The Sword Brothers

by Peter Darman

  The grand duke leaned back in his chair as the female slaves began brushing the floor. If what his son-in-law said was true then an attack against Kokenhusen was worth considering. The crusaders were erecting four stone castles along the Dvina – Holm, Uexkull, Lennewarden and Kokenhusen – and he knew it would be only a matter of time before their eyes turned south once they had conquered the people living to the north of the river. He also knew that every year more and more crusaders remained in Livonia to consolidate the bishop’s rule. Riga was once a collection of huts but would soon be a great city. He knew that inaction was no longer an option.

  He pointed at the blonde warrior standing before him. ‘This is Prince Stecse,’ he said to his son-in-law, ‘one of my best warlords. A man most accomplished at mounting raids against the enemy.’

  Stecse bowed his head to Daugerutis. ‘You flatter me, lord.’

  The grand duke waved away his deference. ‘Stecse will go back to Gerzika with you, my son, so you both may plan an attack against Kokenhusen.’

  Vsevolod smiled at Stecse. ‘You are most generous, lord. The loss of one of their castles will be a grievous blow to the crusaders and will give heart to their many enemies. With the crusaders fully occupied in the north there is a possibility that all their strongholds along the Dvina might fall into our hands.’

  The grand duke chuckled. ‘There is an old saying among my people, my son – easy to say, but not to do. One castle at a time.’

  ‘Before the crusaders came my city was part of the mighty Principality of Polotsk, a kingdom that existed peacefully among its neighbours.’

  Daugerutis remembered differently but remained silent.

  ‘Once the crusaders have been evicted from Livonia Lithuanian and Russian will rule all the lands from here to the Baltic,’ Vsevolod boasted.

  The duke’s son-in-law returned to Gerzika the next day, taking Prince Stecse with him so they could plan an attack against Kokenhusen.

  Chapter 4

  Conrad lay on the ground looking up at the cloudless blue sky, the wind knocked out of him as the others laughed. He had ended up flat on his back courtesy of Lukas during a lesson concerning the correct use of the shield. The brother knight extended his right arm and hauled Conrad to his feet and turned to the others.

  ‘A shield is not just a wall against which an enemy can batter his weapons against. It is a weapon in its own right and can be used to strike, push, pin and trap an opponent.’

  Conrad picked up his waster and held it in his right hand, his shield positioned to protect his sword arm but not impede it, just as he had been shown. Lukas turned back to face Conrad and indicated for the youth to attack him again. His shield of wood covered in leather was surprisingly light and was comfortable to wield, his left forearm secured by two leather straps with buckles. He gripped a third, unbuckled, strap with his hand, his forearm resting against a padded leather squab that was attached to the inside of the shield to prevent chafing. Lukas held his own shield in front of him.

  ‘A fighter uses a shield aggressively, holding it forward, ready to move it in any direction.’

  Conrad and the others had been training non-stop for nearly four months now and their bodies had grown accustomed to the daily physical exertions. Their generous diets had made them stronger so that their wasters had seemingly become lighter as the time passed. They thus wielded them more freely and with much more aplomb. They had also learned the hard way to keep moving at all times during practice. Conrad and Lukas moved around each other like a pair of wolves involved in a mating ritual. Lukas only had a shield; his sword remained in its scabbard. Conrad jabbed his shield forward at Lukas to draw the knight’s attention, then aimed a sword thrust at the older man before sweeping his waster down to strike at Lukas’ extended left leg. It was a bold move and against an average opponent it might have worked, but Lukas was not only a knight but also a student of the fighting arts and had noticed that Conrad’s initial thrust did not have a lot of force behind it and was therefore a feint. As Conrad’s waster swept down to strike Lukas’ leg the brother moved back and stepped to his left to avoid the blow. He then barged his shield against Conrad’s exposed right arm, knocking him to the ground once more.

  ‘Always look to block or avoid an enemy’s strike in such a way as to create an opening for a strike,’ he said as the others burst into laughter once more.

