Master of Mayhem

by Peter Darman

  Conrad heard the piercing horn call and reached for his shield and helmet. He had been unable to sleep, a dread gnawing at his innards like an upset stomach. So he sat feeding the fire outside the tent he shared with Hans, Anton and the two novices. When the alarm was sounded they stumbled into the night, Hans pulling on his boots and tripping on a guy rope. He cursed as Conrad helped him to his feet. All around the clatter and rustle of men grabbing weapons, shields and helmets filled the crisp, freezing air.

  In the stillness noises carried to great distances and the sounds of screams and shouts were suddenly all around. Arri and Jaan looked around, wild-eyed in a search for the enemy.

  ‘They are not as close as you think they are,’ Conrad told them.

  ‘But judging by the racket the enemy is attacking the whole army,’ said Hans.

  The Army of the Wolf had marched on to the island in a square and had camped in the same shape, each tribe responsible for defending one side of the formation. The Saccalians, Rotalians, Harrien and Jerwen did so now as the Oeselians probed their defences. Sir Richard, whose knights were also in camp, joined Conrad and his friends as they made their way to the western side of their forest of tents.

  ‘The Oeselians disturb our sleep,’ said Sir Richard as he came to Conrad’s side, at least forty of his men behind him.

  ‘What sleep?’ complained Squire Paul. ‘My teeth were chattering so hard they nearly marched out of my mouth.’

  ‘It is a pity your tongue did not follow them,’ said Sir Richard.

  His knights laughed as Paul screwed up his face at his lord.

  The moon was a massive silver globe in the sky illuminating the earth. It was like a pale reflection of a day. The snow crunched underfoot as the party reached the line of Harrien that stood with shields locked and spears levelled as Leatherface’s crossbowmen shot and reloaded their weapons at black shapes retreating towards the trees.

  ‘Don’t waste ammunition,’ he berated them.

  The bolts hissed from their weapons and the Harrien cheered when a scream ruptured the night and a figure fell.

  ‘Silence!’ ordered Riki.

  More bolts were shot but there were no more screams.

  ‘Cease shooting,’ shouted Leatherface.

  An hour later the Oeselians attacked again only this time they sent archers forward to annoy the shield walls. Their arrows were largely ineffectual, inflicting only light casualties, but they had the effect of keeping the Army of the Wolf standing in its ranks throughout the night and using up more of its crossbow bolts.

  It was the same for the other contingents of the bishop’s army, the Oeselians probing their positions, inflicting a few casualties and then melting back into the forest, only for them to reappear an hour or two later. The Livs, Conrad’s warriors and the Sword Brothers stood in their ranks but for some being taunted by pagans was too much to bear. A hundred north German knights mounted their destriers and charged across the snow to scatter an enemy shield wall. The knights rode knee-to-knee, lanes couched, their warhorses cantering through the snow carrying an irresistible wall of flesh and iron to crush the pagans. But they turned and fled into the trees. The knights followed. Less than forty returned alive.

  The Russians, many drunk on stavelenniy myod, accepted the Oeselian invitation and advanced into the forest. There they were ambushed and suffered dozens of casualties. When the dawn came many more had died of exposure, sleeping off their alcoholic over-indulgence in the snow and never waking up.

  A mounted party of the bishop’s bodyguard arrived at the Army of the Wolf as dawn was breaking with a request that Conrad attend the prelate immediately. He was chewing rock-hard frozen cured meat that Jaan had brought to him, Hans and Anton. Conrad handed his piece to Hans.

  ‘Here, your teeth are harder than mine.’

  ‘Take one of my knights’ horses, Conrad,’ said Sir Richard, his head covered by a fox-fur cap.

  Conrad gave orders that if the Oeselians reappeared they were not to be pursued into the trees. He also ordered that men were to be detached to prepare hot porridge for breakfast and others to feed and attend to the ponies. The Duke of Saccalia and a score of his men provided an escort for the ride to where the bishop was based – a spacious longhouse in the nearest village.

  A night without rest and food and standing in the icy open made everyone appear tired, hungry and irritable, which they were. Servants hurried around as the lords sat on benches in the longhouse, bringing them porridge that was warm at least. The pomp and ceremony of Riga’s bishop’s palace was far away as men used their fingers to shovel food into their mouths.

