by Peter Darman
‘As do we all,’ said Riki.
‘Doe this Rustic know that you have been baptised, Andres?’ asked Hans.
Andres nodded. ‘He knows.’
‘And yet he still supports you? Most strange,’ said Anton.
‘He believes that the Christian god is an ally of Ukku, the supreme god,’ explained Andres, ‘because Ukku sent Kuu to seduce him and entice him to Estonia.’
‘Kuu being the Mood Goddess, the goddess of fertility, I believe’ said Sir Richard.
Andres nodded and Conrad laughed. ‘There really is no answer to that but I am glad that Rustic approves of what we are doing and Wierlanders will be marching with us. This battle will settle things once and for all.’
The next day he, Anton and Hans rode hard for the coast and four thousand Estonian warriors left Varbola for the final battle for Estonia.
Chapter 13
A detachment had left Varbola a few days earlier – fifty crossbowmen and the same number of spearmen drawn from the ‘Bishop’s Bastards’ – under the command of the doughty Leatherface. They were all mounted on equally stubborn and hardy Estonian ponies with additional mounts loaded with tents, food, weapons and crossbow bolts. By the time Conrad and his two friends arrived at Roosta the mercenary had established a camp near the beach, posting guards and organising hunts to provide his men with fresh meat.
Conrad was sweating when he and the others spotted the two guards either side of the track, around a hundred paces in front of them. The winter was a distant memory and the days were now long and warm, occasionally hot when the clouds disappeared and the wind dropped. Today was such a day. They had been riding hard since dawn and both they and their horses were hot and tired. The guards spotted them, drew their rectangular shields in front of their bodies and tilted their spears towards the riders, then relaxed when they recognised the commander of the Army of the Wolf.
They saluted the three Sword Brothers when the horsemen halted before them.
‘You are a sight for sore eyes,’ Conrad told them, ‘all is well?’
‘Yes, lord,’ replied one, like the other sporting a full beard and hair that showed beneath his helmet. ‘All very quiet so far.’
‘The Sword Brothers have not arrived yet?’ asked Anton.
‘No, lord.’
Hans sniffed the air. ‘Something is cooking. Smells good.’
‘Good hunting in these parts, lord,’ smiled the guard.
Conrad looked around at the dense pine forest they had ridden through. This part of northwest Harrien was sparsely populated compared to the rest of the realm. It was dotted with small, oblong hills called eskers covered with forests of pine and fir. But though forests covered half of this region they were pitted with dozens of meadows and lakes where wildlife thrived.
Conrad looked at the two guards approvingly. When they had first come to Livonia they had been threadbare soldiers from Germany, poorly armed, and even more lamentably trained. But Bishop Bernhard and Conrad had turned them into a formidable force of spearmen and crossbowmen that provided the missile power of the Army of the Wolf. The spearmen all wore gambesons, mail armour and helmets, each one armed with a lance, sword and knife. Unlike the Estonians in Conrad’s army they carried almond-shaped shields that bore the insignia of ‘the bastards’: a yellow mitre on a white background with three blue crosses on the mitre to symbolise the Holy Trinity. Under the mitre was a red rose, the symbol of Lippe, and beneath that the scroll bearing the Latin name of the formation they belonged to – The Bishop’s Bastards.
But even though they were Germans the customs and practices of Estonia had rubbed off on them. They all sported hair and beards longer than those worn in Europe. Many had native wives who had fashioned them good-luck charms that they wore around their necks. They were all good Christians but every time they went into battle they touched the charms that bore pagan symbols such as the Sign of the Morning Star for protection, the Sign of the Moon, the warrior’s symbol, or the Sign of Jumis for prosperity and fertility. They thus became living examples of the marrying of the old and new religions.
‘A good crossbowmen could have dropped all three of you in less than a minute.’
Anton smiled as he and the others looked towards the trees where Leatherface suddenly appeared, carrying a dead roe deer on his shoulders.
‘Then it is as well that there are none around,’ Conrad shot back.
Leatherface walked past them. ‘I thought you might miss the rendezvous but you have beaten the rest of your order. Come on boys, let’s eat.’
