Army of the Wolf

by Peter Darman

  ‘I do not know where Brother Hans puts all the food he eats,’ said Kaja, smiling at him.

  ‘It is not his fault,’ said Anton. ‘His life as a child beggar left him permanently hungry.’

  Kaja was surprised. ‘I thought you a great lord, Brother Hans.’

  Conrad laughed. ‘Great lord? Only Anton among us came from a wealthy family. Hans and I have more humble origins.’

  ‘You were not a great lord, Susi?’

  Conrad shook his head. ‘I was the son of a baker.’

  ‘Then how did you come to command armies,’ she asked, ‘for only the sons of chiefs can replace their fathers to become warlords?’

  ‘A question many have asked,’ smiled Anton.

  Kaja began filling a wooden bowl with stew. ‘Well, you are a great lord now, Susi.’ She handed the bowl to Hans who began greedily eating the contents. ‘What’s a camp follower?’

  ‘A harlot,’ answered Anton, eagerly awaiting his evening meal.

  Kaja filled another bowl and handed it to Anton. ‘What’s a harlot?’

  ‘A woman who sells her body to men,’ said Conrad.

  Kaja handed a bowl of stew to Conrad before filling one for herself. ‘How terrible. They are forced to do this?’

  ‘Some, not all,’ said Anton. ‘There is good money to be earned if a woman has a mind to.’

  Kaja sat on a stool beside Conrad who looked disapprovingly at Anton. ‘The church does not approve of whores.’

  Anton spat out some stew as he laughed. ‘You are wrong, my friend. The church approves of prostitution because it believes it prevents adultery and sodomy.’

  ‘What’s sodomy? Asked Kaja innocently.

  Conrad frowned. ‘A question for you to answer, Anton.’

  ‘It is when two men lie together and commit unnatural acts,’ Anton told her.

  Kaja’s eye opened wide. ‘And your elders allow this?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Anton. ‘Sodomites are burned at the stake if caught, after first being castrated.’

  ‘That is horrible,’ said Kaja.

  ‘And an unsuitable topic for mealtimes,’ stated Conrad.

  So they sat in silence and finished their stew, their clothes smelling of smoke produced by the dozens of campfires in the camp. Conrad had organised mounted patrols to be sent east and south to ensure that they were not surprised by Semgallians, but they returned each afternoon with reports that the land appeared to be empty. Morale was high among his men who had suffered few casualties in the battle, the score of dead being cremated immediately after the fight. Now they waited for orders from the bishop to strike camp and march with the army to Mesoten.

  As he finished his stew he thought that the notification to march had arrived when he saw a lone warrior being escorted to his tent. He and the others stood as the stranger came towards them, and saw that it was Rameke. He grinned and tilted his head towards the guard.

  ‘I thought I would pay those guarding our left flank a visit. Only one escort this time. Your men must be warming to me.’

  He embraced Conrad and then Anton and Hans.

  ‘I am glad to see that you are unharmed,’ said Conrad who dismissed the guard.

  Rameke winced in pain as he pulled up the sleeve on his right arm. ‘Not entirely unharmed. An enemy spear gave me a memento.’

  His thick forearm was wrapped in a dirty bandage that was stained with blood.

  ‘Damn thing won’t stop bleeding.’

  ‘I can stop the flow of blood, Susi,’ said Kaja.

  Rameke pulled down his sleeve and eyed her warily. ‘The last time you wanted to slit my throat. Perhaps this time you will try to poison me.’

  ‘I did not know then that you were my lord’s brother,’ she replied.

  ‘Might be worth her taking a look,’ said Conrad, ‘she has been studying the healing arts under Ilona’s tuition.’

  Rameke was cautious. ‘And who has been teaching her the skills of an assassin?’

  ‘Can it be that a great Liv warlord is frightened of an Estonian woman? Kaja mocked him.

  ‘Sit down and let her take a look at it,’ insisted Conrad.

  ‘We won’t let her harm you Rameke,’ said a grinning Hans.

  ‘Mind you,’ cautioned Anton, ‘Brother Lukas has been instructing her in the use of the sword so she might lop your head off.’

