by Peter Darman
*****
A night standing to arms in the icy air did nothing to raise the morale of Bishop Albert’s army. The brief euphoria that came with the realisation that it had reached open ground evaporated when Oeselian attacks continued as night fell. The wagons were transported through the forest with great difficulty, especially when enemy attacks had to be beaten off. It was well after dark when the last were brought into the relative safety of the camp, their drivers frozen and suffering from frostbite.
The Army of the Wolf formed the right flank of the army, its carts and ponies grouped in the centre surrounded by the tents of its warriors, and beyond them men swathed in cloaks kept watch for an elusive and lethal enemy. The firewood on the carts was used to build campfires to cook food to keep men alert and maintain their spirits. The ponies were also inspected, rubbed down, placed together and covered with blankets, for without them Conrad’s army would starve.
After an hour of sentry duty Conrad and his two friends allowed themselves a brief respite so they could warm themselves by a meagre fire maintained by Arri and Jaan. The two novices were very quiet and Conrad could see fear in their eyes. He had seen the same look on other faces these past few days.
‘This army is in trouble,’ he said to his friends in a quiet voice.
Anton, his head covered in a thick fox fur cap, nodded. ‘The Oeselians have been clever. They have refused battle but nip at our ankles like hungry dogs.’
‘We will soon be out of food,’ complained Hans, ‘and when that happens we will either starve or fall victim to the enemy’s swords.’
‘What is worse, Hans,’ asked Conrad, ‘to starve to death, die of the cold or be slain in battle?’
‘To starve, of course,’ his friend answered instantly. ‘With the cold you fall asleep, in battle you never see the blow that kills you but starvation.’
He shuddered. ‘That is a slow, agonising death.’
He looked at Conrad and all three burst into laughter. Jaan and Arri were alarmed, fearing that the cold had driven their masters to madness.
‘You two make sure you get some hot broth inside you,’ Conrad told them.
‘Are you ill, master?’ asked Arri.
‘Just cold,’ replied Conrad, ‘like the rest of the army.’
He managed to grab two hours’ sleep at most, afterwards kneeling on the frozen ground with the others to say Prime Mass to give thanks for the blessing of a new day. There was no food for breakfast, firewood and food being strictly rationed now the campaign and weather had proved harder than anticipated. Overhead the sun slowly climbed into the clear sky. Icicles hung from carts and the nose bags of ponies and Conrad wondered if they would ever see Oesel.
His musings were interrupted by the appearance of Andres and a group of Jerwen chiefs, their eyes full of anger as they approached. Hans and Anton stopped helping the novices take down the tent when they noticed the group of irate men, shields bearing the bear symbol of their homeland slung on their backs.
‘My men were attacked last night, Susi,’ growled Andres, ‘but not by the enemy.’
‘Then who?’
‘You need to come and see with your own eyes,’ said Andres.
He was in no mood for a debate and so Conrad accompanied him and his chiefs to where the Jerwen were camped. Leatherface, who always had a nose for sensing trouble, emerged from a group of them, slapping some on the back as he joined Conrad’s party.
‘It was only a matter of time,’ said the mercenary smugly.
‘What was?’ asked Conrad.
But their conversation was interrupted when Andres led them to three bodies lying on the ground, all Jerwen warriors who had suffered many wounds to their bodies. Nearby were other bodies, these dressed in kuyak armour. Beside them was a sword similar to the one that Conrad had given Arri, a myech. He knelt beside the now chilled corpses, their faces frozen in hideous grimaces. They were Nordheim’s Russians.
‘They killed my men and stole food before they were beaten off,’ stated Andres. ‘I and my men demand justice for this outrage, Susi.’
‘You shall have it,’ swore Conrad.
Hungry, cold and now fuming, he took Andres, a handful of his chiefs and Leatherface especially, because he did not want the mercenary stirring up trouble with the Jerwen. They walked to where Bishop Albert’s pavilion was pitched in the centre of the camp.
