The Sword Brothers

by Peter Darman

  ‘Wait here.’

  One of the guards turned on his heels and disappeared into the tent, the other staring impassively at Conrad, still barring his way. Half a minute later the other guard came from the tent accompanied by a knight in mail armour and a rich red surcoat sporting the white horse crest. Whoever this knight was he had seen many battles for his face was horribly scarred. The maimed face twisted into a smile.

  ‘I am Count Albert. Welcome to my camp, Brother Conrad. It is an honour to meet a member of the Sword Brothers.’

  He did not know why but he expected the famous count to be handsome and aloof, but he bowed deeply to him nevertheless.

  ‘Lord.’

  ‘Come in, come in,’ ordered the count, holding the heavy flap open for Conrad.

  The pavilion was spartan but comfortable, with candle holders around the walls, a table, well-appointed chairs and, curiously, a makeshift altar upon which was a beautiful golden cross.

  ‘Brother Conrad.’

  Conrad turned to see Sir Helmold being served wine by a servant, a page in the livery of the count.

  ‘Sir Helmold,’ said Conrad, bowing his head, ‘it is good to see you.’

  ‘You know each other?’ asked the count, who was also served with wine.

  ‘Indeed, count. This is Conrad Wolff, the man who wounded Lembit and who saved the life of Bishop Albert in the great battle before Riga.’

  ‘Wine for our hero,’ ordered the count.

  ‘Hardly that, lord,’ said Conrad, embarrassed.

  ‘How may I be of assistance?’ queried Albert.

  Conrad became more embarrassed. He handed the count the rolled parchment. ‘Apologies, lord, but Master Thaddeus says that your camp is in the wrong place.’

  Albert was perplexed. ‘Master Thaddeus?’

  ‘Wenden’s chief engineer and something of a genius by all accounts,’ reported Sir Helmold. ‘It was he who masterminded the defence of Odenpah, I believe. You were there, were you not?’

  ‘That is correct, lord,’ said Conrad.

  ‘What was it like fighting beside Estonians instead of fighting against them?’

  ‘We were glad to have them by our side, lord,’ replied Conrad.

  Albert took his wine. ‘I have heard of this place. A great Sword Brother victory.’

  ‘One of many,’ said Sir Helmold admiringly.

  The page offered Conrad a silver goblet containing wine.

  ‘To the Sword Brothers,’ said Count Albert, raising his goblet.

  Sir Helmold stood. ‘The Sword Brothers.’

  Albert looked at Conrad. ‘Tell me, Brother Conrad, what is this Lembit like?’

  Conrad sipped at his wine, which was of excellent quality. He thought of the wolf shields and the attack on Thalibald’s village.

  ‘Like a cockroach, lord. Difficult to kill.’

  ‘And Conrad should know,’ said Sir Helmold, ‘he is one of the order’s most accomplished soldiers and Lembit has even slipped through his fingers.’

  ‘Hardly that, lord,’ offered Conrad, his cheeks flushing.

  The count untied the ribbon on the parchment and unrolled it. He examined it and smiled.

  ‘Master Thaddeus clearly knows what he is about, Brother Conrad. Inform him that I will obey his request.’

  ‘You are most gracious, count,’ said Conrad.

  He drained his goblet and placed it back on the tray proffered by the page.

  ‘God be with you, my lords.’

  Sir Helmold raised his goblet.

  ‘I hope to fight beside you on the field of honour, Brother Conrad,’ said the count.

  Conrad smiled and left. It never failed to amuse him how even hardened knights referred to the battlefield as the field of honour. He himself had never seen much honour in men having their skulls smashed in or their bellies ripped open. The sight of dying men crawling on all fours, their bodies cut to shreds, others fouling their breeches in fear and sobbing uncontrollably had not invoked thoughts of honour, more like horror and disgust.

  ‘What’s this?’

  He had walked to where his horse and the young novice were waiting, to discover the boy surrounded by half a dozen rough-looking men. One had taken the boy’s waster and was tossing it in the air. Conrad guessed by their appearance – brigandines, poor quality leather belts and dirty tunics – that they were poor knights, perhaps dispossessed or cast out by their families and having to rely on their ill-maintained swords to put food in their bellies. The boy was clearly alarmed at being surrounded by these ruffians, all of them bare headed and their faces grimy.

