Army of the Wolf

by Peter Darman

  ‘The flux broke out because there were too many soldiers camped in one place,’ continued Rudolf, the two sergeants on the bridge bringing their spears to their sides in salute as they passed. ‘I fear it will be the same here unless we move across the river.’

  Conrad was troubled over a more immediate matter. ‘I do not understand why I have been summoned to the war council.’

  ‘You are the Marshal of Estonia, Conrad,’ said Rudolf, ‘and bring eight hundred warriors to support the bishop. You are an important person now.’

  Conrad laughed as they entered the castle courtyard.

  ‘Why the levity?’ asked Rudolf. ‘You think the fate of Estonia is something to be laughed at?’

  ‘No, master.’

  Rudolf stopped and jabbed a finger in Conrad’s chest. ‘Livonia is in a perilous position, notwithstanding the display of might sitting outside this castle. Do you think that Novgorod will forget the loss of its banner, or that the Danes will meekly submit to being turned back at the Pala? We need to get the business across the Dvina settled quickly and then turn our attention to the north once more. You are now an integral part of the success or failure of events in Estonia, remember that.’

  The business across the Dvina was explained to the attendees by the bishop in the master’s hall. The vaulted chamber was filled to bursting with the castellans of the order, crusader lords and Liv chiefs. They sat on hastily arranged benches and stools while the commanders of the various contingents sat at a table positioned in the centre of the hall.

  The bishop sat at the head of the table, flanked by Manfred Nordheim resplendent in a red surcoat emblazoned with the cross keys symbol of Riga in gold, Abbot Bernhard in a simple undyed woollen habit and Master Thaddeus, who was dressed in the red uniform of the bishop’s quartermaster general. On the right side of the table sat Fricis and his senior Liv chiefs, including Rameke, all attired in mail shirts, green, blue and brown tunics and leather boots. They wore their hair long and their beards untrimmed, presenting a stark contrast to the neatly cropped beards and hair of the Duke of Saxony and the other senior crusader lords sitting opposite. At the other end of the table, opposite the bishop, were three chairs for the head of the Sword Brothers, Grand Master Volquin, and his deputy, Master Rudolf of Wenden. They bowed their heads to the bishop and took their seats.

  ‘Brother Conrad,’ the bishop’s deep voice filled the chamber as Conrad walked towards a chair behind the order’s castellans. He stopped and turned, blushing as everyone looked at him.

  ‘Lord bishop?’ he replied.

  The bishop pointed at the empty chair next to Grand Master Volquin. ‘The Marshal of Estonia should be seated next to the grand master.’

  Conrad swallowed and made his way to the empty chair, bowing his head to Volquin who smiled thinly at him. He sat down and looked to the right to see Rameke beaming at him. He smiled back and pointed at his brother’s hair, which was longer and thicker than the last time he had seen him. He made a cutting sign with his fingers to indicate that he should adopt a more modest hairstyle, and became conscious that everyone at the table was looking at them. He blushed once more.

  ‘Apologies.’

  The bishop thumped the table. ‘A year ago I accepted an invitation from the Semgallians to visit their land so that they could be accepted in the Holy Church. Instead we were basely betrayed by the heathen pagans who tried to slaughter us like a wolf kills newborn lambs.’

  The bishop stood. ‘Last year the Lord was prepared to offer comfort and protection to the Semgallians, but now He is a vengeful god who demands that the heathens be punished most severely for their crimes. I therefore say to you all that vengeance should be in your hearts when we cross the river to water Semgallia with pagan blood.’

  The crusader lords cheered and the Duke of Saxony punched the air. He had the look of a man bent on vengeance, having been forced to stew for a year following the ignominious retreat to the Dvina a year before.

  The bishop raised his hands to calm the commotion. ‘The largest army that Livonia has ever seen has been assembled at the Dvina to carry the fire of retribution into Semgallia and I have no doubt that it will be successful. But now I must command you all to rise and bow your heads in prayer.’

  There was a shuffling of chairs as the assembly rose as one and bowed their heads as the bishop’s voice filled the chamber again.

  ‘Lord, we your humble servants ask for Your assistance in the forthcoming holy war against the pagans. We know that evil men will be rewarded, one way or the other.

  ‘God will reward wicked men with grief, pain, and death. He will cut their lives off and send their souls down to eternal torment.

