by Peter Darman
His axe was tucked in his belt and he slowly drew his sword from its scabbard as he caught site of the next group of riders. His heart was beating faster than normal but his nerves were steady as he saw the blue caparison emblazoned with a yellow griffin. He threw off the cloak and sprinted forward through the trees, covering the twenty paces in seconds. He ran silently as the wolf shield blew his horn again and again, other Saccalian signallers doing likewise as the air was suddenly filled with dozens of war cries.
The count was a veteran soldier whose reactions were quick and he levelled his lance as warriors swarmed from the trees that flanked the track. But he was looking to his right as he pointed his weapon at an oncoming warrior and did not see Conrad who plunged his sword between the two halves of his horse’s caparison. The blade went into the warhorse’s barrel, the whole of Conrad’s weight behind it. The beast let out a deep groan as it collapsed, pinning the count beneath its bulk.
Conrad leapt over the dead horse as the other knights were assaulted on all sides by wolf shields. Count Henry’s right leg was stuck fast under his horse and though he struggled frantically Conrad was able to yank off his helm with relative ease. He pulled off his own helm, pulled his dagger from its sheath and held the blade to the count’s throat.
‘Yield!’ he shouted at the top of his voice in the direction of the battling knights. ‘Yield or your lord dies.’
He was pulling the counts’ jaw back so the noble could not say anything.
‘Yield or he dies!’ he bellowed again.
The wolf shields around him immediately disengaged and shuffled back with their shields facing the knights when they heard Conrad’s voice, as they had been ordered to do. A few lay dead on the track, slain by lances, and at least two knights had been knocked to the ground and had their helmets staved in by axe blades. But the rest now looked through the vision slits of their helmets at their prostrate lord and the dagger at his throat.
‘Yield,’ Conrad ordered them again.
They looked at each other and then back down the track in the hope that reinforcements would appear. But the rest of the count’s army was preoccupied with facing the hundreds of warriors that had suddenly appeared on their flanks.
When the horns of the wolf shields had been heard Andres’ men had flooded from the trees into the meadow, wheeled left and formed a shield wall facing the left flank of the count’s foot soldiers and supply wagons. At the same time Hillar led his Rotalians from the trees on the other side of the meadow to hastily form a shield wall to face the Germans’ right flank. The crossbowmen, spearmen and horsemen in the rest of the army forgot about their commander as they prepared to defend themselves against attacks on both of their flanks. The Rotalians and Jerwen made a lot of noise and inflated their numbers by deploying in three ranks only, but their task was to retain the attention of the count’s soldiers, not fight them. And as a precaution they locked their shields as a defence against the crusaders’ crossbows.
In the forest, meanwhile, the vanguard suddenly returned and once more Conrad shouted at them to halt and throw down their lances, else their lord would die. Hans and Anton went among the knights that had been escorting Count Henry, ordering them to throw down their lances, swords, maces and axes. They then walked over to the vanguard and issued the same instructions.
‘Get me out from under this horse,’ the count hissed through gritted teeth.
Conrad called over Tonis and the young signaller nearby and asked them to haul the slain horse off the count’s body. It took all their strength to move the dead weight, eventually shifting it enough for the count to free his leg. Conrad took the knife from his throat and sheathed it as the lord hobbled to his feet. Wolf shields stood guard over the disarmed knights as Conrad stood before Count Henry, Hans and Anton coming to their friend’s side with swords drawn. Tonis pulled Conrad’s sword from the corpse of the warhorse, wiped the blade on the caparison and handed it back to its owner.
‘That was a fine warhorse you killed,’ said the count.
Conrad slid his sword back into its scabbard and slapped the count across the face with the back of his mailed hand. The German knights saw this and shouted angrily through their helmets.
‘Silence!’ shouted Conrad, as the count felt his bleeding lip.
One, his livery the same as the count’s, jumped from his horse, cast his helmet aside and came at Conrad. But Hans and Anton drew their swords and held the points at his throat.
‘It is all right, Gunzelin,’ said the count.
