The Sword Brothers

by Peter Darman

  He nodded to her. ‘So it would seem.’

  They walked together towards the gently sloping beach where three more newly built longships stood on wooden frames, carpenters working on their hulls. They had been laid down during the winter and were now nearing completion. Three more ships to add to Olaf’s fleet. Three other longships stood moored in the water and there were more in the other settlements that dotted Oesel’s coastline, the great island that was positioned off the western coast of Estonia. But this was Kuressaare, the king’s capital and the largest community on the island. Nestled at the end of a bay and thus blessed with calm, deep waters, the settlement contained a great many longhouses along with forges, animal pens and a large meeting house in its centre. Beyond the wooden palisade that surrounded the whole town were farms that grew rye and barley, the land having first been cleared of the trees that covered half the island. Oesel was an island rich in oak that provided timber to build homes and ships. Elk, roe deer and wild boar were hunted to provide meat, and pastures provided grazing for herds of cows. Oesel was blessed by the gods, of that Olaf was convinced.

  When they reached the shore the beach was filled with cheering people, many waving at the four approaching longships. Two of Olaf’s sons had left earlier as part of a hunting party but his youngest, Kalf, now came running up to them.

  ‘Eric has returned,’ he beamed.

  Olaf stood with his arms folded across his thick chest, attempting to count the number of oars on each ship. His wide forehead creased as they got nearer and he saw that not all the rowing stations were manned. The longships slowed to a halt as they ran aground on the sand and a figure appeared at the prow of the leading boat. Tall, handsome with long blonde hair, beard and moustache, his eyes blue like his mother’s and his body powerful like his father’s, Eric spread his arms wide to milk the rapturous welcome he was receiving. He then jumped down into the water and waded ashore, followed by the crews of the other longships. Women and children rushed forward to welcome their returning husbands and fathers as Eric gladly received the kisses of young women who threw themselves at him as he walked towards his parents and brother. He really was the returning hero.

  Dalla beamed with delight and Kalf grinned with pride, dreaming of the day when he would be like his eldest brother, but Olaf looked past his son to where some women were shaking their heads and weeping as they were told by those who had returned with Eric that their loved ones had been killed.

  Eric winked at his mother and bowed to his father. ‘Hail Olaf, King of Oesel and Lord of all the oceans.’

  Olaf nodded at his son. ‘Your sword has been bloodied judging by the tears that are falling from the eyes of my womenfolk to fill the bay.’

  Eric twisted his mouth to indicate indifference. ‘All warriors desire death in battle.’

  Olaf stepped forward and placed an arm round his son’s broad shoulders.

  ‘Come, let us speak in private away from your adoring women.’

  Eric grinned as his mother kissed him on the cheek and Kalf shook his hand vigorously as he strolled with his father back to the royal longhouse. In truth it was nothing special, aside from being longer and slightly taller than the others. Its roof was thatched like the rest and its walls were made of logs hewn from the great oak forests that covered the island.

  ‘I would speak to Eric alone,’ said Olaf to his wife and Kalf when they reach the longhouse.

  The crowd had followed them to the king’s residence and so Eric turned and raised his arms to them once more, receiving loud cheers in return. He dazzled them with a smile as his father held open the door for him and the islanders’ favourite son gave one more wave before disappearing inside.

  Olaf closed the door and bolted it and then slapped Eric’s face hard with the back of his hand. Momentarily stunned, Eric turned to face his father, his nostrils flared, his eyes filled with fury and a hand went to the hilt of his sword. Olaf said nothing and made no movements with his hands but Eric thought twice before drawing his blade. His father may have been older and shorter than he but even at the age of fifty Olaf was a fearsome warrior known throughout the Baltic for his skill with a sword.

  ‘You are an idiot, Eric,’ spat Olaf. ‘How many men did you lose during your little expedition?’

  Eric, still bristling with anger, turned away from his father. He could taste blood in his mouth from the king’s blow. ‘An insignificant number.’

