The Sword Brothers

by Peter Darman

  ‘You will take part in the assault today?’ said Rameke, his long hair under his helmet.

  ‘We are to spend the day heaping dung into wheelbarrows,’ replied Conrad bitterly.

  Rameke looked at him with sympathy. ‘Almost as bad as patrolling empty forests.’

  ‘You have seen no Estonians?’

  Rameke shook his head. ‘We spend our time walking among trees, hoping to see the enemy, but the only activity is the odd elk. Perhaps today will be different.’ He looked at the line of spearmen heading out of camp. ‘I have to go.’

  Conrad extended his hand. ‘God go with you.’

  Rameke smiled and clasped his forearm. ‘You too, my friend.’

  That morning the besiegers moved a ‘cat’ – a protective shed on wheels with a V-shaped roof – across the log bridge spanning the moat so that a team of engineers equipped with picks and shovels could remove part of the fort’s sloping rampart. In this way the siege tower could be pushed up against the wall. Once more the crossbowmen behind their mantlets shot at any Estonians who showed themselves on the battlements and tried to throw spears or rocks down on the cat.

  Thaddeus kept his machines throwing stones against the towers and walls at a desultory rate in order to conserve their ammunition. Sir Frederick grew bored at waiting around for a second day and took out his frustration on a squire, beating the poor lad senseless before Master Berthold interceded. The lord’s humour was not improved when he and his knights retired to his tent to eat a midday meal and was informed that his own warhorse had died of exposure. By the end of the day sufficient earth had been removed from the hillock to allow the siege tower to be moved forward the next morning. Thalibald and his men returned after dusk to report they had seen no Estonians.

  The new day dawned bright and frosty, the siege tower finally moving forward towards the fort. The defenders swelled the ramparts and placed all their few archers on the southern wall to shoot at the great wooden monster as it inched its way towards them. Lukas ordered the boys to stay with Master Thaddeus at the trebuchet as Sir Frederick and his knights stood on the top platform of the tower. Conrad saw Master Berthold and the brother knights standing to his left, together with the order’s sergeants, the latter holding scaling ladders at the ready. He felt a tingle of excitement ripple through him. If only he could be allowed to join them.

  The crossbowmen behind their mantlets were once again directing their bolts against the defenders, who had nailed planks to the top of the battlements in an effort to provide additional cover for their warriors. The defenders now knew that the main assault would be directed against the southern wall and so had lined the western wall with only a few men. But it was from that direction that the mangonels began shooting new projectiles – barrels of burning tar. Conrad saw pillars of black smoke billowing up into the ice-blue sky from within the fort. He looked at Thaddeus in confusion.

  ‘Barrels of burning tar shot into the fort to set fire to the buildings,’ said Thaddeus. ‘The defenders will have to take men from the walls to extinguish them. Either that or let them burn.’

  The mangonels facing the fort’s south side were still shooting rocks at what was left of the towers, which had all lost their roofs and had their timber supports smashed and splintered. The trebuchet had stopped shooting as the siege tower was now between it and the fort. The closed drawbridge at the front of its top platform meant that Sir Frederick and his men were safe from enemy missiles as the tower was pushed forward by fifty spearmen in and behind its base. Conrad watched admiringly as the tower creaked and groaned as it approached the moat at an agonisingly slow pace. More knights stood on the climbing frame at the rear of the tower, shields strapped on their backs and armed with a variety of swords, short axes and maces.

  The black smoke coming from within the fort increased as more flaming barrels found their targets. But the number of defenders on the southern wall showed no signs of lessening. The tower was now across the log bridge and against the wall, and suddenly the drawbridge crashed down onto the timber palisade and Sir Frederick led the charge on to the ramparts. Cries and screams carried across the battlefield as a bloody mêlée took place on the battlements. Then there was a cry of ‘God with us!’ and the Sword Brothers raced forward.

