by Peter Darman
Sigurd stopped pacing. ‘The Sword Brothers will forget their hatred of pagans?’
‘No, majesty, but they will not attack Oesel as long as your ships refrain from raiding Estonia and molesting Riga’s shipping. There are, after all, many other targets for your longships. Denmark, for example.’
Sigurd was confused. ‘The Danes follow the same god as you, do they not? And yet you detest them.’
‘Treachery will do that to a man, majesty.’
Conrad placed his now empty bowl on the ground. He could see that he had pricked the king’s interest.
‘A two-year trial period, majesty, that is all I ask. If after that time you believe that a cessation of hostilities is not to your liking then we can go back to killing each other.’
Sigurd retook his seat and held out his hands to the fire. ‘Two years?’
‘Time enough for your longships to organise a visit to Denmark, I think, majesty.’
Conrad’s limbs may have been aching and his jaw felt as though it had been broken, though fortunately it was not, but his belly was full and his spirits high when he was given back his sword at the edge of the forest that fronted the meadow containing the bishop’s camp. The dawn was breaking, white and grey shards of light filling the sky to herald the rising of the sun. He smiled and nodded at his Oeselian escort who looked at him with contempt. It did not matter; he had the word of their king and that was all that mattered. He began whistling as he tramped through the snow towards the sentries wrapped in their cloaks. He held up his arms as he got nearer, knowing that there were crossbowmen on the perimeter. Chapped faces turned towards him and bloodshot eyes studied him as the Rotalian warriors recognised him and bowed their heads as he passed. He saw thin shafts of smoke rise into the frosty air from campfires, though not as many as during the previous days, an indication that the army had used up most of its precious reserves of firewood.
He made his way to his tent, groups of tired, unshaven warriors emerging from their shelters to relieve the sentries and attend to camp duties. Their movements were lethargic, laboured, as they tried to shake off the cold they could not escape from. The sounds of trumpet blasts and horn calls shattered the quiet of the morning and suddenly men were hurrying to arm themselves and form into their ranks. He quickened his pace as the sounds of battle grew louder and wondered if Sigurd had broken his word. But as he reached his tent he realised that the sounds of combat were coming from inside the bishop’s camp rather than around it.
A relieved Hans and Anton raced up to their friend and embraced him as the former handed him his shield and helmet.
‘What in the name of the saints is happening?’ asked Conrad.
‘The Russians,’ spat Anton as Riki, Ulric, Andres, Hillar and Leatherface rallied to the Marshal of Estonia.
‘Bring all the guards in from the perimeter,’ Conrad ordered, ‘I have reached an agreement with the Oeselians; they will not attack us.’
A helmeted Sir Richard appeared with his squire alongside him, both fully armoured and armed with maces. Sir Richard shoved up his helm.
‘The Russians are trying to steal everyone’s food. They are running amok, Conrad.’
He told the Duke of Saccalia of the agreement with the Oeselians, which allowed the Englishman to concentrate his men around their horses and food supplies. The Army of the Wolf did the same, abandoning their tents to form a square around the carts carrying what was left of their food, warriors locking shields and Leatherface forming his crossbowmen in the centre of the square, ready to lend assistance wherever they were needed.
Men ravaged by hunger and the cold do desperate things and so it was now as dozens and then hundreds of Russians bore down on Conrad’s men. They ransacked the tents first in their search for food, many stopping to devour anything that had been cooking in pots over campfires. They had a semblance only of discipline but they knew that the warriors standing in their ranks were defending something valuable and so hurled themselves at the Army of the Wolf.
The initial charge buckled the square with its feral fury, Russians with axes chopping at Estonian helmets and shields, others thrusting with spears. Leatherface’s crossbowmen managed to loose a couple of volleys before the two sides clashed. Within minutes there was a desperate press of men as the Russians tried to break through the Army of the Wolf’s shield wall. The Russians, superior in numbers and desperate, fought with a reckless courage whereas Conrad’s warriors battled them with an iron will and would not yield their ground.
