by Peter Darman
More and more Lithuanians poured over the top of the rampart and added to the mud-splattered press of men battling on the obverse side of the rampart and in the ditch. There were more claps of thunder and the rain became torrential, greatly reducing visibility and negating any command and control that may have existed. In the front ranks Count Horton and Sir Helmold battled with sword and shield against the leather-clad pagans, their bodyguards fighting and dying beside them. Men killed those who were in front of them and then pressed on, or were cut down and fell into the mud, some face down and drowning as their bodies were trampled on and their faces pressed down into the ooze. It was horror and chaos as the storm vented its fury on the thousands of men below. But amid the carnage one Christian division maintained its discipline and cohesion.
When they had been peppered with enemy arrows the Sword Brothers had halted and taken cover under their shields. To their left Thalibald’s Livs had not halted their advance in the face of Lithuanian archers and neither had the bishop’s division on their right flank. This meant that they reached the ditch and rampart later than the other ‘battles’, which were already battling for their lives against a well-planned Lithuanian counterattack that threatened to stop the Christian assault in its tracks. Despite the bravery of the knights they could not break the Lithuanian resistance and the ditch was slowly filling up with German dead. It was the same with Thalibald’s Livs, who were literally hacking Lithuanians to pieces with their axes but were unable to make any progress. It was left to a small group of white-clad soldiers to affect a breakthrough.
Conrad had reached the ditch unharmed, two arrows lodged in his shield, and now he and the others clambered down its side and then up the other side to wrestle free the stakes. Fierce fighting was raging either side of the phalanx of Sword Brothers, which had subconsciously closed ranks to make a more compact formation.
In front of Conrad the brother knights pushed aside stakes and clawed their way up the muddy bank. He followed, looking left and right to ensure Hans, Johann and Anton were still with him. Behind the sergeants likewise clambered up the slope that was fast turning into a mudslide. His heart was beating as he used the spike on his axe to pull himself up. And then he was on top of the rampart and could see the hundreds of enemy tents and huts in the camp below. Then he heard horns and saw a mass of enemy soldiers forming up at the foot of the rampart. They had been spotted. But now they could attack downhill and scatter the heathens at the base of the rampart. Except that the rampart was now a muddy morass and keeping one’s feet was difficult enough – a charge was all but impossible.
The brother knights dressed their ranks as the sergeants pressed in on them from behind and then the whole formation moved downhill. Immediately Conrad lost his footing and fell on his backside, Hans hauling him to his feet before Anton’s right foot skidded and he fell onto Henke in the front rank. The latter turned and pushed up his helmet.
‘Idiot! Have a care or I’ll butcher you myself.’
He shoved Anton back and pulled down his helmet but all along the line brother knights and sergeants were slipping and sliding as they descended the rampart in a haphazard manner. And still the rain lashed them mercilessly. The front rank managed to lurch forward the final few steps between them and the Lithuanians to begin a mêlée that quickly degenerated into a mud-wrestling match.
The fighting soon spread over a wide area as the Sword Brothers cut their way into the enemy ranks but then found themselves surrounded as they advanced deeper into the camp. There was no reserve to back them up; the Livs and crusaders were still battling on the other side of the rampart. Soon the Sword Brothers halted as they fought enemies to their front, on their flanks and in their rear. Their formation also widened as they launched attacks from the flanks against the ever-increasing numbers of Lithuanians who appeared seemingly out of nowhere. In no time Conrad and the other novices were in the front rank fighting beside Henke, Rudolf and Lukas.
Normally Conrad would have been in constant movement in response to his training but in the mud it was a major effort not to fall over. So he planted his left foot forward and his right back and fended off a series of Lithuanian attacks. It wasn’t difficult to do because these enemy soldiers were for the most part unarmoured and ill equipped. He killed a spearman who tried to stick the point in his belly but skidded forward and presented the back of his bare head to Conrad, who obligingly brought down his axe to sever the man’s spinal cord. Another Lithuanian, armed with an axe similar to his, made a clumsy two-handed swing at Conrad’s head that missed when he ducked. The momentum of the swing caused the man to fall over, whereupon Conrad pressed his shield onto the man’s chest and chopped at his face half a dozen times with his own axe, reducing it to an unrecognisable pulp.