‘If you are quick, Brother Hans, we might be able to spare you a morsel,’ he called before walking up the track towards camp.
But later, when night had fallen, and Conrad and the others sat around a fire outside their tent, the mercenary was in a more sombre mood. Concern was etched on his rugged face.
‘You’re sure about what you and we are about to do, Master Conrad?’
Conrad was staring at the beach beyond the treeline a short distance away. The calm sea, illuminated by a full moon, resembled the surface of a mirror.
‘Absolutely certain.’
‘That’s good because if you fail then the gates of hell will open to swallow you.’
Anton waved away the mercenary’s concerns. ‘Grand Master Volquin himself has sanctioned Conrad’s venture.’
Leatherface spat into the fire. ‘I would not put much stock by that. If everything goes to plan then he will be with you. But if it doesn’t then he will cut you three adrift to your fate, you can be sure of that.’
He looked around. ‘Where are those two novices, Arri and Jaan?’
‘I told them they would be staying at Odenpah and training with the others,’ Conrad told him. ‘They are too inexperienced for this trip.’
‘Good thinking,’ agreed Leatherface. ‘No point in getting them killed for no reason.’
‘Besides,’ said Conrad, ‘this mission won’t take long.’
The Sword Brothers arrived the next day at noon, Masters Rudolf, Bertram and Mathias bringing with them a total of thirty brother knights, forty sergeants, sixty-five crossbowmen and an equal number of spearmen – two hundred veteran fighting men. They also brought their novices who pitched tents, stabled horses among the trees and dug latrine trenches as their masters gathered in the grand master’s tent.
Conrad took time to stare at the strapping grand master, now in his fifties but still a formidable figure, a man who had led the order for over twenty years and was hugely respected throughout Livonia. He reflected on Leatherface’s words and wondered if he would truly abandon one of his subordinates. The question was irrelevant; there would be no need.
‘When do your friends arrive, Conrad?’ asked Volquin.
‘They are not my friends, grand master,’ Conrad corrected him, ‘they are our allies.’
Rudolf raised an eyebrow. ‘A few months ago we were trying to slaughter them and now we fight by their side. Many would view that as strange if not heretical.’
‘Against a greater enemy,’ said Conrad.
‘You trust this Sigurd, Conrad?’ asked Bertram.
‘He is a man of honour,’ replied Conrad. ‘I trust him.’
‘And we have placed our trust in you, Master Conrad,’ stated Volquin. ‘Let us hope that all this trust is repaid.’
‘King Sigurd has informed me of his terms for assisting us, grand master,’ said Conrad.
Volquin gave Rudolf a knowing glance. ‘Lets’ hear them, then.’
Conrad was expecting Volquin to object but when he had been informed he merely shrugged his shoulders and nodded. The other three masters said nothing, leaving him relieved.
‘So all we have to do now is wait,’ said Volquin. ‘I assume this Sigurd will turn up?’
‘He’ll be here, grand master,’ Conrad assured him.
Afterwards Conrad walked back to where the ‘bastards’ were camped but had not gone twenty paces before being accosted by Father Otto. He must
have been approaching fifty now, though his battle-scarred, hairless skull made it difficult to estimate his age. A good six inches taller than Conrad the priest regarded him with those cold, black eyes that had terrified him when he had been a novice. He looked as gaunt as ever.
‘Conrad Wolff, master of mayhem and progenitor of an unholy alliance that is an affront to God.’
‘Greetings, Father Otto, always a pleasure to see you.’
Otto’s scarred forehead creased into a deep frown.
‘You think levity will save your soul? You are a friend of the enemies of God.’
‘Not all those who profess to serve God do so, preferring to masquerade as servants of the Holy Church while furthering their own ambitions. To me such men are greater enemies of God than pagans.’
‘Blasphemy,’ shouted Otto, causing those within earshot to look in their direction.
‘Careful father,’ cautioned Conrad, ‘you are beginning to sound like Abbot Hylas and look what happened to him.’
‘He is with God,’ declared Otto.
