Master of Mayhem

by Peter Darman

  The knights rode on their palfreys while behind them their squires rode their own horses and were in charge of their masters’ destriers, the great stallions the knights rode in battle. There were the inevitable halts and delays as non-combatants struggled with the great number of wagons carrying food, fodder, tents, weapons, armour and tools. The vehicles were accompanied by a small multitude of those who would take no part in the fighting but who were essential to the functioning of an army. They included carpenters, novices, priests, surgeons, farriers, blacksmiths, veterinaries, wagon drivers, engineers, stable hands, cooks, armourers, servants, tanners, pages and monks. As soon as the non-combatants had passed over the river they began erecting the tents and pavilions of their masters in a great camp that took shape just a mile inland of the river.

  The Army of the Wolf crossed over the river relatively speedily, accompanied the two-wheeled carts carrying its tents and supplies. The sun was starting to dip on the western horizon when the followers of Timothy the Cook stepped on to the bridge – three thousand men, and women, all on foot. None wore any armour on their bodies, though a few did have helmets. Their weapons included scythes, spears and knives but mostly cudgels. Among their number were flagellants: men who beat themselves on the back with whips of hard knotted leather with little iron spikes. Individuals carrying crucifixes walked in front of them as they sang mournful songs and lashed their backs until blood flowed. The flagellants walked barefoot and rubbed ashes in their hair, their clothes daubed with red crosses. They were treated with great reverence by the followers of Timothy the Cook who believed that the flagellants’ pain and suffering not only banished their own sins but also those of the whole army. The flagellants also believed that bodily pain was a way of suppressing the sinful lusts of the body and obtaining God’s forgiveness.

  Conrad had never seen such individuals and sat on his horse, amazed and appalled in equal measure as he watched an army of religious fanatics pass over the Dvina as a blood red sun sank in the west.

  Thus began Bishop Albert’s great crusade against the Kurs.

  Chapter 8

  After all the army had crossed over the Dvina the pontoon bridge was dismantled to allow trade to continue along the waterway. Magnus Glueck made the crossing by riverboat and joined his magnificently attired and armed Livonian Militia, which had been returned to full strength following its humbling at the Iecava. Its members and commander were anxious for revenge against the Kurs, a sentiment encouraged by Bishop Albert who was also eager for retribution against Duke Arturus. His frustration grew at the snail-like pace of the army, encumbered as it was with dozens of wagons and hundreds of non-combatants, which only managed to cover a maximum of five miles each day even over dry ground.

  After five days it reached the rebuilt fort of Mesoten where Master Ortwin had established a strong position on the site of the former pagan citadel. The line of wooden blockhouses had held out against Semgallian attacks, though a hundred of the lesser knights that had been detailed to defend them had been killed battling Viesthard’s warriors.

  ‘We encountered no resistance on the way here, Master Ortwin,’ stated Bishop Albert in the master’s sparse hall that had been built on the summit of the hill on which the new timber stronghold stood.

  ‘That is because we have killed everyone hereabouts, lord bishop,’ said Ortwin flatly.

  The fort was surrounded by the tents and pavilions of the crusader army, the followers of Timothy the Cook having few shelters and having to rely on felled branches to fashion rudimentary lean-tos. The River Lielupe that ran by the side of the fort was already full of human waste and it was clear that Ortwin wanted the army gone before disease broke out that would decimate his garrison.

  ‘Duke Viesthard’s fort of Tervete lies to the west,’ Ortwin continued, ‘and he sends raiding parties to remind us that he still lives.’

  ‘We should capture this fort on the way to battle the Kurs,’ declared Glueck, causing Conrad and Volquin to roll their eyes.

  ‘We will smash it like Samson crushed the Hittites,’ shouted Timothy, forcing Conrad to bite his lip to stop himself laughing.

  The bishop held his head in his hands. He was beginning to regret agreeing to his family’s request that he enlist this cook to his cause in return for well-equipped horsemen and crossbowmen. Even he could see that Timothy’s followers were laughable at best and a dangerous encumbrance at worst. He gave the cook a weary smile. They were here now. What could he do?

