by Peter Darman
When all the contingents gathered their tents, campfires, ponies and horses filled the meadow in front of the fort – a thousand fully armed and equipped soldiers of the Army of the Wolf, including Sir Richard’s contingent.
‘There is one standard missing, Conrad.’
Lady Maarja had come to the outer perimeter battlements with Conrad to look at the army that had sprung up outside the fort like a field of snowdrops in spring.
‘Lady?’
That afternoon, when the cooks were busy preparing the evening meal to feast the commanders and chiefs of Conrad’s army, Maarja sent Mikk to Conrad with an invitation to attend her. He hurried to her private quarters to find her unwrapping something covered in hide. One of her guards helped her unwrap what appeared to be a cloth bundle, which revealed itself as a banner when another guard helped his comrade unfurl it. It was a magnificent flag showing a golden eagle in bright yellow against a pale blue background to represent the sky.
‘This banner belonged to my father and was hidden by Mikk when my parents died. It stayed hidden when Kristjan embarked upon his madness,’ said Maarja, ‘but now I bring it into the light as a gift for you Conrad, in recognition of your kindness towards me and my servants, your courage and your humility. I hope you will accept it.’
‘I would be honoured, lady,’ said Conrad reverently. ‘It will fly at the head of my army in recognition of your father’s courage, your mother’s beauty and your own kindness.’
Beneath her veil a tear ran down Maarja’s disfigured cheek.
Conrad took the banner to the armoury where it was fixed to a staff. It was subsequently placed on an iron bracket behind the top table in the fort’s great hall. Two days later it was flying beside the banners of the Sword Brothers, Saccalia, Harrien, Rotalia, Sir Richard and ‘the Bishop’s Bastards’ as the Army of the Wolf rode south for the great gathering at Riga.
The assigned place for the muster was the castle of Holm, the Sword Brother stronghold immediately east of Riga. Archdeacon Stefan had visited Grand Master Volquin in the city’s castle – an occurrence so rare that no one could remember a time when he had set foot in Riga’s citadel – to argue most forcibly that the crusader army should make its camp around Holm prior to crossing the Dvina. He was most eager that the followers of Timothy the Cook should not be in and around the city.
‘Who?’ asked Rudolf as the order’s commanders gathered in Holm’s master’s hall the day Conrad and his army had arrived.
‘I am delighted to inform you all,’ said Volquin, ‘that the bishop has brought with him from Germany just over six thousand men to crusade in Kurland.’
The masters lounging in high-backed chairs in the vaulted chamber with wood panelling around the walls looked pleased at this announcement.
‘The bad news, my friends,’ continued Volquin, ‘is that half of them are ill-armed followers of Timothy the Cook.’
The grand master proceeded to inform his castellans of the strange story of the lowly cook who had become a religious fanatic in Germany and gathered around him an army of followers. He had lived an unremarkable life in Saxony, rising to become a cook in the household of a minor Saxon noble. There he would have remained, unknown and seeing out his life of hard toil had not a band of unemployed mercenaries visited the village and household of his master. They were typical of the dozens of such groups that terrorised a Germany containing large swathes of lawless territories beyond the walls of towns and cities. Indeed, some of the masters who sat and listened to Volquin’s tale had been leaders or members of such bands themselves.
Timothy fought off the mercenaries that had killed his master and raped and then murdered his wife and daughters, apparently despatching them with a kitchen spit. Whatever the truth the village priest swore the vision of a cross had appeared over his lord’s residence as Timothy emerged from the building with the bloody spit in his hand. This priest declared it a miracle that one man had fought off a small group of bandits, and as word spread of Timothy’s exploits followers began to flock to him. Their numbers were swelled further when Timothy evicted another group of mercenaries from a nearby village it had occupied, again killing a number of them with his spit. The legend of Timothy the Cook spread faster than the plague and soon he had a small army of the devout, the mad and the homeless around him.
‘We’ve all seen these fanatics,’ said Master Jacob, ‘but why in the name of Christ did the bishop bring him to Livonia?’