‘Why aren’t you guarding the perimeter?’ Conrad asked him as they paced through the snow.
‘It is well guarded, don’t you worry about that, Master Conrad,’ replied Leatherface, ‘but I have to confess that I did not anticipate being attacked by our own soldiers.’
At the bishop’s tent guards wrapped in cloaks, more of Nordheim’s men, tried to bar Conrad’s way but he shoved them aside and Andres and his men drew their swords and held the blades at their throats. It was not the way to gain entry to the Bishop of Riga’s pavilion but men were tired, chilled to the bone and had exhausted their reserves of tolerance. Conrad and Andres walked into the large tent where a pale, startled priest threw up his hands.
‘Lord save me,’ he cried at seeing the two bearded brutes with swords in hand standing before him.
‘Do not be alarmed,’ Conrad told him; sliding his sword back in its scabbard. He pointed at Andres’ sword. The Jerwen leader likewise sheathed his weapon.
‘Please inform the bishop that the Marshal of Estonia and Duke of Jerwen urgently require an audience with him,’ said Conrad.
The priest fled into the adjacent compartment of the pavilion and returned moments later in the presence of Bishop Albert himself, his face unshaved, dark rings around his eyes. Conrad was shocked by his jaded appearance. Novices with haunted expressions fussed around him, dressing him in his mail armour and presenting him with his mitre.
‘Well, what has prompted this height of rudeness and disrespect for the high office of prince-bishop of the Holy Church?’
‘Forgive us, lord bishop,’ said Conrad, ‘but the Russians have raided my camp and killed some of the soldiers belonging to the Duke of Jerwen.’
Andres bowed his head to the bishop who gave him a cursory nod.
‘Fetch Commander Nordheim,’ snapped Albert to one of the novices. The boy bowed and scuttled from the pavilion.
‘You will wait outside until he arrives,’ the bishop ordered Conrad and Andres.
In the freezing brightness of early morning Andres paced up and down while Conrad eyed the guards whom he had manhandled just a few minutes before. Leatherface grinned but was told to go back to camp by Conrad. The guards averted their eyes and tried to maintain a martial air as the Jerwen chiefs stared at them defiantly and a grumbling Leatherface made his way back to the Army of the Wolf.
‘What do we have here?’
Conrad turned to see Grand Master Volquin and Master Rudolf, both of them wearing tired expressions. They were making their first report of the day to the bishop but stopped to hear Conrad’s tale.
‘You have beaten the Count of Lauenburg to the bishop’s pavilion,’ remarked Volquin. ‘His camp has also been raided by the Russians for food, though as far as I know no deaths resulted.’
The Count of Lauenburg arrived before Nordheim, like Conrad enraged that his men had been attacked.
‘It is bad enough that we have to endure the harassment of the pagans but to be molested by our allies is intolerable.’
The count’s red surcoat bearing a white horse’s head was ripped and dirty, his mail showing small dots of rust. Like the rest of the army his appearance reeked of fatigue. The last to arrive was Manfred Nordheim and he was not alone. His companions were the commanders of the Russians Glueck had hired, men carrying pointed helmets called shishaks and wearing mail hauberks that the Russians termed kol’chuga. They were all dressed warmly as a defence against the cold and all save one sported full beards though not long hair that the pagans favoured. One next to Nordheim had a long moustache and was muttering to the archdeacon’s pet dog as they
approached.
A priest came from the pavilion and invited all those shivering outside to enter, which saved Conrad having to share pleasantries with the commander of Riga’s garrison. Inside the pavilion the temperature was as frosty as outside and dropped further when Conrad and the Count of Lauenburg demanded justice for the outrage committed by the Russians. The man with the moustache spoke German, albeit with a strong accent, and he listened carefully as the seated bishop heard Conrad.
‘Three Jerwen were killed when the Russians stole food from my camp. I and the Duke of Jerwen demand justice, lord bishop.’
