The Prince of Midnight (28 page)

He pushed the horse on every time it showed any slight inclination to slow on
its own, popping the whip and forcing the animal to turn around and run in the
opposite direction whenever its attention strayed over the fence, which was
frequently. Over and over, he repeated the sequence, until the horse began to
breathe in heavy gusts.

Its shrill calls for the other horses had stopped: the black had no time for
that now. It gradually became too distracted by the whip and where the man in
the paddock might step next. Within a quarter hour, the Seigneur had only to
hold up the whip and point it toward where the horse was headed to make the
black slide to a stop, whirl around, and run the other way.

"Watch the way he turns when he changes direction," the Seigneur said.
"See—it's always outward, away from me, toward the fence. He'd still rather not
be in here with me. I want him to start to turn inward, with his head toward me.
I want him to learn that it's more pleasant to pay attention to me than to keep
running around like a fool."

The next time he stepped in the horse's course, he kept his shoulders relaxed
and the whip lowered. The black skidded back on its heels and turned tail,
swinging its head outward again. The Seigneur's whip came up and drove him on
with that insistent pop.

"No luck that time. I'll ask him again," the Seigneur said. "I'm giving him a
chance—do you see what I'm doing?" He lowered the whip and stepped toward the
horse's path. "I'm quiet; I'm not clucking, I'm not using the whip. I'm offering
him a pause."

This time the animal hesitated for an instant, flinging its head in his
direction before it scrambled around with its rump toward him once more.

"There," he said. "He's thinking about it. He's got his brain working now."

He dropped the tip of the whip again as he moved, and amazingly, the sweating
horse did swing its forefeet inward and its rump to the fence, giving the
Seigneur and the whip a good swift look before it trotted off the other way.

There was a faint murmur of appreciation from the audience.

The Seigneur drove the horse around the ring a few times with the whip, then
relaxed his arm. The black turned instantly inward—and this time it stopped,
staring at the Seigneur, its flanks heaving.

"Clever fellow," he said caressingly. He took two steps to one side. The
animal's head swung, its large dark eyes riveted to him. The Seigneur walked the
other way, with the same result. He kept walking, and the horse's head followed
him, turning so far that it had to shift its hindquarters in a circle around its
forefeet as the Seigneur walked, until the animal was facing exactly the
opposite direction from where it had been before.

"Now is he paying attention to me?"

Leigh couldn't suppress a smile. "Yes."

A distant whinny brought the horse's head up and around. Instantly, before
the animal could respond to the call, the Seigneur cracked the whip and sent the
horse back into a canter around the ring. After a number of revolutions and
turns, he gave it another chance to stop. The horse halted facing him, blowing
hard, and took a few steps in his direction.

Another faint call came from the distance. The panting black lifted its head
as if to answer, heard the Seigneur's chirrup, and abruptly dropped its nose,
staring at him. It seemed to be weighing its options, daring another glance
toward the far pasture. The Seigneur clucked again and lifted the whip a
fraction. The black jerked its head slightly at the warning, and then the taut
muscles in its neck relaxed. It ambled over to the Seigneur, the picture of
total surrender, and stood with its head lowered next to him.

He scratched its ears, murmuring softly.

A ragged round of applause made the horse lift its head for an instant, but
then it dropped its poll again and pushed gently at the Seigneur's arm. When he
walked toward the fence, the black followed him like a huge puppy, ignoring the
repeated whinnying from the far pasture.

Leigh felt a strange tug in her chest at the sight. What an extraordinary man
he was.

The horse took an introduction to Nemo with complete aplomb, giving the wolf
no more attention than a barnyard cat. After that, it seemed only reasonable
that the Seigneur could quite easily introduce a saddle and bridle, and mount
while the black stood quietly. Before noon, he'd ridden it in the paddock, and
then outside, heading away from the excited calls of the other horses until he
was completely out of sight.

When he'd returned and dismounted, he took a deep swig of water from a
long-handled cup that someone offered. There were plenty of volunteers to take
the horse and tend to it; everyone was waiting, hoping he'd tackle the rogue
next.

"The Mermaid packed us a basket," he said to Leigh. "You'd best eat." Then he
turned to the horse coper Mr.

Hopkins. "Go ahead. Bring the devil over here—any way you can manage it."

While Leigh and the Seigneur ate a silent lunch beneath a tree, half the
crowd of locals tramped down the road to watch the new show. The rogue was moved
into the paddock by creating a human chain to block the lane and chasing both
horses out of the pasture, down the little road, and into the paddock. Then
someone caught the more docile chestnut and led it back out to wait with the
young black.

