The Teutonic Knight: IN HOC SIGNO VINCES

It was very fortunate, he supposed—as the snowflakes drifted down before his eyes—very fortunate indeed to have the Mother of God as one's patroness. Tancred von Marienburg pulled the cowl of his hood further down his face as another piercing gust of wind hissed through the stark-thin trees. A solitary figure in the immense, tractless forest, the young knight rode aimlessly through the ever-deepening snow. The road had long been buried under a veil of white, so that with each step, his horse sank up to its belly in the crisp, frozen snowdrift. As he rode over a particularly high mound of snow, he felt the soles of his boots brush the top layer with a soft, whispered hushing sound. Wherever he turned he glimpsed that eternal blanket of blinding, smarting white. When he looked up from the shadowy folds of his cloak, his eyes were dazed with the uniformity of white, as though the world gazed at him through a large, blind eye. He bowed his head again and retreated under the thin shelter of his hood.

He would probably die, he thought, and he gave a gasp through clenched teeth as the gaping wound in his side opened with a rough jolt. He pressed his hand to the soaking blood. He was feeling dizzy. He didn't think the wound was deep, but…it wasn't quite that which worried him. The harsh Polish winter would kill him, not the bite of a Samogitian axe. Indeed, he almost relished the wound for its seeping warmth and the dull pain that told him—like nothing else did—that he was still miraculously alive. He shook himself a little, curled his toes in his boots, and flexed his fingers in his ice-fringed gloves: just to make sure they were still with him. They replied with a dull, tingling murmur. He let the reins fall slack and buried his hands beneath his shivering cloak.

Partially drenched from the relentless snow and sleet of the last several days, the wool sagged heavily on his shoulders, and the wind hissed its way through the stiff fibers. His bones were chilled, and his movements became spasmodic in the saddle as his failing body labored to keep from freezing. He still shivered somewhat, but minute by minute his body grew still, as though giving way unprotestingly to the invading cold as it came to drag him down into a sleepy, wintry death.

There were worse ways to die, he thought. Far worse ways to die, and he had seen more of them than he cared to.

His horse stumbled, and he threw out a gloved hand to catch the saddlebag as it slid. The frayed leather held. His relief hissed out in a cloud of warm mist that curled around his face. Its contents were priceless. Above everything else, and up to his last gasp, he had to keep it safe. Perhaps...perhaps it would not even matter much whether he lived or died. If he froze to death in the saddle, perhaps the horse might manage to make her way to one of the Order's preceptories. That would be enough. She was faithful. Her black coat was freezing and she shivered. But she was alive because she kept moving, kept forcing her way through, like the bold black prow of a ship cutting its way through an icy sea. She would not slacken her pace unless she was commanded to do so. She would keep plodding on until she reached home; or died in the attempt.

She did not know; but he did. She would not survive. And neither would he. He frowned, and he felt his face crack. Neither of them would make it. They might last another day. He had no idea where he was; after the attack, he had lost all concept of direction or time. The sun had abandoned the world to the relentless gasp of winter's chill and hid itself away behind a thick wall of grey cloud. He did not know what time of day it was; he did not even know what day it was. They had left Dobrin on St. Stephen's day; he remembered that much. But it had been weeks since then; or, as it felt to him, ages and lifetimes ago. He racked his mind. It had been several days since the ambush, at least a week before that was the storm; but what day was it?

He couldn't think. His mind would not clear from its hazy fog of dull pain and ache. It was too cold to think. It was too cold to do anything. Except perhaps to sleep, and after that, it would take little else to drift away from the world of the living and surrender utterly to winter's embrace.

He shook himself. No. He had a duty to perform. He could not sleep, or else he would never wake again. The food was gone. His groaning belly had long since quieted, and now only bothered him with a rare stab of morose displeasure. His joints ached. He could not remember the feeling of warmth except for that dull pain in his side. He removed his glove with difficulty—gingerly grasping the leather with his teeth and pulling until his sore-filled, festering hand came away. The cold wind dried the soaking skin with a piercing bite. He looked at it, almost curiously, as though he had never seen it before—and then the stiff hand sidled down to where the wound gaped open to soak up every last drop of delicious heat that could seep into them.

He looked at his hands again. He would probably die soon. He was too cold, too hungry, too tired, too utterly wasted away in spirit and in body to do anything else.

That was why it was fortunate to have the Mother of God as his patroness. With his free hand he thumbed the plain wood cross he wore around his neck; it gave him comfort, that small, simple thing. It was reality. It was a truth. He grasped that fragile thread to God while all the world slid into utter darkness and the unrelenting cold. He pressed it to his cracked lips and kissed it, and then he closed his eyes.

