Castellan

by Peter Darman

  Sir Richard was about to reply when Father Otto’s thunderous voice rang out.

  ‘Kneel, soldiers of the Sword Brothers, so Bishop Bernhard may bless this holy enterprise.’

  As one the brother knights, sergeants and followers of Sir Richard knelt and bowed their heads. Bishop Bernhard, ex-soldier and now a prince of the Holy Church and eighty-three years old, raised his arms. His voice was firm and deep.

  ‘Lord, give us the strength on this auspicious day, the Assumption of the Virgin Mary, to smite the heathens and avenge those Thy servants who were basely murdered by those inside the fort. Make our armour invincible and our weapons instruments of Your wrath. Grant us Victory, Lord, so we can honour the Blessed Virgin Mary on this holy day. Amen.’

  The kneeling soldiers said ‘amen’ and then rose to their feet. Volquin drew his sword and raised it aloft.

  ‘God with us!’

  The Sword Brothers shouted the war cry of the order and then the grand master signalled the trumpeters to sound their instruments. The oxen hitched to the ropes that would move the tower forward bellowed in annoyance as the high-pitched sound reverberated through the camp. Then the drummers began banging their instruments as the crusaders lifted their scaling ladders and walked forward. In response to the commotion the walls were now rapidly filling with warriors.

  Conrad held out his right arm, palm down, and nodded to Hans and Anton. His friends placed their hands on top of his.

  ‘Give us strength, Lord, to scatter our enemies like dust to the wind.’

  Anton and Hans answered ‘as dust to the wind’ and the three friends grinned at each other and gripped their weapons.

  ‘Make way, make way.’

  They turned to see Leatherface and five of his men walking towards them, each man carrying three quivers of crossbow bolts.

  ‘I was getting concerned,’ said Thaddeus.

  Sir Richard looked at Conrad, both of them confused.

  Leatherface grinned. ‘Now because Master Thaddeus is like a father to you all he has kindly built a platform above the fighting level.’

  He pointed up at the top of the tower. ‘Up there, right on top, see.’

  ‘Its correct name is a crenelated roof,’ said Thaddeus.

  ‘That’s right,’ smiled Leatherface, pushing his way past Conrad and Sir Richard, ‘so we can shoot at the heathens. So when the drawbridge drops you can just walk into the fort and capture it without using your weapons.’

  ‘If that happens then I will make you a lord of Saccalia,’ said Sir Richard.

  Leatherface winked and grinned. ‘I will hold you to that, my lord.’

  Ropes were attached to the front of the tower that ran forward to pulleys fastened to thick stumps sunk in the earth dug away so the tower could get close to the walls. The ropes went through the pulleys and away from the walls, being hitched to the four oxen that would be used to move the tower. Once the oxen began pulling they would be moving away from the walls and out of range of any arrows. These began to be shot from the fort as the foot soldiers with scaling ladders moved into position. Crossbowmen using the cover of mantlets also began shooting and soon the air was filled with deadly missiles criss-crossing each other.

  The brother knights and sergeants huddled behind the siege tower as archers began targeting the huge structure. Conrad, helm on his head and shield slung on his back, began climbing the ladders inside that led up to the fighting platform. There were two sets of ladders between each level to facilitate the rapid movement of men within the tower. As he climbed Conrad heard the dull taps on the hides nailed to the outside of the tower – enemy arrows. He reached the cramped fighting platform that had a drawbridge in the front that would be lowered when the tower reached the walls. There were two vision slits cut in the drawbridge to allow those behind to pick the right moment to drop it by the simple expedient of cutting the two ropes that held it in place. Leatherface grumbled and cursed as he led the way up the single ladder that gave access to the crenelated roof section.

  Sir Richard pulled off his helmet as the tower shuddered slightly and began to inch forward.

  ‘Just make sure you shoot accurately,’ he called to the crossbowmen above.

  ‘Don’t you alarm yourself,’ Leatherface called back, ‘we are the finest shots in all Livonia.’

