by Peter Darman
‘Perhaps they got lost in the snow,’ opined Conrad.
Sir Richard raised his land to him, replaced his helm and rode to rejoin his men who were taking up position behind the pines, to the rear of the shield wall. The plan was for them to be a mounted reserve that would deliver the coup de grâce to win the battle.
The enemy foot were still massing on the far side of the lake, drums banging and banners held aloft. They were around five hundred paces away, thus making it impossible to identify the standards. As the minutes passed the extent of their line increased as more and more foot soldiers came from the trees to form up on the lake. The Army of the Wolf stood silently in its ranks, waiting for the enemy to attack.
All eyes were gazing towards the northeast where the enemy foot soldiers were massing, shouting and banging their spears on their shields to add to the din of banging drums and horn blasts. And create a perfect distraction for the enemy horsemen that suddenly charged out of the trees to the Army of the Wolf’s front, no more than four hundred paces away.
They charged not in an ordered formation, knee-to-knee, but as a disorganised mass, dozens of them. They were led by Danish knights covered in mail armour from head to foot, wearing full-face helms, yellow surcoats and carrying long, almond-shaped shields painted yellow and sporting a red cross. Black and yellow caparisons, the bottoms of which flapped around wildly as they bore down on the packed ranks of Conrad’s men, covered their mounts.
‘Aim at the horses,’ shouted Leatherface to his crossbowmen as the charging horsemen suddenly parted to divide left and right to sweep around the flanks of the Army of the Wolf.
There was a succession of cracks as crossbowmen released their triggers to send bolts shooting through the air. To miss their targets.
‘Stop shooting!’ screamed Leatherface as the horsemen thundered past.
Behind the knights were German mercenary horsemen, men wearing knee-length mail hauberks split at the waist, and round helmets with nasal guards. Caparisons did not protect the horses and their riders carried javelins instead of lances, which they now hurled at the warriors as they passed. Iron points pierced wooden shields to fracture arms and cut flesh. The crossbowmen among ‘the bishop’s bastards’ and Jerwen managed to shoot a number of horses as they passed, the beasts screaming in pain and crashing on the ice. But then the horsemen were behind the island, attacking Sir Richard’s men in a furious mêlée. Conrad’s reserve had disappeared.
‘Arrows,’ someone shouted.
Conrad looked through his helmet’s vision slits to see thin black shafts in the sky and instinctively crouched down to make himself a small target and brought up his shield. There were a series of thuds as the arrows hit shields, snow and flesh, followed seconds later by groans and screams as men were hit. They ignored the wounded and stayed under their shields as another volley of iron-tipped missiles landed among them, then a third and a fourth. Each volley inflicted casualties – wounded with a few dead – and then the arrows ceased and the air was filled with hundreds of war cries as the enemy foot attacked.
Under cover of the arrow volleys they had marched closer to the Army of the Wolf, the members of which barely had time to get to their feet before being hit by the full fury of the enemy charge. Conrad had no time to rise as a warrior holding a large-bladed war axe came at him, shield strapped to his back, his weapon gripped with both hands above his head, ready to split open Conrad’s helm. He heard a loud crack, saw the bolt go through the man’s leather cuirass and braced himself as the fatally wounded man clattered into him. He thrust his sword beneath the man’s armour and pushed upwards to ensure he would die and shoved the corpse back into the warrior behind him. Leatherface behind Conrad shot this man in the eye and reloaded his weapon, staying close to the Sword Brother as axe blows and spear thrusts rained down on the Army of the Wolf as it was assailed on three sides.
Hillar was swinging his axe expertly, splintering shields and splitting spear shafts, while Hans and Anton were wielding their maces against the sea of enemy soldiers to the front. They were a mixture of Wierlanders armed with axes and spears and German mercenaries equipped in knee-length mail hauberks and almond-shaped shields and armed with seven-foot-long spears, swords and daggers.
A crossbowman behind Conrad and Hillar emitted a high-pitched scream as a spearmen thrust his weapon between them and pushed the point into his left thigh. In a deft movement Hillar hacked down with his axe to splinter the shaft and then flicked his wrist to whip the blade up to shatter the spearman’s jawbone.
