Apprehensions and Other Delusions

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Sots,” the Metropolitan said softly. “It’s as well we’re leaving now.”

  I could not argue with him, but my condemnation was not as severe. “It is as bad for most attending the Thing.”

  “True,” the Metropolitan said. “It does not please me to think so, but I have seen the streets of Lodz at each of the Four Yearly Things and always I marvel at the debauchery that is excused as zeal.” He turned to the ostler. “Our food should be ready. Get the satchels for us.” To sweeten the order, he tossed a brass coin to the man, who caught it and bowed as he scurried off toward the kitchen.

  The man who was loudest of the lot came toward us again, subjected us to a bleary-eyed scrutiny as he swayed in an effort to keep upright. “Have a drink!” he insisted, holding out a freshly-broached wineskin. “Haven’t tasted it myself yet. Two men like you need the drink more than I do.” He laughed loudly and the wine dribbled out onto his leggings, staining them as if with blood.

  “We would, soldier, if we did not have to leave. We’re under orders. You know how that is.” The Metropolitan was good-humored still, but firm in his resolve.

  “Damn the orders. It’s almost Saint Hubert’s Thing and we’re keeping harvest fair. What orders supersede that?” He belched heartily.

  The Metropolitan’s eyes narrowed behind the visor of his helm. “Then drink for us, soldier, and we’ll thank you for the sympathy.”

  The other man shoved me away as he leaned forward to glare into the Metropolitan’s face. “Take off the helm and drink. You think to insult me!”

  “Another time,” was the short answer, and the drunken soldier swore and fumbled for the dagger in his belt just as the innkeeper came puffing across the courtyard with our satchels in his hands.

  “Here, good men-at-arms,” he said with rancor. “Take them and be gone.” He gave a disgusted glance to the third man and shook his head. “You’ll have to sleep it off. Get along with you.”

  The drunkard raised his arms pugnaciously, then tottered away, muttering threats as he spilled more wine on his leggings. The innkeeper flapped his apron at the man’s back as if shooing away flies.

  “It’s the fair,” he said to us. “They all drink and roister, all through Saint Hubert’s Thing. They may sing hymns in Lodz, but here it’s bawdy songs and tippling.”

  “Pray for deliverance,” the Metropolitan advised as he took our satchels and handed one to me. “Where are the waterskins?”

  “The groom has them at the well,” the innkeeper said, and accepted the silver coin the Metropolitan held out with a practiced, swinish deference.

  “It’s madness to ride in the heat of the day,” he said by way of farewell. “But the roads will be clearer.”

  The Metropolitan was into the saddle before the innkeeper was back in the kitchen door. I mounted and followed him out into the hazy warmth of the afternoon. As we passed through the town gates, the Metropolitan pointed out the tawdry sprawl of the tents and stalls of the fair.

  “They’ll be idle for another hour or so, and then they will rise to their revels again. Tomorrow there will be Masses, and they will attend, heads aching and limbs stiff, to be assured of their salvation.” He shook his head ponderously as much as the helm would permit. “What can we do for them, but pray? If God sends them brutish lives, will not the glory of Paradise be all the greater? The Alexandrians promise them delirium and call it joy, and it is wrong to blame them if they are seduced by it, but they defile their souls with hedonism and heresy.” Again he was speaking to himself much more than to me, and I said nothing as the Metropolitan took the road leading north and east away from the fair.

  * * *

  By sunset we had changed horses once more, this time obtaining the animals from an ancient and eccentric Grave who kept a round-towered fortress over a deep gorge. He knew the Metropolitan from his soldiering days and was delighted to aid us. He cackled in anticipation of the lies he would tell any who asked of us, but I heard the somber note in the Metropolitan’s warning that it might be too dangerous to dissemble. What the old Grave would do, neither of us knew. We had the best horses in his stable and his blessing, and fresh water to still our thirst as we left the massive, elongated shadow of the towers for the steep, rutted road that followed the river.

