The Sword Brothers

by Peter Darman

  Conrad knew that among them only Anton, who came from a wealthy noble family, would be a brother knight. Like the other Catholic religious orders the Sword Brothers preferred their knights to have noble blood flowing in their veins. There were exceptions. Henke, for example, was low born but he had been part of Rudolf’s mercenary band and so had been allowed to become a brother knight, as had Lukas. But the majority of town inhabitants and countrymen who joined the order became sergeants: individuals of a lower social level. Sergeants wore mail without sleeves or gloves and a kettle hat instead of a full-face helmet. But apart from these minor differences they fought on horseback or on foot beside the brother knights and were regarded as valued members of the Sword Brothers. Conrad would be proud to be such a man.

  The relaxed, happy atmosphere was shattered by the sound of the alarm bell being rung. Master Berthold, Rudolf and Henke ran outside as Walter bowed to the altar and crossed himself before following. Conrad looked at Hans, unsure what to do.

  ‘All of you outside, now!’ shouted Rudolf as the garrison began to form up in the courtyard.

  Conrad sprinted from the chapel and saw one of Thalibald’s warriors speaking to Master Berthold, frequently turning to point south.

  Most of the sergeants were already in formation: three ranks of eight men on the west side of the courtyard, the others manning the perimeter wall. The brother knights, including Walter, assembled behind Master Berthold on the north side of the courtyard. The mercenaries arrayed themselves opposite the sergeants. Once the alarm was sounded the perimeter gates were automatically closed and the civilian workers and their families would take refuge within the castle itself. They did so now: men, children and women with infants in their arms hurrying across the bridge over the moat to fill the southern side of the courtyard. Lukas called the boys over to stand beside him behind the master.

  The bell stopped ringing and Master Berthold raised his arms.

  ‘I have just received word that the stronghold of King Caupo at Treiden is under attack.’

  There was a collective groan from among the civilians. None knew where Treiden was but any mention of war and violence was enough to unnerve them, especially the women. Master Berthold called for calm.

  ‘The pagans are on the other side of the river and there are no crossing places nearby so you are quite safe. However, most of the garrison will be leaving to march to the king’s relief. For your own safety and that of Wenden the gates will be closed while we are away and no one will be permitted to leave the compound. Now return to your homes.’

  The civilians grumbled and complained among themselves as they filed back across the bridge to their huts, while the soldiers were dismissed and ordered to make preparations to march to the relief of Treiden. Master Berthold told Thalibald’s lieutenant that he would leave Wenden as soon as he had orders from Grand Master Volquin at Riga, but was alarmed to discover that Thalibald had already mustered his men and was preparing to lead them towards Treiden before the day was out. He was persuaded to ride back to Thalibald with a plea from Master Berthold that he do nothing until a strategy had been formulated, which meant waiting for news from Riga.

  A pigeon arrived from Segewold Castle that afternoon, carrying a message that the bishop had arrived back from Germany with a fresh batch of crusaders and urgent preparations were under way to assemble an army for the relief of Treiden. The garrison of Wenden was ordered to march to Segewold but wait for the bishop to arrive before crossing the Gauja. The missive stated that the bishop had every confidence that Caupo would hold out in the face of the Oeselian assault.

  ‘Oeselians? Weren’t they the ones that attacked our ship last year?’ said Hans, resting on his shovel after heaping another load of horse dung into the wheelbarrow. The brother knights and twenty-five of the sergeants had ridden south to Thalibald’s village the following morning, forty of the mercenaries accompanying them on foot and escorting ten wagons loaded with food and supplies. They would reach the village by the afternoon and link up with the chief, the combined force then heading for Segewold, ten miles to the south.

  The warhorses and palfreys had gone south with the men but the ponies remained and required mucking out.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Conrad, ‘but I thought they were pirates.’

  ‘So they are,’ said Lukas who had appeared as if by magic. The other boys stopped their resting and continued to clear out the dirty stalls. ‘But they are not averse to sailing up rivers in their boats if there is plunder to be had. But in this case they appear to want to kill Caupo.’