  ‘Let us, your holy crusaders, be the instrument by which the candle of the wicked shall be put out. Amen.’

  The bishop opened his eyes and looked at the gathered crusaders and Livs.

  ‘We will cross the river in two days. Those at the table will remain; the rest may leave.’

  When everyone had left the bishop visibly relaxed and ordered wine to be served to his guests.

  ‘Brother Conrad,’ he said, taking a cup from a tray proffered by a novice, ‘this is the first time that I have had the opportunity of conveying my thanks to you for convincing the Danes to halt their progress at the Pala. I must write to King Valdemar thanking him for his cooperation.’

  ‘You may find him less than friendly, lord bishop,’ said Conrad. ‘Matters took a violent turn.’

  ‘That is the only language the Danes understand,’ snarled Rudolf. ‘One of my brother knights was killed by them.’

  The bishop shook his head. ‘It is always a matter of regret when Christian knights fight each other instead of the godless. But rest assured, Master Rudolf, once we have concluded business with the Semgallians we will march north and reinforce our claim to Jerwen and Rotalia. How is your army, Brother Conrad?’

  ‘Battle hardened and eager, lord bishop.’

  ‘They are all pagans?’ asked Fricis, his beard splattered with wine.

  ‘They are, lord, at the moment,’ answered Conrad.

  ‘And they will fight for our cause?’ queried the Liv leader.

  ‘Yes, lord,’ said Conrad.

  ‘They are loyal to Susi,’ said Rudolf.

  ‘Who?’ said Fricis, looking confused.

  The bishop nodded at Conrad. ‘The Estonians who follow Brother Conrad believe him to be the reincarnation of some sort of wild animal.’

  ‘The wolf guardian of the forest,’ said Rudolf.

  ‘Indeed,’ nodded the bishop. ‘And as such they are loyal to him.’

  Fricis frowned. ‘Sounds most strange to me.’

  ‘Strange, I agree,’ said the bishop, ‘but most useful at this present juncture in time. And eight hundred warriors are a useful addition to our army.’

  ‘What is our plan, lord bishop?’ asked Fricis.

  The bishop’s severe countenance returned. ‘We march to Mesoten where Lord Rudolph and Father Segehard were martyred and burn it to the ground, and all settlements around it, to teach the Semgallians a lesson.’

  ‘You do not wish to capture and garrison it?’ said Duke Albert.

  ‘No, my lord,’ answered the bishop. ‘I intend to make a wasteland of Semgallia. The conquest of that kingdom will be a mere formality once we have displayed the power of our wrath.’

  ‘What of the other Lithuanian kingdoms?’ asked Volquin.

  ‘What of them, grand master?’ answered the bishop. ‘They are divided and fight among themselves.’ He looked at Nordheim. ‘Is that not so, commander?’

  ‘It is, lord bishop,’ said Nordheim. ‘The Northern Kurs fight the Southern Kurs and the Semgallians, while to the east the Selonians and Nalsen battle the Semgallians.’

  ‘So you see, grand master,’ said the bishop, ‘Lithuania stands like a tree of ripened fruit ready to be plucked.’

  Volquin doubted that the conquest of such a great expanse of territory would be so easy b
ut he was reluctant to deflate the bishop’s high spirits and so said nothing.

  ‘It is almost nine years to the day,’ continued the bishop, ‘since Grand Duke Daugerutis led a Lithuanian army across the Dvina to wreak havoc on Livonia. Now Daugerutis is dead and his dream of a greater Lithuania spanning the Dvina in tatters. Never again will a Lithuanian army cross the river; that I promise. The Lithuanians will learn that you reap what you sow.’

  After the meeting Conrad was at last able to speak to Rameke, the two of them embracing warmly.

  ‘It has been too long, my brother,’ said Conrad. He slapped Rameke on the arm. ‘You have put on weight.’

  ‘All muscle,’ Rameke grinned. ‘I have heard a lot about the Marshal of Estonia and his army and now we are to fight side by side once more.’

  They walked from the hall into Holm’s courtyard.

  ‘Life is strange,’ mused Conrad. He looked at his brother, his green eyes reminding him of his dead wife.

  ‘I hope you do not think ill of me,’ he said softly.

  ‘Why should I?’ said a surprised Rameke.

  ‘It was the Estonians who killed your father, mother and sister.’