  Conrad took off his helmet as Rudolf and Walter came on to the platform behind Hans and Anton. The rest of the men from Wenden and Sir Richard’s soldiers waited on the ladders and the levels below. Those men who could not fit inside the tower walked directly behind it, being careful to stay out of the vision of enemy archers. The taps on the tower became more frequent as it moved forward, like the patter of raindrops. Deadly raindrops.

  Conrad peered through a slit. Around a hundred and fifty paces to go to reach the fort. He saw a line of helmets on the wall and more in the towers that flanked it. The sun reflected off spear and sword points and axe blades.

  ‘Remember,’ said Rudolf, ‘Grand Master Volquin wants an example made of the garrison. Take no prisoners.’

  The four massive solid wheels, fashioned from the trunk of an oak tree, trundled forward as the oxen pulled on the ropes. Conrad put on his helmet and removed the shield slung on his back, thrusting his left forearm through the inner straps. Sir Richard, armed with a mace, turned and ordered Squire Paul behind him to use his axe to cut the rope when he gave the command. He then nodded at Conrad to do the same when the time came.

  Conrad controlled his breathing as the tower neared the wall. He was already sweating, his body encased in an aketon, gambeson and mail armour, the temperature rising in the crowded space at the top of the tower. The structure suddenly lurched to the right as one of the wheels sank into a slight depression in the ground, but such was the technical genius of Master Thaddeus that the tower, now filled with the cream of the Sword Brother’s soldiers, did not topple but continued its agonisingly slow advance to the wall.

  Conrad peered again through the slit in the ramp cum drawbridge and saw the wall was only a few feet away. Sir Richard saw it too.

  ‘Ready,’ the duke shouted, an order that was relayed down the steps and lower levels.

  Conrad’s heart was pounding in his chest as the tower suddenly stopped and Paul swung his axe to sever one of the ropes. Conrad did the same and the ramp slammed down on top of the timber ramparts. There was a sudden brightness as light flooded into the chamber. A bearded warrior armed with an axe clambered on to the ramp directly in front of Conrad. He toppled backwards when a crossbow bolt slammed into his chest, shot from the roof, as Conrad raced forward. He swung his axe at a warrior’s head but cut only air as another crossbow bolt pierced the man in the eye, sending him toppling over the walkway behind the wall.

  Conrad jumped off the ramp, Hans and Anton following, and attacked a terrified youth armed with a spear who stood in his way. The boy tried to turn and flee but others behind him blocked his way and so it was easy for Conrad to crush the back of his neck with his axe. The body collapsed on the walkway, Conrad stepping over it to tackle a spearman holding a shield in front of him. Like most pagan shields it was round and had a central metal boss that protected the hand grip. The warrior jabbed both shield and spear forward, Conrad using his axe to sweep the latter away as he raced forward. Hans behind pushed into his friend’s back and then swung the mace over Conrad’s right shoulder and into the face of the spearman. The warrior screamed then fell silent as Conrad reduced his face to mush with two strikes of his axe.

  On he went, Hans and Anton behind swinging their maces at any targets that became available. An arrow glanced off Conrad’s helmet, another embedded itself in his shield and all around the shrieks, cries and shouts of men fighting and dying filled the air. Suddenly he was pressed up against a bearded brute who stank of sweat, both of them being shoved forward by their comrades behind. He could not swing his axe or move his shield and neither could his opponent. He saw the ugly features of the Ungannian through the vision sli
ts of his helmet and smelt his foul breath as the warrior grimaced in frustration. He was so close to a Sword Brother but could do nothing; neither could Conrad. The walkway was no wider than a yard, making it impossible for anyone to get by them. But out of the corner of his eye Conrad saw a warrior clamber on to the timber wall, axe raised high above his head, ready to bring it down on the top of his helmet. Anton must have seen him too because the warrior had his legs swept from under him by a swing of his friend’s mace. But instead of falling backwards, over the wall, the man pitched forward and fell on Conrad and his stinking opponent, knocking them off the walkway.