The Army of the Wolf was slowly forced back as the press of enemy soldiers surged forward and chopped and hacked at the Estonian shield wall. Every man in Conrad’s army knew that to become separated from the men next to him meant certain death, and so they tried to retain their formation. But as one man fell under a deluge of axe blows or was pierced by spear points, those next to him pulled him from the fray and took a step back to stop the enemy surging through the gap. Slowly but surely the Estonians were being pushed back towards the line of trees behind them.
Hans lunged forward and crouched to swing his mace to smash the kneecap of the soldier he was fighting before springing back to bludgeon the helmet of the spearman that was about to skewer Conrad. The latter killed a Wierlander who had wounded Hillar, plunging his sword into the man’s thigh and then lifting his shield to parry an axe that came at him out of nowhere. He hauled Hillar back and another Rotalian took his place, but they were both forced back by a sudden surge of the enemy, men screaming with fury as they threw themselves forward, raining down blows on the shields of Conrad’s men, searching for an opening.
The press was now so tight that the front ranks were shoved against each other, making it difficult to move. A stinking bearded man mountain directly in front of Conrad, their faces only inches apart, head-butted the Sword Brother’s helm. But his efforts only resulted in his own helmet’s nasal guard being pushed inwards. He roared in frustration, his foul breath seeping into Conrad’s helmet. Conrad was hit twice in quick succession by enemy blades that did not pierce his helmet. Then there was a hiss and a slight blow on the helm’s right side and he saw a great hole in his adversary’s throat. It must have been a crossbow bolt shot between him and Hans. It was either a superb shot or a bolt that had been loosed wildly. Whatever it was it killed the man in front of him and also wounded the one behind, having gone straight through the brute’s throat. Conrad gave a mighty heave and pushed the corpse back. It collapsed backwards, forcing the man behind to give way. Conrad rammed his sword forward into the mail hauberk of the wounded spearman, the bolt lodged in his right shoulder. He in turn staggered back, allowing Conrad to step on the corpse at his feet and strike with his sword over the shoulders of the wounded spearmen into the face of another German mercenary behind. Hans and Anton were with him, their maces grey blurs as they aimed them at enemy faces in front of them. Another crossbow bolt flashed through the air to strike an enemy soldier. Then another and another and gradually the impetus of the enemy assault slackened and then dissolved.
The fury of the close-quarter combat in the shield wall had lasted for perhaps ten minutes but it had seemed like ten hours. The Army of the Wolf, battered, bloody and having suffered casualties among each of its contingents, stood in ragged ranks behind a tideline of dead and dying.
‘Shoot at them, shoot at them.’
Conrad heard the voice of Leatherface as the mercenary urged those of his crossbowmen who still lived to keep shooting at the enemy. Seconds later there was a thwack as he released his trigger, then more as his men took aim and shot at the retreating enemy. But they stopped and reformed their ranks less than fifty paces away.
Conrad saw a crossbow lying at his feet, its dead owner beside it. He placed his blood-covered sword back in its scabbard and picked up the weapon. Like Hans and Anton he always wore a double-pronged claw on the front of his belt for just such an occasion. He loaded the weapon using a bolt taken from the dead man’s quiver
and shot it at the enemy. As he reloaded and shot the crossbow again the warrior behind held his shield above his head, for everyone knew that the enemy’s archers would soon be shooting their missiles from their rear ranks in preparation for another attack.
Leatherface and his surviving men were working like fury to expend their remaining ammunition. They and everyone else knew that they would probably not endure another charge because the enemy now formed a thick semi-circle around their position.
Conrad shot the last bolt from the dead man’s quiver and tossed the crossbow aside. He shoved up his helmet. Hans and Anton did the same. They looked at each other and knew that they were about to die on this frozen lake in northern Estonia. As Conrad held out his right arm the shooting gradually faded and then stopped as all the crossbowmen ran out of ammunition. Hans smiled and placed his hand on top of his friend’s, Anton’s on top of his.
‘As dust to the wind.’
They repeated the words and then embraced. There was no need for further words. They were friends and brothers, united by an eternal bond that could not be broken. The only thing that remained was to die well.
