Army of the Wolf

by Peter Darman

  The Semgallian battle line was thin and poorly manned, save for the centre where a hundred of Viesthard’s best men were grouped. They were protected by helmets, mail tunics and large, rectangular shields and were armed with swords and axes. Either side of them stood the farmers, most of whom had no armour save a simple iron helmet. Only the headmen of each village had a mail shirt and perhaps a sword, though the great majority carried only a spear and long knife for weapons. Viesthard would have liked more men to stiffen the ranks but he needed to garrison the hill forts to the south to keep watch on the Samogitians. Likewise Vincentas needed warriors to keep watch on his eastern border in case Vsevolod launched an assault. For these reasons he disliked Nordheim even more for having to rely on his crossbowmen.

  Across the stream stood a hundred men armed with the finest crossbows money could buy, all supplied by the governor of Riga, as were half a dozen men in gambesons standing with them who had spent the last few months training the duke’s men in their use. In the linden trees beyond the left wing of the army were another hundred Semgallian crossbowmen, likewise armed with Christian weapons and commanded by Christian soldiers. The governor of Riga had been very generous in supplying weapons, ammunition and instructors and Viesthard knew that such largesse carried a price.

  The early morning quiet was suddenly disturbed when a low rumble was heard coming from the west. The ears of Manfred’s horse pricked up and he patted its neck to soothe him. He had heard the sound made by an approaching army often enough.

  ‘Looks like the Kurs have decided to join us,’ he remarked.

  The priests gave their final blessings and raised their arms and heads to the heavens to call upon Perkunas to give the army victory before scurrying back behind the shield wall for safety. It was customary for each side to respect the neutrality and sacredness of the Kriviai, even on the battlefield. But the approaching enemy were the Northern Kurs and they respected no one.

  They appeared fifteen minutes later, a seething mass of grey and black at the western end of the plain, skirting a great forest of oak before halting to form into line.

  ‘I hope your men do not run, prince,’ remarked Manfred discourteously.

  Viesthard kept his temper in check. ‘Semgallians do not run, Christian.’

  Manfred smiled politely but he could tell that the mood of the men in the shield wall less than fifty paces from where he sat on his horse had changed perceptibly. They had already been slightly agitated but now a sense of alarm permeated the air. He could smell it and if he could then so could the Kurs who were now moving again.

  They sent riders first: a score or more men on sturdy ponies who galloped forward to reconnoitre the ground and evaluate their opponents. They halted around two hundred paces from the Semgallian front ranks, men in conical helmets, knee-length mail shirts, aventails and large oblong shields sporting a black seagull design – the insignia of Duke Arturus. They rode up and down in front of Vincentas’ men but made no aggressive moves. They rode over to the stream to observe the hundred warriors standing in a line with their instructors, then turned and galloped back to the main body of the Kur army.

  ‘So far so good,’ said Manfred nonchalantly.

  Viesthard drew his sword. ‘With your permission lord.’

  Vincentas, his face a mask of grim determination, nodded. Viesthard dismounted and walked to the centre of the shield wall. He began pacing up and down behind the ranks, shouting at the warriors in front of him.

  ‘Have courage, warriors of Semgallia. Your duke is here and Perkunas watches down on you all. Remember your wives and children. Semgallia!’

  They shouted ‘Semgallia’ and began cheering, the best warriors in the centre more heartily than the farmers either side of them. And then they stopped as the Kurs gave a great shout and began moving forward. They did so in three large formations, each numbering over a hundred men, while behind them the two hundred horsemen walked their mounts forward. Once the foot soldiers had reduced the Semgallian front ranks to a mess of mangled flesh and shattered bones the horsemen would charge to scatter any enemy soldiers still standing. Then the Kurs would march on to Viesthard’s stronghold, Tervete hill fort, and storm it. After that they would burn all the villages in western Semgallia.

