Apprehensions and Other Delusions

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “He will not eat it. He will suspect,” said Desiree, her fear returning with full power.

  “He will suspect nothing,” said Marta, tossing her head to show her disdain. “He wishes to believe that he will be as potent as a young goat, and he would eat a hedgehog if he thought it would add to his lust.”

  A second doubt came over Desiree. “This is murder. You and I will kill him, and it will be on our souls.”

  “It will not, not for the death of Baron Clotaire de Saint Sebastien.” She considered the problem. “He has degraded you and killed your child before it was born. Those are his sins, not yours, and you are not held accountable in Heaven. Therefore you must seek the aid of Holy Church. You must confess. Can you write?”

  “A little. Enough,” said Desiree, listening with real attention.

  “Good. Then you will write a confession to the priest at Sainte-Genevieve’s, and say that you were maddened by the death of your child and the indifference and humiliations of your protector. Beg that Holy Church receive you as a penitent. Say that the loss of your babe so preyed on your mind that you wanted death for yourself and for Saint Sebastien. Say that you resign yourself to prayer and the Mercy of God, and that you seek peace not in this world but the next. No magistrate can strike that down if the priest has it before the crime is revealed. We must prepare the confession before I bring the fruits, so that it will be in the hands of the priest as soon as Saint Sebastien is dead. That way no one here can hurt you, for you will be in the care of the Church on the strength of your confession. After a time you will be able to leave your penitent’s cell, and you and your child will be avenged. I will carry your confession myself, and see that it is placed in the hands of the priest.”

  Desiree lay back, assessing what Marta has said to her. At last she let her breath out slowly and nodded. “It is good. I will need paper and ink.” Once again that disquieting smile settled on her face.

  * * *

  It was a warm afternoon when Marta brought the poison, showing the red and yellow fruits to Saint Sebastien before taking them to Desiree and receiving her written confession.

  “Now you must have care,” Marta said as she prepared to leave for Sainte-Genevieve’s. “Mash the fruits well and see that they are thoroughly mixed with the meat for the pies. I will be back by the time you are ready to serve him, and I will help you then, you have my word on it.”

  Desiree followed the simple instructions, mashing the fruit so that skin and pulp and seeds were little more than a paste in the bottom of a big crockery bowl. She was elated at Marta’s plan, at her foresight in arranging for the confession to be in the hands of the priest before any magistrate or courtier could attempt to detain her for questioning and torture. With her confession in the hands of the Church there was not a court in the land that would be able to hold her. She knew she could endure the seven years of penance that would be required of her for the joy of killing Clotaire de Saint Sebastien.

  At supper that night Desiree found she was almost happy as she watched Saint Sebastien eating his pie with such gusto.

  “The taste is not bad,” he said. “I was afraid that you would want to make it horrible, because of how little you want to come to my bed again.” He sipped a little of the white wine he favored. “I might come to like these fruits in my food; do you think you would enjoy me then, with my lust enhanced?”

  “How can I know?” It was not difficult to answer him, realizing how soon it would be over. She waited for him to die, and wondered how long it would take. It could not possibly be long, she knew: for in 1741 everyone in the world knew that love apples—sometimes called tomatoes—were virulent poison.

  About Fruits of Love

  I wrote this story in 1975, as a tangential tale to Hotel Transylvania, the first of the Saint-Germain novels. At the time, I couldn’t sell it because the book wasn’t out yet. After the book was published I couldn’t sell it because the story wouldn’t be out until the novel was more than a year old. So I hung onto it, and sold it years later, when the series had developed a following. Which just goes to show that nothing is wasted.

  SO WE rode out for Holy Lodz on the ebb of night while the clouds rolled their ominous portents above us. We were both in unadorned armor, no more obvious than any men-at-arms: the Metropolitan carried only the secret dispatches and his episcopal ring; I had just the patent of my sword. We took the more remote roads that avoided the larger towns and villages with their gates and guards where our passing would be marked, and we pressed the horses to the limits, changing mounts but once before dawn, at the Nevsky Monastery on the old Pilgrim’s Road.