  ‘I asked how many,’ growled Olaf.

  Eric turned to face him. The interior of the longhouse was dim, the only light coming in from the holes in the roof that allowed the smoke from the fire that burned in a stone fire pit to escape the dwelling, but he could see the deadly serious expression on his father’s face clearly enough.

  ‘Thirty men killed. We came across two ships carrying Germans to Riga and intercepted them.’

  Two rows of wooden posts ran down the length of the longhouse supporting the roof beams. These columns divided the interior into three long aisles, the central one having a packed dirt floor, the two outer ones containing benches for sitting or sleeping on and covered in furs for warmth and comfort. The king and queen slept in a bed in a room at the far end of the longhouse. Olaf rested a hand on one of the posts.

  ‘And where are these German ships?’

  Eric scraped at the floor with the heel of his boot. ‘They escaped.’

  ‘So thirty men died for nothing,’ snarled Olaf.

  Eric smiled, blood showing in his teeth. ‘An insignificant number compared to the thousands of warriors who serve you, father.’

  Olaf considered striking his son again for his stupidity but then thought better of it. He could not batter more brains into his son’s head. Instead he walked over to where his wife had left a jug of ale on a small table and filled two wooden beakers. He held out one to his son. Eric smiled and took it, raising it to his father before draining it.

  Olaf stared at the drink. ‘Every year more and more of these Germans land at Riga to kill and conquer. Twenty years ago there were hardly any of them but now they infest the land like a plague of rats. How long do you think it will be before they turn their attention to Oesel?’

  ‘No barbarian will set foot on this island, father,’ boasted Eric, refilling his beaker. ‘We are many, they are few.’

  Olaf shook his head in despair. ‘Have you learned nothing, Eric? Have you not seen with your own eyes the armada of ships that brings more Germans to Riga every summer? This summer will be no different. They have destroyed the power of the Livs, the ancient people who have inhabited their land since the earth was young. And now they have named their newly conquered territory Livonia in mockery of those who originally held it. They push north against the Estonians, east against the Russians and south against the Lithuanians. There is no end to their ambition or greed.’

  Eric was unconcerned. ‘The Livs and Estonians are farmers. We are warriors.’ He glanced at his father. ‘If I were king I would take the fleet and burn Riga.’

  ‘If you were king this island would be empty of warriors so blinded are you to the truth. Riga is surrounded by a high stone wall and defended by a large garrison. How will we breach its walls, by flying over them?’

  Eric drained his beaker a second time. ‘Walls can be broken down, father.’

  Olaf raised his eyes to the roof. ‘I am considering an alliance with the Estonians to fight our common foe.’

  Eric put down his beaker and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘An alliance? With those whose lands we have raided since time began?’ Why would a wolf seek the friendship of a lamb?’

  Olaf smiled and began pacing up and down, pointing at his son. ‘The world is a simple place to you, isn’t it Eric? You get up each morning, fill your belly and then go in search of a woman to seduce or a man to pick a fight with. You pester me incessantly to give you command of a fleet and when I yield to your pleadings you return with nothing but a tale of Oeselian dead. But the world is changing and if you are to one
day be king of my people then you had better learn to recognise the signs. We must change with the times and seek pacts where once we spilled blood. We cannot destroy this German pestilence alone.’

  ‘The Estonians might not see it the way you do,’ replied Eric, who saw no merit in his father’s plan.

  But Olaf thought differently. ‘They will. It is their lands that are being plundered and stolen.’

  ‘And the Russians, will they be agreeable to an alliance?’

  Olaf toyed with his white beard. ‘They pray to the same god as the Germans and view us as pagans. I doubt we will have their friendship. And yet, as the Germans push ever further east they will encroach upon Russian lands. When they do so they may be able to forget their hatred of us, if only for a short while.’

  ‘I will go to the Estonians with an offer of peace,’ proclaimed Eric.

  Olaf stifled a laugh. Sending Eric would result in perpetual war with the Estonians. He needed someone with diplomatic skills to bring his plan to fruition.

