The Sword Brothers

by Peter Darman

  ‘I would advise withdrawing back to Riga, my lord bishop,’ urged Volquin.

  Bishop Albert had removed his helmet with its steel mitre, his face streaked with sweat. ‘I will not abandon the Lord’s work, grand master.’

  Volquin pointed at the bishop’s guards and militia grouped round him. ‘I need these men, lord bishop, if the day is to be saved.’

  The bishop nodded. ‘Then let us lead them together.’

  There was an almighty cheer and Volquin looked behind him to see the Christian centre give way as dozens of spearmen abandoned their weapons and attempted to flee back to Riga, a mile distant. The crossbowmen behind them managed to loose a volley or two before they were caught up in the rout and also ran for their lives. The centre of the bishop’s army had ceased to exist.

  The bishop dug his spurs into the sides of his horse and moved forward, scattering those of his guards standing to his right. Without any regard for his personal danger he charged towards the Livs who were now chasing after the retreating spearmen and crossbowmen. If they continued unchecked they would not only run down the fleeing Christian foot soldiers but would also reach the crusader camp, and perhaps gain entry into Riga itself.

  Volquin galloped after the bishop, followed by the brother knights and sergeants of the Sword Brothers, together with around fifty knights who had left Count Walram’s disorganised wing and rallied to the bishop. The foot soldiers followed the horsemen who were soon among the Livs, trying to stem the pagan flood.

  *****

  ‘God with us!’ shouted Master Berthold, replacing his helmet on his head and then spurring his horse forward.

  ‘God with us!’ answered the men of Segewold, Kremon and Wenden, who joined the castellan of the latter as they lowered their lances and galloped towards the rear of the Liv army.

  Behind the thirty-six brother knights came sixty sergeants dressed exactly the same as the former aside from their kettle helmets. And behind the sergeants rode Conrad, Hans, Anton and Johann. Just over a hundred horsemen charging into a mass of pagan warriors.

  Grand Master Volquin had ordered that the garrisons along the Gauja remain where they were. But Thalibald’s scouts had reported that Vetseke had gathered a great army and Master Berthold knew that the flux had greatly weakened the bishop’s forces at Riga. He therefore disobeyed orders and rode south with his men. He asked Thalibald to reinforce the garrison at Wenden and made the same request of Caupo regarding the castles of Segewold and Kremon. Now he had arrived on the battlefield, his men exiting the trees that had sheltered Vetseke’s army the night before. He could see the banners of the crusader horsemen on the right, heard the sound of fighting to his front and could not discern any activity on the left. He had no time to formulate a plan so ordered a charge into the heart of the enemy army.

  Conrad looked over at Hans and grinned as he couched his lance and urged his horse on. Hans was on his left while Anton and Johann rode on his right. Lukas had ordered them to remain in the rear of the formation but as the Sword Brothers thundered across the beaten-down crops the sergeants divided into two groups and galloped to the right and left flanks of the brother knights. Fearful of disobeying Lukas’ orders Conrad and the others remained behind the front line, and then there was no time to think about formations as the Sword Brothers hit the Livs like a mailed fist punching soft flesh.

  The collapse of the Christian centre had increased the numbers of Liv warriors leaving the flanks to join their victorious comrades in the centre, resulting in a great press of men eagerly waiting to join the slaughter being enjoyed by those men in front. If they even saw the Sword Brothers who had charged out of the forest it was only fleetingly, before they were speared and cut down by Christian weapons. Those Livs Master Berthold’s men killed first had been widely spaced with their backs to the Sword Brothers. When their comrades turned around to see the source of the tumult that had suddenly erupted behind them the mailed horsemen were already among them.

  Conrad rammed his lance through the back of a Liv warrior, let go of the shaft and drew his sword, bringing it down on the bare head of another warrior who turned and froze in horror as Sir Frederick’s sword split his skull. On Conrad rode, through the scattering Livs, hacking left and right at any targets within reach. Hans and the others clung to him as he forgot about Master Berthold, Rudolf, Henke and the others and just thought of killing the enemy. Around him hundreds of men were fighting for their lives as Sword Brothers charged headlong into the seething mass of pagans, the momentum of their charge stuttering and then dying as the enemy swarmed around them.

