by Peter Darman
‘I think that is most unlikely,’ replied Rudolf. ‘I have just come from a meeting in the bishop’s pavilion. To say that he is spitting blood is an understatement. He wanted to take the fort in the morning but Master Thaddeus reminded him that we have no siege engines and not enough soldiers to safeguard our line of supply back to the river. Lord Rudolph is dead.’
‘There will be a lot more joining him before this campaign is over,’ said Lukas glumly.
‘We will commence our march before dawn,’ Rudolf told them. ‘Let us hope that we get a head start on the Semgallians.’
But the Master of Wenden was wrong and as knights and squires fitted their horses with saddles and caparisons in the pre-dawn gloom a group of riders splashed across the ford to assault the crusader camp. They were armed with spisas – long lances that the Lithuanians hurled at the men standing behind the row of waggons. Two were shot by crossbowmen before they retreated back across the river.
‘That was fairly tame,’ remarked Anton but little did he know that it was just the beginning of the enemy’s activities.
After prayers in the chapel tent Conrad and Wenden’s other brother knights left their places at the wagon and walked to where the horses were tethered in groups according to the Sword Brother garrison they belonged to, the standards of each castle plunged into the ground at the end of each row of their horses. He checked the animal’s hooves and shoes and then picked up a bucket of water and gave it a drink. Farriers who worked in the castle’s stables had already groomed the warhorses and now one handed him a nosebag full of fodder. The stallion ate greedily and then defecated onto the ground.
After it had eaten Conrad fitted its saddle and caparison. The latter was made in two halves that met at the saddle and covered the head, neck and body of his warhorse. Thickly padded and quilted, it was designed to stop an enemy projectile.
He checked the saddle straps and bridle and hoisted himself into the saddle, a farrier handing him a lance stored in a nearby wagon. A sergeant passed him two pieces of cured meat and a full water bottle. He uncorked the latter and took a swig of the cool liquid before tying its strap around the pommel. The camp was a hive of activity as grooms, servants and squires rushed around to make their masters a makeshift breakfast and provide them with their weapons and armour. The pavilions of the bishop and great lords were dismantled and packed into wagons as horses were hitched to the transports and the march got under way.
Grand Master Volquin gathered the soldiers of the order a short distance from the forge. The spearmen and crossbowmen formed a defensive screen as he sat on his horse in front of over three hundred brother knights and sergeants, the latter distinguished by their sleeveless mail shirts and kettle helmets rather than full-face helms.
‘The order has been allotted the rearguard of the army,’ said Volquin, ‘a place of great importance. March discipline will be observed at all times, which means everyone remaining in their positions. The enemy will attempt to entice us from our posts but we must resist their endeavours. Only your masters may authorise leaving your positions. God be with you.’
It was actually two hours after dawn when the army finally began to move, a long line of wagons and carts in single file heading north back to the Dvina. The crusaders had lost their Semgallian scouts but the soft ground had been so churned up by the dozens of wheels and thousands of hooves and feet during the advance to Mesoten that the return route was easy to follow. A brisk shower drenched everyone as the march commenced but then the sun came out, warmed the earth and filled the air with the pleasing aroma of freshly cut grass.
All the army’s foot soldiers were assigned to protect the wagons and carts that contained the army’s supplies, being ordered not to leave their posts on pain of death. Duke Albert formed the vanguard with his four hundred knights and squires. His so-called lesser knights who were the equivalent of the order’s sergeants in social status, mostly men who had little money but enough to purchase a horse and weapons, formed a reserve to assist the vanguard. The horsemen that had followed the now deceased Rudolph of Stotel were grouped in the centre of army with the two bishops and Nordheim’s horsemen, ready to assist the vanguard or rearguard as required.
After an hour in the saddle Conrad and the other brother knights dismounted to give their horses a rest. It was now a warm spring day and all were sweating in their armour and helmets. The crossbowmen and spearmen walked behind and by the sides of the wagons as the brother knights led their warhorses by their reins. Wenden’s garrison was at the very rear of the army, a score of mounted sergeants making up the end of the crusader column.
