by Peter Darman
Each day the scouts returned with news that the Kurs were nowhere to be found, confirming in Vsevolod’s mind that he and the bishop had won a great victory and were part of a pursuit that might chase Arturus all the way back to Kurland itself. Each day that passed raised his spirits as he rode with the bishop, Magnus Glueck, Grand Master Volquin and Duke Fredhelm. Behind the dignitaries came their standards, the silver griffin of Vsevolod, the banner of the Sword Brothers, the cross of the Livonian Militia, the cross keys of Riga and the banner of Rostok, Fredhelm’s home: a yellow phoenix on a blue background. The days were sunny and warm, the Kurs had disappeared and the land was teeming with life.
Behind the colour party rode General Aras with Commander Nordheim, his horsemen ringing the bishop and the prelate’s companions. Vsevolod’s Russian guards were immediately behind them. Aras and Nordheim found each other’s company agreeable, not least because they shared the same degree of ambition, duplicity and ruthlessness that had elevated them to their current positions. Because of this a degree of honesty existed between them that was unusual for former enemies.
‘Your nobles underestimate Duke Arturus,’ remarked Aras as a bout of laughter ahead reached his ears. ‘Your bishop believes that the Kurs have vanished like spring mist but they will reappear again, of that you can be certain.’
Nordheim turned and looked at the Selonian.
‘You realise that having invited him into this land, Bishop Albert will not be eager to leave. Mesoten is only the beginning. I hope Prince Vsevolod knows this.’
‘It was no small thing for my lord to request the bishop’s aid,’ admitted Aras, ‘but he had little choice given the alternative.’
‘Which was?’
‘To face being evicted from his home a second time, this time by the Kurs.’
‘This Arturus is really that dangerous?’ asked Nordheim with surprise.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘By the way, where is that angry young man whose hair and beard match the colour of his mood?’
Aras smiled. ‘Prince Mindaugas insisted that he be allowed to return to Panemunis, ostensibly to comfort his wife but in reality to be away from the Sword Brothers.’
Nordheim looked at him quizzically.
‘They killed his father,’ said Aras. ‘As a result he hates them.’
‘He has good taste,’ remarked Nordheim casually.
‘You too dislike them?’ asked Aras.
‘With a vengeance.’
It comforted Aras to think that the Christians also suffered from divisions that afflicted the Lithuanian kingdoms. He saw a figure on a horse approaching: a Sword Brother whose white cloak billowed behind him as he galloped up to where the bishop was riding with his lord. After a brief conversation with the Bishop of Riga the horseman saluted and walked his horse down the column. Aras recognised him from the numerous banquets that had been held in the bishop’s pavilion, a tall, powerful man with light brown hair and blue-grey eyes. Those eyes narrowed as the Sword Brother passed Nordheim, a look of contempt on his face.
‘Friend of yours?’ asked Aras.
‘Hardly.’
‘He is a man of some importance, I believe, though I have forgotten his name.’
‘That was Conrad Wolff, Master in the Sword Brothers, Marshal of Estonia and enemy of Archdeacon Stefan.’
‘The bishop holds him in high esteem, it seems,’ said Aras.
‘Only the Pope is infallible,’ mumbled Nordheim.
‘My apologies, I did not hear you.’
‘Suffice to say, General,’ said Nordheim, ‘just as you have Duke Arturus to contend with so do we have to grapple with the problem that is Conrad Wolff.’
‘But he is a Sword Brother, is he not, a man bound by oath to Bishop Albert?’
‘The bishop established the Sword Brothers, it is true,’ said Nordheim, ‘but because he has indulged them they have become arrogant, believing themselves to be above the law. It is only a matter of time before they are brought to account and made to pay for their many crimes.’
Aras wondered if Nordheim was stating a fact or voicing a wish. His own estimation of the Sword Brothers, having seen them at close quarters since their arrival in his homeland, was that they were highly professional soldiers and formidable foes.
‘It is a pity you did not have an opportunity to speak to Prince Mindaugas,’ said Aras, ‘you two would have got on famously, I think. He not only despises them but has vowed to destroy them.’
‘He sounds a remarkable young man,’ said Nordheim.
