Army of the Wolf

by Peter Darman

  ‘Last year,’ continued Olaf, ‘the Danes and Sword Brothers clashed at the Pala and we hear that the Bishop of Riga had finished his business south of the Dvina and will soon be marching north again. We will wait until the crusaders have weakened each other before taking advantage of their disunity.’

  One of the earls, a brawny individual with a thick blonde beard and long moustache, rose from his bench. Though those present in the hall were of different ranks all were free men whose voices were equal in the presence of the king.

  ‘Are you certain that the crusaders will argue among themselves? What is to stop them uniting and attacking us here on Oesel?’

  All looked at Olaf. Now over sixty and his beard and moustache pure white, his blue eyes still burned with determination and his mind was as keen as ever.

  He pointed at the formidable earl. ‘A fair question, Bothvar. In answer I will say that though we may view the crusaders as one unified enemy, they are in fact riven by divisions and jealousies. As I have already mentioned the Danes and Sword Brothers came to blows last year. This year I expect them to renew their struggle for control of Estonia. My plan is to destroy the Swedes at Leal and then wait until the Danes and Bishop of Riga have fought themselves to a standstill. Then I will sail to Lyndanise and burn it to the ground.’

  Bothvar, satisfied by the king’s answer, sat down as the others banged their feet in approval. Olaf held up his arms and called for silence.

  ‘In two weeks we will sail to Matsalu Bay and march to Leal. Sigurd will muster his men who garrison Rotalia and join us there. To victory!’

  They rose and repeated his cry, the high rafters echoing with their voices as they chanted his name and that of Taarapita, the Oeselian God of War and Thunder whose spirit infused every axe, spear and sword carried by Olaf’s warriors.

  Afterwards the men filed out of the hall to stretch their legs, take a piss or bed a slave girl they had brought with them before the great feast that would be held in the evening. In their absence slaves would set out tables before the benches in the hall and would open the doors to allow fresh air to enter. Because it was summer the earls and freemen slept in tents that ringed Kuressaare like a great besieging army. The freemen either came on their own or with any sons who were of fighting age, which usually meant of sixteen summers. The earls, though, possessed lands, treasure and followers and they usually arrived at Olaf’s capital in company of at least a score of their bodyguards: full-time warriors who lived for war and plunder and who staffed Olaf’s longships along with their lords. The slaves who could be found on the many farms and in the multitude of villages on Oesel were testament to the success of the raids conducted by the king over the years. There were fair-haired Estonians and Finns, swarthy Russians and Livs and even a few Germans whose vessels had been boarded by Oeselian longships. Even the poorest farmer had at least one slave to mistreat and assure himself that there was at least one person in the world who was worse off than him. The only people who did not own slaves were bondsmen, individuals who could not pay their debts and who had to work for another until the debt was paid.

  Olaf filled his lungs with air and stretched out his arms.

  ‘I’m getting too old for this.’

  ‘You, father? Never,’ said Sigurd. ‘You will die with an axe in your hand, of that I am certain.’

  ‘One for chopping wood instead of a war axe,’ grunted Olaf. He looked at his clean-shaven eldest son. ‘Once we have wiped out Leal I want you to get your men back to Oesel as quickly as possible. The talk among the merchants is that the Bishop of Riga will soon be marching north with a great army.’

  ‘We have seen crusader armies before, father,’ said Sigurd dismissively.

  ‘This one is different,’ warned Olaf. ‘It is really three armies. One of crusaders, one of Livs and a third composed of Estonians.’

  Sigurd was confused. ‘There are no Estonian armies, father. Perhaps a few renegades and bandits hiding in the forests but nothing else.’

  ‘You are wrong,’ said his father. ‘There is one led by a Sword Brother appointed as the marshal by the Bishop of Riga, whatever that means. The Estonians call this marshal Susi and have named his followers the Army of the Wolf.’

  Sigurd was not convinced. ‘It sounds like a tale told by parents to their young children to frighten them. It seems a pity to abandon Rotalia.’

  Olaf clasped the forearm of a passing earl even older then him, a bear of a man who dwarfed the king.

  ‘I hope I will see you at Leal, Swein,’ said Olaf, grinning. ‘I don’t want to have to send my guards to prise you out of your bed that you share with slave girls.’

