The Sword Brothers

by Peter Darman

  Vsevolod’s eyes lit up. ‘At last,’ he muttered. He smiled at the chief priest. ‘If you will excuse me, I have urgent business to attend to. Please feel free to treat my home as your own. My wife will accompany you.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Rasa, all smiles and happiness.

  Vsevolod bowed his head to the priests and left them. ‘You are with me,’ he told Aras.

  They walked between groups of drunken, raucous guests, their shirts dirty and smeared with mead.

  ‘When the priests have gone get rid of the interlopers,’ sneered Vsevolod.

  ‘I thought you said they were welcome.’

  ‘That was for the benefit of that decrepit senile idiot with the white beard,’ said Vsevolod, angrily shoving aside a reveller.

  ‘That old man holds great sway among the people,’ said Aras.

  ‘Which is precisely why I said to him what I did.’

  They walked through the hall to the more private chambers located at its rear, the prince’s Russian guards keeping any unwelcome guests out of this area. Aras led Vsevolod to a small room furnished with chairs and a table where the prince usually received visitors. The two guards outside the room brought their spears to their bodies as one and opened the door to allow them to enter.

  Torolf was standing admiring a row of boar heads mounted on one wall. He turned and looked surprised at the two individuals standing before him. Aras realised that the ambassador must have thought they were servants or some sort of travelling entertainers with their simple attire and strange headwear.

  ‘I am General Aras,’ he said, extending an arm towards Vsevolod. ‘And this is Prince Vsevolod, Lord of the Selonian and Nalsen people and son-in-law to the late Grand Duke Daugerutis.’

  Vsevolod was suddenly aware of his attire. Mortified, he snatched at the straw wreath on his head and flung it on the table.

  ‘Wine,’ he called to the guards outside. ‘Bring wine and refreshments for our guest.’ He looked apologetically at Torolf.

  ‘Please be seated.’

  But Torolf bowed his head solemnly and handed Vsevolod a rolled parchment that had a red wax seal bearing the emblem of a seagull.

  ‘I am Lord Torolf, appointed by Duke Arturus to be his ambassador and I thank you for your invitation to your kingdom.’

  Vsevolod took the document and raised an eyebrow. Arturus had been tardy to say the least in replying to his requests for a meeting. He had wanted negotiations to start months ago but at least this was a start. He broke the seal and read the document that he was pleased to discover was in Russian. It confirmed Torolf’s status and ended with Arturus’ words that he hoped their future cooperation would be mutually beneficial.

  ‘You must forgive our appearance, ambassador,’ said Vsevolod, taking his seat behind the desk as Torolf sat down opposite with Aras next to him, ‘we have been engaged in my daughter’s wedding.’

  Torolf, in stark contrast, wore a rich green tunic and red cloak that was fastened at the front by a huge gold brooch.

  ‘To Mindaugas, son of the late Prince Stecse. Yes, I heard,’ smiled Torolf, ‘my congratulations.’

  Slaves brought wine, meats, rye bread and fruit to the office, Torolf eating and drinking sparingly.

  ‘My duke wonders why you solicit his aid,’ remarked the ambassador, nibbling a grape.

  ‘Lithuania is afflicted by civil strife,’ replied Vsevolod. ‘I would bring that strife to an end.’

  ‘By subduing the other dukes,’ said Torolf. ‘My lord has no interest in being slave to a grand duke.’

  Aras smiled. He remembered that Daugerutis had managed, more or less, to bribe, threaten and browbeat the other dukes to his will, all except the Northern Kurs. A fierce, warlike people, they went their own way and tended to kill first and ask questions later. But Arturus was not just a bloodthirsty brute. He realised that there was always a demand for hardy warriors and was not averse to offering the services of his warriors. At a price.

  ‘I seek not to be a grand duke but to preserve my kingdom,’ replied Vsevolod.

  ‘You wish to hire warriors?’

  ‘We have enough soldiers,’ interrupted Aras, who had taken a dislike to this smooth-talking courtier.

  Vsevolod frowned at his general but Torolf remained impassive.

  ‘What I propose,’ said Vsevolod, ‘is the division of Semgallia. The son of Ykintas, Duke Vincentas, struggles to hold his father’s kingdom against my assaults in the east and the Samogitians in the south. If Duke Arturus was to invade Semgallia from the west then Vincentas would be toppled from power easily.’