  *****

  ‘To me. Rally to me!’

  Vetseke held up his gore-covered sword and waited for his Russians to close around him. He had seen the crusader wings being halted, had led the charge that had shattered their centre and now spied the man who was the cause of all his misfortune: Bishop Albert. The prelate was on his horse amidst his warriors, desperately trying to stem the pagan victory that was unfolding. He forgot about storming the crusader camp and butchering all inside, ignored the flood of warriors heading towards Riga and thought of only one thing: kill Bishop Albert.

  His men were breathing heavily, their hauberks ripped and torn, their shields splintered and their helmets dented. But they once more formed into a wedge formation and followed Vetseke as he walked purposely towards the man who had polluted his beloved land with foreigners. The bishop’s guards had valiantly charged into the Livs but had been simply overwhelmed and now most of their corpses lay trampled underfoot. Around a dozen still stood, desperately trying to fend off a ring of predators.

  And then the Russians closed as one on the bishop, cutting down his guards and then killing his horse, causing the prelate to fall to the ground. Grand Master Volquin jumped from his saddle to stand beside him. He fought well but there were too many of the enemy and as he fended them off he became separated from the bishop and looked on, helplessly, as a burly Russian barged him to the ground. The bishop lay prostrate as the Russian raised his sword above the bishop’s head to kill him.

  Conrad thrust his sword into the Russian’s shoulder blade as he passed, then slashed at another mail-clad giant on his left side, his blade glancing off the man’s shield. He tugged on his reins to halt his horse but then the beast collapsed beneath him and he was lying on his side, his right leg under the animal. He heard Lukas’ words in his mind – keep moving – as he yanked himself free and sprang to his feet. A warrior, a brute in a pointed helmet and mail armour, had killed his horse with a spear thrust and now he was determined to kill him.

  Conrad glanced behind him and saw the bishop struggling to his feet. He turned and spat at the Russian and then ran to the side of Bishop Albert. He grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet.

  ‘Have no fear, lord bishop,’ he said grandly.

  Hans leaped from his horse and came to Conrad’s side as half a dozen Russians approached them like ravenous wolves. Then Anton and Johann appeared behind them and split the helmets of two with their swords. Conrad shouted with joy and sprang at the four survivors, crouching low at the last moment to catch the enemy sword on his shield before thrusting his sword beneath the Russian’s shield and into his belly. The man groaned as Conrad attacked the soldier next to him, Hans fighting beside him. They were fresh and strong and forced their opponents back with a series of lightning-fast sword strikes.

  Anton and Johann, having both dismounted, rushed to their friends’ sides and now it was four against four. Conrad’s opponent was bigger than him but he was faster and cut the man’s thigh with the point of his sword, the metal biting deep into his leg. The Russian hobbled and tried to chop Conrad’s neck with his sword but the youth caught the blow on his shield and then thrust his sword into the enemy’s armpit. The man yelped and collapsed, then died as Conrad rammed his blade through the man’s throat.

  ‘Defend the bishop,’ shouted Conrad as Hans killed his opponent with a single strike to the groin.

 
Conrad and the others retreated to stand in front of Bishop Albert, who had now been joined by Grand Master Volquin, a score of mounted crusaders, Master Berthold and Rudolf.

  Volquin looked in alarm at the bishop. ‘Are you hurt, lord bishop?’

  Albert, helmetless and sweating, laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘No, thanks to these boys who appeared as if sent by the Lord himself. Master Berthold, never have I been so glad to see you and your brother knights.’

  ‘Your servant, lord bishop,’ said Berthold, raising his sword to him.

  The pagan tide had ebbed now as more and more crusader horsemen from Count Walram’s wing had joined the battle in the centre, riders heading towards the crusader camp to cut down Livs moving towards the town. And from the Christian right wing the Sword Brothers from Holm and Uexkull had launched a charge against the Livs, cutting down dozens and forcing hundreds more to retreat back to the forest.

  The bishop walked forward and pointed at Conrad. ‘This young man saved my life. What is your name?’

