by Peter Darman
Conrad saw the agonised expression of the girl he had disembowelled the day before in his mind.
‘I am just a baker’s son, lord bishop, not born into nobility.’
‘Ah, Conrad, have you not yet learned the riddle of nobility? The accepted wisdom is that it is inherited, passed down from one generation to the next.’
‘God has decreed it so, lord bishop.’
Bernhard laughed. ‘Man has decreed it so, Conrad, so the nobles and their sons may enjoy unrivalled power. But they forget that nobility is not something that can readily be passed from a father to a son. It has to be earned, renewed so it burns like a beacon in the dark. You are possessed of nobility, Conrad, of that I am convinced.’
‘You flatter me, lord bishop.’
‘You think that saving Bishop Albert’s life, killing Lembit and becoming Marshal of Estonia were pure chance?’
‘I do not know, lord bishop.’
‘They are the will of God,’ Bernhard said sternly, ‘of that I am convinced.’
‘I have a favour to ask, lord bishop.’
Bernhard shook his head as one of the crusaders bent over and threw up on the ground.
‘A soldier of God in all his glory. What favour?’
‘A couple of carts and some ponies so the women and children may have a less arduous journey back to their homes.’
Bernhard seemed unconcerned. ‘If you wish. But why do you take an interest in them? They have their lives, after all.’
‘It is not right that they should bear witness to the execution of the prisoners, lord bishop.’
In truth Conrad hated all forms of public execution as it transported him back to the death of his own father that he had witnessed all those years ago. Bernhard gave his assent and the women, their clothes torn and their faces and bodies covered in bruises, and children were loaded on to the carts and escorted from camp. Conrad, Hans and Anton provided the escort, the latter two not knowing why they had been dragged away from witnessing the execution.
‘Squire Paul used to be an executioner before he was a squire,’ Hans told them, ‘so it should be carried out without any problems.’
‘I would have thought, Hans,’ said Conrad, ‘that having nearly been hanged yourself you would be averse to seeing others suffering the same fate.’
‘Hans is not a deep thinker like you, Conrad,’ joked Anton, ‘as long as he has food to fill his belly anything else is irrelevant.’
‘You were brought up in a rich household,’ said Hans. ‘If you had been a beggar you would not treat food so lightly.’
While the three friends laughed and talked the women and children on the carts said nothing, merely staring ahead with blank expressions and eyes devoid of emotion. The women had been raped the night before and the children were gripped by terror, but at least they were alive. When they reached the western shore of Lake Vortsjarv Conrad told them to follow the shoreline south and then east. He had managed to scrounge a couple of tents from the quartermasters and food for their journey. He watched them head south along the water’s edge.
‘The first village they reach will doubtless take them in for the night,’ opined Anton.
‘Or rob and kill them,’ said Hans. ‘Let’s hope they don’t run into Kristjan and his men.’
‘Kristjan is helping the Russians besiege Reval,’ Conrad corrected him, ‘so that is one less thing for them to worry about.’
*****
But Kristjan was not besieging Reval. He had grown bored of watching men being shot down by Danish crossbowmen or injured by the devious devices the defenders had planted in front of the walls. After two weeks of failed assaults, during which four siege towers had been set alight and damaged by stones and barrels of burning pitch before they even got close to the ramparts, thrown by machines just inside the walls, the besieging army had adopted a strategy of starving the defenders out. No one thought to inform Prince Mstislav and Grand Prince George that the Danes had access to the sea via Reval Bay, which meant fishing vessels could fill their nets to feed the garrison. Kristjan found it all very tedious, the more so when the two Russian commanders began bickering and fights broke out between the soldiers of Novgorod and Suzdal. So he left Vetseke and the bulk of his army camped opposite Reval’s western wall and decided to plunder the kingdom of Harrien. This did nothing to endear him to the warriors of that kingdom who were in his army. Then again, what were petty rivalries to one who had been selected by the gods to carry out their divine mission?
Kristjan sat on his horse in the middle of the miserable settlement as his men searched the huts, barns and animal pens. It was the third village they had raided in two days and each one had been empty.