Conrad sighed and walked away. ‘An aim we all hope to achieve, father.’
They came an hour after dawn, forty square sails filling the horizon followed by frantic trumpet calls as guards posted on the beach alerted the camp to their presence. There was no panic just an orderly bustle as men donned armour, checked their weapons and adjusted straps and belts. Crossbowmen slung three full quivers over their shoulders – sixty bolts for each man – and Sword Brothers gathered around their masters.
Volquin led everyone down to the beach to await the arrival of the boats and ordered Otto to say prayers. Three hundred men knelt as one as Otto raised his arms to the summer sky, the veins in his skull throbbing as he hurled his words into the world.
‘Lord, look upon these Your servants with love and forgiveness. Though they go to journey in the company of filthy heathens to slaughter Christians, restrain Your creatures of the deep so they may complete their journey. And though their swords may end the lives of Christians let the souls that they send to You be exalted among your angels.
‘God with us!’
As one the company replied ‘God with us’ and stood to see the first longship run aground on the sand. There were twenty skeids and the same number of karvs carrying a total of two thousand, two hundred warriors. There was a curious moment when the crews of the first ships to beach and the Sword Brothers stared at each other in silence, men not quite believing the sight in front of them. A single horn call broke the spell and warriors began to pour ashore.
‘Steady!’ shouted Volquin as some of his men drew their swords or gripped maces and axes.
Sigurd, surrounded by his bodyguard, bounded ashore to head straight for Conrad who bowed his head.
‘I kept my promise, Sword Brother.’
‘As I knew you would, majesty. May I introduce the head of the Sword Brothers, Grand Master…’
‘Volquin,’ said Sigurd. ‘I have seen you before, grand master, though not this close and certainly never when either of us has not had a sword in our hands.’
Rudolf laughed while Bertram and Mathias smiled.
‘How long will the journey take, your majesty?’ asked Volquin.
Sigurd looked up at the sky. ‘We have fair wind and a calm sea. Four hours.’
‘Then may I suggest we make a start,’ said Volquin, giving the king the slightest bow of his head.
‘I trust there will be no friction between my men and yours,’ said Sigurd matter-of-factly, ‘I have given orders that no Sword Brother is to be harmed during the voyage.’
Volquin thought for a moment, turned and raised his arms.
‘Listen! If any man causes any trouble during the journey I will kill him myself and ensure that his soul is condemned to hell for all eternity.’
‘Well,’ smiled Sigurd, ‘let us be away. The Marshal of Estonia will sail on my ship.’
It actually took an hour for all the longships to beach, get water and food for the journey loaded on board and for parties of Sword Brothers and ‘bastards’ to be allocated to each vessel. Finally, the longships were pushed out to sea and their journey began. There were less than ten crusaders on each longship but the deck of each vessel was still cramped with rowers, crusaders and supplies. The rowers shipped their oars when the longships had been manoeuvred into position and the wind filled their sails. Conrad watched the native scouts, novices, workers, priests and drivers standing on the beach, who would dismantle the camp and return to Leal, get smaller and disappear as the king’s ship effortlessly cut through the water heading north.
Conrad was fascinated by the design of the ship, which sailed low in the water and at such speed. He noticed that the rowers were sitting not on seats or benches but on chests. When Sigurd returned from the stern where a man held the rudder, he asked the king about them.
‘Before boarding the deck is bare. Each warrior has his own chest for his possessions, which he positions so he can row with utmost efficiency and ease. The tops are rounded to shed water, the sides double as legs and the bottom of the chest is raised several inches off the ground to keep the contents dry in the event of heavy seas.’
Hans, clinging to the mast behind Conrad, went ashen faced. Sigurd noticed the brother knight holding the mast for dear life.
‘Is he ill?’ enquired Sigurd.
‘No, lord king,’ said Conrad, ‘he thinks we are sinking because the ship is so low in the water.’
Sigurd slapped Hans hard on the shoulder. ‘No Oeselian king has ever drowned at sea, Sword Brother, so take heart. Drink some mead or let me get one of my men to get you some blood pudding.’
