by Peter Darman
‘That is what they want,’ replied Stecse, ‘to slow us down so their knights can toy with us. But we will not play their game.’
Mindaugas was mortified. ‘We cannot run from these Christians. It is shameful. We should stand and fight.’
Before Stecse could answer there was a succession of horn calls from the meadow, and in the distance the sound of trumpets being blasted.
‘You may get your wish,’ said Stecse flatly before tugging on his horse’s reins to retrace his steps. Mindaugas and the others followed.
In the meadow the Lithuanian horsemen were deploying into line, arrayed in their companies approximately a hundred strong, arranged in two lines.
Stecse looked at the two surviving scouts that accompanied him.
‘Two miles away? Perhaps I should have scouts that can judge distances.’
‘We did not lie, lord,’ protested one but Stecse waved away his protest.
He galloped to the centre of the line and halted his horse in front of the first rank of Lithuanians. To the north, less than a quarter of a mile away, the land either side of the track was filling with brightly coloured horsemen, their beasts swathed in red, yellow and black coverings, their riders similarly brightly adorned. They contrasted sharply with the drab brown and green of the Lithuanians. Flags and pennants flew from the Christian lances and in the centre of the line was a huge banner that stirred only slightly in the light breeze. The mounted drummers among the Christians banged their instruments continuously as Stecse’s men sat in silence and watched as more and more horsemen flooded the ground in front of them. Mindaugas drew his sword.
‘You can put that away,’ said Stecse. ‘We are not standing here entertaining the Christians.’
His son and those within earshot looked at him in surprise.
‘All you see is what is ahead of you. But I have to think of matters of more import. If the Christians are here then they might also be at the Dvina, and if they are that means that the grand duke and all the other dukes are cut off from Lithuania. Our first duty now is to reach the river and secure the bridge across it.’
The Christians were still deploying when the Lithuanians began to withdraw, a hundred men forming the rearguard as the rest trotted south towards the Dvina. The prisoners were escorted to the front of the column as Stecse took command of the rearguard. The crusaders, realising that their opponents were not going to fight, began following in one great mass of horsemen, some breaking ranks to gallop in front to charge the Lithuanians. Stecse led forward a group of half a dozen horsemen against these lone riders, killing one himself with a spisa thrust before withdrawing back to the rearguard. But this merely served to inspire the Christians to more acts of bravado as more and more began to gallop forward to offer single combat. But Stecse gave the order to increase the speed of the retreat and thus the rearguard managed to stay out of their reach.
After half an hour the Christians were content to follow the Lithuanians as they fell back towards the Dvina, now less than ten miles to the south. With the ground either side of the track narrowing as the tress closed in there was no scope to outflank Stecse’s men and he began to relax, just as a commotion erupted behind him. He turned to see two riders burst through the ranks, spooking one of the horses directly behind him that bolted forward into his own horse, herding it to one side. He looked on helplessly as Thalibald and Waribule galloped past and headed towards the Christians. Two of his men dug their spurs into their horses to give pursuit.
‘Let them go,’ shouted Stecse. He had more important things to worry about now than two Liv prisoners.
Thalibald and his son, having taken advantage of the appearance of the crusaders to strike their guards and grab the reins of their horses, galloped back up the track they had ridden down, constantly looking behind to see if they were being pursued. They shouted in unison when they realised they were not, then looked in horror to see a dozen horsemen leaving the Christian ranks with lances levelled, cantering towards them. Their wrists were still bound together in front of them so they pulled on their reins to halt their horses and then raised their arms.
‘We are friends,’ shouted Thalibald in German as the knights approached them in an unbroken line, lances gripped under their right armpits, their heads encased in full-face helmets. The two Livs had escaped from the Lithuanians only to die at the hands of their allies.
As the faceless knights bore down on them Thalibald and Waribule continued to shout that they were friends, allies and fellow Christians. The crusaders, however, their faces enclosed by their helmets, saw only a pair of reckless, hairy barbarians in front of them and paid no heed to their shouting, which sounded strangely German. But they did take notice of the blast of trumpets behind and the appearance of their lord beside them who was surprising bare headed. He was also gesticulating frantically with his arms. Less than a hundred paces from their targets they slowed their charge to a trot and then a walk as his voiced boomed at them.
