David Wingrove - The Empire of Time

In the chapel the knights and priests are gathered, beneath the bright silken banners of the Order. Hermann Balk, the Hochmeister himself, the Magister Generalis , is there, along with six of his knights.

Beside them are two dozen knights of the Teutonic Order of St Mary’s Hospital in Jerusalem, along with nineteen priests aged between eight and seventy. Kneeling on the cold stone floor, they pray to the Virgin, goddess of this holy war, asking her blessing.

And, at the back, one other. Myself. Otto Behr, supplicant of the Order these past six months.

There is a moment’s silence and then the Hochmeister stands, turning to look out across the bowed heads of the gathering. The candles on the altar waver, sending up their incense into the darkness of the rafters. As one, the congregation raise their eyes and look back at him. Meister Balk is a tall, gaunt figure, grey of hair and clear of eye. Like all the other knights, he wears full armour and long leather boots. About his shoulders is a white mantle, the emblems of cross and sword emblazoned in red upon the left shoulder.

This is a special moment. Tonight, I will become a member of the Order, a monk-warrior, obeying the strict rules and codes of the Brotherhood. Smiling grimly, Meister Balk looks to me, then gestures for me to rise.

I move carefully between the kneeling figures until I am directly in front of him. My scabbard is empty, my sword lain across the altar behind him. His grey eyes search mine, a stern pleasure in them; then, without preamble, he begins:

‘Otto … do you belong to any other Order?’

‘No, Meister.’

‘Are you married?’

‘No, Meister.’

‘Have you any hidden physical infirmity?’

‘No, Meister.’

‘Are you in debt?’

‘No, Meister.’

‘Are you a serf?’

‘No, Meister.’

The Meister pauses, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes, looking about him at the watching knights, then, with a nod, begins again.

‘Are you prepared to fight in the Palestine?’

‘Yes, Meister.’

‘Or elsewhere?’

‘Yes, Meister?’

‘Will you care for the sick?’

‘Yes, Meister.’

‘Will you practise any craft you know as ordered?’

‘Yes, Meister.’

‘Will you obey the Rule?’

My voice rings out, clear in that tiny stone chapel. ‘Yes, Meister!’

Again, the Meister nods.

I have answered the five Noes and the five Yeses. All that remains is for me to swear my loyalty to the Order. I turn, facing the others, the practised words coming easily to my lips.

‘I, Otto Behr, do profess and promise chastity, renunciation of property, and obedience, to God and to the Blessed Virgin Mary, and to you, Brother Hermann, Master of the Teutonic Order, and to your successors, according to the Rules and Institutions of the Order, and I will be obedient to you and to your successors, even unto death.’

There are smiles now on the faces of many of those watching me, smiles of pride and satisfaction. I have lived and worked with these men and they know my qualities. Now I am one of them. A Brother .

I turn back. Meister Balk takes my sword and, holding it flat across his palms, offers it to me. I take it and, lifting it in the air, kiss the embossed cross upon the pommel, then turn to face the others, repeating the gesture.

Slowly I draw it through the air, making the sign of the cross. Then — and only then — do I sheath it again.

I step back through them to my place, then kneel, facing the Hochmeister as we begin the final prayers. Yet we are not halfway through the first of them when there is a baleful shout from without, followed moments later by a hammering on the outer door.

Meister Balk strides across and throws it open. Framed in its whiteness is one of the guards. He falls to his knees, head bowed.

‘Meister, you must come at once!’

‘What is it, Brother William?’

The young man looks up. The horror in his eyes turns my stomach. All about me the knights are getting to their feet.

‘It is Brother Werner, Meister. He …’ The young man swallows. ‘The Prussians have returned him.’

If the Hochmeister feels anything, he conceals it well. Turning back, he looks to us.

‘Johannes … Otto … come. Let us bring our brother back inside.’

His body lies there, not fifty paces from the fort. They have stripped him and lain him like a star upon the snow, his pale limbs smeared with blood. Kneeling beside him and seeing the rictus on his ash-white face, I feel my heart break. He is snarling, as if still in pain, even though his brief life here is ended. He was the youngest of us, perhaps the finest. Looking closer, I see the ice crystals in his blood. He has been dead some time.

They have disfigured him badly: cut off his fingers and his feet, and opened up his chest with an axe. His eyes have been gouged out and his ears cut off, his tongue cut from his mouth. Worse still, they have carved the sign of the cross into his crudely shaven skull. And all of it while he was yet alive. For that is their way, these Prussians.

Coming alongside me, Johannes groans, then kneels, crossing himself. I do the same, then look up, searching among the trees on the far bank for any movement. The enemy are watching us, looking to see how we react. I meet Johannes’ eyes, and we both stand, drawing our swords. Stepping forward, I plant myself there, prepared to defend the body until help comes from the fort. There are shouts now from that direction. I hear the gate swing open once again, the sound of quick, crisp footfalls.

Meister Balk himself has come, along with two others — young knights, not Brothers yet, barely a season into the service of the Order. Seeing the body they stop, then turn away, to be sick in the snow.

I look back, my eyes on the frosted plank bridge, knowing that if they are to attack, they must attack from there, and soon. Touching my arm, the Hochmeister urges me forward.

‘Otto, Johannes — to the bridge! You must delay them until we get him back inside.’

I see them now, moving among the trees, and feel a natural hatred towards them for what they’ve done. Werner was my brother-in-arms, my comrade. When I think of him, I think of his smile, of his laughing eyes, which even the strict, almost masochistic rigours of the Order could not repress.

It is not that we are better men than they. No, for I have witnessed atrocities enough. We have burned their villages and killed their wives and children. And for what? For the Virgin and her son? To bring God to the heathens of these accursed woods? I know this, and yet the urge for vengeance — to cleave these Prussian bastards limb from limb — overwhelms me as I stand there facing them across the river.

Meister Balk barks orders behind me. He and the young knights have begun to drag the body back to the fort. At that very moment there is sudden movement among the trees across the river as a dozen or more men charge towards us. There is the hiss of crossbow bolts flying through the air, launched by our men in the stockade. Choked cries come from our attackers.

Johannes looks to me and smiles grimly, then takes a fighting grip of his sword. I do likewise, bracing myself to meet their attack. But something’s wrong. Out of the corner of my eye I see a movement, below me and to my right, and realise with a shock that the river has frozen over in the night and that our enemies have crossed upon the ice and are now not merely in front of us but to our sides also, on the near bank of the river. Even as I call a warning, they climb the banks and throw themselves across the space, outflanking us as they try to cut off the little party that is halfway across the snow.