by Peter Darman
That fear became a reality when they reached the village, the paths choked with dead and many of the huts on fire. Terrorised, injured animals raced around, some on fire and others driven mad by the inferno. They left the horses outside the gates in the care of two sergeants and ventured inside with drawn swords but they saw no one alive. Reaching what remained of Thalibald’s hall, Rameke held his head in his hands and wept when he saw the bodies of his father, mother and brother, surrounded by their faithful warriors. He did not see the corpses of his sister and nephew but Rudolf did, and he also recognised the figure lying beside them with a fine sword still in his hands. He and Henke examined the bodies and found that Conrad was still alive, though the ground around him was stained with his blood from his wounds. As Rameke railed, wept and vowed vengeance they bound the wounds and sent a sergeant back to Wenden to inform Berthold of what had happened and to fetch a cart to carry Conrad back to the castle.
The fires burned themselves out and after the dawn Master Berthold himself rode to the village to survey the damage, bringing with him half a dozen brother knights and ten sergeants. The area around the settlement was scoured for any signs of the raiders but nothing was found; indeed, inside the village itself there were no clues as to who had raided the village: no broken shields, dead bodies or discarded helmets to identify the attackers. Whoever they were they had carried out their mission with deadly efficiency. No one was left alive in the village, at least almost no one.
‘Only he can provide an answer to this mystery,’ remarked Berthold as he watched Anton, Hans and Johann place Conrad’s body in the back of the cart.
He was taken to Ilona’s hut where Rudolf assisted her in washing the body and cleaning the wounds with a lotion made from marigold, after which rosemary was placed in the cuts and dressings soaked in honey to prevent infection were wrapped around them. Ilona was most concerned about the gash on the right side of Conrad’s head so she packed yarrow into the wound to staunch the flow of blood.
‘Do you know who attacked the village?’ she asked, washing Conrad’s hands.
Rudolf stood next to the door. ‘Not yet.’
‘It can only have been the Estonians,’ she said.
‘Daina and her child died in the village. We found Conrad next to them.’
He saw her head drop and momentarily stop what she was doing.
‘They should be buried in the cemetery here, at Wenden,’ she said. ‘Conrad would want that.’
‘If he lives.’
She finished cleaning his hands and stood up, holding the bowl of dirty water. ‘If he dies then he can be buried alongside his wife and child.’
She passed him to go outside and empty the bowl. He followed her. She was crying.
‘I hope the Sword Brothers will exact vengeance for this crime.’
‘We cannot launch reprisals without the authority of the bishop,’ replied Rudolf. ‘To do so would spark a war.’
‘You already have a war, Rudolf, whether you know it or not.’
They both saw Hans approach, his face etched with concern. In his arms he held a sword in a scabbard, a dagger in a sheath and an axe.
‘These are his weapons,’ he said. ‘They should be with him when he wakes up.’
Ilona saw the dejection in his eyes and embraced him. Rudolf took the weapons.
‘They will be the first things he sees when his eyes open. Thank you, Brother Hans.’
*****
Olaf nursed his injured arm as his men pulled on their oars to power the longship through the choppy waters of the Baltic. Long and slim, it cut through the grey sea with ease despite carrying nearly two hundred warriors. Fifty more had made the journey to Riga in this dragon ship, the greatest vessel in the Oeselian fleet, but they had fallen vainly trying to storm the high stone walls of the bishop’s town. The crews of the ten longships that trailed his own boat had suffered similar losses in the abortive assault. The pain in his arm was nothing compared to the realisation that gnawed at him like a toothache, that Riga was now too strong a fortress to be taken. Gradually the crusaders were tightening their control over the eastern Baltic, once his and his predecessors’ domain.
‘We should be back on Oesel before nightfall, father,’ said Sigurd.
