The Sword Brothers (24 page)

The crusader leader
who had accompanied Bishop Albert to Wenden also sat at the table,
as did Grand Master Volquin, Caupo and Abbot Theodoric of the
fortified monastery at Dünamünde, located on the northern bank of
the Dvina near the Baltic. Theodoric had been converting the pagans
in Livonia for nearly twenty years and had an intimate knowledge of
the area and its peoples. The bishop valued him because he was a
gruff, no-nonsense individual who retained a clear head in a
crisis. No more so than now. Tall, gaunt and with hardly any hair
on his bony head, he had a deep, commanding voice.

‘The Kurs will not
return this year,’ he said, ‘so calm yourself archdeacon. They are
pirates and scavengers who look for easy victories. They have
received a bloody nose and will be licking their wounds for a long
time. Of more immediate concern is the Lithuanians.’

‘Fortunately their
assault against Kokenhusen was beaten off,’ said the bishop, ‘we
have Prince Vsevolod to thank for that. He at least is loyal.’

‘The garrison at
Kokenhusen should be reinforced, lord bishop,’ said Volquin, ‘to
deter any further Lithuanian aggression.’

The bishop smiled at
the crusader commander. ‘I would ask that you send some of your
knights to the castle for the next few months, Sir Frederick.’

Frederick nodded and
then stroked his beard. ‘What of the campaign against the
Estonians?’

‘We cannot march
against the Estonians,’ Volquin answered for the bishop, ‘without
first securing Riga and the outlying castles. As well as Kokenhusen
we must reinforce the garrisons of Holm, Uexkull and Lennewarden.
Who knows where the Lithuanians will attack next?’

‘Where indeed?’ said
the bishop.

‘And do not forget
Riga, lord bishop,’ said Stefan who was now quite drunk. ‘It stands
naked in the face of its enemies.’

‘Hardly that,’ replied
the bishop, ‘though I agree that its defences also need
strengthening.’ He sighed. ‘I therefore have no option but to
postpone the crusade against the Estonians until next year when
hopefully our position will be much stronger.’

‘Those who came with
me from Germany will be disappointed, lord bishop,’ said
Frederick.

‘Those who stay might
yet be able to wash their swords in heathen blood,’ remarked
Volquin, causing Frederick to look at him with interest.

‘How so?’ said
Frederick.

‘Once the winter sets
in the swamps, rivers and lakes freeze hard and our horsemen can
use them as roads, our wagons too. Those who stay will be able to
test their mettle against the pagans, that I promise.’

Though it was
customary for crusaders and their retinues to stay for a year,
individuals were under no compulsion to stay in Livonia for twelve
months, the more so if there was little prospect of
campaigning.

Frederick was pleased
by Volquin’s words and smiled at the grand master, though Stefan
was far from reassured.

‘Frozen rivers may
mean that your soldiers can march over them, Grand Master Volquin,
but it also means that the Lithuanians can flood across the
Dvina.’

‘The Dvina does not
freeze, archdeacon,’ said Theodoric dismissively. ‘At least not
enough to allow an army to walk across it.’

‘That may be so,’
continued Stefan, slurring his words, ‘but…’

Bishop Albert held up
a hand to still him. ‘The reinforced garrisons along the Dvina will
halt any Lithuanian invasion, archdeacon, or at least stay it long
enough for us to organise a riposte. In the meantime I will send
word to the Lithuanians via Prince Vsevolod requesting a meeting. I
believe the prince’s wife is a native of the peoples who inhabit
the lands south of the Dvina, so hopefully he has some influence
among them.’

‘We should take the
army across the river and teach them a lesson,’ said Frederick,
sipping his wine.

‘Alas,’ replied the
bishop, ‘our resources do not allow us to wage war against the
Lithuanians and the Estonians at the same time.’

There was a knock at
the door and one of the young monks entered carrying a silver tray,
upon which was a small rolled note. The monk, a boy no more than
thirteen or fourteen, went over to the bishop, bowed his head and
held out the tray. Everyone’s eyes were upon Albert as he took the
note and unfolded it, his brow creasing as he read the words. He
sighed.