  They turned when they heard his voice, the one holding the waster grinning when he spotted Conrad’s white surcoat and red insignia.

  ‘Well look who we have here, boys, one of the famous Sword Brothers.’

  He pointed the waster at the novice. ‘Who’s this, a boy to warm your bed?’

  The others laughed mockingly as Conrad calmly walked up to the novice.

  ‘Are you unharmed?’

  ‘Yes, brother,’ the boy said falteringly.

  ‘Brother? So in addition to sodomy you are guilty of incest,’ shouted the leader with the waster.

  There was uproarious laughter from the others.

  Conrad turned to face the leader, pointing at the waster. ‘That is not yours, I believe.’

  The man slashed the air with the waster, only inches from Conrad’s face. ‘I have heard many things about the Sword Brothers, how they are the finest soldiers in all Christendom. But what I have seen so far has left me sorely disappointed.’

  The others nodded and shouted their agreement.

  ‘A wooden sword for wooden soldiers,’ sneered the leader. ‘It’s easy to butcher ill-armed savages and burn their wooden huts. You want to know about soldiering?’

  He jabbed the point of the waster into Conrad’s chest. ‘Two days fighting the Danes on the Elbe. That’s soldiering. Three campaigns in Franconia. That’s soldiering. Holding the line against French horsemen in a field in Thuringia. That’s soldiering.’

  Conrad held his stare and said nothing. He was now surrounded by the lowly knights, their confrontation having aroused the interests of others nearby who began to drift over.

  The leader smiled at the others and jabbed the wooden point again into Conrad’s chest.

  ‘What’s the matter, cat got your tongue, I…’

  In a lightning-fast movement Conrad grabbed the waster with his left hand, stepped back and smashed his elbow into the man standing directly behind him. There was a loud crack as the man’s nose was broken and he was knocked over. Conrad transferred the waster to his right hand and swung it right to strike the side of the man’s head to his right. The knight groaned in pain as his head took the full force of the blow and he staggered away, semi-conscious. The man on Conrad’s left drew his sword and thrust it forward but the brother knight had anticipated his move and jumped back. The sword lunge missed but Conrad grabbed the man’s right wrist before he could withdraw it, yanked him forward and smashed the wooden pommel down hard on the back of his head. The man fell like a dead weight, unconscious.

  The other three had also drawn their swords but Conrad was too quick for them, leaping forward to parry the strike delivered by the man standing to the right of the leader and head-butting him in the face twice in quick succession. He moaned in pain as Conrad grabbed him and shoved him at the leader who was forced to bundle him out of the way. This gave Conrad time to deal with the other man who raced forward, gripping his sword with both hands and swinging it wildly at him. Conrad ducked to avoid the blow, turned the waster in his hand and swung it to the left so the man’s face connected with the flat of his blade. His nose was squashed against the hard wood and he collapsed to his knees, Conrad delivering a fearsome blow with the edge against the side of his skull that knocked him unconscious. Now only the leader remained.

  This idiot was more cautious than the rest, though whether as a result of him seeing what had
happened to his rash comrades or because he was a more accomplished swordsman Conrad did not know. But he allowed himself a tiny smirk as he saw a trace of alarm in the man’s eyes. Focus! As his comrades groaned and bled the leader came at Conrad with a series of great scything strikes that looked impressive but which were easy to dodge. And as his blows failed to connect he became more frustrated and enraged, screaming as he swung left and right to slice the impudent brother knight in half. But after at least a score of these grandiloquent strikes Conrad was unharmed and the knight was breathing heavily.

  Brother Lukas would not have approved but as the man screamed once more and came charging at him like a man possessed, Conrad jumped to the right, spun on his left foot and swept the man’s feet from under him with his right leg. He fell to the ground and Conrad was on him, raining a succession of blows on the back of his head with the waster’s pommel.

  ‘Respecting your allies. That’s soldiering.’

  Thud.

  ‘Treating the young, old and vulnerable with respect. That’s soldiering.’

  Thud.

  ‘Saving the fight for the enemy. That’s soldiering.’

  Thud.