  ‘No. As my direct heir you must stay here. I will send Sigurd.’

  Sigurd was Olaf’s second son, a thoughtful, resourceful individual who was very different from his thick-headed elder brother.

  Eric laughed. ‘Sigurd? He is too quiet and accommodating. The Estonians need to know at all times that we do them a great honour by treating with them, and should be reminded that they are bargaining from a position of weakness.’

  Olaf’s mind was made up. ‘Sigurd will go to treat with the Estonians. And now, to celebrate your “victory” over the Germans, I will give a great feast tonight.’

  ‘You honour me, father,’ said Eric.

  ‘But it will be many moons before you lead another fleet to sea again. I will need all the warriors I can assemble in the coming months and can ill afford to throw their lives away to satisfy the vanity of my son.’

  Sigurd and Olaf’s other son, Stark, returned later that day with the boar and deer they had killed and in the evening Kuressaare resounded with laughter and music as Olaf feasted his people. Oesel was teeming with wildlife and timber, while the sea that surrounded it was filled with fish. The great forests on the island were inexhaustible and its iron deposits provided the Oeselians with weapons and armour. And Olaf knew that soon such a rich land would attract the attention of the Germans and their men of iron on their great warhorses.

  Chapter 3

  Riga was located around five miles inland on the northern bank of the River Dvina, the great waterway that flowed for over six hundred miles from far away Russia to empty into the Baltic. Conrad and Hans stood at the prow with the other youths as their cog entered the river’s estuary and made its way upstream. Two small boats with oars had greeted the cogs, having pushed off from a small settlement of log cabins positioned half a mile inland, and now they towed the larger vessels upstream. The captain ordered the sail to be furled as the cog cut through the waters of the Dvina.

  The river at this point was over a thousand feet wide and the banks seemed a great distance away. Beyond them was an ocean of greenery – forests of mighty oaks stretching as far as the eye could see. Storks flew over the river looking for fish to pluck and higher up corncrakes circled above the boats.

  ‘There is good hunting in those woods, boys,’ said Rudolf, who had come to join them at the prow. ‘This land is filled with deer, wild boar, lynx and bears. Lots of bears. A man can never starve here.’

  ‘That is good to know,’ smiled Hans who, despite having eaten a fair portion of the ship’s food stores, was still as thin as a spear shaft.

  Conrad pointed at the men straining at the oars in the two small boats towing their cog. ‘Are they pagans, Brother Rudolf?’

  ‘They were,’ he answered. ‘They are Livs and once worshipped false idols but now follow the true religion.’

  ‘When it suits them,’ added Henke, who had wandered over to join his friend. ‘They are quick to revert to their old ways when they are of a mind to rebel.’

  ‘Old habits die hard,’ agreed Rudolf, ‘but they are God’s creatures nonetheless.’

  Henke curled his lip. ‘Creatures is right. I wonder what mischief they have been up to in our absence.’

  ‘We will know soon enough,’ answered Rudolf.

  An hour later they docked in Riga, the town that had been founded nine years earlier by Bishop Albert himself. German traders had been coming to this spot for fifty years, which was originally a collection of poor villages, but only in small numbers. Now Riga, the name derived from the Latin word rigata – meaning ‘irrigated’ – was a bustling river port surrounded by thick walls. Bishop Albert had named the town thus for he intended to irrigate the dry souls of the pagans with Christianity.

  The wooden quays were crammed with boats of all shapes and sizes, from great cogs to small riverboats and barges filled with goods and manned by strange looking men with long moustaches, some with shaved heads, brightly coloured coats, most with shoulder-length hair and fur-lined hats. As Conrad walked down the gangplank following the others, languages he had never heard before – all harsh, guttural and brutal – assaulted his ears. He stared at half a dozen men unloading furs from a single-masted vessel until they noticed him and stopped what they were doing and stared back at him. He saw a cross around the neck of one of them and supposed they must be Christian, but their hard features and strange language made them seem like enemies.