Opposite enemy commanders finished reorganising their men and stood in the front ranks, among the Wierlanders resembling the Army of the Wolf in appearance, save for their leather armour instead of mail. Conrad wondered why the Estonians were fighting for the enemy but had no time to ponder the riddle. The German mercenaries turned their long shields towards Conrad’s men and lowered their spears, ready to charge forward. And men on both sides waited, waited for the archers to fill the sky with arrows that would fall on the Army of the Wolf like raindrops in a thunderstorm. Conrad put on his helmet and picked up a round Rotalian shield, his own having been hacked and splintered to render it useless. And waited.
There was a loud blast of trumpets that shook the air and the Army of the Wolf locked shields, huddled together preparing for the deluge. But then the ground began to shake as the trumpets sounded again but no storm of arrows came. Instead a great groan came from the enemy’s ranks, which quickly became a crescendo of shouts as their ranks fragmented and then fell apart. Conrad brought down his shield and looked to the right, from where the rumble was coming from. He saw banners and iron-tipped lances and gave a shout. And soon the Army of the Wolf was shouting and cheering and holding weapons and shields aloft as dozens of horsemen in lamellar armour charged across the lake and plunged into the now fleeing enemy.
Conrad fell to his knees and clasped his hands together in prayer as the horsemen rode among the fleeing foot soldiers, spearing them with their lances and then going to bloody work with their swords and axes. For surely his deliverance was an act of God. The Christians among the Army of the Wolf did the same, thanking God for sending these armoured avengers who were slaughtering the enemy with gusto.
‘You lucky bastard.’
Conrad got off his knees, removed his helmet and turned to see a smirking Leatherface, crossbow in hand, not a scratch on him.
‘The power of prayer,’ replied Conrad, ‘you should try it some time.’
The mercenary was unconvinced. ‘Mmm. If it was the power of prayer then the good Lord wouldn’t have sent Russian horsemen to save you, seeing as the Sword Brothers and them don’t see eye to eye on religious matters.’
Hans grabbed Conrad’s arm and embraced him. ‘It is a miracle, Conrad, a miracle.’
Anton joined the celebrations as hardened warriors wept with joy and embraced each other, watching as a detachment of horse archers followed their heavily armed comrades to add to the slaughter. The horsemen continued the butchery to the far side of the lake and beyond, hunting down the tired, frightened garrison of Narva through the pine trees. When they left, the surface of the lake was covered with dead bodies, ravenous crows and birds of prey descending in droves to pick at the still warm flesh.
‘So much for the field of glory,’ remarked Leatherface sarcastically.
Horns suddenly sounded from within the Army of the Wolf, prompting exhausted, bruised and bleeding men to pick up their shields and face front as a party of horsemen, two score or more, approached them. They presented a magnificent spectacle: every rider wearing lamellar armour over a kol’chuga and on his head a shishak with a brass nasal guard and a red plume. Mail aventails covered necks, shoulders and faces. Their almond-shaped shields protecting their left sides from chin to knees were red and edged with blue. Each man carried a lance with a red pennant and was also armed with a sword, dagger and a topor.
The Army of the Wolf stood in silence once more as a rider at the head of the detachment removed his helmet and pulled down his aventail so he could speak.
‘I seek Master Conrad of the Sword Brothers if he still lives.’
The man spoke impeccable German, albeit with a thick accent.
Conrad stepped forward. ‘I am Master Conrad.’
The horseman spurred his horse to where Conrad stood on the ice, the Sword Brother ordering his men to stand down. An audible collective sigh of relief rippled through the ranks behind him.
The Russian looked at Conrad’s’ damaged chainmail, his ripped, blood-covered surcoat and tired eyes.
‘I am Yaroslav Nevsky, official envoy of his highness, Prince Mikhail, ruler of Novgorod. I am here to collect an item of some value to the prince and the people of Novgorod, which I believe is in your possession.’
‘Your appearance is most timely, lord,’ replied Conrad, ‘though I would have wished you had arrived a few hours earlier.’
‘My scouts kept me fully abreast of the events at this place, as well as the movements of the garrison of Narva.’