  He fell on to the roof of a hut, the straw breaking his fall but not halting it as he tumbled through the thatch and into the interior. He fell on his back and had the wind knocked out of him but managed to clamber to his feet, a woman and children screaming in alarm around him. The warrior he had been pressed against on the rampart had also fallen into the hut and now he attacked Conrad, swinging his axe. Conrad instinctively ducked, the blade missing his neck and slicing deep into the cheekbone of the woman behind. She screamed and collapsed as Conrad turned his own axe in his hand and brought the spiked end down on the foot on the warrior. The warrior released his axe. The man groaned in pain as Conrad pulled his sword and rammed it hard through the man’s mail shirt and into his guts. He yanked the blade back and then thrust it forward again, this time into the man’s neck.

  He sheathed his sword, retrieved his axe and rushed outside into the fort’s interior. He looked up to see Sword Brothers battling on the walls and Sir Richard leading his men down wooden steps into the compound. He also saw crusaders coming over the walls after ascending their scaling ladders. Around him Ungannians were running to the foot of the steps to the ramparts to battle the Christian tide that was engulfing the fort. Others were forming up in front of the hall, including what looked like Russians with their almond-shaped shields, to form a reserve, ready to launch a counterattack. He saw an archer aiming at the Sword Brothers on the ramparts, ready to shoot. He ran forward and threw his axe at the man, who saw his approach and moved aside to miss the flying weapon. But then Conrad was on him, hacking at his bow with his sword and then slashing at the man’s face when the weapon had been split in two. He sensed movement behind him, turned and slashed sideways with his sword, to disembowel a young girl no older than ten who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  He cursed himself but had no time to think of his actions when the pagan reserve in front of the hall charged forward as Sir Richard and Sword Brothers ran from the steps to battle them. Another arrow struck his shield, which he now tossed aside as he picked up his axe with his left hand and stood ready to fight a Russian armed with a sword. The man paced towards Conrad but then collapsed on the ground, a crossbow bolt in his shoulder. More and more Russians were hit by the order’s crossbowmen who had followed the crusaders up their scaling ladders and were now taking shots from the ramparts. The enemy reserve fell back towards the hall.

  ‘Rally, Sword Brothers.’

  He looked behind to see Rudolf, bare headed, holding his sword aloft with Walter standing next to him. He also saw Hans and Anton and ran over to them as a small phalanx of brother knights and sergeants took shape in the compound. Around it there was no discipline or order as men grappled and fought personal battles, crusaders and Ungannians locked in combat, oblivious to what was happening around them. Pigs and goats, freed from their pens, were running around in terror. Some lay dead alongside human corpses and some of the huts were now on fire. But still men kept coming over the ramparts to join the fight. Then the enemy reserve charged again.

  ‘God with us!’ screamed Rudolf who raced forward.

  He was followed by the order’s brother knights and sergeants in a wild charge, smashing into the Ungannians and Russians to stop them dead in their tracks. A great, swirling mêlée ensued, the compound echoing to the sound of hundreds of weapons clashing. The soldiers of the garrison, trained to fight in compact shield walls, were soon being isolated and cut down by the Sword Brothers’ superior fighting skills. Conrad used his axe to force a Russian spear down towards the ground, thrusting his sword forward so the point pierced the right shoulder of his enemy. The Russian yelped and dropped his weapon, whereupon Conrad ducked left and slashed the man’s right calf with a sideways swing of his sword. Hans finished him off with two blows from his mace.

  Sir Richard had kept his men under tight control, leading them to the doors of the hall behind the enemy reserve that was now being whittled down by the Sword Brothers. He ordered a score of his men to secure the hall then led the rest against the rear of the enemy. Within minutes, surrounded and suffering serious casualties, the remnants of the Ungannians threw down their weapons and gave themselves up. The dozen or so Russians did the same.

  One or two individual fights carried on for a while but soon ended with the cessation of hostilities in the central area of the compound. Conrad and his friends removed their helmets and stood gulping in air, their heads covered in sweat. The burning huts were the first to be dealt with, after which the women and children, those still alive, were ordered from their hiding places into the compound. The male prisoners – just over a hundred – were locked in the stables until their fate was decided, the ponies that had been held in them being taken from the fort to be watered in the lake as they appeared to be on their last legs. The women and children were confined to huts and placed under guard.