  ‘I’ve brought a couple with me,’ beamed Swein. ‘Big-breasted Finnish girls. I’ll send you one to put some life back into your old bones.’

  ‘Dalla wouldn’t like that.’

  ‘So she hasn’t grown tired of you yet?’ said Swein. ‘I had better go and pay my compliments. Until the feast, my friend.’

  ‘Men like Swein give me faith that our way of life will survive,’ mused Olaf as he watched his over-sized friend stride away. He turned to his son. ‘But only if we tread the path between caution and audacity with the skill of a mountain goat. I do not want you suffering the same fate as Eric.’

  Eric had been Olaf’s oldest son but had fallen at Treiden during an expedition against the Sword Brothers.

  ‘I am not Eric,’ Sigurd reassured him.

  Eric had been headstrong, brave and foolish in equal measure, the embodiment of all that was good and bad in an Oeselian warrior. Sigurd was more thoughtful and intelligent but Olaf feared that he liked being the ruler of Rotalia too much. He had been given a taste of kingship and had found it agreeable. His son had said nothing regarding the evacuation of the Estonian kingdom but he feared that his reluctance to relinquish his overlordship of Rotalia might lead to him making rash decisions. He looked at his son. Perhaps he was being foolish. He placed an arm round Sigurd’s shoulders.

  ‘Come on, let’s make sure that Swein doesn’t drink all my mead.’

  *****

  The garrisons of Segewold, Kremon and Wenden did not stay with the crusader army as its members got drunk and celebrated their victory at Mesoten. Instead they journeyed north back to their castles, as did Conrad and the Army of the Wolf. Once more the latter camped on the plain to the south of the castle while its commander and his fellow brother knights gathered in the master’s hall to determine their next course of action. The days were long and hot as June gave way to July and crops ripened in the fields around the walled settler village, the population of which had increased again when a fresh batch of immigrants from Germany arrived the previous month.

  Because of the heat the brother knights had discarded their mail armour, being attired in long tunics of dark cloth, belted at the waist and reaching down to the ankles. Under this each man wore a linen shirt, a concession to the summer heat as shirts were usually woollen, woollen leggings on their legs and woollen breeches. Instead of boots they were all wearing ordinary shoes, though all of them retained their sword belts. Their white mantles, their lightweight summer cloaks that bore the insignia of the Sword Brothers on the left shoulder, were irreverently draped over the back of their chairs. All except for Walter’s that was still around the shoulders of its owner.

  ‘Estonia belongs to the Sword Brothers,’ stated Rudolf. ‘For nearly twenty years our order has shed blood subduing the pagans and the grand master does not intend the Danes to reap the benefits of all our hard work.’

  He looked at Conrad. ‘He believes that the Army of the Wolf was created by God to further the interests of our order. Therefore Conrad, Grand Master Volquin requests that you unleash your young wolves north, into Jerwen and Rotalia before the Danes decide to occupy those two places.’

  Walter was most troubled. ‘Master, His Holiness himself has granted the whole of Estonia to King Valdemar. We cannot go against the orders of Rome.’

  ‘The Bishop of R
iga is a prince of the Holy Church, Walter,’ replied Rudolf, ‘who has the ear of His Holiness. If we take Jerwen and Rotalia Rome will send an envoy to mediate between Bishop and King Valdemar. But in the meantime it will be the knights and sergeants of the Sword Brothers who will rule them, not the Danes.’

  ‘Of course if the Danes offer battle and Valdemar is killed then there will be no need for any mediation,’ said Henke, trying to be helpful. He pulled his dagger from its sheath and began balancing its point on the end of a finger.

  The other brother knights laughed but Walter frowned and shook his head.

  ‘King Valdemar is appointed by God to rule.’

  ‘To rule Denmark, yes,’ said Rudolf, ‘but not Estonia. The bishop initially requested his aid to support his crusade but now Valdemar covets the whole of Estonia for himself. And as we all know, avarice is a sin.’

  ‘When do wish me to leave, master?’ asked Conrad, barely able to contain his excitement.

  ‘We will all be leaving in the next two days,’ answered Rudolf. ‘The garrison of Wenden will be marching with you so your men will have armoured horsemen to support them. We will be rendezvousing with Sir Richard and his men at the Pala prior to advancing into Jerwen.’

