Castellan (34 page)

Because it was summer both had dispensed with mail shirts, wearing only linen tunics and leggings and nothing on their heads. The men of the bodyguard behind them sweated in mail corselets and helmets, their beards either plaited or forked as symbols of their masculinity.

‘Stark and Kalf are eager to fight in the shield wall this year, father,’ said Sigurd.

His two brothers were on the mainland, part of the garrison of Varbola that had been captured in the aftermath of King Valdemar’s ignominious flight from Reval following his defeat on Oesel.

Olaf sighed. ‘We will not retain Varbola beyond the end of the year.’

Sigurd was surprised. ‘Oh?’

‘Danish ships no longer patrol the sea outside the mouth of the Dvina, which means that more crusaders will soon be arriving at Riga. We will need every warrior on Oesel to defend our island.’

‘You think the Danish king will return, father?’

Olaf shrugged. ‘He may, he may not. But what I do know is that the Sword Brothers will be back once they have settled affairs on the mainland. It is only a matter of time.’

He suddenly pulled up his pony and looked at his son. The leading pair of his bodyguard nearly collided into him and Sigurd as they too pulled up their mounts.

‘When you are ruler, Sigurd, you must above all safeguard the people.’

‘That time is many years away.’

Olaf waved away his reassuring words. The older man’s blue eyes bored into those of his son.

‘Save the people, Sigurd, that is my command to you. Forget about glory and bravado. When the time comes your duty will be to safeguard the lives of those you rule over. Do you understand?’

Sigurd matched his father’s iron stare. ‘I understand, father.’

Olaf nudged his pony with his knees to prompt the beast to resume walking, Sigurd doing the same. The latter attempted to make more conversations with his father but gave up when the old man gave either one-word answers to his questions or merely grunted in response to statements. As a light rain began to fall they rode on towards Kuressaare in silence.

*****

‘Cattle?’

Hans was scratching his head, wondering if Conrad was having a joke at his expense.

‘That is what Master Rudolf ordered,’ replied his friend. ‘Two hundred head of cattle.’

‘Why?’

Conrad shook his head. ‘You know as much as I do.’

‘It makes no sense,’ said Anton on the other side of Conrad.

‘Perhaps Master Rudolf wants to supplement Wenden’s food supplies,’ suggested Riki riding behind the three brother knights.

‘Wenden has enough supplies of food,’ Hans told him.

‘And Hans takes a keen interest in the castle’s food supplies, Riki,’ grinned Conrad.

Following the battle at the Sedde Rudolf had ordered Conrad to take Riki’s fifty Harrien, plus Leatherface and ten crossbowmen and the same number of sergeants from Wenden, and strike east to the south of Lake Vortsjarv. Meanwhile he would take the main force and chase Kristjan north, both to relieve Sir Richard at Lehola and ensure that the enemy would not have a chance to rest.

‘Remember,’ Rudolf had told Conrad on the eve of his departure, ‘the majority of Ungannia’s warriors will be under Kristjan’s command, leaving southern Ungannia undefended. Ride hard and fast, seize the cattle and retreat back to Wenden.’

Rudolf would say no more on the matter and so Conrad and his ad hoc force left the next day, along with half a dozen packhorses loaded with tents, crossbow bolts and food. The land was now bathed in summer sunshine and the column of riders made good progress as it headed east.

‘Did Master Rudolf say anything about burning villages?’ asked Leatherface casually.

Conrad spun in the saddle. ‘There is to be no burning, no looting and no raping.’

‘Are they Rudolf’s orders or yours?’ teased Leatherface.

‘Mine,’ snapped Conrad.

‘You’ve got a lot to learn,’ replied Leatherface. ‘You can’t beat an enemy with soft words and good intentions. In Germany after a victory we would always make sure the enemy’s territory suffered accordingly. I remember a time…’

‘We are not in Germany,’ said Conrad sternly. ‘Once Kristjan has been defeated Ungannia will be under my control. I want the people to be loyal, not rebellious.’

