by Peter Darman
‘You have it all worked out,’ said Conrad.
She brushed his nose. ‘The winters in Livonia are long and hard and there is plenty of time to think.’
They walked on snow-cleared paths under a clear-blue sky and made plans for their future together. It was a happy time and war and death seemed far away. The north tower had a completed second floor and the foundations of the gatehouse had been built on. Wenden continued to grow, a physical indication of the rising power of the Sword Brothers and the defeat of paganism.
*****
Nigul stared out to sea, his blue eyes ringed with red from the bitter wind that was blowing from the north. He wrapped his fur-lined cloak made from the hide of a brown bear around his shoulders, his head covered by a fur-lined cap. Despite the layers of clothing he could not get warm. It was the bitterest winter he could remember in all his sixty years, made more unsavoury by the corpses that littered the beach. The sea along the shore had frozen, the light brown sand being fringed by a band of white ice that extended out for at least a hundred paces before the black waters of the Baltic began. Some of his people had attempted to flee to safety across the ice but had fallen through it and drowned in the raw sea, but most had been butchered on the beach. His men were going among the bodies to see if any still lived but he knew it was a fruitless search.
The crusaders had struck north from Treiden, moving across the frozen landscape with their Liv allies to enter western Saccalia and then Rotalia where they divided into small groups to attack villages. They came to burn, kill and steal and they carried out their aims with ruthless efficiency before disappearing before he could organise an effective response. Now all he could do was bury the dead.
‘They are all dead, lord,’ reported his deputy.
He nodded but said nothing.
‘Will we take a war party south, lord?’
‘My first responsibility is to my people,’ said Nigul. ‘The crusaders might return and until I am certain that they will not then my warriors will stay in Rotalia to guard them.’
He looked around at the corpses on the beach. ‘I should have been here instead of drinking ale with Lembit.’
In the aftermath of the execution of the Christian missionaries and the return of their leader to the bishop’s territory, Lembit had requested the presence of the Estonian chiefs at Lehola. There, amid great festivities, he had informed them that the final war against the Christians was about to begin and that in the spring they should bring their warriors to his stronghold so they could march south in a great army that would rid the world of the bishop and his followers once and for all. He had told them that the crusader kingdom was on its knees, having suffered a Lithuanian invasion that had only been defeated with difficulty. Their Oeselian allies would attack Riga from the sea while the Estonians would sweep through Livonia like a plague.
Nigul and the other chiefs had toasted their host and saluted his plan, getting drunk on copious amounts of ale in a smoke-filled hall that smelt of roasted meat and sweat. It had all seemed so simple then. He and the other chiefs had known that the bishop had begged Lembit for peace, and only weak men begged. And so they drank themselves into oblivion and dreamed of driving the Christians into the sea along with their Liv allies. And then the crusaders had attacked.
The survivors, those who had managed to hide in the woods or flee north to other villages through the snow, had told of hundreds of soldiers on ponies and on foot, of Caupo leading hundreds more Livs who razed villages to the ground after stealing food and livestock, butchering any who protested. Near the coast Rotalian settlements had always built and maintained watchtowers to warn of the approach of raiders, usually Oeselian longships. They had lit their beacons to warn of the approach of the crusaders but they had availed them little, the Christians shooting the tiny shield walls to pieces with their crossbows before the men of iron finished off the survivors. By the time Nigul had collected his army it had been too late.
‘Too late,’ he said to himself.
‘Lord?’
He turned his back to the bitter wind and faced his subordinate. ‘Evacuate the villages south of here and take their inhabitants to those settlements in the north, together with their food and livestock.’
His subordinate looked troubled. ‘In these conditions, lord, many will die.’
‘If they remain here and the crusaders return all will die,’ snapped Nigul. ‘Obey my orders.’