  Conrad thought that the Estonians would be crushed with ease as a white tide of brother knights and sergeants flooded forward, swept down into the ditch and then placed their assault ladders against the timber walls. He and the other boys began cheering as the order’s soldiers scaled the ladders and began hacking at the warriors above with their swords. Crossbow bolts picked off defenders and Conrad saw knights ascending the rungs at the back of the tower as those ahead of them reached the platform and reinforced Sir Frederick fighting on the walls. The fort was falling!

  The quartermaster appeared by the side of Thaddeus, a huge fat man with an ill-fitting gambeson, bushy white beard and a ruddy complexion.

  ‘I need these boys to carry spare quivers to the crossbowmen,’ he said unceremoniously.

  ‘Brother Lukas left me in charge of them,’ said Thaddeus, somewhat flustered. ‘I don’t think he wants them placed in danger.’

  The quartermaster spat on the ground. ‘If the fort doesn’t fall soon we will all be in danger.’ He pointed at the boys. ‘You all follow me.’

  Conrad did nothing. He looked at Thaddeus, who merely shrugged.

  ‘Now!’ bellowed the quartermaster. ‘I will take full responsibility,’ he said to Thaddeus.

  For such a large man he moved remarkably sprightly as he led the boys to a sleigh fifty paces to the rear of the trebuchet. He pulled back the canvas cover behind the driver’s seat to reveal neatly packed rows of quivers holding quarrels. He pointed at the crossbowmen behind the mantlets, most of whom were no longer shooting but were looking expectantly at where the boys were standing.

  ‘They have run out of ammunition, see?’ said the quartermaster. ‘Here, take these and give them to the crossbowmen.’

  He held out four quivers to Conrad, who took them in his arms. ‘And don’t drop them. Off you go.’

  Conrad clutched the quivers close to his chest and ran towards two crossbowmen crouched behind their mantlet. Fierce fighting was still raging on the walls and occasionally the body of an Estonian or crusader would fall to the ground to add to the piles of bodies that were collecting at the foot of the wall. Thick black smoke was now billowing into the sky from burning buildings inside the fort.

  Conrad threw himself behind the mantlet, between the two crossbowmen, who looked at him with amusement.

  ‘A wasted trip, lad.’ Conrad recognised the distinctive features of leather face who cocked his head towards the fort. ‘Too many of each side mixed up to get a clear shot.’ He took two of the quivers. ‘Still, these might come in useful if our soldiers have to retreat.’

  Conrad handed the other two quivers to leather face’s companion. ‘You think that is likely?’

  ‘Not now we are on the walls,’ said leather face, ‘just a matter of time now.’

  But he was wrong, and after two hours of battling on the walls, in which dozens of Estonians were killed along with thirty spearmen, four knights and three brother knights and eight sergeants of the Sword Brothers, the fort had still not fallen. The defenders eventually abandoned the southern wall and retreated to another inner wall that was set back twenty paces from the outer wall. It was shorter and had no towers but the defenders gathered behind it and prepared to repel the crusaders. But the latter consolidated their hold on the outer wall and did not launch any more attacks. Night fell and Fellin still defied the crusaders.

  Sir Frederick had suffered numerous wounds during the fighting, though none appeared to be serious. Nevertheless, an axe blow had cut through his mail hauberk and inflicted a nasty arm wound and a spear thrust had pierced his mail chausses. He would not be taking part in the next day’s fighting. Rudolf, Henke and Lukas were still capable of fighting, though Henke was most upset t
hat an axe had dented the face mask of his helmet, a blow that had broken his nose. Conrad and the other boys had been ordered to attend the surgeons in the medical tent after the battle where Henke sat on a bench holding a bloody cloth over his nose. Conrad and Hans carried in a charcoal brazier using long metal handles.

  ‘Over here and quick about it,’ snapped one of the surgeons who was extracting pieces of chain mail from Sir Frederick’s arm wound. The knight sat in a chair near Henke and winced as the surgeon yanked a shard of metal out of his flesh with pliers.

  ‘Apologies, my lord.’

  Conrad and Hans set down the brazier. Sir Frederick looked at Conrad.

  ‘What is your name, boy?’

  ‘Conrad Wolff, sir.’

