Army of the Wolf

by Peter Darman

  Priests stood with their arms raised to the heavens as men raced to their tents to don their armour and collect their weapons. The sky darkened as thunder rumbled and the air was filled with spots of rain. Moments before they had been relaxing around campfires or dozing in their tents but now they ran around like headless chickens as their commanders screamed at them to form into their companies.

  Alva smiled as he reached the halfway point to the crusader camp, and glanced over to the left to see Jaak leading his men away towards Toompea Hill. The warriors behind him were silent as they ran across the soft grass towards Lyndanise, the sound of their boots hitting the ground like the stampede of a herd of ponies. They were now less than six hundred paces from the crusader camp and groups of enemy soldiers were visible in front of the tents, a few at first but then more and more as the Danes responded to the calls of alarm. Most were axe men who hurriedly formed shield walls to meet the Estonian attack. Then from behind the Danes came arrows arching into the darkening sky as a handful of archers attempted to halt the Estonian torrent that was closing on them. But it was a futile gesture and as the air was rent by a loud thunderclap and the heavens opened the Estonians reached the crusader camp.

  Alva smashed his shield into the first axe man who was already attempting to get out of the way of the attackers, realising that the few men around him would be incapable of stopping the assault. He fell to the ground and was then trampled as the Harrien followed their chief into the camp. Their orders were simple: keep moving and kill everyone they encountered. Now the Estonians hollered their war cries as they cut down and hacked to death those in the flimsy Danish shield wall that disintegrated in seconds. The downpour intensified as the Estonians infiltrated the camp and began tripping over guy ropes and pegs, the Danes fleeing before them likewise falling over obstacles.

  Alva ran through an archer desperately trying to nock an arrow in his bowstring, split the skull of a helmetless spearman and stepped on a prostrate axe man whose feet had got entangled in a cooking pot, placing his heel on the back of his neck before ramming his sword through his spine.

  ‘On, on!’ he screamed as water coursed off his helmet and lightning struck Toompea Hill.

  The camp was huge, an endless extent of tents that slowed the Estonian attack. It was the only thing that did. The Danes had failed to put up any sort of resistance to the Estonians and now they were being swept aside as Alva’s warriors pressed on into Lyndanise itself. But the impetus of their charge was gone, dissipated by the spider’s web of tents, guy ropes and mud that appeared throughout the camp as the ground was soaked by the downpour that showed no signs of abating. The heavy rain washed the blood off the Harrien leader’s sword as he pulled the blade from a dead Danish soldier. His men closed round him, his warlords with soaked beards and leggings squelching through the mud and water to stand with him. Visibility was poor as the light faded and the rain fell with unrelenting fury.

  ‘Keep moving,’ shouted Alva.

  He walked forward, hundreds of his men following, many stepping on the simple Danish shelters rather then going around them. And then the tents ended and the Estonians were at the edge of Lyndanise itself, where King Valdemar stood in the front rank of a compact mass of his bodyguard, foot knights and sergeants.

  Apart from the solid block of men who stood shoulder-to-shoulder with their king the Danes had been scattered by the Estonian attack. Their camp had been trampled and wrecked, the horses and livestock they had brought with them either dead or wandering around lost in the rain. Two-thirds of the crusader army had been disabled by the pagan assault and though Valdemar prepared to make a heroic last stand with his most trusted knights only one man could avert a disaster, the consequences of which would reverberate all the way to Rome itself.

  ‘Stand your ground. I will kill the first man who takes a step back.’

  Count Henry walked slowly along the front rank of his men drawn up in a compact mass on the edge of Lyndanise. He was bare headed, his squire holding his helmet as he walked behind his master issuing his instructions.

  ‘When they appear don’t forget to kneel, otherwise you’ll get a bolt in the back of your head.’

  There was muffled laughter from the knights wearing full-face helms standing before him. Though he berated and threatened them he knew he could rely on them, these men who had followed him for years during the incessant warfare that plagued Germany. As soon as the alarm had been raised his knights, their squires and the lesser knights had grabbed their weapons and armour and made their way to the rallying point: a large barn on the edge of the settlement. There was no thought of Danes or Valdemar, just an urgent desire to rally round their count. They knew their profession and formed up quickly despite the shock of the enemy attack and the pouring rain.