  Rameke sauntered over to one of the stools as Kaja pulled up another to sit opposite him. She reached over and took his wounded arm, rolled up his tunic and began untying the bloody bandage.

  ‘Brother Hans,’ she said, ‘please go to my tent and fetch the small box that has a leather strap.’

  Anton laughed and slapped Hans on the back.

  ‘Off you go.’

  ‘And Brother Anton,’ continued Kaja, ‘please put some more firewood on the fire so I can heat some water.’

  Conrad gestured with his hands that Anton should stand and do as he was told as Hans walked over to Kaja’s conical tent next to the larger one of the brother knights. She unwrapped the bandage and twisted her mouth into a frown when she saw the deep wound.

  ‘You should have had this tended to immediately. Do not Liv armies have healers?’

  Rameke stared at this strange, attractive woman who seemed to have a lot to say for herself.

  ‘They are busy trying to save the seriously wounded.’

  ‘Did you lose many men, Rameke?’ asked Conrad.

  ‘Less than fifty dead but many more wounded. It was a hard fight but not as hard as that fought by Duke Albert. The Semgallians launched their fiercest attacks against him and his men, including horsemen, but they failed. There were great heaps of Semgallian dead at the end of the battle. It took a lot of wood to burn the bodies and carcasses.’

  ‘Hold your arm,’ Kaja told him as she took the dirty bandage and threw it on the fire. ‘I will return shortly.’

  ‘When we will be marching?’ Conrad asked him.

  Rameke sighed. ‘The supplies are still being ferried across the river. Two days, perhaps. Where is the family of Kaja?’

  ‘Dead,’ replied Conrad. ‘We are her family now.’

  ‘She is a strange one. But then you commanding an army of Estonians is also strange.’

  ‘We live in changing times, my brother,’ said Conrad.

  Hans returned with Kaja’s box and Anton fed the fire and filled a pot with water that he heated over the flames, and after ten minutes she returned clutching a bunch of small flowers with lemon heads in her hand. Opening her box, she took out a clean cloth and soaked it in the hot water, then washed Rameke’s wound. He winced as the cloth was pressed on the deep gash.

  She saw his pain. ‘Apologies, lord.’

  She dabbed the wound softly. ‘I am not your lord,’ he told her. ‘My name is Rameke.’

  She rummaged in her box and took out a small earthenware flask, removed the cork and sprinkled white powder into the wound. Rameke looked alarmed.

  ‘Have no fear, lord, er, Rameke,’ she said. ‘It is merely dried, crushed puffball, a mushroom that is found in my land. It will stop the bleeding.’

  She replaced the flask in her box, picked up the flowers and crushed them in her hand. She placed them on Rameke’s wound, took a fresh bandage from her box and began wrapping it around his forearm to press the flowers into the wound.

  ‘They are mouse-ear hawkweed and will prevent the wound from festering. You must change the bandage after a day and discard the flowers and stems. Do not forget. And use a clean bandage and wash the wound before you bind it again. If the wound has not healed in five days come back to see me.’

  ‘That’s you told,’ said Hans.

  Kaja tied the bandage and closed her box.

  Rameke made a fist. ‘Feels warm.’

  ‘That is the puffball powder working. I would advise keeping your arm bandaged for at least two weeks and not getting it cut again.’

  Conrad laughed. ‘Better stay clear of the enemy, then.’

>   ‘Are there any left?’ said Hans.

  Rameke smiled at Kaja, who smiled back. When she wasn’t being aggressive she really was a most attractive girl. He stood up.

  ‘Thank you, Kaja.’

  ‘You are welcome, Rameke.’

  He stayed until the sun was dipping in the west in a blood-red sky. The days were lengthening and getting warmer, though for the Semgallians it threatened to be a cold, cruel spring.

