The Sword Brothers
Page 26
‘This has been a wasted trip,’ he complained.
‘We captured the fort,’ said Conrad.
‘I did not dip my sword in the blood of my enemies. The son of a chief should have battle scars otherwise his warriors will not respect him.’
‘The brothers teach us that impatience is a vice,’ said Conrad, ‘and that patience is a virtue.’
Rameke was unconvinced. ‘My brother killed his first enemy when he was thirteen, Conrad, so you will appreciate my haste.’
Conrad wondered how long he would have to wait before he was trusted to carry a sword and fight beside the order’s brother knights and sergeants. At least Rameke had a sword.
He looked around. ‘It’s stopped snowing.’
Sixteen days after leaving Fellin the tired and hungry crusaders at last saw the welcome sight of Wenden Castle, its partially built towers framed against a clear blue sky.
Chapter 8
Lembit stood next to the charred and battered southern wall of Fellin, studying the blackened remains of the siege tower that the crusaders had used to assault the stronghold. Word had reached him that Fellin was under siege but he had been helpless to intervene, being on a visit to the elders of Wierland at the time. Though his wolf shields were at Lehola, a mere ten miles to the north, he had sent an urgent despatch forbidding them from making a relief attempt. Rusticus had been left in command at Lehola and the last thing he wanted was his best soldiers being killed in vain. It was now February and the crusaders were long gone. What had not disappeared was the damage to his reputation, which would have to be rebuilt in the coming year. The damage to the fort could be repaired easily enough; his prestige would take longer to restore.
He heard footsteps in the snow and turned to see his deputy approaching.
‘Where are the dead?’
Rusticus looked confused. ‘Dead, lord?’
‘The crusader dead. Where have they been interred? Unless they suffered no losses, that is.’
‘They took them back south,’ said Rusticus.
Lembit laughed grimly. ‘So we are denied the pleasure of digging them up and burning them. It appears I am to be denied any solace from this sorry episode.’
Rusticus shovelled snow with his boot. ‘We could pursue them, lord.’
Lembit rolled his eyes in despair. ‘And add to our losses? I think not. No, we will have to wait until the spring to exact payment for this outrage.’
Rusticus mumbled something under his breath.
‘You have something to say?’ Lembit said to him.
‘Apologies, lord, but we could have attempted to relieve the fort. I was but a short distance away.’
Lembit did not want to reveal to his subordinate that he did not trust him with command of an army. ‘It would not have been appropriate for you to lead the army and not I. What would the other tribal chiefs have said if you had relieved Fellin while I was away in Wierland?’
‘We will attack in the spring?’ asked Rusticus.
Lembit smiled savagely. ‘Yes, and this time we will not be alone. Time to see if our new-found allies are prepared to back up their words with warriors.’
Rusticus scraped at the snow with his boot some more. ‘You trust the Oeselians, lord?’
‘Trust has nothing to do with it. The Oeselians want to use us and we want to use them, but even the most simple-minded idiot knows that it is better to stand together than fight the Christians separately.’ He glanced at Rusticus. ‘Well, perhaps not all idiots.’
‘What do want to do with the garrison?’ asked his deputy.
Now it was Lembit’s turn to be confused. ‘The garrison?’
‘Do you want me to organise their execution?’
‘Why should I desire their execution?’
‘They surrendered rather than fighting to the death,’ shrugged Rusticus. ‘And they accepted Christian baptism.’ Rusticus spat to avert evil.
Lembit laughed. ‘You want me to kill my own soldiers because some man in a woman’s attire sprinkled them with water? No. Besides, if you kill them who will rebuild the fort?’
Rusticus thought for a moment. ‘We could execute them after they have rebuilt the fort, lord.’
‘Do you ever think about anything else other than killing?’
‘Lord?’
Lembit waved a hand at him. ‘It doesn’t matter. We go back to Lehola to organise the spring campaign with our Oeselian allies. Leave some men here to assist with the fort’s repairs. And no killing anyone.’
*****
Conrad and the others went back to their training upon their return to Wenden. It was now February and the snow fell almost every day, blanketing the land and making travel almost impossible. Inside the castle compound people cleared paths and the track of snow and in the citadel itself the courtyard was kept free of ice. But construction on the towers and walls had come to a halt until the spring. The workers and their families shivered in their huts, the peat blocks being strictly rationed now that all the firewood had been used up. Parties were sent into the forests to collect dead wood but that was only enough to provide fuel for cooking, not heating. The more so since the crusaders who had assaulted Fellin were also being accommodated within the castle grounds.
Sir Frederick was housed in Master Berthold’s quarters but his conditioned worsened. Prayers were said for him daily in the chapel but it became apparent that the hand of death was upon him. He insisted that Conrad attended him on a daily basis, which the youth found irksome at first. He would have preferred to be on the training field instead of in the room of a dying man. But the knight insisted and so did Lukas and so Conrad found himself feeding the lord hot porridge and wiping his forehead when his body was wracked by intense pain. The fire was heaped high and burned brightly but Sir Frederick was still cold and so Conrad wrapped him in furs after the surgeons had washed and dressed his stinking wound in fresh bandages and Otto recited his prayers.
