by Peter Darman
‘No tricks,’ agreed Conrad.
He pointed ahead at the stumps daubed with white paint to indicate ranges: one hundred paces, two hundred paces, three hundred paces and the felled trees splattered with paint to show four hundred paces.
‘Master Thaddeus is a clever man. I always thought he was an old fool but I was wrong.’
Lukas nodded. ‘His machines, calculations and engineering feats will win us this war. Rudolf once told me that Thaddeus is worth a thousand soldiers. I laughed at the time but I now think he is worth ten times that number.’
Conrad heard shouts and sounds coming from the forest and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.
Lukas laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Time to go to work.’
The noises got louder as the enemy approached, the sound of drums standing out as the forest resonated with the sound of hundreds of voices. Crossbowmen loaded their weapons and rested them on the top of the fence. Brother knights put on their helms to cover their faces and Conrad gripped the handle of his axe and slipped his left forearm through the straps on the rear of his shield.
Then he saw movement, fleeting shapes among the trees in the distance. The crossbowmen saw them as well and crouched down to take aim with their weapons. Master Berthold raised his sword.
‘God with us!’
The call was answered by dozens of voices as the Estonians clambered over the felled trees and showed themselves – warriors dressed in brown, green and red hues carrying round shields and armed with spears. Dozens and then hundreds swarmed from the forest like a plague of rats. They picked their way through the tree stumps as the crossbowmen released their triggers and sent a hail of bolts in their direction. Conrad saw leather face hook the bowstring over the claw on his belt and draw it back, slipping another bolt in the stock of his weapon, taking aim and shooting once more. Conrad felt a tingle of excitement when he saw Estonians fall, only to be replaced by others from behind.
The crossbowmen were unleashing quarrels at a rate of four a minute, the thwacks of their bowstrings combining to produce a continuous scraping sound along the line. The Estonian advance was interrupted by the tree stumps but not halted as they poured forward. Bolts went through shields, helmets and into eye sockets. Within two minutes over eight hundred crossbow bolts had been shot at the enemy, but then the enemy were at the ditch and climbing the earth bank beyond.
Conrad did not know it but these were Edvin’s Wierlanders and if he had had time to look more closely he would have seen a banner bearing a boar in the centre of the line where the Estonian chief was leading the attack. Over a thousand warriors poured out of the forest to assault the Sword Brothers. Three hundred were dead or wounded from crossbow bolts but now the rest smashed into the Christian warriors like a great wave striking a white cliff.
The crossbowmen fell back from the fence as the Wierlanders came up the bank and attempted to scale it, only to be met by a multitude of spears, axes, maces and swords. The Estonian front ranks were filled with the best-equipped and trained warriors, men in mail armour, helmets and armed with spears and swords. Conrad used his shield to brush aside a spear thrust and hacked at the helmeted brute who gripped it. The warrior brought up his own shield to block the blow as Conrad swung the axe to the left, against another warrior attempting to climb over the fence, the blade slicing into his left calf. The man screamed and collapsed belly first onto the fence, to be finished off by Anton beside him who rammed his sword into the warrior’s back. His body remained draped over the fence as the Estonian tide pressed forward.
Conrad smashed the spear shaft in front of him as a warrior came hurtling through the air towards him. He ducked and the man tumbled down the earth bank behind him. He jumped to his feet and was shot in the belly by leather face. The bloody fight at the fence went on, Conrad dodging spear blades that were thrust at him. Arrows hissed through the air, shot by enemy archers in the rear, but he had no time to worry about them. Hans to his right was fighting like a demon, his skinny arms delivering powerful, well-aimed blows with a mace that caved in the chests and split the helmets of enemy warriors. He smashed one man in the face, his nose becoming a bloody pulp, and then went to step on the fence to follow.
‘Hold your ground, Hans!’ shouted Conrad as the edge of a sword hit his helmet.
