by Peter Darman
Rudolf galloped back, a broad grin on his face.
‘This will not take long and then we march to the relief of Lehola.’
He rode through the Sword Brothers to request Rameke to bring his warriors forward. The Liv shook the hand of Conrad as he walked forward, his men forming into line in front of the horsemen. Then they waited until Leatherface’s men deployed behind their first rank. To match the extent of the enemy shield wall Rameke’s men were forced to form into two ranks, the crossbowmen between them. If the two sides came to blows the Estonians would cut Rameke’s men to pieces, but that was not the plan as the Livs advanced. Three hundred paces in front of them the Estonian shield wall suddenly erupted in noise.
The Estonians had seen the Livs form up and knew that their numbers were few. They might have spotted the crossbowmen but their numbers were also on the small side and so their confidence grew. They banged their spear shafts against the rims of their shields and roared their war cries, hurling insults at the Livs, their ancient enemies. They would have seen the men of iron on their warhorses, of course, but the Livs stood between them and the Sword Brothers. The cacophony filled the air and rose to a crescendo as Rameke’s signallers blew their horns and the Livs walked forward.
Rudolf signalled to the trumpeters to blow their instruments to indicate that the horsemen should follow their allies, Conrad pulling his lance from the earth and holding it upright. He spurred his horse forward; keeping a tight grip on the reins with his left hand so ensure it did not break formation. The Estonians were still shouting and hurling abuse when he heard a succession of thwacks followed by high-pitched screams as the first volley of crossbow bolts struck flesh and bone. Leatherface’s men knew that the Estonian shields presented a large target but they ignored them and aimed for the faces above them. Some quarrels missed and shot over the heads of the densely packed warriors, but the majority of the iron-tipped missiles embedded themselves in eye sockets, necks and cheekbones.
Conrad had a magnificent view of the unfolding scene of horror as the Estonian front rank was shredded and then vanished altogether as a second volley of bolts was unleashed. The crossbowmen were shooting methodically, averaging four bolts a minute and whittling down the enemy shield wall like a carpenter planes a piece of wood. Rudolf signalled to the trumpeters who blew their instruments and the brother knights and sergeants moved forward.
Leatherface barked a command and the crossbowmen ceased shooting and formed up in files as Rameke’s men bunched together in front of them to create corridors through which the horsemen could pass. Rudolf shoved up his helmet and shouted the orders’ war cry.
‘God with us!’
Every brother knight and sergeant repeated the cry as the iron-shod hooves of the horses tore up great clumps of soil as they broke into a canter. The line slowed and then temporarily splintered as the horses headed through the gaps created by the Livs and crossbowmen, then reformed when they had ridden past the foot soldiers. Ahead the shattered enemy shield wall was in disarray as chiefs desperately tried to rally their men. But the earth shook as dozens of armoured horsemen thundered towards them.
Conrad released the reins and grasped the strap on the inner side of his shield, bringing it across his torso. His body was braced against the saddle bow as he gripped his lance firmly and kept it clamped under his right arm. The horses broke into a gallop and the distance between the riders and Estonians disappeared in the blink of an eye as the Sword Brothers charged into the enemy shield wall. Except that the shield wall had disintegrated.
It takes men of discipline and with nerves of steel to stand firm against a wall of armoured horsemen charging at them, and the Estonians had neither. The chiefs failed to rally their men who began running back to the river, traversing the sandy riverbank before splashing into the water. Seconds later the horsemen entered the river, splashing through the water to spear the fleeing enemy. Conrad’s long years of training took over as he focused on his victim. Just as he had been taught he did not look at the lance tip, instead focusing on the target. The warriors had heard the thundering sound of the horses’ hooves and then the splashing behind them and now many turned to face their pursuers. Conrad saw the man turn, move his shield across his body and level his spear. But he had no chance to use his weapon as the point of the lance pierced the wood of his shield, went through his mail shirt and ribcage and burst out of his back.
Conrad could hear Lukas’ voice as the man grunted and collapsed in the water.