  ‘Conrad Wolff, lord bishop.’

  Albert looked thoughtful. ‘I have heard that name before.’

  ‘You saw me when you last came to Wenden, lord bishop.’

  The prelate nodded. ‘Ah. Yes, of course. The boy who wounded Lembit.’

  He turned to look at Berthold sitting on his horse. ‘You must be most proud to have such young lions among your garrison.’

  Berthold nodded approvingly. ‘Yes, lord bishop.’

  ‘Even if they have lost their horses,’ remarked Rudolf.

  Conrad looked at Hans and the others and felt his cheeks flush. The bishop laughed.

  ‘As have I. So you are all in good company. Now, someone fetch me a horse so we may bring this drama to a rightful end.’

  *****

  Vetseke saw the four riders collide into his Russians and growled in frustration. He had been on the verge of a great victory but triumph had been cruelly snatched from him with the arrival of Christian reinforcements. He watched in despair as the Sword Brothers came from nowhere and began scything down his warriors. The fifty or so Russians still alive forgot about killing the bishop and closed ranks around him, forming a small shield fort to ward off any horsemen. But the Livs were not so fortunate. They had no protection as the knights rode among them, first spearing them with their lances and then using their swords to wreak havoc.

  ‘We must leave, highness,’ urged his Russian commander. ‘Their crossbowmen will finish what the horsemen have started.’

  He was right. After the knights had finished their butchery the crossbowmen would reap a grim harvest with their weapons.

  ‘We must retreat back to the trees, highness,’ his subordinate insisted.

  ‘I will remain,’ said Vetseke. ‘I release you from your obligations.’

  ‘We cannot leave you, highness.’

  ‘I order you to go!’ Vetseke snapped. He attempted a half-smile. ‘Go. Save yourselves.’

  The man saluted, barked an order to his men who began to shuffle in the direction of the trees, making their way across the flattened crops and lacerated bodies.

  Groups of Livs were now throwing down their weapons and raising their hands in surrender as mounted knights surrounded them to prevent their escape. The bishop, now back on a horse, was riding among them ordering them to give themselves up and promising them their lives if they did so. Leaderless, surrounded and faced by crossbowmen with weapons loaded, they were only too glad to consent. Where there had been the clatter of battle there was suddenly a dire quiet, interlaced with the groans and cries of the wounded.

  Vetseke stood alone among the carnage, observing without emotion the approach of Bishop Albert with a group of Sword Brothers and crusaders. The bishop halted twenty paces from him as Grand Master Volquin, Master Berthold and the other brother knights circled him. Vetseke sheathed his sword and took off his helmet, placing it in the crook of his arm. He looked directly at the bishop and ignored the others. He did notice, however, a youth standing beside the bishop’s horse, a tall individual dressed in a gambeson with a kettle helmet on his head. A servant, no doubt. And immediately behind him were three other young servants, except that they were mounted.

  The bishop rested his hands on the saddle’s high and broad pommel. ‘Prince Vetseke. It has been a while since we last met, an event that took place under more agreeable circumstances, I seem to remember.’

  Vetseke tilted his head ever so slightly at the bishop. ‘It would appear that you have the advantage once more, bishop.’

  Albert looked around, a pained expression on his face. ‘It saddens me to see so much blood spilt in so fruitless a cause.’

  ‘Fighting for one’s homeland against foreign invaders is not fruitless, bishop,’ Vetseke sneered.

  ‘Foreign invaders, prince? Surely you must place yourself in that category. You were, after all, the ruler of Kokenhusen and not Riga if my memory serves me well.’

  Vetseke folded his arms. ‘You will never plant your foreign faith in this land.’

  The bishop sighed. ‘That remains to be seen but for the moment I must address more immediate matters. I must ask you to surrender your sword.’

  Vetseke smiled and drew it, prompting the Sword Brothers to nudge their horses towards him. ‘If I am to die I would prefer it to be here, with a sword in my hand.’

  The bishop was appalled. ‘You will be my guest in my palace, prince. There has been too much killing today. But I must ask you to give up your sword temporarily. You have my word that no harm will befall you.’