Volquin ran a hand over his crown. ‘Archdeacon Stefan was unusually frank in explaining that. Timothy the Cook hails from Saxony, close to the estates of the Buxhoeveden family. They wished to be rid of his army of fanatics.’
‘I can understand that,’ remarked Master Mathias.
‘The point being, Mathias,’ said Volquin, ‘that it is not easy to get rid of a prophet, let alone one who has an army of believers around him.’
‘So Livonia was the bait that lured him away,’ said Rudolf.
‘In return for a generous donation to the Holy Church in Livonia, plus the hundred horsemen and two hundred crossbowmen they have supplied, Bishop Albert acquiesced to his family’s wishes to convince Timothy the Cook to take the cross against the heathen Kurs,’ replied Volquin.
‘No doubt the guarantee of food through the coming winter had a great influence on his decision,’ suggested Master Arnold.
‘I’ve moved them as far away from the other contingents as is possible,’ Master Gerhard of Holm told them, ‘and for the moment the food and ale supplied to them from Riga is keeping them quiet. But the sooner we are over the river and into Lithuania the better.’
‘Better for whom?’ asked Conrad. ‘It was bad enough being encumbered with the Livonian Militia last year. Now we will have this rabble to accommodate in addition to Glueck’s useless militia.’
Several of the masters laughed kindly at his words, including Volquin.
‘Oh, Conrad,’ said the grand master, ‘if only you had spent some time in Germany you would have realised that most armies are composed not of highly trained and godly mailed knights but foot soldiers of variable quality.’
‘Very variable,’ interrupted Rudolf, ‘it is very disconcerting when all your foot soldiers suddenly run away at the start of a battle.’
‘Or your mercenaries promptly march away because they have not been paid,’ remarked Master Friedhelm. ‘Very disheartening.’
‘Not like your army, Conrad,’ said Rudolf, ‘all well trained and equipped.’
‘The Kurs will cut these followers of this Timothy the Cook to pieces,’ said Conrad.
‘God willing,’ replied Volquin.
‘Don’t worry Conrad,’ said Master Gerhard, ‘Timothy the Cook has brought his spit with him to skewer Duke Arturus.’
Conrad shook his head but the others collapsed in laughter.
A much more agreeable meeting was the one Conrad had with another man who had travelled from Germany with Bishop Albert, a man of noble birth who had fought by his side before. Count Albert von Lauenburg was a knight who had made his name on the battlefield, like Master Walter a pious, deeply religious individual who was a ferocious opponent in combat. Unlike Walter the count had suffered grievous wounds in battle, his round face bearing terrible sword wounds. Half his nose had been hacked away, he had lost the tip of his right ear and a huge scar ran from above his right eyebrow to his lower left jaw. He was, by any measure, terribly disfigured, some might say grotesque, but Conrad embraced him warmly when he rode to the count’s pavilion, so glad was he to see him.
‘The years and God have been kind to you, Conrad,’ said the count, his mouth twisting into the semblance of a smile.
The count extended an arm towards a chair for Conrad, the pavilion being divided into separate rooms by means of curtains. Pages in the livery of the count – red tunics bearing white horses’ heads – stood around the walls. As soon as the pair was seated the pages served them wine in fine silver goblets. The wine was excellent.
‘I have heard much about Conrad Wolff since the last time we met,’ the count told him, ‘of the Army of the Wolf and your appointment as Master of Odenpah.’
‘You are well informed, my lord,’ said Conrad.
‘The sea voyage from Lübeck allowed Bishop Albert to fully brief me concerning events in Livonia these past few years, Conrad. And now we are to fight beside each other again in the war against the pagans.’
‘I can think of no one I would rather have by my side in battle, my lord,’ smiled Conrad.