‘One you’ve speared an opponent let go of the lance like it is a venomous snake, draw your secondary weapon and begin raining blows with it. Strike and press on, don’t turn round as this wastes time and is tiring. On, on, always on.’
His horse slowed now it was in the water. He reached down and extracted his axe from the specially designed leather holder attached to his saddle. He pushed his right hand through the leather strap attached to its base and gripped the shaft, swinging its edge against enemy helmets left and right. All the horsemen were now in the water, using their maces and axes to cut down the enemy to fill the river with corpses and turn the Sedde red. His stallion was a rock beneath him, keeping its footing, totally unconcerned about the yelps and screams coming from men having their heads split open and arms shattered.
Conrad’s warhorse suddenly shifted left as a warrior swung an axe against his right leg but missed to gash the material of the caparison. He brought his own axe up and swung it sideways to smash the weapon’s blade into the man’s face, crushing his nose and cheekbones. The warrior screamed, dropped his weapon and staggered a few feet before collapsing on the sandy riverbank. Conrad saw Hans and Anton coming from the water and smiled. It had been another easy victory for the Sword Brothers. But his smile disappeared when a great noise erupted from the trees in front and hundreds of warriors charged out of the forest.
Rudolf immediately gave the order to withdraw. The sergeants who were Wenden’s signallers always stayed close to the master and his deputy, blew their instruments to command the horsemen to retire. Conrad and his friends wheeled their horses about and dug their spurs into their flanks. The beasts grunted in complaint but waded through the water again and exited the Sedde on its southern side as the Estonian mob entered the water. The riders galloped back to where Rameke stood with his men.
*****
‘You see how they run, prince,’ said Kristjan to Vetseke. ‘The Sword Brothers are not gods, they are men like us.’
Vetseke was pleased to see the Sword Brothers withdraw and heard the cheers of the horsemen arrayed behind him. But he was sceptical that Kristjan’s plan would work and worried that even if it did, the unity of his army would be irrevocably fractured. Recruits from Wierland, Harrien and Jerwen had flocked to his banner and he had distributed the weapons and armour he had brought from Dorpat. But Kristjan saw the warriors from the other kingdoms as inferior to his own Ungannians. To him they were men who were expendable in battle. And it was so now as the Wierlanders charged from the forest into the Sedde to pursue the retreating Sword Brothers. Kristjan had used the Harrien as bait for his trap and they had suffered heavily, first being shot at by crossbowmen before being ridden down by horsemen. Vetseke doubted if more than a third were left alive. Still, if the Wierlanders defeated the Sword Brothers then Kristjan’s fame would spread throughout the whole of Estonia.
One of his deputies rode forward as the last Wierlanders left the river.
‘Beg pardon, lord, but do you wish to commit your Ungannians?’
Kristjan spun in the saddle. ‘Certainly not. I will need fresh men to hunt down the remnants of the enemy army.’
Kristjan smiled at Vetseke. ‘And Prince Vetseke’s horsemen will ride to the gates of Wenden to demand its surrender.’
Vetseke smiled politely in reply as Kristjan waved his subordinate away. And on the other side of the river the Wierlander assault crashed into a wall of flesh and iron.
*****
‘Dismount, dismount.
’
A helmetless Master Rudolf slid off his horse, mace in hand, and stood beside Walter holding Wenden’s banner. Brother knights and sergeants dismounted to rally to their masters. In front of them the crossbowmen began shooting at the charging warriors. These, initially gripped by the euphoria of victory, literally ran into a swarm of crossbow bolts that felled at least fifty. Because they were widely spaced the Wierlanders’ charge was not interrupted as men dodged falling figures in front of them to get to grips with the Livs. But fifteen seconds after the first volley of bolts another one hundred and twenty missiles flew into their ranks, to be followed fifteen seconds later by a third volley.
Conrad stood with Hans and Anton behind the crossbowmen as they went about their work with quiet efficiency, loading, shooting and reloading their weapons as the Estonians ran towards them. By the time the first enemy warriors reached the Liv line at least two hundred of their comrades had been felled by missiles.
