The Sword Brothers

by Peter Darman

  ‘We were practising sword strokes, master,’ continued Henke, ‘so the young novices could copy the moves.’

  Rudolf walked slowly from behind them to stand by the master’s table. ‘You will observe Brother Henke’s ripped mail and novice Conrad’s torn gambeson, master,’ he said. ‘Hardly indications of a practice bout.’

  ‘Training should be as realistic as possible, brother,’ replied Henke, his face a mask of sincerity.

  ‘What do you say on this matter, novice Conrad?’ asked Berthold. ‘Is what Brother Henke says correct?’

  Conrad felt a great pressure bear down on him. If he told the master that Henke was telling lies then the brother knight could be dismissed from the order. He himself would be flogged, though that was of little consequence. He realised that he held Henke’s fate in his hands. Why would he do such a thing? It made no sense. Henke had provoked him and he had gladly risen to the bait, and in doing so had thrown off the cloak of doom that had covered him since the murder of his wife and child. He now realised that he had Henke to thank for that. Surely the brother knight had not purposely instigated the fight to shake him from his lethargy? Did the brutal Henke possess such foresight?

  ‘I am waiting,’ said Berthold impatiently.

  ‘It is as Brother Henke says,’ answered Conrad.

  Rudolf folded his arms and stared at them both, a knowing look on his face. Conrad expected him to declare that they were both liars but he didn’t, though his gaze became uncomfortable after a while.

  Berthold shook his head. ‘I’ve always known it. Soldiers cooped up in a castle all winter become bored and restless. What we need is a good, long campaign against the pagans to sweep away all our ill humours.’

  He clenched a fist. ‘To show them some Christian steel.’

  ‘Indeed, master,’ said Rudolf. ‘But what are we to do with our master practitioners of the sword?’

  Berthold snapped out of his vision of a mighty Christian army smiting the unbelievers. ‘Mm? Extra guard duties should temper their enthusiasm, I think. See to it, Brother Rudolf.’

  ‘And what of novice Conrad?’ queried Rudolf.

  Berthold brought his hands together and leaned back in his chair. ‘Yes, thank you, Brother Rudolf. You have vexed myself and the brother knights of this garrison, novice Conrad, as to what to do with you. You cannot remain a novice forever so I must ask you what are your intentions.’

  That was easy, mused Conrad: kill Lembit. He knew that the Sword Brothers did not approve of the notion of vengeance; they preferred to slaughter their enemies with no malice or impure thoughts in their hearts. And he knew that in the coming year the bishop would be leading them north against Lembit.

  ‘To enter the order as a brother knight, master,’ said Conrad, ‘if you deem me worthy enough.’

  A broad grin crept over Rudolf’s face as Henke stared impassively ahead. For his part Berthold looked relieved.

  ‘Most excellent. The ceremony will take place tomorrow morning. See to it, Brother Rudolf.’

  ‘What about their extra guard duties, master?’ queried Rudolf.

  Berthold waved a hand at him. ‘This is much more important. We must not keep God waiting for the creation of one of His holy warriors.’

  Rudolf tilted his head towards the door. ‘You two get out. I will see you both after prayers.’

  Henke gave him an impish smile and Conrad bowed his head solemnly to Rudolf and Berthold.

  As they left the master’s hall and entered the courtyard Conrad breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘That was lucky.’

  Henke nodded. ‘I agree. If Walter and Rudolf had not appeared when they did your guts would have been spread all over the training field. You had a lucky escape.’

  Conrad grabbed his arm. ‘You don’t really think that, do you?’

  Henke yanked his arm free and sneered at him. ‘You and I aren’t finished.’

  He marched away towards the armoury. Conrad was mystified. He had thought Henke’s actions earlier had been made out of consideration, compassion even. But then he remembered that there was not a kind bone in Henke’s body.

  That evening, after night prayers had been celebrated, Master Berthold and Brother Rudolf escorted him to the chapel. There he was locked inside the building so he could pray and contemplate his future as a brother knight. At all times two sergeants would stand guard outside the chapel to ensure he did not leave and no one entered. Peace and solitude were essential in preparation for the solemn vows each individual would take.