  Torolf remained impassive.

  ‘Unless the duke has his hands full with the Southern Kurs.’

  Aras smiled as Torolf’s mask slipped ever so slightly.

  ‘It is only a matter of time before Duke Gedvilas submits to my lord,’ replied Torolf icily.

  Vsevolod leaned forward. ‘I seek an alliance with Duke Arturus so that we may divide up the Lithuanian lands between us. While this land is divided the crusaders north of the Dvina laugh at us and make their preparations to cross the river to expand their empire. Like your lord I too do not wish to be a slave.’

  Torolf sipped at his wine. ‘You wish for the Northern Kurs to fight the Semgallians but what will you do for us?’

  ‘A fair question,’ replied Vsevolod. ‘What I am proposing is a combined attack, my forces from the east, those of Duke Arturus from the west. Faced with such overwhelming force the Semgallians will collapse. After which I pledge warriors to aid your fight against the Southern Kurs.’

  ‘You must understand that I have no authority to agree to your proposals,’ said Torolf. ‘I must report back to my lord.’

  ‘But in theory you believe that the plan has merit,’ probed Vsevolod.

  Torolf took another sip of his drink. ‘Any military cooperation will require proper planning and coordination, otherwise Vincentas will be able to march his forces east and west at will to stave off our assaults.’

  ‘I promise that there will be full cooperation between us,’ said Aras.

  Torolf looked at the general. ‘As I said I make no promises. However, I will report favourably back to my lord concerning what we have discussed. It would appear that our interests are the same regarding the future of Semgallia.’

  ‘You must be tired after your journey,’ said Vsevolod. ‘General Aras will escort you to your quarters. I hope you will stay with us a while and enjoy our hospitality.’

  It was a start and that was all that he wanted. One day he would recross the Dvina and take back his home from the accursed Bishop of Riga and the Sword Brothers. But for now he had to bide his time and apply his efforts to more pressing problems, which included subjugating the other Lithuanian tribes.

  *****

  It was the end of May before Bishop Albert returned from Germany. The twenty ships bringing crusaders and supplies docked at the great harbour at Riga, the sails of two of the cogs bearing the insignia of the Sword Brothers and carrying much-needed weapons and armour for the order’s soldiers, though not enough to satisfy all their needs. The harbour itself was now protected by watchtowers, which were sited on the end of all the jetties. On the top platform of each tower was mounted either a stone-throwing mangonel or a ballista. The latter was a machine resembling a giant crossbow that could hurl iron-headed bolts over great distances. As the Oeselians had found to their cost, the defences of Riga and its harbour were now very strong. Under the careful nurturing of Archdeacon Stefan the garrison had increased to four hundred men, a small army in itself, in addition to the town militia that could muster five hundred men variously equipped and trained.

  The harbour and streets leading from it to the bishop’s palace were lined with soldiers of the garrison when the bishop stepped ashore from his ship, to be welcomed by Archdeacon Stefan, Grand Master Volquin, the castellans of the order, Caupo, Sir Helmold and Sir Richard. A fanfare of trumpets welcomed home the founder of the town; Albert was dresse
d in white robes and a white and gold mitre. A tall, fair-haired nobleman wearing a surcoat emblazoned with a white horse’s head helped him from the gangplank. Onlookers gasped when they saw the knight, looks of horror momentarily on their faces before they composed themselves and clapped politely. For Count Albert von Lauenburg was horribly disfigured.

  Now in his mid-thirties, the count was a Saxon who controlled the mighty fortress of Lauenburg, a stronghold on the River Elbe. He had fought many battles against the Danes and other German nobles, receiving severe wounds at the city of Stade two years before. Heralds spread the news of Count Albert’s bravery and heroic deeds but did not relate that in the fighting his helmet had been knocked off his head during close-quarters combat. In the ensuring struggle half his nose was hacked off, the top of his right ear was severed and an enemy axe had slashed his face, leaving a deep scar that ran from just above his right eyebrow to his lower left jaw. It was fortunate that he was already married because it was thought that no woman would countenance a match with such a deformed individual, even accounting for his great wealth and power.

