by Peter Darman
Rusticus nodded and turned to go but then stopped.
‘What about Olaf’s son?’
Lembit sat back down in his chair. ‘Send him in.’
Rusticus strode towards the door.
‘And shut the gates,’ Lembit called after him.
He called over the head of the hall, a wiry man in his sixties, and ordered him to bring beer for him and his guest. The man bowed and then scuttled away. Moments later four wolf shields escorted the son of Olaf into the hall, each of them clad in mail shirts and wearing helmets. They were heavily armed with short spears, swords and daggers, the man they flanked having had his weapons taken from him before entering the hall. He would also have been searched to ensure he carried no hidden weapons. When the party halted a few paces from Lembit two of the guards walked forward to stand either side of their chief, leaving the other two to guard the son of Olaf. The latter was a tall, slim man in his twenties, blonde haired with a round, clean-shaven face, which was unusual for an Oeselian. He bowed his head at Lembit.
‘Greetings Lembit, Grand Warlord of the Saccalian people. My name is Sigurd, second son of Olaf, King of the Oeselians.’
The head of the hall returned with a female slave carrying a tray holding two wooden cups of beer. Lembit waved her forward to offer one to Sigurd. He took it and then she proffered the tray to Lembit, who took the remaining cup. Without taking his eyes off Olaf’s son he lifted the cup to his mouth and took a sip of beer, Sigurd toasting his host before also tasting the liquid.
‘My father sends his greetings to you also,’ said Sigurd, not knowing quite what to make of the Estonian leader sitting before him.
Lembit smiled wryly. ‘That would be the same King Olaf who has spent most of his reign raiding the shores of Estonia, killing, burning and taking away women and children to be his slaves.’
Sigurd looked decidedly uneasy as he took another sip of beer, the unblinking eyes of Lembit upon him, while from behind the great figure of Rusticus entered the hall and sauntered over to stand behind Lembit. With a hand on the hilt of his large sword, he curled his lip at the young man squirming before him.
‘What you say is true, lord,’ replied Sigurd. ‘The Oeselians and Estonians have always fought each other. It is the way of things. But now my father seeks to put aside our enmity so that we may forge an alliance.’
Rusticus laughed derisively but Lembit said nothing as he studied the young man before him.
‘Why should I listen to you?’ he said at length. ‘You state correctly that Estonians and Oeselians have always fought each other. Why should I not kill you now without a second thought?’
‘If you did then my father would still have three sons and many longships with which to carry on the war between our two peoples that seemingly has no end. But while we slaughter each other a greater enemy threatens the very existence of our two peoples.’
‘What enemy?’ asked Lembit, already knowing the answer.
Sigurd kept his eyes fixed on Lembit and ignored the brute standing behind him. ‘The crusaders. How long will it be before they are standing outside the walls of this very hall or landing their ships on my father’s island?’
‘The crusaders may take your island and butcher its inhabitants,’ sneered Rusticus, ‘but they will never take this fort. Are you so ignorant that you have not heard of Grand Warlord Lembit’s great victory over the crusaders? They shit their leggings at the mere mention of his name.’
Lembit held up a hand to silence his deputy and continued to observe Sigurd, who turned up the corner of his mouth at the outburst of Rusticus.
‘We have all heard of Lord Lembit’s victory and the inspiration it gives to all those fighting the crusaders. But the truth is that every year more and more of them land at Riga and soon more ships will bring this year’s crusader army to once more wage war against your people.’
‘More victims for our swords and spears,’ boasted Rusticus.
‘I am sure that is what the Livs believed when the crusaders invaded their lands,’ replied Sigurd sarcastically.
Rusticus stepped forward menacingly. ‘I will send your head back to your father.’
‘Enough!’ snapped Lembit, stopping Rusticus in his tracks and pointing behind him to indicate that his deputy should take up his original position. He then stood up.
‘Prince Sigurd, you have come here with a bold offer and one that deserves consideration. On the matter of an alliance with your father I will give you my answer after I have had time to deliberate. Before then please avail yourself of my hospitality.’