The man saluted and walked away, barking orders to his men to collect the bodies on the beach. Nigul’s stag banner fluttered in the wind at the head of his bodyguard as he walked to his pony. He heard the voice of Lembit in his mind and his anger rose. Like a love-struck young boy he had been seduced by the Saccalian’s honeyed words and had allowed himself to be deluded into thinking that the crusaders could be brushed aside with ease. This corpse-littered beach had disabused him of that notion. He would not be taking his warriors south to fight beside Lembit in the spring. Let the Saccalians and the other tribes shed their blood for once. He would rather have the old times back when his enemy was the Oeselians and no one had even heard of the Bishop of Riga and his crusaders.
Nigul spurred his pony forward back to the track that had led to the beach. His men were piling bodies onto carts for cremation on the pyre that was being built by the survivors from the nearby village. Flecks of snow swirled around in the air as the breeze continued to buffet the living and the dead on the beach. Nigul scowled; if anything it was getting colder. The sooner this dreadful winter ended the better for in the spring and summer the rivers, bogs and flood plain grasslands of southern Rotalia and western Saccalia created an excellent impediment to the movement of armies. Wagons, carts and horses sunk in the bogs and even the forests filled with four or five feet of floodwater every spring. But at present the area was frozen solid and gave easy access to his people’s heartland. At least in two months’ time the weather would get warm and the ice and snow would melt, as would his alliance with Lembit.
Chapter 19
At the beginning of May in the new year an army camped in the lush meadows around Wenden. The bishop had returned from Germany the previous month, bringing with him two hundred knights and the same number of squires to fight for his cause, plus four hundred lesser knights that were under obligation to serve their masters. In addition, the burghers of the city of Lübeck had paid for the raising and equipping of five hundred foot soldiers for the bishop to take back with him to Livonia. These men wore tan coloured brigandines – jackets with protective metal plates underneath that covered their torsos and groins – with the shield of the city of Lübeck sewn on the left-hand side of the chest. The design was a simple shield, the top half white, the bottom half red, but it awakened long dormant feelings within Conrad when he first saw it as the soldiers from his home city pitched their camp to the east of the castle, towards the quarry.
The Bishop of Riga arrived at the head of the army accompanied by Theodoric, a mounted bodyguard of twenty men, a hundred of his spearmen and an equivalent number of his crossbowmen. The two bishops were housed in the master’s hall, which meant that Conrad and the other novices were ejected from their dormitory to make room for the priests attending the bishop, in addition to Master Berthold.
Two hundred knights, three hundred mounted retainers and two hundred squires accompanied Sir Helmold. Count Horton mustered a hundred knights, the same number of squires and two hundred mounted retainers. Their foot soldiers had been distributed among the castles along the Dvina to counter any new Lithuanian incursions into the crusader kingdom. Because of this threat the garrisons of Holm, Uexkull, Lennewarden and Kokenhusen remained at their castles, but the Sword Brothers from Segewold, Kremon and Wenden gathered at the latter place prior to marching north. It had been nearly a year since the Lithuanian invasion and during that time the order had replenished their garrisons with new recruits. This meant that there was a full complement of brother knights and sergeants, new members having come from among t
he crusaders who had arrived the previous year. Many of the knights had also donated funds to the order, which had helped to alleviate its parlous financial state. Together with those men Grand Master Volquin brought with him from Riga, the Sword Brothers at Wenden mustered forty-one brother knights, a hundred and fifty sergeants, one hundred and ten crossbowmen and an equal number of spearmen.
The final contingent of the army comprised Caupo, Thalibald and a thousand Liv warriors who camped around the latter’s village, being eager to avoid the smell and filth of the three thousand men camped around the castle, together with their horses, mules and oxen. Dozens of two- and four-wheeled wagons littered the camp, draught animals held in corrals nearby. Squires and foot soldiers were sent into the forest to bring back firewood and materials to build animal pens to hold the cattle, goats, and chickens that provided a mobile source of milk and meat for the army. It was fortunate that Livonia was filled with lush meadows where animals could graze.
