The Sword Brothers

by Peter Darman

  As the new year began the ice was thick on the Gauja and the many lakes that dotted the landscape around Wenden. Though the stores were well stocked with food and fuel, parties were sent out every day to hunt game and fish in the lakes through holes cut in the ice. Winters were long in Livonia and Wenden was now like a village complete with women and children that had to be clothed, fed and kept warm. As Master Berthold was always reminding the garrison during his long sermons, the Lord had stocked the land and waterways with an abundance of living things that could be caught and eaten. It was therefore a sin to ignore this bounty that God had provided.

  Sometimes Rameke came from his father’s village and he, Conrad and the other novices donned skis and travelled to one of the lakes for an ice fishing expedition. They each pulled sleds loaded with ice augers for drilling holes, skimmers to scrape out slush from the holes in the ice made by the augers, and gaff hooks that were used to hoist fish from the holes. They also hauled ice shanties: easily assembled wooden structures measuring six foot by six foot that were erected on the ice for shelter. Each one had a bench for two and was tall enough to stand up in.

  They left before dawn to reach the lake that Rameke recommended for their expedition, reaching it after an hour.

  ‘It is not very big,’ said a disappointed Anton.

  ‘Better for fishing,’ replied Rameke. ‘This lake is shallow and that means the fish are not far from the surface. It will be a good haul.’

  The first two hours were frantic as they each bored holes in the ice and set up the baited hooks. The ice was eight inches thick and it took over two hours for the five of them to create forty holes in the ice. Then they had to cut branches from the firs around the lake with their axes to fashion small sticks, to which the fishing lines were tied. Small pieces of cloth were tied to the other end of the sticks and then other sticks were cut that were longer than the diameter of the holes in the ice.

  Rameke kept looking into the sky and urged them to speed up their work.

  ‘What is the rush?’ asked Conrad, his breath misting in the cold.

  ‘We have to get the lines set up before midday,’ answered Rameke.

  ‘Why?’ said Hans.

  ‘You ask too many questions,’ replied Rameke. ‘Just trust me.’

  So they tied the small flagpoles at right angles to the longer sticks and rested them beside each hole in the ice, the fishing line and hooks dangling in the water. Each piece of cloth was flat on the ice beside a hole, and when they had set up all forty lines they erected the two ice shanties on the ice and waited.

  ‘What if the fish don’t bite?’ said Johann.

  Rameke smiled. ‘They will bite. Just be patient.’

  Hans began chewing on some cured meat that they had brought along. Even though he had been fed like a fighting cock since his arrival at Wenden and had grown considerably in height, he was still stick-thin, though his wiry frame was surprisingly strong. He also still ate every meal as though it was the first he had had in a month, devouring great quantities of food at every sitting. It was just as well that the rivers, lakes and forests of Livonia were teeming with fish and game else Hans would surely starve.

  It was perfectly still, the trees standing as if frozen in time, their branches weighed down with snow. The whiteness extended in all directions and the sky was a piercing, pure blue. As they sat there, waiting for the fish to bite, it seemed like they were the only living things in the land.

  ‘It is peaceful,’ mused Hans, biting off another piece of meat.

  ‘No winter campaign this year,’ said Johann.

  ‘Perhaps no winter campaigns ever again,’ suggested Anton.

  Rameke scoffed at the notion. ‘There will be war soon enough, and much of it. My father says that the Estonians sought peace in order to rebuild their strength after their losses at King Caupo’s stronghold.’

  ‘More crusaders will be arriving in the spring,’ said Conrad. ‘Then the bishop will renew his war against Lembit.’

  Rameke shook his head. ‘He agreed a two-year peace with Lembit and he will not break it. He is a man of his word.’

  ‘And what about Lembit?’ queried Conrad.

  ‘He has no honour,’ sneered Rameke. ‘It is my wish to kill him in battle.’

  ‘I think Conrad will beat you to it,’ said Johann. ‘After all, he nearly killed him at Wenden with his crossbow.’