  ‘We must strike camp and march west immediately,’ announced the bishop, his red cloak draped around his shoulders.

  ‘I would advise against that, lord bishop,’ said Conrad, his mouth full of food. ‘Far better to skirt the forest rather than accept the pagans’ invitation to march through it.’

  ‘I would agree with the marshal,’ said Volquin.

  ‘It’s a trap,’ agreed Fricis.

  ‘We have nearly twenty thousand men,’ said Nordheim who stood next to the bishop, ‘probably more than the entire population of Oesel. We have nothing to fear from ill-armed pagans.’

  ‘I am apt to agree with Commander Nordheim,’ stated the bishop.

  ‘The knights I lead will not tolerate avoiding combat after the losses they suffered during the night,’ stated the Count of Lauenburg, his pinched face looking even more hideous than normal.

  ‘What losses, my lord?’ asked Conrad.

  ‘Alas,’ said the count, ‘the call of chivalry was too irresistible and resulted in a charge that the pagans anticipated, much to the discomfiture of those mounting it.’

  ‘My point exactly,’ Conrad told them. ‘The Oeselians are waiting for us to march through that forest so they can spring their trap.’

  He held out his empty bowl to a shivering servant. ‘Fill it up.’

  Volquin and Fricis likewise demanded more porridge.

  ‘Conrad is right, lord bishop,’ said Sir Richard who also held out his empty bowl. ‘The enemy invites us to attack him.’

  ‘What is the breadth of this island?’ the bishop asked Conrad.

  ‘Less than ten miles, lord bishop.’

  ‘Two days’ march,’ stated Volquin.

  ‘And if we go around the forest?’

  Conrad shrugged. ‘Perhaps another two days, lord bishop.’

  The bishop, his face gaunt and his eyes tired, shook his head. ‘No, we will force our way through the forest. Commander Nordheim is right. We have twenty thousand men and should not avoid battle with the enemy.’

  He gave the Count of Lauenburg a weak smile. ‘Besides, knightly courage and chivalry will always overcome heathenism.’

  It was an ancient forest of pine with a scattering of birch and alder, the thick trunks of the trees widely spaced and surrounded by a carpet of dense heather. The track that threaded through the trees was also ancient but it was narrow, originally used for travellers on foot and occasionally dragging a handcart behind them. It was totally unsuitable for four-wheeled wagons that had to negotiate through it in single file. As no one knew if the forest extended across the island to the western coast the army was heading into the unknown as the Count of Lauenburg’s dismounted knights formed its spearhead and marched into the trees.

  As they did so Conrad called his warlords together and issued his orders.

  ‘It will take hours to get all the wagons on that track so we will avoid it. The sleds can be pulled through the forest by the ponies and we will form a defensive screen around them.’

  ‘That will be slow, Susi,’ grumbled Hillar.

  ‘Even if the Oeselians do not contest our passage, which they will,’ added Andres.

  ‘They will,’ agreed Conrad, ‘but we have our crossbows to keep them at bay.’

  He looked at Leatherface, wrapped in furs but still shivering.

  ‘If your men can shoot straight, tha
t is. One nearly put a bolt through the back of my helmet yesterday.’

  ‘You try loading and shooting a crossbow when your fingers are numb and your body is frozen to the core,’ the mercenary shot back.

  Riki grinned at him. ‘It is warmer in the forest.’

  ‘Which is also full of the enemy,’ said Leatherface.

  ‘Keep your men in close order,’ Conrad told his warlords, ‘and don’t give the enemy any easy victories.’

  With only four hours of daylight left even the bishop realised that it was impractical for twenty thousand men, thousands of horses and ponies and hundreds of wagons and sleds to use a single track to move along. Once he received Conrad’s notification that the Army of the Wolf would advance parallel to the track on the right, he ordered Nordheim to lead half his Russians through the forest to provided flank protection on the left. The other half would remain with the Russians’ carts. The Sword Brothers, in possession of the largest contingent of crossbowmen – three hundred men – were ordered to support the vanguard.

  The result was chaos.

