As Dust to the Wind

by Peter Darman

  ‘Believe me, grand master, it is no game I play.’

  The rain lessened later that day before eventually petering out, leaving the ground drenched and the army soaked. Hundreds of campfires stoked with damp wood produced a cloud of grey smoke that hung over the camp and caused men to cough and their eyes to smart. The following day dawned overcast and cool. A desultory light rain dampened not only the ground further but also men’s spirits. The march re-commenced but it became apparent that the pace of the preceding days would be impossible to maintain as heavily laden carts began to sink into tracks that quickly became muddy and rutted.

  Conrad noticed smoke on the hills but it was not caused by crusader raiding parties. Rather they were Samogitian signal fires alerting those in neighbouring districts that danger was approaching. He smiled to himself; the Duke of Holstein would soon have more than enough pagans to deal with.

  *****

  Panemunis had once been a pagan stronghold, a haven for those who worshipped Perkunas. When Grand Duke Daugerutis had marched across the Dvina on a bridge of boats the fort had supplied dozens of warriors to his cause, all pledged to destroy the hated Christians on the northern side of the river. That was many years ago and now the fort was the abode of not only pagans but followers of the religion of the Bishop of Riga as well as the Russian Orthodox religion, the faith of Prince Vsevolod.

  It had always been a surprise to Rasa that her father, Daugerutis, had arranged her marriage to the Russian prince. But then he was grand duke of the Lithuanians and had ambitions to spread his power and influence not only by the sword but also through alliances. At that time Vsevolod ruled Gerzika and was a powerful lord with an army at his back. But then the Sword Brothers came and everything changed.

  Rasa knew her husband was not a warlord but a politician and was prone to duplicity in his dealings with others. But he had always been faithful to her, never beaten her, respected her pagan ways and had never tried to impose his will on her. They had raised two daughters who had married well and for all those things she was grateful. In her heart she knew he loved her and always had the interests of his family at heart.

  When he first came to Panemunis he had been despised by the Selonians and Nalsen and the only thing that kept them from rebelling against his rule was because he was married to Rasa. But as the years passed they stopped calling him the derogatory nickname ‘the Russian’ and instead referred to him as ‘the prince’. They would never love him but they came to respect him for keeping them out of conflict with the Sword Brothers. They also began to appreciate the advantages of the trade treaty the prince had signed with Riga, which brought merchants and prosperity to their lands instead of fire and sword.

  As a result the people treated Prince Vsevolod with cordiality and respect, not only because he had brought peace but also because he was now an old man. He rarely left Panemunis, being content to receive visitors including merchants and priests from Riga and Pskov. And whereas the old religion had no rival when he had first arrived there now existed numerous churches throughout the land where priests sent by Riga and Pskov practised their faith. The many pagans among the Selonians and Nalsen were at first hostile to the presence of these Christian priests but then became bemused as the two alien faiths became more interested in denouncing each other rather than converting heathens. Rasa thought her husband’s greatest achievement was establishing peace and well-being among her people, which was now sadly taken for granted.

  She finished penning the letter and sealed it with wax. It was early afternoon and her husband was taking his customary nap. There was no reason to disturb him. She walked from her bedchamber to the throne room, the cavernous chamber quiet and empty aside from two guards standing each side of the closed doors. She strode across the rush-covered floor towards the doors, the guards saluting and opening them as she passed. In the corridor a soldier in a leather cuirass paced up and down but stopped when he saw the princess.

  He snapped to attention and bowed his head. ‘Highness.’

  She thrust the letter at him. ‘You are to deliver this to General Aras. See to it that you hand it to him personally.’

  ‘Yes, highness.’

  ‘Go.’

  He bowed again and paced from the reception hall to his waiting horse. With any luck Aras would read her missive in two days at the most, the gods willing.

