The Sword Brothers (77 page)

‘Let them go,’ shouted
Stecse. He had more important things to worry about now than two
Liv prisoners.

Thalibald and his son,
having taken advantage of the appearance of the crusaders to strike
their guards and grab the reins of their horses, galloped back up
the track they had ridden down, constantly looking behind to see if
they were being pursued. They shouted in unison when they realised
they were not, then looked in horror to see a dozen horsemen
leaving the Christian ranks with lances levelled, cantering towards
them. Their wrists were still bound together in front of them so
they pulled on their reins to halt their horses and then raised
their arms.

‘We are friends,’
shouted Thalibald in German as the knights approached them in an
unbroken line, lances gripped under their right armpits, their
heads encased in full-face helmets. The two Livs had escaped from
the Lithuanians only to die at the hands of their allies.

As the faceless
knights bore down on them Thalibald and Waribule continued to shout
that they were friends, allies and fellow Christians. The
crusaders, however, their faces enclosed by their helmets, saw only
a pair of reckless, hairy barbarians in front of them and paid no
heed to their shouting, which sounded strangely German. But they
did take notice of the blast of trumpets behind and the appearance
of their lord beside them who was surprising bare headed. He was
also gesticulating frantically with his arms. Less than a hundred
paces from their targets they slowed their charge to a trot and
then a walk as his voiced boomed at them.

‘Halt! Stand down!
Stay your weapons.’

They pulled up their
horses and looked at each other in confusion as he walked his horse
in front of them to ensure they obeyed his commands. Then he
wheeled his mount around and walked it towards the two heathens.
Was he mad? Had he been seized by witchcraft? He was followed by
his banner man, the great red flag he carried sporting a golden
lion, a design replicated on the shield that was slung on his back
and the splendid caparison that covered his huge warhorse. He
brought the great steed to a halt in front of Thalibald and smiled,
extending his hand to him.

‘Greetings, my friend.
I did not think we would meet in such strange circumstances.’

Thalibald held up his
bound wrists. ‘Alas, Sir Helmold, you see before you a chief
reduced to the status of a slave.’

Sir Helmold pulled his
dagger from its sheath and cut the chief’s bonds, doing the same
for his son.

‘Slave no longer, my
friend.’

Thalibald looked
behind at the disappearing Lithuanians. ‘They retreat to the
Dvina.’

‘We form but one of
the two armies that are now approaching the river. The bishop leads
the other from the west. I was sent north to aid the garrisons of
Segewold and Wenden that were besieged by the enemy, but happily
your king delivered their salvation.’

Thalibald thought of
his youngest son and daughter. ‘Wenden is safe?’

Sir Helmold nodded.
‘Safe, my friend, and much more. Daugerutis is dead and his army
scattered. It is a miracle.’

Thalibald slapped his
son on the shoulder and closed his eyes. ‘Praise God.’

Stecse stayed with the
rearguard until he was a mile from the Dvina where the grand duke’s
troops had erected a rough semi-circular earth rampart surmounted
by sharpened stakes that flanked the ground either side of the
track, the latter being barred by great logs with iron spikes that
could be laid across it. Inside the rampart that protected the
bridgehead were crude log shelters and tents.

That night a tired
Stecse held a council of war in one of the large tents used by one
of the chiefs. Daugerutis had left his own men to secure the
pontoon bridge over the Dvina as well as a thousand more to lay
siege to Kokenhusen but a short distance from the bridge of boats.
Stecse was already concerned about the appearance of crusaders to
the north but now he received news that made him fear for the
safety of Daugerutis himself.

The tent stank of
human sweat as the chiefs stood around the oak table, their bearded
faces haggard from too little sleep. Candles were placed on the
four corners of the table and a cloth map was unfurled on its rough
surface. Stecse ordered them to submit their reports. A chief with
a heavily bandaged arm pointed at the map, which was a
representation of the River Dvina from the Gulf of Riga to the city
of Polotsk. He pointed at Riga.

‘The Bishop of Riga
landed with a great army of crusaders two weeks ago. The soldiers
of Duke Kitenis made an abortive assault against the castle of Holm
and then withdrew east to link up with those soldiers besieging
Uexkull. When they arrived they found that Duke Gedvilas, Duke
Kitenis and Duke Butantas were present. They…’

He fell silent and
stared at the map.

‘Continue,’ ordered
Stecse.

‘Duke Butantas sent a
boat across the river to the Semgallians informing them that their
duke was dead and requesting boats to be sent over so his men and
those of the other dukes could be evacuated. They have fled, lord,
across the river, as have those men of Duke Butantas who were
besieging the castle of Lennewarden.’