Olaf growled a reply that his son did not hear. They stood near the stern of the vessel in silence for several minutes, sea spray brushing their faces as the ship with its great carved dragon at the prow cut through the water. On the port side was the coast of northern Kurland, the kingdom of the Lithuanian Duke Arturus, a man who had also tried and failed to seize Riga. Olaf glanced at the shoreline and looked for any signs of Lithuanian vessels. He would welcome an opportunity to slaughter some of Arturus’ men and sink their vessels. At least that would be something to talk about in his longhouse that evening. But Arturus kept his men safely on dry land.
‘You were right, Sigurd,’ said Olaf at last.
‘Father?’
‘You among all of us saw the future accurately. That the strength of the crusaders would grow just as ours and that of the Estonians would decline.’
On his return to Saccalia Lembit had sent a missive to Sigurd alerting him to the fact that he would be renewing hostilities against the bishop, the sons of his chiefs having been sent back to their fathers as a sign of goodwill by Albert a few weeks before his own release. Burning with hatred against the Christians, Lembit’s usual calm, calculating nature had abandoned him as he sought vengeance for the humiliation of having his head dunked under the waters of the Dvina by Bishop Albert when he was baptised into the foul Christian faith. Lembit promised endless war against the crusaders and pledged eternal friendship between the Estonian people and the Oeselians.
*****
Henke yawned. ‘So what is to be done about Conrad Wolff?’
It was a legitimate question but no one was prepared to grasp the nettle. Everyone knew that Conrad had suffered grievous wounds that would have killed a lesser man and had been nursed back from the brink of death by Ilona’s healing arts. He had been confined to his sickbed for six weeks. He had been in a state of delirium for two of those weeks, eventually waking and speaking his first words: ‘wolf shields’. Everyone also knew that he was the only one who had survived the Estonian attack on the village and they thus regarded him as special, someone whom God had chosen for a specific purpose.
‘And that is my point,’ stressed Henke. ‘If God spared him then he should be about his business, not moping about Wenden feeling sorry for himself.’
‘Blasphemy!’ snapped Otto. ‘No mortal can know what the Lord is thinking.’
Henke waved a hand at him. ‘Spare me the sermon.’
Otto’s cheeks coloured with anger but Berthold prevented another outburst.
‘Your words are intemperate, Brother Henke. Father Otto is correct, we must not question the Lord’s plans.’
‘Conrad attends to his duties diligently,’ said Rudolf. He looked at Lukas. ‘Including his practise at arms.’
Lukas scratched his beard. ‘He trains well enough and the novices respond well to his presence. He has become something of an inspiration to them, though he never talks to them and they never exchange words with him.’
‘You teach him what he already knows well enough,’ said Henke. ‘He has fully recovered from his wounds?’
‘Ilona says so,’ answered Rudolf.
Henke looked in turn at Hans, Anton and Johann. ‘What about you three? You are his friends. What does he say to you?’
‘Very little,’ said Hans.
‘He still feels the loss of his wife and child deeply,’ added Johann.
‘He believes that he should have died in Thalibald’s village alongside them,’ said Anton.
Henke looked up at the ceiling. ‘Well, he didn’t.’ He pointed at Hans. ‘You should tell him to get off his arse and either become a brother knight or join a monastery.’
Thus far Walter had kept his counsel but now his face wore a deep fr
own. ‘You exceed your authority, brother. A man must come to the order voluntarily or not at all, else he cannot be a true warrior of Christ.’
Berthold could see that the exchange was going nowhere and so called a halt to proceedings.
‘We will not be marching until the spring when the bishop returns so I see no need to make a decision now. The matter of novice Conrad is closed until I raise it again.’
But after the meeting Henke sidled up to Rudolf as they left the master’s hall.
‘You and I both know that Conrad’s place is among us, as a brother knight. He saved the bishop’s life, wounded Lembit and was the only survivor of a massacre. It would also be good for morale if he marched with us in the spring. Soldiers are superstitious, you know that. If he marches beside them they will fight twice as hard.’