  The reason that the bishop had been delayed on his journey back to Riga was that he had been involved in delicate relations with King Valdemar of Denmark, who controlled large areas of northern Germany, including the city of Lübeck. When Count Albert declared his intention to go on crusade in Livonia, Valdemar baulked at the idea of the Saxon lord marching a hundred knights, two hundred lesser knights, a hundred squires, a hundred crossbowmen and a hundred spearmen through his lands. Only the personal guarantee of the bishop that the Saxons would not plunder during their journey convinced the king to agree to the count’s passage. He did, however, assign five hundred soldiers to act as an escort and insisted that the crusaders embark immediately once they reached Lübeck rather than loiter in the city.

  The fleet that brought Count Albert to Riga also contained other knights who were either attracted to the crusade in Livonia or who had fallen on hard times and thought the prospect of being fed and housed by Bishop Albert for a year much more attractive than starvation. This category numbered fifty men.

  Men of substance who expressed an interest in becoming brother knights of the order numbered twenty, while the bishop had collected a further fifty from Lübeck who would be inducted as sergeants, both groups being subject to the usual probationary period. Finally there were the waifs and strays and young criminals that the bishop had managed to save from the gallows: sixty boys who would be trained to be sergeants, some perhaps even attaining the coveted position of brother knight.

  Every year the bishop had recruited mercenaries for the Sword Brothers, or at least the Cistercian Order throughout northern Germany had let it be known that salvation and regular pay awaited mercenaries prepared to serve in Livonia. This year was no different and accompanying the bishop were one hundred and fifty dogs of war for Grand Master Volquin.

  The route from the harbour to the bishop’s palace was thronged with Riga’s citizens, all eager to acclaim the man who had single-handedly turned a collection of Liv villages into a prosperous, thriving port. The population had expanded to such an extent that dwellings had been built beyond the city walls, a new, wooden wall being erected to protect them. Indeed, such was the demand for timber for construction that several of Caupo’s chiefs had become wealthy providing the town’s carpenters and builders with wood.

  While walking in the company of Volquin and the other masters of the order, Rudolf spotted Rameke among the chiefs with Caupo. He left the brethren and ambled over to the Livs, who now seemed strangers in their own land amid so many German Christians.

  ‘Rameke,’ he called, having difficulty hearing his own voice amid the tumult.

  Rameke turned and recognised Rudolf. He smiled and they clasped forearms. He was still in his early twenties but he had a world-weary look that made him look ten years older.

  ‘The new master of Wenden. It is good to see you.’

  ‘And you,’ said Rudolf as they followed the procession towards the palace. ‘Wenden misses its chief.’

  ‘Wenden’s chief died,’ he said bitterly, ‘as should I.’

  ‘You are a fool to think any blame attaches to you.’

  Rameke shrugged. ‘I am more useful being with my king than at Wenden.’

  ‘Your place is at Wenden, Rameke, with your people and your friends. Conrad misses you; we all miss you.’

  There was pain in Rameke’s eyes. ‘How is Conrad?’

  ‘Well, though he would like to see his brother-in-law, I think.’

  Rameke looked around at the procession of knights and Sword Brothers. ‘This year Lembit will not escape.’

  Rudolf nodded. ‘His star wanes. The bishop will bring him to account this year, of that I have no doubt.’

  ‘And I will be there to bring it about.’

  None wore armour the next day when the bishop convened a war council in the audience chamber of his palace. It was a hot June day and the temperature inside the room was already warm when the meeting convened. The Sword Brothers wore their gowns and the lords surcoats over their tunics. Sir Helmold and Sir Richard chatted politely to Count Albert, doing their utmost not to stare at his disfigured face.

  Servants brought wine as the guests were shown to their places at the four long trestle tables arranged in a square. The top table was earmarked for the bishop, the one opposite to Caupo and his chiefs. Volquin and his masters sat to the right of the bishop’s table and the crusader lords to the left. The bishop and Stefan appeared shortly afterwards, everyone standing at they took their places and commanded that heads be bowed for prayers. When they again sat Rudolf noticed that Stefan had put on weight. He filled out his princely robes, his fingers looked bloated and a second chin was appearing under his jaw. But his eyes were alert as ever and they darted left and right as he surveyed the assembly of potential friends and foes.