There was a succession of cracks as axes and swords struck shields to signal the beginning of the mêlée. The crossbowmen, their task done, immediately fell back and the Sword Brothers raced to support Rameke’s men. A few were hit by thrown spears but the majority rushed forward before the Estonians hit them to give themselves some momentum rather than waiting to be struck by charging warriors.
Conrad kept his shield tight to his body as he swung his axe forward over the right shoulder of the Liv in front of him to strike the helmet of the man he was fighting. He missed but the blade sliced down onto his shoulder, severing the chain mail and biting into the material beneath. He withdrew the axe and swung it again at the same spot, this time drawing blood. But then a spear glanced off the side of his helm, sparking ringing in his ears. He was disorientated as the Liv in front hacked down the warrior he had been attacking and stepped forward. He tried to follow but tripped over the body and his legs buckled beneath him. Hans hauled him to his feet.
‘Are you hurt?’ his friend shouted.
Conrad shook his head as the ringing subsided. The vision slits of the helm gave him limited visibility and he did not see the spear that was suddenly thrust at him and lodged itself in his shield. He saw the metal point protruding through its inner side, just above his left forearm and immediately hacked down his axe on the shaft, splintering it. He threw his shield away, drew his sword and transferred the axe to his left hand. The warrior who had just lost his spear, who was wearing some sort of pointed helmet like the Russians favoured, pulled his hand axe from his belt but dropped it when Anton caved in his helmet with his mace.
And then the enemy was gone.
Conrad looked around and saw panting and exhausted Livs reforming into a ragged line. He saw Rameke, battered and bleeding but still alive, walking up and down the line, shouting encouragement to his men. Hans and Anton, their surcoats spotted with blood, were by his side as the crossbowmen came forward again to shoot at what was left of the enemy. There was a tidemark of dead and dying where the two sides had collided and a meadow littered with enemy dead that stretched back to the river where the crossbowmen had reaped their grim harvest. He heard Master Rudolf’s commanding voice.
‘Sword Brothers will advance to the river.’
The white-clothed brother knights and sergeants walked through the Livs with the crossbowmen immediately behind them. The garrisons of Wenden, Segewold and Kremon rallied to their banners and advanced in three groups towards the Sedde, each group covered by Leatherface’s men.
Conrad’s mouth was dry, he was sweating profusely but he was mercifully unharmed. He had no idea how many casualties the order had suffered but he had seen only one or two white shapes on the ground. The crossbowmen searched for targets but there were none, only dead bodies pierced by their quarrels. When they reached the riverbank he saw fleeting figures among the trees and then nothing. The horsemen grouped around the eagle banner had also gone. Kristjan had fled.
*****
The young Ungannian had refused all pleadings by Vetseke to commit his own men to the attack, despite promising that he would also lead his horsemen in support. Instead Kristjan stated that his army needed more training before it could conquer Livonia and ordered a withdrawal. The fact that he had lost many men did not concern him. In anything it confirmed the opinion he held towards the other Estonian tribes.
‘Do you know why, alone of all the Estonian kingdoms, only Ungannia has been able to remain free and unconquered?’ he asked Vetseke as they rode north.
‘No, Kristjan.’
‘Because the average Ungannian is superior to a Wierlander, Harrien, Jerwen, Saccalian or Rotalian. It is not coincidence that Taara has given me the task of fighting the foes of Estonia because the leaders of the other tribes have proved themselves unequal to the task.’
Vetseke said nothing as he debated with himself whether he should abandon Kristjan and lead his men back to Novgorod. But then he remembered that he had left some in Fellin to stiffen the garrison.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked tersely.
‘To Lehola, of course,’ replied Kristjan. ‘It has defied me for too long. I will give the Wierlanders, Harrien and Jerwen a chance to redeem themselves.’
But the attack on Lehola failed and Kristjan lost another one hundred dead before returning to Dorpat to celebrate the mid-summer festival of Ligo.
