The Sword Brothers

by Peter Darman

  Hans quickly recovered his strength after devouring copious quantities of hot broth and there was fortunately no lasting damage to Johann’s leg. The remnants of Volquin’s relief force, plus the depleted contingents from Kremon and Segewold, stayed at Wenden for a month, recovering their strength and waiting for the snow to melt as winter gave way to spring.

  Conrad paid regular visits to the grave of his wife and child, which now had a headstone. One morning he stood with Ilona staring at it, unable to read the words.

  ‘It says “Here lies Daina and Dietmar Wolff, wife and son of Conrad Wolff, Brother Knight of the Sword Brothers”,’ she told him. ‘You should learn to read and write.’

  ‘I have no need of it,’ he said.

  She looked at him, his blue-grey eyes full of sadness. ‘You have lost weight.’

  ‘It was a hard campaign.’

  He looked across at the gravediggers trying hard to make an impression on the frozen ground with picks and shovels to dig Master Berthold’s grave. He would have his own pit but the sergeants who had fallen at Odenpah would be buried in a mass grave. The brother knights and sergeants from Kremon and Segewold would also be buried at Wenden.

  He looked back at the grave of his wife and child.

  ‘It was good of Master Berthold to allow them to be buried here.’

  ‘He was very fond of Daina,’ said Ilona, ‘we all were.’

  Conrad looked around at the steadily increasing number of graves in the cemetery.

  ‘When I first arrived at Wenden there were few graves. Now they prosper. And there will be more still come the summer when we finish business with Lembit.’

  ‘Rudolf told me that he was at Odenpah.’

  Conrad nodded. ‘He crawled back to Saccalia before we left the fort. He should enjoy his freedom while he can. There are no sanctuaries for the enemies of Christ or for those who have betrayed the Bishop of Riga.’ He smiled grimly at Ilona. ‘Or me.’

  *****

  Lembit sat with his arms crossed, listening to the grievances of his chiefs and village elders as they stood before him in his hall at Lehola. Once the snows had disappeared and spring had arrived in all its glory he had summoned the leaders of his people to his stronghold. He had lost a thousand men at Odenpah and now the leaders, friends and relatives of those men stood in his hall and berated him, most of them clearly angry that he had been so profligate with Saccalian lives.

  His wolf shields stood with spears in hand around the walls of the hall and Rusticus was at the side of his master, his knuckles white as he gripped the hilt of his sword, malice in his eyes. But Lembit sat calmly and listened to their remonstrations. He occasionally nodded and did his best to look earnest as fingers were pointed at him and the occasional fist was shook in the air in his direction. He went along with the drama, looking sorrowful when one elder with white hair, tears in his eyes, reported that half the menfolk of his village had been killed at Odenpah and the wail of their widows could be heard every evening. Lembit rose from his chair and embraced the man, telling him that he too heard the cries of grieving Saccalian women.

  Eventually the hubbub burned itself out and the hall grew quiet. The visitors had satisfied their desire to be heard and now they looked down at the floor and shuffled uneasily on their feet. All wore leather or mail armour and held helmets in the crooks of their arms, though they had been required to leave their swords and other weapons outside the hall.

  Lembit rose and raised his arms. ‘My friends, when I agreed to shoulder the heavy burden of being leader of the Saccalian people I knew that the path would not be easy. This last winter has shown me how arduous is our task. Nigul died at the hands of the crusaders and Kalju betrayed our cause to throw himself into the arms of the Bishop of Riga.’

  There were murmurs of agreement around the hall. Lembit began to slowly pace in front of the chiefs and elders, occasionally pointing and smiling at one he recognised as he continued to speak.

  ‘I know as well as you that the bishop will once again march against us as soon as he lands at Riga. Perhaps he has already landed and is on his way, together with the traitor Caupo. I do not know. But what I do know is that I will not meekly stand by and let Saccalia become a slave to the foreigners.’

  There were louder murmurs of agreement and nodding of heads.

  ‘I know that many wives weep at the losses suffered at Odenpah but also know that we now stand on the verge of final victory over the bishop.’

  There was a stunned silence and men looked at each other in confusion.