  A huge press of men, wagons and beasts soon formed where the track entered the forest, soldiers and animals standing idle as they waited for their turn to enter the trees. On the left companies of Russians ventured into the pines to search out the enemy, Nordheim sending messages to their commanders that they should not venture too far ahead of the army and risk being ambushed. The Count of Lauenburg’s knights and Volquin’s Sword Brothers fanned out and walked through the snow-covered heather, crossbowmen keeping tight to knights and spearmen. For the first half hour they saw and heard nothing, and then the forest filled with shouts and cries as the Oeselians appeared.

  As before they did not launch costly frontal attacks, preferring instead to use their archers to take shots at the advancing crusaders. They used the trees as cover, emerging for a few seconds to loose an arrow before withdrawing to another tree. The crossbowmen shot at the fleeting targets but rarely hit them, the cold having dulled their senses and slowed their reflexes. Occasionally a bearded warrior would hurl a javelin that found its mark, killing or wounding a crusader. The injured man was carried to the rear where a surgeon barber would tend to him. But frozen, tired bodies were already weakened and any wounds hastened their demise.

  The Oeselians were like winter ghosts, apparitions that dealt death but which were impossible to catch. It took three hours for the bishop’s army to advance two miles through the snow, heather, trees and Oeselians, losing men at a rate of five every minute.

  Leatherface’s instincts were still sharp despite his chattering teeth and aching limbs. Many years of fighting had honed his skills to such an extent that he had a sixth sense when it came to sniffing danger. Out of the corner of his eye he saw something move, perhaps the edge of a cloak or the raising of an arm. He brought up his crossbow and pointed it at the gnarled pine less than fifty feet away. He adjusted his aim as the archer stepped from behind the tree and pulled his trigger, there was a sharp crack and the archer fell dead with a bolt lodged in his chest.

  Conrad shoved up his helmet. ‘Good shot. I didn’t even see him.’

  There was a hiss followed by a scream and everyone halted.

  ‘Just like the man that has just been hit,’ said the mercenary, pulling another quarrel from his quiver and placing it in the stock of his weapon.

  The Army of the Wolf – a compact mass of warriors and ponies pulling sleds – literally inched along through the forest. Its warriors tripped, fell and were hauled to their feet as the snow once again started to fall, carried on a pitiless northern wind that weaved through the trees.

  Two Oeselians broke cover and hurled javelins at Conrad, Hans and Anton who formed the apex of the army. But the spears fell well short, thudding into the snow ten feet in front of them. There was a succession of cracks as crossbow bolts were shot at the enemy, all missing. Anton shouted in frustration and began to run forward.

  ‘Leave them,’ Conrad told him. ‘You will only tire yourself for no reason.’

  They watched the Oeselians disappear into the trees and trudged on. Placing one boot in front of another required a supreme effort as the snow continued to fall and a grey murk engulfed everyone as the light faded. Even the hardy Estonian ponies struggled to pull heavily laden sleds through the forest, warriors having to assist the beasts, using precious reserves of strength to push them forward. But those sleds contained the lifeblood of the army, its food, tents, fodder, spare weapons and clothing. They were more important than the men who guarded them. And all the time the Oeselians darted forward to deal death and injury to the unwary, the unlucky and the listless. But as the last vestiges of light left the forest the trees themselves ended and the Army of the Wolf stumbled into a vast clearing of white. Conrad embraced his friends and gave orders to pitch the tents and light fires as other parts of the bishop’s army came into what was a large meadow. They had forced their way through the forest. But as the snow stopped falling and the wind dispersed the clouds to announce another freezing night, there was to be no rest for the Christian invaders.

  *****

  Three miles to the west, at the edge of another forest of pine and birch, Sigurd stood in his tent and listened to the report of two of his earls. Like all Oeselian tents it comprised two base boards, two pairs of gable boards at each end that crossed at the top and formed a triangle when slotted into the base boards. A ridge pole positioned between the pairs of gable boards formed the top of the tent. And on the ground two parallel ground poles ran from one pair of base boards to the other pair. The wooden framework was covered by canvas that was wrapped around the ridgepole and pulled tight. Called a tjald, it needed no guy ropes or tent pegs and could be erected in minutes.