  The Kurs made no sound as they marched forward, rank upon rank of men in black tunics over which they wore thick sleeveless, knee-length hide armour. In the front rank were the men whose task was to literally hack their way through an enemy. Their shields were slung on their backs so they could wield the two-handed axes they carried more easily. The blade of this weapon was as much as a foot across, with a five-foot helve. It was held with a left-handed grip to strike a foe’s unshielded right side and was capable of cleaving a man in two. They also carried swords and daggers on their belts but the weapon of choice for these burly brutes was the two-handed axe that now rested on their shoulders as they walked forward.

  Behind them were men armed with smaller one-handed axes who also wore swords and daggers, and in the rear were a thin line of archers. They would release their bowstrings moments before the front rank charged so the enemy would be forced to hide behind their shields just before the big axes went to work. In the centre of their line hanging limply in the damp air was a great banner sporting a black seagull.

  There was absolute silence now as the Semgallian farmers gripped their spear shafts and stared with dry mouths at the black assassins that were approaching. Manfred knew that if the Kurs reached the shield wall they would cut it to pieces with ease, especially the wings where farmers fouled their leggings as the feared and hated warriors of Duke Arturus closed to within three hundred paces. And then the air was filled with dozens of cracks as the crossbowmen began shooting.

  The most proficient crossbowman could shoot up to four bolts a minute but these Semgallians were relatively fresh to the art of handling a crossbow. Their instructors had therefore concentrated on teaching them to shoot accurately and consistently. They thus managed a maximum of only two shots a minute, but it was enough to bring the Kurs to a halt. Two hundred men shooting two bolts a minute each meant that they had loosed four hundred bolts in the first minute and they continued shooting at a steady rate from the linden trees and from across the ditch. Encouraged by the instructors who walked up and down the line behind them, each man methodically aimed and shot his weapon and then hooked the metal claw attached to the front of his leather belt over the centre of the bowstring. He then placed his right foot in the metal stirrup fitted to the fore-end of the stock and straightened his leg to push the crossbow downwards. The bowstring, hooked to the claw, was forcibly drawn along the stock of the crossbow until it slipped over the catch of the lock, ready to shoot another bolt.

  In ninety seconds the crossbowmen had loosed six hundred bolts and had stopped the Kur attack in its tracks. Where there had been silence among the black ranks there were now groans and screams as iron-tipped bolts went through leather and wood to pierce flesh. The crossbowmen continued with their steady volleys, instructors shouting furiously at their men to keep their nerve and resist the temptation to increase their rate of shooting.

  There was a succession of horn blasts among the Kurs and all three groups of foot soldiers suddenly about-turned and briskly withdrew out of the range of the crossbowmen. Wild cheering erupted among Vincentas’ men, especially the farmers, as the Kurs retreated. The Semgallians had expected a grim close-quarters battle against the dreaded Kurs and few believed that they would prevail in such a contest. But now they had seen the hated warriors of Duke Arturus stopped and forced to retreat. Vincentas drew his sword but Manfred reached over and grabbed his arm.

  ‘I would not do that, sir.’

  Vincentas yanked his arm free. ‘Now is the time to finish these Kurs.’

  He looked behind him and raised his sword.

  ‘You will snatch defeat from the jaws of victory if you charge after them,’ shouted Manfred. ‘Look!’

  He was pointing ahead
to where a body of Kur horsemen was cantering towards the linden trees where half the crossbowmen were positioned. Their comrades on the other side of the stream had stopped shooting now that the Kur warriors had retreated, but those in the trees shot a devastating volley that scythed down the front rank of the horsemen when the latter were around two hundred paces from them. Horses collapsed to the ground and others shrieked in pain, rearing up and throwing their riders as bolts hit them. A few riders reached the treeline and hurled their spears into the thick undergrowth where the crossbowmen were lurking. But their instructors had withdrawn them deeper into the wood and so the missiles fell harmlessly among the foliage. Then there was another series of thwacks as a fresh volley of bolts was launched and those horsemen at the edge of the trees were knocked from their saddles. The others were recalled by a series of sharp horn blasts and galloped out of range of the crossbows. The Semgallians gave another cheer as the Kurs withdrew west, covered by a screen of riders.