  ‘You think that I delude myself?’ asked Lembit. ‘That I have spent too many nights drinking ale?’

  There were a few yesses and he smiled.

  ‘It’s true, I have.’

  They gave a great cheer. He raised his hands to quieten them.

  ‘You think I do not want to avenge the deaths of so many fine warriors? You think that I am cowered by the crusaders? The reverse at Odenpah has merely increased my thirst for retribution. Lords Edvin, Alva and Jaak have pledged their warriors for the coming campaign.’

  More cheers.

  ‘But this time,’ continued Lembit, ‘this time the crusaders will not be able to use those things that have given them the advantage in the past. They will not be able to use their siege engines, their crossbows or their warhorses. This time, my friends, we will have the advantage. But before I put my plan into operation I have to ask you all whether you still want me as your chief?’

  He stood before them with his head bowed as they gave a mighty cheer and began to chant his name. The rafters of the hall reverberating with ‘Lembit, Lembit’ as they came forward and all pledged their undying loyalty to him.

  Afterwards, as slaves arranged benches and trestle tables in the halls in preparation for a great feast, Lembit pulled Rusticus to one side.

  ‘That old idiot whom I was forced to embrace,’ said the chief. ‘Ensure he has an accident on the journey back to his flea-infested village.’

  ‘What sort of accident?’

  Lembit sighed. ‘The fatal sort.’

  ‘Fine speech earlier.’

  ‘Thank you, Rusticus. People are like sheep, really. Tell them what they want to hear and mostly they will follow you.’

  ‘Was that true about Alva, Jaak and Edvin?’

  Lembit shrugged his shoulders. ‘It will be. Jaak sulks at the moment and Edvin and Alva believe that they can sit out the coming war in the north, their borders secure and their neighbours peaceful. I will disabuse them of that notion.’

  ‘And the bit about defeating the crusaders?’

  Lembit’s eyes lit up. ‘That was true enough. I should have thought of it before but I was too busy defending forts and thus playing into the crusaders’ hands. No more.’

  He sniffed and turned up his nose, looking disparagingly at the chiefs noisily taking their places for the feast, a sea of thick beards and unruly hair.

  ‘Leather and sweat,’ remarked Lembit.

  ‘Lord?’

  ‘Have you ever noticed, Rusticus, that men stink? When they sit down together they stink of leather and sweat, and when they fight each other that odour is mixed with dung, piss and guts. But they still stink nevertheless.’

  Rusticus belched and wiped his nose on his tunic. ‘Can’t say I’ve noticed.’

  Lembit sighed again. ‘Of course not.’

  *****

  With the spring came a resumption of building work at Wenden. The north tower was finished: a great stone structure having three floors and a fighting platform on top surrounded by crenellations. Work resumed in the quarry and construction commenced on the other two towers. Conrad had hoped that Rameke would return to the remains of his father’s village but the settlement was left idle and nothing was heard from the son of Thalibald.

  Brother Walter was chosen by Rudolf to be his deputy commander, an appointment that occasioned Walter praying and fasting for a week to cleanse his soul in preparation for his new role. Henke offe
red to be Walter’s replacement when the brother knight collapsed and almost died from his exertions. But Walter did not die and he applied himself to his new duties diligently. Those duties included drawing up a list of Wenden’s needs that would be submitted by Master Rudolf to the office of the grand master in Riga, subject to the approval of the garrison’s brother knights.

  Now they had attained that status Conrad, Hans, Anton and Johann were allowed to attend the weekly meetings of the brother knights held in the master’s hall. There were now more than twelve brother knights at Wenden but Rudolf saw no reason to send any away to other garrisons, not with the prospect of war with Lembit looming.

  ‘Not that this garrison will be in a fit state to march when it breaks out,’ said Rudolf, sitting at the head of four tables arranged in a square formation, around which the brother knights sat. ‘Walter, perhaps you could give the others an idea of our requirements.’

  Walter picked up a long parchment and began summarising its contents.

  ‘Horses, mules, oxen.’

  ‘Oxen?’ said Henke, ‘have we been reduced to riding them to war instead of horses?’

