As Dust to the Wind

by Peter Darman

  ‘I agree with the Livonian Master,’ said the bishop, his voice harsh and unyielding.

  Thus were the tactics decided.

  The incessant drumming of the enemy filled the bitter air as the army deployed into its positions. The Danish foot soldiers hurried to their allotted spot in the line, which was on the right flank next to the expanse of birch. The right was accorded the place of honour in battle and the Livonian Master gave the Danes that prestigious place out of deference to the two Danish princes. But their foot soldiers were showing signs of nervousness and inexperience. Their commanders bellowed at them to move quickly through the snow to their positions, fearing the Russians were about to appear at any moment. Thus did the Danes rush, sweat and panic to get into position, the enemy still a long way off. It was not an auspicious indication as to how they would perform when they did arrive.

  Their demeanour contrasted sharply to the movements of the Army of the Wolf. Now a veteran formation made up of men who had fought in many campaigns and battles, its chiefs and headmen did not shout or holler at their charges. Rather, they could be found chatting to their men as if taking part in a summer stroll. Each man was mindful that it was his pre-battle rituals and preparations that would play a large part in whether he would survive the bloodletting. He was already well trained and well equipped.

  Appearances can be deceptive and a casual observer of Conrad’s men would estimate them a ragtag bunch of former pagans in their mixture of brown and green leggings, capes and tunics. But closer inspection would reveal this to be a lie. Every man wore an iron helmet with a large nasal guard riveted to the brow band, beneath which was a padded hide cap to spread out and absorb the force of a blow and also to absorb sweat to prevent the helmet rusting from the inside. There was also a chin strap to ensure that in the turmoil of battle it remained in place.

  Every man was also protected by a shirt of mail with short sleeves reaching down to the thigh. Beneath this he wore a padded garment similar to a gambeson consisting of two layers of leather stuffed with animal hair and sewn together. Not only did this garment absorb the force of a blow it was also secondary armour because a sword or spear thrust could puncture mail armour. An additional defence was the round shield he carried. It was nearly three feet in diameter and fashioned from birch or limewood, at its centre a domed iron boss protecting the hand grip inside the shield. There were two reinforcing iron bars on the back of the shield, either side of the handgrip, to add strength to the shield and to hold the planking together. Faced with leather to make it more resistant to blows from even two-handed battle axes and rimmed with rawhide to prevent it from splitting when hit on the edge, the shield was heavy but a godsend in battle.

  The shields of ‘The Bastards’ were teardrop-shaped because their members had originally been crusaders from Germany, though they now resembled the Estonians they fought beside in appearance and manners. Many had taken native wives, spoke the local tongue and wore their hair and beards long.

  The Army of the Wolf was lavishly equipped with seven-feet spears, hand axes – which were more effective in the press of the shield wall than broadaxes – and long knives. These were carried instead of swords, earning universal derision among German settlers and crusaders who came to Livonia. Usually carried in a sheath suspended horizontally from the front of the belt it could be drawn speedily and its two-foot long blade could inflict terrible damage on an enemy at short range.

  The Army of the Wolf walked slowly to its position to preserve stamina in the deep snow. The knights, squires, brother knights and sergeants were already in the saddle forming a screen of horseflesh in front of the foot soldiers. In camp novices, servants and other non-combatants nervously awaited the arrival of the enemy. The frozen river and birch forest it was sited behind shielded the camp but should the Russians prove victorious the tents and wagons would be pillaged and those it sheltered put to the sword unless they could escape.

  With the sound of the Russian drums and trumpets growing louder there was time for one last council of war, at which an unexpected problem arose. What to do with Bishop Hermann? A prince-bishop of the church might easily take part in a mounted charge but Hermann was seventy-eight years old and not even von Grüningen thought it prudent he should ride with the horsemen.

  ‘Your excellency should remain to direct the battle,’ he suggested, ‘among the princes’ foot soldiers.’

  Conrad could not stop himself laughing. The Livonian Master rounded on him.

  ‘The safety of Bishop Hermann is no laughing matter.’

  ‘No, indeed,’ agreed Conrad, ‘which is why he should be placed in the middle of the Army of the Wolf.’