It was a most pleasant afternoon, the wine flowed freely and Conrad’s tongue became looser the more he drank. He told Count Albert about the rescue of King Valdemar on Oesel, Kristjan’s rebellion and how he had been forced to surrender Narva after shedding blood to capture it. For his part the count informed Conrad of the war in northern Germany against the Danes, the capture and imprisonment of King Valdemar and the Treaty of Bardowick that had seemingly ended hostilities.
‘You are sceptical that the war has ended, my lord?’ asked Conrad.
The count sighed. ‘I fought against the Danes but did not hold with Count Henry seizing their king or his son. Such actions run counter to the knightly code of chivalry. As a consequence I had no part in the treaty negotiations.’
‘Do you think the Danes will abide by the treaty, my lord?’
The count placed his hands together as if in prayer. ‘I pray God that they will but I fear the years of bad blood between them and Count Henry and his brother will result in more warfare sooner rather than later.’
Conrad was delighted to hear this for it meant that the Danes at Reval would not be reinforced and thus unable to wage their own war against Estonia.
‘What are these Kurs like?’ asked the count.
‘Dangerous and not to be underestimated, my lord, which is what I fear the bishop is doing.’
‘Oh?’
‘I have heard about this Timothy the Cook, my lord, and the rabble that follows him. I am uneasy that he and they will be such a large part of the army that crosses the Dvina.’
The count shrugged. ‘Many believe that Timothy the Cook has been chosen by God for a special purpose, Conrad, and perhaps that purpose is to lead us to victory against these heathen Kurs. I admit he and his followers have a base aspect but that does not prevent them being beloved of the Lord.’
Conrad was not so sure and his doubts increased when Bishop Albert called together his commanders for a council of war at Holm when King Fricis and his Livs had arrived at the castle – a thousand warriors, including his brother Rameke. The pair embraced in the castle courtyard just prior to the council meeting.
‘Any later and you would have missed the war,’ Conrad teased him.
Rameke winked at him. ‘You know the bishop would not cross the river without the only warriors capable of giving him victory.’
‘Kaja is well?’
Rameke wore a happy expression. ‘She looks wonderful and is getting fat now. The healers tell me it is going to be a boy.’
Unlike the meeting of the commanders of the Sword Brothers in the master’s hall a few days earlier this gathering was a more sombre affair. Bishop Albert said prayers before the meeting started, everyone standing around the chipped and stained oak table as the prelate asked God to bless the forthcoming crusade. At the end everyone said ‘amen’ apart from Timothy the Cook, who raised his arms and shouted ‘praise the Lord’ before taking his seat. The bishop smiled politely but Conrad rolled his eyes, which was noted by Volquin who frowned at him.
‘The aim of this campaign is simple,’ said the bishop sternly. ‘I intend to invade the homeland of the Kurs, seek out their army and destroy it in battle.’
The assembled warlords rapped their knuckles on the table to indicate their approval. Bishop Albert held up a hand to request silence.
‘I also want Duke Arturus, dead or alive it makes no difference. If he is captured then he will be brought back to Riga where he will be tried for heresy, with the requisite punishment when he is found guilty.’
Conrad had never seen the bishop so angry or determined.
‘When we cross the Dvina,’ the churchman continued, ‘the army will be God’s sword of retribution. The Kurs will be punished ten times over for their insolence in attacking Riga. Their homeland will be occupied and all traces of their heathen religion and way of life will be eradicated.’
‘This will surely be, your excellency,’ said Timothy loudly, ‘God has told me so.’
There were sharp intakes of breath from those around the table. The Count of Lauenburg looked horrified at this commoner even daring to speak of God in the presence of Bishop Albert. Conrad sneered at his bravado and worried over Bishop Albert’s grand aims for what he suspected would be a difficult campaign. Conrad examined the religious fanatic opposite him, an overweight, balding man with stocky arms and thick fingers, no doubt a consequence of years spent skinning and gutting carcasses and chopping meat for his master. Though running to fat he was physically large and tall, giving him an intimidating appearance to those who could not look beyond his bulk. But his hands were grubby and his teeth rotting, giving him an air of decay that Conrad found most unattractive.
