by Peter Darman
Kalf grunted in frustration. ‘Let me take my men, Sigurd, they and I will finish off these Christians while you are enjoying your breakfast.’
Laughter greeted his words and he turned and grinned like an idiot. Sigurd calmly walked up to his younger brother until he was looking down at him, their faces inches apart.
‘They are my men, all of them,’ hissed Sigurd, ‘you would do well to remember that, little brother.’
The king stepped back to address his lords. ‘Today the crusaders gave us an easy victory. Tomorrow do you wish to return the compliment? The enemy has not moved today, which leads me to believe that they are on their last legs. A cornered, wounded boar can still be dangerous and inflict serious wounds before it dies. This my decision.’
The earls and chiefs shuffled away as Kalf gave his brother a disdainful look and Stark kicked one of the banners lying on the ground.
‘It may comfort you both,’ said Sigurd, ‘to learn that more warriors will be arriving tomorrow from the mainland to ensure the crusaders cannot escape our clutches.’
‘Like they did before when father listened to you instead of attacking,’ said Stark sarcastically.
Sigurd shrugged. ‘Then it was summer and the Sword Brothers were able to sail to Oesel to rescue the Danes. But now the Danes are food for fish and the Sword Brothers are trapped in the meadow the other side of these woods. The gods favour those who display patience, Stark.’
‘Patience is for women,’ sneered Kalf.
Bothvar behind the king laughed while Sigurd shook his head. Of the three brothers Kalf most resembled the ideal of an Oeselian warrior with his pure blonde hair and beard, blue eyes, bull-like appearance and lack of intellect. He was made to stand in a shield wall where he could trade blows all day with the enemy. If you wanted someone to lead a raid, stand in a shield wall or command a longship you chose Kalf. If you wanted a warlord possessed of vision and a calculating mind you looked to Sigurd. The king walked over to Kalf and put an arm around his shoulders.
‘I make you this bargain. If the crusaders have not given themselves up in two days’ time I will let you and Stark butcher them.’
Kalf gave him a broad smile and Stark appeared satisfied.
‘What do you want to do with these, majesty?’ asked Bothvar, flicking one of the banners with a foot.
‘Burn them, they are evil,’ Sigurd told him.
*****
‘Are you mad?’
For once Hans was too stunned to eat as he looked at his friend.
‘You will surely die,’ Anton told Conrad.
Conrad turned the bowl of stew he held. ‘Perhaps. But unless you two have any better ideas there is no alternative.’
‘The cold has addled your brain,’ Anton told him. ‘Remember you are talking of the Oeselians, people who do not adhere to the rules of civilised behaviour.’
‘You are mad,’ was all that Hans could say.
‘Eat your food,’ Conrad told him, ‘soon there will none left and we will be facing death from starvation or exposure.’
‘Whereas you prefer death on the end of an Oeselian spear.’
But Conrad could not be deterred and two hours later he and the other two walked beyond the Army of the Wolf’s tents to where sentries walked up and down in the snow, glancing towards the black mass that was the forest where the enemy watched and waited. All three were wrapped in thick white cloaks emblazoned with the insignia of the Sword Brothers, on their heads their mail coifs with padded linen equivalents underneath. Conrad carried no shield, only his sword and dagger. The sentries registered their presence, tipped their spears in salute and returned to their duties. The night was silent and peaceful, serene even. Conrad faced his friends.
‘It is not too late to change your mind,’ said Anton.
‘Don’t go,’ Hans pleaded.
Conrad held out his arms and his friends embraced him, Hans’ eyes moist with tears. Anton was similarly distraught, holding his friend tightly. Conrad smiled at them both and extended his right arm. Hans placed a hand on top of his, Anton completing the circle.
‘As dust to the wind,’ said Conrad.
‘As dust to the wind,’ they responded.
Then the Marshal of Estonia turned and walked towards the trees.