‘Halt! Stand down! Stay your weapons.’
They pulled up their horses and looked at each other in confusion as he walked his horse in front of them to ensure they obeyed his commands. Then he wheeled his mount around and walked it towards the two heathens. Was he mad? Had he been seized by witchcraft? He was followed by his banner man, the great red flag he carried sporting a golden lion, a design replicated on the shield that was slung on his back and the splendid caparison that covered his huge warhorse. He brought the great steed to a halt in front of Thalibald and smiled, extending his hand to him.
‘Greetings, my friend. I did not think we would meet in such strange circumstances.’
Thalibald held up his bound wrists. ‘Alas, Sir Helmold, you see before you a chief reduced to the status of a slave.’
Sir Helmold pulled his dagger from its sheath and cut the chief’s bonds, doing the same for his son.
‘Slave no longer, my friend.’
Thalibald looked behind at the disappearing Lithuanians. ‘They retreat to the Dvina.’
‘We form but one of the two armies that are now approaching the river. The bishop leads the other from the west. I was sent north to aid the garrisons of Segewold and Wenden that were besieged by the enemy, but happily your king delivered their salvation.’
Thalibald thought of his youngest son and daughter. ‘Wenden is safe?’
Sir Helmold nodded. ‘Safe, my friend, and much more. Daugerutis is dead and his army scattered. It is a miracle.’
Thalibald slapped his son on the shoulder and closed his eyes. ‘Praise God.’
Stecse stayed with the rearguard until he was a mile from the Dvina where the grand duke’s troops had erected a rough semi-circular earth rampart surmounted by sharpened stakes that flanked the ground either side of the track, the latter being barred by great logs with iron spikes that could be laid across it. Inside the rampart that protected the bridgehead were crude log shelters and tents.
That night a tired Stecse held a council of war in one of the large tents used by one of the chiefs. Daugerutis had left his own men to secure the pontoon bridge over the Dvina as well as a thousand more to lay siege to Kokenhusen but a short distance from the bridge of boats. Stecse was already concerned about the appearance of crusaders to the north but now he received news that made him fear for the safety of Daugerutis himself.
The tent stank of human sweat as the chiefs stood around the oak table, their bearded faces haggard from too little sleep. Candles were placed on the four corners of the table and a cloth map was unfurled on its rough surface. Stecse ordered them to submit their reports. A chief with a heavily bandaged arm pointed at the map, which was a representation of the River Dvina from the Gulf of Riga to the city of Polotsk. He pointed at Riga.
‘The Bishop of Riga landed with a great army of crusaders two weeks ago. The soldiers of Duke Kitenis made an abortive assault against the castle of Holm and then withdrew east to link up with those soldiers besieging Uexkull. When they arrived they found that Du
ke Gedvilas, Duke Kitenis and Duke Butantas were present. They…’
He fell silent and stared at the map.
‘Continue,’ ordered Stecse.
‘Duke Butantas sent a boat across the river to the Semgallians informing them that their duke was dead and requesting boats to be sent over so his men and those of the other dukes could be evacuated. They have fled, lord, across the river, as have those men of Duke Butantas who were besieging the castle of Lennewarden.’
Stecse looked at their weary faces. ‘It is true that Duke Ykintas is dead. He led an attack against the castle of Wenden and was killed. His men are still with the grand duke. The other dukes quarrelled with our lord and deserted him, may Perkunas torment them. We are on our own.’
‘The Bishop of Riga will link up with the crusader garrisons as he marches east along the river,’ said a chief with fair hair and beard, lamellar armour covering his broad chest. He pointed at the castles of Holm, Uexkull and Lennewarden.
Stecse nodded. ‘Our priority is to protect the bridge over the river. Therefore we will withdraw eight hundred men from around Kokenhusen to reinforce the position here. The crusaders I clashed with earlier may attempt to capture the bridge in the next few days.