O my Lord God, he prayed—more as a desperate cry than anything else—O Mother of God! Come to my aid! His mind groaned. Suddenly, one line from the Psalms echoed through his mind with startling clarity. De Profundis: Out of the depths I cry to you O God!…he shook his head free of his thoughts and continued. O God, grant me the grace to die well, as befits a knight mantled with the cross…Wordless images flashed through his head. He groaned again. His head ached. The message. The message! O God, the message! Let it reach the Großkomtur! His startled mind cried. My brothers, my brothers…he thought, and his mind twisted with pain. Without the warning they shall be slaughtered…Mother of God, defend me! My lord Saint George, shelter me! Gentle Saint Elizabeth—deliver me! Pray for me…saints and angels…be my defenders today…at Thy Judgment…O God, for your Christ's sake, spare me… but not my will, O God, but thine be done…His weary head trembled as it sank over his breast.

And then another thought, clearer than lighting flashing through a clear sky rang the words: Herr, hilf mich!

His eyes slid closed for a moment. It could have been centuries later when he opened them, because it had almost stopped snowing, and for as long as he could remember it had never not been snowing hard. After the last whole week filled with nothing but storms of blinding sheets of ice, this soft little trickle of snowflakes was nothing. It was almost even beautiful.

He suddenly felt very calm and…peaceful. It felt strange to be dying so slowly, with one's lifeblood seeping out into the wind and snow. And yet he felt…almost happy. He could have even laughed. He had imagined dying differently. Few men lived long lives in the lands rimming the Baltic. Especially the knights. He had always presumed he would die in battle. In a way, things would have been simpler if he had. But now…? Freezing to death in a God-forsaken strip of forest? Buried, unknown, forgotten forever?

Memento mori…

Remember that you are dust, and to the dust you shall return…

The words flashed through his head with that same ringing clarity. Like the clear brazen tolling of the tocsin bell. Swinging back and forth, back and forth and back and forth again…

Memento mori…Remember O Man that you are dust, and to the dust you shall return……the thought of death did not bother him—death was almost friendly. But perhaps that was right. He felt calm, detached…as though he were merely a passive onlooker observing the mortal world cloaked in a world of white.

But very quickly other thoughts broke through the calm lethargy. With a sort of perverse stubbornness, his mind began to work furiously again, sliding back and forth from past to present. Memories of family and friends from his youth flickered before his eyes; platters loaded down with food swam in the light of a golden hearth…loud music and roasted boar and sweet wines from the lowlands…tales of the Great Prussian Rebellion and hearing his father tell his own exploits at the Battle of Pagastin…

He remembered the story of his birth. His mother especially had loved to tell it to him, and he had loved to hear it as a child. "You are blessed, Tancred," she had said. "You have a blessed future…" How ironic that seemed now, he thought, and gave a barely audible grunt. He had been born in Our Lady's Castle, impregnable Marienburg. He been born without incident, until some sickness had broken out.  No one had believed he would live past the night. But his pious mother kept a three-day-long vigil to the Mother of God…and he had lived…

And he had joined her Order. The Virgin was thrice his patroness. He had been born in her Marienburg, he had been saved by her in Marienburg, and her had later joined her Order as her knight: the Teutonic Order of St. Mary's of Jerusalem. "Helfen, Wehren, Heilen…" the motto of the Order echoed through his mind.

Help, Defend, Heal. That fierce desire had burst into an unquenchable flame for justice. There had been too much death and destruction. He wanted to help…defend…heal…Even if it meant dying unsung…

He remembered the last time he had seen his mother. Her face swam before his eyes, but her words were clear: "You belong to the Blessed Virgin. She will keep you safe…"

And it was true, the Virgin Mary had never failed him whenever he had prayed for something. St. Elizabeth had gotten him out of several rough places as well. Like the time he had fallen into a covered well. Or the time he was learning to ride a horse and nearly broke his back, or when he narrowly missed a goring from a ferocious boar.

He sighed, and his breath filled the air before him. Memento mori…the little pale cloud whispered. Well, he thought, shrugging off his mental lethargy, even if it was God's will that he should die, he was in good hands. They would not fail him. And he beseeched them as well to at least allow his message to be delivered, whether he lived or not.

He sighed again and suddenly groaned within his soul. O Mother of God, be my protection!