  He heard the alarm being sounded and rose to his feet, the man on the ground unconscious. A ring of guards closed round him, spears levelled as he calmly rested the waster on his right shoulder. Hearing uproar, Count Albert and Sir Helmold came from the pavilion, four guards forming round them.

  ‘Hold!’ shouted the count, shoving his way through the gathering crowd. He saw the men on the ground and others rubbing their bloody heads and being assisted to their feet, then saw Conrad with his wooden sword.

  ‘What is going on here?’ he demanded.

  One of the knights, his nose a bloody pulp, pointed at Conrad. ‘He started it, lord, attacked us he did.’

  The count’s eyes narrowed. ‘Attacked all six of you?’

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  ‘With a wooden sword?’

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  ‘They stole the sword, lord,’ said Conrad.

  Sir Helmold grinned. ‘I told you he was good, count.’

  ‘Back to your duties,’ shouted the count to the spectators. He walked over to Conrad as the six assailants were helped away, the unconscious ones being awakened by buckets of water. Conrad handed the waster back to its wide-eyed owner.

  ‘I apologise for the conduct of my soldiers,’ said the count. ‘I shall have them hanged.’

  ‘There is no need for that, lord,’ said Conrad, waving forward the novice, ‘not on my account. Some sword practice would be more useful. They underestimate the enemy and that is dangerous.’

  ‘I will not make that mistake,’ said Count Albert.

  Conrad mounted his horse and raised his hand to the lords as he and the novice rode from the camp.

  ‘Were you afraid, Brother Conrad?’ said the novice, glad to be away from the barbarians.

  ‘Afraid, why should I have been afraid?’

  ‘There were six of them and only one of you and they had real swords.’

  Conrad halted his horse and looked at the fresh-faced youth.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Franz, Brother Conrad.’

  ‘Well, Franz, you are lucky to have Brother Lukas as your instructor, just as I did. And you will soon learn that in a fight it is quality that mostly decides the outcome, not quantity.’

  ‘Some say you are the best fighter in the Sword Brothers,’ said Franz.

  Conrad nudged his horse forward. ‘Idle gossip is a sin, young Franz.’

  ‘Yes, brother. But is it true?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ replied Conrad. ‘As I said, it is nothing more than idle speculation.’

  ‘Others say that Brother Henke is the best.’

  Conrad did not reply but had to admit that it was a question he had often posed himself. Who was better: he or Henke?

  Three days later Caupo and his Livs arrived.

  Aside from a contingent of a hundred mounted warriors of his bodyguard, the king’s army comprised the men raised from the villages around his stronghold of Treiden. Every man of the bodyguard was equipped with mail armour, a helmet and a large round shield but Caupo’s foot soldiers were variously armed and furnished. Around half had armour, mostly mail though a few had leather breastplates, helmets, spears and axes. The rest had no armour to protect their bodies, though each man did have a helmet and a large shield. Weapons for these villagers turned temporary warriors comprised mostly spears, axes and knives, only the village elders having swords. Caupo also brought a hundred archers who wore no armour on their bodies or heads and carried long knives for their secondary weapons.

  Conrad was standing in front of his wife’s and child’s grave the day they arrived. As usual freshly laid flowers adorned the mound of earth. Next to the grave were the final resting places of Thalibald and Waribule, their graves like the others well tended by Wenden’s gardener. Despite the hundreds of soldiers around the castle and the bustle of their camps the cemetery was quiet and calm. Conrad liked coming here, not only to be near his family but also because it was a place where he could collect his thoughts. He stared at the words on the headstone even though he could not read them.

  ‘We shall be marching north again soon.’

  He turned the ring on his finger.

  ‘So I will not be able to visit you as often as I would like. I pray that I will fall in the coming war so that I may be with you both. Hans has promised that if God decrees it so then I will be buried with you. I would like that.

  ‘I miss you, Daina. I miss your smile and the days of happiness we shared together. The world is cold without your love to warm it.’

  He choked back the tears as he saw his wife’s green eyes and her smile.

  ‘I hear that it has been a good year for the harvest, though no crops grow in the fields where we first met.’

  He knelt down and placed a hand on the grave.

  ‘I love you both.’