  “Who comes at this hour?” the gatekeeper demanded in response to the Metropolitan’s sharp rapping.

  “Emissaries from the Cantonment of Praha,” was the reply the Metropolitan was authorized to give. He was still erect in the saddle, but I had been with him on the road and I knew how near he was to the end of his strength.

  “Your destination is the Thing?” the gatekeeper asked in less churlish accents.

  “It is. Open to us. We need fresh horses and I must speak to your Superior.”

  The gatekeeper hesitated. “Pope Honorios is advanced in years ...” he protested even as he moved at last to open the door. “In a few hours, perhaps, it would be better.”

  “I am aware of the man’s age,” the Metropolitan said as if he wore his vestments and held the censer in his outstretched hands. “This is urgent. I would not ask if it were not.”

  The gate groaned and rattled upward and we dismounted to lead our blowing destriers through it. As soon as the gate was lowered again, the gatekeeper came bustling around to us, his arms folded into his sleeves and his face set into a mask of condemnation.

  “I’ll summon the Warder Brother,” he announced as if he were making a great concession.

  The Metropolitan began automatically to give his blessing, then stopped as he saw the amazement on the gatekeeper’s face. “Tell the Warder Brother that the second son of the Margrave Pavel of Jutland wishes a word with him.”

  “The Margrave of Jutland is Adam,” the gatekeeper informed the Metropolitan with a gesture of defiance.

  “Tell him,” the Metropolitan ordered quietly, and looked around the courtyard. “Where is your stable? These horses need feed and care. We will require two fresh horses within the hour. Have our saddles used and tend to it promptly. When we have finished our business, we will have to leave at once.”

  The gatekeeper broadened his stance mulishly. “On what authority do I do this?”

  “On mine,” the Metropolitan said coldly. “We have no time to waste.”

  I stepped nearer, my hand on my sword, resting my fingers around the quillons. I did not have to speak.

  “It is an offence against heaven to assault its servants,” the gatekeeper said, piously crossing himself. “The second son of the Margrave Pavel of Jutland, is it? I will tell the Warder Brother, and if he throws you out, it is no matter to me.” He stalked away, his hands thrust into his hempen belt.

  “I trust that there will not be many such to hamper us. If this is aid, what is hindrance?” The Metropolitan was not speaking to me as much as giving his thoughts voice. I had known him to do this when he was immersed in a problem, but it still troubled me to witness his distress. “What do you think, Euchari?” he said suddenly, turning to me.

  “That we are not followed?” It would be his most pressing worry now, and one I shared, not entirely because we rode together.

  “In part. Do you think they have discovered that we have got away ahead of their spies?” He had always had a martial air and it was never more apparent than when he wore mail. He pulled off his helm and tucked it under his arm. “I pray that gatekeeper will not be too long. The Patriarch ordered all haste without compromising secrecy.” He began to pace, a steady, long-legged stride tha
t quickly covered the courtyard. “Come on, come on,” he muttered to the cobbles under his feet.

  As if in response, the gatekeeper came back and bowed grudgingly. “The Warder Brother will receive you in the Visitors’ Hall,” he said, indicating a passageway not at first apparent.

  “What of the horses?” the Metropolitan asked before motioning me to accompany him.

  “They will be attended to,” the gatekeeper said, and again indicated the arched door. “That way, and to the left before the chapel.”

  “God will reward you for your services, Brother,” the Metropolitan said with darkest irony as he started toward the passage.

  I saw the flicker of anger in the gatekeeper’s eyes before I went after the retreating figure of the Metropolitan.

  * * *

  At the sight of the episcopal ring, the Warder Brother made a proper reverence and asked from his knees, “What do you require of me, Eminence?”

  “Your aid and your silence,” he answered. “Pope Honorios must hear what I have to say, and I rely on you to bring him to me at once. It is not to be announced that I and ... my companion have come, for idle talk might undo us.” There was a plain chair and he dropped heavily into it; he was thirty-nine, no longer young.

  “Our monks are discreet,” the Warder Brother insisted.

