The Sword Brothers

by Peter Darman

  The second thing that condemned Dietmar was the testimony of the imposing Artur, the commander of the men who guarded the property of Adolfus Braune. The judge rubbed his chin once more as he listened to Artur tell of how he had with great difficulty prevented Dietmar Wolff from entering his master’s home, the baker wounding two of his men in the process. The merchant had been too shaken to appear in person but had sent Artur to testify in his place, who handed a notary a letter prepared by his master. The notary passed the letter to the judge who read it and then looked at Dietmar Wolff with narrow, merciless eyes.

  ‘The sentence is death. Take him away.’

  ‘No!’ wailed Conrad, who was quickly bundled out of the room by Rudolf and Henke to save him from being flogged or worse.

  Outside the town hall he angrily wrestled himself away from his two guardians and made to go back into the courtroom. Henke stood before him.

  ‘Don’t be a fool.’

  ‘My father is innocent,’ he shouted, and then held his head in his hands. ‘Innocent,’ he said quietly.

  ‘There is nothing to be done,’ said Rudolf. ‘I am sorry.’

  They took Conrad back to the monastery. He wanted to see his father but the authorities would not allow that. Too many instances of relatives smuggling weapons to the condemned on the eve of their executions had resulted in a spate of fatal injuries to gaolers. They could see their errant loved ones when they were brought to the scaffold. Conrad trudged back to the south of the city with his head hanging low, not really believing that his father had been sentenced to death for a crime he did not commit. In his innocence he believed that the truth would surface and his father would be released and then they would be a family again. And that is what he told Marie after he had returned to their new home. Despite his father’s gaunt and dirty appearance Conrad went to bed convinced that they would soon be reunited with their father.

  ‘The boy’s father will go to his death an innocent man,’ remarked Rudolf, placing the silver goblet on the table in front of him.

  The hour was late and silence permeated the bishop’s lavish quarters, the candles flickering in their holders, their fire illuminating the chiselled features of Bishop Albert who sat opposite him. In Livonia Rudolf and his brothers always seemed to huddle round the half-light produced by their cheap tallow candles. But in the cathedral palace in Lübeck the expensive beeswax candles gave off much brighter light.

  ‘The court found him guilty,’ replied Bishop Albert.

  Rudolf traced a finger round the rim of the goblet. ‘The influence of Adolfus Braune weighed the scales of justice against the baker.’

  ‘Braune is this city’s wealthiest merchant, brother,’ said Bishop Albert, ‘and much respected.’

  Rudolf smiled. ‘Wealth and respect always seem to be close relations, bishop.’

  Bishop Albert shrugged. ‘The fact is that Braune has been most generous concerning supplying ships to transport those crusaders who are at this very moment marching from Saxony to Lübeck to fight for the cross against the heathens.’

  ‘Your uncle has been most fervent, bishop.’

  Bishop Albert was the nephew of the Archbishop of Bremen and Hamburg, who did much to encourage lords to undertake crusade in the Baltic to support Bishop Albert’s efforts against the pagans. The bishop himself often travelled throughout Germany to enlist recruits to his cause, but he was based in Riga whereas his uncle was stationed permanently in Germany.

  ‘Indeed. Concerning Adolfus Braune, I cannot afford to alienate him so I would appreciate it if you did not provoke him.’

  Rudolf looked hurt. ‘Provoke, bishop?’

  Bishop Albert wagged a finger at him. The lighted reflected off the gold ring carrying an amethyst that he wore on the fourth finger of his hand, which had been given to him by Pope Innocent III himself. ‘The Sword Brothers are not titled thus for nothing.’

  Rudolf spread his hands. ‘I would not dream of disturbing the peace, bishop.’

  Bishop Albert nodded. ‘You will still return to Riga early?’

  ‘I will, bishop. Wenden needs strengthening before winter comes. To that end I will be taking stonemasons and mercenaries back with me.’