‘I will also bring the three thousand men that the grand duke left in his lands as a reserve. If this bridgehead is destroyed then the grand duke will be trapped in Livonia.’
‘Where is the grand duke?’ asked the chief with a bandaged arm.
‘I hope that he is marching south to the Dvina,’ said Stecse, ‘though at this moment in time I know as much about his whereabouts as you do.
‘Organise the movement of troops from Kokenhusen tonight, and send couriers south to order the reserve to move across the river. I do not want the crusaders stealing a march on us.’
They saluted and filed out of the tent in silence. Stecse was not unduly concerned about them: they were all either Selonians or Nalsen, men who owed allegiance to Daugerutis himself. Unlike the other dukes they would not desert him. He flopped down in one of the chairs next to the table and looked at the map. His eyes settled on Gerzika, some fifty miles east of Kokenhusen. He toyed with the idea of sending a plea for help to Vsevolod, the son-in-law of Daugerutis and the grand duke’s appointed heir, but dismissed the idea. He remembered Vsevolod’s treachery at Kokenhusen. He would not put it past the prince to side with the bishop if events favoured him. Still, a message sent to the grand duke’s wife might be more productive. He rose and walked to a smaller table by the tent’s wall, upon which was a jug of beer. He poured himself a cup and returned to his seat, stretching out his legs as one of the flaps opened and a guard appeared. He saluted the prince.
‘Apologies, lord, there is a man outside who wishes to see you. He says he is a prince.’
‘A prince? Does he bring an army to aid me in my hour of need?’
The guard looked confused. ‘No, lord. He is alone.’
‘Does he have a name, this prince?’ asked Stecse.
‘Vetseke, lord, formerly the ruler of Kokenhusen.’
Stecse’s ears pricked up at this. He had thought Vetseke long dead, for he knew that he had been captured after his revolt against the bishop had been crushed.
‘Show him in,’ said Stecse, ‘and bring more drink.’
The guard saluted and disappeared. Moments later he reappeared with a tall man beside him dressed in mail armour and a green cloak around his shoulders. He had long black hair but, unusually, a clean-shaven face. He had a world-weary appearance but his brown eyes were still sharp. He nodded his head ever so slightly at Stecse.
‘Hail Prince Stecse, commander of the armies of Grand Duke Daugerutis, lord of all Lithuania.’
Stecse extended his arm to a chair a few paces from his own. ‘Please, avail yourself of my hospitality, Prince Vetseke, such as it is.’
Vetseke walked to the chair but then stopped at the table and peered at the map upon it.
‘The playground of princes, dukes and bishops.’ He looked at Stecse. ‘Your guards relieved me of my sword. I trust I will get it back.’
Another guard brought in a full jug of beer and placed it on the smaller table, along with another cup. Stecse rose and walked over to it, filling the cup.
‘Merely a precaution, I assure you. What brings you to my tent at such a late hour?’
He walked over to Vetseke and handed him the cup. The former ruler of Kokenhusen tasted the liquid and found it bitter.
‘Farmhouse ale, I’m afraid,’ said Stecse, ‘fine dining is not high on my list of priorities at the moment.’
‘Though it has been taken from me,’ said Vetseke, ‘I wish to offer you the service of my sword, if you will have it.’
‘How many warriors do you have?’ asked Stecse.
‘A hundred.’
Stecse drained his cup. ‘Hardly an army.’
‘Hardly anything,’ agreed Vetseke, ‘but numbers are only one part of the equation. The ground we sit on used to be mine before the bishop and his knights came. You will know, of course, that around four hundred of the latter are currently camped but five miles to the north of this tent.’
Stecse nodded. ‘The grand duke is campaigning to the north with over ten thousand men.’
Vetseke sighed and ran a finger around the rim of his cup.
‘Daugerutis is dead, lord prince.’
Stecse, taken by surprise, dropped his cup. He kicked it away in anger but then quickly regained his composure.
‘How can you know this?’