Conrad took off his helmet and carried it in the crook of his arm. The others were similarly helmetless. The day was pleasant, the gentle clanging of the pots and buckets hanging from the nearest wagon sleep inducing as they walked along at a gentle pace. The prospect of violence seemed an eternity away as he put one foot in front of another, being careful to avoid the piles of horse dung deposited on and either side of the track. They had left the meadow and were travelling through a forest of pine, the ground thick with alder, rowan and hazel bushes. The air was heavily scented with fir and there was no wind among the trees. It was calm and quiet. Too quiet.
Conrad looked at Hans and drew his sword. His companion did likewise and so did Anton and Johann.
‘Have a care,’ said Henke behind them as he too pulled his sword from its scabbard.
Conrad put on his helmet and took the shield off his back, sliding his left arm through the straps on its inner side. The mounted sergeants behind turned and looked back down the track and left and right into the forest. Nothing. But their sixth sense told them something was awry. Ahead the wagons were trundling along the track that curved gently to the right and disappeared, the foot soldiers were walking alongside them, heads down as they tramped along. And then the silence was shattered by a thousand war cries.
They attacked from both sides, a great tide of warriors clutching axes, maces, spears and clubs crashing through the undergrowth.
‘God with us!’ shouted Rudolf as the first Semgallians ran screaming from the trees to attack the foot soldiers by the side of the wagons. The brother knights let go of their warhorses and ran at their attackers; instinctively obeying their training that had been drilled into them. When surprised always attack because that is the last thing an assailant expects.
Conrad leapt out of the way of a spear thrust at him by a man in a long tunic and baggy leggings, whom he tripped as he passed by him. He left him to tackle another man armed with an axe raised above his head, who brought it down in an attempt to split Conrad’s skull. The brother knight deflected the blow with his shield and plunged his sword in the man’s guts. He withdrew his blade and shoved the dying man into another warrior behind, a man armed only with a club who tried to raise it as Conrad jumped to the left and thrust the point of his sword into the man’s right side, making him drop the club. He then whipped back his blade, flicked his wrist and plunged one of the sword’s cross guards into the man’s eye socket. The Semgallian gave an ear-piercing scream as his eye disappeared and he fell to his knees.
The sergeants on horseback charged into the enemy warriors who were trying, without success, to kill the brother knights on foot. They speared unarmoured Semgallians with their lances and then went to work with maces and axes, hacking left and right to shatter wooden shields and split helmets.
Hans crouched low as a man clutching a spear with both hands ran screaming at him, the brother knight jumping aside and slashed the man’s right hamstring as he passed. The pagan yelped, hobbled a few feet and then died as Hans ran his sword through his back. The tide had crashed against the Sword Brother breakwater and was now receding rapidly. The brother knights were now pushing back the attackers, back towards the trees from where they had emerged. An individual with a long knife slashed it wildly in Conrad’s direction, his eyes full of fear as he did so. The brother knight jabbed his sword forward at the bareheaded man w
ho was obviously not a warrior. He retreated as the Sword Brother advanced, still waving the knife in Conrad’s face. He stepped back against a pine, catching him by surprise. He glanced round and Conrad sprang forward, ramming his sword into his belly. The Semgallian made a strained groaning noise as blood gushed from his mouth. Conrad pulled on his sword but found that the point had gone through the man into the tree and refused to budge.
He spun round and pulled the axe from his belt as another assailant appeared from behind a tree, armed with a mace that he swung at Conrad. He stopped the blow with his shield but the latter’s upper edge was splintered by the flanged weapon as he swung his axe over his head to split his assailant’s skull. But the Semgallian anticipated the blow and raised his own shield, the razor-sharp axe blade slicing into the shield with ease but unfortunately becoming stuck. The warrior hooted in triumph as he raised his mace preparatory to bludgeoning Conrad’s helmet. But the brother knight let go of the axe, pulled his dagger from its sheath and in a lightning-fast movement plunged it deep into the warrior’s belly. The man looked bitterly disappointed as he let go of his mace and clutched his bleeding wound with his right hand. He looked at Conrad with pleading eyes but the Sword Brother slashed his knife across his neck to sever his windpipe. The Semgallian gurgled and then collapsed on the ground. Conrad heard the forest echo with the sounds of horns, the signal for those Semgallians still alive to beat a hasty retreat. They needed no second call as they withdrew as fast as they could, dragging their wounded back with them and leaving their dead behind.
