Master of Mayhem

by Peter Darman

  But the wind was not sent by God but by Taarapitta, the Oeselians’ God of War, because it had precisely the affect that Sigurd desired. It was now autumn and in that season the Baltic was prone to southwesterly and westerly winds, which invariably picked up around midday. Sigurd had sailed his fleet to the north, close to the coastline of the land of the Finns, a wild, barbarous people said to eat their own young in times of hardship. There he waited for the Danes to appear and when they did he sprung his trap. He knew that the Christians, timid children that they were, sailed their ships within sight of land so fearful of the sea were they.

  Sigurd had thirty skeids, forty karvs and one hundred and thirty snekkes under his command, crewed by just over seven and a half thousand warriors. They were divided into four dragons, the same mythical beast decorating the sails of his vessels and the carved prows of his longships. He led one, the others being commanded by Stark, Kalf and Bothvar. The plan was simple: each dragon would deploy into line and attack the crusader fleet, which was already fragmenting as fear and desperation gripped the crews of its boats. The king had told his captains to leave the high and heavily armed cogs alone. When they had queried this he told them to have faith in the sea and the wind.

  The southwesterly wind filled the longships’ sails and powered them at speed towards the Danish fleet. When they were a mile from the enemy vessels the crews furled the sails and oar power took over. The change made each longship more manoeuvrable but hardly slower as they were steered towards their targets.

  Sigurd gripped his sword, his heartbeat racing as the blood of his royal ancestors coursed through his veins like a raging river in spate.

  ‘Keep it steady,’ he barked at his men as the wind whipped up sea spray that splashed them.

  The rowers strained at their oars as the steersman directed the mighty skeid towards the cargo ship filled with enemy soldiers. Boarding a hostile boat meant a longship lying against it bow-to-stern or bow-to-bow, and launching an assault from the prow. But because a longship narrowed at the prow and stern it meant only one man could spearhead the attack, launching himself on to the enemy vessel alone. Only the bravest man in each crew was given the task.

  The enemy vessel got closer, sailors abandoning their oars in panic as they caught sight of the longship bearing down on them. The Danish spearmen pushed their way to the stern where they could repulse the Oeselians. They tried to lock their almond-shaped shields together but the rolling of the boat in the choppy sea made that difficult.

  ‘Majesty.’

  Sigurd turned to see one of his warriors holding out a spear for him. It had a slim shaft with a narrow blade and was designed for throwing. He sheathed his sword and took it, turning it in his hand as the longship hit the stern of the Danish boat. He hurled the spear, jumped on to the gunwale and threw himself at the enemy soldiers. The spear went into the belly of the Danish soldier he launched himself at, knocking him to the deck. Sigurd drew his sword, ducked a spear thrust wildly at him and slashed left and right as his warriors followed. Grappling hooks were thrown against the Danish boat to pin it in place as the Oeselians launched their assault – a frenzied onslaught of mailed, helmeted warriors wielding axes and swords, barging their opponents aside using shields with their bodyweight behind them. The sailors, seeing skulls being cleaved and limbs being severed by furious axe strikes, abandoned their vessel and threw themselves overboard.

  Sigurd thrust his sword through the belly of a spearmen and used the blade embedded in his guts as a lever to hold him in place as another Dane tried to skewer him with his spear. But he could not find a way past the human shield that his groaning comrade had become and did not see the bearded brute to his right who swung his axe and smashed his jawbone. A second blow caved in the side of his helmet and knocked the Dane unconscious, Sigurd whipping his blade free as the body crumpled to the now blood-soaked deck.

  More Oeselian warriors swept on to the Danish vessel as more Danes followed the example of the mariners and flung themselves overboard to avoid the flailing axes and swords of the enemy. But they wore mail hauberks and helmets and even those who could swim soon found themselves slipping beneath the waves as the armour pulled them down to the depths. They left behind a boat full of Danish corpses.

  ‘Back to the ship,’ shouted Sigurd as his men cheered their victory.