  As we came to a sharp turn in the road, the Metropolitan held up his hand to stop us. “It’s too late now,” he told me, cocking his head toward the setting sun. “We will not reach Erl Dru by nightfall.”

  I had not known our next goal was Erl Dru, and was not wholly pleased to discover that we would be at the mercy of a family who had been for so long the most bitter rivals of our House. “Erl Dru,” I heard myself say.

  “I know, Euchari,” the Metropolitan said quietly. “But they are faithful to the Northern Church and the Patriarch of Graz has used them before as way-stations for his personal messengers. I told him once that the Moricin are not as politically safe as they are religiously, but my cautions were dismissed.”

  “It’s just as well that we have not reached Erl Dru. I could not think myself, or you, protected there.” I could not shake off the cold dread that clutched at me, holding me in icy bands.

  “I share your concern,” the Metropolitan said, putting his hand up to shade his eyes from the reddened glare of sunset. “There are clouds building up in the east. We may have rain soon. It is best that we find shelter to rest these horses as well as ourselves, so that we can be away before first light. I have two sausages left, and a little wine.”

  There was roughly the same amount in my satchel and I had learned, as had the Metropolitan, to travel on light food so that my horse would not be more burdened than was absolutely necessary. “If there is firewood, and water, we will have enough,” I ventured in the hope that there would be no need to forgo the fire.

  “There is a copse of brambles and larches ahead, and a stream near it, clear enough in the spring. I doubt it’s too brackish to drink.” He set his gelding in motion and gestured to me to follow.

  As we rode, I could not keep from worry. Why had the Patriarch wanted us to stay at Erl Dru? Even the Metropolitan traveling alone would not be welcome there, so closely was he allied with our House. The Moricin had once held the throne of Bohemia and had been brought down in an attempt to seize Poland as well. They had fled to the Prince of Saxony and had only recently been permitted to return to their holdings at Erl Dru. The Patriarch was from Kiev and might not know how long the fury had burned between our families, or how deeply. Perhaps in his quest for secrecy he played into the hands of the enemies of our House, who wanted only the opportunity to do us harm.

  Once in the shadows and concealing bulk of the copse, we both dismounted and made our way along the shepherd’s track that branched away from the road. It would not be too intolerable to sleep here in the open, if it did not rain and there were not too many insects and vermin to contend with. I took the bag of grain from behind the cantel of my saddle.

  “Good. Barley now and then we can hobble them for the night so that they can graze.” The Metropolitan pointed ahead in the gloom to the stream and then reached to remove his helm.

  “Do we keep watch?” I asked as I took my helm off.

  “For the first half of the night. I waken early.” He was loosening the girths of his saddle and preparing to lead the gelding to drink.

  “Then perhaps you should take the first watch,” I suggested. “There is less chance of over-sleeping.”

  By the time we had boiled the sausages in the tin forage pot, it was dark night. The glow of the fire was carefully banked so that what little light it provided did not penetrate the dense foliage around us. We huddled near the low flames so that we would stay warm a while longer. Now that the sun had faded, the heat of the day drained away into the dark. The Metropolitan blessed the sausages as if they had been royal fare, and we ate them as con
tentedly as our mounts munched the grain in their nosebags.

  * * *

  “Riders passed in the night,” the Metropolitan said as he wakened me to a dead fire and clammy morning mists.

  “While you were on watch?” I could hardly see him.

  “No, much later. There were more than six of them and they were heavily armed; I heard the jingle of them quite plainly.” He had brought up his gelding and was rebuckling the cheekstrap of the bridle as he spoke. “We will have to go carefully, for we do not know what visitors arrived at Erl Dru last night.”

  “We know of two that didn’t,” I remarked acidly as I got up. My shoulders were stiff and creaky as unoiled leather.

  “For which we may both thank God for His protection.” He pulled the girths tighter and then jabbed the gelding’s belly sharply with his knee. As the horse snorted indignantly, he secured the buckles.