‘Well?’ he snapped to his subordinate.
‘Empty, lord, just like the rest.’
‘Bring that miserable Harrien scout to me,’ Kristjan ordered. His men returned from their fruitless search and regained the saddles of their ponies. Kristjan and his bodyguard now rode fine Russian horses, a gift from Prince Mstislav before his temper had turned sour with every day that Reval defied him.
The scout, a former member of Alva’s professional war band, his shield carrying the lynx symbol of his former lord, bowed his head to Kristjan.
‘Where are your people?’
‘Fled, lord, most likely. Either to the caves on the coast or into the forest; or perhaps they are long dead. Some may have been taken by the Oeselians to Varbola.’
‘The great Harrien fortress?’ said Kristjan. The man nodded. ‘I would like to see it.’
‘I would advise caution, lord,’ said the commander of his bodyguard.
Kristjan waved a hand at him. ‘I think two hundred Ungannians and fifty Harrien are more than enough to deal with a few sea raiders.’
The Harrien warrior raised an eyebrow but held his tongue. The Ungannian leader spoke as a man who had never fought an Oeselian shield wall. Kristjan leaned forward and looked at him.
‘You know the way?’
‘Yes, lord.’
‘Then let us be away.’
*****
The kingdom of Harrien may have become the plaything of foreign people but it was still a beautiful land, filled with tall pines, sandstone outcrops, high hills, lakes, rivers and bogs. The springs were as clear as crystal and the forests were teeming with wildlife. The summer heat had dried up many of the smaller rivers and streams but the land was still green and fertile. Olaf had landed in Matsalu Bay and now rode northeast towards Varbola, the mighty hill fort that had been seized by Sigurd and was now staffed by three hundred Oeselian warriors commanded by his other two sons, Kalf and Stark. Despite there being a sizeable number of warriors in Rotalia, members of the so-called Army of the Wolf led by the Sword Brother who had fought a personal duel with Sigurd a few years ago, they had made no aggressive moves against Oesel. Olaf was tempted to land a fleet of longships on Rotalia’s shores to avenge the Sword Brother invasion of his island, but for the moment he was more interested in evacuating Varbola.
‘It serves no purpose,’ he told Swein riding beside him, ‘besides allowing my two sons to play at being kings.’
Even sitting on the fine horse Swein looked too large for his mount, his great paws clutching the black leather reins as a man who is uncomfortable in the saddle does.
‘And you will abandon Leal too, lord?’
Olaf nodded. Leal had been a pagan fort that had briefly been held by the Swedes. But Olaf and Sigurd had combined to destroy the Swedish garrison and since that time it had been held by the Oeselians. It was where he and his friend and the fifty warriors behind him had collected their horses for the ride to Varbola. From the ramparts of Leal, which had been rebuilt after the Oeselians had torched the original stronghold, Olaf’s warriors could see the nearest hill fort of the Army of the Wolf. But the two sides had been content to observe each other, each side expecting the other to attack but no hostilities actually breaking out. Thus far.
‘Garrisons left on the m
ainland will be targets for the Sword Brothers, Danes or Russians,’ replied Olaf. ‘I prefer those powers to fight each other rather than Oeselians.’
‘They might combine to fight us, lord,’ remarked Swein glumly.
‘The Danes and Sword Brothers worship the same god,’ said Olaf, ‘but have little affection for each other. Both regard the Russians as the followers of a false religion, so the chances of them combining to attack us is remote.’
‘What of this Sword Brother, this marshal who fought Sigurd according to the rules of Holmganga?’ queried Swein.
‘He has been made Lord of all Estonia,’ replied Olaf, ‘so will have his hands full convincing the Danes and Russians that this land is his.’
Swein looked around at the grassland covered with widely spaced pines they were riding through, an endless expanse of greenery and serenity.
‘It’s gone quiet all of a sudden.’
Olaf held up a hand to halt the column. ‘You’re right.’
They both saw a group of horsemen ahead, perhaps a score or more around three hundred paces away. Then there were more and among them a great banner.
‘Dismount,’ shouted Swein as more and more riders suddenly filled the trees ahead.