  ‘Duke Viesthard and the remnants of his Semgallians are a minor irritant compared to the Kurs,’ said Ortwin.

  ‘I agree,’ added Volquin. ‘We came to fight the Kurs and should not be diverted from our objective.’

  ‘I concur with the advice of the Sword Brothers,’ stated the bishop forcibly. ‘We will march to engage and destroy the Kurs, after which we will address the problem of Duke Viesthard. Master Ortwin, perhaps you would enlighten us regarding the best strategy for enticing the Kurs to give us battle.’

  ‘That is easy enough,’ replied Ortwin. ‘You march northwest to the Kandava Hills, a ridgeline that marks the border of the land of the Kurs. After which you continue on until you reach Talsi, the stronghold of Duke Arturus. I will provide some of my men to act as scouts, lord bishop.’

  ‘Have you or they been to Talsi, Master Ortwin?’ enquired Conrad.

  ‘No one has been through the Kandava Hills as far as I know,’ replied Ortwin, ‘the Kurs do not take kindly to outsiders entering their land.’

  ‘Yet they are not averse to entering other people’s lands,’ remarked the bishop.

  ‘They will soon feel the wrath of the Lord,’ proclaimed Timothy loudly.

  Ortwin looked bemused at this ludicrous figure seated at the same table with fine lords and Sword Brothers. But the bishop merely closed his eyes in despair and the others ignored him so he said nothing. But he did say something that caused a minor stir.

  ‘There is one thing I must raise with you, lord bishop.

  The Bishop of Riga opened his eyes. ‘Yes, Master Ortwin?’

  ‘My three hundred Flemish crossbowmen are about to march back to Riga to take ship for their homeland, according to the contract they signed. Without them this garrison will be sorely depleted, lord bishop.’

  ‘I will leave the two hundred crossbowmen supplied to me by my family,’ said the bishop.

  Volquin was alarmed. ‘I would advise against that, lord bishop. We have brought eight hundred and fifty crossbowmen with us. To lose nearly a quarter before the campaign has begun is inviting trouble.’

  ‘The pagans fear our crossbows, lord bishop,’ added Conrad, ‘as well as our mailed horsemen.’

  ‘Of which we have nearly two thousand,’ interrupted Glueck, ‘more than enough to disperse a Kur rabble I would have thought.’

  Conrad felt anger rise within him.

  ‘Have you not forgotten that it was just such a rabble that handled you roughly at the Iecava last year?’

  Glueck jumped up. ‘How dare you. Lord bishop, I demand that the Marshal of Estonia is removed from this council for the gross insult he has just given me.’

  Rudolf laughed loudly but Conrad, already driven to distraction by the presence of the fat Glueck and equally rotund Timothy, was glad to seize the chance to be away from the room. He stood and bowed to the bishop.

  ‘If the Duke of Riga desires my expulsion I am glad to accede to his demand, lord bishop.’

  Sir Richard, who had until now kept his tongue, also stood.

  ‘If Master Conrad is expelled then I cannot continue at this council of war, so remiss would it be to have one who knows so much about the conduct of war to be absent from it.’

  Count Albert also rose to his feet. ‘I echo the Duke of Saccalia’s thoughts.’

  ‘As do I,’ stated Fricis, who stood and glared at Glueck, to be instantly followed by Rameke.

  ‘I side with my king and my brother.’

  Bishop Albert once more closed his
eyes and emitted a mournful sigh.

  ‘My lords, I beg you stay. And you will stay where you are, Conrad.’

  He opened his eyes and looked at Glueck.

  ‘Master Conrad’s words were intemperate, your grace, and I am sure he is sorry for them, aren’t you, Conrad?’

  Conrad looked at the bishop who wore an expression daring him to contradict him.

  Conrad smiled at Glueck and retook his seat. ‘It is as the lord bishop says, your grace.’

  The others also sat and the meeting continued, though the atmosphere was decidedly frosty. It was agreed that the army would march northwest in the morning and leave behind two hundred of its crossbowmen. Afterwards Rudolf cornered Conrad as they made their way back to their respective camps.