He thrust his axe forward at his assailant, driving its top spike through the mail armour, into his chest and through his heart. He yanked back the axe but the dead warrior stayed upright, caught in the press of men behind and the fence in front. The latter had now been broken down in several places as the Estonians threatened to break though. But behind the Sword Brothers the crossbowmen were taking aim and picking off Edvin’s men as they fought at the fence, such was their proficiency and ice-cool nerves.
The battle at the northern outworks was finely balanced as, to the east, the Jerwen assaulted the soldiers of Sir Helmold and Thalibald’s warriors.
*****
Lembit had seen the Wierlanders come from the forest to the north and assault the accursed Sword Brothers. He had stood on the fighting platform of the tower and witnessed the Christian crossbowmen scything down Edvin’s men but being unable to stop them reaching the crusaders’ defences. The angled wooden shelters that ringed his fort, from behind which crossbowmen had expertly picked off some of his garrison, now stood deserted as the bishop’s army tried to fight off the relief force. Rusticus was at the gates with his Saccalians, ready to lead them against the bishop’s forces waiting for them outside. But not yet, for as the Wierlanders spilt their blood another tide of Estonians came from the forest to the east.
Jaak’s Jerwen had come to crush the crusaders and their Liv allies.
Lembit scrambled down the ladders to reach the ground as the sounds of a new battle erupted to the east of the fort. He ran towards the gates where a phalanx of his warriors waited, passing charred huts, stables and dead ponies. His men cheered when he arrived, banging the hafts of their spears against their shields and chanting his name. He ran to their head, turned and raised his sword.
‘For our gods, for our families, for our homeland, for our freedom. Kill the bishop. Open the gates!’
Rusticus came to his side as the massive beam of wood that secured the gates was removed.
‘Fine speech.’
Lembit tightened the grip on his sword as the gates were pulled back.
‘Kill the bishop!’ screamed Lembit who led nearly eighteen hundred men forward as he ran through the gates with Rusticus beside him. It was not a disciplined assault with tightly packed ranks but a mad rush intended to overwhelm the bishop’s soldiers.
Master Thaddeus gave the order for the trebuchets to shoot their projectiles before the first Estonians burst from the gates. He had estimated that as soon as the latter were opened the enemy would not delay but would immediately attack. The few seconds between when the gates opened and when the enemy charged would be all that would be needed for a volley of barrels of burning pitch. Once again his mathematical mind yielded a rich harvest, the barrels falling in the midst of the enemy warriors and bursting open to shower them with hot liquid. The momentum of their charge was not stopped, indeed barely interrupted, but at least fifty men were incapacitated when splashed with hot pitch.
Lembit charged at the line of spearmen barring his path, some of them sporting the arms of Riga on their shields, others being Caupo’s Livs, and yet more carrying shields that bore strange devices and animal shapes. Behind him the rearmost ranks of his men flooded left and right to get to grips with the crusaders. Lembit hacked and thrust with his sword with Rusticus beside him as the ferocity of their assault began to push the crusaders back.
Bishops Albert and Theodoric rode up and down behind the line with Caupo, all of them shouting encouragement and promising that victory was at hand. But victory was not at hand and in the clatter of weapons and screams and shouts of men involved in mortal combat, it was clear to Grand Master Volquin sitting calmly on his horse that the fort’s garriso
n was forcing the crusaders back. He knew there was fighting to the north, to the east and directly in front of him. The separate crusader formations were all isolated, desperately fighting for their lives. He wheeled his horse to the left and dug his spurs into its sides.
There was only one course of action to avoid a catastrophe.
*****
Conrad felt as though he had been fighting for hours but it was probably no more than thirty minutes. Even so, his reserves of energy were draining away fast as he battled to keep the Estonians at bay. The log fence was now broken and littered with dead, mostly Estonians but also mercenary spearmen and a few brother knights and sergeants. The pagan wave had crashed against the Christian breakwater and had buckled and dented it but had not broken it. Now, weariness began to grip both sides as the frenzy of bloodlust began to subside.
