The Sword Brothers

by Peter Darman

  Chapter 12

  Bishop Albert finished prayers, took his seat at the table and invited the others to do the same. He had arrived back from Germany three weeks before in the company of a thousand crusaders. Together with those knights who had remained in Livonia and who had taken part in the winter raids against the Estonians, he could now muster four thousand foot and horse to crusade against the pagans. In addition, he had the troops of the Rigan garrison plus the Sword Brothers and their mercenary forces. To which would be added the hundreds of warriors that Caupo could raise.

  It was now summer and Livonia was bathed in glorious sunlight. The roads were dry and would soon be filled by a great army marching north to do battle with Lembit. Albert had gathered the masters of the Sword Brothers to inform them of his plans. They now sat at his table in their mail armour and white surcoats with their deputies: Grand Master Volquin, Master Berthold of Wenden, Master Bertram of Segewold, Master Mathias of Kremon, Master Gerhard of Holm, Master Friedhelm of Uexkull, Master Aldous of Lennewarden and Master Griswold of Kokenhusen. He looked with satisfaction at their hard features, these religious warriors whose garrisons held back the heathen hordes.

  Bishop Albert brought his hands together. ‘I will soon march against Lembit in what will be the final campaign against the Estonian pagans. A great army musters outside the walls of Riga to bring the word of God to the heathens.’

  The Sword Brothers smiled at the bishop and each other.

  ‘A fitting reward for your industry and conviction, lord bishop,’ said Volquin. The others murmured their approval of his words.

  The bishop held up a hand. ‘I am merely a poor servant of God who has been chosen to undertake His work.

  ‘But now, finally, we are on the eve of the subjugation of the whole of Estonia. Master Berthold, perhaps you would be so kind as to provide us with details concerning the state of the Estonian tribes.’

  Berthold cleared his throat. ‘Thank you, lord bishop. At Wenden we have received reports that in addition to our own incursions, Prince Mstislav of Novgorod led a great army into Ungannia to plunder that land. So I would estimate that Lembit has lost a sizeable number of men during the recent winter, as well as many of his villages destroyed.’

  ‘Does Novgorod covet Estonia?’ asked Master Bertram.

  ‘He may,’ answered Berthold, ‘though we also heard that the Russian army was worsted on the ice of Lake Pskov as it headed for home.’

  Master Mathias laughed gruffly. ‘They underestimated that bastard Lembit. They are not the only ones.’

  Archdeacon Stefan sitting next to the bishop frowned at his language but the bishop himself was more interested in Mathias’ meaning.

  ‘You think we underestimate Lembit, Master Mathias?’

  ‘I think the sooner we kill him the better,’ replied Mathias. The others nodded their agreement.

  ‘We do not go to kill but to convert,’ emphasised the bishop. ‘Our numbers alone should be enough to cower the Estonians into submission.’

  ‘And what of the Oeselians?’ asked Master Friedhelm.

  ‘The Oeselians?’ said the bishop.

  ‘Yes, lord bishop,’ continued Friedhelm. ‘They are allies of the Estonians and will have to be dealt with if we are to have peace in Livonia and the sea that surrounds it.’

  ‘Their vessels still prey on our shipping,’ said Master Gerhard.

  The bishop considered for a moment. ‘The matter of the Oeselians will have to wait until Estonia is conquered. In the meantime you will all muster your garrisons and join the army that I will be taking north.’

  Griswold of Kokenhusen and Aldous of Lennewarden looked at each other in alarm.

  ‘You would strip Kokenhusen of its garrison?’ said Griswold with disbelief.

  ‘And that of Lennewarden?’ added Aldous.

  ‘Because of the diligence of Archdeacon Stefan,’ said the bishop, ‘we have peace with the Lithuanians. I therefore see little reason to keep garrisons sitting idle when their soldiers could be aiding the conversion of the Estonians.’

  ‘Do we trust the Lithuanians, lord bishop?’ enquired Master Gerhard. ‘They are, after all, also pagans.’

  The bishop looked at Stefan, who wore a smarmy smile.

