Apprehensions and Other Delusions

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Eminence,” Pope Honorios said with a sad expression, “this is madness. How could such a plan hope to succeed? While it is true that the Archpatriarch and the Patriarchal Archmandrites will be present for the Thing, so will tens of thousands of those faithful to the Northern Church. It would be more than suicide to venture to harm Kazamir and the rest in such a gathering.”

  “They have been assured of their place with the martyrs. Those who gave this information in Graz died joyously. So will those sent to do the murders.” The Metropolitan stood still. “We believe we will be followed. We believe that there are those who will ask questions of you and the rest. It is essential that they be misled for as long as possible. Should anyone stop here, delay them. Give them our spent horses to ride, direct them to the wrong roads, describe us incorrectly.”

  Pope Honorios bowed his head. “The young man with you?”

  “Euchari,” the Metropolitan said to me, summoning me forward. “As you were my tutor, so I am his,” he said to the old man as I showed my respect. “This is Marek Euchari, Crown Prince of Poland.”

  “Highness,” Pope Honorios said, with some surprise.

  “For the moment, he is the Knight Euchari and nothing more. It is dangerous enough that we are carrying our messages; if our identities were known, it would be much more risky than it is now. Those who wish to murder the Archpatriarch and the Archmandrites would not balk at adding a Metropolitan and a Prince to their victims.” He rubbed at his eyes. “If you must say someone has been here, then two knights, Euchari and Jeronim, have. You will not pollute your soul with lies and you will not expose us to more hazards than we face already.”

  Pope Honorios had observed the Metropolitan closely, and said now, “Would you not like to rest for even an hour, my son?”

  The Metropolitan smiled briefly at this old address. “Of course I would like it; but we must not linger. We are far from Lodz and the Thing begins soon. Pray that we have a speedy and uneventful journey, old friend, and keep our secret as you keep the sanctity of your worship.” He lifted his helm and nodded to me. “Prepare, Euchari. Dawn is not far off.” As he secured the shoulder buckles, he said to Pope Honorios, “I am sorry that you were not better treated by Ivor and Kazamir. Don’t think badly of them; they were influenced by the Patriarchs in Brittany and Friesland, who had candidates of their own to promote. I tried to get you posted to Praha, but it was not possible.”

  “God rewards His servants,” Pope Honorios said mildly. “There was a time when I fostered envy and anger in my heart, but no more. I will pray for you, my son, and for the Thing.”

  “My thanks, Pope,” the Metropolitan said humbly, and motioned to me to follow him.

  As I did this, I saw that Pope Honorios was watching us closely, a tranquil, regretful smile on his austere features.

  * * *

  We were away on fresh horses before the Brothers had risen for morning prayers, and the gatekeeper bid us a churlish farewell as the gates slammed down behind us. The road was empty, but we had been warned that it was market day in Saint Vincenty and the peasants would be bringing animals and produce to sell. With the summer fading, the bounty of the harvest made such occasions more boisterous than usual, and in many villages, Things were kept in the churches for those who could not make the trek to Holy Lodz.

  At the first crossroad, the Metropolitan drew up his gelding and gestured to me to do the same. “We will not stop but to rest the animals until after the mid-day meal, when many are sleeping. There is a hostelry on the other side of the Vien Road which caters to men-at-arms. We will change horses there and go.”

  This was contrary to what the Metropolitan had told me at the Nevsky Monastery, and I was taken aback. “You were planning to stop in ...”

  “We were overheard. It is important that we take as few chances as possible.” He pulled in the reins more firmly and peered down the dark road. Now that the moon was down and the sky just on the turn to dawn, we took more care of how we went. The Metropolitan regarded me with bleary eyes. “How long can you stay in the saddle, Euchari?”

  “As long as you can, Eminence,” I answered, seeing how exhausted he was.

  “Longer, probably,” he murmured. “There is a stream a little distance onward, and there we will water the horses.” He tested his sword to be sure it was loose in the scabbard, then added, “When we are among others, address me as Jirus or Knight, not Eminence. That would bring us the very attention we seek to avoid.” Before I could respond, he clapped his heels to his mount’s sides and was away at a steady trot. I followed him in silence until we reached the stream, and then, as we dismounted and pulled the horses to the edge of the stream where ferns and mosses grew in the shadow of pines and spangle-leaved birches, I voiced a number of my fears.

  “Is the main road faster, Met ... Jirus?”

  He gave me a look of approval. “Yes, it is faster, but it is being watched and, with the pilgrims making their way to Lodz for the Thing, we would not be sure of where we could change mounts or where we would be safe. This way we are able to travel largely unobserved. It may be that we will make better time this way than the other because of that, if no other reason.” His horse was pulling at the grasses by the stream between long draughts, and the Metropolitan pulled at the bridle to stop this. “I do not need you logy with food and drink,” he admonished the animal as he moved aside to give my mount room.

  “Yet you fear we are being followed in spite of our precautions,” I said, hoping to appear more sensible than alarmed.