  I stumbled to my feet and stepped into the bushes to relieve myself, trusting that if we were still followed, they would not use dogs to track us. When I had returned, the Metropolitan offered me half of what was left of the rind of cheese. It was little enough to break our fast with, but we both ate gratefully before we set out once more.

  * * *

  When the sun was half way to the meridian, the Metropolitan reined in and pointed to a dark plume of smoke rising over the brow of the hill we were ascending. “There is a monastery in that defile,” he said as the cloud became denser.

  “The riders, do you think?” It did not seem possible that armed men would attack a holy place, and I wondered if there had been a mistake, and there was another explanation for the coiling smoke.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know.” He hesitated, holding his restive gelding with calm authority. “We dare not stop now. The Thing is tomorrow and with the greatest aid from God, we will not reach Lodz until late tonight.”

  “Do you wish to stop?” I asked without considering it.

  “How can you doubt it?” he demanded of me. “There are good and blessed men there who have given their lives and fortunes into the keeping of God and His Saints. Were there nothing more than a blaze in a hayrick, it would still be an obligation of my rank and office to give them any help I could. If I stop, I disobey the Patriarch and endanger the Archpatriarch and the Patriarchal Archmandrites in Holy Lodz. God will weigh my sins and judge me for my neglect now.” He spurred his horse so suddenly that it reared, almost throwing him from the saddle.

  There had been times before when I had seen the Metropolitan wrestle with his conscience, but never was it more apparent how demanding he was on himself. “Can’t we send aid, or ask for help in the next village?”

  “It is not what the Patriarch wanted, but ...” He made an impatient motion with his arm. “The smoke may be seen in the next valley, but many villagers will not rush to where there is smoke. It bodes ill for them, and they will retreat to their houses and their churches to keep safe. How many times since the Church was sundered have wars been fought for monasteries and churches as much as for fields, crops, and wealth?” He wheeled his horse once. “It is unpardonable that I should leave them, but there is the threat to the Archpatriarch.” His words were rough with the force of his emotions.

  “How long would it take, to ...” Even as I said it, I knew it would be too long, that we could not linger, though the monastery and its monks burned to ashes before noon for our neglect.

  “We must go on, but it is a dire thing we do, and it will not be forgotten in Heaven, I fear.” The last was little more than a mutter made nearly indistinct by the rattle of our horses’ hooves on the pebbles of the road. As he drew ahead of me, the Metropolitan called back over his shoulder, “Be careful. It would be easy to lame the geldings.”

  I had been riding with more attention on our goal than on the way itself and I felt abashed as the Metropolitan reminded me of this simple precaution. I waved to acknowledge his warning and determined to be careful as we rode.

  It was more than an hour later that we entered the little hamlet that straddled the old Pilgrims’ Road. Most of the men were in the fields, but a few of the women waited in the doors of earthen huts, children clinging to their shapeless skirts, the stench of the open ditch at the side of the road attesting to the degraded lives of the inhabitants. One of the women flung a handful of refuse at us as we passed and the children copied her, so that we were pelted with offal and rocks.

  One rock struck the Metropolitan’s horse on the rump and it bucked, kicking out with its back legs, narrowly missing my mount’s chest. The children scattered, screaming like frightened fowl, and at the sound a man in long robes emerged from the best of these miserable hovels.

  The Metropolitan could not hold his horse, nor did he try. He let the animal run as he crouched over the neck as if riding into battle, and for that reason he did not see the robed figure who watched us ride out. I had but a moment to watch the stranger, but I knew he was an Alexandrian priest, and was much too far into the territories of the Northern Church for an accident. I whipped the reins and raced after the Metropolitan as he sped away. I was resolved to tell him what I had discovered, and dreaded what his response would be.

  We were six leagues from the hamlet when the Metropolitan drew rein again and waited as I rode up beside him. He dismounted and began to rub the chest and flanks of the gelding with expert fingers. “He is failing. The stone that hit him must have done more than irritate him.”

  “Is it bad?” I asked, knowing there was no way it could be otherwise.