  ‘Why, Brother Lukas?’ asked Bruno.

  ‘I do not know,’ replied Lukas, ‘it is most strange.’

  The work continued on the castle, the towers slowly increasing in height as the stonemasons laboured each day and the carpenters manufactured floorboards, doors and ceiling supports. Lukas had been left in charge of the castle in the absence of Master Berthold, and in between dealing with the civilian workforce and organising the tiny remaining garrison he insisted that the boy’s training continue as normal. It was on the third morning following Master Berthold’s departure that a Liv warrior appeared at the perimeter gates, an elderly man riding a ragged pony who demanded entry to see the garrison commander, identifying himself as the man whom Thalibald had left in charge of his village in the chief’s absence. As chance would have it Lukas was near the entrance, overseeing the boys’ morning practise. They stopped when a sergeant on the fighting platform above the gates called to him, asking if the Liv should be admitted, saying his name was Fricis. Lukas knew him and ordered the gates to be opened.

  Fricis rode into the compound and halted when he saw Lukas. Conrad could see that he had been riding his pony hard by its heavy breathing. Its head was low as Fricis dismounted and clasped Lukas’ forearm. Conrad and the others gathered behind Lukas as an agitated and sweating Fricis spoke to him in impeccable German.

  ‘I request your urgent assistance, Brother Lukas. A great disaster has occurred.’

  ‘Would you like to retire to the castle, Fricis, to refresh yourself?’

  Fricis shook his head. ‘There is no time. An Estonian raiding party has attacked us. They have killed many men and taken the women and girls captive. Even as we speak they are heading north back to their homeland. They have captured Thalibald’s wife and daughter.’

  Conrad felt a knot tighten in his stomach. He thought of the beautiful Daina in peril and a rage rose within him.

  Lukas was horrified. ‘Estonians? Did they capture the chief’s village?’

  ‘No,’ said Fricis, ‘the women were working in the fields sowing the spring crops when the Estonians appeared on their ponies. They killed the guards and those like me who were too old to march north and took away the women and girls, slitting the throats of those women who were too old to be of any use to them.’

  ‘Bastards,’ hissed Conrad to murmurs of agreement from the others.

  Lukas spun round. ‘Silence!’

  ‘I ride back to the village,’ continued Fricis, ‘where a score of old men with rusty swords wait to ride after them. I ask you for aid in our moment of need.’

  Lukas scratched his head. He wanted to help but he had a castle full of civilian workers and their families and a tiny garrison. And he was loath to weaken it further with Estonian raiders in the area. He looked at Fricis with sympathy.

  ‘I cannot spare any men. I am sorry.’

  ‘Please, Brother Lukas,’ implored Fricis. ‘A handful of your men could mean the difference between success and failure.’

  Conrad could tell that Lukas was distraught in letting Fricis down. ‘I really can spare no one.’

  Fricis’ features hardened. ‘What about them?’ He pointed at the boys behind Lukas. The latter turned in confusion.

  ‘They are mere boys, Fricis.’

  ‘We will go, brother,’ said Conrad.

  ‘Let us go, please,’ implored Anton. The others nodded and voiced their eagerness to accompany Fricis.


  ‘I said silence!’ snapped Lukas.

  He looked back at Fricis and then at the boys who were like hunting dogs straining at the leash. He shook his head. ‘I must be out of my mind.’

  Conrad could barely contain his excitement as he and the others ran to the stables to saddle ponies. Fricis embraced Lukas and told him that Thalibald would make him a blood brother for getting back his wife and daughter.

  ‘We haven’t got them back yet,’ he mumbled as he strode with him into the stables where the boys were leading their ponies from the stalls.

  ‘All of you in the courtyard. Tie your ponies up near the water trough.’

  Conrad was surprised to see leather face and three of his fellow crossbowmen being issued with quivers from the armoury and then pass him as they went to the stables.

  ‘You are going with us?’ said Conrad.

  Leather face winked at him. ‘Just because we do most of our fighting on foot doesn’t mean we can’t ride. I can teach you a thing or two.’