Conrad swung his axe at the helmet of a warrior who was attempting to skewer Hans with his spear, denting the metal but more importantly making him drop his shaft. He pulled a small axe that was tucked into his belt and swung it at Conrad, but the latter had anticipated the move and smashed his shield into the man’s face, bundling him over and causing his fall down the rampart’s slope. And so it went on: Estonians scrambling up the bank to stab and hack at the Sword Brothers holding the fence. As men were killed and fell on and around the logs it became more difficult to get to grips with the enemy, the latter having to claw their way over the dead and dying.
Hans grinned at him as there was a lull in the fighting, Conrad taking the opportunity to catch his breath as the Estonians pulled back to regroup less than twenty paces from them. Their chiefs were going among them, cajoling and encouraging them to make one last effort to break the Christians. Conrad looked around and saw Johann prostrate, Rudolf and Hans kneeling over him.
‘Anton,’ he called, gesturing to the body of Johann behind the fence.
Forgetting their tiredness they rushed over to their friend. Johann’s face was contorted with pain. At least he was still alive.
‘He’ll live,’ said Rudolf, looking up at them. ‘He has a broken ankle, that is all.’
‘Some heathen fell on me,’ said Johann, wincing in pain as Rudolf examined his ankle. ‘He was dead and fell on my leg.’
‘Take him from the rampart,’ instructed Rudolf.
Conrad and Hans lifted Johann up and supported him between them as they slowly made their way down the bank and took him to a cart that was loaded with wounded. Another cart was taking more wounded back to camp.
‘What’s this?’ asked a harassed surgeon with a balding head and both sleeves covered in blood.
‘Our friend has broken his ankle,’ said Conrad.
‘Put him in the cart. He will have it bound back in camp.’
They assisted Johann into the cart where two other men – sergeants – were leaning against the sides, one with a head wound; the other with his left arm half hanging off. Both were pale and listless from shock and loss of blood.
‘We will see you in camp,’ said Conrad, shaking Johann’s hand.
‘God be with you,’ added Hans.
‘And you, my friends,’ said Johann, his face creased with pain.
They returned to the rampart, Anton meeting them at its base. His gambeson was ripped and his mail shirt torn. He held out the water bottle to Conrad and looked up at the sky that was rapidly clearing of clouds. To the south and east the sounds of battle could be heard. Conrad took a sip and handed it to Hans.
‘Get your arses back on this bank,’ bellowed Henke, helmetless and clearly in a foul mood.
The three of them walked slowly up the mound and assumed their positions.
Walter checked that Wenden’s banner was still firmly rooted in the ground before joining them.
‘Brother Henke appears to be most annoyed.’
‘Any particular reason why?’ enquired Conrad.
‘Probably because there are no Estonian girls to rape,’ offered Hans.
Anton and Conrad laughed but Walter frowned. He disapproved of such remarks in much the same way as he deplored the language Henke employed when he decided to shout at the enemy.
‘You sons of whores, come and fight instead of cowering behind your shields. I piss on your chiefs and your gods, you shit-eating maggots.’
‘Brother Henke,’ shouted Master Berthold, ‘desist using such language at once. You dishonour the surcoat you are wearing.’
Henke sneered at the locked shields of the Estonians a few yards away and spat in their direction, but hurled no more insults. Conrad had to smile. Master Berthold stood with his sword smeared with blood while Walter’s tunic was covered in enemy gore. But slaughtering the heathen was godly work whereas lewd language was a sign of a corrupt mind. Henke’s mind was certainly corrupt and he revelled in slaughter, but as Lukas once told him there were few men that he would want by his side in battle beside Henke. Unfortunately the latter was frustrated beyond measure by the lull in the fight, especially with the enemy so close.
‘Let me lead a sally against them,’ he pleaded with Rudolf beside him.
‘No, Henke, we will wait for them to attack and kill them here, at the fence.’
Henke picked up an enemy spear lying at his feet and hurled it at the Estonians, the front ranks parting when they saw it hurtling through the air. They whistled and jeered when it thudded harmlessly in the earth. This made Henke even angrier and Conrad thought he was about to launch a one-man assault against the enemy when Walter called out.