  “Yes,” he said heavily. “I pray that it is not so, but I have not forgotten what I learned as a knight, and all that warns me of treachery.” He made a single, puzzled sound that was not the laugh he had intended it to be. “They are subtle, the Alexandrians, and determined to have the ascendancy over the Northern Church. It is their concern for the Islam heretics, since that threat presses closer to them than us.”

  “Is there someone at the Nevsky Monastery you suspect?” I asked him, thinking of how very few Brothers had seen us.

  “Not specifically, no, but I am worried. We do know that there have been renegades there in the past, and Pope Honorios is not bastion enough against such infiltration.” He pulled his horse back and swung up into the saddle. “Come, Euchari. With luck we can sleep a few hours tonight.”

  I wondered what he meant when he said “with luck” but I did not pursue it. I mounted and came up beside him.

  “We can walk for the next several leagues. That will give the horses some respite. It would be senseless to ride them into the ground.” His saddle creaked as he swung around in it to look down the dark road at our backs. “We will be into the hills tomorrow, and the day after we will be in Lodz, if we can find fresh mounts tonight. If necessary, I will speak to the elders of the churches we pass, but that would mean I must reveal myself, and that is what we wish most to avoid.” He was looking ahead now, glaring into the night with eyes like granite.

  “Do we go to my father when we arrive, or to the Cathedral?” It would be easier for the Metropolitan to gain access to the Archpatriarch than it would be for me, but either of us would find my father more accessible than Kazamir.

  “You to your father and I to the Cathedral. One way or the other, they will be warned.” He brought his gauntleted hand up in frustration. “Kazamir has little use for me. I was one of Ivor’s men, and those around Kazamir do not trust the old patriarchal court.”

  “Then why take the risk? Why not send your own messenger?” It was my exhaustion speaking, and my indignation on behalf of my tutor.

  “The Patriarch of Graz entrusted this mission to me, not to my messenger. And I am faithful to my office and my oaths, no matter who wears the tiara. It is the Northern Church that matters, not you, not I, and not the Archpatriarch and the Patriarchal Archmandrites, for all their holiness. We are all transitory, but the C
hurch endures. I will not stand by in pettiness and spite to watch the Alexandrians bring us to our knees.” He sat more erect now, and the horse, responding to the sharpness of his voice, bounded ahead for several paces until the Metropolitan brought him back under control. “Euchari, how would I answer to God if I permitted this to happen? How could I abhor Judas and then commit the same monstrous crime he did?”

  We had argued such questions before, but in the comfort of the Metropolitan’s study with servants around us and fires rattling on the hearth. The issues then were little more than theories, pleasant exercises that permitted us to explore the nature of our beliefs. I had not understood how profound his devotion was until this seemingly endless ride. I was humbled by what I saw in him, and wondered if I was as devout. I rode beside him in silence, examining my soul and recalling that one Alexandrian service I had attended in Trieste. Had that made me a heretic? The ritual, with its long periods of chanting which culminated in rapturous frenzy, had shocked me and I had not gone again, but I feared now that the taint was on me. I knew I should confess this lapse, but I dared not hope for absolution. Yet I rode with my tutor to defend all that was most holy in Lodz. Might not that exonerate me? “Did you never have doubts?”

  “There is no faith where doubt has not been present. When I was much younger, I was more interested in glory in battle than glory in Heaven. Seeing my father die of his grievous wounds opened my eyes to the horror of fighting, and his unswerving trust in God banished my doubts.” He had put his hand on the hilt of his sword, riding now as he had done as a young knight. “When Adam became Grave of Jutland, I told him of my vocation and he released me from my knightly oaths.”

  I had heard something of this before, but was still puzzled by his brother’s willingness to permit the Metropolitan to enter the Church. There was only one other brother, and he had been sent by the King of Denmark to Britain as ambassador. Questioning him about this was awkward, but we had many hours ahead of us, and this was not the formal setting of instruction. “Did your brother try to dissuade you?”

  The Metropolitan took a moment to answer, and when he did, I knew he was troubled. “No. It is not Adam’s way to ...” He turned his head. “Horses.”

  I heard them, too, and reached for the sword at my side just as an abrupt motion from the Metropolitan stayed my hand. “Shouldn’t we ...”

  “Not yet. They may be nothing more than local peasants coming early to market. The horses are only trotting.” He sat forward. “If they are after us, we must not battle them unless there are few. Otherwise, galling as it is, we must outrun them. Our messages are more important than the pleasure of a few blows.”

  “I am not so callow that I must turn aside from combat,” I protested, chagrined at the thought of even so minor a disgrace.

  “It has nothing to do with turning aside from combat. We fight a greater foe than a few mounted men; we are at war with the Alexandrians, and it would be reprehensible to lose sight of the greater goal for a ...” He lifted his head, falling silent. The trotting horses were coming up behind us and would be passing us by the time we reached the next bend in the road. I could not help but notice that this might well be a good place for an ambush.

  “Very well, we will run if we must,” I said with some annoyance. It appalled me to think that there were those who would be able to boast of rousting me from the field. No doubt the Metropolitan was right; nevertheless, my pride smarted at the thought of what I must do.