  ‘I would advise you to desist taunting the Duke of Riga, Conrad. You have powerful friends but also influential enemies. The trick is to increase the former while reducing the latter.’

  ‘Glueck is more of a danger to us than the enemy,’ said Conrad.

  ‘I agree, but he is also the richest man in Livonia and that alone means that he must be handled with care. He is pestering the bishop for a campaign against the Oeselians.’

  Conrad rolled his eyes. ‘What, with five hundred men of his famed militia?’

  ‘No, Conrad, with ten thousand mercenaries that he intends to purchase after he has concluded this campaign.’

  Conrad stopped and faced Wenden’s master. ‘Ten thousand?’

  Rudolf poked him in the chest. ‘Livonia is changing, Conrad. The Sword Brothers are no longer its masters even though we will always be its guardians. You must change too if you wish to prevail.’

  The next day the army struck camp and began its march northwest. Summer had arrived in Semgallia and the many hillocks were covered with white birch groves. Between the dense forests of fir were a multitude of glittering blue lakes and meadows filled with rabbits and hares. Once again the army’s progress was painfully slow, the thousands of hooves and feet churning up the ground, making it difficult for the wagons to negotiate rutted tracks. But at least the knights were able to amuse themselves each day with hunting the abundance of stags, deer, elk and wild boar that inhabited the forests. Timothy the Cook’s deranged and deluded followers were possessed of a religious fervour that increased each day as they neared the land of the Kurs and the inevitable clash with Duke Arturus, who had become the devil made flesh in their eyes.

  *****

  ‘Where are they now?’

  Arturus rested his hands on the battlements of his fort and gazed out at the great lake on the northern side of his mighty stronghold.

  ‘Three days away from the Kandava Hills, lord,’ replied Ringaudas. ‘They make barely four miles a day.’

  ‘The Christians weigh themselves down with many carts and servants,’ said Lamekins.

  ‘The men of iron spend much time hunting, lord,’ added Ringaudas.

  ‘This campaign is great sport for them,’ remarked Lamekins.

  Arturus screwed up his rugged face. ‘The Christians may move slowly and may give the impression of being fools but we should not underestimate them.’

  He drummed his fingers on the ancient oak timbers and turned to Lamekins.

  ‘You are sure that your plan will work?’

  Lamekins nodded. ‘A time and a place of our own choosing gives us the edge, lord.’

  Arturus turned away from his army’s commander. He caught site of a small fishing boat being pushed into the lake, its two crew jumping on board as the vessel floated on the blue waters. He knew Lamekins was an able commander. No, more than able. He was a man who had led his army to victory after victory and he trusted him implicitly. But still, if he should fail then the Christians would be through the Kandava Hills and into Kurland itself. Arturus was suddenly seized by doubt and indecision. His instinct was to always attack so his enemies were off balance, to make them dance to his tune. But now he was faced by an unfamiliar situation and the stakes were high. Lamekins sensed his lord’s unease.

  ‘We have had a long time to prepare, my lord, your army will not let you or the people down.’

  Arturus placed a hand on his deputy’s shoulder in gratitude.

  ‘I know that but it is no small thing to risk everything we have achieved on one battle. It is at moments like this that I am tempted to run into the forest and pray to some gnarled old tree that people fasten ribbons to, thinking that it is the image of some god or tree spirit.’

  A glint returned to the duke’s eyes. ‘But that would make me no better than the most ignorant, filthy commoner. Very well, let us embrace the Christians and convince them that trying to enter Kurland is the height of folly.’

  Lamekins smiled and made a fist.

  ‘And you?’ Arturus asked Ringaudas. ‘How do you rate our chances?’

  Ringaudas was surprised by the question. When he had first been brought into the duke’s presence he had almost voided his bowels so terrified had he been. But since then the duke, and Lamekins, had shown him and his men nothing but fairness. Others might say kindness but he would never associate such a word with Duke Arturus.

  ‘I and my men believe that you will be victorious, lord, Perkunas willing.’

  Arturus raised an eyebrow. ‘Perkunas, the God of War that the other dukes prayed to when they fought me?’