  The count’s three hundred spearmen formed the wings of his formation. In between them were his knights, squires and lesser knights, almost all of them standing with maces and shields in their hands, ready to trade blows with the enemy in a mêlée. And immediately behind the front rank of mail and steel was his surprise for the enemy.

  When Edvin’s warriors appeared out of the rain they halted when they saw the German crusaders standing in silence, water running off their helmets and mud forming around their mailed-covered feet. Edvin raised his sword and bellowed an order to form a shield wall, which was barely audible above the claps of thunder above. But slowly his chiefs shoved the twelve hundred warriors into place, shields facing the enemy as they prepared to close the fifty paces of sodden ground that separated them from the crusaders. Edvin turned and nodded to a signaller who blew his horn, others among the Wierland press doing the same and then the whole formation ran forward, straight into a volley of crossbow bolts.

  Count Henry had brought two hundred of his best crossbowmen with him from Schwerin and now they released their triggers from behind his kneeling front and second ranks. His men had performed this drill many times and though many of his knights and haughty squires thought it demeaning to kneel during battle, he gave them short shrift and told them to obey orders. At such a short range the quarrels went through mail and wooden shields easily but, more importantly, ruined the impetus of the pagan charge. It also destroyed Wierland resistance when a bolt went into Edvin’s chest and pierced his heart. Those around him stared in horror at the crumpled figure lying lifeless in the mud and rain. Then the crusaders attacked.

  The front two ranks of knights and squires attacked the pagans as soon as the crossbowmen had loosed their volley, trudging through the mud and being careful not to lose their footing. Not all those in the Wierland front ranks had been shot and within seconds savage fighting erupted between the two sides, axes and maces being swung at helmets and shields as both sides tried to bludgeon the other into submission. The count’s men were outnumbered but they retained their cohesion, the spearmen on the wings fending off Estonian attempts to shatter the crusaders’ flanks. Henry, plus his brother, was in the front rank, shield tight to his body as he used his mace to shatter opponents’ shields and dent their helmets. Behind him the crossbowmen shot at any targets that presented themselves, their bolts piercing wood and mail to shatter bone and rip open bellies.

  The clatter of weapons striking each other and the screams of men having their bodies mutilated filled the air as the rain continued to fall, the occasional shaft of lightning illuminating the horizon as the storm moved out to sea. Edvin’s chiefs waged a savage battle to retrieve his body, several of them being cut down as the corpse of their leader was dragged back from the killing ground. Warriors saw his lifeless body being carried to the rear and also began to fall back. Soon more and more Wierlanders were retreating away from the crusaders. Count Henry watched them go and then issued orders that he and his men were going to relieve the king, if he still lived.

  In fact Valdemar was fighting a personal battle with Alva, though neither realised who the other was. The simple fact that they were both in the centre of their respective line
s brought them face-to-face. The initial Harrien attack had pushed the Danish knights and sergeants back but gradually more and more of Valdemar’s axe men and spearmen had appeared to reinforce their king and now the struggle was more evenly matched. As Danish soldiers appeared from every direction the Harrien formation had splintered to face these new threats, with the result that there were dozens of small fights going on around the edge and inside of Lyndanise.

  There was a great gust of wind and an ear-splitting clap of thunder and a piece of cloth flew into Alva’s face. Before he could remove it Valdemar drew back his sword and thrust it into the Estonian’s belly and up into his chest. Alva clutched at the cloth but collapsed as the point of the king’s sword pierced his heart. He died with the material still covering his face. The knights nearby cheered and fought the enemy with renewed vigour, the Estonians losing heart at the sight of their leader being killed. Valdemar stood and stared at the cloth that had appeared from nowhere. His bodyguard raced to his side as the Harrien fell back towards the crusader camp and away from the settlement. It appeared to be a red surcoat with a white cross emblazoned upon it.

  The rain had finally stopped when Count Henry arrived with his men, the muddy ground littered with the bodies of dead Harrien and Danes. The king was still standing over the covered dead body, not realising it was Alva, his wet hair matted to his skull. The count bowed his head to Valdemar.

