The Sword Brothers

by Peter Darman

  ‘When and what you can eat are laid down in the rules of the Sword Brothers,’ Rudolf informed them on their first morning at Wenden. ‘You may eat meat three days a week and fish on Fridays. All your other meals will consist of vegetables, beans, broths, bread and fruit.’

  Hans raised a hand. ‘Excuse me, sir, but did you say meat?’

  ‘That is correct, Hans,’ Rudolf replied, ‘but only three times a week.’

  Hans began grinning like an idiot at the others. He had hardly ever tasted meat and had grown accustomed to going for days at a time without any food at all. And now he was not only going to be fed regularly but would also dine on meat. Meat! He could have wept with joy.

  He had to control his eagerness as the brother knights ate first in the dining hall followed by the sergeants, the boys, who were now designated novices, eating last. But when they did sit down they found ample food to fill their bellies.

  ‘This is easy enough,’ remarked Bruno.

  ‘Praying and eating,’ added Johann. ‘My friends we have fallen upon good fortune.’

  And then they met Brother Lukas.

  After breakfast Rudolf took them down into the large compound below the castle where mercenaries were shooting their crossbows at targets and spearmen were practising their drills. The day was warm with a slight westerly breeze blowing. They walked to a quiet area where a man of medium height with broad shoulders, thick arms and a powerful neck was standing beside a two-wheeled cart hitched to a mule. Rudolf told the novices to stand in a line and then went over to greet his fellow brother knight.

  ‘This is Brother Lukas,’ he told them. ‘I will leave you in his capable hands.’

  He nodded to Lukas and then took his leave. Conrad looked at Lukas. He looked more like a blacksmith than a knight. Lukas rubbed his neatly trimmed beard.

  ‘My name is Brother Lukas and my task is to teach you how to fight.’ His voice was calm but forceful. ‘Brother Rudolf has acquainted me with your backgrounds, what he knows of them, and he believes that you can all be turned into soldiers.’

  The youths puffed out their chests with pride at this announcement. Lukas scratched the back of his head.

  ‘Though no one is infallible, of course, aside from His Holiness the Pope.’

  He walked over to the back of the cart and picked up a bundle of swords, brought them back and handed one to each novice. Conrad grasped the grip of his sword and moved it in the air. He had never held a sword before. It was lighter than he expected and finally balanced. He admired the silver-grey blade and its point and imagined what destruction he could wreak with such a weapon.

  Lukas drew his own sword and held it at arm’s length before him.

  ‘The sword will be your principal weapon. You will learn to use it to kill an opponent quickly and mercilessly. Pay attention because in a fight if you do something wrong you die. Now give me those swords back, they are far too valuable to be used as training tools for novices.’

  He collected the blades and placed them back in the cart and brought back wooden swords, giving one to each boy and keeping one for himself.

  ‘They are called “wasters”,’ he informed them.

  Conrad looked at his replica sword. It had a blade shaped like a real sword plus a grip, pommel and guard.

  ‘These will be your close companions for the next few months. During that time you will learn to use them with knowledge, dexterity and cunning.’

  He stepped forward to face Bruno, pointing at his wooden sword. ‘Attack me.’

  Bruno glanced at Johann standing to his left. ‘Now!’ bellowed Lukas.

  Bruno, startled, swung his sword clumsily at Lukas who blocked the blow with his own waster.

  ‘Wasters are able to withstand use and abuse while leaving the expensive steel weapons for real combat.’

  Lukas then stood before Johann and told him to attack him. Johann, thinking to catch Lukas off-guard, thrust his waster forward at Lukas’ chest, but the knight deftly moved aside and then struck Johann hard on the top of his right arm with the flat of his waster, causing the youth to drop his own weapon.

  ‘Wasters have all the attributes of a real sword: flat blade, guard, grip and pommel. They are not clubs.’

  Johann rubbed his arm and Lukas told him to pick up his weapon before moving to stand before Anton, instructing the youth to strike him with his sword. Anton brought his sword up and shouted as he attempted to bring it down on Lukas’ head. But the knight brushed the blow aside with his own waster before flicking his wrist to bring the edge of his wooden sword against Johann’s neck.