  Walter frowned. ‘The oxen were all killed when Lembit raided Thalibald’s village. If we are to plough and sow the fields around the village once more then we need oxen.’

  ‘Who will sow and reap the crops?’ asked Conrad.

  ‘We are hoping that Rameke will return and rebuild his village,’ said Rudolf. ‘Have you had word from him since…?’

  ‘Since the village was destroyed?’ said Conrad. ‘No. The last I heard he was with Caupo raiding Rotalia but that was months ago.’

  Rudolf nodded. ‘Please continue, Walter.’

  His deputy read from the list. ‘Long spears, short spears, four tons of iron for making crossbow bolt heads, saddles, harnesses, mail caparisons, padded caparisons, helmets, belts, boots, hauberks, chausses, mail coifs, surcoats, lances, daggers, swords, maces, axes, tools, wagons and so on. Not forgetting six new mangonels for Master Thaddeus.’

  ‘We can send out a party to retrieve them now the snows have gone,’ said Rudolf.

  ‘The locals would have broken them up for firewood or building materials by now,’ said Lukas.

  Rudolf pursed his lips. ‘Then let us hope that Grand Master Volquin’s coffers are well stocked.’

  Unfortunately they were not, at least not enough to fulfil the requirements of Segewold, Kremon as well as Wenden, in addition to the needs of the garrisons along the Dvina. The latter had briefly profited from levying dues on merchant vessels plying the river until they had been ordered to desist by Bishop Albert. Now the Sword Brothers were in danger of being impoverished as a result of their commitments and their recent campaign in Ungannia. And all the while the treasury in Riga filled with the proceeds of trade along the Dvina. The bitterness and resentment between the order and the governor of the city increased markedly as spring gave way to summer and both waited for the arrival of Bishop Albert to voice their grievances.

  With the permission of Rudolf Conrad took one of the horses and rode south from Wenden, following the track that he had travelled upon in happier times. How long ago that all seemed now. He trotted across meadows and through trees until at last he came to the blackened, charred remains of Thalibald’s village. The ditch that had surrounded it was now completely overgrown, as were the fields that circled it. He walked his horse across the broken wooden bridge and into the burnt-out settlement. He noticed there were no birds overhead and only the barest amount of vegetation on the areas of blackened earth where huts had once stood. He dismounted and led his horse across the eerily quiet ground. He saw the remains of smashed earthen pots, bleached animal bones and rusted spits and cauldrons. He stood in the centre of the desolation where he had been cut down by wolf shields while trying to protect his wife and child. He heard their screams, saw their faces and remembered the horror of that night. He suddenly felt vulnerable and totally alone, as he did that dreadful night in Lübeck all those years ago. Then he held his face in his hands and wept.

  *****

  Vsevolod held Rasa as they watched the young newlyweds ride from Panemunis, a hundred warriors grouped round them. His wife had been surprisingly emotional during the week-long wedding ceremony, like most Lithuanians believing that dead relatives and friends also joined in the celebrations. No doubt she thought her father and brother had been present to see the betrothal of her daughter to the son of Stecse. The prince had been popular among the people and Rasa’s idea of marrying his son to Morta had been an astute one.

  ‘You look ridiculous,’ she said as the couple disappeared through the gates on their journey to a nearby hunting lodge in the hills.

  As was tradition the guests wore white and wreaths of straw around their heads, which Vsevolod had found not only physically irritating but also degrading. But Rasa had insisted that all the customs should be observed, which meant the bride received presents of linen towels, woven belts and spindle whorls. These items were also the traditional gifts to Laima, the Goddess of Fate, Luck and Beauty, and were intended to bring blessings on the marriage. Vsevolod thought them fit only for throwing on a fire.

  ‘And you look charming, my sweet.’ He replied, kissing her tenderly on the lips. His white leggings and tunic made him resemble a scarecrow but her white linen dress and long red hair made her most appealing.

  ‘Fine wedding, lord.’

  He turned to see Aras, his usually tidy beard dishevelled and his tunic open to the waist. He bowed his head to Rasa.

  ‘Lady.’

