The Sword Brothers

by Peter Darman

  Conrad dropped his crossbow and picked up the dead warrior’s sword to face the second man who had charged. The man carried a wolf shield and kept it close to his body but Conrad’s training served him well and he avoided his adversary’s clumsy strikes with ease, and then cut the man’s sword arm with a downward stroke of his own weapon, forcing the warrior to drop his blade as he yelped in pain. Conrad saw the warrior with the gilded helmet standing over Hans, sword in hand, ready to kill his friend. He sprinted over to where his crossbow lay on the ground, bolt still in its groove, and picked it up.

  ‘No!’ he screamed, causing the man to turn his head just as Conrad released the trigger. The bolt grazed the left cheek of the man with the rich helmet, then thudded into the eye socket of the warrior standing behind him, who toppled over onto his back, dead. The man with the cut cheek glared in anger at Conrad and, ignoring Hans, calmly walked over to him just as a dozen more Estonians appeared led by a huge ugly brute. Conrad gulped. He and Hans would surely die now.

  Rusticus grabbed Lembit’s arm.

  ‘We must go, lord. The iron men on their horses are behind us and word has reached me that more enemies are approaching the castle.’ He saw blood oozing down his lord’s cheek. ‘You are hurt.’

  Lembit yanked his arm free. ‘It is nothing. What enemies are approaching?’

  ‘Thalibald and his men.’

  Lembit pointed his sword at Conrad, who stood with his sword held ready to defend himself. The Estonian chief was angry that victory was slipping from his grasp rather than with this tall boy with blue-grey eyes who had nearly killed him. He decided to vent his fury on him nevertheless.

  ‘This is not over boy,’ he shouted at Conrad who had no knowledge of Estonian, ‘I will see you again and then we will settle things between us.’

  Lukas suddenly appeared and rushed over to stand beside Conrad. Lembit sneered at them both, turned and raced away, Rusticus and his men covering his withdrawal. The Estonian chief stopped and turned to again point his sword at Conrad.

  ‘Remember me, boy, for I will surely remember you.’

  And then he was gone. Lukas took off his helmet and held it out for Conrad to take, went over to the prostrate Hans and pulled him to his feet.

  ‘Conrad saved my life,’ he stammered.

  Lukas smiled. ‘I am glad all that training I have lavished upon him has not gone to waste.’

  Conrad felt his legs go weak under him and had to lean against the side of a hut to stop himself collapsing. Then he was violently sick.

  ‘Don’t fill my helmet,’ said Lukas, coming to his side. He wiped his bloody sword blade on his surcoat and then replaced it in his scabbard. He placed an arm on Conrad’s shoulder.

  ‘After-battle nerves. Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Who was that man in the shiny helmet?’ asked Hans who continued to look around, fearing the enemy would reappear.

  ‘His name is Lembit,’ said Lukas, ‘and he’s the imp of Satan who leads the Estonian people against the church.’

  ‘He was going to kill me but then Conrad shot him in the face. He saved my life.’

  Rudolf and Henke appeared on their panting horses, swords in hand but helmets shoved back on their heads. Both were sweating heavily.

  ‘Lembit flees,’ said Henke without emotion.

  ‘Young Conrad here slit his face,’ said Lukas, ‘and saved the life of his friend at the same time.’

  ‘God smiles on you,’ Rudolf said to him. ‘Master Berthold requires our attendance, Lukas.’

  They raised their swords to their friend and wheeled their horses away. Lukas, Conrad and Hans walked back to the castle as the perimeter gates were opened to allow Thalibald and his men to enter the compound that was now littered with dead. Master Berthold ordered no pursuit as Lembit and his warriors disappeared into the forest to the north of Wenden. Rather, he commanded a service of thanksgiving to be held in the courtyard, which everyone attended. The women sang most heartily for they knew that if the castle had fallen they and their young daughters would have been either raped and killed or raped and taken as slaves.

  Word soon spread of Conrad’s exploits in saving Hans and nearly killing Lembit and after the service women kissed him on the cheek and gruff mercenaries offered him their congratulations. His nausea had disappeared and he felt ten feet tall, an emotion soon dispelled when Rudolf ordered him and the other boys to take their crossbows, quivers and gambesons back to the armoury, telling Conrad to also hand in the sword he had taken off the dead pagan.