  ‘A pity you didn’t,’ sighed Rameke. ‘You would have done my people a great service.’

  ‘If there is to be no war against Lembit for two years,’ said Hans, ‘then what is the point of the bishop bringing fresh crusaders with him from Germany when he returns in the spring?’

  None of them had an answer to this so they sat in silence, staring at the holes in the ice. Conrad was beginning to think that their journey had been a waste of time when, suddenly, one of the small flags jerked and tipped up into the vertical position. Then another and another flag flipped up.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ said Rameke with pride. ‘This lake is full of perch and pike and during the winter they feed most intensively in the middle of the day. Come on!’

  He jumped up, grabbed his gaff hook and walked quickly over to where the first flag had tipped up. The others also grabbed their hooks and followed him as flag after flag stood up to indicate a fish had been snared. The first fished hauled onto the ice and into wicker baskets were perch: around a foot long and weighing no more than three pounds. But some lines yielded the much larger pike. Hans shouted with delight as he hooked a great dark green monster with razor-sharp teeth. The others whooped with joy as it thrashed around on the ice before he pulled the axe from his belt and battered it with the side of the iron head. Then he lifted it above his head in triumph. It must have been over four feet in length and weighing fifty pounds or more.

  They spent two more hours on the ice, pulling up fish and filling baskets, then rebating the hooks and casting the lines back in the water. And then, suddenly, the fish stopped biting as they stopped feeding and returned to the bottom of the lake where the temperature was less cold than nearer the surface. They cooked some of the perch using dry firewood they had brought with them but did not touch any of the two-dozen pike they had caught. These fish contained numerous small bones and required expert filleting before they could be eaten. They would be left to Wenden’s cooks to deal with.

  The temperature was dropping rapidly by the time they had finished eating, stacked the baskets of fish on two of the sleds and tied the fishing equipment and shelters to the others. The only sound was their exertions as they dragged the sleds along the path they had used to reach the lake, their marks still visible in the deep snow. The snow-cleared ramparts of Wenden came into view just as the sun was sinking behind its walls and towers. Sentries stood warming their hands over braziers and the banner of the Sword Brothers hung limply from the northern tower and above the gatehouse in the perimeter wall. The new year heralded a time of peace and an opportunity to continue the building of the bishop’s most northerly stronghold.

  *****

  Grand Duke Daugerutis sent two hundred men to the Dvina to clear a path from the river to his stronghold of Panemunis so that the journey of his daughter, son-in-law and their children would be as speedy as possible. When the snow had been cleared and the sleighs and guards assembled at the river the Prince of Gerzika and his retinue rode from their seat of power before alighting from the sleighs and walking across the iron-hard ice. Vsevolod was worried that the ice might crack and they might all fall into the icy water and freeze to death, so great was the number of servants and soldiers on the river. But it did not and soon the prince and his wife were riding behind a vanguard of fifty horsemen sent by the duke, his own hundred and fifty guards interspersed between the sleighs carrying tents, servants, food and clothes and a rearguard. It would take two days to reach his father-in-law’s castle and he resented being dragged from his well-appointed, warm home to undertake a journey through the frozen forest
s of Lithuania. But the grand duke was most insistent that he should come, his wife wanted to see her father and his children thought it a great adventure.

  Rasa snapped at them to be quiet as they moved through a snow-covered meadow between two great swathes of forests, the spruce and birch blanketed with snow. Fortunately there was no wind or snowfall but it was still bitterly cold so they were all wrapped in furs, the children seated behind the prince and his wife, who in turn were behind the driver directing the two horses pulling the sleigh.

  ‘Two days staring at horses’ arses,’ complained Vsevolod, ‘just what I desired.’

  ‘Stop complaining,’ Rasa rebuked him. ‘It will be good to see father again.’

  ‘I have no objection seeing your father, light of my life, it is the brutes he gathers round him that I object to. If I never see Prince Stecse again, it will be too soon.’

  ‘Perhaps my father wishes to thank you in person for the gold he received in exchange for the Liv slaves he captured last year.’