‘It is far from all right, count,’ seethed Conrad. ‘You and your men trespass upon my land for did I not inform you at the Pala last year that I am the Marshal of Estonia?’
‘I heard but did not believe it,’ scoffed the count, blood running down his chin.
‘You will fight me here, now,’ said Conrad, ‘and I will send your body back to Reval where it can be thrown on a rubbish heap. Draw your sword.’
Conrad stepped back and pulled his own sword from its scabbard as more horsemen appeared on the track, this time coming from the south.
‘Sir Richard and Master Rudolf,’ said Hans.
The horsemen slowed as the Sword Brothers and Sir Richard approached the spot where Conrad stood facing Count Henry.
‘More spectators to see your death, boy,’ sneered the count. He looked at the mounted brother knights in their full-face helmets.
‘Show yourselves,’ he called to Wenden’s soldiers.
He ignored Conrad as Rudolf slowly removed his helm, followed by Walter, Henke and the others. The man named Gunzelin looked shocked as he caught sight of Rudolf’s face, though the count showed nothing but contempt.
‘So, you ended up in this shit-hole. It would have been better if you had died in Germany.’
‘Hello, father,’ said Rudolf. He nodded at Gunzelin. ‘Uncle.’
Conrad looked in astonishment at Rudolf. ‘This man is your father?’
The count saw the faces of the other Sword Brothers.
‘Henke? How in the name of all that’s holy did you become a crusader? And Lukas. Does the church know of your crimes in Germany?’
‘I am a warrior of Christ,’ replied Lukas, ‘and ask for His forgiveness for my past sins.’
‘As well you might,’ said the count. He looked at Rudolf. ‘Are you not going to enquire after your brother and mother?’
‘I hope they are well,’ uttered Rudolf.
The count folded his arms. ‘Your brother was killed in battle three years ago so your mother has lost two sons. You are now the heir to my estates and fortune, or at least you would be had I not disinherited you.’
He pointed at Conrad. ‘This upstart has insulted me, struck me and killed my horse. You will have to forgive me while I attend to his execution.’
He stepped back and drew his sword as Conrad brought up his shield and circled the count.
‘Hold!’ said Rudolf, who dismounted and strode over to place himself between the two combatants.
‘There will be no killing here today.’
‘Did you hear that, Gunzelin?’ said the count. ‘I never thought I would see the day when the leader of Germany’s most violent mercenary band would call a halt to slaughter.’
‘He killed Johann,’ Conrad said to Rudolf.
‘Johann was a soldier, Conrad,’ replied Wenden’s master, ‘and soldiers die in war.’
‘What now?’ asked Gunzelin.
‘Now you will return to Reval with your men,’ answered Rudolf.
‘Are you not going to invite me to dine with you tonight, son?’ smiled the count.
Rudolf ignored his father and looked sympathetically at Conrad.
‘I understand your frustration, Conrad, but in this matter you must look beyond your personal feelings. As Marshal of Estonia you cannot risk war with King Valdemar. It is for Bishop Albert and the Danish king to decide the partition of this land, not you.’
‘The master is right, Conrad,’ said Walter. ‘You
cannot let your personal desire for revenge cloud your judgement.
Conrad saw the smirking face of the count and wanted to strike it again, but he knew that Rudolf and Walter were right. He sighed deeply and walked over to Henke and looked up at him.
‘You were right, Henke.’
The brother knight looked at him in confusion. ‘Right about what?’
‘I let too many people live. I had my dagger at the throat of Rudolf’s father and should have used it. Now he will go free. I will not make the same mistake again.’
Henke’s mouth broke into a half-smile. He leaned forward.
‘For once I am in agreement with you.’
‘Well,’ announced the count, ‘touching though this reunion has been I must get back to my men. Pick up your weapons,’ he shouted to his knights.
The knights and squires dismounted but the wolf shields moved forward to stop them.
‘Let them be,’ ordered Conrad.
‘Gunzelin,’ said the count, ‘ride back to the men and give instructions to pitch camp.’
He looked at Rudolf and ignored Conrad.