The Sword Brothers cheered their victory and Rudolf called for a roll call. Miraculously the only casualties were two sergeants and three spearmen injured. The crossbowmen aimed their weapons into the trees, sheltering behind the spearmen around the wagons as they waited for a second assault that never came. The sergeants and brother knights formed a semi-circle at the rear of the last wagon and likewise waited for a fresh assault. After a few minutes Rudolf gave the order to stand down, Conrad taking off his helmet and tucking his axe back in his belt. Wenden’s master gave the order to fetch the horses that had been abandoned while he rode up the track to ascertain the damage caused by the Semgallian attack.
Henke kicked a dead enemy warrior. ‘This was just to test us.’
‘I agree,’ said Lukas, ‘they have no armour or helmets. This is just the beginning.’
Conrad walked over to the tree where his sword had pinned a Semgallian to the trunk. He gripped the black leather grip and pulled. Nothing happened, though the Semgallian groaned. Conrad stepped back in surprise. The front of the man’s brown tunic was soaked in blood as he continued to groan.
‘Put him out of his misery, Conrad,’ said Anton as he, Hans and Johann stood behind their friend. Conrad worked his sword from left to right to loosen the point in the wood, causing the poor wretch impaled on it to moan some more.
‘You should kill him,’ urged Anton.
‘Not until I have freed my sword,’ said Conrad.
‘Stand back!’ ordered Henke.
Conrad turned and saw Henke holding a two-handed axe he had taken from a dead Semgallian. Conrad and the others stepped back as Henke walked forward, heaved the axe up and then down as the Semgallian lifted his head and the brother knight severed it with a single blow. The curved blade cut deep into the tree and Henke left it there.
‘I think he’s dead now,’ said Henke.
Everyone laughed as Conrad retrieved his sword and no one heard a mute thwack coming from the trees. But their mirth halted immediately when a sergeant collapsed with a crossbow bolt in his chest, the man twitching for a few seconds before he expired.
‘Shields!’ screamed Lukas as everyone crouched low to present small targets to the crossbowman.
‘Where is he?’ called Walter.
One of the crossbowmen thought he saw movement in the trees and shot his weapon, as did three of his comrades either side of him. But there was no scream or other noise to indicate their bolts had struck flesh. Conrad was kneeling behind the tree his sword had been embedded in, Hans beside him.
‘See anything?’ asked his friend.
‘Nothing,’ hissed Conrad.
They remained in their positions for at least five minutes. No other missiles came from the trees and so Walter ordered everyone on their feet.
‘They’ve gone,’ he said.
‘This is just the beginning,’ said Lukas.
They placed the wounded men in one of the carts and tethered the horses to the carts as the column at last began to move forward once more. Rudolf returned with news that the Semgallians had attacked the length of the whole column, inflicting a sizeable number of dead among Duke Albert’s militiamen who had panicked when the attack occurred, many running into the forest rather than staying with the column. As the army continued its march the rearguard passed the bodies of Semgallians who had been killed in the fighting, together with slain crusader foot soldiers.
Walter shook his head when he saw them. ‘They deserve a Christian burial even if they were common soldiers.’
‘No time for that, brother,’ said Henke. ‘The longer we are in this God-forsaken kingdom the more casualties the enemy can inflict on us.’
‘No kingdom is forsaken of God,’ replied Walter.
