Castellan

by Peter Darman

  He turned away from the army that was gathering around his capital and descended the log steps that led down to the fort’s compound.

  ‘Where are you going, lord?’ enquired Indrek.

  ‘The army that gathers across the river is the Army of the Wolf,’ replied Kristjan, ‘which is commanded by the man who betrayed my parents. After I have killed him I will return to direct the battle.’

  He jumped into the saddle of his horse held by a guard and galloped through the open gates of the fort. Warriors came from the huts beneath the walls to scramble up the steps as their lord attended to a personal matter. And beyond the ramparts hundreds of men fell to their knees to receive the blessing of white-robed Cistercian priests.

  Indrek looked at Vetseke but said nothing. What was there to say? They both knew that Dorpat was doomed, and so were they. But Indrek stayed because he had a duty to his mad chief and Vetseke because he was tired. Tired of running and tired of fighting an unending supply of crusaders and Sword Brothers. Once he had ruled the Kingdom of Kokenhusen but now his home was a Sword Brother garrison and his kingdom polluted with the Christian faith. He had given his trusty Livs, men who had been with him for years, the opportunity to save themselves but not one had left his side. They were too brave, too loyal and also too tired. And so they stayed, prayed to the old gods that they would have worthy deaths and waited for the crusader attack.

  ‘These Christians like to dress gaudily,’ said Vetseke as he rested his hands on the splintered timbers and stared at the bishop’s army. Around him warriors stood in preparation to repulse the attack against the fort.

  Vetseke turned to stare to the south where the dull browns, green and greys of Fricis’ Livs were mustering in their ranks. He then looked to the north where the distinctive white surcoats and shields of the Sword Brothers were massed, and beside them more crusaders from Germany. An absolute silence had descended on the area as the Christian priests went among their flock to fortify their courage and ensure them that should they fall then a place in heaven awaited. The trebuchets and mangonel crews stood redundant, their machines having done their work.

  Had Vetseke had knowledge of such things he would have been able to identify the various contingents within the bishop’s army by the standards that fluttered in the breeze that had begun to blow. The largest formation was from Rostock, the knights wearing surcoats emblazoned with a yellow phoenix on a blue background, the coat of arms of the city. There were also the soldiers gifted by the Bishop of Bremen, their banners showing a silver key at a forty-five degree angle on a red background. Standards from Hamburg showed a white castle on a red background and those of Prüm displaying a white horse on a red background standing on a field of green, beneath which was a red cross against a white and blue background. There were militiamen from Lübeck, their shields painted red and white – the colours of the city. The crossbowmen of Flanders wore gambesons dyed yellow, their banners showing a black lion rampant on a yellow background. And around the Bishop of Riga and his brother Hermann were his bodyguard commanded by Manfred Nordheim, every man wearing a red surcoat sporting two crossed gold keys, the red caparisons of their horses also sporting the same insignia.

  Vetseke offered his hand to Indrek. He and his Russians and Livs had elected to battle Fricis’ warriors who were massed beyond the southern ramparts. They clasped forearms.

  ‘May the gods be with you,’ said the prince.

  ‘And you,’ replied Indrek whose former hostility towards the Liv had given way to a grudging respect.

  Vetseke gave him a slight nod before walking to the steps and descending to the compound to collect his horse. There was a sudden cacophony of trumpet blasts beyond the walls followed by a great cheer and then the assault began.

  *****

  Conrad knelt and held his sword before him as Bishop Bernhard asked God to give the army victory over the heathens this day. The Sword Brother smiled, his army still contained many men who had not converted to the Catholic faith, preferring to worship the old gods rather than the new religion. Others, their friends and comrades, had converted and also knelt as monks who had followed the ‘bishop’s bastards’ from Germany went among them to bless their weapons.

  After Bernhard had finished Conrad and his friends rose as the old man turned and looked across the smooth waters of the Emajogi towards the docks of Dorpat. It was crowded with barges and riverboats: vessels that had been gathered in before the army had arrived. Hillar, Riki, Andres and Tonis came to Conrad and his friends by the riverside, which was crowded with freshly made rafts. The water level was low and the riverbank sandy and dry, the air already warm. Rivulets of sweat ran off Sir Richard’s bald crown as he arrived in his armour, helm tucked under his arm.