The rogue danced along the edge of the paddock for a few minutes, sending
spectators back off the fence, then dropped its head to graze. Its ears flicked
back and forth furiously as it tore up the grass in quick, ripping grabs.

The Seigneur stood and held out his hand to Leigh. She allowed him to help
her to her feet, feeling his fingers warm and strong beneath her elbow as he led
her a little distance from the spectators ranged along the fence. She waited
while he frowned intently at the gray rogue. It was a magnificent horse in spite
of the bloody scars on its face; as pale as moonlight on ice, with a flowing,
tangled mane and a tail that dusted the ground. When it flung up its head at
some disturbance, the great brown eyes showed white and its neck arched, so that
it looked like some fierce, noble mount in a painting of a soldier king.

"Just remember," the Seigneur murmured, "he's frightened of you."

She turned her head. "Of me!"

"Aye. You saw what I did. You can do the same with this one." ,

"Are you mad?" she exclaimed.

"Not at all. I showed you how." His lips curled a little. "It's not
luck,
after all."

"For God's sake. I won't go in there with that animal."

He gave her a slight frown, as if he was surprised to find he didn't quite
approve of her. "He's frightened," he repeated.

"He savaged a man."

"What would you do if somebody held you down and beat you across the face?"

She drew in a breath and gave a shaky laugh. "I know I've insulted you." She
looked at him. "You want me trampled to death in return?"

"You're afraid!" he said, in a voice of soft astonishment. "The girl who
plans to murder the Reverend Mr. Chilton."

She was stung into turning away from him. "It's not the same thing."

"How do you know?" he asked. "When it comes to the breach, do you think
you'll have it in you if you don't have it now?"

She whirled back. "It's not the same!" she hissed. "I
hate
him!"

"It takes more than hate to kill a clever man, Sunshine." His hard words cut
the clear air. "It takes brains. I'm trying to teach you something you can use.
That horse is a weapon, if you have the nerve to master it."

Her jaw worked. She turned her head, staring at the untamed beast trotting
boldly around the paddock. "I thought you meant the chestnut for me," she said
at last.

He moved his hand impatiently. "The chestnut will do for a cover hack. But
this fellow here—God, look at him! Show him some courage and confidence and
he'll take you straight into hell if you ask it."

Just then, the horse bunched its muscles with awesome power, kicked out, and
squealed and took off along the length of the paddock, its tail flying. Leigh
felt that painful, trembly sensation rise in her chest again at the rapt look on
the Seigneur's face. She bit her lip.

He wanted this horse.

And he was forcing it on her. He looked down, his mouth set, his green eyes
intent and challenging.

She felt suddenly helpless, that shaky weakness inside trapping words and
arguments in her throat. Her cursed lower lip kept threatening to tremble. He
lifted her hand and laid the long-handled whip across it, closing her fingers
around the braided leather stock.

"I'll help you," he said. "I'll tell you what to do."

She looked at the ground, trying savagely to suppress the telltale quiver of
her mouth. "I really don't care if the damned horse kills me," she muttered. She
rested the butt of the whip on the springy turf, and then lifted her face to the
magnificent devil that pounded down the paddock. She tossed her head. "I don't
give ha'pence what happens."

S.T. watched her climb the gate and walk out into the center of the pen. He
hardly knew why he'd insisted on this. He could work the horse faster and
better; he itched to do it, to help the belligerent, brutalized animal learn mat
a man was something it could trust.

But she thought he was a sham. She thought it was all luck. Too easy to just
go out there and tame this rogue for himself—he wanted her to experience it
right down to her toes. He wanted her to fail. And then he could show her.

He wasn't afraid for her safety. The "rogue" wasn't past reclaim. It wasn't
heart-deep vicious—just a smart, hot-blooded stallion that had been badly
mishandled and discovered every trick to thwart anyone who'd tried to master it.
Gelding the animal had been a crime and an abominable waste, but these
phlegmatic British never could seem to deal with stallions. They had to cut
every animal in sight and harness it to a carriage.

At least Hopkins or some other fool hadn't docked its tail. Likely couldn't
throw the beast down long enough.

There was no threat now in the horse's pricked ears and rhythmic snort as it
stared at Leigh. It felt itself free—or free enough, for the moment—and warily
curious. There was still dark, dried blood smeared on its face and flecked
across its chest. It looked as if it hadn't been groomed in weeks; mud spatters
and grass stains marred the pale coat, but for all that, it was still the
loveliest brute he'd seen since he'd lost Charon. It had stood out in the fair
like a grubby Galahad amid the rabble.

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 corner 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.