  It had been a relatively swift victory but not a cheap one. Over two hundred crusaders had been killed in the assault and a further hundred wounded, fifty seriously. Ten brother knights had been killed along with twenty-five sergeants, a further fifteen wounded. That night Sir Richard and Grand Master Volquin held a council of war in Fellin’s great hall. Neither was in a merciful mood.

  ‘The prisoners must die,’ announced Sir Richard, ‘to send a signal to Kristjan.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Volquin, ‘but let one live so he can convey a message to his fellow Ungannians that they make war upon us at their peril.’

  ‘And the women and children?’ enquired Bernhard.

  ‘I have given the women to your crusaders, lord bishop,’ said Sir Richard, ‘they deserve some amusement after today. Afterwards they and the children will be released to go where they will.’

  ‘We should organise a raiding party to lay waste Ungannia,’ said Volquin. ‘We are too weak to lay siege to Dorpat but need to make a gesture.’

  ‘May I make a suggestion, grand master?’ asked Conrad.

  They all looked at him, tired, angry men sitting at a table in a great hall ill-lit by a few candles. Volquin nodded.

  ‘That we do not raid Ungannia.’

  Sir Richard ran a hand over his crown. ‘That is all very noble, Conrad, but you seem to have forgotten the many atrocities committed by the Ungannians in Saccalia. I must have revenge.’

  ‘And you shall have it, your grace,’ replied Conrad, ‘but burning and looting will only alienate the Ungannians.’

  ‘So what?’ said Volquin.

  ‘May I speak freely, grand master?’ asked Conrad.

  ‘You are Marshal of Estonia,’ replied Volquin, ‘so you may speak as you find in Estonia.’

  Conrad nodded in thanks. ‘Matters are coming to a head in these parts. Denmark is weakened and next year Bishop Albert will return with more crusaders. We will march into Ungannia and take Dorpat, and after that I hope Jerwen, Wierland and Harrien. The latter three kingdoms have suffered greatly at the hands of King Valdemar’s soldiers. I am hopeful that they will join our cause if we treat Ungannia differently to how the Danes have treated them.’

  ‘I am apt to agree with the lord marshal,’ said Bernhard. ‘It is mid-August now. I suggest we let the Danes and Ungannians bleed themselves dry before Reval and keep the army in Saccalia to deter any Russian incursions south and also allow the Saccalians to gather in the harvest.’

  He looked at Sir Richard. ‘Unless you have
any objections, your grace.’

  The Duke of Saccalia suddenly looked very tired.

  ‘Very well, Conrad, we will allow the Ungannians the privilege of gathering in their harvest. But next year Kristjan’s kingdom will know my wrath.’

  ‘And that of the Sword Brothers,’ added Rudolf.

  Conrad thought he would suffer a sleepless night after killing the girl during the battle but he slept like the dead. He and his two friends found a hut in the compound and fell into slumber as soon as their heads hit the straw. He awoke feeling dirty and aching, his surcoat splattered with blood and his helmet dented. He and the other two walked to the chapel tent to attend Prime Mass and then headed to the eating tent for breakfast. Bodies still littered the compound and ground outside the castle and no one was showing any inclination to bury them.

  After eating they left their helmets and shields, what remained of them, with the armourers to weave their magic. Bishop Bernhard, possessed of an energy that mocked his great age, went among the captains of the crusaders and ordered them to organise burial details to inter the bodies of the slain. Conrad went to see the prelate as he was haranguing a circle of commanders who resembled a party of thieves with their shifty looks and surly attitudes.

  ‘I’ve heard the pagans burn their dead, bishop,’ said one. ‘Don’t see why we can’t build a big bonfire and throw them on top.’

  ‘Because that is not the Christian practice,’ replied Bernhard. ‘We bury our dead.’

  ‘But they aren’t Christian, bishop,’ said a second captain, a man with a black eye patch.

  ‘Once mass is said over their bodies their souls will belong to God,’ Bernhard informed them. ‘Now see to it.’

  They nodded half-heartedly and grumbled as they ambled away, shuffling their feet as they did so.

  ‘The scrapings of northern Germany,’ muttered Bernhard with contempt. ‘How they contrast with the brother knights of your order, Conrad, especially you, a man who fights with honour and godliness.’