The morning air was filled with a non-stop din of blade against blade and weapons striking shields mixed with shrieks, screams and groans as men fell injured and were killed. Conrad, in the front rank with Hans and Anton, had been forced back by the first rush of Russians, killing one with his sword and then exchanging blows with another man armed with a spear who tried to skewer his guts. But he was able to sweep aside the blade with his shield and wound the man in the leg, causing him to stumble and fall.
Crossbowmen behind him shot between the warriors in the front rank to hit Russians, a highly dangerous tactic considering their cold-dulled senses and numb hands. One or two missed and put a bolt through the back of the head of an Estonian in error. Hans and Anton, maces in hand, lurched forward to batter their opponents before being forced to defend themselves as the Russians in turn sprang at them. It was a macabre dance of death being played out in the snow, neither side giving or accepting quarter.
Had the Russians made a disciplined attack against one side of the square they might have broken through, but in their desperation to get at the supplies they lapped around it instead. Pockets of them surged forward to force an entry but were beaten back, the Estonians maintaining their positions.
Those Russians attacking the side of the square where Conrad stood among Saccalians retreated after having lost many men. The wounded Estonians were taken inside the square as Russian commanders went among their men to threaten and inspire them to make another attempt.
‘Kneel Saccalians,’ came the order.
Conrad just about made out the command, his hearing impeded by his helmet. But Hans and Anton did not and just stood there as everyone around them knelt. Conrad banged Hans on the shoulder with his shield and gestured for him to kneel, doing the same with Anton. Once they had done so crossbow bolts hissed over their heads to strike the Russians. Followed by a second volley and a third. All the Russians wore armour but not all of them had shields and the iron-tipped bolts easily penetrated kuyak at such a short range. Crossbows were highly effective up to a hundred and fifty yards and the Russians were less than twenty paces away.
Conrad tightened the grip of his sword as the enemy, now weakened and demoralised by the crossbows, shuffled forward.
‘Your turn now,’ hollered Leatherface as he took his men to another side of the square.
Everyone stood and locked shields once more as the Russians came forward again. But the ground in front of them was littered with their dead and dying comrades and their charge had no impetus. When they did reach the Saccalians they exchanged blows in a desultory fashion before literally wilting and falling back, to the jeers of the Estonians. Their strength and courage had been born of desperation but it quickly evaporated as exhaustion used up their last reserves. Not that the Army of the Wolf had the stamina to pursue them.
Warriors in their ranks stood and watched them go, grateful that they had beaten them but having little desire to attempt to finish them off. They too were tired and hungry, most of them having missed breakfast in the tumult. The only man to show any initiative, despite his age, was Leatherface who organised parties of crossbowmen to follow the Russians, keeping a safe distance and shooting any stragglers at long range.
‘And remember not to get too close,’ he called after them as they stalked the enemy.
Conrad pulled off his helmet and handed it to Hans as he walked through the ranks, slapping men on the shoulder in thanks as he did so. He called the commanders to him for a br
iefing. They clasped forearms and embraced with the realisation that they were alive after another battle. Even Ulric wore a sort of half-smile/grimace.
‘Losses?’ asked Conrad.
Fifteen dead and the same wounded,’ stated Tonis.
‘Twenty dead, the same number wounded,’ said Hillar.
‘Thirty slain, five wounded,’ reported Riki.
‘Five dead, fifty wounded, Susi,’ stated Andres.
‘Fourteen dead, nine wounded,’ said Ulric.
Conrad shook his head. ‘We have lost more fighting our allies than battling the enemy. Dismantle the camp. We will pursue the Russians to ensure they do not ravage Estonia.’
‘What of the Oeselians, Susi?’ asked Hillar, the others also confused by his order.
‘We have peace with the Oeselians,’ Conrad told them.
He told the bishop the same when he stood in his pavilion at midday, the other army commanders, all unshaven, some with blood on their surcoats, looking at him with incredulity. He relayed to them how he had left camp during the previous night to speak with the enemy king. The bishop, in his chair, stared at the ground in a sort of trance as Conrad informed them that Sigurd had agreed to a two-year truce in return for no hostile actions against Oesel.