  Despite being fed like a fighting cock Hans’ body refused to gain weight despite his efforts to devour more food than the others combined. He still looked perilously thin though no longer gaunt and Conrad noticed that his friend’s strength and stamina were increasing as the days turned into weeks. Of all of them Hans seemed the happiest and most content and though Conrad was settling into his new life with relative ease, in the quiet moments – at night and during mealtimes when all talking was forbidden – his mind went back to those terrible few days in Lübeck that had changed his life forever. At first he viewed the daily services in the chapel irksome but after a while found them comforting. He always prayed for his dead parents and for his sister and believed that the more he asked God to keep watch over her the safer she would be.

  The arrival of summer brought with it not only an increase in temperature but also saw the land come to life as flowers and plants bloomed and the forests carpeted the land in a rich green. White wagtails flew overhead. The castle compound was filled with daises. Outside the compound the meadows were filled with edible mushrooms, wild strawberries, wild raspberries, cloudberries, blueberries, cornflower and flax plants. Though the boys sweated under the summer sun as they practised their weapon skills, the nights could still be cool and they required their cloaks. It was also surprisingly rainy, dark clouds suddenly appearing overhead and bursting to drench the land, though rainy afternoons at least meant warm evenings.

  The mercenaries and brother knights undertook regular hunting expeditions into the surrounding forests, returning with slain wild boar, elk and roebuck. The beavers that lived in the Gauja were also hunted and killed, Conrad and his companions especially looking forward to when their carcasses were taken to the kitchens to be skinned, as their meat was delicious. The Gauja itself was teeming with life and daily fishing parties were despatched to bring back lamprey, perch, grayling, pike, bream, roach, dace, chub and burbot. Mealtimes were so bountiful at this time that Hans thought he had died and gone to heaven.

  The boys were forbidden to go outside the compound and in truth they had no time even if they had permission to do so. In addition to their incessant weapons training they were introduced to the other duties of garrison life, including keeping watch. As the weeks passed they had barely noticed the castle taking shape around them. They had seen the stonemasons going about their work, of course, but had not been aware that Wenden was starting to show signs of becoming a Christian stronghold. Master Berthold had decided that the northwest tower should receive the lion’s share of the stonemasons’ attention so it would be completed first. In this way, should the worst happen, the garrison would have a place of refuge if the walls of the compound were breached. The circular tower was as yet only twenty feet in height but it still offered excellent uninterrupted views of the countryside for miles around.

  Conrad stood on the top of the scaffolding that encased the fledgling tower and pulled his cloak around his shoulders. It might be the longest day of the year but it was still cool. He had started sentry duty this week and had been allocated the night watch. He was not the only one standing guard, the wooden perimeter wall around the compound being guarded by sergeants and mercenaries and the castle itself watched over by sergeants and brother knights. One of the latter accompanied the novices at all times during their guard duties, not least to impress upon them the importance of not falling asleep. Conrad was delighted to discover that his guardian was Rudolf.

  ‘A sentry is the most important man in a garrison,’ Rudolf told him, ‘for he keeps watch while the others sleep. That is why the penalties for abandoning o
ne’s post and falling asleep on duty are so severe. The carelessness of one man can cost the lives of hundreds.’

  Conrad looked alarmed and tightened the grip on his spear. Rudolf slapped him on the arm. ‘Not that there is any chance of you falling asleep. Lukas tells me that your weapons training is coming along well.’

  Conrad was delighted that Rudolf was taking an interest in him. ‘I am anxious to receive my own sword, sir. We all are.’

  Rudolf nodded. ‘I have no doubt but you will have to wait a while longer, I think. A sword is a soldier’s most precious item and should stay with him until the day he dies, thereafter to be buried with him or passed on to someone worthy. When the time comes Lukas will present you and the others with your swords.’

  ‘And then we will fight the pagans?’ asked Conrad.

  ‘Most likely, as there seems to be an inexhaustible supply of them. Or perhaps they will all accept baptism and become willing members of Bishop Albert’s flock.’