  ‘What about the Oeselians?’ enquired Lukas. ‘They occupy Rotalia, do they not?’

  Rudolf gave his comrade a wry look. ‘While we have been amusing ourselves in Semgallia, Sir Richard at Lehola has not been idle. He has been sending scouts into Rotalia and Jerwen and his courier pigeons have provided me with up-to-date information regarding events north of the Pala. At the moment the Oeselians are occupied with dealing with the Swedes.’

  Henke stopped playing with his dagger. ‘The Swedes?’

  Rudolf nodded. ‘It would appear that King John of Sweden also has designs on Estonia and landed with a fleet at Matsalu Bay. He killed the garrison at a place called Leal and is currently engaged in strengthening it.’

  ‘Olaf will not take that kindly,’ said Lukas.

  ‘That is what I am hoping for,’ agreed Rudolf. ‘If the Oeselians and Swedes fight each other then it will make our task easier.’

  ‘Which is, master?’ asked Walter.

  ‘To ask the Swedes to depart Estonia. They have no business here.’

  ‘What if the Swedes ally themselves with the Danes?’ said Walter.

  ‘Let us hope that they do,’ offered Henke, ‘along with the Oeselians. Then we can kill them all in one great battle.’

  Walter was appalled but the other brother knights banged on the tables to sound their support for the idea. Rudolf waved a hand at them.

  ‘That’s enough. We will seek battle with the Oeselians for they are pagans but we do not go to fight fellow Christians. We march to reinforce our rightful claim to Jerwen and Rotalia, which God Himself made clear belongs to the Sword Brothers by virtue of his granting us victory at St Matthew’s Day.’

  ‘What of the Danes, master?’ asked Conrad. ‘When they learn that we have entered Jerwen they will surely march to intercept us.’

  ‘Sir Richard informs me that because of their heavy handedness the Danes are at this moment fully occupied with subduing rebellious elements in Wierland and Harrien.’

  Rudolf stood. ‘The bishop will be leaving Riga in the next few days. By the time he reaches the Pala I want Jerwen and Rotalia to be in our hands so that he can advance unmolested to the gates of Reval itself. There he and King Valdemar can discuss the partition of Estonia between them. Thank you brothers, back to your duties.’

  After the meeting Conrad walked with Hans and Anton across the courtyard towards the gatehouse.

  ‘So we get another chance to kill that bastard Count Henry,’ said Conrad.

  ‘This time he will not escape,’ promised Hans.

  ‘What if the Danes do not offer battle?’ said Anton.

  ‘They will offer battle,’ answered Conrad grimly. ‘Our presence in Jerwen will be a provocation that will not be able to be ignored and then we will get our chance.’

  He stopped and faced them.

  ‘I have a favour to ask.’

  ‘Name it,’ said Hans.

  ‘I want to be the one who kills Count Henry.’

  Anton and Hans held out their arms, Hans placing his palm on top of Anton’s hand. Conrad laid a palm on Hans’ hand and all three uttered their prayer and promise.

  ‘As dust to the wind.’

  The next day there was heightened activity in and around the castle as men made ready to leave Wenden to go north. Rudolf had given orders that the whole expedition was to be mounted to increase the rate of advance. The Army of the Wolf had its hardy ponies and the brother knights and sergeants had their palfreys but the foot soldiers had no horses. It was therefore decided to leave all the spearmen behind and take the garrison’s crossbowmen: sixty men who were mounted on draught horses and who carried sacks of fodder and food in addition to spare quivers filled with bolts.

  Leather face was most unhappy about the arrangement.

  ‘My men and me are treated like mules. I’ll warrant that the pampered warhorses won’t be loaded down with supplies.’

  ‘We will all be loaded down with supplies,’ Conrad reassured him. ‘Better that than hauling wagons over rutted tracks.’

  The crossbowman curled his lip but said nothing as he and Conrad left the massive stable block that was packed with horses, grooms, stable hands and farriers and walked into the courtyard. Rudolf always liked to keep it clear and clean, the novices having the onerous duty of sweeping it each morning after early morning prayers and breakfast. Now that the gatehouse had been completed the enormous courtyard was enclosed on all four sides by stone buildings and towers.

  Leather face looked around as he peered across at the squat armoury. ‘I always feel like a dwarf when I step into this courtyard.’