  Wenden was a former pagan hill fort that had been captured two years ago by the crusaders. It was now a major stronghold of the Sword Brothers who were building a stone castle in place of the wooden ramparts. But progress was slow, not least due to a paucity of funds. Rudolf welcomed the annual influx of crusaders into Livonia but they usually only stayed for the summer; when they departed the forces left behind were greatly overstretched. At this time the number of secular German vassals resident in Livonia was small. Mercenaries were a useful addition to Christian forces and they stayed all year round, as long as they were paid.

  ‘I hope to bring several hundred men with me when I return to Riga,’ said Bishop Albert.

  ‘We will need them,’ said Rudolf, taking a sip at his wine. ‘We stand a Christian island surrounded by an ocean of pagans.’

  ‘God is our armour, Brother Rudolf. We must have faith. Returning to the matter of the baker’s children, what do you suggest Bishop Theodoric should do with them, seeing as God has seen fit to entrust them to his keeping?’

  ‘I will take the boy back with me to Wenden,’ answered Rudolf. ‘If he stays here he will be in danger from Adolfus Braune, either that or he will attempt to kill the merchant and will thus follow his father to the scaffold.’

  ‘And the girl?’

  ‘The nunnery will offer her security and safety,’ Rudolf answered.

  ‘Why do you take such an interest in these children?’

  It was a good question and Rudolf had to think for a few seconds before he replied. ‘Perhaps because they came to me, two frightened, lost souls who were in need of aid. Besides, the boy might make a useful soldier.’

  Bishop Albert laughed. ‘Ever the realist. It may interest you to know that I have more lost souls for your care. One boy, a beggar, was caught stealing a loaf of bread. Fortunately for him he was brought before a church court that sought fit to show clemency.’

  ‘As long as he devoted his life to the church,’ said Rudolf.

  ‘Better than swinging from the end of a rope,’ Bishop Albert rebuked him. ‘You can take him back with you as well. Another soldier for the army of God. The baker will be executed tomorrow, I believe.’

  Rudolf nodded.

  Bishop Albert frowned. ‘Perhaps it would be best if his children did not witness it.’

  ‘The girl I agree,’ said Rudolf, ‘but I will take the boy so he can bid farewell to his father. He deserves that at least.’

  Bishop Albert raised an eyebrow.

  ‘The boy should see death in all its grisly glory, bishop, the more so if he is to become a soldier. He will see enough of it in the years to come.’

  Bishop Albert smiled. ‘I am hopeful that we will baptise the pagans rather than subdue them with the sword, Brother Rudolf.’

  Now it was Rudolf’s turn to smile. ‘If that were true you would not have created the Sword Brothers.’

  Conrad rose early the next morning, before the first rays of the sun were lighting up the eastern sky, just as he had done every morning while working for his father. He was still in a state of shock caused by the events of the past few days. A part of him still did not believe that his mother was dead and his father sentenced to death for her murder. He had been in the room when the criminals had broken into his home. It was they who should have been in that courtroom, not his father. But Brother Rudolf and his stern companion Henke would be taking him to see his father today so all would be well. He was confused as to exactly who they were. The black-robed monks of the monastery had told him that they were Sword Brothers and were warrior monks, knights who had taken holy orders, but he did not understand. All he knew was that they were taking him to see his father and all would be well.

  Marie was full of questions to which he had no answers, not least why she was
not allowed to sleep in the same room as him. He told her that she should obey the nuns and not cause trouble, but that this evening they would all be back together at home. Tears came to his eyes and he looked away when she stated that she missed her mother.

  After a simple but fulsome breakfast of thick soup in a bowl and ample portions of bread Marie was taken back to the nunnery and Rudolf and Henke came to collect Conrad. As before their arms and legs were covered in chainmail and they both wore white surcoats bearing red crosses and swords. Around their waists were brown leather belts holding swords on their left sides and long daggers on their right hips, while their heads were encased in mail coifs.