‘Word form Master
Berthold at Wenden. Lembit has attacked the castle but was beaten
off, praise God.’

‘That means the
Estonians are only fifty miles from Riga,’ said Volquin, causing
Stefan to reach for the wine jug and refill his flagon.

Caupo, who until this
moment had remained silent, now spoke. ‘I must return to my lands,
lord bishop. Lembit is a cruel enemy who will burn farms and rape
my people and your loyal subjects. My men are needed in the
north.’

Bishop Albert nodded
his head. ‘Go, lord king, and may God go with you.’

Caupo rose, bowed his
head to the bishop and then followed the young monk out of the
room.

Stefan’s eyes widened
in horror. ‘We need Caupo’s warriors here, lord bishop, to protect
Riga from the heathens.’

‘They are all
slaughtered, archdeacon,’ announced Frederick with pride. ‘Have you
not seen the landscape decorated with their funeral pyres?’

Stefan twisted up his
nose. ‘I have both seen and smelled them, Sir Frederick, but that
does not mean that more will not return to avenge their dead
kin.’

Volquin was tiring of
the archdeacon’s mouse-like utterances. ‘The pagans will not
return. They do not have an unlimited supply of warriors,
archdeacon, despite your wild imaginings. The main threat lies to
the north, as it always has done.’

Stefan cast Volquin a
disdainful look and went back to his wine. It would soon be autumn
and the crops would be gathered in, except that the crops and most
of the farms around Riga had been destroyed by the Kurs, the
farmers and their families having been either roasted alive in
their homes or slaughtered in the fields. The people of Riga might
have escaped such a fate but they now faced a winter of food
shortages.

‘God is testing us,’
said the bishop, ‘and we must remain steadfast in our determination
to spread His word. We therefore consolidate our position around
Riga, strengthen our defences along the Dvina and seek to make
peace with the Lithuanians. Then we will be free to campaign
against Lembit next year.’

‘In the meantime our
priority is gathering supplies to see us through the winter. Grand
Master Volquin, I will leave the matter in your capable hands.’

Volquin nodded sternly
and Stefan belched. The bishop had considered replacing him as
administrator of the town with Theodoric, but the latter was a
visionary and brave preacher not an intriguer. And for all Stefan’s
faults he was an able clerk. Theodoric would have a richer reward
for his services when the time came.

*****

Vetseke saw the German
patrol and sank deeper behind the lichen around the base of the
tree to stay concealed. Luckily for him he had a green cloak to
cover his mail shirt and he had lost his helmet days ago. The
soldiers were about thirty yards away: two men on horseback and
four men on foot – two spearmen and two crossbowmen. Vetseke kept
very still. He was well acquainted with the lethality of crusader
crossbows and had no wish to follow his men into the afterlife. He
had landed with the Kurs along with a hundred of his warriors, the
last of the retainers from his lands around Kokenhusen, but now the
Kurs were defeated and his men were dead. At first the attack
against Riga had exceeded all expectations. The settlers had been
taken completely by surprise and the Kurs had seized the land all
round the town. But instead of establishing proper siege lines and
sending out patrols they had indulged in rape, pillage and
destruction, so that when the crusader army appeared they had been
cut to pieces by the mail-clad crusaders on horseback. Now the
Germans were scouring the countryside for survivors. To be taken
back to Riga and hanged, no doubt.

He slowed his
breathing as the patrol halted on the track. The forest was silent,
the air still and he could hear their voices. He had knowledge of
their wretched language, having received instruction in different
tongues as part of his upbringing as a prince.

‘I heard something, I
know I did.’

‘Can you see
anything?’ asked another.

‘Only trees.’ There
was laughter.

‘Be quiet,’ snapped
another, presumably the commander.

Then there was
silence. Vetseke thought that the thumping of his heart in his
chest would give him away. He heard the tapping of a woodpecker in
the distance and hoped that the patrol would think the bird was the
sound its members heard. He remained frozen then heard the sound of
running.

‘There!’

He heard someone shout
and raised his head a couple of inches to peer over the lichen.