  ‘God’s teeth it’s hot,’ he complained.

  The wind carried the sound of a multitude of trumpet blasts and they all craned their heads towards the west.

  Bernhard rubbed his hands with glee. ‘It’s started. God be with you all. I will see you on the other side.’

  Sir Richard looked at Conrad in confusion but the Sword Brother merely shook his head. The bishop walked away to be with his men. The Duke of Saccalia watched him go.

  ‘He is very old to be taking part in an assault, even if we are expecting minimal resistance.’

  ‘Don’t tell him that,’ warned Hans, ‘otherwise he will have you excommunicated, like he did with Conrad.’

  Sir Richard was surprised to say the least. ‘You have been excommunicated?’

  ‘Nearly,’ said Conrad. ‘The bishop seems determined to be in the thick of battle one last time.’

  He turned to his commanders. ‘To your rafts, my friends.’

  They nodded and departed, all around those who would cross the river taking their positions on the rafts. Short spruce oars had been furnished to propel the vessels across the water, distributed among men kneeling by the sides. Another man at the rear pushed off with a long pole.

  As was customary before a battle Conrad and his two friends gathered in a circle and extended their arms to place their palms one on top of the other. It was Anton who spoke.

  ‘We remember our friends, Bruno and Johann, and seek to fight as bravely as they did. Let us be as true and keen as our sword blades that we may scatter our enemies. As dust to the wind.’

  They embraced and walked to the nearest raft, Leatherface shaking his head.

  ‘Hurry up, you will miss all the fun.’

  Each raft was loaded with ten men, six of whom were designated rowers. The plan was for the rafts to cross in two waves because otherwise the frontage would be too wide for all of them to land within the docks area. In the first wave each raft carried a crossbowman to provide missile support once the docks were reached and the men stormed ashore.

  There was a slight breeze and current but neither were strong enough to alter the course of the seventy-five rafts that edged towards Dorpat, the grunts of the rowers as they dipped their oars in the blue water mingling with the muted sounds of battle coming from across the river.

  Leatherface licked his lips. ‘This should be easy enough.’

  Conrad peered ahead and thought he saw movement. Not people but one of the boats moored to one of the jetties. Then he saw individuals on the jetties, dozens of them. And then he heard the shout.

  ‘Enemy boats, enemy boats.’

  Conrad did not know who called the warning but soon men were pointing towards the docks where three, four, a dozen and more riverboats were suddenly being rowed towards the rafts. Wide in the middle and with their single sails furled, they formed into a line and headed straight for the centre of the first-wave rafts. The latter were around mid-point in the river and had stopped dead, the second wave drifting into them as they did so.

  ‘Keep rowing, keep rowing,’ screamed Conrad left and right, gesticulating with his arms that the rafts should move.

  Oars dipped in the water as arrows were shot from the riverboats, their pointed prows cutting
through the water as men pulled on their oars. The dozen boats were closing fast on the rafts and arrows began arching into the sky as archers on board shot at the rafts. Leatherface placed his foot in the metal stirrup on the fore-end of his weapon and pushed it down to draw the bowstring, hooked on a metal claw attached to the front of his belt, along the crossbow’s stock until it slipped over the catch of the lock. He pulled a bolt from his quiver as an arrow hit the arm of a rower beside him. The man cried out in pain and dropped his oar in the water, collapsing on the logs.

  ‘Don’t miss,’ Conrad called to Leatherface, putting on his helmet and pulling the shield off his back. Hans and Anton did the same as those warriors on the raft that weren’t rowing, all of them wolf shields, held up their shields as a defence against the arrows.

  The mercenary placed the stock of his weapon to his shoulder as one riverboat closed in on the raft, standing at the prow a young, powerfully built warrior with shoulder-length fair hair and wearing a mail corselet. Through the vision slits of his helmet Conrad could see that he also wore a silver torc around his neck. He held a sword in his hand and on his left side a large round shield bearing a golden eagle insignia. He recognised the warrior – Kristjan. The rowers suddenly plunged their oars in the water and held them in place to slow the riverboat, which came to a juddering halt and then bumped into the raft. As it did so Kristjan leapt on the logs and came at Conrad as Leatherface released his trigger and killed a warrior immediately behind him.