  ‘God has a purpose for you, Conrad, of that I am sure,’ said Rudolf, ‘but not with a heathen sword in your hand. When the time comes you will be given your own sword with which to smite the enemies of our Lord.’

  ‘Not until he learns to shoot a crossbow accurately,’ remarked Lukas behind them. ‘You’re lucky Lembit didn’t cut you in half. You might not be so lucky next time so it’s back to the training fields for you and your companions.’

  And so it was: back to the endless hours of learning to wield a sword, spear and shoot a crossbow, intermingled with instruction on the many and varied ways to kill an enemy with a dagger. But in the aftermath of the battle Conrad and the others helped to collect the enemy dead outside and inside the perimeter. They had recoiled in horror when tasked with heaping onto the backs of carts men whose heads had been smashed in when hit by a rock from a mangonel, or a warrior whose skull had been split in two by a knight on horseback. But Lukas told them that it was good for them to get used to seeing death and horror, as the war in Livonia would go on for many years to come.

  Those score of Estonians who had been wounded and left behind by their comrades were herded into a pigpen where Master Berthold visited them. They were given a stark choice: baptism or death. Conrad watched as the twelve who had refused the offer to become Christians were burned to death outside the perimeter wall. All the mercenaries, sergeants and brother knights were witnesses to their execution as the flames licked around their feet and they began screaming and calling to their gods as the fire ate away their legs and then their torsos. Walter was as usual kneeling, his hands clasped together in worship, his lips reciting a prayer and his eyes closed.

  Conrad thought it a cruel death and his face must have registered disapproval, which was noticed by Rudolf standing beside him as the air was filled with the pagans’ ghastly screams.

  ‘You find the judgement of Master Berthold disagreeable, Conrad?’

  ‘No, sir, but I think that there are quicker ways to execute people rather than roasting them to death.’

  The brushwood that had been piled high around the feet of the Estonians who had been chained to wooden posts was blazing with a fury now, incinerating their bodies. Though two unfortunates still appeared to be alive judging by the way their heads were thrashing about, mercifully there were no more screams. Hans beside him was looking decidedly ashen and Anton appeared to be on the verge of throwing up.

  ‘Burning is the punishment for heresy, Conrad. It is Church law.’

  ‘I have little regard for the law, sir,’ replied Conrad, anger in his voice. ‘It was the law that failed to protect my family and unjustly condemned my father to death.’

  He glanced at Rudolf and blushed, for he had spoken out of turn to his superior. Rudolf looked at the roaring fires that had finally consumed the bodies of the Estonians.

  ‘There is the law of men, Conrad, and the law of God. You must have faith that you will see justice done, though you must learn patience to see it so. You must also have faith, Conrad, for if you do then you will be rewarded.’

  Conrad thought Rudolf spoke in riddles but said nothing further on the matter. He noticed Thalibald and his warriors grouped behind him, all staring impassively at the fire. The chief was dressed in simple grey leggings fixed at the calves with gaiters, a mail tunic and a sword in a scabbard at his waist. He held an iron helmet in the crook of his right arm and wore a red cloak around his shoulders. He was of medium hei
ght with a stocky frame, brown beard and shoulder-length hair.

  His men looked similar to the Estonians who had attacked the castle, most of them wearing iron helmets, round wooden shields slung on their backs and spears in their hands. The warriors grouped immediately behind the chief were clad in mail and were armed with swords, while those behind wore no armour and had axes tucked into their belts instead of swords. They looked a rough lot.

  ‘They are allies?’ asked Conrad, looking at Thalibald with distaste.

  ‘They are,’ replied Rudolf. ‘Chief Thalibald is a servant of the church but, more importantly, an enemy of the Estonians, especially Lembit who frequently sent his warriors south to raid these lands before the time of the Sword Brothers. He knows that when this castle is finished his lands will be more secure and his womenfolk and children will not be murdered or taken as slaves by the heathens.’

  ‘But they are heathens,’ said Conrad dismissively.

  ‘Remember our conversation on the tower? Rome was not built in a day, Conrad. Do you know what that means?’