That same strange, calm indifference settled over him again, though his mind was clear. What a journey touched with disaster, he thought, as he buried himself again in the folds of his cloak. And it had been a simple courier's duty too. He had delivered a message to the local Komtur when an urgent report had been heard. He had just been about to depart when the Komtur had commanded him to accompany another group to deliver a message to Großkomtur. The Samogitians and their Lithuanian allies had been stirring up more rebellions in Prussia. They had ambushed and massacred knights and squires of the Order in the wilds of the northern forests. They had almost even overwhelmed one of the garrisons near Riga, but had finally been pushed back by a relief force sent by the Archbishop.

Enemies poured over the borders. But in the midst of all of the swirling chaos, leaders of this rebellion had arisen, hearkening back to the terrors of the Prussian wars. He shivered, a not only from the cold, but also from the stories told by campfires and wide castle hearths. Knights of the Order—or knights of any order, for that matter—squires, men-at-arms, peasant levies…none could expect mercy from their fierce savagery. Indeed, he had heard dreadful stories of knights being taken alive to the altars of the Lithuanian gods and roasted in their armor as a savage holocaust to the pagan deities. A terrible way to die. And he shivered again.

The Großkomtur was currently occupied far to the south in Poznań with land disputes with the Polish dukes, and the Hochmeister was negotiating at the courts of the Holy Roman Emperor. They did not hear the reports of rebellion. They would need to move swiftly to assemble a force, store up the meager winter supplies, shelter the peasants and, if need be, to supply any fortresses for a long siege…they had to be prepared. But they did not know.

But Tancred and a few fellow knights had known. So he and the others had been sent to the Großkomtur with the message—the precious few sheets of parchment that explained the situation and that still lay sealed in his saddlebag. Welf von Güstrow, an experienced knight and a veteran of numerous campaigns, had been stationed in Thorn. He, along with several squires and sergeants of his retinue had accompanied Tancred. They had followed the course of the Vistula for a little ways and then had turned off toward the southwest…to Poznań.

The memories had begun to trickle through his head again…They had made good time too. It had been cold, but not terribly so. There had only been a thin layer of frost on the grass when they had left Thorn. The weather had been cool and crisp, with an invigorating freshness that only drew the men closer together for laughter and warm fellowship. A goodly group of men, all told. He sighed. Now all dead.

And that was when the storm had hit. It had been ferocious; blinding walls of sleet and ice shattering trees and blinding them in its dreadful fury. It had come upon them so quickly; they were caught on the open road with no shelter except for a small copse of trees. That was when the two knights, along with two squires and a sergeant had ridden ahead through the sleet and snow to find a place to wait out the storm.

Memories of that evening rose up in a foggy haze…but he could never have forgotten the look of gloom upon the faces of the men they had left behind—those others who could not go any further. He remembered riding away, glimpsing their huddled grey forms around a fire that spluttered and streamed in the howling wind like a banner of flaming tongues. Some looked back at him; others stared into the fire, with the grim visage of doomed men. Their horses stood whinnying in the cold, snow billowing all around them. Finally, the trees had closed all around them, and only a faint light had glimmered through the relentless blast of sleet. He never saw them again.

Then other memories, other images and flashes of colors flickered across his mind. The snow lying thick upon the ground after the storm abated. The two knights and their companions, pressing on doggedly, being delayed, searching for the road, spending days searching for their lost comrades. The squires walking numbly, frozen stiff, looking for kindling, and afterwards their frustrated attempts at starting a fire…the pitiless wind, the unrelenting cold, the bitter pall of death that hung over their heads like the shadow of a gallows. Their companions were gone and dead. They had to move on. They had to survive. They had to make it to Poznań. But that was when calamity had struck again.

The ambush. That—that he remembered vividly. They had stopped in a small clearing by the edge of a clump of rocks and trees to gather their bearings. A squire had bent toward the old knight to say something when a wild cry tore through the air like a blast of thunder. A wild Samogitian covered in furs and wielding an evil-looking axe leapt out from behind a boulder, cleaving through the squire at the rear of the party. His cry was cut cruelly short and his horse screamed its own wild terror. More yells were heard. Horse hooves kicked up snow and ice as they danced around in circles, and the small black-crossed band were suddenly beset on all sides by the unnerving whoops and shrieks of their enemies. Snow flew in their faces. The wind hissed and distorted the screams and cries of the attackers. Rough poleaxes, crude spears, cruel biting swords and axes had all emerged from the trees nearby. They were surrounded.