But Leatherface would not have it. ‘You see that’s where you are going wrong, Brother Conrad.’

‘Conrad is right,’ said Hans. ‘If you burn villages the inhabitants will be resentful.’

‘We solved that problem in Germany easily enough,’ replied Leatherface.

‘How?’ asked Anton.

‘We killed all the inhabitants of the villages we plundered.’

Southern Ungannia was a carpet of green and blue, the thick forests of pine, birch and fir interwoven with crystal-clear lakes and slow-moving rivers. The trees were alive with birds and the forests were filled with game as the riders moved stealthily along ancient forest tracks and by the sides of meadows and rivers to position themselves within sight of settlements. At first Conrad and his two friends would charge out of the trees around mid-morning to carry off grazing cattle. At night the beasts were kept in barns to keep them safe from wolves but during the day it was easy enough to steal them away from under the noses of young boys or old men who were watching over them. The problem was that each village usually possessed only half a dozen cows at most, and so after two days Conrad split his command into four groups to speed things up. He commanded one group, Hans a second, Anton a third and Riki the fourth. Conrad stressed again the necessity of avoiding plunder, rape and bloodshed and arranged to rendezvous in a week on the southern shore of Lake Vortsjarv where the Cumans had been defeated. To reduce the likelihood of violence he ordered Leatherface to be a member of his group.

The first few days were easy enough and soon Conrad was the proud owner of thirty stolen cattle, which only slowed down the raiders but also required guarding night and day.

‘You don’t want some cattle rustlers stealing them from under your nose, do you?’

Leatherface was having the time of his life, constantly reminding an increasingly irritable Conrad that he was no better than a thief.

‘Though a thief with a nice horse, I’ll grant you that,’ smirked the mercenary.

‘Shut up.’

‘Strictly speaking, of course, you aren’t really a thief.’

‘I’m not?’

‘Seeing as you are Marshal of Estonia and all, you can requisition what you want.’

Conrad was leading a small party of Leatherface, another crossbowman and two sergeants through wheatgrass at the edge of a forest of pine on their way to raid a village they had scouted the night before. Like dozens of other villages in Ungannia it was a collection of huts adjoining a couple of barns surrounded by pasture and slash and burn land. The abundance of land in Estonia made slash and burn a sensible policy for farmers who planted crops in a field for one or two seasons, thereafter letting the field lie fallow for several subsequent seasons. The farmers moved on to a field that had lain fallow for several years removing the vegetation and burning it, hence slash and burn. The ash produced by the burning added nutrients to the soil to aid the growing of crops. But Conrad was not here for crops and urged his horse on to seize half a dozen cattle grazing in a field nearby the settlement.

‘No violence,’ he shouted to Leatherface as a young boy, having seen the approaching riders, sprinted towards the huts.

They slowed when they reached the cows so as not to stampede them, the sergeants circling them and using the blunt ends of their lances to move them towards the forest so they could be taken back to camp.

‘Here’s trouble,’ said Leatherface from on his horse behind Conrad. ‘Look lively,’ he said to the crossbowman beside him, both of them taking a foot out of a stirrup and shoving it in the metal stirrup fitted to the fore-ends of their weapons to load them.

Conrad saw four figures advancing from the village towards them, all carrying round shields and wearing helmets. Three were armed with spears, the other with a sword.

‘This should be easy,’ remarked Leatherface as he brought up his weapon to aim it.

‘No violence,’ ordered Conrad.

‘Don’t be an idiot,’ the mercenary told him, ‘in case you hadn’t noticed they are all armed.’

Conrad spurred his horse forward to intercept the group, which as he got nearer saw was comprised two old men and two young boys, the helmets of the latter too large for their heads. They stopped when he neared them, the old man with a sword taking a few steps forward. He pointed the blade at Conrad who slowed his horse.

‘Return those cattle, thief, and I will let you live.’