  *****

  Viesthard felt cold, weak and demoralised. He sat in his chair in Tervete’s great hall and drank mead as the princes, chiefs and village elders filed into the chamber. Outside Semgallia was bursting into spring, the meadows filled with snowdrops and buttercups, the groves and meadows lush and green after being watered by rain. The fire raged in the hall’s hearth but an icy cold gripped his soul. He had led his people to a crushing defeat and many of his warriors had died fighting the invaders. He should have died and now he wished for death. What sort of duke was he? He sat with his arm in a sling and his head bandaged. His healer had washed his wounds with lead water and placed yarrow on them and assured him that he would live. But he did not want to live; he wanted to join his fallen comrades in Perkunas’ great feasting hall in the afterlife. When the last chiefs had entered the hall’s doors were shut. The white-robed priest stood beside Viesthard who rose unsteadily to his feet. The Kriviai went to assist him but was waved away. He saw that many of his men had sprigs of rowan pinned to their tunics, which everyone knew protected the wearer against evil. He laughed gruffly; it would take more than a bit of foliage to beat the crusaders.

  ‘I am standing down as duke,’ he announced.

  There was a stunned silence and then a steadily rising murmur as the warriors voiced their opposition to his proposal. He held up his unslung arm.

  ‘I allowed Duke Vincentas to be seduced by the honeyed words of the Bishop of Riga,’ said Viesthard, ‘and that resulted in his death. I decided to fight the bishop’s army at the Dvina and that led to the loss of many sons of Semgallia. It is clear that the gods have abandoned me.’

  No one said anything as he slumped back in his chair but they all looked at the bearded priest standing beside him.

  ‘No one can know the will of the gods,’ said the holy man, ‘and sometimes it may appear that they have turned against us. But I say to you, Duke Viesthard, and to you all that Perkunas has not abandoned our cause. We are being tested and should not lose our faith.’

  There were mutterings of agreement as the priest continued.

  ‘The Kriviu Krivaitis himself has declared a holy crusade against the heathen Christians and the Selonians and Nalsen have pledged their support.’

  There was a deafening silence at this announcement, many men shaking their heads and shouting that they were enemies of the Semgallians.

  ‘Have faith,’ the priest shot back. ‘Do you not think that former enemies that are now friends is not a miracle in itself?’

  Viesthard’s shoulders rose and fell as he chuckled to himself. He looked at the priest with tired eyes.

  ‘As a holy man I commend your faith but talk is cheap and we will see if Prince Vsevolod sends spears against the crusaders.’

  ‘More likely he will send spears against us,’ shouted one of the princes in the hall, to rapturous cheers from the others. Viesthard raised a hand to still the noise.

  ‘I would rather embrace the Bishop of Riga than Prince Vsevolod. But I did not invite you all here to discuss the merits of our enemies’ promises. You must decide among you who is to lead our people.’

  ‘We chose you,’ shouted one. More cheers.

  Viesthard ran a hand through his rapidly thinning hair. He sighed and was about to speak when he saw the doors of the hall opening. Two guards made their way through the warriors, a man in rich lamellar armour, mail aventail and green cloak between them, gilded helmet in the crook of his arm. The Semgallians all stared in silence as the man was escorted to the front of the hall. He bowed his head to Viesthard.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked the duke.

  ‘Prince Skiras, lord, here to convey a message from Duke Butantas of Samogitia.’

  There were mutterings of curiosity behind the prince. Ever since Grand Duke Daugerutis’ disastrous campaign in Livonia Samogitia had withdrawn from Lithuanian affairs, Butantas being content to guard his frontiers and remain aloof from any alliances.

  Viesthard visibly sagged in his chair. He had crusaders in the north of his kingdom, Northern Kurs on his western frontier and the poisonous Vsevolod in the east. And now Butantas stirred in the south. Was there no end to the misery that the gods could inflict on Semgallia?

  ‘What message?’ growled Viesthard.

  ‘That the duke and his army march to your aid, lord, in your war against the Christian invaders.’

  Viesthard leaned forward, thinking that his ears had played a trick on him. Skiras was unsure whether the Semgallian had heard him, his head being heavily bandaged, which might have impeded his hearing.

  ‘Duke Butantas marches to my aid?’

  Skiras smiled. ‘Yes, lord.’

  The Kriviai raised his arms. ‘Perkunas has answered our prayers and sends the great Butantas to avenge the wrongs committed against Semgallia. Hail Perkunas!’