  Chaos enveloped the line of rafts as the Ungannians smashed into them and boarded the log vessels. Designed to carry ten men they were suddenly platforms for desperate mêlées. The result was a series of splashes as men were wounded and fell overboard or lost their footing and slipped off the rafts.

  Kristjan attacked Conrad with a series of side strikes with his sword, the other warriors that had been on the riverboat crowding behind him. He blocked the blows with his shield, the blade cutting the leather covering and chipping the wood underneath. Conrad brought his sword up to shoulder height and thrust it at Kristjan’s face; a tempting target as he wore no helmet. But the young Ungannian had very quick reflexes and ducked the point, ramming up his shield to force Conrad’s sword up while he jabbed his own blade forward to skewer the Sword Brother. But Conrad could also move fast and he feinted right, Kristjan’s sword slicing through his surcoat.

  In the tight confines of the fighting area it was impossible to keep out of the way of weapons being wielded and an axe struck the side of Conrad’s helmet, temporarily disorientating him. Kristjan laughed in triumph and whipped his blade forward to deliver a diagonal cut that sliced through the chainmail on Conrad’s upper arm. He felt a sharp spasm of pain shoot through his arm and shoulder but instinctively leapt forward to smash his shield into Kristjan’s chest. Another spasm of pain went through his left side but Kristjan staggered back, tripping over a dead man on the raft. Conrad aimed a vertical cut to his adversary’s head, the blade missing the top of his skull but the point slicing deep into Kristjan’s cheek as it came down.

  The Ungannian cried out in pain and frustration as Conrad again smashed his shield into him, forcing him back towards the riverboat. His ears still ringing, Conrad again raised his sword to thrust it into Kristjan’s face, which was now bleeding heavily. The Sword Brother sensed victory but the pair were suddenly forced apart when two grappling warriors barged into them, knocking Conrad backwards. He saw Kristjan scramble into the boat and then disappear as he collapsed on its deck. The two tussling warriors fell into the water, leaving the path clear for Conrad to board the boat. But he heard a muffled voice shouting ‘Hans, Hans’ and turned to see Anton face down on the raft trying to haul Hans out of the water.

  He rammed his sword back in its scabbard and knelt down to grab Hans’ other arm. In full mail armour and helmet his friend was in danger of drowning despite the efforts of Anton. Conrad’s left side was on fire as he pulled with all his strength. Slowly, with supreme effort, he and Anton managed to haul Hans from the water and on to the raft. Conrad pulled off his helmet, gasping for air and rolled on to his back, exhausted. To see a leering, bearded monster with a two-handed axe standing over him. He was helpless, transfixed, as the wild-eyed warrior lifted his weapon above his head to cleave Conrad in two.

  The brute grunted ‘huh’ as a crossbow bolt slammed into his right armpit, wavered on his feet, the axe still hoisted above his head, but did not fall. Conrad desperately tried to scramble to his feet but he lost his footing on the wet logs and fell to his knees. He heard a low groan and saw another crossbow bolt hit the warrior, this time in his chest. This time he dropped the axe, fell to his knees and then had his face reduced to a red pulp as Anton bludgeoned him with his mace. He kicked the now dead warrior away and grabbed Conrad’s arm to haul him to his feet.

  There were three wolf shields left alive on the raft, plus Leatherface and the three Sword Brothers. The rest either lay dead on the logs, were floating in the river or had disappeared under the water. The Ungannians who had boarded the raft had suffered the same fate, though the boat they had rowed from Dorpat was nowhere to be seen. And neither was Kristjan.

  Conrad raised a hand to the mercenary. ‘My thanks.’

  Hans staggered to his feet and grinned at his friends. ‘I thought I was fish meal.’

  There was still some fighting going on where riverboats had collided with rafts but the majority of the latter were still rowing towards Dorpat. Indeed, it appeared that some had already reached the docks. Conrad picked up an oar.