  It was cold in the stone building and Conrad shivered as he knelt before the altar and prayed to God. The walls of the chapel were sumptuously decorated with scenes from the life of the Blessed Virgin Mary, illuminated by the dozens of candles that flickered on their stands. Because it was still winter he was allowed to wear his felt boots, woollen leg wraps beneath his leggings and a woollen shirt under his padded jerkin. It was still bitterly cold, though, and after a while his fingers and toes were frozen. He thought about his life, his youth in Lübeck, and the terrible tragedy that had brought him to Livonia where he had found bliss, only for it to be cruelly snatched away. He subconsciously turned the ring on his finger that Daina had given him. To become a brother knight meant renouncing all worldly property but Rudolf had informed him that, notwithstanding Henke’s declaration, he would be allowed to keep the sword bequeathed to him by Sir Frederick and his ring.

  He closed his eyes and begged God to forgive him his sins but most of all to take care of the souls of his parents, his wife and his son. He also prayed for the safekeeping of his sister. For she was all alone in the world, like he was again.

  ‘She is not alone, Conrad.’

  He opened his eyes and saw a vision before him, a woman surrounded by a celestial light, a woman dressed in a pure white robe that glowed radiantly. Warmth filled the room as he struggled to comprehend what his eyes beheld.

  ‘Are you the Virgin Mary?’ he stuttered.

  She smiled gently at him, her full lips parting to reveal perfect white teeth.

  ‘Do you not know me, Conrad?’

  Her voice was soft and calming, like a light breeze on a summer’s day. He looked at her shoulder-length hair and saw bright green eyes.

  ‘Daina?’ he said with disbelief.

  She smiled once again and grief tore at his stomach.

  ‘I should be with you,’ he said, choking back tears.

  ‘You are with me and I am with you,’ she replied. ‘Just because you cannot see me does not mean I am not there. We are together always.’

  ‘Dietmar.’

  ‘He is safe and in the company of angels,’ she replied.

  ‘I should have died with him and you,’ he said bitterly.

  She looked at him with sympathetic eyes. ‘It is not your destiny, my love. You must become what you were born to be.’

  ‘What is that?’ he asked.

  ‘You must discover that for yourself. But in the dawn you will take the first steps to that new life.’

  ‘I want to come with you,’ he pleaded.

  ‘A day, a year, a life. They are all fleeting, Conrad. You must make the most of what has been given to you. We will be together again, my love, that I swear. And remember, I am with you always.’

  He was going to speak more words for he had so much to say but there was a dazzling white light that blinded him and then she was gone. The candles flickered, the air was still and silence returned to the chapel. He heard a key turning in the lock of the chapel door and knew that the dawn had come.

  He said nothing to Berthold, Rudolf or Otto of what had happened during the night, nor to the witnesses summoned to the ceremony: Walter, Hans, Anton and Johann. It was personal to him and no one else’s business. After Otto commanded everyone to kneel he proceeded to say prayers, calling upon God to bless Conrad and all his future actions. He noticed that Otto’s face was very pale and his eyes ringed with red for it was a bitterly cold morning.

&
nbsp; Master Berthold stood in front of the altar with Conrad kneeling before him, his four friends standing behind him and Rudolf standing next to the master with a new mantle in his arms. Berthold opened a small, leather-bound book that contained the rules and statutes of the order and read aloud a number of questions that Conrad had to answer.

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘My wife died, master.’

  ‘Do you owe anyone any money?’

  ‘No, master.’

  ‘Are you anyone’s slave?’

  ‘No, master.’

  ‘Do you promise to obey your master, to abstain from sexual activity, to live without personal property, to uphold the traditions and customs of the Order of Sword Brothers, and to help conquer the holy land of Jerusalem?’

  Conrad thought the last clause most odd but was happy to obey it anyway. ‘Yes, master.’

  Berthold smiled, placed his hands on Conrad’s shoulders and raised him up. He turned to Rudolf who handed him the new mantle, Berthold placing it around Conrad’s shoulders, fastening the laces that held it on. He also handed Conrad a woollen cord that he placed around his waist as a sign of chastity and a soft cap in the style worn by the brother knights of the order. Everyone then bowed their heads while the pallid Otto said another prayer, after which Berthold read out a summary of the customs and rules of the order. Finally, after enquiring whether he had any questions, Master Berthold dismissed him with a blessing.