*****
Tervete hill fort, the stronghold of Duke Viesthard, was located in the middle of a vast forest of ancient pines in the mist-shrouded and forbidding valley of the Tervete River. It was a dark, brooding land where wild boar grunted in the undergrowth and black stork nested in the black alder of the wetlands. Here age-old villages and their surrounding fields had the appearance of newcomers to this ancient terrain where the spirits of the dead still inhabited the deepest depths of the forests. The oldest place of habitation in the valley was on the site of the hill fort itself. It was rumoured that people had lived on the sixty-foot high mound for over a thousand years. Some of the weathered and darkened timbers that made up the walls and towers of the fort were believed to have been put in place by those first settlers. Sited on the right bank of the river, the fort had been enlarged and strengthened over the years and now it comprised two defence lines. The first – the original fort with its timber walls and square towers with shingle roofs – stood atop the mound. The second defence line was sited halfway down on a twenty-foot wide terrace: a timber wall with towers at regular intervals circling the entire mound. The town at the foot of the mound also had its own timber wall for defence, though no enemy had ventured into the Tervete Valley for decades.
After his brush with the crusaders and Selonians at the Iecava River, Arturus had conducted a speedy withdrawal to the border of Kurland while the Bishop of Riga gave thanks for his ‘victory’. Lamekins had commanded the rearguard, though in truth it had nothing to do apart from riding through empty villages and watering its horses in the many rivers and lakes, the Christians’ advance was ponderously slow, encompassed as they were with dozens of wagons and a host of non-combatants. When he had linked up with Arturus he discovered that the duke had sent Ringaudas, his loyal Selonian, south to Tervete with a request for a meeting with Duke Viesthard. To Lamekins’ great surprise the Semgallian leader had agreed to meet with Arturus at a place in the Tervete Valley not far from his stronghold. Though the Semgallian’s hospitality did not extend to inviting the Kurs to the hill fort itself.
The river was slow moving, the sky overcast, as Arturus led his horsemen south to the designated spot. Unusually, Lamekins was nervous, his head jerking as a beaver broke the surface of the water and caught his eye or an elk disturbed the undergrowth among the pines that stretched upwards from the river to blanket the side of the valley.
‘I’m sure that if Duke Viesthard had wanted us dead he would have sprung his trap by now,’ Arturus told him.
‘We should have summoned him to Mesoten, lord,’ replied Lamekins, turning in the saddle as a white-tailed eagle suddenly took the air to his right.
‘It would have sat ill with Viesthard, I think, if we had met him at a place that reminded him of a great Semgallian defeat.’
Arturus turned to glance at Ringaudas riding behind them.
‘What sort of humour was he in when you met him?’
‘Like an angry boar, lord.’
Arturus laughed. ‘A most apt analogy, especially if he has to live in this dreary, wet land.’
Lamekins’ head dropped in despair. Venturing into the enemy’s lair on a whim was not what campaigning was about. Only a score of horsemen were with them and he knew that if they were ambushed their deaths would be certain. The thought also crossed his mind that Viesthard might desire to capture them so he could exact a slow and painful revenge on Duke Arturus and his deputy for redu
cing Semgallia to a weakened state. And to compound his unhappiness Arturus himself appeared not to have a care in the world. Lamekins could bear it no more.
‘I see no purpose in this meeting.’
Arturus smiled to himself. ‘No purpose, Lamekins? Surely your military mind will appreciate the importance of allies in the coming war with the Bishop of Riga.’
‘Allies, lord? Duke Viesthard would rather side with the Christians than stand beside us.’
‘We shall see,’ replied Arturus.
The place assigned to be the venue for the meeting was a miserable, disused woodman’s hut a short distance from the river in a small clearing. Its timbers were rotting and its roof leaked and was full of holes. With its walls covered in moss it had a musty smell. After the two leaders and Ringaudas had dismounted and entered the hovel Lamekins began pacing, hand on the pommel of his sword as he muttered to himself. Arturus looked at Ringaudas and shook his head.
‘You would not think to look at him that he is the finest military leader that the Kurs have possessed, perhaps the finest in the whole of Lithuania.’