The snow crunched underfoot and he took short breaths to stop the icy air hurting his throat and lungs. Once more the moon hung in the sky like a pale grey globe, hovering above the trees like a supernatural apparition. He could feel a hundred pairs of eyes on him even though he saw no movement ahead. His pace involuntarily slowed as he neared the treeline and his instincts, honed over years by Lukas’ tuition, screamed at him to stop, to crouch low to present as small a target as possible to an enemy archer. But he carried on, his heart thumping in his chest and beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He wanted to draw his sword but resisted the temptation. To do so would invite an enemy arrow or spear.
He reached the trees and entered the gloom. Actually it was not pitch black in the pines, the moonlight flooding through the gaps between the trunks to cast the forest floor in a pallid light.
‘I come in peace and would speak to your king.’
He spoke slowly in the language of the Oeselians, a tongue not dissimilar to Estonian.
‘I am the Marshal of Estonia who is known to the son of your king, Sigurd I believe his name is.’
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he realised that he was no longer alone. He did not stop walking as he became aware of footsteps behind him.
‘I fought the prince in Estonia when we engaged in a ritual called the holmganga. If you ask him he will conform this.’
His heart raced momentarily when he felt something sharp being placed in his back.
‘Keep moving.’ The voice was harsh, guttural.
To his front four warriors emerged from behind trees and walked towards him with spears levelled.
‘If he tries anything kill him,’ the voice behind him ordered.
On they walked, Conrad now surrounded by a dozen bearded, heavily armed warriors. They continued for perhaps a further twenty minutes, no one saying anything as the party reached the edge of the forest and entered the sprawling Oeselian camp. How different it was to the canvas settlement of Bishop Albert. Groups of jubilant warriors stood around raging fires that cast the camp in a warm yellow glow. Conrad could almost taste the euphoria of impending victory as he heard excited voices and saw the multitude of warriors. He prayed that his idea would work because otherwise the bishop’s army would surely be destroyed.
He was shoved forward as his attire was noted among those around the campfires and men broke away from the flames to follow the party that had captured an enemy soldier. By the time they reached the tent of the king in the centre of the camp there were at least two hundred warriors following Conrad. A feeling of utter vulnerability engulfed him. Someone kicked the back of his knees and he fell to the ground. Chuckles and growls of approval came from the throng. He coughed and tried to rise but two men held him on his knees as the tent flap opened and a tall, clean-shaven man appeared in front of him. His hair was long, his face round and his countenance thoughtful. Conrad was relieved to see that the man in mail armour before him was the same individual he had fought in the holmganga. He hoped that would give him the opportunity to speak at least.
But then he heard shouts of ‘kill the heathen’ and ‘burn him’ behind him, greeted by wild applause, and his hopes faded fast. The warrior in front of him slowly raised his hands and the noise died away. Then there was silence, interrupted only by the spitting of a nearby fire that shot embers into the air.
‘Disarm him,’ the warrior ordered.
Conrad was hauled to his feet, his sword belt unbuckled and the weapon handed to Sigurd. He pulled the blade from the scabbard and examined it.
‘A fine weapon.’
‘It was a gift, lord prince,’ said Conrad.
Sigurd placed the sword back in the scabbard
and handed it to Bothvar beside him.
‘Your information is out of date, Sword Brother, for I am now the leader of my people.’
‘Hail King Sigurd,’ bellowed Bothvar.
‘Hail,’ replied hundreds of voices.
Conrad bowed his head. ‘Majesty.’
Two warriors, one tall like his king, the other shorter and stockier, pushed through the throng to stand beside their brother. The taller one gave Conrad a disparaging stare.
‘You are here on behalf of your bishop, no doubt,’ said Sigurd, ‘to beg for peace, knowing that we have met before and hoping that because of that I would be merciful.’
‘No, majesty.’
‘Then what?’
‘To agree a treaty of friendship between the Marshal of Estonia and the King of the Oeselians.’
Sigurd looked confused as his brothers and dozens of others doubled up with laughter. Stark pointed at Conrad.
‘His mind has obviously gone. Let me kill him.’
‘He will not be killed,’ ordered Sigurd. ‘He spared my life in the holmganga and I now return the courtesy.’