When he was conscious the knight spent most of his time talking to Conrad, though not in a manner that required the youth to answer him. Otto offered to be his confessor but Sir Frederick gave him short shrift.
‘Get out, you shaven-headed crow. Go and administer to someone who is prepared to listen.’
It was the first time Conrad had seen the fierce Otto lost for words as the priest stormed from the room and slammed the door.
‘Halfwit,’ spat Sir Frederick. ‘Don’t become like him, Conrad.’
‘I hope to be a sergeant, lord, not a priest.’
‘I have butchered men, women and children and was told afterwards by priests that I was doing God’s work. Thrown innocents onto great pyres and heard their screams as the flames consumed them. Is that God’s work? I sometimes wonder. Do you think I should leave my lands and gold to the church, Conrad?’
‘I do not know, lord.’
Sir Frederick looked at him with his sunken eyes. ‘Give me an answer, boy. I command you.’
‘I think so, lord, yes,’ he answered falteringly.
‘So I can be assured of my place in heaven?’
Conrad nodded.
Sir Frederick laughed sardonically. ‘So be it, then. At the very least I will be able to go before God and ask Him why he sent a plague that killed my wife and children.’
Conrad was alarmed by the knight’s blasphemy. Sir Frederick saw his expression.
‘You think my words are impious?’
‘It is not for me to say, lord.’
Sir Frederick cackled, then shook as the pain gripped him once more. Conrad held him until the spasm had passed and then the knight slipped into unconsciousness.
The next day, as he and the other youths, together with all the sergeants, were sweeping the courtyard in a vain attempt to keep it clear of the snow that was falling heavily, Otto stood at the entrance to the master’s quarters and bellowed at Conrad to attend him. He turned and ran over to the tall priest.
‘Sir Frederick wants to see you before he dies.’
‘Sir Frederick wishes to speak to you. Be quick, his time on earth is nearly over.’
Though he had been attending Sir Frederick for many days Conrad suddenly felt nervous around him. The atmosphere in the room had changed now that the knight was close to death. He felt as though God himself was now watching the scene. Would He punish the knight for all the sacrilegious things he had said?
The knight saw Conrad and weakly lifted his hand to wave him over. The priest was administering the last rights and those around the bed had their heads bowed in reverence to a servant of the church. Conrad leaned over to hear Sir Frederick’s words.
‘I have something for you,’ his voice was weak and faltering.
One of his knights held out a sword in a scabbard to Conrad, who looked at it in surprise.
‘It is my sword,’ said Sir Frederick, ‘and I bequeath it to you, young Conrad. Learn to use it well and then hopefully God will let you kill that bastard who murdered your family. Take it.’
Conrad stepped back and took the sword offered to him. Sir Frederick smiled weakly and then closed his eyes. He cradled the sword in his arms as the knight breathed his last and everyone brought their hands together to join the priest in prayer. Rudolf moved to Conrad’s side and told him he was excused. He left the room and walked through the hall back into the courtyard. The snow had stopped and the sweepers were winning their battle to clear the courtyard.
Hans and the others saw Conrad reappear with the sword and gathered around him.
‘Where did you get that?’ enquired Anton enviously.
‘Sir Frederick gave it to me. It was his sword,’ answered Conrad.
‘Let us see it,’ said Hans.
It was in a simple scabbard of wood covered with black leather but when Conrad pulled the sword from it they all could see that it was a magnificent weapon, a lord’s weapon. The birch grip was wrapped with black leather, topped by a disc-shaped pommel in which a unicorn’s head had been etched on each side. Each of the steel arms of the cross-guard was ‘waisted’, flaring back to their original width at the ends. It had a broad and evenly tapering blade, the point curving gradually to a sharp point. The blade itself was just over thirty inches long with fullers along three-quarters of its length. It was surprisingly light and had excellent handling characteristics.
The boys stood in silence, admiring the sword, and did not see Lukas approaching.
‘I will take that.’
Conrad looked at the sword, then at the Sword Brother and his heart sank.
‘It was a gift from Sir Frederick,’ he said quietly, sliding the sword back into the scabbard.
Lukas held out his hand. ‘I know that. A noble gesture from a true knight and servant of the church. When you learn how to use it properly you can have it back. Until then it will be stored in the armoury.’
Conrad handed the sword to Lukas.
‘No one will use it but you,’ said the brother knight, ‘that I promise.’
And so Conrad went back to using a waster, training every day with the others as the snow lay thick on the ground. He and they helped to hack at the cold earth to dig Sir Frederick’s grave, the first in the area to the south of the moat designated to be Wenden’s cemetery. As February ended snow still blanketed the ground but the temperature rose slightly and the hours of daylight increased. In the middle of the month it stopped freezing and the ice on the Gauja began to break up, great floes floating downstream to make any sort of travel on the river treacherous. By the end of March the ice had gone and so had the crusaders and the bishop’s soldiers from Riga, marching south across a sodden land. The surviving siege engines were left at Wenden.