  ‘Prince Vsevolod has brokered a treaty between Riga and the Lithuanians that guarantees peace along the Dvina,’ said Stefan.

  ‘I do not trust the Lithuanians or Vsevolod,’ said Griswold.

  ‘Nor do I,’ added Aldous.

  Stefan sighed loudly. ‘I would have thought, Master Griswold, that the fact Prince Vsevolod came to your relief when Kokenhusen was assaulted by the Lithuanians proves that not only can he be trusted but also that he should be thought of as a valuable ally.’

  Griswold gave a grim chuckle. ‘How little you know of the ambitions of princes, archdeacon. He may have told you that he brought his army to the walls of my castle in order to offer help, but I am also mindful that he is related to Grand Duke Daugerutis, lord of all the Lithuanian tribes.’

  Stefan wagged a finger at the castellan of Kokenhusen.

  ‘Prince Vsevolod is a man of honour.’

  Griswold looked surprised. ‘Do Russians have any honour?’

  The other Sword Brothers laughed as Stefan blushed but the bishop was not amused.

  ‘Quiet. This is not a gathering in a back-alley tavern. I have every confidence in the peace secured by the efforts of Archdeacon Stefan and Prince Vsevolod with the Lithuanians. If any of you have information pertaining to Lithuanian aggression then state it now.’

  Aldous and Griswold shrugged with indifference and the others looked disinterested.

  ‘Very well, then,’ continued the bishop. ‘You will all assemble at Riga with your men in a month’s time, except the garrisons of Kremon, Segewold and Wenden. The soldiers from those places will join us as we march north to Estonia.’

  He nodded to Volquin who announced that the meeting was over. The Sword Brothers rose, bowed their heads to the bishop and then made to leave the audience chamber of the bishop’s palace.

  ‘Master Berthold and Brother Rudolf from Wenden will remain for a few moments.’

  The others left and the doors were closed behind them. The bishop smiled at Stefan.

  ‘If you would give us a few minutes, nephew.’

  Stefan sighed, rose, bowed his head and then scurried from the room as Berthold and Rudolf flopped back down in their beautifully appointed chairs. The bishop leaned back in his similarly appointed chair and regarded the master of Wenden and his deputy.

  ‘Word has reached me that the garrison of Wenden has been engaged in nefarious activities.’

  Berthold raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh?’

  The bishop’s eyes narrowed. ‘Specifically, selling Estonians to Russian slave traders.’

  ‘A most lucrative enterprise that will pay for the continuing construction of your castle at Wenden, lord bishop,’ said Berthold.

  Albert was taken aback. ‘You do not deny the charge?’

  Berthold looked at Rudolf. ‘Deny? Deny what, lord bishop? You were aware of the financial problems concerning paying the civilian workers and mercenaries at my castle. The lack of funds from Riga gave me little choice but to think of more inventive ways to raise funds.’

  ‘You will be pleased to know that we now have enough money to continue building the defences for another year,’ added Rudolf.

  The bishop pointed at them both. ‘We are not here to engage in the slave trade. It is an offence in the eyes of God and I therefore forbid it.’

  ‘Would you have preferred us to have killed the women and children instead of selling them, lord bishop?’ asked Rudolf.

  ‘If Riga provides the funds I can perhaps buy them back,’ said Berthold irreverently.

  Bishop Albert gave them an icy stare. ‘You forget to whom you are talking. I am the pope’s representative in Livonia and have the power of excommunication over all its subjects.’

  ‘Perhaps if Riga
made more funds available, lord bishop,’ suggested Berthold, ‘then Wenden would not be forced to take drastic measures to secure its future.’

  The bishop twisted up his mouth in annoyance. ‘We discussed that on an earlier occasion. Riga has no funds to spare.’

  ‘Riga has soldiers who do nothing but stand around in their nice new uniforms looking pretty,’ said Rudolf.

  ‘The defence of Riga relies on a strong garrison,’ snapped the bishop in irritation.

  ‘With respect, lord bishop,’ said Berthold firmly, ‘the defence of Riga rests upon the castles of the Sword Brothers. If they fall so will Riga.’