‘What gives you the right to negotiate with the enemy behind the bishop’s back, Master Conrad?’ asked an angry Volquin.
‘My rank as Marshal of Estonia, grand master, and my desire to save this army, which has just fought a sharp action against its supposed allies.’
Rudolf laughed but stopped when Volquin glared at him.
‘As Christians we cannot retreat from godless pagans,’ declared a tired-looking Count of Lauenburg.
‘You are right, my lord,’ agreed Conrad, ‘but we may march back to Livonia after having agreed terms with the enemy without loss of honour. The alternative…’
‘Is to die here,’ interrupted Fricis, blood seeping through the bandage on his arm. ‘Three hundred of my men lie dead in the snow.’
He saw the look of alarm on Conrad’s face.
Fricis smiled grimly. ‘Prince Rameke was not among them, thank the Lord, but many of his kinsmen were. I congratulate Conrad for his courage and resolution. This crusade has become an embarrassment, the mutiny of the Russians a fitting epitaph to its inglorious end. If the Oeselians allow us to escape with our lives, Grand Master Volquin, then I say that we should give thanks to the Lord and then to Conrad for what would be a miracle.’
He looked at the slumped figure of the bishop.
‘Bishop Albert has been our light in the darkness for over twenty years in this land. It would be a disgrace to allow him to be martyred in this frozen hell.’
Chastised by Fricis, Volquin fumed but said nothing. Rudolf looked totally calm and Count Albert was contemplating the king’s words, though his disfigured face made it difficult to discern what he was thinking. Sir Richard wore a vacant expression and Nordheim avoided everyone’s eyes and stared at the ground. The interior of the pavilion reeked of despair. Finally the bishop spoke in a hushed tone.
‘God has abandoned me, that much is certain.’
His drained eyes looked at Conrad. They were bereft of the vigour that Conrad had always seen in them.
‘I do not criticise you for your actions, Conrad. I know that you have the interests of Estonia and the Sword Brothers at heart. I have no fear of being martyred here if that is what God has decreed but I see that He has a different fate for us all. Why else would He have guided your actions during the last few hours? Do you trust this Oeselian king, Conrad?’
‘I trust his word, lord bishop, yes.’
‘Very well. Just as I was forced to taste the bitter beverage of defeat in Kurland so I will bow to divine intervention here. Grand master, give the order to dismantle what is left of our camp and withdraw back to Estonia. Be mindful to collect all the Christian dead. We will bury them in sacred ground. We owe them that at least.’
He waved a dismissive hand at the lords who trudged, downcast, from the pavilion. It was a beautifully bright, crisp day and the extent of the wreckage that the Russians had inflicted was clear for all to see. Trampled tents, murdered priests, novices and servants and slaughtered draught animals littered the ground. Smashed wagons, their cargoes scattered in the snow, completed the dismal spectacle.
Volquin confronted Conrad. ‘You have exceeded your authority, Master Conrad, and breached the order’s rules. Men have been hanged for less.’
‘I think we should show clemency, grand master,’ urged Rudolf beside him. ‘Conrad has, after all, saved our order from being fatally weakened and thus preserved the Holy Church in Livonia.’
Volquin poked a finger in Conrad’s chest. ‘I know you have the favour of the bishop and Rudolf here so I will let the matter pass, this time. But do not push your luck, Master Conrad. Remember that you are, like all of us, a penniless brother knight at the end of the day.’
‘Yes, grand master,’ said Conrad solemnly.
Volquin walked away to catch up with the Count of Lauenburg, leaving Rudolf alone with Conrad.
‘You took a mighty risk, Conrad.’
‘It was worth taking because if this army had died then the Danes and Oeselians would have been free to invade and terrorise Estonia and after that Livonia.’
He looked up at the sky. ‘I am taking my army out of camp immediately to shadow the Russians. They will retrace their steps, which means they will march to Rotalia, and after that will descend on its villages like angry wolves.’
Rudolf puffed out his cheeks. ‘I think most of the Russians will have expired before they reach the mainland, Conrad, but I understand why you feel obliged to march with your men. God go with you.’