Nevertheless, Grand Master Volquin had planned this campaign very carefully, and so as well as living off the land the wagons contained barrels of salted fish and meat as well as thousands of crackers – twice-baked bread – that had been prepared in Riga’s ovens and which reportedly lasted a hundred years if stored correctly. There were also barrels of mead made from the honey of the beehives that littered Livonia, though the knights from Germany had reportedly brought with them a cog filled with nothing but wine casks.
Though there were women with the army – mostly the wives of Lübeck’s foot soldiers but also some whores – Master Berthold was very aware that the wives of Wenden’s civilian workers and the females of the settlers might be vulnerable to assault and so he forbade anyone entering the castle grounds without permission and placed guards around the small village. He was also eager for the army to commence its march from Wenden as soon as possible to prevent pestilence breaking out, especially as the temperature was rising, as was the stench that he believed carried disease.
Conrad could not hear his friend’s words.
‘What did you say?’
Hans pulled down the mask covering the lower half of his face. ‘I said you should wear a mask.’
Conrad laughed. ‘Why?’
Hans, who had replaced his mask, pulled it down again. ‘Because everyone knows that bad air carries pestilence.’
‘You look ridiculous,’ was all that Conrad said.
They had been instructed to go to the forest to chop some firewood, Conrad leading the mule that pulled the two-wheeled cart on which had been loaded the axes.
‘Are you really going to leave the order?’
Conrad looked down. ‘I don’t want to, but I cannot marry Daina and become a brother knight.’
‘It is a great honour to become a brother knight,’ said Hans, who had forgotten about his mask. ‘When I stood before the judge in Lübeck accused of theft I did not expect to end up here and about to become a brother knight. Who would have thought it, a lowly thief becoming a knight.’
Conrad halted and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘I can think of no one more worthy of the white surcoat, my friend.’
They heard a shout and men cursing and looked towards the trees fifty paces away. They had threaded their way through the sprawling camp to head for the woods to the northeast of the castle, leaving the tents and campfires behind as they led the mule across a meadow filled with grazing cows. They heard a woman’s scream, then evil laughs and knew something was awry.
Conrad released the mule’s reins and drew his sword. ‘Come on.’
They ran to the trees and entered the forest, to see four men bent over a struggling figure on the ground. Conrad noticed an empty wicker basket nearby and knew that it was Ilona the men had pinned to the earth, who had foolishly left the castle without any guards. Two were holding her wrists, a third was holding her legs and attempting to lift up her dress while a fourth was standing over here, licking his lips. He tossed a rag on the ground.
‘Put this in her mouth to shut the bitch up.’
One of the men, wearing the shield of Lübeck on his brigandine, took the cloth and shoved it into Ilona’s mouth. She was struggling like a woman possessed but they were four soldiers against one woman and she probably knew that she would be raped at the very least.
‘Let her go,’ said Conrad.
‘Piss off,’ sneered the standing man.
Perhaps he thought the two young men, attired only in shirts, leggings and boots, were no match for him and his comrades, or perhaps he was so preoccupied with the idea of raping his victim that he gave them no thought at all.
‘Forgive me, Brother Lukas,’ said Conrad, who tossed his sword into his left hand, pulled his dagger from its sheath and then hurled it at the standing man. The long, thin blade plunged into his neck, a fountain of blood spurting from the wound as Conrad transferred the sword back to his right hand and thrust the point into the chest of one of the men who had been holding Ilona’s wrists, the blade going through the brigandine, between the metal plates and between his ribs. His spluttered and tried to say something but though his mouth opened no words came out as Conrad pulled back the blade and stood facing the other two soldiers.
‘Safeguard Ilona,’ he said to Hans as he circled them, who kept glancing at their two dead comrades.
They were both armed with swords – the burghers of Lübeck had been generous – and they thought they were more than a match for him.