  ‘I hope that I will be reunited with them in heaven some day,’ said Rameke thoughtfully. ‘I have killed many men in battle. They all had wives, children and parents. I hated Lembit but he is dead. I think it would be the height of arrogance for me to hate a whole race.’

  Conrad laughed. ‘You have become a philosopher. Obviously you have had too much time sitting on your arse at Treiden using your brains instead of your sword.’

  ‘I can still use my sword, have no fear of that.’

  ‘I must get back to camp,’ said Conrad, seeing Rudolf waiting for him at the gatehouse. ‘Try to visit us before we cross the river, for I think we will have our hands full when we are in Semgallia.’

  ‘The bishop thinks the campaign will be straightforward enough,’ remarked Rameke.

  Conrad slapped his brother on the arm. ‘Thaddeus once told me when he was teaching me to read and write that wars are easy to start but more difficult to finish.’

  Rameke was amazed. ‘You can read and write?’

  Conrad turned and grinned at him.

  ‘You were right,’ Rameke called after him, ‘we do indeed live in strange times.’

  *****

  Viesthard knew that the crusaders would be crossing the Dvina as soon as the snows had melted. He himself had visited the river and seen their great campsite, the myriad of campfires and the many boats of varying sizes lined up on the riverbank. And when there was a northerly wind he could smell the odour of human and animal dung that such a great gathering always generated. Now the duke of his people after being elected by a council of Semgallian princes, Viesthard was determined to stop the crusaders at the river. The year before he had managed to force the crusaders to retreat from Mesoten easily enough. This time he would slaughter them at the water’s edge.

  Viesthard gambled that he could defeat the crusaders before having to marshal his forces to deal with the ongoing war with the Northern Kurs and the Russian Prince Vsevolod. He sensed the nervousness among his subordinates and no wonder: the spring would mean fighting at the Dvina and attempting to stave off incursions in the west and east. But as he waited for the snows to melt his cause received aid from two unexpected quarters. First, Duke Butantas of Samogitia pledged his allegiance in any war against the Bishop of Riga. This was not an entirely altruistic offer: Butantas knew that if Semgallia fell to the Christians then the crusaders would be on his northern border. Second, the Kriviai, the white-robed priests who interpreted the will of the gods, had also observed the crusader army across the Dvina and reported its presence to the Kriviu Krivaitis, the head priest who was a confidant of Perkunas himself. The white-haired holy man lived in the sacred oak grove near the stronghold of Perkunas surrounded by the Vaidilutes, the young virgins who were the keepers of the Holy Fire. And when he heard that the detested Christians were poised to cross the river the Kriviu Krivaitis called for a holy war against them.

  He stood with two of his beautiful, aloof virgins, all three wrapped in grey wolfskin cloaks, in Vsevolod’s main hall. The head priest had sent word to the Russian that he would be calling upon him, which the prince hoped would be a private meeting. But unbeknown to him the spiritual leader of the Lithuanians had spread word via his priests throughout Selonia and Nalsen that he would be would be holding a meeting with Vsevolod concerning the wishes of Perkunas himself. This caused the princes and chiefs of the two kingdoms to make their way to Panemunis to hear the words of the Kriviu Krivaitis.

  The hall was packed with bearded warriors in mail and leather who crowded round the chief priest as he stood a few feet from the seated Vsevolod and Rasa, the latter delighted that the head of her faith had decided to visit her. The prince looked like someone who had been slapped in the face as the white-haired priest spoke.

  ‘The enemies of our religion are gathering across the Dvina, ready to kill innocent women and children and burn their homes. Perkunas spoke to me in a dream and demanded to know why the free peoples of Lithuania were fighting among themselves rather then uniting to defeat the followers of darkness.’

  There were murmurs of agreement among the warlords. Mindaugas, standing to the right of Vsevolod, beside Aras, was nodding his head.

  The Kriviu Krivaitis raised his arms and looked up at the roof. ‘Oh, Great Perkunas, give me the words that I, a poor wretch, may convince these fearsome warriors to put aside their petty bickerings and unsheathe their swords against the Christian filth.’

  These words were met with cheers and clenched fists while Vsevolod, himself a follower of the Orthodox religion, tried to maintain his calm façade. The Kriviu Krivaitis continued to stare upwards until the hubbub stopped, then slowly lowered his head to fix the prince with his unblinking eyes. How Vsevolod would like to do away with this troublesome priest. Instead he rose slowly to his feet.