‘Arrows! Take cover!’
Conrad looked up to see the sky filled with missiles and then threw himself against the fence, lifting up the torso of a dead Estonian slumped over it to use as cover. Seconds later arrows slammed into the ground and the corpse. He heard groans and yelps as crossbowmen standing away from the fence, who carried no shields for protection, were hit. And then there was a great roar and the Estonians attacked once more.
Conrad heard Rudolf’s voice. ‘Wait for the second volley.’
He remained crouched under the corpse, Hans huddle beside him, as another deluge of arrows struck their position, and then he sprang to his feet just as the first warriors were scaling the fence.
He had his shield on his back and his axe in his left hand as he drew his sword and thrust it into the stomach of a burly man with a huge black beard and stinking breath, who was shocked by the sudden appearance of the mail-clad individual in front of him and even more surprised when Conrad’s sword point went through his leather armour into his belly. He collapsed head first over the fence as Conrad withdrew his blade and stepped on his back to fight the next warrior coming over the barricade. This was a spearman who wore no armour and attempted to run his lance through Conrad’s guts. But the novice was too quick for him and jumped to one side so the warrior thrust into an empty space, lost his footing and sprawled onto the dead brute. Conrad jumped on his back and rammed his sword through his spine.
The battle raged all along the fence, Estonians attacking the thin line of Sword Brothers and mercenaries as they attempted to break through to the fort. But unbeknown to both sides the battle had already been decided to the south.
Grand Master Volquin had ridden to where Count Horton sat on his charger at the head of nearly four hundred horsemen. The count needed no persuasion to lead his men to the relief of the bishops, having been previously frustrated with his role as de facto commander of the reserve. And so he gave the order and trotted south at the head of his men, though not before he had granted Grand Master Volquin’s request for the loan of a score of knights.
*****
Rusticus killed the spearman and stepped over his body to tackle the soldier behind. He could see the bishop now, surrounded by the traitor Caupo and horsemen in mail carrying lances. He stuck close to Lembit who was fighting like a forest demon, hacking and slashing with his sword as the wolf shields cut deep into the enemy’s ranks. Their battle with the Livs was particularly vicious, drawing on the enmity between the two
races that was hundreds of years old. The wolf shields fought in a tight formation, shield to shield as they had been taught, making it almost impossible for the enemy horsemen to break their ranks.
The wolf shields formed the centre of the Saccalian line, flanked by the village warriors whose ranks were more ragged. However, Lembit’s warriors were methodically grinding their way forward in their desire to slay the bishop. The latter’s spearmen were brushed aside with some ease and his crossbowmen had been sent away to reinforce Sir Helmold, so it was left to the horsemen under Sir Jordan to hold the line. Their commander and his most trusted knights stayed with the bishops, riding forward to jab their lances at the advancing shield wall. But though those horsemen on the flanks could ride among the Estonians easily enough, spearing some and killing others with their swords before withdrawing, they could make no impression on the warriors in the centre who sported a leering wolf design on their shields. The bishops would not ride from the field and so the knights and squires were forced to defend him, Caupo and Sir Jordan.
Rusticus picked up a discarded lance and thrust it into the horse that was in front of him, driving the point through the red caparison into its shoulder. The animal squealed and collapsed on the ground, trapping the leg of its rider underneath. Lembit stepped on the knight’s full-face helmet and hacked down at his neck. There was a muffled cry, a spurt of blood and the wolf shields pressed on.
‘Kill the bishop,’ screamed Lembit, a call answered by those men around him.
Saccalians were being cut down on the flanks but their phalanx was still advancing. In the rear ranks of Lembit’s men were archers, no more than forty, but they were able to shoot at the mailed horsemen who attempted to charge at their comrades in the front ranks. Their missiles hissed through the air to strike the Christian riders, killing a few but wounding more. In this battle of grim attrition and wills between Lembit and Bishop Albert the former was winning. The bishop grabbed the shaft holding his banner, resolved to die rather than flee.
And then he heard the blissful sound of trumpets.