Conrad smiled, glanced behind him to ensure that Ilona was safe, and then focused on the task in hand.
‘Do you want any assistance, Conrad?’ queried Hans.
‘That will not be necessary,’ replied his friend as the first man lunged at him with his sword.
It was a clumsy, predictable strike that might have caught him three years ago, but Conrad could now wield a sword with dexterity and, more importantly, could anticipate what an adversary was going to do. He had already leapt to the left as the man was about to strike and so his thrust struck air. Conrad brought up his sword and slashed it down it a blur, severing the man’s right hand at the wrist. He emitted a scream that was loud enough to waken the dead as the hand, still holding the sword, fell to the ground and blood gushed from the bloody stump. The man collapsed to his knees and moaned as he stared in disbelief at his severed hand.
Conrad spread his arms wide to present his torso as a target to the last would-be rapist, a portly, middle aged man who had no doubt spent many an afternoon in the ale house following a morning spent on the training field as part of Lübeck’s city militia. There were beads of sweat on his forehead as he held his sword towards Conrad. The latter turned to Hans.
‘Take Ilona back to the castle on the cart, Hans, I will finish affairs here.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Hans.
Conrad smiled. ‘Oh, yes, I am sure.’
Hans, his arm around Ilona’s shoulders, led her from the trees to the cart.
‘God bless you, Conrad,’ she called to him.
‘Are you going to use that sword or are we both going to die of old age?’ he said to the chubby man.
The man said nothing but kept glancing at his whimpering comrade on his knees clutching his bloody wrist and at the trees to his left and right.
‘If you run I will catch you,’ Conrad told him, walking towards him. ‘You are too fat to get away.’
The man suddenly lunged forward, swinging his sword at Conrad’s head. The latter ducked to avoid the blow and then jabbed the point of his sword into the man’s right thigh before springing back out of range. The man yelped in pain and hobbled backwards.
‘Interesting things, swords,’ remarked Conrad, circling the fat man like a wolf observing its prey. ‘Did you know, for example, that a fighter should never parry a sword blow with the cutting edge of his own sword?’
Conrad sprang forward, made to swing at the man’s head, causing him to bring his sword up to block the blow, before whipping the blade back, crouching low and stabbing
the point into his left thigh. He jumped back as the podgy man cried out in pain and dropped his sword.
‘It’s true,’ continued Conrad. ‘Meeting a blow with a sword’s edge results in chips and heavy gouges and will eventually fracture and split it. Imagine that.’
The portly man’s sword was now lying on the ground in front of him, Conrad standing some five paces away.
‘What do you want?’ he said.
Conrad stepped away from him and struck the man whose hand he had severed across the face with the back of his left fist. The man had been attempting to stagger to his feet.
‘Stay on your knees.’
He turned back to face the chubby man. ‘What do I want? Firewood, that is what I am here for.’
He pointed at the man’s sword. ‘That is a nice sword. You should treat such a weapon with respect. Pick it up.’
The man hesitated.
‘Pick it up!’ shouted Conrad.
The man stooped down to retrieve his weapon and in a flash Conrad lunged forward to drive the point of his sword through the man’s outstretched hand, pinning it to the ground. The man screamed in pain and stared wide-eyed at the sword blade embedded in his hand. Conrad stepped on his fingers and slowly withdrew his blade, the victim screaming again as pain shot through his arm. He fell to the ground and held his wounded hand to his chest in a futile attempt to comfort the injured limb. Then he began to sob, rocking to and fro like an old woman.
Conrad heard horses’ hooves and turned to face what he thought were more attackers. He smiled when he saw Rudolf, Henke and Lukas walk from the meadow into the trees, all carrying swords and shields. Behind them came Hans and Ilona, the latter with a face like thunder when she saw her attackers.
‘These are the ones,’ she said, pointing at the dead bodies and the two wounded men.
She smiled at Conrad and linked arms with Hans. ‘Two gallant knights came to my rescue.’