  Good relations with Riga meant there was a constant flow of news from the Christian city. Word had reached her that a new crusader army had arrived in Livonia, intent on slaughtering pagan Lithuanians. She knew that Duke Erdvilas and his Semgallians were on their last legs, cooped up in the Tervete Valley. Lamekins had deserted the true faith to accept Christian baptism and had thus become the lackey of the Bishop of Riga, which meant that the only viable target for the crusaders was her son-in-law, the hard-pressed Duke Ykintas. Her husband would have been horrified but she could not remain idle when her daughter and son-in-law were in peril.

  *****

  As the crusader army advanced south the great hill fort of Medvegalis began to fill with refugees. They brought their animals and harvested crops with them so there was little probability of the swollen garrison starving, at least not immediately. Those who trudged up the great hill on which the timber stronghold was built bore haunted and forlorn expressions. The crusader attack was the latest in a series of setbacks and defeats that the Samogitians had suffered. If he had time Duke Ykintas stood near the gates to greet them and offer them reassurance that things would improve in the future.

  ‘Where are they now?’

  The wind was howling outside to rattle the shutters and enter the room, making the candle flames flicker. His warlords, tired men with black rings round their eyes, looked at him.

  ‘Three days away, lord,’ replied one.

  ‘So they intend to lay siege to the fort,’ said Ykintas glumly.

  The commander of his bodyguard shook his head. ‘They bring no siege engines.’

  Ykintas looked up. ‘You are certain?’

  ‘My scouts have been following them for days. They concentrated on pillaging the land, sending patrols far and wide for their entertainment.’

  ‘This campaign is good sport for the crusaders,’ spat a grizzled old warrior. ‘Such is their disdain for us that they expect this fort to fall without a fight.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ asked Ykintas.

  ‘Why else would they set out so late in the year with no siege engines if they did not expect Medvegalis to fall easily. They intend to winter here. Nothing else makes sense.’

  ‘We will meet them before they get here,’ said Ykintas. ‘For days I have stood at the gates of this fort and watched my people seek sanctuary here. I have already let the Kurs walk all over us and if I allow the crusaders to do the same then the people will lose heart and any resistance still burning within them will be extinguished forever.’

  His commanders looked at each other with worried expressions.

  ‘We have lost many men during recent years, lord, at Mesoten and fighting the Kurs and Sword Brothers,’ said the commander of his bodyguard.

  ‘If we suffer another defeat,’ remarked another, ‘then there will be no army left to defend this fort.’

  ‘What about Duke Mindaugas?’ asked the old warrior.

  ‘What about him?’ growled Ykintas.

  Since the abortive assault on Mesoten Mindaugas and the Kriviu Krivaitis had been in Aukstaitija where the high priest had engineered Mindaugas’ elevation to duke of the Aukstaitijans. Correspondence between the two had been sparse before dwindling to nothing, leaving a bad taste in Ykintas’ mouth.

  ‘We could send an appeal to him for soldiers,’ suggested the warlord.

  The duke lost his temper. ‘I will decide what we do or do not do. I am not some wandering warrior forced to beg others for assistance. I prefer to concentrate on the here and now rather than ponder on whom we can grovel to for aid.’

  ‘My apologies, lord.’


  Ykintas looked into the eyes of each man.

  ‘We will give battle to the crusaders before they reach Medvegalis. We will pray to the gods for assistance and put faith in the courage of our men. Assemble the army.’

  It had been raining for days and the hundreds of men wrapped in cloaks and carrying shields, spears and axes slipped and cursed as they marched down the muddy track from the fort’s gates. The horsemen preceded them, led by Ykintas dressed in lamellar armour already showing signs of rust. Behind him his elk antler banner hung limply, drenched in the autumn downpour. The Samogitian army presented a most miserable spectacle as it trudged north towards what everyone believed would be a heavy defeat at the hands of the crusaders and Sword Brothers.

  *****

  The crusader army managed a commendable seven miles a day across the waterlogged terrain, men straining to haul wagons stuck in the mud as the draught animals pulling them collapsed and died in droves. Finally the rain abated and then stopped but by then the Duke of Holstein’s soldiers were wet and exhausted. Many had caught chills, especially those who had no cloaks, and others had hacking coughs. Morale, which had been dropping on a daily basis, only marginally improved as the skies finally cleared and the autumn sun appeared. On the advice of Grand Master Volquin the duke gave the order to halt in gently undulating, heavily forested land deep in the heart of Samogitia. Soldiers with listless expressions sat huddled round campfires waiting for food to cook to fill their bellies and warm their bodies.

