Apprehensions and Other Delusions (34 page)

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 falling 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.

At a signal I never saw, the attackers turned and galloped away in the direction they had come, through the avenue of pines. Two of the men were barely able to stay in the saddle and one of the others had lost his helm. I started after them, then drew in as my mind came back to me. I could not battle five men alone, though two were wounded. I pulled in my panting horse and turned back toward the bridge. Now it was painful to move and I heard the rasp of the breath in my throat. I felt for the first time the raw agony of the wounds I had sustained and felt my own blood soaking my leggings under the mail, and filling my boot. There was a gash over my knee and a swelling bruise on my back where a mace had struck over the cover of my shield. I had been lucky; without the shield to break it, such a blow was fatal.

One of the attackers lay dead, propped up against a tree where he must have crawled to be away from the hooves of the horses. I saw that he held an Alexandrian talisman in his ruined hands, and I damned him for such blasphemy. The man whose leg I had opened was moaning, and his horse stood not far from him, cropping grass at the side of the road.

The Metropolitan was off the bridge, near his dying horse. His helm was off and I could see the red froth on his lips; his face was gray.

I dismounted and limped toward him, filled with despair. When I was close to him, I heard the wheeze and rustle of his breath. In anguish I crouched over him, letting my sword fall at last.

He had taken a mace blow directly on the ribs, and they had splintered. Blood foamed on his side, running with the mail he wore. The steel links were broken where the bones poked out. He tried to speak, but the blood choked him and the agony of coughing was hideous. With tremendous effort he beckoned to me. “Boot.” He gasped and the breath whistled through the wound. “Boot.”

“This one?” I touched him, my hands wooden.

“Dis ... patch.”

It was not possible to remove the boot without adding to his pain, and so I did it as quickly as I could and tried not to listen to the sounds he made.

“Ring.” One hand moved weakly. I nodded.

“Yes. I will take it.”

Two of his fingers trembled as he made the blessing. He fixed me with his eyes. “Strike deep.”

With no feeling at all I drew my sleeve dagger, and drove it hard and true under his ribs to the heart.

* * *

The man I had wounded said little, though I worked on him for a short while. He admitted that he had come from Lukash Nizety and that he was to prevent us from reaching Lodz for the Thing. The rest was babbling and heretical Alexandrian prayers, and I left him by the road, took his horse, the dispatch and the Metropolitan’s episcopal ring, and rode to the treason at Lodz.

That is my testimony, and it will not change, no matter how long you keep me in a penitent’s cell. I say that Archpatriarch Honorios rules in Lodz by treachery and that the lords of Erl Dru who have claimed the throne of Poland are murderers and heretics. It makes no difference that the Alexandrians have come to Rome; they are still officers of the Southern Church and my foes for as long as there is breath in my body. I saw the Standard of Christ raised by bloody hands on Saint Hubert’s Thing, and no prayers of yours will erase that defilement. Nothing you do to me, though you kill me, will change my mind: I am by Holy Right King of Poland and you will die with my curse upon you.

About
On Saint Hubert’s Thing

While researching the background for an historical horror novel set in the 5th century that I was never able to sell, I began to wonder what would happen if Christianity had split north/south instead of east/west. This puzzling eventually led to imagining a mystery-religion Christianity centered in Alexandria, and a Russo-Teutonic hierarchical religion centered in Kiev. Then the characters introduced themselves and we were off

This was originally published as a chapbook, handsomely produced by Cheap Street Press and beautifully illustrated by Alicia Austin.

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