‘A fair point,’ said Rudolf, ‘and we will certainly need all the fighting men we can muster if we are to subdue Lembit. But you heard what the master said and we must respect his wishes. We must let Conrad find his own path.’
The winter passed slowly. The new settlers found life hard in the iron grip of the snow and ice and several of their children died of exposure despite Ilona’s efforts. The temperature was so cold that the sea froze and Caupo led an audacious raid against the island of Oesel, but Olaf and his warriors were more than a match for the Livs and beat them off with ease. Life carried on at Wenden as usual: brother knights and sergeants trained, prayed, went on patrol and hunted in the woods. And every morning Conrad accompanied the novices onto the training field where Lukas gave them instruction in the martial arts. This day was no different, everyone’s breath misting in the bitter cold, made worse by a biting wind that came from the east and not alleviated by the sun that shone from a cloudless sky. It was so cold that the boys had been issued with felt boots, woollen leg wraps under their leggings and fur-lined caps to keep their ears from freezing. They stood in a line before Lukas, Conrad on the end, each one armed with a waster and shield.
‘Now remember,’ Lukas told them, holding up his shield, ‘a fighter carries a shield to protect himself from an attack but a shield should also be used as a weapon. It’s the same with armour. A fighter wears armour in case he is hit, not so that he can be hit. Do you understand?’
He saw a row of blank faces. Conrad, not listening, was staring at crows circling in the sky, no doubt having spotted a dead or dying animal below and waiting patiently to satisfy their hunger.
Lukas carried on. ‘No fighter purposely receives a blow on his armour. Rely on your wits, not your shield or armour.’
‘What if a fighter’s wits have deserted him?’
The boys turned to see Henke behind them, dressed in mail armour, felt boots and carrying a sword in a scabbard in his hand.
‘What then, Brother Lukas?’
Lukas twisted up his mouth. ‘Is there something I can do for you, brother?’
Henke walked on the freshly fallen snow to stand beside Lukas. Conrad saw him and gave him a disinterested stare, until he saw his sword in Henke’s hand.
‘That is my sword,’ he spat, ‘what are you doing with it?’
Henke feigned hurt. ‘Your sword, are you accusing me of stealing it?’
Conrad marched over to him. ‘Well if it is mine and you have taken it then draw your own conclusions.’
‘Henke,’ protested Lukas, ‘this is not the time…’
‘No, brother,’ interrupted Henke, ‘this is precisely the time.’
Conrad was now inches from Henke’s face. ‘Give me my sword.’
Henke stepped back and held out his hands in innocence. ‘You know very well that personal property is not allowed in the Sword Brothers, poverty being one of our vows. So how can it be yours? In any case, don’t you prefer to play with a wooden sword in the company of boys? The latter carries a severe penalty in the order, by the way.’
‘Give me my sword, Henke,’ hissed Conrad, ‘and I will show you how it should be wielded.’
‘No!’ shouted Lukas as the novices glanced at each other nervously and backed away as Henke smiled and threw Conrad the scabbard holding his sword.
‘This is between me and him,’ Henke said to Lukas.
‘If the master finds out you will be flogged,’ Lukas warned him.
Conrad caught the scabbard, placed his waster on the ground and drew his sword.
Henke drew his own sword and slashed the icy air with it. ‘A chance I’m prepared to take, my friend. This has been a long time coming.’
Conrad clenched the black leather of his sword’s grip. It felt good to hold it again, the first time he had done so since that dreadful night that he had tried to block out of his mind. He had tried to block everything out of his mind in an attempt to keep the feelings of loss and pain from him. But now he was forced to recall everything he had learned over the past five years as Henke came at him. The brother knight was big and strong but exceedingly light on his feet, wielding his sword as though it was a feather-light stick.
He smiled triumphantly as Conrad jumped to one side but not before Henke’s sword had ripped the right arm of his gambeson.
‘This won’t take long,’ he announced loudly.