  “Possibly, but we will not tempt them with so juicy a tidbit of gossip.” He folded his hands over the buckle of his belt. “Send for Pope Honorios, Brother. Speed is essential.”

  “At once, Eminence,” he said, rising from his knees and leaving the room without ceremony.

  “Protocol, protocol,” the Metropolitan, who had been Protocol Secretary to Archpatriarch Ivor IX, said under his breath. “Monks are as bad as any of them. Worse.”

  I knew that I was supposed to smile, and did what I could, but I sensed that it was not convincing. My hopes had sunk with every league we covered, now my helm was heavy in my hand and my limbs were leaden with the need for sleep. What the Metropolitan must be feeling, I did not wish to consider. “Will he be long?” I could not admit that I wanted time to rest for fear that it would appear I had failed him.

  “I hope not,” the Metropolitan answered. “We are exposing ourselves to discovery every moment we remain here.” He said it calmly, but I saw that he was becoming restless and somewhat ill-at-ease.

  “Surely the Alexandrians won’t attempt to reach us here. The arm of the Northern Church is around us by now.” I was not as convinced of this as I made it appear, but I did not think the danger was as great as the Metropolitan feared it was.

  “There are those in the Northern Church who are in sympathy with the Southern. Loyalty is not so certain a thing as we would wish it to be. Many Alexandrians have come this far and seduced the faithful from our stewardship with their hedonism and mysteries. Local churches attempt to placate the Alexandrians by pandering to them, adapting the rites and liturgy to Southern practices.” He shook his head in disgust.

  “But the Archpatriarch has forbidden that,” I objected, recalling the day that my father had taken me to hear Kazamir teach. At that time, he had outlined the ways that the Alexandrian threat could be ended. That had been more than seven years ago, but I still remembered the ringing tones of the saintly man as he stood before the High Altar of the Cathedral of the Most Holy Dormition in full regalia, inspiring all who heard him with his devotion and piety.

  “Because the Archpatriarch says that a thing is so does not always make it so,” the Metropolitan said with a trace of bitterness. “In Lodz we did not speak of such things except behind properly closed doors, where our realism would not offend the faithful. Also, it was thought that this precaution would keep our worries from giving comfort to our enemies. Yet the Alexandrians have always learned of our difficulties, and boasted of them.”

  “Haven’t we done much the same thing?” I asked, pleased that the Metropolitan was confiding in me. “Haven’t we sent our monks and popes into Greece and Italy and the Frankish Provinces?” I knew that we had, for my father had spoken of it often, but not when there were members of the clergy present.

  “Of course it has happened,” the Metropolitan admitted. “But we are not so well-received as our Southern Brethren. They praise ecstasy and we preach discipline. The former is so much more attractive to the undiscriminating.”

  I did not want to challenge him, but it troubled me that he spoke so. “Did not the Christ and the Saints have such experiences?” I had made similar inquiries of him before, and had yet to be satisfied with his answers.

  “Of course, but that was not for most men. The Christ and the Saints are anointed of God and their rapture is not of this world. It is not for any churchman to provide this, but the Holy Spirit. It is blasphemy to offer indulgences and hallucinations in place of transcendent faith.” He scowled down at his feet and sighed. “How does one explain this to a poor peasant whose crops have done inadequately and who wants an excuse to forget his troubles? A night of frenzy and feasting is the answer the Southern Church provides, but it is empty.” He looked at the torches in the wall brackets. “The old man should be awake by now. I wish we did not have to do this, but the Patriarch has given his mandate, and I am bound ...”

  I had overheard a little of the instructions the Metropolitan had received from Patriarch Roedrich’s herald, and recalled that the Metropolitan had expressed his lack of satisfaction with the orders he had been given. “You gave your vow of obedience.”