It had been nearly a year since Conrad and the others had arrived at the castle and in that time their bodies had grown stronger and fitter. They knew how to ride, wield a sword, shield and spear, had survived being under siege and had taken part in their first campaign. As Conrad reached his fifteenth birthday he wondered how his sister was faring in the convent in Lübeck. He also wondered when he would be given his sword.
*****
Vetseke stood in the cavernous interior of Polotsk’s St Sophia’s Cathedral, one of only three stone cathedrals in all Russia, the other two being at Novgorod and Kiev. He had endured a thoroughly miserable journey to reach the city, travelling in an open sleigh wrapped in furs and being lashed by biting winds. Prince Vsevolod had provided him with a small escort of a dozen soldiers, who had spent the entire journey complaining and cursing about their lot and he was glad to see the back of them. Now he stood alone, a landless prince seeking aid from the very principality he had treated with contempt not so long ago. But that had been when Kokenhusen had been a principality in its own right, an independent kingdom that answered to no one. But now Kokenhusen was under the control of the Sword Brothers and he was a vagrant in all but name.
He looked around the imposing structure. The cathedral had magnificent apses and its eastern façade contained a multitude of vaults where the former rulers of Polotsk were interred. Located on the Dvina where the small River Palata flows into it, over a hundred miles southeast of Gerzika, the city had formerly received tribute from smaller principalities along the Dvina all the way to the Baltic coast. Polotsk had first been a settlement seven hundred years ago. Originally under the control of the larger city of Kiev to the south, it broke free of Kiev’s rule over a hundred years ago under its greatest leader, Prince Vseslav the Sorcerer, so-called because he had the ability to supposedly turn himself into a wolf. It was he who ordered the construction of this cathedral in which Vetseke stood, a lasting symbol of Polotsk’s independence and grandeur. But since then even the mighty power of the principality had waned.
He heard footsteps approaching. A mail-clad guard saluted him.
‘The council will see you now, highness.’
He followed the soldier through the aisle to a door leading to a room that received foreign ambassadors. Indeed, the interior of the cathedral also contained a library, archive, treasury and a magistrate’s office. The guard opened the door, bowed his head and then closed it when Vetseke entered the room.
Inside the members of the town council sat at a long table, a row of severe-looking middle-aged men with black beards dressed in rich, light-coloured dalmaticas. In the centre sat Prince Vladimir, the man elected by the council to rule over the principality. Now in his sixties, he rose and extended an arm to a chair positioned in front of the table.
‘Prince Vetseke, welcome. Please be seated.’
He bowed his head to Vladimir and took his seat.
Vladimir smiled at him. ‘How can we be of assistance to you?’
Vetseke looked at the six other faces in the room. These men were the real power in the town: individuals who were elected by a vote of free adult males to decide who should be Polotsk’s ruler and decree on matters of war and peace. Their hard faces told him that it would be useless to try flattery.
‘I come here a prince without a principality, a general without an army and a man seeking friends. A new power is rising in the west that threatens to engulf all the principalities along the Dvina and enslave them to the Church of Rome. I have sworn to fight this power and ask only for assistance in my fight.’
The faces looking at him remained silent, studying him with their eyes. The room was airless and filled with the sweet aroma of cassia incense, a mixture of cinnamon and cloves that was used in the cathedral’s religious services. At length Vladimir spoke.
‘What assistance do you require, Prince Vetseke?’
‘Soldiers with which I can retake Kokenhuse
n and once more make that domain a servant of Polotsk.’
‘Kokenhusen’s problems are not ours,’ said one of the council, a dour-looking man with a thin face.
Vetseke smiled politely at him. ‘With respect, they are very much your problem. Twenty years ago there was no crusader kingdom in this land. But now a new town – Riga – has arisen at the mouth of the Dvina and Catholic castles take root along that river and along the Gauja to the north. How long, my lords, before the Bishop of Riga and his hordes are knocking at the gates of this very city?’
There were frowns of consternation from the council at his words but Vladimir was stroking his beard thoughtfully.
‘You expect Polotsk to fight on your behalf to restore you to your throne?’ asked another member of the council.
‘No, lord,’ replied Vetseke, ‘I ask only for your assistance. I will be doing the fighting.’
‘With our soldiers,’ said another man with deep-set eyes. ‘And if we give you aid then the crusaders will turn their attention to us and Polotsk will be drawn into a needless war.’
Vetseke’s temper was beginning to rise. ‘With respect, lord, Polotsk has already been drawn into a war, whether it knows it or not.’
‘In what way?’ asked Vladimir.
‘How long will it be,’ asked Vetseke, ‘before Riga demands tolls from the boats that transport Polotsk’s goods down the Dvina? How long will it be before the Bishop of Riga demands that Polotsk pays him tribute in return for peace?’
The man with deep-set eyes leaned back in his chair and wagged a finger at him.
‘The Catholics would not dare to do such a thing.’
Vetseke sighed loudly. ‘Their arrogance knows no bounds, my lord, and with every year that passes their strength increases. They wage war against the Estonians, against the Oeselians and against the Lithuanians. Soon they will turn their spears towards you.’
‘Polotsk is a great power,’ declared Vladimir. ‘The Bishop of Riga does not have the strength to challenge us.’