Olaf slid off his horse and gripped his shield as his men did the same and clustered around him. Swein walked forward to take a closer look at the mysterious riders who had stopped and were also dismounting. He strode back to his lord.
‘I could make out shields painted with eagles and lynx.’
‘Harrien and Ungannians,’ remarked Olaf.
‘We give battle, then?’ asked Swein, already knowing the answer.
There was a glint on Olaf’s eye. ‘Just like the old days, my friend.’
They could have stayed on their horses and made a dash for Varbola, which was less than five miles away. But this was Olaf, the leader of the feared Oeselians, a man who would never allow his body to be discovered with wounds in its back. He led fifty warriors, each one as unconcerned as he by being outnumbered three of four to one by the enemy that was now forming into a shield wall in front of them.
They didn’t bother to form into a shield wall; their numbers were far too few. So they stood alongside their lord and king, each man carrying a shield and wearing mail armour and iron helmet. They carried no spears, preferring either a one-handed or two-handed axe. Every man was also equipped with a sword and knife.
‘Leave some for me,’ Swein shouted, the men laughing and cheering his bravado.
None feared mortality for from infancy every Oeselian had been taught that death was predestined by the gods. If the immortals had decreed that they should die here, in Harrien, then there was nothing to be done about it. They accepted their fate with open arms, determined to take as many of the enemy with them as they could. And that enemy was shuffling forward on foot, shields held in front and overlapping, the front rank holding levelled spears and those behind ready with axes. The best-armed and armoured men were in the front ranks, those without helmets and mail shirts bringing up the rear. They overlapped the Oeselians on each flank and as the shield wall advanced its two wings, facing no enemy, began to outpace the middle so the whole formation resembled a crab’s claw, ready to crush the Oeselians in its embrace.
Olaf led his men forward. Some, like Swein, had their lime wood shields faced with hide with iron rims, on their backs as they gripped their two-handed axes with their vicious curved blades. The Oeselians’ mood was relaxed, almost nonchalant, which compared starkly to the palpable aroma of nervousness coming from their opponents.
Swein lifted the six-foot-long haft of his axe, bellowed a war cry and sprinted forward, a mountain of muscle and iron propelled by two long legs. Olaf roared with laughter and followed his friend into the iron-tipped teeth of the shield wall. Fifty screaming warriors followed their lords into the embrace of certain death.
Swein took a mighty swing with his axe and literally swept the Harrien in front of him away like an old maid clears leaves with a brush. Seconds later a spear was thrust through his mail corselet into his side but he merely swung his axe at its owner and split the warrior’s helmet, killing him instantly. Olaf followed his friend into the maelstrom, swinging his axe forward and holding his shield at an angle in front of him to deflect attacks before they reached his body.
The wings of Kristjan’s shield wall turned inwards to envelop the Oeselians, cutting down at least a dozen as the sea raiders were attacked on all sides. Olaf killed two men in quick succession, both wearing only leather caps on their head, before his axe got stuck fast in an enemy shield. The owner reacted quickly and twisted the shield to wrench it loose from Olaf’s hand. So the king let it go, drew his sword and thrust it below his opponent’s shield into the man’s groin. He screamed in pain as his genitals were skewered and he toppled backwards. Olaf walked forward to finish him off but stopped when a spear was thrust into his back. He grunted in pain and arched his back, spinning round and instinctively slashing with his sword to cut his assailant’s neck.
‘Defend the king,’ screamed Swein, grabbing his friend and lord as the bodyguard fought ferociously to reach their liege lord.
Olaf shook himself free. ‘I’ve suffered worse on a boar hunt.’
Swein swung his axe up and then down to halve the helmet of an Ungannian, the blade splitting the man’s skull as it descended down to his neck. There was a fountain of blood but the axe blade was buried so deeply Swein could not budge it. He let go of the shaft and drew his sword, pulling his shield off his back at the moment an enemy warrior gashed his shoulder with an axe. He grimaced in pain, hacked down on the man’s wrist with his sword and severed the hand still holding the axe.