  ‘Come on, let’s try to reach the other side.’

  The others likewise grabbed oars and began paddling, though their progress was slow.

  ‘That was Kristjan, wasn’t it?’ said Hans.

  Conrad nodded.

  ‘Well, at least he’s dead and one less thing to worry about,’ shouted Anton.

  Conrad looked around at the bodies floating in the water and the riverboats, now empty or filled with dead men, drifting away on the current. He certainly hoped he was.

  When they reached the docks they found Sir Richard and Bishop Hermann organising their men. The tar-making shops, workshops, barge and rope-making yards and blacksmiths’ forges were all deserted. Hillar, Tonis, Riki and Andres had mustered the Army of the Wolf around two large warehouses that were both empty. Conrad’s left arm was throbbing with pain as he sought out the bishop and Sir Richard. Tonis gave him a shield with a wolf’s face as he had lost his own and also a new helmet with a nasal guard as his helm had been badly dented. Bernhard and Sir Richard were both unhurt.

  ‘That was a surprise,’ remarked the bishop regarding the assault of the riverboats, ‘but futile and now there appears to be no enemy to stop us marching into the town.’

  ‘We will leave some men here to guard our line of retreat should we need one,’ said Conrad. He looked at Bernhard and was going to suggest that the bishop should remain with those men, but changed his mind as a frosty gaze dared him to speak so.

  ‘Very well,’ said Sir Richard, ‘let us be away.’

  Two hundred men were left to guard the docks, drawn from the four Estonian contingents in Conrad’s army. The rest formed up in four compact formations led by Riki, Tonis, Hillar and Andres respectively, shuffling forward between seemingly empty huts and buildings, the ‘bishop’s bastards’ on their left and Sir Richard’s men on their right. Ahead the sound of battle became louder as they inched forward into the town of Dorpat.

  *****

  Indrek was dead. From the ramparts of Toome Hill he had seen the crusaders attacking the northern and southern walls, their soldiers scrambling up the high earth bank clutching scaling ladders that they placed against the timber walls. Rocks and javelins were hurled down on the climbers, and at the foot of the wall on the town side the two hundred Ungannian archers loosed volley after volley at the attackers. But the Sword Brother crossbowmen and those from Flanders picked off the warriors on the walls to allow the crusaders to get a foothol
d on the ramparts. Such were their numbers that soon the Sword Brothers and crusaders were in possession of the entire northern wall.

  No attackers scaled Toome Hill and Indrek realised with horror that the crusaders had no intention of attacking the hill fort. So he gathered together the majority of the garrison and led them down the hill to strike the crusaders and Sword Brothers flooding over the northern wall. His attack was unexpected and well delivered and after only a few minutes his warriors had cut the Hamburg and Bremen militias to pieces. And for a moment it appeared that the enemy might be defeated, that Dorpat might be saved and the Bishop of Riga’s army defeated. But more and more crusaders came over the walls – soldiers from Prüm and Lübeck – to reinforce the hard-pressed knights and squires of Duke Fredhelm and the brother knights and sergeants of the Sword Brothers. And from the walls the order’s crossbowmen joined with their mercenary counterparts from Flanders to shoot a deadly rain of iron-tipped death upon the Estonians. The fighting around the walls was furious but gradually the crossbowmen whittled down the Ungannians with deadly efficiency, and in this combat Indrek was shot through the left eye and killed instantly. News of his death spread and Estonian morale began to crumble.

  At the southern wall Vetseke’s Russian archers reaped a rich harvest of Liv dead shooting from the walls. Fricis’ men had few archers and no crossbowmen but they did have a siege tower covered in thick hides that they pushed towards the walls. A thousand Liv warriors assaulted the southern wall and two hundred of them were killed or wounded by arrows before they reached the defences. But once they did they flooded over the wall. The siege tower was pushed forward until it was flush to the wall, the earth rampart having been dug away by miners during the preceding days. The siege tower’s drawbridge was lowered and Rameke led the assault against the defences. After a brief but fierce mêlée on the walls Ungannian resistance crumbled and Rameke led the advance into the town.