He saw the crossbowmen
shooting their weapons in the opposite direction to where he was
hiding and then the two riders spurred their horses into the trees
on the other side of the track. He thought he saw a fleeting
glimpse of a figure in a white tunic fleeing from the patrol. Then
he heard a scream and decided to head deeper into the forest before
the patrol returned. Whoever he was who had broken cover and made a
run for it had saved his life, at the expense of his own.

He kept moving for the
rest of the day. He had not eaten for three days and his face
carried four days’ growth. He was tired but he knew he had to keep
moving, keep moving east and then south to the Dvina. If he could
find a boatman prepared to take him upriver he might yet save
himself. Night came and he stumbled over large stones, fell down
steep slopes and tripped over tree roots. He rested by the side of
an oak tree for a few minutes and closed his eyes.

He awoke to the calls
of finches and larks. It was light and he was infuriated with
himself for sleeping for so long. He grasped the hilt of his sword
and looked around. No sign of any patrols. He listened intently. No
sounds of men tramping through the forest. He felt grubby and his
mouth was dry. Keep moving east.

Three hours later, his
limbs aching and a nausea induced by lack of nourishment sweeping
over him, he crouched down in the trees fifty yards from the black
waters of the Dvina. He stayed hidden until he saw a small fishing
vessel approaching the sand bank directly in front of his position.
It was of the type that had plied the Dvina for centuries: a simple
boat with a hull made from ash stakes and withies, over which a
skin of animal hide had been stretched. It had a small mast that
was secured into a tapering hole cut into an oak mast board that
was lashed to the boat’s frame. The mast was supported by a similar
hole in the central oak plank that also served as a seat. These
riverboats had a wattle ash panel that served as a deck for
standing on when getting in and out of the boat. An elderly man sat
on the spars at the stern of the boat, steering the vessel.

It ran aground on the
sand and the fisherman stood, stepped into the water and then
hauled the vessel onto the sand bank. He then began to furl the
sail. Vetseke pondered his choices as the fisherman began to
prepare a small fire with which to cook a large catfish that he
hauled from the boat and tossed on the sand. He could kill him and
take his boat. But he had no knowledge of steering boats or
navigating the Dvina. He decided to take a more civilised
approach.

He broke cover and
walked towards the fisherman who was using a flint to light the
kindle. He sensed Vetseke’s presence immediately and jumped to his
feet, spinning round with a knife in his hand. The prince spread
his arms to indicate he intended no violence.

‘Greetings, friend,’
he said.

The fisherman, still
holding out his knife, looked past him to the trees to ascertain
whether the stranger was alone.

‘I do not know you,’
said the fisherman, ‘so how can I be your friend?’

Vetseke halted and let
his arms fall by his side.

‘State your business,’
said the fisherman.

‘I wish to journey
upstream,’ replied Vetseke. ‘I will pay you well if you take me
where I want to go. I have gold.’

The fisherman’s eyes
lit up at the mention of gold. He was obviously poor judging by his
tattered leggings, bare feet and filthy, threadbare tunic and gold
could transform his life, or at least make it a lot more
comfortable than it was at present. The fisherman lowered his
knife. His eyes narrowed as he weighed up the prince standing
before him. Despite his bedraggled appearance and dark stubble on
his face Vetseke still gave the appearance of one who enjoyed rank
and privilege: his green cloak edged with fur, his mail shirt and
his sword in its red scabbard.

‘Where do you wish to
go?’ enquired the fishermen in a less aggressive tone.

Vetseke smiled. He
knew he was winning him over. ‘East of Kokenhusen.’

The fisherman sniffed.
‘That is a long way from here and will take many days, especially
if the wind is against us. Show me the gold.’

Vetseke was unused to
being spoken to like this and for a moment thought that perhaps he
should kill the miserable wretch after all. But that would still
leave him with the problem of how to steer the boat. He smiled at
the fisherman and untied a leather pouch that was attached to his
belt. He shook a few tiny ingots into his palm and held it out to
show the fisherman, whose eyes lit up at the sight of the means to
change his life but a few feet away.

‘I will take you,’ he
grinned at Vetseke, revealing a row of discoloured teeth.

Vetseke put the ingots
back in the pouch and nodded towards the catfish.

‘I have not eaten for
a while and would appreciate a meal.’