Volquin and Rudolf, standing each side of the bishop, were surprised by Conrad’s curt tone.
Albert sighed. ‘What justice will suffice, lord marshal?’
Conrad stared defiantly at Manfred Nordheim. ‘The execution of thirty Russians and the return of the food they stole.’
Andres smiled and then laughed. The Russian with the moustache babbled to his compatriots who began shouting and pointing at Conrad. Nordheim folded his arms with indifference. The Russian who spoke German addressed Conrad.
‘It is not my fault that you cannot defend your camp. Who are you to accuse my men of this attack? Perhaps it was the pagans.’
Conrad laughed. ‘Not unless they dress as Russians. I have the bodies of some of your men; that is my proof. If you do not surrender the thirty then I will take them myself.’
The Russian laughed. ‘Ten thousand of my men say that you will not.’
The bishop held up a hand. ‘Enough. We are not bandits who settle our disputes unlawfully. Conrad, you say that there are bodies of dead Russians in your camp?’
‘Yes, lord bishop. You may see them if you wish.’
The bishop waved a hand at him. ‘That will not be necessary. Commander Nordheim, why are the Russians raiding their allies?’
Nordheim shrugged. ‘I know not why, lord bishop.’
The Russians talked excitedly to their leader, pointing at Conrad and then the bishop.
‘My men are starving,’ announced the Russian commander. ‘The men of Riga ensure they have enough food and let those they have deceived starve.’
The bishop listened as the whole sorry story was told to him. About how Magnus Glueck had paid the city of Polotsk for ten thousand soldiers and had arranged their transportation along the Dvina to Riga and then onward to Estonia, the boats that he had supplied and hired disembarking the Russians when the sea ice had prevented any further waterborne transport. The bishop had personally seen to it that the Count of Lauenburg and his soldiers were supplied with food and clothing from the church’s warehouses, but the man responsible for allocating the Russians with food had been Archdeacon Stefan. What were lives of apostate Russians to the Governor of Riga? Nothing. But he knew how rebellious a hungry population of Riga could be and so was very diligent in ensuring that the city’s granaries were fully stocked for the winter. He also made sure that the Russians were given only the bare minimum for their campaign on Oesel. They would probably all perish anyway, in which case it would be a waste of precious food. Nordheim squirmed as the sorry details were relayed to those present.
‘This changes nothing,’ stated Conrad. ‘My men demand justice and so do I.’
‘It is not for you to demand anything, Master Conrad,’ the bishop rebuked him.
‘But these outrages cannot go unpunished, lord bishop,’ said the count.
‘You all seem to have forgotten that we are in the middle of waging a holy war,’ said the bishop sternly. He looked at the Russian commander.
‘You will surrender ten of your men who will be executed as a warning to the others of what happens to looters. This is my judgement.’
The Russian was fuming but he did not raise any objections to the bishop’s decision. Andres was unhappy but Conrad whispered to him that ten dead Russians was better than none and so the Duke of Jerwen let the matter rest.
An hour later the assigned number of Russians were strangled in front of the bishop’s pavilion. Conrad, Sir Richard, Volquin, Rudolf, Nordheim, Fricis and the Count of Lauenburg stood and watched the disagreeable spectacle, the Russian with the moustache staring, unblinking, at them as his men were choked to death. After it was over he spat on the iron-hard ground.
‘Fight your holy war. We are going home.’
‘You will do so without the wagons that Riga has supplied you with,’ the bishop shot back angrily. He turned to Nordheim.
‘You will command them to stay.’
Conrad smiled as the garrison commander hurried after the Russians.
‘Something amuses you, Master Conrad?’ said the bishop.
‘No, lord bishop.’
‘You will all return to your men and prepare to strike camp so we may continue our crusade against the Oeselians,’ ordered the prelate.