He looked at Conrad, folding his arms. ‘If you wish to speak to me further you will have to prove that you are worthy, Marshal of Estonia. If the gods allow you to prevail then I will listen to your words.’
The knattleikr was supposedly a game, a pastime played on Oesel by both boys and men. The rules were simple: the game was played on a field measuring forty paces in length and fifteen paces wide, by two teams who had one aim – to carry a ball made of hard leather through the opposing team to the far end of the playing field. Each player was issued with a wooden bat some four feet in length, which was used to strike the ball. It was also very useful for tripping and blocking an opposing player. But the ball was of secondary importance to the game, the winner of which was decided when only one player remained standing.
In his mind Conrad heard Rustic’s words as he took off his mail armour and gambeson, an elderly man who had been appointed his servant informing him that the game was usually played bare chested. The man handed him his club as warriors used entrenching tools to mark out the edges of the playing field in the snow, braziers being placed at the four corners and the midway points. A huge crowd of warriors had gathered around the edges of the pitch to see the heathen beaten to a pulp. To give the semblance of an evenly matched game three slaves were bundled on to the playing field: Conrad’s teammates. They appeared to be no more than sixteen or seventeen, stared in alarm at each other and Conrad as clubs were thrust into their trembling hands and four burly Oeselians took up position opposite them. Conrad recognised one as being the stocky brother of King Sigurd. He walked forward to stand opposite the blue-eyed brute.
Conrad turned the club in his hand. He was taken back to his time as a novice when he had spent years wielding a waster. His enemies believed that he was about to be reduced to a bloody mess but he was determined to give them a fight.
A great cheer went up as the ball was hit by one of Kalf’s team and flew through the air. One of the slaves managed to strike it with his bat, causing it to bounce a few feet. Before he could reach it to throw it forward an Oeselian had picked it up, run ahead and smashed his club against the side of the slave’s head. He raced forward to reach the end Conrad’s team was defending to score. Wild cheering.
Conrad picked up the ball.
‘Follow me,’ he said to the two remaining slaves before throwing the ball forward.
The crowd roared with passion as he ran, the slaves following, towards the Oeselian who had picked up the ball. The warrior held the ball in his left hand as he bore down on Conrad who launched himself forward feet first, sliding on the snow and colliding with the Oeselian ball carrier, knocking him to the ground. Like a cat Conrad sprang to his feet and whipped the club back to strike the Oeselian’s skull. The warrior dropped the ball as one of his comrades sprang at Conrad. But the Sword Brother had pre-emptied his thinking and had already moved out of the way, the lunging warrior hitting a slave who collapsed to the ground.
For a moment the two were entangled and a moment was all that Conrad needed. He jumped forward and clubbed the Oeselian four times in quick succession to knock him unconscious. The crowd began jeering as the slave, in a moment of madness, picked up the ball and ran towards the end of the playing field. Kalf hit him like a bull, knocking him to the ground and smashing down his boot on the back of the slave’s neck. Conrad heard the sharp crack as the bone was broken seconds before the crowd began cheering deliriously.
Four men were left standing: Kalf, another Oeselian, Conrad and a terrified slave who stared with horror at the body of the dead man. Conrad knew he was on his own as he picked up the ball, threw it in the air and hit it hard with his bat. It fell in the snow as the Oeselians and Conrad bore down on it, Kalf turning at the last minute to swing his club at Conrad who blocked the blow with his club. Kalf swung his other arm at Conrad, his fist making contact with his jaw. The blow momentarily stunned Conrad and he staggered back but kept his footing. The other Oeselian ran past carrying the ball, aiming for the slave who was still rooted to the spot, staring at the body in the snow. He barged into the slave, knocking him to the ground and proceeding to stave in his skull with his club. The crowd was ecstatic, men falling about in laughter at the ghastly scene.