  The grand master picked his way through the camp, his boots squelching in the mud that was everywhere. He arrived at the Duke of Holstein's pavilion erected on a wooden base to prevent the noble from getting his feet muddy. A steward halted the grand master before he stepped on the planking.

  ‘If you could remove your boots, grand master.’

  ‘My boots?’

  ‘For reasons of cleanliness, you understand.’

  He clicked his fingers and a young page appeared with a pair of soft leather shoes.

  ‘If you would wear these, grand master, I would be most grateful.’

  Volquin was so amused and bemused in equal measure that he submitted without a murmur, merely shaking his head as the page took away his boots to clean them. He had to admit that the shoes were a comfortable fit. The duke’s pavilion was like a canvas palace made up of four round carousel spoke wheel tents, in which a centre pole was equipped with a hub fixed near the roof, into which was inserted spokes to create a wheel giving the pavilion its round shape. The four round sections were all connected by canvas hallways and were equipped with door flaps. The round sections could all be closed off for privacy if need be. The outside of the pavilion was decorated with dragon tooth scalloped edging and the flagpoles over the structure flew the duke’s white nettle leaf coat of arms.

  Another steward showed the grand master into the duke’s reception area, the boards covered with carpets, and a brazier in the centre giving off heat. Young servants served warm wine and a pair of minstrels plucked at their instruments. Volquin thought he had been transported back to Germany.

  ‘Ah, grand master, welcome,’ said Braune, ‘we have good news.’

  The black-eyed Artur stood in the corner, looking like a hawk. All he needed was a perch to make the picture complete. Two mailed soldiers, both wearing Holstein’s colours, stood in front of the duke, whose cheeks were flushed as a result of drinking wine.

  ‘Tell the grand master,’ he ordered.

  ‘One of our patrols ran into a large body of pagans earlier,’ said one of the knights.

  ‘How many?’ asked Volquin.

  ‘Over a thousand at least.’

  The duke’s face wore a broad grin. ‘Numbers are irrelevant, grand master, what is important is that the heathens have stopped fleeing and will give battle. And we shall accept.’

  The steward appeared once more, this time showing Conrad into the chamber.

  ‘Master Conrad,’ said the duke, ‘just as the sun shines on my army so God smiles on our crusade. Wine for the Marshal of Estonia.’

  Conrad took the silver chalice filled with wine and tipped it at the duke.

  ‘The pagans are approaching, Master Conrad,’ announced the duke, ‘and we will be giving battle on what will be a momentous day.’

  He glared at a glum-looking Volquin.

  ‘You do not agree, grand master?’

  ‘The ground is too wet for warhorses, which means we will be without nearly seven hundred heavy horsemen in any clash with the enemy. With that in mind I propose that we withdraw.’

  ‘Impossible,’ hissed one of the knights.

  Braune’s smiled evaporated. ‘Quite right, Jurgen. Grand master I did not take the cross to run away from a bunch of half-dressed pagans just because the ground is wet.’

  ‘We will not refuse battle,’ said Jurgen firmly.

  ‘Let me put it another way,’ said Volquin. ‘On this soft ground any mounted charge will have little or no impetus, which means that it will not be able to break the enemy shield wall.’

  Braune waved a hand at him. ‘This is my army, grand master, and I will not deny my knights the opportunity to send pagans to the black abyss where they belong. What do you think, Master Conrad?’

  Conrad looked at him. ‘We all get what we deserve in the end.’

  They all stared at him with bemused looks.

  ‘A most cryptic reply,’ said the duke. ‘Jurgen, give the order for the army to form up for battle.’

  Jurgen smiled triumphantly, bowed his head and left them.

  ‘If you will excuse me, your grace,’ said Volquin, ‘I will assemble my order.’