  Perhaps he had heard of the tidy sum that Vsevolod had made as a result of acting as mediator, more like. Perhaps he wanted his own share of the gold. He suddenly felt miserable and sank into silence. The grand duke had never struck him as a greedy man but perhaps the acquisition of so much gold had turned his head. He never realised that there was so much wealth within the walls of Riga. The bishop and his followers were rich, that much was certain. But to waste gold on worthless Livs – senseless.

  Panemunis was worse than he could have imagined. Not only had the grand duke summoned all his princes and chiefs, Vsevolod learned that he had also invited the other Lithuanian dukes. Grand Duke Daugerutis controlled all the lands of the Selonians and Nalsen, extending far into the Lithuanian hinterland. Those lands to the south and west were the domains of dukes who occasionally warred among themselves and paid homage to Grand Duke Daugerutis. But here they were, together with their personal bodyguards, the dukes having been given quarters in the castle, their men living in tents pitched in the courtyard. The latter was a sea of mud, despite the boards that had been laid for ease of traversing it, and by the time Vsevolod and his family had been settled in their rooms his boots and cloak were splattered with dirt. This did nothing to improve his humour.

  His mood lightened later when he sat beside the grand duke in his hall as he gave a great feast for his guests. The forests around the castle must have been emptied of all of its wild boar such was the quantity of roasted pork that was brought into the hall from the kitchens on huge wooden platters. The tables could barely accommodate the vast amounts of black rye bread, blood soup, eggs and pies loaded onto them. The grand duke also made sure their drinking horns were always full of the reddish-brown rye beer that even Vsevolod had to admit was delicious.

  Not that anyone drank to excess. The great red banner bearing a black bear on all fours hung behind the top table, a reminder to everyone present that this was the citadel of Grand Duke Daugerutis, the man who ruled the greatest extent of Lithuania, and around the hall were posted guards whose shields were painted with the black bear. The other tables were arranged in a circle so as not to offend his guests and make them feel they were equal to their host, which everyone knew was not the case. The table to the immediate right of the top table was where Stecse and the grand duke’s other important warlords were seated, the prince having kissed Rasa’s hand when she had entered the hall with her father and nodded curtly to Vsevolod.

  The other four tables held the other dukes who had been invited to Panemunis. Each sat with their most trusted warriors and warlords, though none was allowed to carry weapons save the dukes themselves. Vsevolod chuckled when he saw that all of them had also brought tasters to ensure they were not poisoned. How little they knew of Daugerutis. He was a man who preferred to kill his enemies on the battlefield, preferably with his own hand, rather than leave the business to lowly cooks. He could be the most intractable of enemies but also the most generous of hosts. He had invited them to his hall and all that interested him was that they relax and partake of his hospitality.

  They were a curious collection of individuals, all long hair and thick beards with warrior rings on their fingers and thick torcs round their necks. There was Ykintas, Duke of the Semgallians, who had thick black hair and an even thicker black beard. His banner carried the symbol of the Iron Wolf, a mythical beast that supposedly prowled the great forests of Lithuania. On the next table sat the aloof Butantas, whose slight frame belied his cunning and ruthlessness. The Duke of the Samogitians, he had fought a very long and bloody war against Daugerutis, one that he had lost, along with a sizeable portion of his territory. Then there was the Duke of the Aukstaitija tribe – Kitenis – a bear of a man who wore leather armour painted with his symbol of the black axe. Finally there was Gedvilas, a red-haired jovial fellow who was the Duke of the Southern Kurs. The Kurs were a people who relished raiding on sea and land and viewed the lands of other peoples as their personal hunting grounds. The only duke who had not answered the invitation of Daugerutis had been Arturus, the leader of the Northern Kurs who had tried to capture Riga. He thought himself a king who did not answer to anyone, not least to the man whose warriors had attacked his eastern borders and who led the Selonians and Nalsen, tribes who were the traditional enemies of the Kurs. For that reason Daugerutis was particularly pleased that one of the Kur leaders had accepted his invitation.