  ‘I must request that the same courtesy is extended to those you have captured,’ said Vetseke.

  ‘Of course,’ replied the bishop.

  Volquin turned in his saddle. ‘My lord bishop, the penalty for rebellion is death.’

  ‘Do the Sword Brothers presume to instruct their bishop on the laws of Livonia, grand master?’ snapped the bishop.

  Volquin looked most discomfited. ‘No, lord bishop, of course not.’

  Bishop Albert looked sternly at Vetseke. ‘I would have your sword, prince. Now. And then we may leave this place of dead flesh to carry on our discussion in more pleasant surroundings.’

  Vetseke curled his lip at Volquin and unbuckled his sword belt.

  ‘Conrad,’ said the bishop, ‘go and bring me the prince’s sword.’

  Conrad looked at the prince and then at Rudolf sitting next to Volquin, who nodded at him. He swallowed and walked forward, feeling most uncomfortable as a score of pairs of eyes watched him. Vetseke regarded him for a few seconds, his stare met by steely blue-grey eyes. He seemed to have a very expensive sword for a servant. Most odd. He shrugged and handed Conrad his belt and sword. The bishop smiled.

  ‘Bring a horse for the prince.’

  Conrad stood in front of Hans’ horse as the bishop rode back to Riga in the company of the man who had plotted to kill him. Behind rode the Sword Brothers and the crusader knights. Rudolf halted his horse.

  ‘You boys report to the castle. Where is your horse, Conrad?’

  ‘Dead, Brother Rudolf.’

  ‘I am sure that the bishop will be able to find you a new one. Hans, give Conrad a ride.’ Rudolf smiled at them. ‘You all fought well. I am glad to see that you all remembered Lukas’ instruction.’

  Conrad decided to walk to Riga so the others dismounted and led their horses among the battlefield dead. By now they had grown accustomed to the sight of slaughter and hardly raised an eyebrow as they passed bodies with crushed skulls and severed limbs. They did notice the swarms of flies that were gorging on flesh and the odour of death that was permeating the summer afternoon.

  The battle had been fought and won but at a heavy cost. Just over two thousand men had marched out to face Prince Vetseke’s army and now over a quarter of them lay dead in the fields to the east of Riga, among them Count Walram. When his body was retrieved and conveyed back to camp it was discovered there was not a mark on it, the physicians concluding that
he had died of exhaustion brought about by the bout of flux he had suffered. Among the crusader foot casualties totalled three hundred dead spearmen, most killed by the enemy but a portion dying of the exertions inflicted upon their weakened bodies after the flux. A hundred loyal Livs had died, together with fifty of the bishop’s guards, a hundred mounted crusaders and twenty fatalities among the Sword Brothers. And that night the tents of the crusader camp were filled with hundreds more who had been wounded in the battle. The bishop may have won the fight but his army had been sorely depleted. For this reason alone he was inclined to leniency and mercy when he gathered his commanders in his palace two days afterwards.

  The day was stifling and though the windows were open the heat in the room was oppressive, despite no one wearing armour. The Sword Brothers were attired in the white mantles of their order. Bishop Albert was poring over the casualty lists that had been drawn up, both for his own forces and the enemy.

  ‘It is most important that all the bodies are interred as quickly as possible,’ he commented. ‘How many enemy dead?’

  ‘Over a thousand, lord bishop,’ answered Volquin, ‘and another four hundred will most likely die of their wounds before the week is out.’

  The bishop shook his head. ‘Captives?’

  ‘Two thousand held in the castle courtyard,’ said Volquin.

  ‘Release them so they can make their way home in time for the harvest.’

  Berthold looked at Gerhard and Friedhelm. ‘You would release them, lord bishop?’

  ‘What choice do I have?’

  Berthold smiled. ‘I have often found that making an example of individuals has a deterring effect.’

  Albert froze him with a glare. ‘There will be none of that. I would have the loyalty of these people.’

  ‘There is the more pressing matter of what to do with Vetseke, lord bishop,’ said Volquin.

  ‘He must die,’ remarked Berthold.