  The surgeon placed one of his cauterising irons, which had a wedge-shaped end like a ship’s prow designed for treating wounds inflicted by spear thrusts, in the coals of the brazier.

  ‘Are you a squire?’

  ‘No, sir, a novice of the Sword Brothers.’

  Henke removed his bloody bandage. ‘In his short time with us Conrad has saved the life of one of our brother knights and wounded Lembit himself, my lord.’

  Sir Frederick was most impressed. ‘Excellent! Give him a sword and he can stand beside me tomorrow when we finish off the enemy. Would you like that, young Conrad?’

  ‘Yes, lord,’ beamed Conrad as the surgeon took the red-hot iron out of the fire and used the head to burn the raw edges of the wound. Beads of sweat formed on Sir Frederick’s forehead and he shook to contain his emotions as intense pain shot through him. He waved Conrad away as the surgeon looked with satisfaction at his handiwork.

  The next morning the Estonians surrendered.

  The deluge of quarrels, stones and barrels of pitch, in addition to the heavy fighting on the walls, had thinned the numbers of the garrison to such an extent that the fort’s commander thought it futile to continue. He sent an emissary to Master Berthold as the crusader army once more deployed to assault the fort. A sizeable number of soldiers had been left in the siege tower during the night to prevent it from being burnt by Fellin’s occupants but also to shoot at any Estonians that showed themselves. This meant that the fires inside the fort could not be extinguished and so half of its shelters and stores went up in flames.

  The morning dawned cold and grey, the sky heaped with leaden clouds that blocked out the sun and promised snow. After a brief meeting to discuss the situation Master Berthold sent the emissary back to the fort with his terms. They were generous: the garrison was to accept baptism and promise not to take up arms against Christians in the future. The survivors would be allowed to remain at Fellin rather than being taken south as captives; they would also keep what was left of their food supplies. Sir Frederick thought this over-charitable but his wound was still painful and so he and the other crusaders grumbled but did not protest.

  Priests were sent into the fort to sprinkle the buildings and occupants with holy water by way of baptism, after which the bodies of those killed were collected. The Estonians cremated their dead but Master Berthold ordered that the Christian slain be taken south. Thus Conrad was one of those detailed to collect frozen corpses, wrap them in winding sheets and place them on the backs of sleighs.

  ‘I do not understand,’ he said to Lukas as he and Hans hauled another dead spearman onto a sleigh. They had already stripped the corpse and taken the man’s armour and weapons to the quartermaster.

  ‘What don’t you understand?’ said Lukas.

  ‘Why can’t the dead be buried here, where they fell?’

  Lukas wrapped his cloak around him as the first flecks of snow began to fall. ‘Because Master Berthold wants the dead to be buried in consecrated ground, not left here to be dug up and burnt by the Estonians.’

  Hans was appalled. ‘Dug up?’

  Lukas nodded. ‘Yes, Hans. The Estonians consign their own dead to the fires and would not think twice about exhuming our dead once we have left and throwing them onto a fire. An act of desecration that we are not prepared to allow to happen.’

  The flecks of snow had now turned to large flakes that were falling at a steady rate. Lukas looked up into the sky.

  ‘If this carries on it will be a hard journey back to Wenden.’

  And so it was.

  The trebuchet and mangonels were dismantled and their constituent parts stowed on sleighs, the siege tower was set on fire, and by midday the camp had been dismantled and the journey south commenced. The army only managed three hours of travel the first day and covered only five miles, but Master Berthold, having achieved what he set out to accomplish, was eager to be away before a relief army appeared. The crusaders had eaten half their food supplies, half their horses had died and their numbers had been depleted by deaths in battle, frostbite and injuries inflicted by the enemy. This meant that of the three hundred and fifty fighting men who had set out from Wenden only two hundred were fit for duty. The men of the Sword Brothers were well provided with warm clothing but those crusaders who had come from Germany suffered terribly in the cold, their fingers turning black as the column made slow progress south.