Lamekins stopped pacing when he and the others heard the approach of horses followed by voices as the other party arrived. Arturus folded his arms as Lamekins and Ringaudas came to his side and the trio waited to see if Duke Viesthard had come or whether he had sent assassins. The lack of raised voices and screams seemed to indicate the former.
‘Where is he?’ asked a gruff voice outside.
Seconds later the leader of the Semgallians entered the hut. It had been three years since Arturus had last seen him, when he had requested a meeting of all the Lithuanian dukes. He had aged markedly in that time, his hair and beard showing lots of grey, bags beneath his eyes.
‘I should have your heads,’ he growled when he clapped eyes on Arturus and Lamekins.
‘My lord,’ smiled Arturus, ‘if that had been your intention you would not be standing where you are now.’
Three men had entered the dwelling with Viesthard, like him wearing mail armour with swords strapped to their belts. They stood behind their lord with their hands resting on the pommels of their blades, eyeing Lamekins and Ringaudas warily.
‘What do you want?’ said Viesthard.
‘You may be interested to know that we have just returned from Selonia,’ remarked Arturus casually, ‘where we fought the soldiers of the Bishop of Riga.’
Viesthard’s contemptuous look disappeared as he was told this surprising news. Then he gave Arturus a wry smile.
‘The last time I heard Prince Vsevolod was the ruler of Selonia.’
‘You are right,’ said Arturus, ‘we engaged his soldiers as well. He has forged an alliance with the Christians and even as we stand here their combined forces are advancing west to seize Mesoten, or what’s left of it. My spies in Riga keep me fully abreast of developments regarding the Bishop of Riga’s alliances. Vsevolod has abandoned you.’
Viesthard was unmoved. ‘Even if that was true, and I do not accept it is so, what concern is it to you?’
‘Because after they have captured Mesoten and then marched against your stronghold of Tervete, I have no doubt that they will then invade Kurland.’
Viesthard relaxed and folded his arms. ‘Then you will have a taste of what many Semgallians have experienced at the hands of your soldiers.’
Arturus showed genuine hurt. ‘How short is your memory, my lord? Have you forgotten the invasion of my land by your own soldiers, plus those from Samogitia, Aukstaitija, Selonia and Nalsen? What would my people think of me if I did not avenge such an outrage?’
Arturus looked past the men with Viesthard at the open door behind them.
‘Have you brought any priests with you, my lord, the Kriviai who are responsible for the bloodshed between our two peoples?’
‘I ask again, Duke Arturus,’ said Viesthard irritably, ‘what do you want?’
‘That we refrain from butchering each other, at least until the Christians are expelled from Lithuania,’ said Arturus calmly.
‘I will not enter into any alliance with you, Arturus,’ spat Viesthard, ‘you have violated the immunity of the Kriviai and have laid waste large parts of Semgallia, Samogitia and now Selonia, it would seem.’
Lamekins stepped towards the Duke of Semgallia, whose own men clutched the grips of their swords. Arturus waved Lamekins back.
‘I ask for no alliance, no favours or pledges. All I ask you to do is consider that it might be to Semgallia’s benefit to refrain from sending raiding parties into Kurland. If you do this then I promise that no Kur will set foot on your territory.’
‘We are done here,’ announced Viesthard, ‘you will leave Semgallia immediately.’
As he turned and made to leave Arturus called after him.
‘You can rely on my word, Duke Viesthard, unlike that of Prince Vsevolod who has betrayed you, betrayed all of us by siding with the Bishop of Riga. And where is Duke Ykintas or Duke Kitenis in your hour of need?’
Arturus wore a satisfied grin as Viesthard and his men mounted their horses and rode from the clearing. Lamekins gave a sigh of relief and Ringaudas appeared to have been mentally drained by the business but Arturus was highly animated. He was now the one who began pacing as ideas and scenarios coursed through his mind.
‘He will not believe me, of course, but that is irrelevant because he will soon see with his own eyes the treachery of Vsevolod when the crusaders take possession of Mesoten. We shall withdraw all of our soldiers from Semgallia and let the Christians ensconce themselves at Mesoten.’
Lamekins was nodding. ‘To take Mesoten is easy enough but to hold it requires men and resources.’