Conrad, now alone, ran back to where the slave was being clubbed to death and threw himself at the Oeselian. They crumpled to the ground as Kalf followed, club raised to strike Conrad. He was on top of the Oeselian as Kalf brought down his club but not before Conrad had rolled on his back, dragging the Oeselian on top of him. Kalf’s club smashed the nose of the Oeselian warrior, giving Conrad time to scrambled free and get to his feet. His jaw was still throbbing but he ignored the pain to turn on Kalf. But the prince was remarkably quick for a burly oaf, swinging his club back to hit Conrad in the belly, winding him. Kalf swung his club again knocking him off his feet. He had won the game.
Conrad lay on his back, blood running from his nose, as Kalf stood beside him and raised his club in the air.
‘Victory!’
The crowd roared, Kalf raised his head to the gods and Conrad grabbed his club with both hands and swung it against the prince’s lower legs with all his remaining strength. Kalf fell hard on his back and Conrad was on him, hands locked around his neck to strangle the life out of him. Kalf struggled like a wild cat but Conrad leered as he throttled the prince, only to be dragged off by four warriors. Kalf gasped for a few moments before rising to his feet and lunging at Conrad. More warriors dragged the prince away as he screamed at Conrad.
‘I will kill you, heathen. Let me go, let me go.’
He was bundled away as Sigurd calmly walked up and stood in front of Conrad.
‘I will hear what you have to say, Sword Brother.’
They sat by a great fire outside the king’s tent, Conrad’s armour, gambeson and cloak having been returned to him, though not his sword or dagger. Wary guards stood behind the king and beside him, hands gripping spear shafts and eyes focused on the enemy who had just humiliated Prince Kalf.
‘Your weapons will be returned to you when you leave camp,’ Sigurd assured him. ‘So, why did you risk your life to come here, Sword Brother, I presume it was not to partake in a game of knattleikr?’
Conrad rubbed his sore jaw. ‘No, majesty. I came here to propose a cessation of hostilities between Livonia and Oesel.’
Sigurd smiled knowingly. ‘You came here knowing that your army is on the verge of collapse, many miles from home and with no hope of relief. Trapped, defeated and facing certain destruction.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Conrad.
His answer took Sigurd by surprise. ‘Then if you know this you must also know that to grant your bishop mercy now would be the height of folly.’
‘Yes,’ said Conrad again.
Sigurd leaned forward. ‘I think you are supposed to disagree with me, Sword Brother, in order to convince me that in fact it
is I who face defeat and should therefore listen to your words.’
‘To do so would mean treating you like a fool, majesty, and I have no wish to insult such a great king and warlord.’
Slaves brought large bowls full of a hot broth that Conrad consumed with relish. Sigurd was pickier with his food as he mulled over the enigma that was Conrad’s presence.
‘And if I order my army to continue its operations against your bishop?’
‘Then you will most likely slaughter us all, majesty,’ said Conrad, scooping out the last morsels of the broth.
‘Bring him more,’ Sigurd ordered the slaves. ‘You do not put up much of an argument, Sword Brother.’
Conrad licked his lips as he savoured the last remnants of the delicious broth.
‘It does not matter what happens in the next few days, majesty, what matters is what comes afterwards. You may kill the bishop, the Sword Brothers and the crusaders in camp but next year more crusaders will return, and every subsequent year until the victory that you are on the verge of is avenged. The whole of the Christian world will rally to Livonia’s cause in order to conquer Oesel and enslave its people.
‘Riga is a rich city, majesty, and will hire mercenaries, thousands of them, to fight your warriors. And then there are the Danes. They too will seek to avenge the sinking of their fleet and will send another army to Reval, which will march against your island.’
‘You seek to frighten me, Sword Brother?’ asked Sigurd.
‘Not at all, majesty, all I do is show you the future if you decide to wipe out the army that currently lies at your mercy.’
The slaves returned with more broth for Conrad, which he accepted gladly. Sigurd stood and circled him slowly.
‘Let us suppose, Sword Brother, for the sake of argument, that I find your offer agreeable. What advantages do the people of Oesel gain?’
Conrad had to swallow a mouthful of delicious broth before he could answer.
‘Peace, majesty, the friendship of the Marshal of Estonia and the Sword Brothers and the assurance that your enemies will be mine and my order’s.’