  ‘I think that is the idea,’ said Conrad. ‘The castle had been designed to awe those who observe it, both within and without.’

  ‘Very poetic.’

  He rubbed his cheek.

  ‘Are you ill?’ enquired Conrad.

  ‘Just a bit of toothache. I need some more cloves from Ilona. Better get them before we set off. Don’t want my teeth aching when I’m killing Danes.’

  He strode off in the direction of the gatehouse. Conrad accompanied him on his way to the Estonian camp beyond the outer perimeter. They passed under the two portcullises that would be dropped if an enemy breached the outer walls and then walked across the great oak drawbridge that would also be raised if an enemy approached. Below the bridge was a deep dry moat, its sheer sides faced with stone and its bottom decorated with rows of iron spikes.

  ‘It is a curious thing,’ considered the mercenary. ‘In Germany Ilona would probably be burned as a witch for creating her healing concoctions. But here, in a Christian kingdom, she is treated like a queen.’

  Conrad remembered the injustice committed against his family. ‘There are many things wrong with Germany.’

  They walked down the track that led to the outer gates, wooden huts on either side that housed the mercenaries and the workers and their families who worked on and in the castle. Beyond them lay the training fields where the novices were practising with their wasters: wooden swords made to replicate the weight and feel of their metal equivalents. Conrad saw the long hair of Kaja on the end of the line and smiled.

  ‘That’s your girl, isn’t it?’ remarked leather face.

  ‘She is not my girl,’ Conrad corrected him.

  ‘She would be if you asked her,’ said leather face mischievously.

  They walked between the huts to appear at the edge of the grass field and near to where the novices were receiving instruction from Lukas. The brother knight nodded at Conrad when he saw him.

  ‘This takes me back,’ said Conrad. ‘It seems only yesterday when I was standing holding my waster in front of Brother Lukas.’

  The latter suddenly held his head in his hands and instructed his charges to
stop what they were doing.

  ‘No, no, no,’ he shouted. ‘What I have I always told you? Swordsmanship is not about brute strength, it is about knowledge, dexterity and cunning.’

  He pointed at a tall, broad-shouldered youth standing in the middle of the line.

  ‘Hugo, step forward five paces.’

  The novice did as he was told.

  Lukas pointed at Kaja. ‘Kaja, do the same.’

  When she had done so Lukas instructed them to face each other.

  ‘When I give the command you will fight each other until I tell you to desist.’

  Kaja immediately placed her left arm behind her back and adopted a crouching stance, her waster extended towards Hugo. But the latter ignored her and looked at Lukas imploringly.

  ‘Is there something wrong, Hugo?’

  ‘I must protest, Brother Lukas. It is demeaning fighting a girl.’

  ‘Then I suggest you get it over as quickly as possible,’ remarked Lukas, ‘to lessen your embarrassment.’

  ‘He’ll break every bone in her nubile young body,’ said leather face. ‘Such a waste.’

  Conrad did not reply but an initial observation seemed to support the lecherous old mercenary’s opinion. Kaja was slimmer and shorter than her powerful opponent, who held his waster firmly in his over-sized hand. A waster was a faithful replica of a real sword, complete with contoured grip, pommel and cross-guard. If Hugo caught her with the waster’s blade the blow would certainly hurt and might indeed break a bone.

  ‘Begin,’ shouted Lukas.

  But Hugo did not land a blow. Kaja was amazingly light on her feet, passing, turning, feinting, advancing and retreating to avoid Hugo’s strikes and dancing round him like a spirit of the forest. The other novices shouted encouragement to Hugo who Conrad had to admit wielded his waster with an admirable deftness. But he became angry as he tried to strike Kaja with a vertical cut to her head, a diagonal cut to her neck and a horizontal swipe at her belly. He screamed in frustration as she either dodged his blows or deflecting them. Conrad smiled to himself. Every day for months she had practised with either a waster or with his own sword, in all weathers and temperatures. Her thirst to learn was like a raging fire inside her and it now bore fruit as Hugo whipped down his waster to make a low cut to her exposed right knee. If it had made contact it would had shattered her kneecap but Kaja had anticipated his strike. Her waster moved in a blur as she warded off Hugo’s strike with a forceful downward counter-strike, and then flicked her wrist to bring her own weapon up to strike Hugo’s right cheek with the flat of her waster’s blade.