He waved forward the head of the hall. ‘Show the prince to his quarters.’
His servant bowed and then held out a hand to Sigurd, who bowed to Lembit and then followed the old man out of the hall, the guards once more flanking the Oeselian. The doors were closed behind them.
‘Do you want me to kill him?’ asked Rusticus enthusiastically.
Lembit sat back down and rubbed his beard with his hand. He felt tired after a night without sleep.
‘Certainly not. I like him. He has spirit.’
‘He’s an Oeselian,’ growled Rusticus.
‘I am aware of that,’ replied Lembit. ‘But his father is no fool and knows that there is unity in numbers. Whatever the merits of an alliance with our old enemies, there is certainly nothing to be gained from continuing to fight each other while the crusaders consolidate their strength to the south.’
‘You are not thinking of an alliance with them, are you?’ asked Rusticus incredulously.
‘I am not thinking of anything at this precise moment, mainly because your incessant interruptions are giving me a headache. Did you send out those patrols?’
Rusticus nodded.
‘Good,’ said Lembit. ‘We must not trust our young visitor too much. You may go. And close the doors behind you.’
Left alone with the fire illuminating the gloomy interior of his hall, Lembit pondered the course of action he should take during the coming weeks. He knew that a new crusader army would be landing in Livonia soon and would be marching north to avenge the defeat he had inflicted on the Sword Brothers. He also knew that to meet them in open battle would be to invite certain defeat. He knew his warriors armed with their spears and swords were no match for the men of iron on their mighty horses and their accompanying crossbowmen. And they had machines, terrible instruments capable of hurling great stones against timber walls and shattering them. Waging war against the crusaders required cunning not brute strength. He smiled to himself. But not even the mighty crusaders could be in two places at once.
He began tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. The unexpected visit of Prince Sigurd would not interrupt his plans but might in fact aid them. If the Oeselians stopped raiding Estonia then that would make available more warriors to fight the crusaders. The Rotalians, the tribe that occupied the coastal lands and who suffered most at the hands of Olaf’s deprivations, would be especially grateful and would surely be more amenable to increase their aid to him. But the Oeselians would have to earn his trust. His mind was made up.
That evening he asked Sigurd to dine with him. The meal was a modest and sober affair compared to the previous night’s festivities. Lembit sat on the top table flanked by Rusticus, who for once refrained from assaulting his innards with vast quantities of beer and food, and Sigurd. His warriors sat at benches that had been arranged at right angles to the top table. Slaves placed large pieces of roasted pork and mutton on platters on the tables along with loaves of rye bread and bowls of salted herring. Others served water and milk from great earthenware jugs. Only Sigurd and his escort were offered beer.
‘I have given your father’s offer great consideration, Prince Sigurd,’ said Lembit, ‘and have concluded that it would be prudent to agree upon a cessation of hostilities before we can think of an alliance. If your father keeps his longships away from the coast and rivers of Estonia for six months then I see no reason why an alliance cannot be forged the
reafter.’
‘I can tell my father that you are agreeable to an alliance, lord?’ asked Sigurd.
‘You may tell him that if he suspends his raiding against Estonia for a period of six months, prince, then afterwards you may return and we will discuss things further. Let us walk before we attempt to run.’
Sigurd toasted his host with his cup. He seemed pleased with the outcome. At the very least he would keep his head if nothing else. Lembit was doubtful whether Olaf would be able to keep his men from the women and children who inhabited the villages along the Baltic coast. Pillage and rape was in Oeselian blood. Still, better to try than to do nothing.
Sigurd left the next day and once he was far away from Lehola, Lembit and Rusticus rode to the hill fort of Fellin, located ten miles south. A score of warriors accompanied them, all riding ponies. These hardy beasts with their low-lying withers, wide, straight backs, muscular croups, short ears and necks had been bred in Estonia for generations. Their hardy nature and great endurance meant they could live out of doors in the summer and could survive on the minimum of fodder during the long winters.