  “Keep close, and if we must fight, let it be back to back,” the Metropolitan said in a low voice. “If they pass us, note how they are dressed and what they carry.”

  I nodded while my pulse hammered its anticipation. The horses behind us—there were no more than four—broke into a canter, and a groom came up to us astride a strapping chestnut with a common head and deep chest. He waved in greeting. “Good knights, make way,” he shouted to us, then waved to those behind him.

  The Metropolitan nodded to me and we moved to the side of the road, on guard against what might next occur.

  A sorrel mare came up with a laughing young woman in the saddle. Her skirts were caught up and the tops of her boots were plainly visible. She was laughing and fresh-faced, no older than sixteen. Her tabard showed the arms of Nizety. She acknowledged us with a nod, and then a young man-at-arms came abreast of her, crying out to us, “Valeska, daughter of Lukash Nizety goes fairing!” He was well-armed and regarded his charge with possessive, protective eyes, permitting no one to rob her of her delight.

  “Good fortune,” the Metropolitan called to them easily, though his hand still rested on the hilt of his sword.

  The three horses cantered on ahead of us and were soon lost to sight around the next bend.

  “Lukash Nizety is a peculiar man,” the Metropolitan said a bit later to break the silence.

  “I have never met him,” I said, but, like everyone else, I had heard rumors.

  “And his daughter is going fairing,” he mused, his mail turning ruddy with the rosy light of dawn on it, as if he were a furnace and his armor hot coals. “Where is her father, I wonder?”

  “In Lodz,” I answered, since my father had informed me of the great banquet he planned to mark the occasion of Saint Hubert’s Thing. Odd though he might be, Nizety was high enough in rank to be included in all court functions.

  The Metropolitan shook his head. “How many men do you think he has brought with him? A dozen?”

  “At least,” I said, thinking it was like Nizety to take his train of soldiers to Lodz and leave a pretty creature like—what was her name? Valeska?—his daughter behind, contenting her with a fair instead of the Thing.

  “And the others are similarly protected,” the Metropolitan said to himself. “Where does one begin, with so many possibilities?”

  “We begin by arriving,” I said lightly, giving his lesson back to him.

  There was another bark of angry laughter from the Metropolitan as we rode into the brazen dawn.

  * * *

  The innkeeper grumbled, but he provided a change of horses for an outrageous amount of money. When the Metropolitan commented on the price, he opened his hands and with an expression guileless as a baby, protested that the demand for mounts was overwhelming with the’ Thing at Holy Lodz, and were it not that we were bound for it, he would not have been able to give us anything to ride, not even a mule.

  The Metropolitan swore his annoyance, as any fighting man would, and inspected the animals brought out for us. “They are not bad,” he conceded.

  “Superb,” the innkeeper corrected him. “And newly-shod. They won’t go lame or cast a shoe on you, be assured of that.”

  “For your sake, I hope that’s true,” the Metropolitan said, then handed over the final gold coins. “There. If I have any cause for complaint, I will let it be known among other men-at-arms and your business will suffer.”

  We were favored with a smile that was ingratiating and sour. “Of course, good knights. A man in my position cannot afford to offer poor horseflesh.”

  “It is good you’re aware of that,” the Metropolitan growled. “Have these nags saddled and we’ll be off.”

  The innkeeper was taken aback. “At this hour?” Most of those at his inn were like the villagers—they slept after the noon meal.

  “We are under orders,” the Metropolitan said, as if he, too, were displeased with the idea of riding out now. “Get them ready. We will buy wine, water, bread, and sausage from you, and bags of barley for the horses.”

  “Of course,” the innkeeper said at this familiar request. “Do you have a set of food satchels?”

  The Metropolitan handed them over without comment, then lifted on his helm. “We wish to leave at once, innkeeper,” he warned as the innkeeper toddled over toward his scullery.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” he called over his shoulder, moving a
little faster. “Shortly, good knights.”

  The Metropolitan stared around the courtyard at the inn as he buckled the helm into place once more. “I have been wondering,” he said conversationally but with an underlying lack of ease that alerted me to his distress, “if we are the only messengers sent by the Patriarch to Lodz. I was told there were no others, but it might have been a prudent lie, in case we should fall into the hands of those who wish to prevent our warning from arriving. If we know of no others, then we cannot speak of them. It is not impossible,” he said thoughtfully, “that there are other messengers on the road to Lodz. Some may ride with the pilgrims, and some may go by the Royal High Road.” He crossed his arms over the mail on his chest and I could see that the camise beneath was already darkened with sweat.

  “Do you think this has happened?” I asked as the ostlers brought the tack for the horses.

  “I don’t know. But were I the one sending the message, I might have done it.” He turned to watch the girths being buckled and paid little attention to the sound of an approaching wagon.

  There were shouts behind us, and the riotous good-humor of the harvest fair as the passengers on the heavily-laden wagon tumbled out into the courtyard, many of them shouting for wine and beer in drink-sodden voices. One of the men reeled toward us, singing bits of lewd songs, and brandishing a wineskin over his head.