  ‘Conrad,’ shouted Lukas, ‘move your arse.’

  Lukas was now at the new stone armoury, a large squat building with a solid oak door and tiny windows covered with iron grilles. Inside were racks of spears, lances, swords and axes, shelves holding crossbows and quivers, chests full of crossbow bolts, walls covered with shields hanging on hooks and a corner containing mail armour, helmets and leather belts. The armourers, all of them stocky individuals with huge hands and rugged features, handed the boys lances, swords in scabbards, sword belts and daggers in sheaths. Hans whooped with joy and Anton beamed with delight. Johann could hardly believe that he was strapping on a real sword while Bruno pulled his sword from its scabbard and stared at it in disbelief. Lukas handed Conrad Sir Frederick’s sword and then shouted at them all to assemble outside. Fricis sat on his pony in front of the mounted crossbowmen.

  ‘I have decided, against my better judgement,’ Lukas said to the boys, ‘to let you take part in this rescue attempt. I cannot in all conscience stand idly by in Fricis’ hour of need, but I also cannot leave this castle without first telling you that you may reconsider and stay at Wenden. It is no disgrace.’

  His words were met by a row of resolute stares. He smiled. ‘Very well. Let us pray that we are not too late.’

  Conrad felt like a warrior king as he cantered out of the courtyard, across the bridge and down the track to the gates. He glanced at Sir Frederick’s sword – now his sword – at his hip and tightened the grip on his reins. Only Lukas wore full mail armour, he and the others being equipped in gambesons, the boys wearing kettle helmets and the crossbowmen mail coifs. He touched the leather guige – strap – of the shield strapped slung on his back and smiled. He was going to fight at long last.

  *****

  Rusticus was very happy. He had wanted to accompany his lord south to take part in the assault against Treiden and had been most annoyed that he had been given the task of being a mere decoy. But things had turned out to his advantage. His scouts had led him on a circuitous route through the thick pine forests to the east of Wenden, before heading west to arrive at a spot where he could observe the castle unseen. He had been most surprised to see the garrison leave one morning: a line of horsemen, wagons and soldiers on foot, and even more surprised when his scouts reported warriors leaving the nearby villages, also heading south. He knew they were going to Treiden and that he had failed Lembit, arriving too late to gain the attention of the garrison. But to his delight he discovered that only youths and old men had been left behind to guard the Liv villages, only one of which was defended by a moat and timber wall.

  So he had led his men on a wide sweep of the countryside, riding into fields where women were sowing crops. The Estonians butchered the few old guards, raped and then slit the throats of the old women and enslaved the women and girls. They would either make good slaves or could be traded for gold and weapons with the Russians. Now he led his warriors north back to their homeland, with over forty Liv women trailing behind them.

  They were riding in column along a dirt track through a forest near the Gauja. It was late afternoon and the sun was lancing through the gaps in the canopy above, the warm air thick with the aroma of pine. The ponies were walking slowly, the men’s shields hanging from their saddles and their spears resting on their shoulders. All of them wore steel helmets but only Rusticus had mail armour. The best-equipped men had gone south with Lembit. The atmosphere was sleep inducing, interrupted only by the flight of a black stork when the column passed by a lake or the distant tapping of a white-backed woodpecker. Rusticus heard a pony approaching and halted his mount, his lieutenant riding up beside him. Behind them the column had ground to a halt.

  ‘A problem with the women, lord.’

  Rusticus snapped out of his daydream. ‘What problem?’

  ‘One of them is heavily pregnant and has collapsed. The others are refusing to move without her. Do you want me to kill her?’

  ‘Of course not,’ replied Rusticus before grinning wickedly. ‘Not until we have raped her.’

  His subordinate nodded approvingly. ‘I did not think of that.’

  Rusticus rubbed his hands together. ‘That is why I am a warlord and you are not.’

  He was going to organise the rape of the prisoners once they had made camp but a pleasant diversion in the meantime would not do any harm.

  ‘Heavily pregnant, you say?’

  ‘Will calf any day now,’ leered his deputy.