  ‘Russians,’ said Rudolf beside him.

  ‘They are Christians?’

  He smiled. ‘They do not follow the teachings of our church, Conrad, or of the Pope, the voice of God on earth. They are what are called heretics.’

  The word meant nothing to Conrad and in truth he was more fascinated by their clothes and fearsome visages than their religion.

  ‘We burn heretics in Germany,’ said Anton.

  ‘That we do,’ agreed Rudolf.

  ‘Then how is it they are free to go about their business here?’ asked the youth.

  ‘They are not citizens of this town or of this land,’ said Rudolf, ‘and so are free to come and go as they please and trade their goods.’

  The boys, mercenaries, civilian workers and their families left the quay to enter the town, passing warehouses filled with fur, flax, timber, tar and hides that would be sent back to Germany for sale. Led by Rudolf and Henke they walked along dirt streets filled with fair-haired men and women dressed in brown and red tunics, leather belts and red sashes, the women also wearing red or brown woollen hats. Conrad recognised men and women dressed similarly to Lübeck’s citizens but they were in a minority. As far as he could tell all the buildings in the town were wooden with thatched roofs.

  They eventually came to Riga’s castle, a square stronghold built of stone with a square tower in each one of its four corners. Set back from the Dvina, it was surrounded by a moat filled by water from the river and accessed by means of a drawbridge. The guards standing sentry at its entrance bore two keys on their shields to symbolise St Peter, the first patron of Riga. The foundations of the cathedral that would be built in his honour had already been laid in the centre of the town.

  Inside the spacious castle the new arrivals were lodged in the wing given over to the Sword Brothers, for though Riga was the possession of the Bishop of Riga it was also the headquarters of the bishop’s military order. Thus the brothers had their own stables, armoury, offices and quarters in the castle, though their numbers were dwarfed by the size of the town garrison. However, when it came to quality the Sword Brothers were far superior.

  Conrad and his companions were shown to a first-floor dormitory in the castle’s north wing, while the civilians and their families were quartered beneath them on the ground floor. The mercenaries were lodged in one of the towers. The arrangement was not particularly satisfactory but they would only be staying in Riga for two days at most before leaving for Wenden.

  Rudolf left Henke to supervise the youths while he went to see Grand Master Volquin, the head of the S
word Brothers whose office was in the castle’s northwest tower. There were only half a dozen brother knights in Riga’s castle and a score of sergeants. It was a purely symbolic presence – the Sword Brothers were needed on the Livonian frontier fighting the heathens. Rudolf walked up the steep tower steps to the second floor where two sergeants of his order stood sentry outside the grand master’s office. They wore surcoats resembling his own and steel kettle helmets on their heads. The men saluted when Rudolf announced himself and said he wished to see the grand master. One knocked on the door and entered when ordered to do so. Moments later he reappeared and told Rudolf that Grand Master Volquin would see him.

  Rudolf closed the door behind him and bowed his head. ‘Grand Master.’

  Volquin rose from behind his desk and extended his hand. Rudolf took it and Volquin gestured for him to sit in the chair in front of his desk.

  ‘I trust your trip was uneventful.’

  Rudolf sat down. ‘It was until the Oeselians paid us a visit two days out from Riga.’

  Volquin walked over to a small table and poured wine into two silver cups, handing one to Rudolf before he retook his seat.

  ‘Olaf’s raiders become ever more troublesome. Did you suffer many losses?’

  ‘None of consequence.’

  Volquin placed his cup on his desk and rubbed his thick beard. Some five years older than Rudolf, his fierce stare and black hair and beard made him look much older. He had headed the Sword Brothers for less than a year and the burden of his office was already bearing heavily upon him.

  ‘Unfortunately I have news that is of consequence to our cause. In your absence the Estonians launched a great raid against our northern domains and killed several hundred civilians, together with a hundred local levies, fifteen of our sergeants and two brother knights.’

  ‘The work of Lembit, I assume.’