  Everyone shook his hand and embraced him as Conrad Wolff, brother knight of the Order of Livonian Sword Brothers, left the chapel to take the first steps of his new life.

  *****

  It was spring and the land was alive with a torrent of birdsong and the drumming of woodpeckers. The lush green forests were also filled with great reed warblers, sedge warblers and spotted crakes, the meadows, peat bogs and marshes covered with carpets of flowers providing food for newly emerged butterflies. The column of men on horseback, foot soldiers, wagons and draught ponies stretched for many miles as it threaded its way through the numerous lakes that gave the land its name: Latgale – ‘The Land of Blue Lakes’ – that lay between the Kingdom of Novgorod to the north and the Principality of Polotsk to the south. A land that bordered the great marshes to the east but which also contained many peat bogs and marsh areas itself, as well as ancient wetland oak forests that seemingly went on forever.

  During the winter a message had arrived at Pskov from the new ruler of Polotsk: Prince Boris, son of Vladimir. The latter had been planning a campaign against the Bishop of Riga and his heretical supporters but had collapsed and died on the eve of the war – an ill omen that had stopped the operation in its tracks. Since then Gerzika had fallen to the Catholics and Boris, alarmed by the approach of the apostates, had extended the hand of friendship to Novgorod. Relations between the two kingdoms had traditionally been cool at best but Mstislav, also aware of the crusader threat, had accepted the offer to meet halfway between Pskov and Polotsk, at a spot beside a small river called the Ritupe.

  The prince brought Domash, five hundred horsemen and the same number of foot soldiers to the meeting, the banners of Pskov and Novgorod fluttering behind them as they rode south. Also accompanying them was the irksome Gleb whose fame and influence had increased enormously after he had saved Domash outside Pskov. Mstislav thought him amusing, if a little seditious, but he recognised his influence among his common soldiers and citizenry, the majority of which still clung to the old beliefs as they gave lip service to the Orthodox religion.

  Now in his sixties, Mstislav had a beard streaked with grey and hair that was almost white. But his wits and curiosity were as sharp as ever and the prospect of gaining at the expense of Polotsk was too good to miss.

  ‘How do you know you will gain from our esteemed allies on the Dvina?’ posed Gleb mischievously.

  Mstislav did not rise to the bait. ‘Because, my diabolical young demon, the Prince of Polotsk normally would not piss on me to put me out if I was on fire. Polotsk esteems itself the religious, learning and trading centre of northern Russia. Why then would it denigrate itself to seek an alliance with the barbarians of the north?’

  ‘To kill you, perhaps?’ Gleb shot back.

  ‘And what good would that do them?’ replied Mstislav smugly.

  ‘Remove you two and the new ruler of Polotsk can march against both Pskov and Novgorod,’ replied Gleb.

  ‘It is as well you are a mystic and not a strategist, Gleb,’ said Domash. ‘If Novgorod is attacked then the Cumans will ride to its aid.’

  ‘My wife, Princess Maria, is the daughter of Khotyan, leader of the Cuman people,’ added Mstislav.

  The Cumans were the wild nomads who lived to the east of Novgorod. Famed for their insatiable desire for rape and plunder, only a marriage alliance could keep their horseman from a ruler’s borders.

  ‘Domash, you should get yourself a wife,’ said the prince. ‘I’m sure my wife can find you a nice Cuman princess to keep your bed warm.’

  ‘His bed is already warm with a constant supply of Pskov’s most expensive whores,’ stated Gleb, ‘so you had better get him a bigger one to accompany his new bride.’

  ‘One day, Gleb,’ said Domash, ‘you will convince me that your head would look better on the end of a spear instead of on your shoulders.’

  Gleb grinned at Mstislav. ‘Then I wouldn’t be able to save you when you got yourself surrounded by the enemy. Like at Pskov. I remember it well, a half-dead boyar comes riding into the city blubbing like a small child, shouting “the mayor is dead, the mayor is dead”. I was the only one to keep his head and organised a relief force, and then…’

  ‘Shut up!’ roared Domash.

  Mstislav smiled. He liked Domash and his impish companion, even if his priests said he should be burnt at the stake for being a sorcerer.