  The day was sunny and mild as the three made their way in silence to the city’s cobbled market square where the executions were to take place. Conrad walked between Rudolf and Henke, the latter keeping a tight grip on the hilt of his dagger. From experience he knew that public executions were rough, boisterous affairs and already there were a great many people heading for the square. They spoke in loud and eager voices, many already inebriated from drinking copious amounts of ale and boasting of wanting to be close to the ‘stage’. Henke had seen this type of bloodlust before – the desire to get as close as possible to where death was being meted out. He also knew that crowds could turn ugly if executions were botched or presented a poor spectacle.

  ‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ he said to Rudolf.

  ‘Not frightened of a few townspeople are you, Henke?’ replied Rudolf, smiling. He knew that Henke was not afraid of anything but also knew that his friend regarded most civilians with a cool contempt at best, believing them to be cowards at heart. The fact that they revelled in public executions only increased his disdain for them.

  ‘We must hurry,’ said Conrad, still convinced that his father would be freed.

  Henke looked at him and sighed while Rudolf said nothing.

  The market square was teeming with activity when they arrived, the vendors who had arrived hours before to set up their carts and booths doing a brisk trade selling food, drink and souvenirs. The scene had a carnival air as minstrels and jugglers entertained the crowd, which for the moment was good-natured. Rudolf nodded towards the large wooden scaffold that had been erected on the northern side of the square.

  ‘Come on.’

  He led the way through the crowd that thickened as they neared the platform, upon which had been arranged tables holding swords, axes, knives, branding irons, tongs and ropes. Two braziers stood beside the tables and in front of them, fixed to the scaffold, were two large, thick wooden beams arranged in an ‘X’ shape. On one side of the scaffold was heaped a pile of large spoked wheels with iron rims. Henke pushed people out of the way, who turned angrily to face him but then cowered away when they saw the size of him, his weaponry and the insignia on his surcoat. Rudolf, in contrast, gently tapped individuals on the shoulder and asked if he and the boy with him could get to the front of the crowd, making the sign of the cross as they moved aside.

  Conrad looked around the square and saw that some of the rooftops were filled with spectators, while below them people were hanging out of windows to get a better view.

  ‘Crows,’ sneered Henke.

  On the higher rooftops were real crows, great fat beasts that were beginning to assemble in anticipation of a tasty feast. Conrad was perplexed by the whole spectacle. He had never been brought to such events before, though there were some children in the crowd, most on the shoulders of their parents who were pointing at the scaffold and the various devices on it. In the windows of the houses positioned immediately behind the scaffold were persons of quality, noble men and women who had paid for the privilege of being close to the executions.

  ‘Will my father be arriving soon?’ asked Conrad, who began to suspect that something was not quite right with what he was seeing.

  Half a dozen individuals entered the square, all dressed in black leggings, short-sleeved tunics and hoods over their heads. They were skinners, men who made a living from skinning dead animals and disposing of the carcasses. But they also assisted the executioner in a number of ways, from torturing prisoners during interrogations to assisting him on the day of executions itself.

  ‘Yes,’ said Rudolf, ‘he will be here soon.’

  People began to jeer and hiss as the skinners made their way to the scaffold. Not for nothing did they wear hoods to conceal their identities. The church absolved executioners of any personal responsibility for the deaths they caused because they were carrying out the judgement of just and godly authorities, but the citizenry largely despised them. So they hid their identities to prevent public opprobrium and out of fear of retribution from friends or family of the condemned. Once on the scaffold they placed the branding irons and tongs in the coals of the braziers. The chatter among the crowd became more agitated and excitable. There was a frisson in the air, the anticipation of blood and suffering. Rudolf looked at Henke and shook his head, then glanced at Conrad.

  There were more boos and hisses as the executioner himself slowly made his way to the scaffold, a hulking brute of a man attired in knee-length black leather boots, tight black hose, waist-length short-sleeved grey tunic secured by a black leather belt and a black leather face mask that encased his large head. Members of the crowd moved back as he ambled to the scaffold, not daring to look this agent of death in the eye.