  Bishop Albert held up his hands to them. ‘We stand on the verge of victory against Lembit. Let us not bicker on the eve of such an auspicious event. I know that the garrison of Wenden stands as an example to the rest of Livonia in terms of courage and faithfulness. It is because of this that I was saddened to hear of the trading of slaves. The Sword Brothers must maintain the highest standards of behaviour as befitting the warriors of Christ.’

  He spread his hands and smiled at them both. ‘I will say no more on the subject. But know that I hold you both in the highest esteem and affection.’

  Afterwards Rudolf and Berthold walked back to their quarters in Riga’s castle. It, the city and the surrounding countryside were full to the brim with knights, squires, crossbowmen, spearmen, labourers, armourers, fletchers, surgeons and priests, the latter almost an army in themselves, having been brought from Germany as the personal ministers of the richest noblemen. Riga itself was also crammed with citizens, cogs bringing new arrivals every summer to plant Livonia with Christians.

  ‘The bishop makes a new Jerusalem here,’ remarked Berthold as they walked through the castle gates into a courtyard filled with wagons and carts for the forthcoming campaign.

  Rudolf sniffed the air. ‘A new pigpen, more like. The sun warms the filth of Riga’s streets well enough. It will be good to smell the sweet air of Wenden once more, especially after our rebuke at the hands of the bishop.’

  ‘Bishop Albert is a good man with a crusading fire in his belly,’ said Berthold, ‘but he knows nothing about building a castle and maintaining its garrison. Until he does we must continue to look to our own resources to keep Wenden strong.’

  ‘Even if it means excommunication?’ remarked Rudolf casually.

  ‘I would not have thought that would bother you, brother,’ replied Berthold, ‘having been excommunicated for your depredations in Germany when you were a mercenary.’

  Rudolf laid a hand on his white mantle. ‘Surely these clothes and my oath to the Sword Brothers have washed away my sins?’

  ‘I’m not sure there is enough holy water in the whole world to wash away your sins, Rudolf.’

  They left for Wenden the next day, riding through the tents and wagons of the great army that Bishop Albert had assembled to crush Lembit and bring the Estonian tribes under the control of the Holy Church.

  Two days later pestilence broke out among the assembled host.

  The thousands of men camped outside its walls and the thousands of citizens herded into its densely packed streets resulted in Riga becoming a vast breeding ground for disease. Much time and money had been devoted to strengthening its defences but no thought had been given to sanitation. Raw sewage was dumped in the streets alongside butchers’ waste, and outside the walls the crusader army filled the ground with dung and urine with little thought to the consequences. The warm, humid conditions combined with the press of people in a small area resulted in an outbreak of the ‘bloody flux’.

  The first outbreak was among the soldiery in the tent city outside the walls but it soon spread through Riga itself. A raw stench had hung over the town anyway but within days of the outbreak it had turned into a nauseating reek as hundreds began to manifest symptoms of the illness: bloody stools, cramps, fever and weakness. Hardened mercenaries wept and clutched the hands of priests as they lay in their tents with blood pouring from their rectums.

  The first to die were the infants, whose small bodies could not cope with the sudden sapping of their strength. Their weeping parents took their bodies to the burial pits dug outside the town walls where priests wearing face masks conducted mass funerals. Then the soldiers began dying and the lords made plans to take ship back to Germany rather than wait for the flux to strike them down. The bishop implored them to stay but even his own governor fled Riga, Archdeacon Stefan hurrying to the monastery at Dünamünde, and so it was almost impossible to persuade the lords to stay. In any case, they pointed out, there would be no campaign when half the army would be laid low for weeks. And so a steady procession of cogs left Riga’s harbour carrying knights and their squires, abandoning the common soldiery to their fate.

  When Caupo heard of the outbreak of pestilence at Riga he sent his tribal healers to the bishop with supplies of blackberry syrup, hollyhock and a drink made from the bark of trees that could stop the voiding of guts. The result was that fewer than one in ten of the bishop’s army succumbed to the flux. But the rest had been grievously weakened and would be in no fit state to make war on the Estonians. A bitterly disappointed Bishop Albert wrote to each of his castellans informing them that there would be no campaign against Lembit for at least another year.