  Conrad shook his head. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘It means that it takes time for great schemes to come to fruition.’

  When the fire had died down Master Berthold dismissed the assembly and walked with Thalibald back to the castle. Conrad walked behind Lukas, Henke and Rudolf in the company of the other boys as they headed towards the chapel for midday mass. He looked behind him as Thalibald’s warriors filed through the open gates into the compound, which had now been cleared of dead Estonians.

  ‘Do you think we will get our swords now?’ said Anton.

  ‘I am sure we will,’ said Bruno with certainty, who walked forward and slapped Conrad on the back, ‘especially after Conrad’s heroics.’

  ‘I had to give up the sword I took,’ said Conrad despondently.

  ‘That is because you will be given a better one,’ announced Johann.

  Ilona came to the side of Rudolf who put his hand around her waist. She giggled and tossed back her long black hair. Rudolf said something to her and she turned to look at Conrad and then walked over to him. It was the first time he had been this close to her, though he had seen her often. She parted her full lips to smile at him and then leaned forward to kiss him gently on the cheek.

  ‘A reward for the hero of the hour.’ Her accent was strange, her voice sultry. Conrad blushed and looked down at the ground. Ilona laughed and then went back to Rudolf’s side. Hans dug a finger into Conrad’s ribs and Bruno slapped him on the back again.

  After mass Conrad and the others reported to the armoury to be given armour to repair. Then they would eat lunch before their afternoon training session.

  ‘Well, young Conrad, it looks like we were right to save your skin that night outside the cathedral.’

  He snapped out of his daydream to see the powerful figure of Henke beside him as he left the armoury.

  ‘Gave that bastard Lembit a present, I hear.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Conrad proudly. He made to speak but stopped himself.

  ‘If you have something to say spit it out,’ said Henke tersely.

  ‘Brother knights and sergeants of the Sword Brothers are forbidden to marry,’ said Conrad, avoiding Henke’s cold eyes.

  ‘That is true.’

  ‘But is Ilona Brother Rudolf’s wife?’

  Henke grinned. ‘Not exactly. As a brother knight Rudolf cannot marry. Poverty, chastity, obedience, that is what we all swore when we agreed to fight in this land of heathens, forests and lakes. But Ilona is special.’

  Conrad was perplexed. ‘How so?’

  ‘You are a curious little wretch,’ sad Henke, ‘but seeing as you did well in the battle I will tell you instead of giving you a good beating.

  ‘Ilona was the one who pulled Rudolf out of the burning stables at Holm when the Russians raided it. And for that she earned Rudolf’s eternal gratitude. Mine too.’

  Holm on the Dvina, near Riga, was one of the first stone castles in Livonia.

  ‘Attacked by the Russians it was,’ continued Henke, ‘led by a bastard named Domash Tverdislavich. That’s a mouthful, ain’t it?’

  ‘What happened to him?’ asked Conrad.

  Henke spat on the ground. ‘Hopefully he died a horrible death but I suspect he crawled back to Novgorod.’

  He saw Conrad’s blank look. ‘It’s a Russian city many miles from here. Hopefully one day we will catch up with him and then Rudolf can repay him for trying to roast him to death. Now, I’ve wasted enough time gossiping to you. Haven’t you got weapons training to attend to?’

  Conrad scurried off, having not been fully satisfied by Henke’s answer. But at least he now knew where Rudolf had got his scars.

  *****

  Lembit sat beside the fire as the healer applied powder derived from dried yarrow onto his cut face. He did not flinch as the powder entered the wound and pain shot through his cheek. Yarrow was well known for its healing qualities and when dried and ground into powder it would staunch the flow of blood.

  The healer then placed a bandage against the wound and asked Lembit to hold it in place.

  ‘How long for?’ he snapped.

  ‘Half an hour should suffice, lord, unless you require a more permanent dressing.’

  Lembit shook his head.

  ‘Of course,’ continued the healer, a wiry man with thinning hair and bony fingers. ‘There will be a scar.’