Chapter 8
Novgorod’s merchants grew rich from the trade in grey squirrel pelts, which were transported to either Riga or Reval and then across the sea to Lübeck. It was true that others made a decent profit by trading the pelts of sable, black foxes, polar foxes, marten and white wolves with Constantinople, where the slave markets also did a brisk trade in young Estonian and Liv women and boys with fair skins and blue eyes. But it was the lush, grey-white northern squirrel fur that was in the highest demand and which made those Novgorodians who traded in it very wealthy. And while trade was good the merchants and boyars of the city were content enough. But the Danish blockade on Livonia had severed one of the arteries of commerce and King Valdemar’s reverse on Oesel and subsequent imprisonment in Germany had effectively closed all commerce through Reval. The port was now besieged by a motley collection of Estonians and Oeselians, which had resulted in the merchants and boyars becoming fractious.
The interruption in trade not only affected Novgorod’s nobles and merchants; it also impinged on royal finances. The city treasury found that tax revenues dropped dramatically, which meant Mstislav had difficulty maintaining his household. And to add to his problems Archbishop Mitrofan began bending his ear about the dismal state of church finances. Novgorod had grown wealthy on commerce but now business was in a dire state and the matter had to be addressed.
The prince hated the veche, the city council that appointed and dismissed administrators, was empowered to declare war and peace, levy taxes, adopt laws and approve treaties. It was also empowered to hire and dismiss princes and had once approached Mstislav to be the city’s ruler, though he knew it was because he was married to a Cuman princess and could thus prevent her people raiding Novgorod’s territory. From the beginning, therefore, it was an uneasy relationship between a veche dominated by clans of boyars and wealthy merchants and the prince. Mstislav thought the veche irksome at best and a nest of traitors at worst. He also believed that a prince asserted his power through war whereas the veche believed that conflict interfered with trade and was to be resorted to only as a last resort.
But Mstislav was no fool and recognised that the veche, the members of which believed themselves to be the guardians of law and justice, could be manipulated by employing the right language and arguments. He also knew that it was better to meet with members of the veche’s Council of Lords, a sort of inner circle, rather than the whole assembly. The veche met in the ancient city hall near the bridge that spanned the Volkhov River. In earlier times the council could be convened by anyone who rang the great veche bell that hung above the hall, whereupon different factions would come to blows on the bridge spa
nning the river to resolve differences. Today, though, only the six members of the Council of Lords were requested at the kremlin.
Mstislav met them not in the imposing throne room but a more intimate setting: a small office beside the main hall. The middle-aged, bearded individuals were shown into the room where soft chairs had been placed in a circle. Mstislav stood as they entered and welcomed each in turn, only taking his seat when they had all sat. Servants brought trays of silver cups filled with stavlenniy myod, the strong, honey based alcoholic beverage favoured by the Russians.
Mstislav was dressed in a woollen outer garment called a svita made of expensive Byzantine material that extended down to his knees. As was the custom neither he nor his guests wore any weapons inside the palace.
‘Thank you for coming,’ said Mstislav.
The head of the Council of Lords, Yuri Nevsky, tilted his head politely.
‘We are honoured to be here, highness.’
‘Tell me, Yuri,’ said the prince, ‘how is your grandson, Alexander I believe his name is?’
Yuri nearly choked on his drink. His son had been banished to Pskov before his grandson had been born. The exile still rankled with the Nevsky clan, one of Novgorod’s most ancient and powerful boyar families.
‘He is well, highness, I believe,’ replied Yuri, ‘not that I have had much opportunity to see him of late.’
Mstislav nodded thoughtfully. ‘I would like to see young Alexander. Ask your son to bring his family back to the city. He and they have been away too long.’
Yuri smiled. ‘Thank you, highness, you are most generous.’
Mstislav sipped his drink. ‘Excellent, family is important. That’s settled, then.’
He smiled at the other members of the council who smiled back. To an observer it could have been a gathering of old friends, though Mstislav had up until now treated the members of the veche as dangerous dogs. It was most strange. Eventually, Mikhail Vsevolodovich, a close friend of Yuri Nevsky and the veche’s appointed tysiatskii, the ‘thousandman’ or military commander, broke the silence.