  ‘Majesty.’

  ‘It appeared out of nowhere,’ said Valdemar, not taking his eyes off the white and red cloth.

  ‘Majesty?’

  ‘It was surely a sign from God who blinded this enemy, allowing me to kill him. After he fell the enemy disappeared like snow in spring.’

  He looked at the count. ‘Can you explain such a thing, Henry?’

  The count could not but cared not. ‘No, majesty. I must secure the camp.’

  Valdemar nodded. ‘Of course. God go with you.’

  Jaak was the last of the Estonian leaders to die, killed by a stone hurled from the battlements of Toompea hill fort that hit him on the head, crushing his helmet and sending a wedge of iron into his brain. His men hoisted his body on to their shoulders and carried it back down the hill.

  Thus ended the Battle of Lyndanise.

  As groups of Estonians fled back to the forest from where they had come Count Henry organised a sweep of the camp. Most of the tents had been knocked down though the carts and wagons were largely intact. Though the prized warhorses were safe inside the barns that had been requisitioned for their quarters, the temporary stabling areas within the camp had been destroyed. The horses had bolted and had to be collected, which made an immediate pursuit of the pagans impossible.

  Everyone stood to arms that night, cold and wet as they peered into the darkness in expectation of another pagan attack. The king and Count Henry retired to a barn that had been converted into a church where the Archbishop of Lund led a service of thanksgiving. They were also informed that Theodoric, Bishop of Estonia, had been killed during the Estonian assault, cut down with an axe as he tried to seek the sanctuary of a cog that had been earmarked as a place of refuge in the event of such an attack. This cast Valdemar into despair but his spirits would have been restored had he known that he had killed the leaders of the Harrien, Jerwen and Wierland tribes and had brought organised Estonian resistance to an end.

  *****

  Grand Master Volquin sat with his head down as Bishop Albert paced around the withdrawing chamber of his palace. He clutched a letter that had arrived at Riga that very morning, and after reading it the ruler of Livonia had summoned Archdeacon Stefan, Abbot Bernhard, Manfred Nordheim, the Duke of Saxony and Grand Master Volquin to his residence.

  The bishop waved the letter in the air. ‘Do you know what this is?’

  Those at the table stared blankly back at him.

  ‘Then I shall tell you. It is a letter from King Valdemar informing me of a great victory over the Estonians.’

  ‘Praise be,’ said Stefan.

  ‘Yes,’ replied the bishop, ‘praise be indeed. But the king has also written that he intends to march south to complete the conquest of Estonia as soon as possible.’

  Volquin looked up. ‘The conquest of Estonia? Does he not know that the Sword Brothers occupy Saccalia and intend to march north into Jerwen when circumstances are more favourable?’

  The bishop crushed the letter in his hand. ‘Circumstances are very favourable for King Valdemar, grand master. Indeed, there appears to be nothing to prevent him seizing Jerwen, Saccalia and Ungannia should he so wish.’

  Stefan raised a finger. ‘But, uncle.’

  Albert glared at him.

  ‘That is, lord bishop,’ Stefan corrected himself. ‘Surely his Holiness the Pope granted you the honour of bringing Estonia into the Holy Church?’

  Albert tossed the crumpled letter on to the table. ‘His majesty has kindly informed me that his Holiness has given him authority to subdue the Estonians.’

  Stefan looked horrified though Bernhard seemed unsurprised.

  ‘So we were duped, lord bishop?’

  Albert gave him a sardonic smile. ‘I would not use such a word when discussing King Valdemar, but I will say that he has combined his own interests with those of the Holy Father skilfully.’

  ‘Valdemar is a king first,’ said Bernhard, ‘and a crusader second.’

  ‘We should have marched north instead of into Lithuania,’ remarked Volquin bitterly, looking at Stefan as he did so.

  ‘But we did not,’ said the bishop. He retook his seat at the head of the table, a pained look etched on his chiselled features.