  Canute and Abel, magnificent in their mail armour and surcoats sporting the blue lions insignia of their father, bristled at the insult.

  ‘The bishop will be quite safe among our men,’ insisted Abel.

  ‘There you have it,’ said the Livonian Master, ‘I will hear no more talk on the subject.’

  The booming voice of Bishop Hermann cut through the Russian drums.

  ‘I will decide where I position myself. I am not a small child to be told what to do. Master Conrad, you will return to your men and attend to your duties. Master von Grüningen, you will go back to your horsemen and I will position myself among our brave Danish allies.’

  He smiled at the two princes, ignored Conrad and von Grüningen, and tugged on his reins to turn his horse towards the Danes, escorted by a coterie of priests and servants on foot. Conrad pondered sending Dorpat’s fifty crossbowmen and fifty spearmen with him. He decided against it; if the Danes were overwhelmed then so would they be. He returned to his men greatly annoyed.

  ‘Been irritating your betters, Susi?’ grinned Hillar, munching on a strip of cured pork.

  Conrad had left his horse in camp where a small force of a hundred men who had drawn lots protected the ponies, sleds and non-combatants, in that order. That gave him three thousand men, including Dorpat’s soldiers who were forming up alongside ‘The Bastards’.

  ‘I have a bad feeling about this,’ said Conrad, squinting to the east from where the Russians would appear, though all he could see were the rumps of horses where the horsemen were arrayed in two lines.

  To the right were the banners of the Danes, a colourful mixture of reds, whites, blues, greys and yellows. In the front rank stood the foot knights, the front of their shields showing four quarters, two red and two white. The banner men held standards displaying the Danish motif of a white cross on a red background but the symbols carried on the shields of the axe men were more ancient: an arrow, axe, bear, stag, bull, knot and an arm with a fist.

  Conrad called together his warlords as their men filed into position to form a thick shield wall of four ranks deep. In the centre stood ‘The Bastards’ and their two hundred and fifty crossbowmen, augmented by the soldiers of Dorpat. On the extreme left of the wall were Hillar’s Rotalians, next to them Riki’s Harrien. On the left of ‘The Bastards’ stood Tonis and his Saccalians with Andres’ men holding the right flank. Conrad had told Anu to hold his men back. He stood with the others in front of the warriors, pointing to the Danes on the right.

  ‘Despite my protestations the bishop has placed himself among the Danes. Anu, you will stand behind Andres’ men.’

  Anu was not happy. ‘Behind, Susi? We should stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the others.’

  ‘Normally I would concur. However, the Danes will break when they are attacked. Your task is to rescue the bishop when it happens and bring him back here.’

  ‘You think the Danes will break?’ asked Andres.

  ‘They will break,’ said Riki. ‘Their horse may be knights and nobles but their foot are the scrapings of Reval.’

  Hillar roared with laughter and Tonis grinned. Even the dour Ulric managed a smile.

  Tonis pointed at the horsemen ahead.

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘If the Russians do not outnumber us,’ said Conrad, ‘then our
horsemen might win the battle on their own. If not…’

  He spread his hands. Hillar grunted knowingly, Andres scratched his nose and Ulric looked back at his men checking their bowstrings, quivers and spears.

  ‘If there is a mêlée in front of us it will inhibit the effectiveness of our crossbowmen.’

  ‘Shoot the Danes,’ Riki told him, ‘just ensure you do not hit any of those under the command of Sir Richard, Sir Paul and Master Rudolf.’

  Conrad placed a hand on Ulric’s shoulder.

  ‘Try not to hit any Danes. We must endeavour to maintain the façade of an alliance at least. I have every faith in you and your men.’

  He was startled by a shrill blast of trumpets and the cries and shouts of men. He turned to see all the horsemen moving, the front rank lowering their lances as they moved forward.

  ‘God be with you all,’ he said.

  They left him to stand in the front rank of their men. He walked to where Andres’ Jerwen stood on the right, men shouting at him and raising their spears as he did so. He recognised faces he had known for many years, now older and no longer youthful but more experienced and battle hardened. He raised a hand in acknowledgement but as he strolled over to the Jerwen he remembered his friends, now dead, and their pre-battle ritual.