  Rusticus’ eyes lit up. ‘Lovely.’

  Thud.

  The grin on the subordinate’s face disappeared as he looked down in disbelief at the crossbow bolt stuck in his belly, then slumped forward in the saddle. Rusticus may have been fat and ugly but his warrior instincts never deserted him and he leapt from his pony and grabbed his shield to cover him, drawing his sword as three more of his men were toppled from their saddles by quarrels.

  ‘Ambush!’ he screamed.

  The Livs had been tracking the Estonians for three hours, catching up with the column that was slowed down by women prisoners on foot. They and the soldiers from Wenden then swung east deeper into the forest before cantering north to put them ahead of Rusticus and his band of raiders. Leather face and his crossbowmen were placed on the track where they could shoot at the head of the column. Once they commenced their shooting to halt the column the Livs, Lukas and the five boys would charge the eastern flank of the Estonians. Lukas hoped that the element of surprise would tip the scales in their favour but it was still long odds: himself, twenty old Livs and five boys against twice that number of Estonians.

  ‘God with us!’ shouted Lukas, digging his spurs into his horse.

  Conrad couched his lance and stared ahead, his pony racing through the trees towards the enemy. They were in a long line, big men on ponies wearing helmets and carrying spears. He saw his target and dug his spurs into his mount. He had been taught to charge knee to knee with other riders to present a wall of men and horseflesh but the trees made that impossible. He glanced right and saw Hans a few yards away and right to glimpse Anton. His target had tugged on his reins to wheel his beast to the right. He had seen him. Conrad screamed as his pony strained to increase its speed. The Estonian lowered his spear as Conrad’s lance struck his shield and the steel point went through leather and wood to pierce flesh. He released the shaft, pulled his sword from its scabbard and swung the blade right as he passed the stricken Estonian, the edge biting into the man’s lower neck.

  Hans was by his side having likewise speared his man. Their initial charge had unhorsed at least a dozen Estonians but now the rest were fighting back, thrusting their spears at the Livs as they passed through their line, felling at least four. An Estonian directed his pony at Conrad, spear held tight to his right side.

  Keep moving, don’t become a stationary target.

  He heard the words of Lukas as he spurred his mount forward, shield tucked tight into his left side. He pulled hard on his reins to wheel his po
ny left and the Estonian’s spear missed him. He swung his sword up and down to shatter the bone in the enemy’s arm. The man screamed in pain, dropping his spear, allowing Conrad to thrust the point of his sword into the man’s guts. The man coughed as his dirty tunic suddenly showed a large bloodstain.

  Keep moving.

  Conrad yanked on his reins to take his mount away from the wounded warrior.

  A wounded man may have strength to kill you before he dies. Do not take any chances.

  The sword felt as light as a feather in his hand, his senses were heightened and strength infused his limbs. But he did not forget his training. He saw Lukas surrounded by four enemy warriors and watched as he killed each one in turn, sword, shield and man in perfect harmony as he parried sword blows, used his shield to knock a man from the saddle, split Estonian helmets and killed with single thrusts of his sword.

  Conrad’s pony suddenly collapsed beneath him and then he was on the ground, his foot trapped under the dead beast. He saw a big brute in mail armour leering at him, an ugly man carrying a large round shield and an axe in his right hand. He had seen this warrior before, at Wenden when Lembit had attacked the castle.

  Conrad desperately tried to free himself but it was too late. The warrior moved with a deftness that defied his bulk and stood over him, axe raised ready to strike. He heard a scream and then saw Anton riding hard at the fat Estonian, who also heard him and swung round to avoid the boy’s sword that swung at his head. Conrad yanked his leg out from under the dead pony and leapt up as Anton rode past and the fat brute once again focused upon Conrad.

  Conrad was younger, half his weight and inexperienced, but he was quick and agile and avoided the Estonian’s axe blows, catching one on his shield that almost knocked him over. The warrior was screaming at Conrad in a language he did not understand, though he caught the gist of the stream of invective that was being spat in his direction. The sounds of battle were echoing through the forest as steel struck shields, shattered shields and cut flesh.