  ‘Now is the time to seal our victory,’ said Vincentas.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ replied Manfred, ‘you must let them go.’

  ‘For once I agree with the Christian,’ remarked Viesthard, regaining the saddle of his horse brought to him by one of his men. ‘Fifty horsemen cannot defeat three or four times their number of Kurs. We have given them a bloody nose, lord. That is a good start.’

  Vincentas exhaled loudly and slammed his sword back in its scabbard, but his thunderous expression disappeared faster than the Kurs when his men began chanting ‘conqueror, conqueror’. That is what his name meant, though he had had few reasons to remind anyone in the preceding months as his kingdom had been threatened from every direction. But now he had turned back the Northern Kurs, the people who had raided and terrorised other Lithuanians and Livs alike for years. No one had ever forced them to retreat, until now.

  On the way back to Tervete the duke was in an ebullient mood as he informed Nordheim that he would write a letter to Archdeacon Stefan that very day, inviting the governor to Mesoten where he would be feasted and lavished with gifts. And afterwards he and Stefan would swear eternal friendship and an alliance would be forged between Semgallia and Riga that would last for a thousand years. Viesthard listened and his heart sank, for he knew that the Christians were worming their way into the duke’s affections. He feared that their poisonous religion would be allowed to take root in Semgallia just as it had in Livonia and he cursed Manfred Nordheim, his crossbows and his instructors.

  *****

  Gerceslav and his Cumans rode north then swung south to take them along the north bank of the River Gauja, striking for Treiden. The great Liv hill fort and surrounding settlement had been the residence of King Caupo who had been killed at the Battle of St Matthew’s Day. The king had no heirs and so the Liv chiefs had elected one of their number, a man named Fricis and a close friend of Caupo, to lead their people. When his scouts had alerted him that a large number of enemy horsemen were approaching he had sent warnings to the surrounding villages and despatched a rider to Riga, to the office of the grand master of the Sword Brothers, requesting assistance while he mustered his warriors. As at Wenden the Cumans lacked the means to storm the great timber stronghold, so they amused themselves burning the settlement outside its walls and raiding the surrounding countryside.

  A courier pigeon arrived at Wenden from Grand Master Volquin informing Master Rudolf of this development and ordering him to stay where he was until a relief force could be organised. Rudolf tossed the note on to the table in front of him and leaned back in his chair. It was the weekly meeting of the brother knights in his hall and he was far from happy.

  ‘At this rate the Cumans and Russians will be knocking at the gates of Riga within a week.’

  Henke shrugged. ‘The garrison is more than sufficient to protect the city.’

  ‘That is not the point,’ said Rudolf. ‘These heathens from the steppes make a mockery of us all. If we allow them to roam throughout Livonia at will what is to stop the Estonians or Lithuanians doing the same? They need to be punished.’

  ‘You are thinking of a retaliatory raid?’ queried Lukas.

  ‘At the very least,’ replied Rudolf.

  ‘Should we not wait until Bishop Albert returns before deciding strategy?’ suggested Walter.

  ‘If the bishop returns,’ said Henke.

  ‘Why would he not return?’ asked Hans.

  Henke shrugged. ‘If he can’t raise any men willing to take the cross then he will probably stay in Germany for another year.’

  Rudolf chuckled grimly. ‘He will have no problem attracting crusaders once the empire learns that Livonia has been laid waste by barbarians.’

  Hans was confused. ‘What empire, master?’

  Rudolf shook his head. ‘I sometimes forget, Brother Hans, that you were a beggar before you came to us.’

  ‘And a thief,’ added Johann.

  ‘I was not a real thief,’ Hans shot back. ‘I only stole to stop myself starving.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’ asked Henke.

  Hans looked perplexed and Conrad laughed but Rudolf scowled.

  ‘The empire, Brother Hans, is the Holy Roman Empire that stretches from the Baltic to the Mediterranean, ruled by kings and princes who place their swords at the pope’s disposal.’

