The Sword Brothers

by Peter Darman

  ‘It is inappropriate that you should be looking down on me, priest,’ said Lembit.

  The chief walked over to the headless corpse and took the wooden crucifix that had been around the young monk’s neck. He placed the bloody necklace around the abbot’s neck.

  ‘A memento for you.’

  Lembit ordered the next monk to be brought from the gates. ‘I give you another opportunity, abbot, to save yourself and your two companions. Renounce your god and acknowledge Uku as the true supreme deity and I will let you live.’

  ‘Blasphemer!’ spat Hylas as the second monk, gaping wide-eyed at the headless corpse in front of him, was shoved down on his knees beside it.

  Lembit sighed and nodded to Rusticus who lopped off the quivering monk’s head with a single blow – wild cheering from the ramparts. Lembit once more retrieved the crucifix that had hung around the monk’s neck and placed it around Hylas’ neck. The latter was shaking with rage, his eyes bulging and his cheeks purple.

  ‘You will rot in hell for your crimes,’ he spat at Lembit. ‘Oh Lord, strike down this heathen and show the disbelievers Your power!’

  Lembit looked around him. ‘It would appear that your god is not listening. That being the case, I’m sure he will not mind if you kneel and swear fealty to Uku.’

  But Hylas had his eyes closed and was reciting a silent prayer, trying to shut out the horror that was unfolding before him. Lembit raised his arms to the ramparts.

  ‘I have offered this priest his own and the lives of his followers in return for him paying homage to Uku and yet he refuses. Am I not merciful?’

  Those on the ramparts cheered and whistled, the warriors banging their spear shafts against their shields. Lembit waved forward the last monk, who put up a mighty struggle before he was forced down onto his knees in front of Hylas. Rusticus gripped his sword and placed the bloody edge against the monk’s thin neck. Lembit struck Hylas across the face with the back of his hand.

  ‘Pay attention, you do not want to miss any of the entertainment. Rusticus, can you make it three out of three?’

  Rusticus drew back the blade and then swung it forward to take the head off the last monk, a blow so speedy and expertly delivered that for a few seconds the severed head rested on the corpse’s neck, until the body crumpled and the head rolled on the ground. Rusticus raised his hands to the applause showered upon him and stepped forward, smirking at Hylas.

  ‘No, Rusticus,’ said Lembit, retrieving the last monk’s crucifix and placing it around Hylas’ neck, ‘not this one. This one will live to take my message back to the bishop.’

  Rusticus was shocked. ‘You will let him live?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  Lembit ordered Hylas be tied to a wooden frame and then had him flogged. Rusticus was allowed the honour after he had executed the other prisoners with his sword. He undertook the flogging with a whip made of cowhide, the blows biting deep into the abbot’s back, tearing the flesh. At first Hylas cursed Rusticus after every blow but after twenty lashes his head hung down and he merely moaned with each strike.

  ‘That is enough, Rusticus,’ said Lembit, arms folded and standing on the other side of the frame so he was near Hylas’ face.

  ‘But I am just getting warmed up,’ protested Rusticus.

  Lembit held up a hand to his subordinate and leaned closer to the pale, pain-wracked face of the abbot.

  ‘I have a surprise for you, priest. My deputy uses his right hand.’

  Lembit waved forward one of his wolf shields, a stocky man shorter than Rusticus but powerfully built nonetheless.

  ‘Give him the whip, Rusticus,’ ordered Lembit.

  He continued to speak to the abbot. ‘But the next man to flog you is left handed and so the strokes across your back that he will make will cross the first set of cuts and mangle your flesh even more.’

  He placed a hand under the abbot’s chin and lifted his face. ‘Enjoy.’

  The second set of strokes resulted in the abbot passing out, only to be rudely awakened when Rusticus threw a bucket of water in his face. When his back had been cut to ribbons salt was rubbed into Hylas’ wounds and then he was left to hang on the frame all night.