  Normally after a boat had been seized it would be searched for booty. But Sigurd was fighting a battle not conducting a raid; there were other enemy vessels to engage. Injured warriors were assisted back to the king’s skeid, the handful of dead also being carried to the longship for proper cremation later. Sigurd was the last to leave, glancing around to see a host of other longships next to Danish boats, their crews locked in combat with King Valdemar’s soldiers. Other Danish vessels, the cogs among them, were making good their escape. Sigurd smiled, his blonde hair hanging beneath his helmet being blown by the wind that was increasing in strength. He saw other longships pursing the fleeing enemy vessels. He ran to the stern of the boat he had taken and leapt aboard his own ship, his men unhooking the grappling irons. The oars were ducked into the water and the rowers strained at their posts to reverse the skeid. The steersman bellowed ‘reverse oars’ to change direction and steered it past the drifting enemy boat to follow another with a billowing sail and rowers pulling frantically at their oars. Sigurd ran to the stern of his ship.

  ‘Not too close,’ he told the steersman, ‘I have no wish to get wet.’

  The steersman gave him a half grin as he held the oak rudder. Either side of them more longships were in pursuit of enemy vessels. The crews on the cogs were shooting crossbow bolts at the Oeselian longships to keep them at bay, a tactic that appeared to be working.

  But in their desperation to get away from the pagan ships the Danes had paid no attention to the shoreline they were nearing at some speed. That shoreline was made up of limestone cliffs and underwater rocks that could rip open a wooden hull with ease. Too late did the Danes realise their peril as the Oeselian ships veered away from their pursuit to avoid the jagged rocks that the enemy vessels now floundered on.

  Even the great cogs were battered and shattered with ease, shuddering as they listed. Their crews and passengers threw themselves into the foaming waters, hoping to reach dry land that was agonisingly close. But the current dragged them below the surface and threw their bodies against sharp rocks that smashed their limbs and ribs and filled their lungs with water.

  Thus did the Oeselians and the saltwater of the Baltic destroy the army that King Valdemar had sent to assert his control over Estonia.

  *****

  Bishop Albert’s army spent three weeks at Mesoten, licking its wounds and preparing for a Kur assault that never came. The three hundred Flemish crossbowmen had already departed for their homeland and so the bishop was forced to permanently assign the two hundred crossbowmen sent to him by the Buxhoeveden family to Master Ortwin to stiffen the garrison of Mesoten. He also decided to hand over the knights and squires that had been sent by his family to the garrison, which now possessed an impressive number of foot soldiers and horsemen. Mesoten was slowly being converted into a formidable timber fortress, and the wooden blockhouses that had been established at one-mile intervals from the fort to the Dvina had proved impregnable, despite Duke Viesthard’s costly attempts to wipe them out. The Sword Brothers had a foothold in Semgallia that was turning more permanent with each passing month.

  But despite this achievement Bishop Albert had visibly aged following the defeat at the Kandava Hills. He was withdrawn, sullen and he looked tired, so very tired. His lean frame was gaunt and his square face wore a fatigued look. Everyone was saddened to see the fire seemingly gone out of the man who for nearly thirty years had kept the flame of crusade burning.

  Master Ortwin was delighted that his garrison increased to four hundred men, assuring the bishop that neither the Semgallians nor the Kurs would be able to capture his fortress. Though he was concerned about how he would feed s
o many men and horses during the coming winter. The bishop assured him that he would ensure a regular supply of provisions once he had returned to Riga.

  It was a sombre army that returned to Livonia, news soon spreading that it had suffered a calamitous defeat. And yet, despite all the followers of Timothy the Cook being slaughtered, together with the mercenaries raised by the German cities, and the loss of many carts and draught animals, the other contingents had suffered extremely light losses. This included the Army of the Wolf, though the experience of defeat had left a bitter taste in the mouth of its commanders and men. Many of its warriors, previously mounted, were forced to walk on foot back to Estonia due to the heavy losses of ponies Conrad’s army had suffered.

  ‘Clever tactic, though,’ mused Leatherface, looking up at the darkening clouds above, ‘to kill the animals that were hauling the wagons.’