  ‘With a waster when you make contact the target will not be injured or unduly hurt.’

  Conrad was decidedly nervous when Lukas stepped in front of him, expecting to be likewise struck by the knight’s wooden sword. But instead he was asked a question.

  ‘Three men stand before you: a rich man, a poor man and a swordsman. Which of them is the wealthiest?’

  ‘The rich man, sir,’ answered Conrad.

  Lukas stepped back to address them all. ‘The rich man has money, it is true, but he has no wealth because he has no strength or skill. The poor man has strength of body but no money or skill. But the swordsman has skill and strength and is thus the wealthiest of all for he can use his sword and preserve his life, the most valuable gift known to man.’

  And so their training began. Using their wasters they trained for hours each day under the watchful eye of Lukas. They learned how to use their swords to kill opponents quickly, to sidestep, duck, dodge and feint to avoid an enemy’s sword, and to deflect an opponent’s sword blow instead of blocking it. Above all they were instructed to keep moving.

  ‘If you remain stationary the enemy can harm you,’ Lukas told them, striking anyone who stopped moving.

  They returned to the dormitory with aching limbs and bruised bodies and every night slept like the dead. They consumed their generous meals like ravenous wolves and always seemed to be hungry. They attended prayers and then went back to their training, all the time the eagle-eyed Lukas picking up their failings and pointing out mistakes with a sharp, painful blow with his waster.

  ‘Keep moving!’ he shouted as the rain lashed them and their clothing became drenched.

  Conrad was fighting Rudolf, who parried his every strike with consummate ease. He held his waster in his right hand and let his left hand hang by his side. He was tired, wet and cold. He flinched as a sharp pain went through his left wrist. He spun round to see Lukas behind him.

  ‘How many times have I told you: keep your free hand behind your back. If your free hand is not holding a shield or a weapon it is just another target.’

  Lukas hit Conrad again, this time on the back of the thigh with the flat of his waster’s blade.

  ‘Keep moving.’

  The days turned into weeks and the training was unrelenting. Everything and everyone else became a blur as sword fighting filled the minds of Conrad and his fellow novices. Their first thoughts were about fighting, they spent their days fighting and their dreams were filled with swords and fighting. The days became longer and warmer as spring gave way to summer and still there was no let-up in their training.

  At the end of one particularly gruelling day, as they lay in their beds having spent the whole afternoon in duels with brother knights, in which Conrad had received waster blows to every part of his body, he just wanted to close his eyes and forget the pain caressing his body.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Hans beside him, propped up on one elbow.

  ‘Go to sleep,’ pleaded Conrad as his eyelids closed.

  ‘Why are we exercising so hard?’

  ‘So we can defend ourselves,’ said Conrad, drifting off to sleep.

  ‘Defend ourselves from what?’ queried Hans, ‘where are these enemy pagans we have heard so much about?’

  There was no answer. Conrad and the others had taken refuge in blessed sleep, which would seemingly last an instant before they were called
once more to the chapel at dawn.

  *****

  The warriors were waiting on the bank as the riverboat eased onto the sandbank and two soldiers jumped from the vessel. The warriors, mostly spearmen carrying round wooden shields and armed with spears and axes, stood motionless as Prince Vsevolod was assisted from the boat by two of his soldiers and walked towards them.

  The prince’s men were more heavily armoured than the hundred or so motionless warriors, being attired in hemispherical iron helmets, mail neck protectors termed barmitsa, kuyaks – leather vests with overlapping steel plates on the outside – and almond-shaped shields painted blue and bearing red Byzantine crosses. More of the prince’s men clustered around him as they got out of the boat, and were reinforced by a score more as another boat ran up on the sandbank and disgorged its occupants. But they were still greatly outnumbered.