He removed his left arm from his shield’s padded leather squab and used its leather strap to sling it on his back, then transferred the axe to his left hand and drew his sword. With this combination he beat off a succession of half-hearted enemy attacks, all the time ensuring that Hans and Anton were either side of him. But after a few minutes he noticed that the Lithuanians were falling back, shuffling towards the right. The rain was still heavy as Rudolf removed his helmet and bellowed for everyone to form lines once more.
Conrad suddenly felt cold and became aware that every part of his body was wet, the only dry bit being the crown of his head under his helmet.
‘Are you unhurt?’ he said to Hans.
His friend nodded and grinned. Conrad looked at Anton.
‘Are you in one piece?’
‘Aside from being half-drowned,’ replied his friend. Johann beside him leaned forward and raised his sword to Conrad.
‘What are we waiting for?’ said Anton in frustration.
Conrad shrugged as Rudolf consulted with the other deputy commanders and everyone stood and sank up to their ankles in mud. In the distance Conrad saw other Lithuanians moving from left to right and wondered why the Sword Brothers were not killing them. But Rudolf was unwilling to move further forward until the other divisions had entered the camp and so he grouped his men together and waited. What he did not know was that Thalibald’s Livs on the left had finally stormed the rampart and were flooding into the camp.
*****
Stecse had been standing on the reverse slope of the rampart near the blocked entrance when a subordinate brought him the news that it had been breached on the right.
‘The Sword Brothers and Livs, lord, they have broken through.’
He now had a choice: commit the reserve to eject them from the camp, or use it to shield a general retreat across the river. He chose the latter and ordered the officers grouped round him to give the command to withdraw. The crusaders were still being held on the left and in the centre but the crossbowmen were taking a steady toll of his men, shooting at close range those on top of the rampart, the bolts going through their wooden shields with ease. What was the point of holding the north of the river now that the grand duke was dead and his dreams of a greater Lithuania in tatters? The pounding rain was surely a sign from the gods that they should leave this land polluted by the Christian faith and return to the green and pure domains of the Lithuanian tribes.
A tumult above made Stecse look up to see one, two, half a dozen enemy soldiers sliding down the greasy rampart, their heads encased in full-face helmets and their bodies protected by mail armour.
He drew his sword. ‘Rally to me!’
He thrust his sword into the belly of the first knight who came at him, who did not have time to rise to his feet before he was killed. A score of his warriors came to his side and hacked and slashed at the invaders, overpowering them by weight of numbers rather than skill with weapons. Stecse duelled with a knight taller than him, desperately trying to keep his feet while his opponent’s mace splintered the edge of his shield and then split it in half. But this blow resulted in one of the flanges getting stuck in the wood and, before the crusader could yank it free, Stecse drove the point of his
sword into the knight’s groin, causing him to collapse in agony. He was finished off when a warrior thrust the point of his dagger into his neck. Stecse raised his sword and his men cheered, and a crossbowman on the top of the rampart released his trigger to send a bolt into the prince’s belly. A spear thrown by the man standing next to Stecse killed the crossbowman. The prince was dragged away as his chiefs began withdrawing their men from the camp’s defences.
The process was slow, made worse by the rain sheeting down, but gradually the chiefs succeeded in pulling their men back from the rampart and down the reverse slope, to reform them in shield walls that edged back slowly. They may have been pagans but it was an ordered withdrawal towards the pontoon bridge. Stecse, meanwhile, his face pale as the blood gushed from his belly, was dragged to a hut where a healer examined the wound. In the excitement everyone forgot about the enemy breakthrough on the right and the necessity of committing the reserve.