  In the morning he was cut down and given water before all his fingers were broken with a hammer and his toenails were pulled out. He was then thrown on the back of a cart, together with a sack containing the severed heads of his monks tied to one of his ankles. The dozen riders who were instructed to take him back to Livonia and dump him near Wenden were ordered to given Hylas food and water should he request it, but on no account to harm him further and to ensure that he did not die of exposure on the journey.

  Lembit stood at the entrance to Lehola as the cart trundled down the track south, Rusticus beside him.

  ‘This signals the end of our peace with the crusaders,’ said Lembit.

  Rusticus rubbed his hands together. ‘Good, your warriors grow restless with no blood to wash their blades in.’

  Rusticus pointed at the cart. ‘Why did you let him live?’

  ‘So he can carry my message back to the Christians that their religion has no place in Estonia and if they send any more priests they can expect to receive the same treatment.’

  ‘They will send an army, not priests,’ said Rusticus.

  Lembit nodded. ‘I know. But of the two I would rather fight a crusader army than an army of their priests. At least you can see the men of iron.’

  Rusticus looked confused. ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘The men of iron come with swords but their priests wage war with words and ideas, and once ideas are planted in people’s minds it becomes almost impossible to remove them or prevent them from spreading. I do not wish to see the Estonians going the way of the Livs. I would rather see this land laid waste than fall to the religion of the Bishop of Riga.’

  *****

  ‘He must be over a hundred paces away, said Hans, staring at the wild boar with its snout to the ground.

  Conrad placed a finger over his lips to quieten Hans and lifted up the crossbow that was hanging via a strap over his shoulder.

  ‘If you miss him and waste a bolt there will be extra duties for you tonight,’ whispered Lukas behind him as Conrad pulled back the bowstring with the claw on his belt and patted the neck of his horse. Ever since the arrival of the German settlers at Wenden and the building of their hovels beyond the north wall of the castle Master Berthold had organised daily patrols to safeguard the area. Usually the riders saw nothing aside from birds but each patrol always took along a crossbow on the chance that it might come across something to add to the stockroom of the castle’s kitchens.

  Today it was the turn of Lukas and the novices and now Conrad had the opportunity to kill a boar that was so busy sniffing for worms and insects that it did not spot the five stationary horsemen.

  ‘Don’t miss, Conrad,’ said Anton. ‘He’ll make a fine meal.’

  ‘Must weigh at least two hundred pounds,’ added Johann.

  Conrad took a bolt from his quiver and placed it in the groove in the crossbow’s stock. The others fell silent as he raised the weapon and took aim. There was no wind so all he had to consider was elevation. He relaxed and slowed his breathing – his horse would sense any nervousness and might become skittish. He waited for the hog to turn so it was presenting its side before he released the trigger. The crack of the crossbow was followed by the squeal of the boar as the bolt hit it in the shoulder. Then there was a grunt and the animal collapsed.

  The others cheered and Hans slapped Conrad on the arm.

  ‘You got lucky,’ said Lukas.

  But it wasn’t luck; it was the result of hundreds of hours of training that had turned these young men into skilled fighters and horsemen. He was proud of how they had turned out but frowned on their occasional displays of bravado. He was about to tell Conrad to go and fetch his prize when he saw movement in the trees to his right, and this was no animal.

  ‘Ready!’ he shouted
, drawing his sword and bringing his shield up to cover his torso. The others did likewise. They were in a clearing with trees fifty paces on the right and brush thickets ahead and on their left.

  They brought their horses in line with Lukas who had turned his animal to face the threat. They could all see him now, a lone figure who seemed to have halted just back from the treeline.

  ‘Show yourself,’ shouted Lukas but the figure did not move.

  ‘Do you want me to shoot him, Brother Lukas?’ asked Conrad.

  Lukas pulled down his mail coif to hear better, listening for any sounds that might indicate more men in the trees.

  ‘He’s moving again,’ said Anton, pointing his sword at the lone figure as it exited the trees.

  They stared in disbelief at the half-naked man with torn breeches who staggered towards them and then collapsed. Lukas spurred his horse forward and the others followed. The brother knight sheathed his sword and dismounted when he reached the poor wretch, kneeling beside him and gently lifting his head off the ground. He saw the bloody crucifixes around his neck and the wounds to each of his toes, then caught site of the lacerated top of his shoulders.