  ‘All of you know the pain and suffering that has been inflicted upon me and my family at the hands of the Bishop of Riga and the Sword Brothers.’

  He held out a hand to his wife sitting beside him. ‘Had it not been for Grand Duke Daugerutis and his daughter, my wife, I would have been made homeless and destitute. I therefore pledge aid to Duke Viesthard and his brave Semgallians in their fight against the Bishop of Riga.’

  There was wild cheering at this statement and the princes and chiefs began to chant ‘Vsevolod, Vsevolod’ and stamp their feet to create a defeating din that the prince found most unseemly. But he basked in the applause, glancing smugly at the old priest he had out-manoeuvred. Mindaugas was beside himself with joy while Aras looked at Vsevolod and raised an eyebrow. The prince frowned at his subordinate and called for calm.

  ‘I authorise every prince and chief to muster their warriors and bring them here where they will be led west by General Aras in fulfillment of the Kriviu Krivaitis’ wishes.’

  There was more cheering and stamping of feet as the priest raised his arms once more.

  ‘They are not my wishes,’ he shouted. ‘I am merely the humble messenger of the immortals. Hail Perkunas!’

  His virgins smiled as the assembly pledged their allegiance to the God of War. Aras stepped onto the dais so he could whisper into Vsevolod’s ear.

  ‘We seek to preserve what we have shed blood trying to conquer?’

  Vsevolod smiled at the chief priest. ‘An army may march west but may not reach the Semgallians until after they have engaged the bishop’s forces.’

  Aras stepped back and slapped Mindaugas on the back.

  ‘It will be good to fight the murderers of my father, Aras. The Sword Brothers will be held to account for their foul deeds.’

  Aras said nothing as the dozens of warriors continued to chant the name of Perkunas and dream of crushing the crusader army.

  *****

  High winds delayed the crossing of the Dvina and so the crusader army was f
orced to spend a further three days sharpening its swords and cleaning its armour as it waited for them to subside, while over eight thousand men sat in their tents gambling or enjoying the dubious favours of Liv whores. Across the river more warriors arrived from villages throughout Semgallia to increase the size of Viesthard’s army.

  Rameke took advantage of the enforced idleness to visit Conrad and his Estonians. Most of the latter were quartered in simple shelters of a rectangle of felt draped over a ridgepole with two vertical poles at each end, the felt staked to the ground, though the chiefs had been issued with conical tents that had a single central pole. He was stopped at the perimeter of the Army of the Wolf’s camp by two guards in mail armour and helmets whose round shields bore the image of a leering wolf. He had seen that symbol before and remembered it not with any affection.

  ‘State your purpose,’ said one of the guards curtly.

  ‘I am Rameke and am here to see Brother Conrad,’ answered Rameke.

  ‘You will have to get off your horse,’ stated the guard.

  ‘And surrender your sword,’ said the other.

  Rameke slowly dismounted. ‘I will surrender my sword to Brother Conrad himself, none other.’

  There was just enough menace in his voice to make the guards reconsider, but they levelled their spears at him nevertheless as they called for two of their comrades gathered round a fire nearby.

  ‘You will be escorted to Susi’s tent,’ said one of the wolf shields, ‘don’t try anything.’

  Rameke thanked him and tried to be friendly. ‘Why would I try anything? We are all friends now after all.’

  The wolf shields grunted something under their breaths as two more arrived and were instructed to escort Rameke to Conrad’s tent. On the way he tried to engage them in conversation but they were uninterested, both of them staring at the shield that hung from his saddle and which bore the sign of the moon – the ancient Liv symbol of warriors that resembled the letter ‘c’. Many Liv shields carried such a motif and these wolf shields had no doubt seen it many times in battle when they had fought Rameke’s people. So they walked in silence through rows of tents, neat lines of ponies tethered to posts and groups of warriors wrapped in cloaks sitting round campfires, both men and flames being buffeted by the wind. There were stacks of spears and firewood near every fire and cooking pots suspended over most of them. Fortunately the winds kept the clouds moving and so there had been little rain during the preceding days, which meant the ground was firm to walk on. But it was cold and there was no shelter from the bitter wind along the riverbank.