‘I’m not hungry,’ replied Hans weakly.
Conrad nearly fell over from shock.
*****
As soon as reports had reached him that an army was approaching Reval Count Rolf had ordered the abandonment of all the outlying positions. If the reports were to be believed he would need every man to hold the port. The reports did not lie. The enemy had arrived two days ago, a mass of Estonians and a sprinkling of Christian knights. On the advice of Kivel, who had arrived at Reval on the eve of the enemy’s coming, he had sent out a party of horsemen to test the mettle of the enemy. He and they had been rudely surprised when ten of their number were killed by enemy crossbowmen. There were no more sallies after that. Now Rolf stood with Kivel on the timber ramparts of Toompea Castle as the enemy army deployed in front of the town’s defences. His heart sank at the sight of thousands of warriors ringing the port.
‘Fodder for our defences,’ said Kivel dismissively, ‘they will never breach these fortifications in a thousand years. When they attack the garden will consume many before they even reach the walls.’
Reval had been a Danish possession for eight years, ever since King Valdemar had landed at a poor pagan trading town called Lyndanise with an army to claim Estonia for his own and the Holy Church. In the intervening years the port’s defences had been strengthened to make it one of the most formidable strongholds in the Baltic. The perimeter wall encompassed not only the port itself but also Toompea Hill. A deep ditch, its walls sloping at forty-five degrees and lined with sharpened stakes, stood in front of the earth rampart. The earth that had been removed to create the ditch had been used to raise that rampart. This meant that the ditch’s depth equalled the height of the adjoining rampart, both combining to make a formidable obstacle.
On top of the rampart was a timber wall, its parapet supplied with loopholes for crossbowmen along its entire length. The parapet had also a shingle roof to protect those lining the walls from the weather and enemy missiles, the upper part of which projected slightly over the lower part to allow missiles to be shot at the space at the foot of the wall. There were twelve square towers along the perimeter, each one forty-five feet in height and every one, aside from those flanking the town gates, mounting a mangonel to launch stones at a besieging army. But before that army even reached the ditch its soldiers would have to
traverse the defences that had been laid in front of it.
These defences had earned the nickname ‘the devil’s garden’ and with some justification for they were fearsome. Immediately beyond the ditch was a row of trenches five feet deep filled with sharpened stakes, their lower ends fastened to one another to prevent them being pulled up. Beyond the trenches of stakes were rows of pits, all three feet deep, and each one containing a log with a sharpened, fire-hardened point, dirt filling the first two feet of the pit. This left a foot of log projecting, which was covered with twigs and brushwood to hide it. Finally, and furthest out, were rows of round holes two feet deep, designed to break men’s and horses’ legs if stepped in. These holes ran alongside the zigzag-shaped track leading to Reval’s gates, flanked by two towers, and reached via a wooden bridge spanning the ditch.
Toompea Hill projected out from the town defences and might have tempted an attacker to direct his assaults against it. But the hill itself was steep, deterring horsemen, its base surrounded by a ditch, rampart and wall. Beyond the ditch was a dense field of caltrops. These infernal devices were made by twisting two double-pointed strips of iron and cold-hammering them together to produce a wicked instrument with four spikes. They were arranged in such a way that when any three spikes were resting on the ground the fourth pointed upwards. A caltrop was simple but very effective and was capable of gravely injuring, sometimes killing, soldiers or animals stepping on it. Hundreds had been scattered on the ground around Toompea Hill.
‘It is just as well that our defences are so formidable, Dietrich,’ said Rolf, ‘for our numbers are sadly depleted.’
He had only a hundred and fifty crossbowmen to man the walls and towers. In total he could muster just over five hundred men, plus the two hundred soldiers of dubious quality that Kivel had brought into Reval. It was an adequate number to defend the port against what he estimated to be nearly ten thousands pagans outside the walls but he was bitter that the king had drained Reval of resources over the years. He cursed his luck that the Oeselians had sunk the fleet carrying the king’s army for with those reinforcements he could have sallied out and destroyed the pagans that were now making a racket to wake the dead.