‘The Bishop of Riga is marching north?’
‘He is,’ replied his son.
‘Then I will inform King Valdemar of his imminent arrival at Reval. They can decide the fate of this land between them.’
He pointed at Conrad.
‘And your fate, for he ordered that this so-called Army of the Wolf should be destroyed.’
Conrad laughed. ‘And yet it is you and your army that were nearly destroyed.’
One of the squires brought the count a horse and held the reins as Henry hauled himself into the saddle.
‘Nearly being the operative word, boy. You should have killed me when you had the chance. You will not get another one.’
He wheeled the horse around, dug his spurs into its side and rode back down the track, his knights and squires following. They took their own dead with them and left only the slain warhorse of Count Henry behind. Seething, Conrad ordered Tonis to send word to Hillar and Andres to withdraw their men back to camp as he followed the brother knights and Sir Richard’s men on foot along the forest track. He sank into a deep sulk as he watched Duke Henry’s son disappear, thereafter staring at the ground and mumbling to himself and ignoring the efforts of his friends to cheer him.
That evening his mood darkened as the Army of the Wolf celebrated what had been a flawlessly executed ambush and an almost bloodless victory over the enemy. But whereas the Estonian warriors thought Susi was a great warlord who achieved victory without shedding the blood of his men, Conrad felt cheated. Cheated of victory and cheated of vengeance. He barely spoke two words to Kaja as she served him his evening meal and afterwards stalked off towards the dark, brooding White Horse Hill that was bathed in pale moonlight. He wrapped his cloak around him as the night sky was clear and the temperature had dropped, made worse by the ache that throbbed within his belly. He scrambled up the slope, tripping over undergrowth and banging his arms on low-lying branches. When he reached the summit he stared down through a gap in the forest canopy at the glow of the campfires in Count Henry’s army on the meadow below. Behind him he could hear the sounds of revelry coming from his own camp.
He began to formulate a plan in his mind. He would lead a night raid against the count’s camp. He was, after all, the Marshal of Estonia with around nine hundred men under his command. His Estonians would move silently through the forest like ghosts to appear among the count’s tents unseen. He would wait until the early hours of tomorrow morning when German bellies were full and men slept, secure in the knowledge that the army camped on the other side of the hill meant them no harm.
‘I let you down, Johann. I am sorry.’
A twig snapped behind him. He spun round, pulling his sword from its scabbard as he did so, to see Rudolf standing a few feet away. Wenden’s master held out his arms.
‘I come in peace, lord marshal.’
Conrad slid his sword back in its scabbard and turned back to observe Count Henry’s camp. He heard Rudolf approach.
‘Your Estonian chiefs were most concerned about your disappearance, brothers Hans and Anton as well. An army commander has a responsibility to his men not to absent himself in the middle of the night and wander off alone.’
‘I needed some time to think, master,’ said Conrad.
Rudolf stood beside him and stared down at the German campfires.
‘To think or to plan?’
‘I do not know what you mean, master,’ replied Conrad evasively.
‘How long have you been with us at Wenden, Conrad?’
‘Over ten years, master.’
‘Ten years. Long enough I think to know how your mind works, Conrad. You are above all loyal, to the Sword Brothers, to your friends and to me, I hope.’
‘Of course,’ said Conrad.
‘And to the memory of your dead friend, I assume?’
Conrad did not answer.
Rudolf pointed towards the campfires. ‘A tempting target, do you not think? But night-time attacks are notoriously difficult to plan and execute. Is that not so, marshal?’
‘Difficult for knights on horseback and spearmen on foot, yes,’ agreed Conrad.
‘But not impossible,’ continued Rudolf, ‘for lightly armed pagans who are accustomed to moving unseen and unheard through trees.’
He turned to face Conrad. ‘After all the excitement earlier I forgot to congratulate you on a well-executed ambush. Sir Richard was most impressed and by all accounts he is not a man to give his praise lightly.’
‘The ambush failed,’ said Conrad flatly. ‘The target was allowed to escape.’