  There was movement among the warriors facing the prince and his soldiers and a stocky man pushed aside two men in the front rank and marched up to the prince. Their appearances could hardly have been more different. The prince was dressed in a long crimson tunic with narrow wrist-length sleeves and a high-cut neckline, over which was a white dalmatica that was shorter than the tunic but which had wide, straight sleeves and was belted at the waist. A rich purple cloak lined with fox fur was clasped on his right shoulder. His embroidered green boots completed his opulent appearance.

  The only thing he had in common with the man he faced was that they both sported thick beards, though his was much darker. The fair-haired man wore a simple knee-length green tunic edged with red, brown leggings and boots and a functional brown leather belt around his waist. Only two things indicated that he was a man of standing: his sword in its richly decorated scabbard and his gold, jewel-encrusted belt buckle. He took off his helmet and passed it to one of his men and then stepped forward to embrace the prince.

  ‘Welcome, son.’

  His warriors began cheering and banging their spear shafts on the insides of their shields as the prince embraced his father-in-law and then stepped back.

  ‘Hail, Grand Duke Daugerutis, Lithuania’s greatest warlord.’

  More cheering erupted as the duke’s men chanted his name and he led the prince away with his arm around the younger man’s shoulders. They walked to where Daugerutis’ bodyguard waited on their horses, the grand duke and the prince mounting horses that were being held for them and then trotting down the dirt track with their escort following. They rode for some miles before they came to the duke’s stronghold, a great wooden hill fort with an outer wall containing ten towers and an inner stronghold containing a hall, barracks, storerooms and four towers in each corner, flags displaying the bear symbol of the grand duke fluttering from the top of every one.

  The visit of Prince Vsevolod occasioned the gathering of all the princes, chiefs and village elders in the grand duke’s considerable domain. Lithuania was a tribal land of dense forests, lakes and rivers controlled by a small number of dukes, under which were a greater number of princes who swore allegiance to their duke. At least that was the theory. Weak dukes held little sway over their princes and were often deposed and killed when an upstart prince decided that he should be duke. Those dukes who were feared and respected had the absolute loyalty of their princes. And the most feared of all was Grand Duke Daugerutis.

  His loyal lieutenants gathered in his hall to welcome his gaudily dressed son-in-law who was married to his only daughter. The hall stank of their sweat as Vsevolod took his place on the top table on the right hand of Daugerutis, his bearded, raucous son on his other side. Most of the men sitting on benches at tables were already drunk as women ferried great serving jugs from the kitchens to satisfy their seemingly unquenchable thirst. They swore oaths, just swore, slapped each other on the back and banged their fists on the table as the Prince of Gerzika viewed them with distaste. He had always believed that civilisation ended and barbarity began at the Dvina and every visit to his father-in-law reinforced his belief. That the Lithuanians were strong and free only increased his resentment and jealousy.

  Daugerutis rose and spread his arms, calling for silence. The din in the hall died away as every pair of eyes turned to him. He picked up his cup and raised it to the assembly.

  ‘To your health, brothers.’ He then drank from his cup and handed it to Vsevolod. Drinks were always passed to the right in imitation of the spring seeding, when the grain was always sprinkled on the right side. In this way the gods would look favourably upon the gathering.

  Vsevolod took the cup, rose, toasted the gathered lords and then drank from the cup. There was loud cheering and thumping of tables and then everyone drained their own cups and called for more drink.

  The grand duke said nothing to his son-in-law as slaves brought a platter holding a loaf of black rye bread to the top table but he knew why he was here. It had been a year since the Christian Bishop Albert and his army of crusaders had stormed the city of Gerzika, the formerly impregnable fortress on the banks of the Dvina, and captured the wife and daughters of Prince Vsevolod, the prince having escaped, some say fled, from the crusaders and their siege engines. The price he paid to get his family and city back was to swear fealty to the bishop and become his servant. And ever since that time he had pestered the grand duke to lead a great army over the Dvina to destroy the bishop’s army.