  ‘I will pass on your compliments to Duke Arturus when I next see him,’ said Conrad.

  ‘It will take many campaigns to conquer the Kurs,’ remarked Hans, ‘if Bishop Albert has the stomach for it.’

  ‘He looks old,’ added Anton. ‘It is the first time I have thought of him as an old man.’

  ‘How old is he?’ asked Leatherface.

  ‘Sixty, I believe,’ answered Conrad.

  ‘All that toing and froing between here and Germany takes its toll,’ said Leatherface as spits of rain began to fall.

  They had travelled north from Riga in the company of Sir Richard, Fricis and Rameke and the Sword Brothers from Kremon, Segewold and Wenden. They were journeying towards Lake Vortsjarv where Sir Richard and his men would take their leave to carry on to Lehola while Conrad would make his way to Odenpah. But they had travelled less than twenty miles from Wenden when a mounted party of Saccalians from Fellin met them. They carried a message from Hillar that had been sent to Varbola, Lehola, Odenpah and Kassinurme. Sir Richard’s commander at Lehola had decided that Wenden should be alerted.

  ‘What message?’ Conrad demanded of the leader of the Saccalians.

  The warrior bowed his head to Sir Richard, his lord, but recognised that Conrad was the commander of the Army of the Wolf.

  ‘The Danes have attacked Rotalia, Susi.’

  There were gasps from the leaders present.

  ‘How can this be?’ said Hans.

  ‘Estonia is under papal control,’ stated Anton, ‘to break the peace is to risk excommunication.’

  ‘It would appear that the Danes have taken advantage of our absence,’ remarked Sir Richard flatly.

  ‘By God this time they will pay a high price for their treachery,’ promised Conrad.

  He gave the order for the army to continue its march to Varbola, sending couriers to Hillar and Andres for them to report to him at Riki’s stronghold. As a courtesy he also sent a message to Bishop Hermann at Dorpat alerting him to the danger of the Danes raiding his bishopric. Conrad had no authority over Sir Richard but the Duke of Saccalia stated his intention to accompany him to Varbola.

  ‘I too weary of the Danes’ treachery,’ said Sir Richard.

  ‘Whereas I am just weary of spending my life in the saddle,’ remarked his squire sarcastically.

  ‘We were mistaken, my friends,’ said Conrad. ‘We thought our great crusade was in Lithuania but in fact it is here, in our homeland, against those who profess to follow the Holy Church but who place their own king above God.’

  ‘Continue on to Wenden,’ he told the Saccalians, ‘and give your message to Master Rudolf and request that he sends it on to Bishop Albert at Riga.’

  It began to rain most days as the tedious drizzle announced the onset of autumn. The temperature also dropped, the mornings especially cool, often windy and heavily overcast. Because it was a land of lakes, rivers and bogs the damp permeated everything and in the early morning the camp was often immersed in a clammy mist. And it was on a fog-filled morning that the column reached Varbola, its towers invisible in the gloom as Conrad shouted up at the sentries huddled in their cloaks that the Marshal of Estonia was at their gates.

  ‘Every time I see this place,’ remarked Leatherface, a fur-lined cap with huge earflaps on his head, ‘it is always either raining or covered in mist. It must be the dampest place on earth. Open the gates, you heathens.’

  ‘You are speaking of the stronghold of the Duke of Harrien,’ Sir Richard rebuked him.

  ‘I remember, not so long ago, Riki being no more than a boy with a few followers with him,’ replied the mercenary.

  ‘Courage and loyalty are rewarded,’ stated Conrad as the gates swung open and Riki himself stood before them, ‘whereas treachery and cowardice must be punished.’

  He jumped down from his horse and embraced the blonde-haired leader of the Harrien people.

  ‘It is good to see you, Susi,’ said Riki as the long line of horses, ponies and men on foot entered the fort. ‘You return victorious?’

  ‘We return with our tails between our legs, Riki,’ said Conrad. ‘The Kurs defeated the bishop’s army.’

  Riki was shocked. ‘How many Harrien were lost, Susi.’