  The snow fall got heavier by the hour so that the rate of advance barely exceeded five miles a day, Conrad and the other boys assisting in digging through high snow drifts that had to be cleared before the column could move forward. Thalibald still sent out patrols, his men fashioning snowshoes from branches interwoven with cords to allow them to walk across the thick snow. After three days he ordered that his men cease their patrols and help with clearing paths for the sleighs. And still it snowed.

  On the fourth day from Fellin Lukas ordered Conrad to attend Sir Frederick, whose wound had worsened and who now sat on a sleigh wrapped in furs shivering. His eyes were black-ringed and sunken and he had developed a hacking cough that shook his whole body. His squire was dead, he had lost his horse and, it seemed to Conrad, all hope. That night Conrad took hot porridge to his tent after ensuring the noble was wrapped in dry furs. His shaking had abated somewhat and there was a semblance of colour in his cheeks but he now had difficulty moving his wounded arm. After he had finished eating the surgeon came and examined and dressed his wound. Sir Frederick asked him how it was healing and was informed as well as inspected. After the man had left Sir Frederick told Conrad to fetch him some wine.

  ‘He’s lying, of course,’ he said, draining his cup and holding it out for Conrad to fill. ‘I could see it in his eyes. Bloody butchers. All they can do is cut and saw in the hope that they can cure you. Useless idiots.’

  Conrad stood holding the flask of wine, ready to fill the knight’s cup again.

  ‘Where are you from, Conrad?’ said Sir Frederick, squirming uncomfortably in his chair.

  ‘Lübeck, lord.’

  ‘A most prosperous city. Why would you leave it to come to this bleak land of ice and pagans?’

  Conrad felt reluctant to speak of his misfortune. ‘It is a long story, lord.’

  Sir Frederick held out his cup. ‘Fill it up and get another flask. As I am in pain and cannot sleep your tale can make me forget about my miserable condition, unless you want me to inform Brother Lukas that you have been insubordinate.’

  So Conrad stood and told the knight about the death of his family, how fate had brought him into contact with Rudolf and Henke and how he had travelled back with them to Livonia. Sir Frederick sat in his chair, drank and nodded his head as Conrad relayed his tale. When he had finished the knight did not speak but sat with his head down, running a finger around the rim of his cup. At last he spoke.

  ‘I have done the things that were committed against your family. I have raped, killed and robbed with impunity because I am a lord and those I wronged were poor and uneducated.’

  He looked at Conrad. ‘How many sons who have lost their parents and siblings now curse the name Sir Frederick of Tangermünde?’

  He now looked deathly pale in the ghostly glow cast by the thin candles on the small table beside him.
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br />   ‘Do you know why I took the cross and came on crusade in Livonia?’

  ‘No, lord.’

  He winced as pain shot through his arm. ‘To cleanse my soul. To atone for my sins. To kill pagans is a great deed in God’s eyes and to fall while on crusade is to guarantee a place in heaven. Or so the priests tell me.’

  He looked at Conrad. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘The Sword Brothers teach that it is so, lord.’

  Sir Frederick emitted a low laugh. ‘Let me tell you about the Sword Brothers, young Conrad. They may wear the mantle of Christian knights but for the most part they are ruthless killers who learned their trade as mercenaries in Germany. Rudolf Kassel was known in northern Germany for being the brutal leader of a mercenary band before he became deputy commander at Wenden. Did you know that?’

  Conrad shook his head. Sir Frederick waved a hand at him.

  ‘It matters not now. But he will have to slay many pagans before God looks favourably on him, that much is certain.’

  The next day, after he had packed away Sir Frederick’s tent and belongings and assisted him into the sleigh next to the driver, Conrad once more joined his young companions as they shovelled snow aside to clear a path for the column. Even though they were now travelling through a large forest it was still snowing and the drifts were long and deep. It was exhausting work and reduced the rate of advance to a snail’s pace. Horses were collapsing from exhaustion and could not rise, so had their throats cut for a merciful end. Even a few of the ponies expired and some of the sleighs had to be abandoned. Conrad and the others resembled snowmen as they toiled in their white capes and hoods. He was delighted to have the company of Rameke one morning, both of them heaping snow from the track onto the verges. His friend was in a sombre mood.