  ‘Water bottle.’

  Johann threw him his waxed leather water bottle and Lukas uncorked it and tipped some of the contents into the man’s mouth.

  ‘Abbot Hylas,’ he said gently, ‘what in God’s name happened to you?’

  They took the abbot back to Wenden slung belly first over Lukas’ horse so as not to aggravate the weeping wounds on his back. Conrad cut the rope that fastened the sack of what he thought was meat to his ankle and carried that back to the castle as well. In the excitement everyone forgot about the boar.

  Hylas was transported to the Master’s Hall where he was placed in Berthold’s bedroom. Ilona was summoned to treat his wounds and Conrad saw her enter the hall carrying a box filled with herbs and potions. He still had the sack hanging from his saddle as he and the others dismounted in the courtyard.

  ‘What have you there, Conrad?’

  Conrad stopped to see Rudolf and Henke walking towards him.

  ‘We found Abbot Hylas whilst on patrol.’

  ‘He was in a bad way,’ said Johann.

  Henke looked at Rudolf and then at the sack hanging from Conrad’s saddle.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It was tied to the abbot’s ankle,’ replied Anton.

  Henke lifted the sack from the saddle and pulled his knife from its sheath.

  ‘I was wrong about not seeing the missionaries again, Rudolf. I underestimated the Estonians.’

  He sliced open the sack and emptied its contents at Conrad’s feet. The novice jumped in alarm as three severed heads rolled onto the cobbles, their necks packed with salt and sealed with hide to prevent the sack being stained with blood.

  ‘Looks like Lembit did not appreciate Christian missionaries on his land.’

  ‘So the peace is over,’ said Rudolf. ‘Well, it was always going to come to this, I suppose.’

  Henke stuffed the heads back in the sack and handed it to Conrad, who turned up his nose in disgust.

  ‘Take these to Otto. He will arrange a proper funeral for them.’

  ‘What about the rest of their bodies?’ said Anton.

  Henke shrugged. ‘What about them?’

  ‘Surely it is not proper to bury just the heads?’ remarked an appalled Anton.

  ‘You’re right,’ agreed Henke. ‘You boys ride north and ask Lembit to give up the cadavers. I’ll give you a fresh sack so he can put all your heads in it.’

  ‘Just take their remains to Father Otto,’ said Rudolf. ‘They will be interred in the cemetery, along with others who will fall in the coming conflict no doubt.’

  Conrad gave the reins of his horse to Hans and held the sack at arm’s length as he walked towards the chapel. Henke came to his side and placed an arm around his shoulders.

  ‘Do you feel bad, Conrad?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘I was just thinking that if you had aimed that crossbow properly when you had Lembit in your sights then perhaps those monks might be still alive. A useful lesson for you: always aim before you shoot and never let any enemy escape.’

  Rudolf must have told him about letting that Lithuanian boy go at the Dvina. Henke laughed and slapped him on the back. Sometimes he really disliked the brother knight.

  The atrocities committed against Abbot Hylas and his monks prompted an emergency gathering at Riga. As the bishop had once more returned to Germany to recruit crusaders for the coming year the meeting was hosted by Archdeacon Stefan in the bishop’s palace. Berthold took Rudolf to the assembly, both of them travelling by riverboat from Wenden down the Gauja before riding south to Riga. When they arrived at the town they found it crowded with crusaders, Livs and an increasing number of settlers from Germany, in addition to markets teeming with Russian and Lithuanian traders. The burning of the bridge of boats across the Dvina had allowed the waterway to once again become a highway for trade and so Riga’s docks and markets filled with goods and the bishop’s treasury filled with money.

  Outside the town walls the tents of the crusaders were slowly being replaced with wooden huts so the soldiers and squires could live out the winter in a modicum of comfort, their masters being housed inside the town’s defences. The castle was crammed with knights, much to the consternation of Grand Master Volquin. Berthold and Rudolf found him in his office, his desk piled high with papers. One of the two sergeants standing guard at his door showed them in, Volquin looking up and pointing to the chairs opposite his desk.