‘Exactly,’ said Arturus.
Ringaudas, who had been a junior warlord in the army of Vsevolod, looked totally confused. Arturus placed an arm around his shoulders, which always unnerved him.
‘To take a place is easy enough but to hold it requires men and resources. That is why we did not remain in Selonia. What would I do with Panemunis, a place so far from Kurland, aside from burn it to the ground?’
‘To punish Prince Vsevolod,’ offered Ringaudas bitterly, remembering that the prince had abandoned him and his men to their fate.
‘Prince Vsevolod thinks his scheming has saved him,’ said Arturus, ‘but he will discover, I think, that the Bishop of Riga’s embrace will eventually choke him.’
‘A fate that awaits us if we do not depart forthwith, my lord,’ said Lamekins.
He rode out of the Tervete Valley a relieved man, his master delighted and Ringaudas still none the wiser as to why he had been involved in the venture in the first place.
*****
Conrad gripped the axe and swung it with all his strength, the large, crescent-shaped iron head a blur as it bit deep in the target. He had always been taught to control his emotions when using weapons but now he felt a feral rage stir within him as he pulled the axe back and swung it again, and again and again, his heart thumping in his chest as his strikes made little impression.
‘This one’s a tough one,’ laughed Hans, munching an apple nearby.
Conrad wiped the sweat from his brow and gave him a disparaging look.
‘Think you can do any better?’
Hans wagged a finger at him. ‘It’s not my turn. The tree that I cut down is over there being stripped ready for transportation. Next came Anton and now it’s your turn.’
Conrad placed the axe on the ground and took a swig from the water bottle nearby. It was hot and airless in the forest, the sound of hundreds of men chopping and sawing trees echoing through the pines that still stood. It was as if hundreds of woodpeckers had descended on the forest that surrounded Mesoten. The bishop’s army had arrived at the former Semgallian stronghold without incident, the Kurs having seemingly vanished into thin air. Nevertheless, as Albert’s soldiers established a camp around the grassy mound that had once been the site of a mighty timber fort, now only charred, overgrown remains, parties of horsemen h
ad been sent west to give warning of the approach of not only the Kurs but also Duke Viesthard’s warriors. But no enemy had come and so the engineers set about constructing a temporary fort atop the mound, after which a series of small timber forts would be established from Mesoten north all the way to the Dvina. It was a major undertaking requiring a vast amount of timber. Fortunately the forests of Semgallia were abundant in trees and the bishop’s army had hundreds of ponies and draught horses to haul the felled trees to camp and then up the mound where Thaddeus’ engineers directed a host of locals who had been impressed as labourers to position the logs. It would take weeks to construct a new fort and the smaller strongholds sited at one-mile intervals back to the Dvina.
Conrad picked up the axe and swung it again, this time hacking out great chunks of wood that shot out in all directions. He went about his task with fury, finding the two-handed broadaxe that he had taken as a souvenir off a dead Kur surprisingly well balanced. Brother Lukas had taught him how to fell a tree years ago when he had been a novice and he heard the brother knight’s words now as his powerful blows took their toll on the tall pine.
‘Stand alongside the tree and position yourself so that when the axe strikes your arms are fully extended. You make the face cut first, the top of which should cut down into the trunk at an angle of forty-five degrees. The bottom of the face cut should be horizontal so that when they meet you will have chopped out a great wedge of wood. And don’t forget to work with the lean of the tree so that the tree will fall in the direction it’s already leaning.’
As he neared the completion of his task Hans and Anton cheered him on, Leatherface sitting on a nearby log grinning as he cradled his crossbow across his lap. The bishop’s army still risked being attacked by small bands of raiders so the crossbowmen were on full alert, ready to repel any attackers. Conrad and his comrades were stripped to the waist but their weapons and armour were within reach, just in case, though the hundreds of horsemen patrolling and hunting should have deterred any enemy bands. Duke Fredhelm and his knights had declared that they would not take any part in manual work, stating that to do so was an affront to their nobility. Magnus Glueck and Manfred Nordheim gave the same excuse when excluding their own men, though Sir Richard and his men were not so proud or lazy.