  He ordered Stefan to return to Riga, the sheepish archdeacon slipping back into the town two weeks later. Men were still dying of the flux but at a greatly reduced rate, the dead having been interred in great pits to the north of the town. The bishop ordered him to attend a meeting held in Grand Master Volquin’s office in the castle, which was no longer thronged with crusaders. Stefan sat next to the bishop and opposite the grand master on the other side of the great oak desk.

  ‘There is no need for the mask now, archdeacon,’ said Volquin.

  Stefan shook his head. ‘It is common knowledge that the flux is caused by bad air, grand master.’

  ‘It is the will of God,’ snapped the bishop, ‘that is the reason that Riga has been punished.’

  ‘He may punish us more, yet, lord bishop,’ added Volquin glumly.

  Stefan looked at him. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Word of the pestilence will have spread,’ continued Volquin. ‘Our foes may seek to take advantage of our weakness.’

  ‘You are certain that the peace with the Lithuanians will hold,’ the bishop asked Stefan.

  ‘I have no reason to doubt the sincerity of Prince Vsevolod, or the word of his father-in-law, lord bishop,’ replied Stefan.

  The bishop leaned forward and placed his head in his hands. When he looked up he seemed to have visibly aged.

  ‘Just as you have brokered peace with the Lithuanians, Archdeacon Stefan, so must I taste the bitter bread of humility and seek a truce with Lembit, though I would rather cut off my hand than offer it to such a heathen.’

  Stefan pulled down his mask. ‘You will make peace with the Estonians?’

  ‘A temporary truce, that is all,’ said the bishop softly. ‘To buy time.’

  ‘A wise decision, lord bishop,’ said Volquin. ‘We should not seek a war we cannot win.’

  *****

  Prince Vetseke stood in the centre of the village as his men hauled the priest into his presence and threw him at his feet. He was an elderly man with a tonsure and a simple undyed habit, a poor monk of the Cistercian order who had come to Livonia to spread the word of God. He was one of a tiny number of German monks who lived among the natives, the priests preferring to live in the castles of the Sword Brothers and travel around their ‘parishes’ under armed protection. In any case few of them could speak the local language and so it made more sense for them to travel in the company of men appointed by local chiefs who could act as interpreters. This monk was different: he could converse with the locals and believed that living among them, sharing their hardships and helping them in the fields would bring them and him closer together, and would also bring the Livs closer to God.

  ‘Get up, priest,’ ordered Vetseke. />
  Two of his men hauled the monk to his feet. The Cistercian, though bruised and bloodied, stood defiantly before the Liv prince.

  ‘You speak our language, priest?’ spat Vetseke.

  ‘I do.’

  The villagers had now gathered in the small square before the headman’s hut. It was a large village around twenty miles north of Kokenhusen, one of many that had formerly owed allegiance to the prince when he resided in his stronghold. The original plan had been for Vetseke to raise an army of Liv exiles at Polotsk. Then word reached the Russian city that a great plague had ravaged the crusaders and the town of Riga. Traffic on the Dvina had dwindled to almost nothing as Russian merchants stayed away for fear of catching the terrible plague and Vetseke saw his chance. He persuaded Vladimir that a golden opportunity presented itself to strike a blow against the Bishop of Riga. So the prince had given Vetseke a hundred Russian soldiers to assist him raise the standard of rebellion in Livonia. He took his Russian soldiers by riverboat as far as Kokenhusen, disembarking them ten miles downstream of his former home, and then set about travelling around his kingdom to raise an army.

  Vetseke, dressed in a new green cloak, his sword in a red scabbard, looked at the monk.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’

  ‘I am afraid that I do not,’ said the monk, blood trickling from his nose down his chin.

  Vetseke looked at the people, his people, clustered behind the priest. He cast a disdainful glance at the village headman who had been roused from his bed and brought to him, for it was early and there was still dew on the grass beyond the village perimeter. The headman’s family – two sons and a wife – shifted on their feet nervously behind him. The Russians formed a cordon around the villagers.