  The slave laid the platter holding the bread before the grand duke and once again the hall fell silent. The cutting of bread held deep significance among the Lithuanians and the drunken men with their beer-soaked beards watched intently as the grand duke took his knife and cut a slice off the black loaf. Vsevolod looked on with barely concealed contempt as he witnessed at first hand this absurd pagan ritual. The grand duke gave the slice to his married son with wishes that his firstborn would be a son. The duke ensured that the cut end of the loaf was not pointing towards the hall’s entrance, for it was widely believed that if it did the aforementioned first son would be born mad. Satisfied that the loaf had been cut correctly the elders and princes went back to their drinking.

  Slaves brought cooked meat from the kitchens, mostly huge steaks and ribs of wild boar that had been hunted and killed in the days before the feast. They also brought cauldrons filled with juka – blood soup – and ladled it into large wooden bowls. Vsevolod may have believed that the Lithuanians were backward pagans but they knew how to feed their guests. He loved the surprisingly edible black bread and the juka containing boar blood, rye flour, bay leaves, salt and mint, dipping the bread in the soup and shoving it greedily into his mouth. And Lithuanian beer was far better than the Russian equivalent.

  The morning after the feast, as bleary eyed elders and princes wandered around the hill fort, occasionally supporting themselves against a wall to throw up the contents of their guts, the grand duke requested the presence of Vsevolod in his hall. The latter had also drunk too much the day before and was feeling delicate as guards opened the doors of the hall and he stepped inside. He almost threw up as the foul stench of sweat, vomit and the rancid odour of yesterday’s cooking assaulted his nostrils. The grand duke gestured for him to retake his seat at the top table. Slave girls fussed around cleaning up the mess left by the feast, their eyes cast down in deference to their masters.

  ‘Keep the doors open,’ Daugerutis shouted at the guards. ‘Let some air in.’

  Vsevolod smiled weakly at him as he flopped down into his chair and the grand duke ordered a slave to serve his guest some water.

  ‘Or would you prefer beer?’ he asked.

  A wave of nausea came over Vsevolod again as he waved a hand at the grand duke and nodded to the slave girl holding the jug to pour him some water. He gratefully took a swig and caught sight of a man standing near the end of the top table. Tall, handsome in a rustic way, he had blonde hair and beard, broad shoulders and carried a long sword in a red scabbard on his left hip. One of the grand duke’s bodyguard, Vsevolod assumed. The grand duke waved him over. Daugerutis’ son was nowhere to
be seen. Laid low by a hangover, no doubt.

  ‘You said in your letter that you see an opportunity to attack the bishop’s lands, my son,’ he said to Vsevolod.

  ‘It is true, lord,’ answered Vsevolod, ‘if your warriors cross the Dvina at Kokenhusen they will reap a rich harvest.’

  Kokenhusen, positioned on the north bank of the river some fifty miles west of Gerzika, was formerly the stronghold of Prince Vetseke, a Liv who had fought the Bishop of Riga and lost. Now he was in exile and his stronghold was in crusader hands.

  ‘The crusaders are building a stone fortress at Kokenhusen,’ said the grand duke, ‘and we have no engines that can be used to batter down its walls.’

  ‘Those walls are as yet unfinished,’ replied Vsevolod, who was curious as to why this blonde-haired warrior was standing before them. ‘And the garrison of Kokenhusen is but small. A large force of warriors could take it with ease.’

  ‘You forget,’ said the grand duke, ‘that soon the bishop will return with an army of crusaders. It has been the same every summer for these past few years. When he does reinforcements can be sent downriver to Kokenhusen easily enough.’

  Vsevolod finished his water and smiled. ‘The crusaders cannot be in two places at the same time, lord. My spies inform me that the Estonians are about to launch a great war to the north that will absorb the crusaders’ attention. The tiny garrison of Kokenhusen is on its own.’

  ‘Your spies are reliable?’ asked the grand duke.

  Vsevolod smiled maliciously. ‘I have paid them well enough and they have many contacts among the Livs who strain under the bishop’s rule. When the Estonians attack there are many Livs who will rise up to throw off the crusader yoke. Assailed from the north and from within, the crusader strength will be shattered. It will be the perfect time to strike.’