  The light was fading now as the sun disappeared on the western horizon and darkness crept over the land. Conrad peered to the north and saw the glow of fires in the distance. Turning, he saw that there appeared to be fires in every direction around the castle. He looked at Rudolf apprehensively.

  ‘Do not alarm yourself,’ he said to Conrad. ‘It is called ligo, a ceremony that the natives hold every mid-summer on the longest day of the year. They gather in clearings and meadows, start a fire and then stay up all night, drinking and waiting for the sun to rise the next morning. The women pick flowers to make crowns to wear upon their heads and the men jump naked into rivers and lakes.’

  Conrad was confused. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? To ask their gods to make the crops grow and provide for their families during the winter. The farmers have ploughed their fields, sown their crops and now they wait for the harvest. They believe that by participating in the ligo their gods will make the crops grow.’

  Conrad stared at the myriad of yellow and orange glows around the castle and was frightened. ‘The local people who live around Wenden are pagans?’

  Rudolf considered for a moment before answering. ‘The people who live in the villages around the castle have all been baptised. So in theory they are Christians. But the church has a tenuous hold over this land, Conrad, and cannot easily dispel hundreds of years of myths and rituals, much as it would like to do. It can only prove that it is stronger than the gods that these people worship.’

  ‘How can it do that?’ asked Conrad.

  Rudolf looked north. ‘By crushing those pagans still in arms against it.’

  ******

  Lembit gazed at the embers of the great bonfire that had been burning all night and which was only now entering its death throes. Most of the dozens of people who had gathered round it the night before were now asleep on the ground, having drunk themselves into unconsciousness. He had noticed a few young couples sneak off into the woods to make love, believing that a child conceived during ligo would be blessed by the gods, especially Uku, the supreme god. As he sat on the ground with his knees drawn up to his chest and his cloak wrapped around him he wondered if the gods cared about the people who worshipped them. After all, why did they allow the ‘Iron Men’, the crusaders on their big horses, to desecrate the soil of Estonia?

  But then, he had done what no one else had achieved before: he had defeated a party of crusaders encased in their armour sitting on their mighty warhorses. Admittedly there had been only half a dozen of them accompanied by a score of spearmen, and they had been ambushed rather than defeated in battle. Still, a victory was a victory and his had galvanised the whole of Estonia so rare had it been. The tribes of his people had watched the defeat of the Livs and Letts in the south, and although they had no great affinity with these people their demise had been an ill portent for his own kind. He had tried to convince the elders of his own tribe, the Saccalians, that they should not wait for the crusaders to invade their own lands before taking up arms against the foreigners, for to do so would be to invite disaster. He had advised an invasion of their land that they called Livonia but they had been against it. So he took the men of his own stronghold of Lehola and marched south with them. As luck would have it, or perhaps it was the hand of the gods, word reached him of a party of crusaders advancing into Saccalia and he laid his trap. After he had butchered the men in mail the fame of his name spread throughout Estonia like a forest fire fanned by the wind. The elders of his tribe accorded him the title ‘Grand Warlord’ and the other tribes – the Harrien, Wierlanders, Rotalians, Jerwen and Ungannians – promised him allegiance and men for his war against the crusaders. Such was the magnitude of his victory. He peered at the crackling embers of the fire. Perhaps the gods were assisting him after all.

  He heard footsteps behind him and turned his head to see the hulking figure of Rusticus coming towards him. His second-in-command was obviously the worse for wear, having no doubt spent all the preceding hours drinking. Lembit never ceased to be amazed by how much beer his deputy could accommodate, but now even his iron constitution seemed to have taken a battering by the way he trudged towards him with his over-sized head cast down.

  Lembit hauled himself to his feet and stretched out his arms. ‘I see you have indulged in the ligo willingly, Rusticus.’

  His deputy grunted a reply under his breath and lifted his head. His eyes were red and puffy and his great beard streaked with what looked like vomit.

  ‘You look disgusting,’ Lembit said to him.

  ‘Too much beer,’ complained Rusticus.