  The evening passed without incident and the next morning the grand duke invited his fellow leaders to a more formal meeting in his hall. Vsevolod attended but Rasa did not, women being banned from the important affairs of men. So she donned leggings, tied her hair behind her neck and accepted an invitation from Stecse to go hunting wolves. The prince also took his son, Mindaugas, along though Vsevolod forbade his two daughters attending. He loved Rasa but thought that she should make more of an effort to shrug off her pagan heritage and adopt more civilised, womanly hobbies rather than hunting. He certainly did not want his daughters being brought up as Lithuanians.

  A great fire was raging in the stone hearth when he arrived in the hall to find Daugerutis pacing up and down, slaves spreading fresh straw on the earth floor. The kitchens had been working since before dawn, baking fresh bread and making hot porridge to fill cold bellies. Like Vsevolod the other dukes had eaten in their quarters with their warlords before making their way to the hall, each of them wrapped in fur-lined cloaks for it was still mercilessly cold, icicles hanging from roof beams and the beards of sentries turned white. When they came into the hall they all warmed their hands on the fire before accepting warmed beer offered to them by slaves.

  ‘A man could freeze to death just taking a piss,’ said Ykintas, throwing his cloak on a bench.

  Kitenis drained his cup of beer and belched. ‘I hope we have been dragged here for a good reason. I would rather be in my bed with a young slave girl than talking words of peace.’

  ‘Not peace, my friend,’ said Daugerutis, ‘but war.’

  He snapped his fingers and ordered the slave to bring more beer.

  ‘I know your journeys here have been long and arduous and for that I thank you. Please, be seated.’

  More slaves arranged high-backed chairs around the fire as Daugerutis waved away some of the guards that lined the walls. As the dukes took their places facing the fire a tall, white-robed man entered the hall and then closed the twin doors behind him. He walked purposefully over to the side of Daugerutis, who bowed his head to him. The white-haired man with a long white beard said nothing but the others knew who he was: Kriviu Krivaitis, the high priest of the Lithuanian religion, a man who lived in the sacred oak grove where the Eternal Flame burned. Daugerutis may have conquered by the sword but he ruled because the Kriviu Krivaitis lived on his land and every Lithuanian, high- or low-born, knew that Dievas himself spoke through him. The priesthood, the Kriviai, could travel freely throughout Lithuania without let or hindrance, for to interfere with them was to incur the wrath of the gods. And now the
high priest himself stood before them in the hall of the grand duke.

  Vsevolod took a seat, the others frowning at the presence of this foreigner among them, but Daugerutis remained standing. The presence of the Kriviu Krivaitis had impressed them all, even the fierce Kitenis, and they all waited to hear what the grand duke had to say. All except Vsevolod who was abruptly asked to leave.

  ‘Unless you wish to embrace our faith, my son,’ said Daugerutis, ‘you cannot be present when Kriviu Krivaitis calls upon the gods.’

  The others murmured in agreement and cast the Prince of Gerzika hostile glances. They only tolerated his presence because he was related to the grand duke. Vsevolod rose and bowed to his father-in-law. He had no wish to attend a heathen ceremony anyway.

  ‘Of course, my lord.’

  He ignored the others as he made his way to the doors, which were opened by the guards and then shut behind him.

  Kriviu Krivaitis used his hands to order the dukes to rise from their chairs. As they and the grand duke bowed their heads he faced the fire and spread his arms, closing his eyes as he prayed to Dievas. To many people fire was a source of light and warmth but to Lithuanians it was much more. Fire symbolised the unbroken lifeline of a family and its ancestry. The Eternal Flame over which the chief priest and virgins stood guard over was the unifying link with ancestors who had long since died and were now with the gods. And every Lithuanian believed that numerous generations of his family’s dead continued to live on at the hearth of his fire.

  For this reason fire was not to be harmed, insulted or polluted. Fire was treated with reverence and awe. No one spat into a fire or kicked at it, and no live coals or smouldering ashes were extinguished for this was considered a sin. Rather, everyone waited until the fire burned out of its own accord before the hearth was cleared.