Lembit’s party reached Fellin in two hours and was greeted by the foreign ambassador who had been alerted to the approach of the horsemen by the wolf shields on watch in the towers. Lembit dismounted and clasped the forearm of a tall man in a black tunic, tan leggings and gaiters. He had a red beard and hair that had been shaved from above the ears and was plaited from the crown to the back of his neck. The four men behind him, his escort, all wore helmets, mail armour and carried round shields and spears. Their shields carried the insignia of a black seagull.
‘Lord Torolf,’ Lembit said, ‘apologies for the delay. I had an unexpected visitor. I hope you have been well looked after.’
Torolf placed his left hand on Lembit’s shoulder. ‘We have been availing ourselves of your land’s abundance in game. A most enjoyable time.’
Lembit smiled at him. ‘Walk with me.’
They went back into the hall that was similar to the one at Lehola, albeit smaller, and sat in chairs while both groups of warriors were served with refreshments. Lembit and Torolf sat down opposite each other. The latter was an emissary of the Northern Kurs, a fierce people who lived south of the Dvina, in the west of Lithuania. He had been at Fellin for a week, during which time he and Lembit had thrashed out an alliance between their two peoples.
‘I leave tomorrow,’ said Torolf, ‘and hope to be back in Kurland within the month. After I have arrived I will finalise the details of our plan with Duke Arturus and put it in motion.’
Upon hearing of the defeat of the Sword Brothers Arturus had sent Torolf to Estonia to meet with Lembit to suggest an alliance, which the latter had readily agreed to.
‘And if the crusaders do not march against me?’ asked Lembit.
Torolf smiled mischievously. ‘These Christians believe that their god is more powerful than any others. Your defiance is an affront to them and cannot be ignored. But, to assuage any doubts you may have, even if they do not make any moves against you the Northern Kurs will still launch their offensive.’
‘The crusaders will march against me,’ said Lembit grimly. ‘Their most northerly stronghold, at Wenden, lies only seventy-five miles from this very hall.’
Torolf and his men left the next morning. Lembit escorted them east to the shores of Lake Peipus, the great inland sea that marked the boundary between Estonia and Russia. Once in Russian territory they would travel to Pskov and then southeast to Gerzika before taking boat to travel on the Dvina west to Kurland. The land was now covered in cow-wheat, marsh orchids, cotton grass and twinflowers and above them fluttered beautifully coloured butterflies: the Olive Skipper, Woodland Brown, Clouded Apollo and Lapland Ringlet. It was a land of peace and tranquillity soon to be scarred by war.
*****
Conrad stood next to Hans, both of them clutching lances, and watched as Walter the Penitent and Henke rode towards each other. The other boys stood either side of them and likewise held their breath as the two men in mail armour and riding warhorses thundered towards each other, their lances held in the ‘couched’ position: under the arm to steady them.
‘See how they are holding their lances,’ shouted Lukas behind the boys, ‘to reduce the amount of flex and increase the accuracy of the lunge.’
Both knights were wearing full-face helmets and mail suits, though neither was wearing a surcoat. They both carried shields that protected their left sides and their horses wore white caparisons bearing the insignia of the Sword Brothers.
There was a sharp crack as Walter’s lance hit Henke’s shield and splintered, Rudolf’s friend receiving a heavy blow but remaining in his saddle. The boys cheered as the two riders passed each other and Walter rode over to Conrad, threw down his broken lance shaft and held out his hand to receive another. Conrad passed him one of the four lances he was holding and grinned at Walter, who nodded and then wheeled away.
‘Come on, Henke,’ called Rudolf, who had ambled over to watch the spectacle, ‘make a fist of it.’
It was a glorious summer’s day and the castle and compound were bathed in warm sunlight. The air was sweet with the smell of grass and the ground was littered with daisies. The boys had eaten their midday meal after having completed their morning training session and now they stood on the meadow outside Wenden’s great compound as Walter and Henke took part in a joust.
Walter and Henke trotted to their starting positions once more as Lukas continued to educate his charges.
‘Note how the saddles have a high pommel and cantle that wrap around the riders. This holds the rider securely in the saddle and helps to withstand blows, both in the joust and in battle.’