Half of Olaf’s men were dead now, the rest standing with their king as Kristjan screamed at his men to finish the bleeding and battered Oeselians. Olaf gripped his sword with both hands, his leggings stained red with blood. A Harrien stepped over the bodies of two of his comrades to get to grips with the white-bearded warrior in front of him. He too was injured, his leggings torn where an axe blade had cut his left thigh. He was panting heavily as he swung his own axe at the Oeselian, keeping his shield held in front of him. Olaf dodged back, raised his sword high to deliver an overhead strike but in a blur whipped his blade back to swing it from left to right to slice open the Harrien’s right thigh. The man yelped and went down on one knee as his right leg gave way beneath him. Olaf was on him instantly, hacking at his neck with his sword until he was dead.
Swein was killed under a plethora of axe and sword strikes as he protected his king’s back, taking two of his assailants with him before he groaned, keeled over and collapsed on top of a dead Ungannian. The last men standing of the king’s bodyguards – ten injured and fatigued warriors – closed around their lord as Kristjan’s men, themselves on the edge of exhaustion, summoned up their last reserves and attacked.
Both sides swung their weapons with difficulty, their movements laboured as if their arms and legs were made of lead. When one fell he did not get up, his wounds, fatigue and weight of armour making it impossible for him to rise. All he could do was wait for an enemy blade or spear to finish him off.
Olaf was the last Oeselian to fall, standing in the middle of a ring of his fallen men, mail corselet ripped in at least a dozen places, his shoulder covered in blood and his left arm hanging by his side, broken and useless. He raised his sword above his head, summoned up his last reserves of strength to roar a war cry and stepped over his fallen warriors to get to grips with the deranged young man with fair hair who had been screaming at his men to kill the king. He got five paces before a dozen of Kristjan’s bodyguard cut him down with their swords.
The mortal son of Taara stared wide-eyed in disbelief at the spectacle of horror around him when the bloodletting had ceased. He had thrown his men, of which two hundred were his own Ungannians, against fifty enemy warriors. It was impossible to count the number of dead and wounded among his men because those still alive
had collapsed, exhausted, when the fighting had ceased. So he stood among the dead, sword in hand and mouth open, shocked that he could lose so many men against so few enemy warriors. Ever since the trial at Paluküla he had felt invincible, possessed of an unshakeable conviction that he was doing Taara’s work. But now he felt alone and afraid and though he managed to regain some of his composure as the light faded and his men recovered from their ordeal, when dusk came he was filled with trepidation once more.
A roll call had revealed that one hundred and forty of his men had been killed and a further forty wounded. All but five Harrien were dead. The enemy were revealed to be Oeselians, believed to have been part of the garrison of nearby Varbola. Kristjan ordered an immediate retreat back to Reval the next morning, angering his men when he told them that there would be no time to cremate their dead comrades. He wanted to be far away from Varbola before the garrison sent out another patrol. They began to wonder if he truly was beloved of Taara.
A patrol from Varbola found the grisly battle site and immediately sent word to the stronghold that Olaf and Swein were among the dead. Kalf and Stark had the bodies of the king, his friend and the royal bodyguard taken back to Varbola where they were washed and dressed in fresh clothes. The next day they were transported to Matsalu Bay guarded by the entire garrison, which abandoned the fort according to the king’s wishes. A longship was sent ahead to Kuressaare to report Olaf’s death.
When the fleet carrying the bodies rowed into Kuressaare Bay the shore was lined with Oeselians, word having been sent to every part of the island that Olaf was dead. Women wept but the men were proud that their king had fallen in battle and would be assured a place in the great feasting hall in the afterlife. They stood gripping their spears and shields in silent salute as the longship carrying Olaf’s body ran gently ashore on the sandy beach and Kalf and Stark jumped down to embrace their mother who waited for her husband. Dalla shed no tears though her handsome face showed great pain. Her fair hair was now streaked with grey but she still resembled the fierce and proud woman that Olaf had married nearly forty years before. She kissed her sons perfunctorily on the cheek and then they clasped the forearm of Sigurd, now ruler of Oesel.