  ‘When they are not placing them at each other’s throats,’ remarked Lukas casually.

  Rudolf scratched his beard. ‘The point is that if Livonia is in danger then the empire will answer the bishop’s appeals.’

  ‘That does not help our current situation,’ mused Walter.

  Rudolf rubbed his eyes. ‘Mother of Christ.’

  He composed himself and smiled at his deputy. ‘There are enough soldiers in Livonia to protect the kingdom, brother. I propose to lead all of you and the sergeants on a raid against Pskov to give the Russians a taste of what Livonia has suffered.’

  ‘The Russians or one in particular?’ queried Henke mischievously.

  Everyone knew that the man responsible for giving Rudolf his terrible burn scars, Domash Tverdislavich, was the mayor of Pskov.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ snapped Rudolf. ‘You all saw the banner that was waved in our faces when the Cumans and Russians arrived at Wenden. Perhaps you could take that one as well to add to your collection, Henke.’

  There was a knock at the door and a sergeant entered, saluted and walked over to the master’s side. He bent down and whispered into Rudolf’s ear.

  ‘Show him in.’

  Rudolf held his head in his hands and sighed as the sergeant strode back to the door. He looked at the eleven brother knights sitting before him.

  ‘In my desire for vengeance I have been reminded that more noble qualities are called for in the present situation.’

  He nodded towards the door where a long-haired warrior wearing mail armour and carrying a helmet in the crook of his arm appeared in the doorway.

  Conrad gave him a casual glance and returned to staring at the table top. He found these weekly meetings tedious and would have preferred to be doing something useful instead, such as knocking Hans off his horse during lance practice. The warrior approached Rudolf and bowed his head.

  ‘I bring a message from Sir Richard at Lehola, master.’

  Conrad recognised the language of the Estonians and out of the corner of his eye saw the symbol on the man’s shield. A red leering wolf’s face. A wolf shield! The same men that had raided his village and killed his wife and child. He sprang up, drew his sword and pressed the point into the warrior’s neck.

  ‘Hold!’ shouted Rudolf, jumping to his feet as the warrior’s helmet rolled on the floor. ‘Put down your sword, Conrad. Now!’

  Conrad had been momentarily taken back to that dreadful night when Lembit’s wolf shields had raided his father-in-law’s village and slaughtered everyone inside, including his beloved Daina and their son Dietmar. And now a wolf shield stood in the master’s hall at Wenden.

 
; Rudolf nodded to Henke who stood up, pulled his sword from its scabbard and pressed the point into the base of Conrad’s back.

  ‘Give me an excuse.’

  ‘I have ordered you to withdraw your sword, Brother Conrad.’ Rudolf spoke slowly and forcefully. ‘I will not do so again.’

  Conrad felt Henke’s sword at his back and saw the point of his own weapon at the throat of the alarmed warrior who stood rooted to the spot. Then he saw Hans, Johann and Anton staring at him with disbelief at his bad manners. Walter for his part was horrified that a guest should be treated so appallingly. Conrad sighed and lowered his sword before returning it to its scabbard.

  ‘He’s a wolf shield,’ he said calmly.

  ‘I can see that,’ said Rudolf. ‘But if you had any sense, which you obviously do not, you will have heard him say that he has come from Sir Richard at Lehola, which presumably means that he is an ally at least of our friend. Pick up his helmet and return it to him.’

  Rudolf glared at Conrad, daring him to challenge his authority. But the brother knight sighed and walked over to the conical helmet with a nasal guard, picked it up and held it out to the warrior. The man took it and cradled it in his arm. Conrad saw the wolf design on the shield again and sneered at it before going back to his chair.

  ‘And apologise too. Forgive my rudeness,’ Rudolf said to the warrior, ‘I do not know your name.’

  ‘Tonis,’ the man replied flatly.

  ‘Apologise to Tonis, Conrad’

  Conrad was stunned by this demand and was going to refuse. But his friends had been embarrassed by his behaviour and it seemed churlish not to obey the master’s request. In any case he had no desire to be flogged for his insubordination.