Scarred faces and grim hands clutched battle-worn hafts while their lips curled wolfishly. Their fur cloaks bristled in the wind, as they bared their crooked teeth at the riders. At the squire's cry, their hands flew to the hilts of their swords. His own fine steel blade flashed in the light as it leapt from its scabbard and swung down in one glorious, golden moment and shattered an axe-haft into pieces.

Then it was chaos. The air rang with rough blows and screams and yells as the trapped Teutons whipped out swords and maces and daggers and fought with desperate ferocity. The sergeant's horse was cut down, its throat split in two by the swift cut of an axe and its rider was pulled from his saddle. He was killed almost immediately. Tancred only heard his cries as he spun around in his saddle and watched with horror while he was hacked to pieces.

O God, we are going to die.

The thought had only just flown through his mind when he saw the flash of a blade ring past him. But his mare was faster. She reared up and lashed out with her iron-shod hooves. It was all Tancred could do to stay on her back as she whinnied and kicked madly at her attackers. Her nostrils flared at the smell of blood, and her ears flattened, and her eyes rolled with fear and rage. Tancred wheeled around. The squires were dead. He heard his name.

"TANCRED!" It was Welf von Güstrow. The old knight held a brain-splattered sword in one hand and his white surcoat was stained a deep crimson. In the other hand he held a small leather saddlebag. "TANCRED!" he roared again through the whistling snow flurries, and he swung it around his head and hurled it towards the young knight. He had caught it. "Take the letter!" the old knight cried. "Ride! Ride now!" and his bloody sword showed the way: a clearing through the savage fighters to the road, free beyond.

"GO!" he cried, as another axe hurtled by, and the old knight cut down his attacker. Tancred had only hesitated for a moment, but then he racked his horses' flanks and she sprang forward and rode down two fur-clad men who tried to stop him. He had glanced back, but only momentarily, and had seen the old knight, surrounded by enemies, his sword flashing bravely as he stood against them all, purchasing Tancred's life at the end of his bloody blade.

Tancred had ridden on, heedlessly then, until evening had come on, long after he left the clash and clang of sword and spear behind. He slowed to a trot as he glanced about for any sign of pursuit. Ride, Tancred. Ride. The voice of the old knight hissed at him urgently. Go. Go! What are you waiting for? GO! He had rode on and on into the darkness, leaving all behind in a mist of swirling snow.

---

But that had been long ago.

Out of the depths I cry to you, O my God…

He had chanted those words in the quiet, peaceful preceptories of Pomerania, and in the fortress of great Marienburg. De Profundis…He lifted his face towards the sky, and his white hood slid back. He gasped as a cold sheet of wind blasted across his face, but he held his gaze, staring at the heavens with steely determination.

Out of the depths I cry to you O Lord! O my Lord, hear my voice! O let your ears be attentive to my cries for mercy! If you O Lord, marked our guilt, O Lord, who should stand...

My soul waits for the Lord, I put my hope in his word. My soul is longing for the Lord, more than watchman for the morning…

More than watchmen for the morning…

A watchman… be alert…like a sentry…alert…watching for the morning… his head dipped down again, and his eyes closed. The knight jolted forward, his empty stomach lurching against the saddle-pommel, yawning like a cavernous mouth as the mare stumbled again. He tried to guide her out of her footfall with a feeble flick of the reins but she did not feel it. He prodded her flanks with a gentle touch of his spur. He tried to click his tongue but his mouth was dry. He puckered his half-frozen lips but they remained frozen.

Preserve my soul, for I place all my hope in you.

His head sank down upon his breast. Hope. What hope did he have left? I place my trust in you O God…He had no hope…O God be my surety…

Surety. He glanced down at the saddlebag by his side. He was going to die because of that piece of parchment with its sealed wax and stamped image lying buried in the saddlebag—safe. His surety.

He was too tired to think much anymore. And his protest against the onslaught of exhaustion was much more feeble this time, and his body clawed at him to relent, to give in, to sleep, to fall from the saddle, to die.

Surety. Yes, the letter was his surety. Suddenly, his eyes snapped open, and his lip curled into a smile that split his lips. He licked up the warm blood as he gave a snort and the air before him curled into a vaporous haze that coiled around the dancing snowflakes. This letter was his surety. It was his contract of obligation before God.

The thought struck him like a hammer-blow to the head. He glanced up.

Yes. That was it. He had a duty before God.

Amen, he thought, as he shrank away into the icy folds of his cloak. The seams were edged with crunching snow. Where did all of those memories come from? It seemed as if all of his life he had always been sitting, frozen in the saddle, grappling with life and death.