  “I am true to my Church and my calling,” he said unhappily. “I vowed obedience and I am faithful to that vow, but I would be inexcusably stupid if I permitted my vow to blind me to the risks we take. I am troubled. It worries me that this Nevsky Monastery, of all we might have used, was chosen. Pope Honorios is righteous and will defend us, but if there are those who wish to press the other Brothers—and it would be folly to suppose they will not know we have been here—they will be easily able to identify us, and, Heaven forgive them, they will, so that they will have a moment’s excitement.” He stopped before one of the ancient Cimric ikons near the door and examined it with a knowledgeable eye. “Yes, very old no doubt, and with great merit accredited to it. Adam would find it delightful.” He crossed himself and folded his hands for a little peace.

  He had just raised his head when there came the uncertain slappings of sandaled feet in the hall beyond. “Metropolitan ...” I ventured but he waved me to silence and put his hand to the hilt of his sword.

  The door opened slowly and an old man, very straight and thinner than my poignard, stepped cautiously into the light. He looked first at me and then at the Metropolitan. An odd smile came over his composed features. “Jirus!” he said quietly, but with great feeling. It startled me to hear the Metropolitan addressed by a nick-name, and some of this must have showed in my manner, for the old man nodded toward me. “A tutor has privileges over his student, no matter what heights the student attains.” Then he turned again to the Metropolitan for his blessing.

  This was hastily given, and then the Metropolitan began once again to pace. “We are changing horses here, did they tell you?”

  “Yes, Jirus, they did,” Pope Honorios answered. “What can you tell me of this mission of yours?”

  “Not a great deal, I fear. The Patriarch at Graz—you know him—sent a herald to me, and my vows bind me to ...” He paused by the chair he had occupied and set his helm down on it. “We are for Lodz, and need your prayers that we may be in time. The Thing begins in two days and there is great danger.”

  “Do you have leave to tell me what it is?” Pope Honorios asked, showing some curiosity but not so much that the Metropolitan would feel he had disappointed his old tutor if nothing was told him.

  “In part. But it concerns me that ...” He broke off again and rubbed at his beard, which was trimmed short as any captain’s. “This monastery has not always been fa
ithful to the Northern Church. That was one of the many reasons it was entrusted to you. No one in Lodz has doubted your zeal or the commitment you have made to the Brothers in your care, but there are still those who do not ... Letters have been sent to Alexandria, many of which have come along the old Pilgrim’s Road, a few of which were thought to have originated here.” It was difficult for the Metropolitan to say this, and his voice, which was musical and resonant on most occasions, now dropped to a rough whisper.

  “I have done all that I may without making unwilling anchorites of the Brothers,” Pope Honorios said, stooping under the burden of this accusation. “I have addressed the Archpatriarch on this subject before, but he has not extended my power. It is not that I seek to punish my Brothers, but I fear for their souls and the Northern Church when they err. Alexander Nevsky is a militant saint, and in his monastery, we should all be vigilant in his name.”

  “Ivor might have granted your request,” the Metropolitan said with the compassion of his high office, “but I fear that Archpatriarch Kazamir is not the one to press such positions now. He encouraged the Alexandrians to attend the Thing, saying that we must make common cause with them against the Islamic heresy. The Archbishop in Rome has acted as intermediary in this, and he is a most subtle man, one of the old Roman families who were noble long before the coming of the Christ. I have warned Kazamir that the Romans are scheming to bring the center of the Southern Church to Rome, but he will not listen to me.” He shrugged. “Why should he? I have no place in Lodz now. It has been the Archpatriarch’s decision to move me away from Holy Lodz, and I am submissive to his will.”

  “You have been in Brno?” Pope Honorios inquired, knowing that news did not often reach his monastery quickly or accurately.

  “Yes; and before that, Praha. My disgrace is not marked, but it is often wise to remove the officers of former Archpatriarchs from Lodz when the new Archpatriarch is elevated.” He touched his helm again, rubbing the blackened arms he had carried when he had been the Knight Jeronim of Jutland and not Metropolitan of the Northern Church. “Patriarch Roedrich has learned of a plot—he does not say how, but those in Graz and Trieste have means and contacts the rest of us do not—to assassinate the Archpatriarch and the Patriarchal Archmandrites while they are all accessible. It has been suspected that the Alexandrians have infiltrated the ranks of the Northern Church and have promised to put those they have suborned in the places of those they kill.”