  ‘You have become a librarian, grand master,’ Berthold teased him.

  ‘Bring some wine,’ Volquin instructed the sergeant. He threw one of the parchments on the desk. ‘The demands of my castellans are insatiable. Mail, helmets, horses, saddles and harnesses. The list is endless.’

  He rifled through the papers. ‘I have one from you as well, Berthold. Ah, here it is. Two tons of iron in addition to the usual annual request for weapons and armour.’

  ‘My crossbowmen need iron tips for their bolts, grand master, especially after the Lithuanian assault.’

  ‘You should have dug the used ones out of the bodies of the dead heathens,’ suggested Volquin.

  ‘We did,’ replied Berthold.

  ‘And we melted down their mail armour and helmets,’ added Rudolf.

  ‘And still you need more iron?’ Volquin asked in amazement.

  ‘Wenden will be a great fortress, grand master,’ said Berthold, ‘perhaps the greatest in all Livonia. As such it will need a well-stocked armoury and a large garrison. It is on the frontier with Estonia and must remain strong, the more so now the first settlers from Germany have arrived.’

  ‘The bishop is most eager that they prosper,’ said Volquin. ‘Those that can be enticed here are usually granted land around Riga but the bishop hopes that those who were persuaded to go to Wenden will be the first of many to settle in the heart of Livonia.’

  ‘Their homes are within sight of the castle walls and we send out regular patrols to the north to provide warning of Estonian war parties,’ said Berthold.

  ‘They can be brought within the perimeter wall quickly enough,’ added Rudolf, ‘which is just as well seeing as Lembit has made his intentions clear.’

  ‘You think he will assault Wenden?’ asked Volquin.

  ‘He has neither the men nor the machines to batter Wenden into submission,’ said Berthold. ‘He has thrown down the gauntlet and awaits our response.’

  ‘Archdeacon Stefan cries out for revenge,’ remarked Volquin.

  ‘And he will lead an expedition against Lembit in the bishop’s absence?’ enquired Rudolf.

  Volquin smile wryly. ‘I think that is very unlikely. The archdeacon likes soft living and playing the king in the bishop’s absence. I doubt he has ever sat upon a horse. But he is most eager for Estonia to be conquered so Bishop Theodoric can take up his bishopric and Stefan can be rid of hi
m. They do not get on.’

  That was hardly surprising as the two were exact opposites: Stefan sly and cunning; Theodoric pious and forthright. But at the meeting that took place the next day they did at least see eye to eye. The gathering was held in the great hall of the bishop’s palace where long tables covered with fine linen had been arranged in a great rectangle. At one end sat Stefan and Theodoric flanked by their abbots, half a dozen clerks sitting at desks behind them to record the proceedings for posterity. Along one side were seated the Sword Brothers: Grand Master Volquin in the centre with his castellans and their deputies around him. Opposite the order sat the leaders of the crusaders who had vowed to stay in Livonia for at least a year, though some like Sir Helmold had decided to make the new kingdom their semi-permanent home. He and Count Horton sat next to each other, their lords either side of them. While opposite the archdeacon and Theodoric sat Caupo, Thalibald and four other Liv chiefs. Thalibald had been at Treiden when the archdeacon’s summons had arrived and rode directly to Riga in the company of his king.

  The bishop’s palace was now far removed from the plain, humble building it had resembled when Riga had been first established. In the subsequent years it had been extended and reworked. Now all the rooms had oak panelling, chairs covered with silk, stuffed with cushions and with grand tapestries adorning the walls. In the great hall itself a fire burned in a magnificent stone fireplace that was carved with scenes from the life of Christ, while above hung a huge silk banner bearing the cross keys symbol of Riga. Servants wearing scarlet tunics embroidered with the symbol of the town served wine to the guests in silver flagons and pastries in silver bowls.

  When everyone had been seated the doors were closed and Archdeacon Stefan rose and invited Bishop Theodoric to say prayers. As one the whole assembly stood and bowed their heads as the deep voice of the bishop filled the chamber.