that I might recognize it, but I shook my head. I had a wariness and dislike for those soldier-priests who, in my view, were capable of worse depredations, fouler cruelties, than almost anyone else I had ever encountered.
Having discovered that I could reach Teufenberg by nightfall, I decided to be on my way, and was just rising when the doors of the taproom opened and in came a tall, thin individual with hard grey eyes in a cadaverous face, a black wide-brimmed hat upon his head, collar and cuffs of plain linen, coat and breeches of black wool, black buckled shoes and gaiters which, as he sat down upon a stool, he proceeded to remove, revealing white stockings. He had a plain, straight blade at his side and he wore gauntlets, carrying one in his left hand. The only fancy thing he wore was a purple plume in his hat, and even this gave the impression that he was in mourning for someone.
He looked first at me and then at the landlord. Herr Hippel stood up.
“Can I be of service, Your Honour?”
“Some wine and a jug of water,” said the newcomer. He turned his head and looked back at the young Muscovite who had grown more alert. “You are Gregory Sedenko.”
“I am Grigory Petrovitch Sedenko,” said the youth in his strange, rumbling accent, stressing vowels and consonants in a way which made me certain of his origin. He stood up “Who knows me?”
“I am he who promised to meet you here.”
I had, as I thought, recognised the face and manner of a soldier-priest. The man was typical of his kind; all human feeling had been turned into pride and cruelty in the name of his Crusade. “I am Johannes Klosterheim, Knight of Christ.”
The young Muscovite crossed himself dutifully, but looked with boldness into the austere face of the fighting monk. “You have a commission for me, Brother Johannes, in Teufenberg.”
“I have. I know the house. I have all the evidence. The case has been judged. It is left for you to execute it.”
The boy frowned. “You are certain?”
“There is no question.”
I wondered if I was listening to a witch-hunter. But if Klosterheim were an ordinary witch-finder, he would not be here at this time, talking to the youth. Witch-finders travelled with an entourage, with all the paraphernalia of their calling. If they did not travel, they stayed in one town or one area. Few of them were soldiers.
Gregory Sedenko reached for his scabbarded sabre and made to tuck it into his belt, but Klosterheim raised his naked hand and shook his head. “Not yet. There is time.”
The landlord and myself listened in silence, for it seemed evident that Klosterheim had commissioned the boy to do murder, albeit murder in God’s name. Both of us were uncomfortable in the presence of the pair. The landlord wished to leave. My instinct was to take the boy aside and warn him not to involve himself in whatever disgusting venture the soldier-priest must surely be initiating. But I had made a virtue of silence and inactivity in recent years. It did not do to speak one’s mind in those days.
The boy sat down again. “I would rather have it done,” he said, “as soon as possible.”
“There are things I must tell you in private,” said Klosterheim. “This is no ordinary work.”
At this Sedenko laughed. “Ordinary enough in Kieff,” he said. “It is how we spend our winters.”
Klosterheim disapproved of his levity, even of his enthusiasm. “We must pray together first,” he said.
“And pay?” said the youth.
“Prayer first, pay second,” replied the soldier-priest. He looked at us as if to warn us not to interfere and preferably not to listen. The landlord went from the room, leaving only me as witness to what took place between the strange pair.
I decided to speak:
“I have not heard of the Knights of Christ, brother,” said I. “Is that an order from these parts?”
“It is not an order, as such, at all,” said Klosterheim. “It is a society.”
“Forgive me. I am not entirely
Having discovered that I could reach Teufenberg by nightfall, I decided to be on my way, and was just rising when the doors of the taproom opened and in came a tall, thin individual with hard grey eyes in a cadaverous face, a black wide-brimmed hat upon his head, collar and cuffs of plain linen, coat and breeches of black wool, black buckled shoes and gaiters which, as he sat down upon a stool, he proceeded to remove, revealing white stockings. He had a plain, straight blade at his side and he wore gauntlets, carrying one in his left hand. The only fancy thing he wore was a purple plume in his hat, and even this gave the impression that he was in mourning for someone.
He looked first at me and then at the landlord. Herr Hippel stood up.
“Can I be of service, Your Honour?”
“Some wine and a jug of water,” said the newcomer. He turned his head and looked back at the young Muscovite who had grown more alert. “You are Gregory Sedenko.”
“I am Grigory Petrovitch Sedenko,” said the youth in his strange, rumbling accent, stressing vowels and consonants in a way which made me certain of his origin. He stood up “Who knows me?”
“I am he who promised to meet you here.”
I had, as I thought, recognised the face and manner of a soldier-priest. The man was typical of his kind; all human feeling had been turned into pride and cruelty in the name of his Crusade. “I am Johannes Klosterheim, Knight of Christ.”
The young Muscovite crossed himself dutifully, but looked with boldness into the austere face of the fighting monk. “You have a commission for me, Brother Johannes, in Teufenberg.”
“I have. I know the house. I have all the evidence. The case has been judged. It is left for you to execute it.”
The boy frowned. “You are certain?”
“There is no question.”
I wondered if I was listening to a witch-hunter. But if Klosterheim were an ordinary witch-finder, he would not be here at this time, talking to the youth. Witch-finders travelled with an entourage, with all the paraphernalia of their calling. If they did not travel, they stayed in one town or one area. Few of them were soldiers.
Gregory Sedenko reached for his scabbarded sabre and made to tuck it into his belt, but Klosterheim raised his naked hand and shook his head. “Not yet. There is time.”
The landlord and myself listened in silence, for it seemed evident that Klosterheim had commissioned the boy to do murder, albeit murder in God’s name. Both of us were uncomfortable in the presence of the pair. The landlord wished to leave. My instinct was to take the boy aside and warn him not to involve himself in whatever disgusting venture the soldier-priest must surely be initiating. But I had made a virtue of silence and inactivity in recent years. It did not do to speak one’s mind in those days.
The boy sat down again. “I would rather have it done,” he said, “as soon as possible.”
“There are things I must tell you in private,” said Klosterheim. “This is no ordinary work.”
At this Sedenko laughed. “Ordinary enough in Kieff,” he said. “It is how we spend our winters.”
Klosterheim disapproved of his levity, even of his enthusiasm. “We must pray together first,” he said.
“And pay?” said the youth.
“Prayer first, pay second,” replied the soldier-priest. He looked at us as if to warn us not to interfere and preferably not to listen. The landlord went from the room, leaving only me as witness to what took place between the strange pair.
I decided to speak:
“I have not heard of the Knights of Christ, brother,” said I. “Is that an order from these parts?”
“It is not an order, as such, at all,” said Klosterheim. “It is a society.”
“Forgive me. I am not entirely
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