  ‘There is one more thing,’ he said softly. ‘The king also informed me that Bishop Theodoric, former Abbot of Dünamünde and friend of us all, was martyred in the battle with the Estonians.’

  Bernhard looked shocked and Volquin lowered his head with sorrow.

  ‘A grievous loss,’ said the former.

  ‘Indeed so,’ remarked the Duke of Saxony, ‘and just as the Danes have avenged his death so we should look to punish the Semgallians for their recent despicable treachery.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Volquin. ‘That we had to retreat back across the Dvina was bad enough, but the triumph of the Danes has only magnified our failure.’

  He looked at Nordheim. ‘It was folly of the most extreme kind to have supplied the Semgallians with crossbows, and instructors to show them how to use them.’

  Stefan looked uncomfortable but Nordheim was unconcerned. He had been in many tight spots during his colourful career and this one paled into significance compared to the others. He looked suitably chastened.

  ‘The pagans can be volatile and unpredictable, grand master, I agree. But while you and the other valiant commanders of the Sword Brothers were fighting Lembit in the north it was considered prudent to incite the Lithuanians to fight among themselves. Better that than uniting and crossing the Dvina to lay waste Livonia.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ added Stefan, ‘much better.’

  ‘What is done is done,’ said Bishop Albert irritably. ‘We must look to the future rather than analysing past mistakes.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Stefan forcefully.

  His uncle froze him with a stare. ‘Though mistakes were undoubtedly made.’

  Volquin laughed at the ridiculous figure that was Riga’s governor, who now squirmed like a worm wriggling on the end of a fisherman’s hook. The bishop was a fine man but when his nephew had been born the midwife should have thrown him away and kept the afterbirth. He laughed at the notion.

  ‘Would you care to share your merriment with us, grand master?’ asked Bishop Albert.

  Volquin was sorely tempted. ‘No. Apologies, lord bishop.’

  ‘Very well,’ continued the bishop. ‘Our first priority is to recross the Dvina and capture the enemy stronghold of Mesoten. The pagans cannot be allowed to believe that they can chase a Christian army out of their godless land. I will return to Germany to preach a new cr
usade in Semgallia that will take place after we have celebrated the birth of Christ.’

  ‘At least recruitment should not be a problem when news reaches Germany of our reverse in Semgallia,’ said Bernhard. He rubbed his chin. ‘Unfortunately the same news may embolden King Valdemar to seize more territory than he is entitled to.’

  ‘In what way?’ asked the bishop.

  ‘He will take advantage of our inability to be in two places at the same time,’ Volquin answered for the abbot.

  ‘But surely,’ interrupted Stefan, smiling at the Duke of Saxony, ‘those crusaders under the command of our most gracious duke can march north to consolidate our possessions in Estonia.’

  The crusader army had recrossed the Dvina at Holm where it established a camp around the castle, though the garrisons of the other Sword Brother citadels had returned to their respective castles.

  ‘The army needs to stay at Holm,’ said Volquin. ‘If the Semgallians, or indeed the Kurs, learn that it has marched north they may be tempted to cross over and raid Livonia. I am sure you would not want that, archdeacon.’

  Stefan blanched in alarm. ‘No, not at all.’

  Bishop Albert sighed loudly. ‘Then we can do nothing to prevent the Danes swallowing the whole of Estonia? All the blood spilt and good men’s lives wasted for nothing?’

  ‘It is a pity there is no army in the north that can act as a deterrent to Danish greed,’ mused the duke.

  Everyone sank into silence. Bishop Albert sat slumped in his chair, visibly diminished by the turn of events that had occurred in Livonia. After the great victory over Lembit he thought that Estonia would fall into the church’s lap like a ripened fruit. But instead too few crusaders had arrived in the aftermath of St Matthew’s Day and so northern Estonia remained beyond the church’s reach. The Sword Brothers had managed to alienate the Ungannians and his nephew’s efforts at statecraft had resulted in a calamitous reverse in Semgallia. He saw his lifelong calling disappearing before his eyes and he was angry: angry with the Sword Brothers, angry with his nephew, but above all angry with himself for allowing himself to become the agent of his own downfall by soliciting the aid of the Danish king. Duped, that is what he had been.