The army moved out two hours later, a column of relieved men who knew that they had escaped certain death. They were watched by thousands of Oeselian warriors who emerged from the forest to observe their departure. There was a moment of alarm when a large party of mounted warriors cantered through the snow towards what was left of the bishop’s army. The brother knights and sergeants of the Sword Brothers mounted their warhorses and formed a battle line as around three hundred enemy horsemen did likewise. However, Conrad rode back to where the two lines were forming and galloped to Grand Master Volquin’s great banner.
‘It is the Oeselian king, grand master. Most likely he has come to ensure we depart his land.’
‘You brokered this agreement,’ said Volquin tersely, ‘go and tell him that if his horsemen do not disperse we will do it for him.’
Conrad turned his horse and rode to the Oeselian riders. He received a warmer reception from the pagan king.
‘Greetings, Sword Brother, you see that I have kept my part of the bargain. Does your bishop accept the terms of the agreement?’
‘He does, majesty.’
Sigurd pointed at the line of mailed horsemen in front of him.
‘But not your fellow Sword Brothers.’
‘They think you are about to attack them, majesty,’ said Conrad.
‘Tell them that they are mistaken. My scouts inform me that a large body of men left your camp earlier.’
‘Mercenaries and traitors, majesty, who deserve no mercy.’
Sigurd said nothing as Conrad turned his horse and returned to the grand master.
Sigurd waved Bothvar forward.
‘My brothers are still sulking?’
‘Yes, lord.’
‘Send a message to them that they can amuse themselves with the first group of soldiers that left the crusader camp. We will return to camp while they vent their anger on them.’
Sigurd’s horsemen retired, the Sword Brothers returned to the marching column and Conrad hurried back to his men. In the days following the cold, Oeselians and hunger whittled down the number of Russian soldiers considerably. The survivors were offered safe conduct back to Polotsk via Riga on condition that they surrendered all their weapons in return for food. They accepted gladly but so wea
kened were they that they had to remain at Leal while the bishop, Fricis, the Sword Brothers and the Count of Lauenburg’s crusaders travelled south.
When the Russians were well enough the Army of the Wolf escorted them south through Rotalia and Saccalia, a large party of Livs led by Rameke meeting them at the northern border of Livonia to guard them as they trudged back to Riga. It was still bitterly cold and the Russians died at a rate of fifty a day. When they reached the city Archdeacon Stefan ordered the gates to be shut to deny them entry. Rameke took his men home, it snowed heavily during the day and froze at night and after three days not one Russian was left alive.
Chapter 12
It had been a long, hard winter but a profitable one. The sleds were filled with animal pelts, the booty of a hundred traps and many weeks of emptying and re-setting them. The trappers lived in tents when it was cold and had fashioned igloos when it was freezing. They sunk ice holes to extract fish from the lakes and killed elk to skin and eat. Karelia was a harsh, unforgiving land but Kristjan loved it. A huge region of mountains, hilly plains, rivers, swamps, vast forest and lakes, it was three hundred miles north of Novgorod. Its forests and plains teemed with squirrel, sable, marten, polecat, wolves, foxes, brown bears, reindeer, elk and wild boar. Its northern areas contained great expanses of fir and pine, while in the south were forests of deciduous trees – maple, black alder, lime and ash. The woods and swamps were rich in red bilberry, cranberry, cloudberry and an endless supply of edible mushrooms. But it was not the flora that had drawn Kristjan to Karelia.
Novgorod had grown rich on the fur trade because its pelts were renowned for their excellent quality because the harsh winters the animals had to withstand resulted in thick, soft and beautiful pelts. And of all the regions that Novgorod farmed for its furs Karelia was the richest. The agents of the prince and church of Novgorod collected pelts, predominantly squirrel, from the commoners who lived on the lands for payment as rent. The city’s boyars also gathered pelts as rent from their tenants. In turn the city’s merchants purchased the pelts from the government, boyars and freemen and offered them for sale to the many foreign merchants who flocked to the city.