  ‘There’s father,’ shouted Conrad as a wagon pulled by two horses entered the square from the northeast entrance, a great cheer erupting from the crowd when they saw it. Driven by a skinner wearing a hood, a pale, nervous priest attired in a white gown walked beside it, reading from an open Bible he had in his hands. On the back of the wagon was a large iron cage, in which were half a dozen prisoners – three male, three female – one of whom was Dietmar Wolff. Without thinking Conrad rushed forward to be near his father, who sat disconsolately on the floor of the cage. His fellow male prisoners were standing at the bars of the cage, staring wide-eyed at the crowd and then at the scaffold that was rearing into view as they contemplated the final minutes of their lives.

  ‘Father, father,’ called Conrad, who reached the wagon and began waving at his father.

  Dietmar looked up and saw his son walking beside the wagon. He rose unsteadily and went to the bars, stretching out a hand to his son.

  ‘It will be all right, father,’ said Conrad, grasping his father’s hand, ‘I have brought friends who will get you released.’

  Tears streamed down Dietmar’s face as he held his son’s hand.

  ‘Where is your sister?’

  Conrad smiled. ‘She is safe at the nunnery, father. The nuns have been very kind to her.’

  ‘You must leave this place, Conrad.’

  Conrad was shocked. ‘Leave? Why? We will leave together, father.’

  Suddenly the crowd began pelting the cage with rotten vegetables and stones, a piece of flint hitting Dietmar above the eye, causing him to flinch and let go of Conrad’s hand.

  ‘Come with me,’ said Rudolf as he pulled Conrad away from the wagon that was now being struck from all directions. Those inside cowered and sank to the floor in an effort to make themselves smaller targets, shielding their heads with their hands as best they could. The crowd was engulfed in rapture at their plight and the filth-covered priest who had been unwittingly caught in the barrage.

  ‘Father, father!’ screamed Conrad as Rudolf and Henke dragged him back to a safe distance.

  ‘It is too late, Conrad,’ said Rudolf, holding his shoulders firmly and looking directly into the boy’s eyes.

  The realisation that his father had been brought to this place to die finally dawned on Conrad. The colour drained from his cheeks and his knees buckled from under him. Henke caught him before he collapsed and held him upright.

  ‘No,’ said Conrad faintly.

  But his anguished cry was drowned out in the tumult as the crowd warmed itself up pelting the now terrified prisoners. After a few minutes one of the skin
ners blew a short trumpet, its high-pitched sound resonating across the square and silencing the crowd. The executioner also raised his hands to still any other noise. A silence charged with expectation hung over the throng like a thundercloud.

  The executioner nodded to one of the guards ringing the scaffold and he and two others went to the wagon where the priest was rubbing his now dirty robe with his hands. The skinner was unlocking the cage door and opened it when the guards arrived. One called a name that Conrad thought he had heard before and one of the male prisoners walked gingerly forward, to be roughly seized by the guards and manhandled down the steps at the back of the wagon. He was pushed forward to the scaffold and up the steps to where the skinners were waiting. The priest followed him, reciting prayers as two skinners grabbed his arms and a third pulled off his white gown, now smeared with filth.

  Executions were always held three days after sentencing – the same length of time between Christ’s death and resurrection. During this time a priest would hear a prisoner’s confession, grant absolution and offer the Eucharist.

  Now the prisoner, wrapped only in his braies, was spread-eagled on the X-shaped cross and secured in place by leather straps around his wrists and ankles. The tension among the crowd was unbearable. A skinner approached the secured coiner with a pair of red-hot tongs and began to nip the flesh on his chest with them, causing the man to scream and convulse as the pain shot through him. The crowd erupted into wild cheering as the skinner began to dance round the victim, stopping to tear at his white flesh with the tongs. The priest standing to one side on the scaffold was now visibly shaking as he tried to pray for the man, who shrieked every time his flesh was singed. He thrashed around on the cross in an effort to set himself free but the straps were too thick and his efforts were in vain.