A side stroke, a lunge, an attack with his shield and Henke once more tore Conrad’s clothing, this time on his left thigh. Henke flicked his wrist and whipped his sword point towards Conrad’s exposed neck, missing his windpipe by inches. Henke jeered at him.
‘Is this all you’ve got? No wonder your wife and child died.’
The words hit Conrad like crossbow bolts piercing his flesh and a steely determination rose within him. It was not anger but a cool conviction to avenge his loved ones. It infused every fibre of his soul and for the first time in weeks he felt alive, suddenly aware of every little thing that was going on around him. Phlegm dripped from one of Henke’s nostrils; a look of fear was on the face of one of the young novices and Lukas’ eyes watched the duel with a piercing gaze.
‘You should be in a nunnery you…’
Henke did not have time to finish his sentence as Conrad set about him with a plethora of attacks, his sword moving with such speed that the brother knight had difficulty in blocking them let alone avoiding them. Conrad cut off a corner of his shield, severed the chainmail links on his shoulder and ripped open his surcoat. Henke smashed his shield into Conrad’s chest, knocking him to the ground. But before he had chance to drive his sword through Conrad, the latter swept back with his right leg to catch the back of Henke’s right ankle, causing him to topple backwards. Conrad sprang to his feet as Henke rolled but recovered his balance quickly. And so it went on, each fighter delivering a dazzling variety of sword strokes that the other either parried or avoided.
Conrad, now utterly calm and in control, kept hearing Lukas’ sage words in his mind: better to avoid a blow entirely that to block it with your sword. Henke was a big man and a fearsome fighter but he knew he had the measure of him. The brother knight was no longer smirking as he tried to finish the fight. But Conrad ducked, dodged and stepped aside to avoid his blade and shield, in turn delivering a blow on the latter that split it in two. He then launched a series of counter-strikes that forced Henke back. Had he been looking he would have seen Lukas smiling approvingly – his pupil was putting into practice what he had taught him. The novices stood, transfixed, as a master class in swordplay was enacted in front of them.
The fight continued, Henke brushing away Conrad’s attacks with downward cuts and horizontal sideways blows. And all the time they moved around each other like wary wolves. Then they would close in to suppress each other’s strikes. Henke was all strength allied with lightning-fast reflexes; Conrad’s ultimate skill matched with supreme calm, and it would have been interesting to learn which combination was the superior. But it was not to be.
The bout had not only been seen by Lukas and his novices but also by nearby spearmen, crossbowmen and Brother Walter practising with his lance on the quintain. When he saw what was happen
ing he immediately rode to the castle to raise the alarm, and returned accompanied by Rudolf and half a dozen mounted sergeants.
Rudolf placed his horse between the two fighters and levelled his lance at Henke’s chest, Walter doing likewise with Conrad.
‘Desist or die,’ Rudolf ordered, the sergeants surrounding Conrad and Henke also pointing their lances at them. ‘Surrender your swords.’
Henke, totally unconcerned, shrugged and handed his weapon to Rudolf, who swung in the saddle and fixed Conrad with an angry stare. Conrad also gave up his sword.
‘Report to the master’s hall immediately,’ he commanded before wheeling away.
Henke said nothing as he followed the horsemen, Conrad retrieving his waster and handing it to Lukas before following. As he walked through the snow he heard Lukas’s voice behind him.
‘If you boys pay attention and practise diligently, one day you might be as good as they are. Now back to training; tournament’s over.’
Conrad took in a deep breath. The air was freezing and he felt it seep into his lungs. And although he could have been killed fighting Henke he felt more alive than ever.
He felt less exuberant when he stood beside his nemesis in front of Berthold’s table in the master’s hall, Rudolf standing behind them with his sword in his hand.
‘I think we can dispense with the sword, Brother Rudolf,’ said Berthold at last. He looked up at the two miscreants.
‘Fighting in public, with swords and in full view of novices and mercenaries. You bring disgrace upon our order.’
‘We were not fighting, master,’ said Henke calmly.
Berthold looked at him in surprise. ‘Oh?’