  ‘As dust to the wind,’ he said to himself.

  The crusader army occupied the expanse of ground between the frozen river and a birch forest but beyond its horsemen the forest retreated to create a wide stretch of open ground that the Russian army now filled, its trumpeters and drummers still playing their instruments. Conrad could see black groups on the white landscape but it was difficult to estimate numbers. One thing was certain, though – the crusaders were outnumbered.

  In the deep snow a charge at the gallop is impossible and it appeared that the crusader horsemen were hardly moving as they attacked. But a sudden loud scraping noise was carried on the wind to where the Army of the Wolf and Danes stood to signal the Russians had been struck. Conrad saw all the lances dip and knew that a fierce mêlée had begun. He also saw with horror that a large mass of enemy foot was marching directly towards him.

  ‘Have a care,’ he shouted before putting on his helmet, threading his left hand through the straps on the inner side of his shield and gripping his mace.

  Through his vision slits he saw specs in the clear sky. Arrows! He raised his shield as those around him did likewise, crouching down to make himself a smaller target. He heard the sounds of men fighting and then the thuds of arrows landing around him and the others, the occasional yelp as a man was struck and then the continuous roar of the Russians as they attacked.

  The Russians attacked with their horsemen on the wings and the foot soldiers in the centre. Their right flank bore the brunt of the crusader horsemen, being struck by a wall of mailed knights and horseflesh, buckling under the strain and being forced back. In the centre the foot soldiers advanced past the mounted mêlée towards Conrad’s men. They were not the poorly armed Voi drawn from the lower elements of society but the city militia of Novgorod, men equipped with spears, helmets, shields and some wearing mail armour. The majority were equipped with a kuyak as a defence – a leather shirt with rectangular metal plates attached. They attacked as a huge black mass, the many banners among their ranks showing two black bears each side of a throne on a red background.

  The wind was behind them as they came on, hundreds of men shouting hurrahs as they trampled through the snow. Behind them the Russian archers stopped shooting for fear of hitting their own men as the two lines closed. But not before the crossbows of ‘The Bastards’ began their deadly work.

  They began shooting at a range of around two hundred paces, their sound akin to dozens of frenzied woodpeckers tapping on tree trunks. Three hundred crossbowmen shooting up to four bolts a minute slowed the Russian advanced as the front rank was scythed down and those behind tripped on their fallen comrades or skirted the wounded men. They in turn were hit and fell but more and more came on, scrambling over the dead and dying to get to grips with the enemy invaders. There was a sudden blast of horns and ‘The Bastards’ desisted their shooting and withdrew through the ranks. The Russians were now too close and the crossbowmen would be butchered if they continued to stand in the front rank.

  Conrad held out his shield to catch the spear thrust at his torso, waiting until the last moment to deflect the point to one side, hacking forward with his mace to strike his opponent’s helmet. The Russian went down as the steel flanges dented the iron and forced a shard into the man’s skull. It did not matter if he was dead. He was on the ground and that meant he became an impediment to those behind. So it was as another Russian lost his footing and fell forward on top of his comrade. Conrad delivered a succession of blows against the back of his neck, killing him so he became a dead weight on top of the first Russian.

  Conrad stepped back as those either side of him used their shields and axes to create a wall of Russian dead and wounded in front of them, over which the enemy had to scramble to get to the invaders. Conrad felt the shield of the man behind against his back, not forcing him forward but ready to add weight to his defence should the Russians’ momentum prove too strong for the first rank. But the Russian attack had been slowed by the crossbowmen and further inhibited by the initial clash that had shown the men of Novgorod to be inferior to the veterans of the Army of the Wolf.

  There was a deafening din as thousands of men grunted and sweated, trying to keep their footing in the icy conditions as they swung axes, thrust spears and stabbed with swords and long knives. Only the front ranks were doing the fighting and killing. Behind them one side stood and fended off attacks while on the other thousands of Russians pressed forward to try to force the Estonian formation to collapse. But the Army of the Wolf stood firm, holding the line behind the wall of dead it had created.