Conrad halted his horse and dismounted, pulling his mail coif off his head and keeping his sword in its scabbard. He walked towards the old man, who must have been seventy if he was a day. His beard was white, his skin leathery as befitting his age but his eyes burned with defiance.

‘I cannot do that, sir,’ sighed Conrad.

Leatherface and his subordinate were now behind Conrad pointing their crossbows at the old man.

‘I have seen many summers and killed many bandits,’ sneered the old man. ‘They are all the same no matter what robes they wear. Cowards and bullies who only come out of the shadows when the menfolk are away.’

‘And why are they away?’ said Conrad. ‘Because they are fighting beside Kristjan who makes war on Livonia.’

‘Do the Sword Brothers make war on women and children?’ scoffed the old man.

‘The Sword Brothers obey orders,’ answered Conrad vaguely. ‘I wish you no harm but I must take your cattle. For that I apologise.’

The old man laughed. ‘A thief with manners, now that is a first.’

One of the boys suddenly ran at Conrad, his spear levelled at the brother knight’s belly.

‘Do not shoot!’ Conrad shouted at the crossbowmen as the boy neared him.

At the last second Conrad leapt to the left to cause the spear point to pass by his right side, clenching his right fist and smashing it on the back of the boy’s neck as he stumbled past, knocking him to the ground. The boy was agile and tried to get up as soon as he had fallen, but Conrad had whipped out his sword and held the point at his neck before he could rise. The brother knight looked at the old man.

‘Do you want this boy’s life on your conscience?’

The youth was now terrified, fear in his eyes, as Conrad held the sword at his throat. He looked pleadingly at the old man. For the first time the latter looked unsure, hesitant.

‘What is this place?’ asked Conrad.

‘Restu,’ replied the old man.

Conrad withdrew his sword from the boy’s throat.

‘Get up.’

Looking utterly relieved, he sprang to his feet and ran back to the old man’s side.

‘Forgive me, grandfather,’ he said to him.

The old man looked kindly at him.

‘I make you this promise. I, Conrad Wolff, Marshal of Estonia, will replace your cattle after the war is over. This I vow to God and to you, and a Sword Brother does not break his vow.’

He picked up the helmet and threw it to the boy.

‘Remember,’ he said to the youth, ‘an enemy never stands still so you can spear him. Think before you attack, never let your rage master you.’

He walked back to his horse and regained the saddle. In the distance the sergeants were herding the cows out of sight. He tugged on the reins to turn the beast around.

‘Sword Brother,’ called the old man. ‘What if you lose the war, what then?’

Conrad smiled. ‘The Sword Brothers never lose a war, sir. You will get your cattle back, have no fear.’

He dug his spurs into his horse’s side and cantered away, the crossbowmen following.

‘Fine words,’ agreed Leatherface. ‘You should have let us kill them, saves lots of trouble later.’

‘When I return their cattle to them I will have earned their loyalty,’ replied Conrad. ‘Why make enemies when you can make friends with a bit of effort.’

Leatherface sighed. ‘That’s not really the mercenary way of thinking, Brother Conrad.’

Conrad had been in Livonia for thirteen years. During that time he had learned to use a wide variety of weapons, both on foot and in the saddle. He had taken part in battles against the Estonians, Oeselians, Cumans, Lithuanians and Russians. He had taken part in sieges and been besieged himself. He was a skilled veteran, a man at home on the battlefield. But nothing had prepared him for the stress and frustration associated with herding cattle.

Moving a few beasts was easy enough, but when his raids had collected just over fifty the nightmare began. He and the sergeants made a lot of noise in an attempt to get the herd moving, Riki’s warriors trying vainly to dissuade him. The cattle refused to move at first, but when he, the sergeants and crossbowmen attempted to frighten them into moving they scattered in all directions, into the woods, into thickets and into the waters of a river. It took half a day to re-assemble them. Afterwards one of Riki’s men, a thickset warrior with a huge beard, berated the Marshal of Estonia.