There were no more Semgallian attacks that day but the army had only travelled five miles before making camp for the night in a meadow, the wagons again being formed in a great rectangle to present a barrier to the enemy. Once more the Sword Brothers removed their surcoats and cloaks so as not to present a target to enemy crossbowmen. While the wagons were being arranged by Master Thaddeus, Duke Albert and Grand Master Volquin sent out short-range patrols to ensure the army was not disturbed while making camp, giving strict orders that the horsemen were not to go more than half a mile from camp and withdraw immediately if the enemy was encountered. They also despatched parties of foot soldiers to collect firewood so campfires could be lit to cook food. Hundreds of mounted knights searched for the enemy, riding through ravines and by the side of hillocks while squires and servants pitched tents and prepared evening meals.
Johann managed to shoot a deer with one of the spare crossbows to provide the food for that night’s meal.
‘At least we will have roasted meat tonight,’ said a delighted Hans, the carcass slung over the back of his horse.
‘As long as Hans has a full belly then he can die contented,’ remarked Anton.
They were less than a quarter of a mile from camp and frequently spied other groups of crusader horsemen exiting or entering the trees. Of the enemy there was no sign.
‘They are in no hurry,’ said Conrad. ‘This is their country and they will attack at a time and place of their choosing.’
‘You words fill me with hope,’ remarked Anton dryly.
‘You will feel more hopeful with a full belly,’ said Hans, eliciting a smile from the others.
They returned to camp as the sun was dipping in the west, other parties of horsemen and foot soldiers carrying bundles of firewood also returning to the enclosure of wagons. Already smoke from a myriad of campfires was filling the air as hungry and tired men sat and heated pots of potage. The lucky ones skinned rabbits they had managed to catch.
Hans dumped the dead deer on the ground and slid off his horse as the others also dismounted. Nearby Rudolf was talking to Grand Master Volquin, the latter’s dour expression more doom laden than usual. Rudolf saw Hans rubbing his hands as he took out his dagger preparatory to skinning the carcass.
‘Just a minute,’ said Rudolf to Hans.
Conrad, Johann and Anton were leading their horses to the temporary stabling area when the master called them back. Rudolf walked over to the deer in the company of Volquin.
‘A fruitful patrol, Brother Hans?’
Hans smiled. ‘Yes, Master Rudolf. A warm, fulsome meal always raises the spirits in a dire situation.’
Volquin nodded. ‘Quite right.’
‘And I
am sure that Bishop Albert and the Duke of Saxony will think the same when he is tucking in to a meal of venison tonight,’ said Rudolf. He looked at Conrad. ‘You remember Brother Conrad, grand master?’
Volquin nodded once more. ‘Who could forget the man who saved the bishop’s life and went on to slay Lembit himself?’
Rudolf smiled at Hans. ‘Brother Conrad will take this deer to the bishop, with the compliments of the garrison of Wenden. I am sure it will raise his spirits.’
‘And they certainly need raising,’ said Volquin.
Hans looked as though sentence of death had just been passed on him. ‘But, master, surely the bishop has food enough?’
‘You would put your own needs before those of the bishop, Brother Hans?’ said Rudolf.
‘No, master,’ muttered a thoroughly deflated Hans.
The carcass was placed on the back of Conrad’s horse and then he and Volquin rode through the camp to the bishop’s pavilion pitched in its centre, passing rows of tents, mules and horses tethered together or corralled in temporary enclosures. Squires and servants were grooming and feeding them as the animals pissed on the ground and defecated. The pungent smell of their emissions was mixing with the smoke of the campfires to create the aroma that was unique to campaigning.
‘Master Rudolf has been telling me how you raised an army of Estonians to fight the Cumans and Russians,’ said Volquin.
‘Hardly an army, grand master,’ said Conrad modestly.
‘Still, at least your story is one of success, not like the sorry mess we have managed to get ourselves into,’ remarked Volquin.
They passed soldiers sitting round campfires, shields bearing the insignia of Stotel leaning against carts nearby. Volquin pointed at them.
‘Lord Rudolph dead and his body denied a proper burial. What do you think they will do with it?’
‘Burn it, most likely,’ replied Conrad. ‘That is what the pagans like to do with their dead. Either that or...’