‘And you blame me for this?’
‘No, master, I blame myself for not being ruthless enough. I had my dagger at Count Henry’s throat and should have…’
He suddenly remembered to whom he was speaking. ‘Apologies, master. I intended no offence.’
‘You did not know that Count Henry was my father so no apology is necessary.’
‘One thing I do not understand, master, and that is your name. You are called Rudolf Kassel with no reference to Schwerin.’
‘Remind me, Conrad, what was your chosen path before God intervened and brought you to Livonia?’
‘I was apprentice to my father, a baker,’ answered Conrad.
‘A baker. Yes, of course. I remember now. I was born the son of a count, the second son as it happens, trained from infancy to be a knight. Unfortunately second sons do not share in their older sibling’s inheritance and so there was nothing for me to do, apart from fighting. And so, much to my parents’ consternation, I became a mercenary. A good one, I might add.’
‘Brother Lukas told me that he was once part of your mercenary band,’ said Conrad.
‘And Henke and Otto and many others,’ continued Rudolf. ‘But the life of a mercenary is a hand-to-mouth existence where death and poverty are constant companions. The dream is to earn enough money to purchase an estate where one could live with all the trappings of knighthood, but it is all illusion.
‘And so we drifted from one place to another, looking for work, occasionally turning to brigandage to survive. Our greatest victory, or atrocity according to your point of view, was at Kassel, a town in northern Hesse. We were hired to capture the town and did so, though the cost in civilian casualties was high. And then the noble lords of Hesse decided that we were not welcome in their lands and so harried us north. After numerous harsh winters and fighting for a pittance we ended up in Lübeck. We had no money, prices on our heads and our numbers had been whittled down to a handful. So we took the only course open to us. We joined the Sword Brothers.’
‘Why did you not return to your family?’ asked Conrad.
‘Well for one thing,’ said Rudolf, ‘my father, embarrassed by the tales about his younger son, had disinherited me, which is ironic as I would only have inherited his wealth and lands if my dear brother, Frederick, had died.’
> ‘You father said that he is dead,’ said Conrad.
‘God’s joke at my expense, perhaps,’ suggested Rudolf. He looked at the brother knight.
‘What are the odds of a baker’s son rising to become Marshal of Estonia, do you think?’
‘Long, master.’
Rudolf placed an arm around Conrad’s shoulders.
‘Come, put all thoughts of revenge aside and share in the affection and loyalty of your men.’
As they did so Conrad questioned Rudolf further regarding his father.
‘Will you ride to the count’s camp, master?’
‘To what end?’
‘To effect a reconciliation,’ said Conrad.
Rudolf chuckled grimly. ‘You know little of the mind of the Count of Schwerin, Conrad. Reconciliation and forgiveness are alien concepts to him.’
The next day Count Henry struck camp and retreated north back to Reval. Conrad despatched scouts to shadow his army as it retraced its steps. At the same time as the score of Jerwen on ponies left, riders arrived from the south with news that the Bishop of Riga’s army had crossed the Pala seven days earlier and was ten miles south of White Horse Hill. Like Count Henry’s soldiers it was accompanied by dozens of wagons and carts, though not by as many soldiers as had crossed the Dvina earlier in the year.
Fricis and Rameke had journeyed north with a thousand Liv warriors, but had been forced to leave many more in Livonia so they could assist in gathering in the harvest. But it was the threat of Lithuanian aggression that had obliged the Duke of Saxony to leave the majority of his spearmen and militiamen at the Dvina, divided between the garrisons of Lennewarden, Holm, Uexkull, Kokenhusen and Gerzika. For the same reason the masters of those strongholds – respectively Arnold, Godfrey, Friedhelm, Griswold and Jacob – were forced to remain with their garrisons along the river. As a result only Master Mathias and Kremon’s garrison and Master Bertram and the soldiers accompanied Grand Master Volquin from Segewold. Nevertheless, added to the forces of Master Rudolf, Sir Richard and Conrad, the bishop was still able to muster a total of just over three thousand eight hundred men.