  Lembit waved him away and was left alone with his thoughts. Victory had been so close he could have touched it. And then it was cruelly snatched away by that traitor Thalibald. There was a time when he had accorded his rival the title ‘valiant foe’ but now he was nothing more than a crusader lackey, a man who had discarded his roots to suck at the teat of Bishop Albert and his revolting religion. He was beyond contempt. Lembit growled with anger.

  ‘Are you all right, lord?’ Rusticus crouched by his side.

  ‘I am very far from all right,’ Lembit hissed.

  ‘The wound is deeper than you thought?’

  Lembit looked at him with confusion. ‘What? No, no. I was referring to the affair at Wenden.’

  ‘We could go back, lord,’ smiled Rusticus, who relished nothing more than the thought of more slaughter.

  After retreating from Wenden they had moved north at speed, continuing their march through the forest during the night and only halting in the pre-dawn light of the next morning. Fortunately there was no pursuit and so they had made camp, dressed their wounds and filled their bellies. He estimated they were at least fifteen miles north of the castle, having suffered seventy dead and forty-five wounded, a dozen of them seriously. He had brought four hundred warriors with him and now over a quarter was either dead or wounded.

  ‘No, we go back to Lehola and await the crusaders’ next move. I have a debt to settle with Thalibald, though.’

  ‘Do you wish me to go back and kill him, lord?’ said Rusticus, a glint in his eye.

  Lembit was tempted but decided his deputy was too valuable to be put at risk for the sake of a personal grudge.

  ‘No. Thalibald can wait. Send a courier to the Oeselians, though, with a message for King Olaf.’

  ‘What message?’

  Lembit smiled savagely. ‘That I accept his offer of an alliance.’

  Rusticus raised his hand in acknowledgement and went to organise a party to journey to Oesel. It was a curious thing. Though Thalibald had robbed him of victory Lembit’s thoughts were not about him but rather the boy who had nearly killed him. He saw his determined face, his eyes full of hatred and his youthful frame. If Rusticus had not appeared when he did then he would have killed the boy and made him pay for his inaccurate shooting. He held the bandage against his wounded cheek, which was now throbbing. The boy lived and that was unforgivable. He comforted himself with the thought that he might get another opportunity to assault Wenden next year when he would have the Oeselians by his side. Perhaps there would be no need. Perhaps the Kurs had defeated th
e crusader army, burned Riga to the ground and thrown the bishop and his pale-skinned priests on a fire. That would be a spectacle worth witnessing. And without their crusader allies there would be no place to hide for men such as Caupo and Thalibald.

  *****

  A pall of gloom hung over the bishop’s palace in Riga, not only in a physical sense with regard to the dozens of funeral pyres that had been lit to cremate the bodies of dead Kurs who had been killed during the battle with the returning crusader army, but also metaphorically because the attack of the Kurs had come close to capturing the town itself. Archdeacon Stefan was still visibly shaken by the whole experience and had hidden in the castle while the Kurs had been attempting to scale its walls. He may have been a man of God but he had no desire to meet his maker just yet. Only the return of the bishop and his army had saved the town and defeated the pagans, who had suffered great losses at the hands of the mounted knights.

  Archdeacon Stefan poured more wine into his cup and drank it greedily. ‘The garrison must be strengthened, lord bishop,’ he said. ‘The Kurs may return and next time they may succeed.’

  Bishop Albert frowned at his nephew who was usually a model of composure. ‘The danger has passed, Stefan, there is no cause for alarm.’

  They were sitting on chairs covered with silk around a large oak table in the palace’s withdrawing chamber; a linen cover laid over its surface.

  ‘And the Lithuanians crossed the Dvina to attack Kokenhusen,’ continued Stefan, drinking more wine. ‘It is as if all the demons of hell have been unleashed against us.’

  The crusader leader who had accompanied Bishop Albert to Wenden also sat at the table, as did Grand Master Volquin, Caupo and Abbot Theodoric of the fortified monastery at Dünamünde, located on the northern bank of the Dvina near the Baltic. Theodoric had been converting the pagans in Livonia for nearly twenty years and had an intimate knowledge of the area and its peoples. The bishop valued him because he was a gruff, no-nonsense individual who retained a clear head in a crisis. No more so than now. Tall, gaunt and with hardly any hair on his bony head, he had a deep, commanding voice.