But there was no march that day. Angered by the execution of ten of their number, the Russians became outraged when Commander Nordheim told their leaders that the wagons would be not be accompanying them should they decide to leave the army. He barely escaped with his life when the Russians became mutinous and formed battle lines around the wagons. The bishop ordered the wagons to be seized but was forced to change his mind when the Oeselians made an appearance.
The Russians were temporarily forgotten when groups of warriors emerged from the trees surrounding the camp, all accompanied by archers who loosed arrows high into the sky when they got within range of the crusader perimeter.
‘Don’t shoot until you are certain of a kill,’ Leatherface shouted to his crossbowmen, Ulric going among his spearmen to dress their ranks as the ‘Bishop’s Bastards’ pulled their triggers.
The bolts hissed across the snow and knocked down one or two archers but more missed their targets, the result of dull minds and numb limbs. After three volleys their commander told them to stop. The archers withdrew as the Oeselian warriors passed them and goaded the crusaders, holding their weapons and shields aloft and hollering their war cries.
Conrad stood in the front rank of the shield wall and watched them deride the Christians for their cowardice, inviting them to walk forward and fight like men but always staying just beyond the range of the crossbows. It was the same on each side of the camp as the bishop’s army was taunted by the enemy’s chants.
‘Not going to accept their invitation, Master Conrad?’ grinned Leatherface whose gallows humour always surfaced in such dire circumstances.
Conrad pointed his axe at the trees. ‘What they show us is only a portion of their strength. They think we are fools.’
But some were foolish. The knights of the Buxhoeveden family, the cream of Saxony chivalry, mounted their destriers and accepted the enemy gauntlet that had been thrown down. They did not charge alone, their squires and the nobles of Lauenburg joining them. The riders were led by the count himself, his disfigured face hidden by a full-face helm that was topped by a horse’s head carved from ivory. Conrad did not see the charge but afterwards was told by those who had witnessed it that it was a sight that restored faith in men’s hearts. The sun glinted off whetted lance points and burnished helms as dozens of warhorses cantered through the crisp snow, squires carrying brightly coloured banners that fluttered in the chill air. The Oeselians stopped cheering, turned and melted back into the trees. The knights followed them.
The Count of Lauenburg survived the mêlée, the crest on his helmet smashed by an Oeselian axe and his left arm badly gashed. But a third of those that accompanied him failed to return, their bodies littering the forest floor as the survivors limped back to camp. An hour after they had done so the Oeselians returned to once again taunt the bishop’s army.
In the afternoon the enemy grew tired of hurling abuse at the surrounded army and melted back into the forest, leaving an eerie quiet over the area as the sun dropped quickly in the west. It had been a bitterly cold day: dry, windless and snow free. But the night was even colder and men who had been standing guard all day had to be assisted
back to the tents, their limbs having seized up in the cold. A general lethargy spread through the army, even among the mutinous Russians. They forgot about the Oeselians, as they huddled around campfires and consumed what little food they possessed. Detachments drawn from the Sword Brothers, the Army of the Wolf, Fricis’ Livs and the Count of Lauenburg’s crusaders watched over them, while men from the same formations also guarded the perimeter. But the army’s morale dropped faster than the temperature and many began to wonder if they would ever escape from the trap they had stumbled into.
*****
‘They are finished,’ announced Kalf who threw a crusader banner at the feet of his older brother.
‘We should attack in the morning and put an end to their misery,’ grinned Stark who hurled another captured crusader flag at Sigurd’s feet.
The earls and chiefs gathered around the entrance to the king’s tent growled their approval as Sigurd smiled at the captured banners. The foolish charge of the crusader horsemen had given his men an easy victory but now they smelt blood and wanted to attack the enemy camp. He was faced with a dilemma, albeit a happy one: to continue with the tactics that had so far worked to perfection or order an all-out assault in the morning.
Stark turned to the chiefs. ‘With the rising of the sun in the morning we must wipe out the crusaders.’
They cheered his words and looked at their king with faces full of expectation.
Sigurd waited for the tumult to die down. ‘No, we will continue as before.’