‘Thank you, Timothy,’ said Bishop Albert, ‘I’m sure everyone will be heartened to hear this.’
‘I and my followers will show no mercy to these heretics, your excellency,’ boomed Timothy, ‘this I swear by all that’s holy.’
Conrad leaned forward. ‘That is just as well, Master Cook, for you can be certain that the Kurs will grant you and your followers the same courtesy.’
‘Who is this disbeliever?’ asked Timothy loudly.
‘The Master of Odenpah Castle,’ answered Volquin.
‘The commander of the Army of the Wolf,’ added Rameke.
‘And Marshal of Estonia,’ concluded the Count of Lauenburg.
The titles meant nothing to the fanatic, who screwed up his ugly face at the man whose physique was the opposite of his own. They stared at each other with eyes filled with contempt as the others looked on, intrigued.
‘How many battles have you and your followers taken part in?’ Conrad asked the cook. ‘Are they equipped with armour, shields, spears, swords and crossbows and trained in their use?’
Timothy’s eyes blazed with the fire of fanaticism.
‘The Lord directs the actions of my followers. When they fight they do so with the Holy Spirit within them.’
‘Let us all hope so,’ remarked Conrad.
‘Thank you, Conrad,’ interrupted the bishop, ‘but we have no time for theological discussions. The enemy demands our attention.’
After the meeting Rudolf sidled up to Conrad as Timothy made his way across the courtyard to get back to his followers.
‘Not impressed by our crusading cook, Conrad?’
‘You know that the Kurs will cut him and his followers to pieces, master.’
‘Not if what he says is true, Conrad.’
Rudolf had a mischievous glint in his eye when Conrad looked at him, as if he knew that the fanatic was a buffoon who was leading thousands of his deluded followers to their deaths.
He laid a hand on Conrad’s shoulders.
‘I have seen the courage that is born of fanaticism, Conrad, and it is not to be underestimated. Besides, I would rather have our friend Timothy causing havoc in heathen lands than in Livonia.’
Conrad made to speak but Rudolf held up a hand.
‘You think too much, Conrad. You will feel less troubled when you are back on the battlefield killing your enemies. It is where you belong. You are like a fish out of water when there is no one to be defeated and killed.’
As he walked to the stables to collect his horse Conrad comforted himself that Magnus Glueck had missed the council of war due to pressing matters. Those matters pertained to the temporary closing of the Dvina while Master Thaddeus’ engineers constructed a bridge of boats to span the waterway. It took three days to complete the gr
eat pontoon bridge that had a length of six hundred and fifty yards. It took another day to cover the boards with dirt so the army’s horses would not panic as they walked across the bridge, and a further day for the small army of priests to go among the knights and common soldiers to bless them, their horses, armour and weapons for the coming fight against the pagan Kurs.
Following these diversions the army was ready at last to cross over the Dvina. In the vanguard were the Sword Brothers – nearly a thousand horsemen and mercenary foot soldiers – who crossed over to establish a footing on the southern riverbank and ensure that neither the Kurs nor Semgallians would interrupt the invasion of their lands. Next came Bishop Albert, guarded by Nordheim’s horsemen, and the commanders of the various crusader contingents, including Timothy the Cook who, embarrassingly, had to walk because he had never learned to ride a horse. So he strode in front of the Bishop of Riga, wearing a leather apron over his stained tunic, cooking spit in hand, the army’s commanders looking on politely.
Immediately following came the banners, a block of colourful flags indicating where the various contingents of the army hailed from. The standards included that of the Sword Brothers, the cross keys of Riga, the white horse’s head of Lauenburg, the silver key on a red background indicating Bremen, Mecklenburg’s black bull on a yellow background, the silver nettle leaf of Holstein on a red background, the white castle with three towers on a red background signifying Hamburg, Rostok’s golden griffin on a blue background and the Buxhoeveden family’s silver fox on a red and silver background. There were also the banners of the Army of the Wolf, which included the golden eagle of Ungannia.