  Ringaudas blushed and nodded.

  Arturus turned from the battlements and patted Ringaudas on the arm.

  ‘Trust in yourself not some mystical sky spirit, you will find the results much more to your liking.’

  ‘Give the order that the army is to march immediately,’ he ordered Lamekins.

  *****

  When it rained, as it frequently did in this part of Semgallia, the wagons sank in the mud and the army ground to a halt. The followers of Timothy the Cook became filthier as they became caked in mud, though the rain did nothing to dampen their fervour. Timothy himself, spit in hand, raised his arms to heaven and praised God for sending rain so the army would not be thirsty. His followers sang hymns, chanted prayers and the flagellants reduced their backs to bloody messes.

  It had been seven days since the army had left Mesoten and during that time there had been no signs of the enemy. Indeed, there had been no signs of anyone as the long, rambling column passed by deserted and destroyed villages that had been raided either by the Kurs or Master Ortwin’s horsemen. But at least the rolling countryside was lush and the temperature warm when the sun came out. The nights and mornings were still cool and often a thick mist would descend before dawn broke to cover everything in droplets. Everyone shivered and pulled their cloaks around them, those that had them, but then the clouds would part and the sun came out to warm the land and Bishop Albert’s army.

  Breakfast was always a cheerful affair after Conrad, his two friends, Arri and Jaan had attended Prime Mass in the chapel tent located in the centre of the Sword Brothers’ camp. When they had returned Arri and Jaan got a fire going and made the thick stew that always provided good ballast for a stomach before a day’s march. Ulric and Leatherface always joined them for breakfast, the dour-faced Ulric becoming more cheerful as the thick broth was poured into a wooden bowl and served to him. The day before Leatherface had shot a magnificent stag that he had hauled back to camp where he and the two novices had skinned and gutted it. The smell of the stew that the animal had helped to create made the mouth water.

  The men stood to eat rather than sit on the damp ground as the last vestiges of mist were still lingering around the trees surrounding the camp. The sun was a pale white globe peeking above the eastern treeline and had yet to warm anything so they stood near the fire for comfort, cloaks wrapped around their bodies. The novices finished serving breakfast to their superiors and helped themselves to a bowlful.

  Conrad greedily shovelled stew into his mouth. ‘Perhaps one day my commander of crossbowmen will accompany me to morning prayers.’

  ‘You’ve got no chance,’ replied Leather
face, ‘all that religion would put me off my breakfast.’

  ‘You won’t get to heaven with that sort of attitude,’ Hans rebuked him.

  Leatherface waved a stew-covered finger at him. ‘The Almighty has reserved a place for me in paradise, have no fear, Brother Hans.’

  ‘How can that be?’ scoffed Anton.

  ‘Simple, Brother Anton,’ replied the mercenary, ‘I’ve saved your hides more than once and seeing as the Sword Brothers are all godly and the like I reckon I am guaranteed a place in heaven.’

  He winked at the novices. ‘I’ve also filled hell with countless numbers of pagans, which always goes down well with the Lord.’

  Anton rolled his eyes and Hans laughed. Conrad told everyone, including Arri and Jaan, to refill their bowls. Around them the Army of the Wolf was stirring as campfires heated bodies and cooked breakfasts and warriors fed ponies. Conrad turned when he heard a horse snorting and saw a soldier in the livery of the garrison of Riga in the saddle. The man halted his horse, dismounted and saluted him.

  ‘The bishop sends his compliments, Master Conrad, and requests your immediate attendance at his pavilion.’

  ‘On what matter?’ Conrad asked him.

  ‘The enemy has been sighted, sir.’

  He told Hans and Anton to send word to his chiefs to assemble their men as Leatherface and Ulric handed back their bowls to the novices and hurried away to their soldiers. Jaan helped Conrad saddle his horse as the clatter and chatter in camp increased as word spread that the enemy had at last showed his face.

  ‘Is there going to be a battle, master?’ asked Jaan excitedly.

  Conrad checked his sword belt and hoisted himself into the saddle.

  ‘Perhaps, unless the enemy is only a scouting party or they run away.’