  ‘Come,’ said Lembit, ‘time for morning inspection.’

  Rusticus looked as though he was going to be sick again. ‘What? After ligo? All the boys will be asleep. Either that or making babies for next spring.’ His ugly face broke into a leer but Lembit was far from amused, pacing away towards the imposing fort atop the great earth mound behind them. He kicked a man who was lying face-down on the grass, then another who was lying on his side with an empty cup beside him.

  ‘Get up.’

  Rusticus struggled to keep up with his commander as the latter frowned and shook his head at the open gates of the fort and the lack of guards on the battlement above them.

  ‘Have you ever thought, Rusticus, what would happen if an enemy attacked us during the mid-summer festival.’

  Rusticus coughed and spat the foul-tasting phlegm from his mouth. ‘Attack? During ligo? No one would dare.’

  Lembit stopped and faced him. ‘Oh? And why is that?’

  Rusticus was unsure why because the question was absurd. Everyone was always drunk or making babies during ligo. ‘Because the gods would be angered and no one would dare anger them.’

  ‘None of our people, certainly,’ said Lembit, ‘but what of the crusaders? They do not worship our gods. There is nothing to stop them launching an attack during the festival.’

  Rusticus belched, the foul odour making Lembit recoil. ‘With you and the gods on our side we have nothing to fear from them.’

  Lembit looked at his deputy. For raw courage and brute strength there were few men like Rusticus in all Estonia, but he had the brains of a bull and a not very bright one at that. But then perhaps it was better to have a blindly loyal subordinate rather than a scheming and cunning one.

  ‘Come on,’ Lembit said to him, ‘let us rouse everyone from his or her happy slumbers.’

  It took two hours before any semblance of normality had returned to the fort. In that time warriors woke up with burning headaches and had stumbled around as though their wits had deserted them, vomiting in every corner and filling the stronghold with a disgusting aroma, the more so when others voided their bowels into their leggings. Lembit ordered them all to immerse themselves in the nearby lake and burn their soiled clothing before allowing them to return, the slaves being detailed to clean the fort and its compound while it was empty. He then held an inspection of the garrison in the courtyard. The hundred warriors armed with spears, swords and carryin
g shields bearing Lembit’s wolf symbol were made to stand for an hour before they were dismissed. Each of them was informed that they were to drink no alcohol for the next seven days.

  ‘And that includes you, Rusticus,’ the chief said as he passed his deputy to go back into his reeking main hall after the inspection.

  Lehola, like other great Estonian forts, was sited on a hill and was a very solid stockade with high walls. It was constructed using massive tree trunks buried deep in the ground as vertical supports, around which a framework of interlocking horizontal timbers was laid. Square towers were sited at regular intervals along the walls, each one having a protective roof of shingles. And from every one flew a wolf banner. How he would like to fly his banner from the walls of the crusader capital at Riga. Lembit was determined that his people would not suffer the same fate as the Livs.

  ‘There’s a man outside who wants to see you,’ said Rusticus as Lembit was sitting in his chair pondering the coming weeks, the slaves having at last exorcised some of the pungent smells from the hall.

  ‘Send him away,’ replied Lembit, ‘I am not receiving visitors today.’

  ‘You might want to see this one.’

  Lembit sighed and looked at his deputy, who appeared to have regained some of his colour after having immersed himself in the lake.

  ‘Why? Is it a messenger with news that the crusaders have boarded their ships and departed, never to come back?’

  Rusticus looked confused. ‘No. It is Sigurd, one of Olaf’s sons.’

  For a few seconds the significance of what the big oaf had announced did not sink in, but then Lembit jumped to his feet.

  ‘Sigurd? Of the Oeselians?’

  Rusticus nodded.

  ‘What does he want?’

  ‘To speak to you,’ answered Rusticus.

  Lembit jabbed a finger in his deputy’s broad chest. ‘Send out patrols to scour the countryside to ensure there are no Oeselian war parties in the vicinity. Get every man of the garrison to his post.’