  All eyes were upon the bishop as he drank from his mazer before speaking. His hair was now heavily streaked with grey and his face thin and slightly haggard. Nearly twenty years of keeping alive the crusade in Livonia had taken their toll on the prelate.

  ‘This year I intend to defeat the rebel Lembit once and for all and subdue the Estonians. His continual resistance insults the Holy Church and brings mockery upon my bishopric. Grand Master Volquin, how long before an army can be assembled to march against this servant of the devil?’

  Volquin stood and bowed his head to the bishop. ‘I anticipate that in two months’ time we will be ready to launch your campaign against Lembit, lord bishop.’

  ‘That long?’ said Count Albert.

  Volquin remained standing. ‘Unfortunately, my lord, the order’s winter campaign was most taxing and resulted in the loss of numerous siege engines.’

  ‘Very remiss of the Sword Brothers,’ smirked Stefan.

  ‘The campaign was very successful and resulted in one of Lembit’s allies deserting him and also in the retreat of the Oeselians and Russians,’ continued Volquin, ignoring Stefan’s condescension. ‘We are still waiting for replacement horses from Germany.’

  ‘They will be arriving within the month,’ said the bishop. ‘Thank you, grand master.’ He looked at the row of lords.

  ‘How are matters along the Dvina, Sir Helmold?’

  Sir Helmold rose as Volquin took his seat.

  ‘All is quiet along the river, lord bishop. The reports that we have received indicate that the Lithuanians fight among themselves. However, we know that Prince Vsevolod is resident at Panemunis, just a short distance across the river from his former stronghold of Gerzika.’

  ‘You think he will cross the river this year?’ asked the bishop.

  Helmold looked across to the castellans of Holm, Uexkull, Lennewarden and Kokenhusen. ‘We have no way of knowing, lord bishop.’

  ‘We have many soldiers tied up along the Dvina,’ said the bishop, ‘soldiers that would be put to better use fighting Lembit. Yet to strip the garrisons along the Dvina is
to invite the Lithuanians to raid Livonia.’

  Archdeacon Stefan leaned over and whispered something to the bishop, causing him to raise his eyebrows.

  ‘And you are confident that this will bear fruit?’

  ‘I am, lord bishop,’ replied Stefan.

  Albert smiled at Sir Helmold. ‘It would seem that you and the masters of the garrisons along the Dvina may yet be able to join in our crusade against Lembit, Sir Helmold. Thank you for your report.’

  Sir Helmold took his seat but the castellans were far from happy and looked at Volquin, who was also disturbed.

  ‘Lord bishop,’ he said, ‘may I enquire as to why you feel confident that the Lithuanians will not cross the Dvina if we weaken our forces along the river?’

  ‘Archdeacon Stefan has just informed me of certain developments that hopefully will work to our advantage.’

  ‘And which for the moment have to remain confidential,’ added Stefan, smiling triumphantly at Volquin. The grand master was far from amused.

  ‘Nothing should be withheld from the Order of Sword Brothers, lord bishop, for we are the defenders of Livonia.’

  ‘I thought God was the defender of Livonia, grand master,’ said Stefan casually, ‘unless you believe that you and your knights are higher than our Lord.’

  Volquin jumped to his feet as his castellans shot hateful stares at Stefan. ‘How dare you!’

  The bishop raised his hands. ‘Calm yourself, grand master, I am certain that the archdeacon meant no offence.’

  ‘Of course not, my sincere apologies, grand master,’ proffered Stefan, his voice laced with insincerity.

  ‘Let us move on,’ ordered the bishop.

  ‘I would hear about the archdeacon’s plans concerning the Lithuanians,’ insisted the grand master.

  ‘And you will be the first to be informed when there is anything of import to relate, grand master,’ said Stefan.

  Volquin was fuming but the bishop would hear no more on the topic and asked Caupo to report on matters to the north of Livonia, as he and his warriors had been raiding deep into Estonia during the winter and spring. Now nearly fifty years old, the Liv king still cut an impressive figure, though his hair was thinning slightly and his beard was flecked with grey. He rose and bowed his head to the bishop. Stefan rolled his eyes and began toying with his cross. He made no secret of the fact that he disliked and distrusted Caupo and his people, even if they professed to be Christians. Lembit made the same claim and everyone knew how that had turned out.