lengthening shafts.

  For a while he pondered how Chilton had managed the “power” trick. That he’d been electrified, S.T. had no doubt—he’d heard accounts of the sensation. In France it was all the rage: they’d once simultaneously shocked a hundred and eighty of the King’s Guards for the amusement of the Parisians, and the news had reached as far as La Paire by eight months later. Just what method Chilton used was mysterious. S.T. thought it needed a machine of some sort, though he didn’t see anything that looked likely.

  If anyone else doubted Chilton’s theory of healing power, they didn’t mention it. The service continued until nearly dusk. S.T. was starving. When at last it was over, he stood up, stretching his aching joints carefully. He moved away from Chilton, toward the cluster of visiting clergy.

  They all gazed at him, and the one who’d sat next to S.T. blinked and moistened his lips. “I would not have believed it,” he mumbled, and made as if to shake S.T.’s hand before he hesitated in the motion, as if he’d just remembered that he didn’t want to touch. He turned to his companions. “If I hadn’t experienced it for myself, I would have scoffed.”

  The others looked uncomfortable, but before S.T. could answer, a crowd of Chilton’s congregation intervened, swirling around him, all talking at once, welcoming him into their family. True Word shoved his way through the press of females and kissed S.T.’s hand again. S.T. yanked it away, only to have the girls take up the gesture. Dove of Peace hugged him. By the time he managed to work himself free of the hospitality and out into the churchyard, the visitors had all disappeared.

  Chilton was on the step, speaking to a little cluster of members. He turned to S.T., catching him by the shoulders. “I’m overjoyed, sir! I bless you for your decision.”