  Conrad placed a reassuring arm around his shoulders.

  ‘God was smiling on the Army of the Wolf for it suffered paltry losses, insignificant.’

  ‘That will cheer Hillar at least,’ said Riki. ‘He is like an angry bear.’

  It was an apt analogy because Hillar resembled that animal in stature, his hands the size of a bear’s paws. And he was certainly angry. Varbola’s great hall, packed with the Army of the Wolf’s commanders, chiefs and Sir Richard’s knights, resounded to his booming voice as he told of how he had discovered Koit’s bloated body among the others that had been murdered.

  ‘Killed and left to rot like a common criminal. I will have justice for the murder of my deputy and see those who raided my lands pay for their crimes.’

  Dozens of men began thumping the benches at which they sat to signal their approval and support.

  ‘The actions of the Danes are against the laws of the Christian god,’ continued Hillar, ‘which I agreed to follow in return for the friendship of the Bishop of Riga. It is now time for the bishop and his god to honour that friendship.’

  More rapturous banging on tables followed. Hillar raised his thick arms to signal his appreciation of the support and looked at Conrad, as did every other pair of eyes in the hall. Conrad got to his feet slowly, purposefully, his face a mask of hard determination. He allowed himself the tiniest smile as he remembered the duplicitous Kivel and his insulting of him, first at the parley and then when Cardinal William had forced the pair to reconcile.

  ‘My friends, over the years we have fought to achieve one thing. To create a strong, free Estonia where all may live in peace and security, an Estonia protected by the Sword Brothers and the Army of the Wolf.

  ‘All of you in this hall have stood beside me in battle when we have fought and defeated Cumans, Russians and Oeselians. Yet of all the foes we have faced together I believe that the Danes are, like the king that leads them, the most untrustworthy, treacherous and unworthy of being called men.’

  The warriors and knights banged their fists on benches to show their approval of his words. He raised his arms to call for quiet.

  ‘And now my brothers, while many of us were south of the Dvina fighting the Kurs, having left this land believing it to be at peace, we have returned to discover that a knife has been plunged into our back.’

  Conrad let his head drop.

  ‘I must beg your forgiveness, my brothers, for I have failed you.’

  There were cries of ‘no’ and ‘never’ as Conrad held up a hand.

  ‘I have failed you and all Estonia because I believed that the Danes would respect the peace imposed by Cardinal William. I did not think that while we were shedding blood for the Holy Church in Lithuania the Danes would attack Rotalia.’

  He held out an arm towards the brooding Hillar nearby.

  ‘Can Hillar, one of my bravest warlords, be expected to s
it idly by while his lands and people are violated?’

  There were angry ‘nos’ from those in front of him.

  ‘Can Riki or Andres be expected to stand idly by and wait until the Danes decide to attack their lands?’

  Men jumped to their feet and shook their fists in the air as they shouted that they could not. Conrad allowed them to vent their fury before he once more called for quiet.

  ‘Then I swear this. The Army of the Wolf will rid Estonia of the nest of Danes at Reval. We will take that place, destroy its garrison and send a message to the Danish king that his power in this land is broken forever.’

  They jumped from their benches and began cheering, chanting ‘Susi, Susi’ as Conrad smiled and retook his seat.

  ‘How in the name of all that’s holy can you keep that promise?’ said an astounded Hans.

  Anton was similarly surprised. ‘You make an oath you cannot fulfil.’

  But Conrad was adamant. ‘You are both wrong. Bishop Albert will avenge this insult to the Holy Church. And he will order the Sword Brothers to exact vengeance upon the Danes.’

  ‘Are you certain, Conrad?’ queried Sir Richard. ‘Bishop Albert might not wish to reopen hostilities with King Valdemar over a few raided Estonian villages.’

  ‘Have no fear, your grace,’ smiled Conrad, ‘this is one situation that the Danes will not be able to talk themselves out of.’

  Sir Richard caught the eye of Hans who shook his head. Anton looked most unhappy but Conrad sat staring at the warriors acclaiming him, a wide grin on his face.