The five hundred warriors stood shivering in the rain, water coursing off their helmets as their commander, a thin, balding chief of the Selonians, waited for his orders. In front of him, equally sodden, Mindaugas sat on his horse with the men his father had assigned to look after him.
‘I cannot sit here doing nothing,’ he uttered in frustration.
‘Your father’s orders were quite clear,’ remarked the commander of the horsemen.
‘I will reward you richly if look the other way,’ said Mindaugas.
The commander was unimpressed. ‘Can you give me a new head?’
Mindaugas looked at him. ‘A new head?’
‘That’s right, young lord, for when your father discovers that I let you go and play hero he will have my head.’
Mindaugas, out-foxed, pulled his cloak around him and looked sullenly ahead, to see a rider on a pony approaching. He halted in front of him and raised his hand.
‘You father has been wounded, lord, he orders you to lead the retreat across the river.’
Mindaugas spurred his horse forward and rode back up the track to find his father. The commander cursed and ordered his men to follow him as he rode after Stecse’s son. And just in front of the bridge the reserve stood like statues in the rain.
*****
Also standing in the rain were the Sword Brothers who had suddenly found themselves ignored by both sides. To their left Thalibald’s Livs were still battling the Lithuanians, with the latter now separated from the rest of their army and being pushed back towards the river. On the order’s right flank the bishop’s division had captured the rampart and was now advancing directly south towards the bridge of boats. Thus the Sword Brothers had no one to fight.
Rudolf raised his sword and took off his helmet. ‘Move forward through the camp,’ he shouted, ‘but stay alert.’
He and the other commanders reorganised their men, deploying them into two lines to extend their frontage so they could more easily clear the camp of any Lithuanian stragglers. The rain seemed to be abating slightly though was still falling steadily. As they moved forward it became apparent that two hundred and fifty men would not be able to clear a camp covering several hectares and so they were split into small groups to search the encampment.
Lukas formed Conrad, Hans, Anton and Johann into one such group as the rain stopped and sent them on their way.
‘Make sure you can see other groups and fall back if you come across any large bodies of the enemy,’ he warned them.
Most of the shelters were small two-man affairs made from wicker panels but there were also wooden huts and larger tents, with temporary stables fashioned from branches and sheets. Conrad and his companions walked between shelters, stooping down to see if any were occupied. None were. They walked past rain-filled cooking pots hanging over extinguished campfires and hastily vacated tents. They could hear fighting all around them but in the immediate vicinity there was no one. Occasionally they caught a glimpse of enemy soldiers fleeing towards the river but this part of the spacious camp seemed to be deserted. They kept glancing left and right to see brother knights and sergeants examining empty tents and shelters.
There was a rumble of thunder and then it began raining again, a light downfall at first that became increasingly heavy as the sky darkened once more. Conrad’s mail feet sank in the mud as he stepped forward. He looked at the others.
‘I’m tempted to shelter in one of the huts until this passes.’
‘Good idea,’ said Anton, ‘before we all drown.’
‘I wonder if the enemy has left any food in the huts,’ remarked Hans. The others laughed.
They continued on, stepping over pools of water that were forming all around as the rain teemed down. But of the enemy they saw nothing. The visibility had reduced to such an extent that they could see barely fifty paces in front of them. On they tramped, coming across four huts, outside which a number of horses were tethered.
‘Stay alert,’ called Conrad, his sixth sense telling him that they were no longer alone.
The others came alongside to form a line as they approached the first hut, a crude structure with log walls and a wicker roof. It had no windows, a hole in the roof to allow the escape of smoke and a doorway covered by a large patch of hide. The volume of rain and claps of thunder made any attempt at stealth unnecessary but the mud was becoming deeper. Conrad’s right foot sank in it up to his ankle as the hide door was swept aside and a dozen Lithuanians exited the hut. Wearing helmets, mail armour and carrying shields, they at first did not see the four novices standing a few feet away.
‘Get the horses,’ barked the leading Lithuanian.
The enemy soldiers began wading through the mud towards the horses that had their heads down before one spotted Conrad and his companions and screamed the alarm.