  ‘Returning to my original point,’ said Mstislav. ‘Polotsk is not interested in conquest. Its prince and city merchants desire riches and influence and they know that war can prove ruinous to both. No, they want my help, of that I am certain.’

  ‘Perhaps they want to purchase your kingdom, lord,’ offered Gleb.

  ‘Perhaps we should sell them you, Gleb,’ suggested Domash, ‘though we may have to sell you at a bargain price.’

  Gleb was unimpressed. ‘Charming.’

  But Mstislav was right and when the Novgorodians arrived at the designated spot – a large expanse of grassland by the gently flowing waters of the Ritupe – they found the soldiers of Polotsk already camped there. Brightly coloured tents of varying sizes dotted the grassland and men sat or stood around a countless number of campfires.

  ‘You should have brought more men,’ said Gleb as he surveyed the scene.

  The prince saw a group of horsemen approach, at which his bodyguard deployed into line each side of him. He ordered them back into column.

  ‘We are here to talk, not to fight.’

  The Polotskian horsemen were an impressive sight: at least a hundred soldiers in lamellar armour, aventails, plumed helmets, almond-shaped shields painted red, green tunics and knee-high leather boots. Each rider carried a lance with a red pennant and at their head was a standard bearer carrying the banner of Polotsk: a great ship sailing the waters of the Dvina. The prince’s men deployed into battle array behind him, the horsemen on the wings and the foot in the centre as he and Domash watched the brightly coloured horsemen approach. The banner of Novgorod flickered behind Mstislav, the golden snow leopard of Pskov behind Domash.

  ‘Well, Gleb,’ said Mstislav, ‘we are about to find out if Polotsk desires peace or our heads.’

  The column of riders slowed and halted, four men at its head continuing to walk their horses forward until they were around twenty paces from the ruler of Novgorod. One raised his hand and spoke to the prince.

  ‘Greetings, Prince Mstislav, Lord of Novgorod and Pskov and ruler of the northern domains. I am Boris, prince of the city of Polotsk and I welcome you.’

  Boris was
around half the age of Mstislav and about half his weight, notwithstanding the rich lamellar armour that covered his torso. His open-faced helmet revealed a thoughtful visage with a long nose and pale brown eyes. Despite his warlike uniform and the soldiers at his back Mstislav could tell that the new ruler of Polotsk wanted to treat not threaten or bully.

  ‘Greetings to you, Prince Boris,’ replied Mstislav. ‘Novgorod grieved when it heard of the premature death of your father and looks forward to amiable relations with Polotsk.’

  The formalities over with, Boris invited Mstislav and his chief officers to a banquet in his pavilion once they had set up their camp and refreshed themselves.

  The feast was a sumptuous affair, Boris having brought with him his personal cooks as well as his silver cutlery and bowls. Boris’ lords and priests were richly attired in purple and white tunics worn beneath embroidered dalmaticas, fine leather belts around their waists. As was the custom no swords were worn in the pavilion, which made Domash feel a trifle nervous. But as the evening wore on and the wine flowed he relaxed and enjoyed the excellent hospitality of his hosts, in addition to the much stronger stavlenniy myod. Boris sat with Mstislav and talked about their two kingdoms. The former found, much to his surprise, that Novgorod’s ruler was not the unwashed brute that the city council had told him to be wary of, and for his part Mstislav found Boris to be intelligent and interesting.

  The omens were therefore propitious when formalities began the next morning, the venue being a large, oblong-shaped tent that had been pitched near the Ritupe on a stretch of lush grass. The weather was pleasant and the flaps at each end of the tent had been tied back to allow air to circulate within the tent, which unfortunately allowed a plague of midges to enter as well. Two parallel trestle tables had been arranged inside the tent to accommodate the rulers of Polotsk and Novgorod. Boris sat at one with two of his commanders and a stern-faced priest of the Orthodox Church. Opposite them were Mstislav, Domash, Gleb and the general of Novgorod’s army.

  Gleb looked bored as everyone stood and the priest said a prayer, calling upon God to bless the meeting, afterwards the priest giving him a hateful stare as the attendees retook their seats. Boris looked determined as he smiled at Mstislav and began proceedings.