  Vsevolod detected the aroma of mead coming from the newly appointed general, whose usual demeanour of calm seemed to have deserted him.

  ‘Now that the newlyweds have departed,’ said Vsevolod, ‘get all these people out of Panemunis. They make the place look untidy.’

  Aras stifled a belch and looked around at the dozens of individuals in various states of inebriation in the courtyard in front of the great hall.

  ‘It’s tradition to allow them to stay until they leave of their own free will.’

  Vsevolod glared at him. ‘Tradition? I have had a gutful of tradition. First of all they turn up unannounced, hundreds of the stinking parasites, before proceeding to help themselves to everything they can eat and drink.’

  He turned up his nose in disgust at the piles of vomit that littered the courtyard.

  ‘And then they commence turning my residence into a mirror image of their flea-infested hovels.’

  He jabbed a finger into Aras’ chest. ‘Deal with them or I will order my guards to clear away the filth with their spear points.’

  They were called Kriukininkai, uninvited guests who appeared at weddings, in this case a great crowd of them gathering at the gates of Panemunis. When news spread of the upcoming marriage the tracks and roads were filled with them, every man carrying a stick to symbolise that he would cause trouble if he was not admitted to the celebrations. It was a great Lithuanian tradition that the Kriukininkai were welcomed and feasted during the extent of the festivities. Vsevolod had been appalled but Rasa was delighted that the people had accepted the union of Mindaugas with a half-Russian girl.

  Aras scratched his beard, his breath reeking of mead. ‘You’re sure you want to do that, lord? It would be considered an insult.’

  Vsevolod stared, horrified, as a drunken man bent over and emptied the contents of his stomach in a horse trough.

  ‘That is an insult,’ said the prince loudly.

  He then saw the white-bearded Kriviu Krivaitis approach, accompanied by two of his Kriviai. Even the most inebriated lowered their heads and staggered aside when the vessels of the gods approached.

  ‘Marvellous,’ groaned Vsevolod, ‘just when I thought it could not get any worse.’

  ‘Hail, Prince Vsevolod,’ said the chief priest, opening his arms and embracing Vsevolod, who looked mortified. The priest stepped back and offered a hand to Rasa, who bowed her head, took it and kissed it.


  ‘There were many among us who believed that your coming foretold misery for the late grand duke’s people,’ said the Kriviu Krivaitis. ‘I am not too proud to tell you that I was one such individual.

  ‘But you have displayed wisdom, temperance and respect for our traditions and religion since your arrival at Panemunis. I salute you. The Holy Fire burned brightly when I spoke to Perkunas about you.’

  ‘You are most kind,’ said Vsevolod, oozing false modesty.

  The chief priest looked around at the clusters of people in the courtyard. ‘You have embraced the people and they embrace you, Prince Vsevolod.’

  Vsevolod smiled. ‘I think it is important to respect people’s traditions.’

  The priest smiled at Rasa. ‘The marriage will be a good one, child. The tree will flourish and Austeja will bless the union with a child.’

  Rasa’s eyes misted with tears. ‘Thank you, Revered One.’

  After they had been married by the Kriviu Krivaitis in the sacred grove, the couple planted a linden tree inside its boundary. The tree was traditionally associated with peace, truth and justice, qualities that the couple hoped would characterise the marriage. At the feast afterwards Morta had tossed her cup of mead upwards towards the ceiling to pay her respects to Austeja, the Goddess of Fertility. Most of the liquid had fallen on her father, which had done nothing to improve his humour.

  ‘I will get on with clearing the courtyard, lord,’ said Aras, clearly bored by it all.

  The chief priest frowned at him and his two subordinates started to protest.

  ‘What are you talking about, general?’ said Vsevolod. ‘Our guests must be allowed to partake of my hospitality as long as they desire.’ He smiled at the Kriviu Krivaitis. ‘That is the custom, after all.’

  Aras was confused. ‘But you said…’

  Vsevolod raised a hand to silence him. ‘Is there something you want, general?’

  ‘There is someone to see you,’ replied Aras. ‘I kept him waiting until the couple had left. He says he is an ambassador from Duke Arturus.’