  There was no wind and there was silence in the cemetery; even the birds had seemingly disappeared. He heard no sound but knew that he was not alone. He felt his heart beat in his chest and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He stood and turned, and saw Rameke pacing towards him.

  They were the same age as near as damn it but Daina’s brother looked careworn, his thick hair long and ragged and his eyes mournful. He was still stocky, though, and his heavy mail armour made him appear more so. He stopped when Conrad turned, his demeanour hesitant, uncertain of his reception. Conrad stepped forward and offered his hand.

  ‘Brother.’

  The doubts disappeared as Rameke took his hand and they embraced.

  ‘Your family is waiting,’ said Conrad.

  They stood before the graves and Rameke read the inscriptions, Conrad then informing him of events at Wenden. At last Rameke spoke, his voice low.

  ‘I was ashamed that I had lived and they had died, Conrad, so I took refuge with the king and rode north with his men. Then I was more ashamed that I had left you and so stayed away, and would still be away had it not have been for the gathering at Wenden. I ask your forgiveness, brother.’

  ‘You should feel no guilt, my brother,’ replied Conrad, ‘what happened was God’s will, of that I am certain.’

  ‘And now we go to fight Lembit once more.’

  Conrad smiled. ‘This time he will not wriggle free. Rudolf has told me that the bishop wants him dead.’

  Rameke laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Then we must do our utmost to ensure his wishes are fulfilled.’

  Chapter 25

  Seven days after the arrival of Caupo and the soldiers from Kremon and Segewold the army left Wenden. Volquin was eager for the march to begin as soon as possible, not least because the area around Wenden was quickly being covered with the filth and waste produced by hundreds of men and thousands of animals. The smoke of hundreds of campfires mixed with the sickly aroma of thousands of tons of horse dung hung
in the summer air like a thick pall of nausea. The commanders knew that the lakes and ponds in the vicinity would soon be awash with piss and dung and the flies and fleas that were the faithful travelling companions of an army would soon create sickness among both men and animals. In addition, though Livonia in summer was lush, fifteen hundred horses, a thousand ponies and fifty oxen were stripping the land bare. On average twenty-five horses required an acre of grassland to graze upon each day and Master Thaddeus was losing what little hair he had trying to accommodate the insatiable demands of the crusader forces.

  As a reward for his sterling service at Lehola and Odenpah, as well as the years spent at Wenden, Bishop Albert created Thaddeus quartermaster general for the campaign against Lembit. He sent him a special commission that the engineer had mounted on the wall of his cluttered office. The bishop also sent him a rather elegant red sleeveless tunic that bore the insignia of Riga on the chest. Thaddeus did not see the humour in Henke’s remark that he should be dressed handsomely to receive the young virgins that were surely on their way from Kalju.

  For weeks the kitchens and forges at Wenden had been hard at work producing supplies for the campaign, the former churning out thousands of hard biscuits that could be eaten, used as patches for shields or, in emergencies, hurled from siege engines against the enemy. Thaddeus’ engineers had overseen the construction of six new mangonels to replace those lost at Odenpah to add to the brace of trebuchets that the army would be taking north. The woodworkers and carpenters of Riga had also been busy and as the spring gave way to summer a steady stream of carts had been ferried to the castle, to be stored inside the outer perimeter wall. On a daily basis riverboats plied the Gauja to ferry supplies to Wenden, and when Count Albert arrived they were used to transport his men, horses and a vast amount of armour, weapons, tents, canvas, tent poles and crossbow bolts. The armouries at Wenden had also been producing the latter to replace the prodigious expenditure at Odenpah, so that when the end of August approached the order’s crossbowmen had enough bolts to fight the Estonians.

  The riverboats brought barrels full of wine, mead and beer, Caupo also bringing with him ample supplies of kvass for his own warriors. The rivers and lakes were fished and the catch salted; Wenden’s kitchens also producing cured meat for the order’s soldiers. They would fare better than the crusader foot soldiers whose main diet would consist of pottage made from beans, peas and oatmeal. The knights, of course, would supplement their rations with whatever they managed to hunt, though when they reached Saccalia their hunting activities would be curtailed by the threat of ambush in the heavily wooded terrain.