‘Keep your feet,’ Conrad shouted to his friends. ‘God with us!’
The others cried ‘God with us!’ in unison and then walked towards the enemy, who were also advancing towards them with swords drawn. Conrad saw that some of them wore lamellar armour as well as mail and their commander had an aventail beneath his helmet.
Conrad turned the axe handle in his left hand before swinging it up and then down so the spike went into the shield of its Lithuanian owner who raised it to defend himself from the blow. Using the axe he pulled the shield down and thrust his sword over its rim, driving the point through the man’s mouth. Blood frothed at the wound and he shook violently for a few seconds before collapsing into the mud, dead.
Hans, Anton and Johann were involved in their own duels, the fights appearing to be in slow motion, as they had to make allowances for the mud and rain, their opponents similarly hamstrung by the conditions. Brother Lukas had taught them to keep moving in combat, to dart and weave around their opponents, but today they were more like old washerwomen swinging sacks of laundry.
Conrad left his axe embedded in the dead man’s shield, took his own shield off his back and slid his left arm through the leather straps, then attacked a Lithuanian who was making his way towards Hans. The latter was fighting off two opponents, one of them having stepped into a pool of water and sank up to his knees. If it had not been so deadly the scene would have been comical.
The Lithuanian saw Conrad and faced him, swinging his sword over his head to bring it down on Conrad’s shield. He kept swinging his sword, Conrad easily deflecting the blows but being forced back by his assailant. As they fought and the rain continued to fall he did not notice that he was being herded away from the others towards another hut. The Lithuanian continued to hack with his sword and Conrad let him. His blows were clumsy and predictable and Conrad could see that he was panting and becoming tired. But he continued to press his attack, probably convinced that the youth in front of him was inexperienced and frightened. It was a fatal assumption to make as he dragged his boots from the cloying mud to deliver a fresh succession of blows at Conrad, the latter stepping back and either parrying the swipes with his shield or ducking to the side to avoid them altogether.
‘A fi
ght is not a dance,’ Lukas had told them more than once. ‘Get it over as quickly as possible to conserve your energy. Tired men make mistakes.’
Tired men make mistakes. One did so now as the Lithuanian, having failed to even scratch Conrad with his blur of sword strikes, lunged forward in an attempt to drive the point into his belly. Conrad brushed aside the blade with his shield, sweeping it from right to left, away from his body, to expose the Lithuanian’s torso for an instant. And an instant was all that he needed. Conrad screamed and drove the sword into the man’s guts, straight through the mail armour, tunic and into soft flesh and intestines. The Lithuanian, a look of horror on his face, moaned softly and went limp on the sword. Conrad tugged back his sword and the dead enemy slumped to the ground.
He saw his other companions holding their own against the Lithuanians, who seemed to be fighting a defensive battle as he saw two others going back to collect the horses. He began walking back to the fight when he heard a noise behind and turned to see the hide flap over the doorway of the nearest hut open and two men exit. Both were in war gear but one was badly wounded and was being helped to walk by a smaller individual, a boy, who had his arm round the shoulders of the older man. The latter was pale faced and had a crossbow bolt in his belly. He groaned in pain as the boy helped him out of the hut. They were going to the horses.
There was a large clap of thunder and Conrad stepped forward to bar their way. He looked behind them to ensure that there were no soldiers following but saw only an old man in tunic and leggings, a bag slung over his shoulders. The young boy froze as Conrad held his shield in front of him and brought his sword up to chest height, drawing it back so he could plunge it into the youth, and then afterwards into the wounded man. The old man gasped in alarm and froze, the boy, who had a long face, showing no fear as he matched Conrad’s stare. His eyes showed hate and defiance but no fear, not even alarm. Perhaps that was why Conrad decided to let him go, or perhaps he thought it dishonourable to slay a boy who was assisting a wounded comrade. Whatever the reason he lowered his sword and backed away, the boy taking a long, hard look at him before helping the man with the bolt in his belly towards the horses.