I shouldn't have left him, the knight thought, as his memories seeped away. He was jerked back to the present as his mare gave another lurch downward.

She was stumbling; it was all she could do to climb through the mounds of snow. She was exhausted. She would not go much further burdened with his weight. She could not carry him and the saddle-bag with its precious contents. He had to make his choice. Shaking violently, he slid from the saddle, and steadied himself against her.

His companions were dead. They were all dead. He had to complete their mission. He had to at least try.

She stood obediently as he hugged her neck and put his face against her coat. The shivering knight stood there for a long time, gathering his strength, but then at last he straightened himself, and knotted the reins around his wrist. She whinnied softly her encouragement. They were alone now; it was the just the two of them together in this wild landscape. He brushed the snow out of her mane and stepped forward.

He sank up past his knees into the snow. He clutched his bloody side again. He did not remember when he had been wounded. He hissed in pain through clenched teeth. He struggled on. The exertion would help him stay awake. He had to keep moving. He had to…He trembled uncontrollably.

I am dying, he thought for the last time, as his limbs shook. Hail Death, he thought, as though he could see the grinning skeletal face of mankind's oldest companion waiting just through the trees.

It was so close now. He could almost touch it. Death, whispering in the air, curling around the mare's ears. Beckoning, smiling, opening wide its arms to a white oblivion. Oh yes, death was there. Death had always been there. Waiting, just waiting…

The wolves were howling. He could hear them as they drew closer, closing the net around their prey. And he was weak, too weak to fight, too weak to defend himself. He drew his sword. It rang slightly as it glanced off his armor. He planted it deeply in the ground. He could use it to pull himself forward. He leaned on it as he stumbled; the mare was quiet now. He felt her warm breath on his face. They would both die.

Food for the wolves. He smiled grimly at that, despite himself, and his blistered lips cracked open. He tried to lick his lips, but there was no more moisture left. His throat was parched, cold, dry. Everything was frozen and cold.

As he would soon be.

He closed his eyes. O God, be my strength…O God, I hope in you. I trust in you…He shook even more violently now. He grimaced. Tancred pushed himself through the deep snowdrifts, churning through the snowy flurries like a determined child charging through the relentless sea. He dug the sword deep into the snow. O Lord preserve me…

He stumbled. His clothes were soaked through now. The wet snow clung to him like the slippery hand of death; it would not let go. He staggered to his feet, but he could not get up. Finally, he fueled all of his will into one final movement, one final gesture of defiance. His last remaining strength surged through his arm; he gripped the sword pommel, and drew himself back up again with the mare's reins still wrapped around his wrist. One last push. One last push. One step in front of the other. Come on, come ON! He snarled, and warm air hissed through his flaring nostrils. He threw himself onto the overhanging limb of a tree, and clutched it as his strength ebbed away into the snow.

My heart is ready O God, my heart is ready…

His sword stood up, its white blade flashing in the light. He used the tree to prop himself up, dug the sword into the snow again, and lurched forward. This time, he fell. And he did not get up again.

Exhaustion and cold had finally claimed him. He fell down, face forward into the snow. Everything went black and quiet. The snow muffled the sound all around. It was quiet…peaceful, soft. He did not move for a long time. The mare nudged him and licked his face. She pawed at the ground around him and snorted over him, nuzzling the white hood that had fallen over his head. He stirred. Feebly, he managed to roll over onto his aching back so that he sank into the snow and faced the sky. He watched as the snowflakes drifted down through the skeletal branches of the stark black trees above. We watched as they fluttered down, soft, and downy, and warm. He was warm now. He was too cold to feel cold. He just felt…peaceful, sleepy, tired.

A dark, fuzzy shape caught the corner of his eye. He peered through his blurry vision, through his eyelashes covered in snowy down and watched as his sword shivered in the wind, standing like a stone cross in a churchyard. The mare nuzzled his face. And he closed his eyes. He felt her settle down beside him, she curled her neck over his head and whinnied softly.

He could not move. At last, as he felt his final reserve of strength seeping away as his blood chilled, his eyes fluttered open, and he looked up. His sword, stark against the white sky, pierced the heavens like the terrible dark cross of a village church. A sign. In hoc signo vinces.

In this sign you shall conquer.

A sign of triumph, an eternal triumph over death.

Rejoice not, O my enemy, over me because I am fallen: for I shall arise.

He gazed up at the sword; it was a black skeletal cross against the white sky of wintry death. His blue-cracked lips smiled, and he closed his eyes at last.