  The warriors cheered and then began chanting the name of their duke, the hall filling with calls of ‘Viesthard, Viesthard’ as they acclaimed their leader. And all thoughts of choosing a new duke were forgotten as Viesthard rose from his chair and accepted the praise being showered on him. Suddenly his arm and head felt much better and the weariness that had engulfed him since the battle at the Dvina miraculously disappeared. Perhaps the priest had been right and there were such things as miracles.

  *****

  The march to Mesoten was uneventful. Duke Albert sent his lesser knights ahead to burn any village they came across and slaughter the inhabitants, though they found only empty settlements, the people having fled south to Mesoten. They burned the villages anyway and killed any livestock that had been left behind. The Army of the Wolf covered the left flank of the army and Fricis’ Livs the right flank as Duke Albert’s foot soldiers and servants assisted the progress of carts and wagons along muddy tracks. As usual progress was painfully slow, averaging five miles a day at best, but after a week the crusader host arrived at the Semgallian stronghold.

  The town adjacent to the great mound upon which that stronghold sat was immediately set alight because the duke and his lords believed that the resulting smoke would choke the inhabitants of the hill fort. Instead it made the crusaders wretch and their eyes smart when a mild easterly wind blew the smoke away from the fort. As a result the whole army was forced to withdraw half a mile north until the flames had died down. This did not improve the humour of the duke or his lords and they pressed for an immediate assault to storm the fort and put everyone inside to the sword. Only the personal intercession of the bishop himself, on the advice of Master Thaddeus, persuaded them that in this instance patience was preferable to courage.

  So over eight thousand soldiers, hundreds of non-combatants and thousands of animals surrounded Mesoten on three sides and settled down to a siege while Thaddeus and his engineers sited their engines. They also supervised the building of a wooden pontoon bridge across the River Lielupe that flowed on the western side of the hill fort and was swollen with spring melt water. The Army of the Wolf was camped on the eastern side of the river, the Livs to the south of the hill fort and the Duke of Saxony’s soldiers to the west, beyond the blackened remains of the town. The Sword Brothers and men of the garrison of Riga were camped to the north, by the bridge, where Bishop Albert’s pavilion was also pitched. The charred remains of the Semgallian settlement were still smouldering when the first council of war was held in the bishop’s pavilion. The Duke of Saxony came with a swarthy lord who said nothing but drank much wine offered by young novices from the bishop’s palace. Also in attendance were Grand Master Volquin, Master Rudolf, Abbot Bernhar
d, Conrad, Manfred Nordheim, Fricis and Rameke.

  The duke was in an abrasive mood.

  ‘My lords and their knights wish to scale that heap of dirt and destroy that pile of sticks on top of it.’

  ‘That would result in many of your men being injured or killed, my lord,’ said Abbot Bernhard who now wore mail armour like the bishop.

  ‘We have discussed this, my lord,’ added the bishop. ‘We did not bring siege engines all the way here only for them to stand idle.’

  The duke rounded on Thaddeus. ‘And when will your precious engines begin their work?’

  Thaddeus’ bony forehead creased into a frown. ‘Within two days, my lord, though it would have been sooner had my men been allowed to dismantle the pagan homes so the wood could be used for platforms for my machines to stand on. But some thought it preferable to burn them.’

  The duke’s cheeks reddened. ‘I gave the order to burn that pagan hovel.’

  Thaddeus raised an eyebrow. ‘A short-sighted decision, my lord.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ interrupted the bishop. ‘It was done and now we must address other matters. Master Thaddeus, I believe that you have some concerns regarding the size of the camp.’

  ‘Yes, lord bishop. ‘Very soon the whole area will become a giant field of mud due to the softness of the ground and the frequent rain. It would be better if there were less men and beasts in and around the siege lines.’

  ‘To which end,’ said Volquin, ‘I think it would be a good idea to send mounted parties east and west to ensure we are not surprised by a pagan relief force.’

  ‘Pagan relief force?’ spat the duke. ‘I thought we killed all their warriors at the river.’

  ‘There are others, my lord,’ said Nordheim. ‘To the west lies the hill fort of Tervete, the stronghold of Duke Viesthard.’

  The duke belched. ‘Who?’

  ‘The leader of the Semgallian people,’ answered Nordheim. ‘If he was not killed at the Dvina then he will be rallying his men at Tervete.’