‘I fear Narva is still held by the Danes, lord,’ said Conrad.
Yaroslav gave him a knowing smile. ‘My soldiers have possession of Narva, Master Conrad. As surety for the return of that which is in your possession, you understand.’
‘Of course,’ Conrad smiled back.
The rumble of horses’ hooves on the ice prompted Yaroslav’s men to close around their lord but Conrad held up his hands when he spotted blue caparisons.
‘It is merely our horsemen,’ he said. ‘Have no fear.’
Sir Richard pulled up his horse in front of Conrad and stared at the Russians. The Army of the Wolf banged the ends of their spears on the ice to welcome the Duke of Saccalia.
‘I am heartily glad to see you, your grace,’ said Conrad.
‘We fought a running battle with the Danish horsemen,’ replied Sir Richard, ‘but we could not get the better of them.’
He nodded at the Russians. ‘Not until they arrived.’
‘And Kivel?’ asked Conrad.
‘Got away with most of his knights,’ lamented Sir Richard.
‘I am forgetting my manners. Lord Nevsky,’ said Conrad, ‘this is Sir Richard Bruffingham, Duke of Saccalia.’
Yaroslav tilted his head politely at Sir Richard and looked at Conrad.
‘It is time to exchange goods, Master Conrad. Novgorod’s property for Narva.’
As the sun began to drop quickly on the horizon Conrad gave the order to march back to camp. There was an awkward moment when the Russians galloped ahead, leaving Conrad standing on the ice. But Sir Richard ordered three of his knights to surrender their horses to allow the Sword Brothers to ride the half-mile back to camp. Once in camp Yaroslav dismounted when Conrad disappeared and reappeared a few minutes later with the banner than had been wrapped in hides. He bowed his head as he handed it to the Russian noble, who ordered two of his men to dismount and take hold of each end of the cloth.
Hans, Anton and Sir Richard watched as Yaroslav examined the banner. He smiled in satisfaction and then closed his eyes as he ran his hands over the red flag embroidered with two black bears each side of a throne. He ordered the flag to be wrapped in a cloak.
‘You have fulfilled your part of the agreement, Master Conrad,’ said Yaroslav formally. ‘I will ride back to Narva. Tomorrow I will transfer it to your stewardship in completion of the ag
reement between the Kingdom of Novgorod and the Sword Brothers.’
‘It will be my honour, lord,’ replied Conrad.
Yaroslav barked an order, mounted his horse, raised his hand to Conrad and Sir Richard and departed for Narva as the foot soldiers of the Army of the Wolf began to arrive back in camp.
It had been a most extraordinary day.
The battle on the ice had been a close-run thing. One in five of the Army of the Wolf was either wounded or dead. But the arrival of the Russians had broken the Danish army and the corpses of its members were still littering the surface of the frozen lake when Conrad, his two friends, Sir Richard and his knights rode the two miles to Narva to meet with Yaroslav Nevsky the next day. The new Master of Odenpah was tired, with black rings round his eyes, mostly because of the exertions of the previous day but also because he had been kept awake into the early hours explaining to those who now rode with him how he had managed to enlist the support of the Russians.
It had been relatively straightforward but did involve persuading Master Rudolf into giving up the banner of Novgorod. It had been captured at Dorpat when the oafish Henke had provoked an incident in which Villem, Kalju’s son, had been killed. After Bishop Albert had captured Dorpat Conrad had written to Master Rudolf and despatched letters to Novgorod, using the Russian traders who used the River Emajogi to transport their goods as mediators. It had taken many weeks but eventually Prince Mikhail agreed to support the capture of Narva in return for the banner and an assurance from the Marshal of Estonia that he would not wage war against Novgorod. But it was the banner, the holy icon that had been lost at Dorpat that had enticed the Novgorodians to send their soldiers west once again. Its return to the city of Saint Sophia would mend relations with the Sword Brothers and give a huge boost to Prince Mikhail’s authority.
‘So you see, Hans,’ Conrad chided his friend as they rode through the crisp snow on the way to Narva, ‘being able to read and write has its uses.’
‘Not for me,’ replied his friend, ‘I am a lowly brother knight not a general.’