  Sigurd dismissed the earls and told them to get some hot food inside them. Bothvar scratched his beard and blew into his large hands in a vain effort to warm them.

  ‘You also should eat something, even kings need full bellies.’

  ‘There is plenty of time for that,’ Sigurd replied. ‘Besides, the prospect of victory is appetising enough.’

  The tent flap opened and Stark entered, his beard frosted and his eyes bloodshot.

  ‘Why are men being sent back to Oesel? Why?’

  ‘Good evening, Stark, I trust you are well?’

  Stark’s forehead creased in annoyance at his brother’s relaxed manner.

  ‘And I think “majesty” is the correct form of address when entering the tent of your king,’ smiled Sigurd.

  Stark was perhaps the bravest of the three brothers, rash and prone to violent outbursts. He looked at Sigurd and the towering figure of Bothvar beside him and exhaled loudly.

  ‘Very well. Why are warriors travelling back across the sea ice to Oesel, majesty?’

  ‘They are tired, hungry and frozen to the core. I have never known such a winter,’ complained Sigurd. ‘But have no fear, replacements are on their way.’

  ‘We should be mustering every man that can carry a spear,’ insisted Stark. ‘The Christians are halfway across Muhu.’

  Sigurd puffed out his pale cheeks. ‘If I bring every warrior I have here, Stark, what will they eat? In winter each warrior requires twice the amount of food just to stay on his feet, let alone fight.’

  Stark was not convinced. ‘The Christians seem to have little difficulty feeding themselves and fighting.’

  ‘Do they, Stark?’ said a surprised Sigurd. ‘My earls bring me reports of the Christians struggling to cover even small distances, of their soldiers appearing listless and fatigued. Do they have an inexhaustible supply of food for their men or fodder for their horses? I think not.’

  ‘We should attack immediately to wipe them out before they cross the strait to reach Oesel,’ said Stark.

  ‘They won’t reach Oesel,’ said Sigurd, ‘and we will not attack. We will continue with the same tactics until they withdraw. Then I will consider if the circumstances are right for a more sustained assault.’

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p; Stark made a fist and drove into it into his palm. ‘The Christians are weak, Sigurd. Now is the time to crush them and leave their bones to the wolves.’

  ‘The Christians are weak,’ replied Sigurd, ‘but cornered, desperate men can still put up a hard fight and I will not waste Oeselian lives to satisfy your desire for glory.’

  Stark gave his brother a reproachful look. ‘My way is the Oeselian way.’

  Sigurd pointed at him. ‘The Oeselian way is to obey their king and keep their mouths shut. Get some food inside you, Stark, you will feel less rebellious with a full belly and some rest.’

  Stark grunted, was about to say something, thought better of it and stormed out of the tent.

  ‘There are many who think like your brother, majesty,’ said Bothvar, ‘they think it is dishonourable to allow the Christians to pollute our islands with their presence.’

  ‘Honour,’ said Sigurd dismissively, ‘I wonder how many Oeselians have died needlessly for honour?’

  ‘Without honour life is not worth living, majesty.’

  ‘For the individual warrior that is true, Bothvar, but as a king I do not have that luxury. A warrior is responsible for but one soul, his own, whereas I have been given the care of many thousands, in addition to being entrusted with preserving the blessed isle itself.’

  ‘The gods blessed us when they sent you to us, majesty,’ said Bothvar admiringly, ‘your father would have been proud of you.’

  Sigurd slapped his mentor on the arm. ‘Only if we win. Come, let us see if the cooks have anything to satisfy our hunger.’

  The night was again still and freezing. No one breathed too deeply for to do so was to inhale the ice-cold air that singed the throat and lungs. A thousand tents filled the strip of Muhu’s western coastline, hundreds of campfires twinkling in the night. The sons of Oesel, wrapped in their cloaks, rose and bowed to their king as he passed them, occasionally stopping to embrace an earl or clasp the forearm of a warrior he knew. They were not just warriors but fathers and sons with families, perhaps a pregnant wife like his own. He loved them too much to waste their lives in fruitless blood baths. He looked up at the stars. The gods had sent this cruel winter for a purpose, of that he was convinced. They would send him a sign that his course of action was the right one, of that he was also certain.