The two horsemen began to trot towards each other, breaking into a canter as they couched their lances.
‘The stirrups are long so that a rider’s legs are straight as he sits in the saddle,’ shouted Lukas, ‘so he will be in a solid position to fight with a lance or a sword.’
The horses broke into a gallop, their riders ensuring they maintained a straight line and did not veer off course or cross in front of the other jouster. Once again there was a sharp crack as the lances struck shields, only his time both weapons broke and because Walter had turned his shoulder away at the last moment he was knocked from his saddle. He was thrown onto the turf as his horse raced off. Henke threw down his lance and rode after the beast – warhorses were far too valuable to be allowed to wander off into the woods. Expensive to purchase and maintain, each one consumed fifteen pounds of oats a day in addition to hay. Fortunately in the summer they could be put out to pasture, though they still required armed guards to watch over them when they were outside the compound. They also needed regular shoeing and daily grooming in addition to the girths, harnesses and other harnessing equipment they required. Every brother knight had his own horse, as did Walter, paid for by the large donation he had given the order before his arrival in Livonia.
As he dusted himself off and offered his congratulations to the returned Henke leading his horse, Walter came over to where Rudolf was talking to Lukas.
‘Brother Henke is a most capable jouster,’ he said.
‘He has had a lot of practise,’ said Rudolf, ‘though in battle rather than on the jousting fields.’
‘I hope to be able to fight alongside him against the heathen soon,’ said Walter solemnly.
‘You will get your wish,’ replied Lukas. ‘We wait only for the bishop’s arrival to continue our campaign against the Estonians.’
‘And after them the Oeselians,’ added Rudolf, smiling at Walter. ‘Plenty of heathens ready to be sent to Hell.’
‘God willing,’ replied Walter.
Lukas smiled and shook his head. He liked Walter, they all did, not only for his religious zeal but also for his willingness to get his hands dirty. He was quite prepared to muck out the horses, clean his own armour and even assist in the building of the castle, though the stonemasons guarded their domai
n jealously and would not allow anyone on their scaffolding that was not properly trained. Walter would have liked nothing more than to take his vows and join the Sword Brothers on the day of his arrival at Wenden. But the rules of the order stated that prospective brother knights had to serve a probationary period of twelve months before they were considered eligible for entry.
‘I will be a brother knight, of course,’ announced Anton a few days later while the boys were cleaning the mail armour of the brothers. ‘My family is wealthy and I have had an education. Who among us can read and write?’
Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at each other. Aside from Anton no one could read or write.
He spread out his hands. ‘So you see only I have all the qualities required to be a brother knight. The rest of you will be sergeants.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’ asked Conrad.
They were in the castle courtyard, outside the armoury, each of them in charge of a wooden barrel, inside of which was bran. In each barrel was placed a hauberk, chausses and coif. The barrel was then sealed, tipped on its side and rolled around the courtyard a dozen times, the boys racing each other around the pallets piled high with stone and trays holding mortar. In this way the bran polished the mail and the oil in it coated the metal and protected it against rust.
Conrad won the race and stood panting with his hands on his knees as the others brought their barrels to a halt beside his.
‘Brother knights ride down the enemy on the backs of their warhorses,’ said Anton, rivulets of sweat running down his face, ‘sergeants are servants who attend the knights and do not really fight.’
‘If that is true,’ queried Hans, gasping for air, ‘then why are we being trained to fight?’
Anton had no answer to his question and became irritated when Bruno and Johann insisted on addressing him as ‘sir’ for the rest of the day.
The bond that had been forged all those weeks ago on the cog grew stronger as the time passed. The things they had in common – young men alone in a foreign land, hard daily training and an all-pervading sense of adventure – outweighed their differences. In another life Anton would have looked down on Bruno and Johann and would have viewed Conrad, the boy whose father had been a murderer, with contempt. He certainly would have had nothing to do with Hans. But in this strange land they were equals, judged on their daily efforts rather than their social status. It was if their lives had been washed clean to be remade in Livonia.