  In the front ranks Hillar, Andres, Riki and Tonis led by example, inspiring those around them with their courage and skill. But they were not gods and soon they and the others around them began to tire, including Conrad. At first he felt light on his feet and his mace was like a feather as he wielded it against the enemy. But as its flanges and the mail mitten holding it became splattered with blood and gore the weapon turned into a lead weight requiring ever-greater efforts to wield. His heart pounded in his chest and the inside of his helm was like an oven despite the freezing conditions. He heard horns being sounded and shouting from behind.

  ‘Step back, Susi.’

  He glanced to the side and saw equally tired and bruised warriors falling back, their places being taken by fresher men behind them. It was easy enough to disengage, the Russian attack having faltered after the bloodletting. Both sides as if by mutual consent recoiled from each other to prepare for a fresh assault.

  Conrad took off his helmet as he reached the rear ranks where wounded men were being treated. He gladly accepted a water bottle and took a few welcome swigs. He saw Anu’s Wierlanders standing as a block behind Andres’ warriors and looked to the right, and nearly choked with alarm. The Danes were being surrounded by Russian horsemen while they battled the Novgorod militia to their front. The crusader horsemen may have gouged the Russian right wing but the horsemen of the left flank had been unmolested and now they lapped around the Danes who were sorely outnumbered.

  His tiredness disappeared and he sprinted over to where Anu was marshalling his men to face right and form a shield wall in response to the appearance of the Russian horsemen who appeared to be focused on slaughtering the Danes.

  ‘Form wedge,’ shouted Conrad.

  He halted beside the commander of the Wierlanders.

  ‘Now’s your time, Anu. Wait until I can get you some crossbowmen. Then save the bishop.’

  ‘And the Danes, Susi?’

  ‘We cannot save everyone. Find Bishop Hermann and bring him back here.’

  Ulric himself commanded seventy crossbowmen of ‘The Bastards’ that accompanied Anu’s three hundred men. Frustra
ted that they had been held in reserve the Wierlanders attacked with gusto, maintaining a compact wedge as they advanced straight into the maelstrom of horsemen assaulting the Danes. The crossbowmen shot, reloaded and shot again to carve a path of dead horses and riders through the Russians. Conrad watched them go, praying that they were not too late. He cared nothing for the Danes but liked and respected Bishop Hermann, even if he could be infuriating at times.

  The lull in the battle was shattered as Ulric ordered his remaining crossbowmen forward. They pushed their way through the ranks of their spearmen guardians, walked forward to the heaps of dead to use the bodies as cover while they took shots at the reforming Russian foot soldiers. Volley after volley cut through the bitter air to strike the enemy. In half a minute five hundred iron-tipped bolts had been loosed, at least half hitting faces as Ulric’s men aimed above Russian shields. The enemy huddled together and locked their shields but another half a minute passed and more Russians fell. Their commanders and the priests who provided spiritual support cursed and exalted them to attack. But in the face of the hail of crossbow bolts they faltered and began to withdraw.

  Ulric, now in the front rank, ordered his men to follow them. The crossbowmen gingerly threaded their way through the twisted corpses in the snow, taking potshots at targets when they presented themselves. Conrad’s commanders, seeing that Ulric had the enemy on the run, ordered their men to advance. Their warriors began to shuffle forward but Conrad shoved his way through their ranks to stop them.

  ‘Stand, stand,’ he shouted at Andres.

  The Duke of Jerwen held up an arm to signal a halt.

  ‘Sound recall,’ Conrad ordered him.

  Andres turned to a signaller nearby and told him to do so. The man blew his horn; within seconds the other Jerwen signalmen were doing likewise. The order was duplicated along the line so Tonis, Riki and Hillar likewise halted their men. Ulric heard the command and relayed the order to his men who were not best-pleased with the decision, their victory having been cruelly snatched away. Their ire was as nothing compared to Hillar’s wrath. Sweating, mail armour ripped, his shield battered beyond repair, he thrust himself in front of Conrad when the Army of the Wolf had returned to its starting position.