  He left the chamber leaving the Duke of Holstein, Artur and Conrad, who heard the voice in his head again.

  You could kill them both with ease. Do it now before the battle begins. There is no guarantee you will live to see the day’s end.

  ‘There’s plenty of time,’ said Conrad irritably.

  The duke looked at him.

  ‘Did you say something, Master Conrad?’

  ‘No, your grace, if you will excuse me.’

  He left the fat oaf to return to his tent. The camp was stirring into action. Squires were preparing the destriers of their masters, covering the beasts in the thickly padded caparisons affording some protection against enemy arrows and spears. Many of them were red with white nettle leafs stitched on to them. The lesser knights had no caparisons, squires or coat of arms and so fitted their own saddles and bridles. Their armour was also deficient compared to the knights; whose arms, legs, torsos and necks were protected by chain mail. Like the brother knights of the Sword Brothers they wore full-face helms whereas the lesser knights preferred either open-face helms or kettle helmets. Their horses were mostly palfreys, nicknamed ‘trotters’ because they were comfortable to ride with their leisurely gait. Conrad could not but admire the duke’s warhorses, the finest stallions from Thuringia, Saxony and Meissen. Their caparisons contained chain mail between the layers and their reins were chain mail wrapped in leather to prevent them being cut in battle. Braune had certainly not stinted when it came to financing his army.

  Conrad walked to the tent of the grand master where his castellans were gathered. Volquin was spitting blood.

  ‘The duke and his knights are determined to fight and thus so must we. He has rejected my advice to withdraw due to the adverse conditions. His knights will charge at the enemy after the crossbowmen have softened them up. We will form a reserve to extricate them when their attack fails.’

  ‘We should be in the vanguard of the attack,’ said Arnold to nods from his fellow castellans.

  ‘We should,’ agreed Volquin, ‘but I have little faith that the duke’s knights will break the enemy, especially on waterlogged ground. I fear the duke’s army is walking into a disaster. When it does we will have to retrieve the situation. Assemble your men.’

  They saluted and left the tent. Conrad followed but was recalled by the grand master.

>   ‘I hold you responsible for the mess we find ourselves in.’

  ‘Me, grand master?’

  Volquin jabbed a finger in his chest. ‘I don’t know what your game is but you seem to have taken leave of your senses.’

  Conrad smiled. ‘God is with us, surely?’

  Volquin grunted and brushed past him. A smiling Conrad walked to the stabling area to collect his horse, now covered with a white caparison bearing the motif of the Sword Brothers. The sky had cleared of clouds and it was a beautifully sunny day, though the air was fresh and the ground soft and wet. Already the white caparisons of the order’s horses were fringed with mud and the camp a great expanse of brown sludge.

  Crossbowmen were unwrapping their weapons from their oilcloth covers used to protect them from the wet weather, especially the strings that once damp expanded and reduced poundage. The militias shivered in their gambesons and thrust forward their spears vigorously to loosen up their limbs. Their teardrop shields were painted red and white. Like Lübeck’s flag the top half was white and the bottom half red. Irritable captains bellowed at their men to get into formation as mud-splattered priests went among the soldiers to offer comfort and the promise of salvation.

  Conrad mounted his horse and followed the other brother knights and sergeants as they trailed after Grand Master Volquin and his great banner to where the Duke of Holstein sat on his warhorse surrounded by Artur and his assassins. Manfred Nordheim and the fifty horsemen of Riga’s garrison had formed up behind the duke on the top of a low hill giving an excellent view of what would be the battlefield.

  There was no watercourse at the foot of the hill, though the scouts had reported the ground was marshy, firming up somewhat beyond where the Samogitians were deploying into a long brown line. As customary they were making a great din to fortify their own courage and strike despondency into the hearts of their enemies. This part of Samogitia was more open than the terrain farther north, making the Duke of Holstein’s knights very eager to get to grips with the pagans.

  One of the duke’s cutthroats rode to the hill where the Sword Brother horsemen had formed up in three lines immediately behind the urban militias and mercenaries from Germany.