‘You forget that this was once my kingdom. My men are camped deep in the forest but ten miles north of here, but in all the time your men have been on this side of the river they have not discovered them.’
Vetseke got up and walked to the jug of beer to refill his cup. ‘When you kindly besieged my former home you removed the influence of the Sword Brothers from the land, meaning I and my men, formally forced to hide among the trees like bandits, were free to go where we wanted. I still have loyal subjects among the villages who inform me of news.’
He walked back to his chair. ‘They told me of a great battle between the crusaders and Caupo at Wenden in which Daugerutis was killed and his army scattered.’
‘Why should I believe village gossip?’ said Stecse angrily.
‘Because I know my own land and my own people,’ replied Vetseke. ‘I do not relay this news to you out of spite or with relish. I have more reasons to hate and despise the bishop than you, I think.
‘You have to disperse the crusaders to the north, who are poised like a dagger at your bridge of boats. If you wish to remain on this side of the river, that is.’
‘Why wouldn’t we?’ snapped Stecse.
Vetseke turned the cup in his hand. ‘With Daugerutis dead I believe that you are now commander of what remains of his army. That being so, will you underestimate the crusaders as he did?’
Stecse jumped up and placed a hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘You forget yourself, prince.’
Vetseke remained unconcerned. ‘You may kill, Prince Stecse, and by doing so you would release me from the travails of this world. Death would free me from the torment of being a stranger in my own land, a vagrant who has been reduced to living like an animal within the forest. But that would not alter the truth that I have just told you. The decision is yours.’
He finished his drink, stood and placed the cup on the table. He bowed his head to Stecse. ‘You need to strengthen your position here, lord prince, for I fear the crusaders to the north will strike at your camp within days. And within the week the bishop and his army will be here and your problems will multiply.’
‘And you, Vetseke, where do you go?’ said Stecse.
‘Back to my men, there to await your decision whether you wish to enlist my aid. If you do, light a signal bonfire. I will see it.’
He stopped at the tent flap.
‘You look tired, lord prince. You should get some rest for upon your shoulders rests the fate of
the Lithuanian people.’
Then he was gone like a wraith in the night. Stecse refilled his cup and sank back into his chair. He dismissed the idea that Daugerutis was dead, and yet Vetseke knew this land better than he so why would he lie? He was also a mortal enemy of the bishop and the crusaders and for that reason alone made him an ally of sorts. After two more cups of beer he fell asleep in his chair, his mind a whirl of confusion and dread.
*****
After mopping up the remnants of Daugerutis’ army the brother knights went back to a Wenden that had returned to normality. Rameke had taken his people back to his father’s village, which was now his, and in the spring sunshine the castle grounds once more reverberated to the sounds of chisels, picks and spades as the construction work continued apace. The quarry was reopened and the armourers got to work mending mail armour, helmets and shields and making crossbow bolts. So many had been used during the siege that replacements had to be sent from Segewold and Kremon.
The garrison had rejoiced at the news that the bishop had landed with an army at Riga and Master Berthold gave a special service of thanksgiving in the chapel, at which he informed the brother knights that they would be marching south to aid the bishop to destroy the Lithuanians at Kokenhusen. By God’s grace the enemy had vanished from before the walls of Holm, Uexkull and Lennewarden without a fight, and now only a few Lithuanians remained at Kokenhusen. They were currently being watched by the knights under the command of Sir Helmold of Plesse, newly arrived from Germany, until the bishop arrived to launch the decisive attack. Grand Master Volquin had ordered that the Sword Brothers present themselves at Kokenhusen to take part in the battle with the Lithuanian pagans.
It was now summer and the meadows were filled with edible mushrooms and flowering plants – bilberries, wild strawberries, cloudberries, cornflowers and blueberries – and the forests echoed to the distinctive ‘creck, creck’ cry of the corncrake. It was a lush land teeming with life and difficult to imagine that only a few weeks previously had been drenched with blood. And now the Sword Brothers of Kremon, Segewold and Wenden gathered at the latter to march south to the Dvina.