  “It slows us down,” he said. “I wish there were a place we could safely change mounts again, but there is nothing between here and the crest, and we are not there yet. We must go at a walk; I doubt if this horse can sustain a trot much longer.” Reluctantly he got back into the saddle. “If he fails, you must ride on ahead and do all that you may to warn the Archpatriarch. Go to your father. Explain to him ...” He said no more. He let the gelding choose his own pace and I rode beside him in silence.

  * * *

  Thunder was rumbling beyond the distant mountain peaks by the middle of the afternoon, and the road had grown steeper. The Metropolitan’s horse had been laboring visibly for the last two leagues and as the upward turns became increasingly severe, the gelding turned shiny with sweat and his flanks heaved.

  “There is a lake not much further on, and a bridge. Once we are over it, it can be destroyed so that we will delay any behind us. If we can reach the Monastery of the Visitation, we can change horses.” The Metropolitan was almost as exhausted as the horse he rode.

  “How far is the monastery?” I had heard of it, but did not know precisely where it was in these remote hills. Most of the valleys were high and narrow, more canyons than not. It was a wild region, where brigands lived and preyed upon unwary travelers, where bridges and fordings were critically few. There were ruined forts, little more than heaps of tumbled stones left over from the Lombard Wars, three centuries ago. These were places of ill-omen and few but the most desperate ventured near them, for they were known to be cursed and haunted.

  Just as we came to the lake, the first rain began to spatter down on us and the lightning quivered behind us. The willows that stood in the marshy ground between the road and the shore bent hissing leaves to the water that now boiled with rain. Our horses were too tired to shy as the storm worsened, but nonetheless we kept firm hands on the reins, knowing it would take little for them to bolt.

  We came to the bridge at the far end of the lake, where the water dropped away in a torrent down a narrow, rocky channel. The bridge spanned the water at its narrowest point, but still was a goodly length. The planks were thick and echoed with the plodding steps of our mounts as we went onto it, accompanied by the thunder. That may have been the reason we did not hear the other riders until that moment. At another time we would have been warned of their approach, but with the storm, the falli
ng water, and our horses’ hooves, we noticed nothing.

  They came toward us down the avenue of pines flanking the road on the far side of the bridge. There were seven of them, riding fresh horses, armed with swords and maces, all carrying blank shield. Lightning winked; thunder shattered the air, and the men bore down on us, drawing their swords as they neared the bridge.

  “Brigands!” I shouted to the Metropolitan as I drew my sword and brought my shield up from where it hung on the saddle.

  “Traitors!” he cried out, already prepared to meet the first rush. “Forward!” He spurred his faltering horse to an uneven canter. “Don’t let them get on the bridge!”

  I followed him, hefting my sword to strike. A little way beyond the bridge we closed with them. I heard the crooning rush as a mace swung by my head, barely missing me, as I brought my sword up from my side. I took the jarring impact with satisfaction as the man flailed at the deep wound in his thigh. Pressing the advantage, I spurred my mount against my opponent’s, and the animal toppled, kicking and neighing in terror. There was not time enough to determine if the wounded man would fight again: I saw three of the men converged on the Metropolitan, driving him back to the bridge.

  As I turned toward him, I was almost knocked out of the saddle by a glancing blow from a mace which had caught the edge of my shield. My horse stumbled, but I held him together as I turned to face the other riders. In the wavering glare of the lightning, I thought I saw wine-stained leggings on the nearest man, and I remembered the drunken soldier in the innyard. Then the light was gone and the thunder burst over us and we closed for the fight.

  There was a madness on me, as if the demons of the Wild Hunt were in me, as I thought it must be in the skies for Saint Hubert’s Thing. I fought without thinking, without fear or anger, for the unholy joy of killing. I heard the shrill scream of a wounded horse once, and the cursing shouts of the men under the clamor of the storm. The ring and thud of blows were music to me, sweet and good to hear. My arm grew heavy and my hand was hot and slippery with blood, but whether it was mine or my enemies’, I did not know. It was enough to battle them and trust to the Mercy of God if I fell.