Stecse looked at their
weary faces. ‘It is true that Duke Ykintas is dead. He led an
attack against the castle of Wenden and was killed. His men are
still with the grand duke. The other dukes quarrelled with our lord
and deserted him, may Perkunas torment them. We are on our
own.’

‘The Bishop of Riga
will link up with the crusader garrisons as he marches east along
the river,’ said a chief with fair hair and beard, lamellar armour
covering his broad chest. He pointed at the castles of Holm,
Uexkull and Lennewarden.

Stecse nodded. ‘Our
priority is to protect the bridge over the river. Therefore we will
withdraw eight hundred men from around Kokenhusen to reinforce the
position here. The crusaders I clashed with earlier may attempt to
capture the bridge in the next few days.

‘I will also bring the
three thousand men that the grand duke left in his lands as a
reserve. If this bridgehead is destroyed then the grand duke will
be trapped in Livonia.’

‘Where is the grand
duke?’ asked the chief with a bandaged arm.

‘I hope that he is
marching south to the Dvina,’ said Stecse, ‘though at this moment
in time I know as much about his whereabouts as you do.

‘Organise the movement
of troops from Kokenhusen tonight, and send couriers south to order
the reserve to move across the river. I do not want the crusaders
stealing a march on us.’

They saluted and filed
out of the tent in silence. Stecse was not unduly concerned about
them: they were all either Selonians or Nalsen, men who owed
allegiance to Daugerutis himself. Unlike the other dukes they would
not desert him. He flopped down in one of the chairs next to the
table and looked at the map. His eyes settled on Gerzika, some
fifty miles east of Kokenhusen. He toyed with the idea of sending a
plea for help to Vsevolod, the son-in-law of Daugerutis and the
grand duke’s appointed heir, but dismissed the idea. He remembered
Vsevolod’s treachery at Kokenhusen. He would not put it past the
prince to side with the bishop if events favoured him. Still, a
message sent to the grand duke’s wife might be more productive. He
rose and walked to a smaller table by the tent’s wall, upon which
was a jug of beer. He poured himself a cup and returned to his
seat, stretching out his legs as one of the flaps opened and a
guard appeared. He saluted the prince.

‘Apologies, lord,
there is a man outside who wishes to see you. He says he is a
prince.’

‘A prince? Does he
bring an army to aid me in my hour of need?’

The guard looked
confused. ‘No, lord. He is alone.’

‘Does he have a name,
this prince?’ asked Stecse.

‘Vetseke, lord,
formerly the ruler of Kokenhusen.’

Stecse’s ears pricked
up at this. He had thought Vetseke long dead, for he knew that he
had been captured after his revolt against the bishop had been
crushed.

‘Show him in,’ said
Stecse, ‘and bring more drink.’

The guard saluted and
disappeared. Moments later he reappeared with a tall man beside him
dressed in mail armour and a green cloak around his shoulders. He
had long black hair but, unusually, a clean-shaven face. He had a
world-weary appearance but his brown eyes were still sharp. He
nodded his head ever so slightly at Stecse.

‘Hail Prince Stecse,
commander of the armies of Grand Duke Daugerutis, lord of all
Lithuania.’

Stecse extended his
arm to a chair a few paces from his own. ‘Please, avail yourself of
my hospitality, Prince Vetseke, such as it is.’

Vetseke walked to the
chair but then stopped at the table and peered at the map upon
it.

‘The playground of
princes, dukes and bishops.’ He looked at Stecse. ‘Your guards
relieved me of my sword. I trust I will get it back.’

Another guard brought
in a full jug of beer and placed it on the smaller table, along
with another cup. Stecse rose and walked over to it, filling the
cup.

‘Merely a precaution,
I assure you. What brings you to my tent at such a late hour?’

He walked over to
Vetseke and handed him the cup. The former ruler of Kokenhusen
tasted the liquid and found it bitter.

‘Farmhouse ale, I’m
afraid,’ said Stecse, ‘fine dining is not high on my list of
priorities at the moment.’

‘Though it has been
taken from me,’ said Vetseke, ‘I wish to offer you the service of
my sword, if you will have it.’

‘How many warriors do
you have?’ asked Stecse.

‘A hundred.’

Stecse drained his
cup. ‘Hardly an army.’

‘Hardly anything,’
agreed Vetseke, ‘but numbers are only one part of the equation. The
ground we sit on used to be mine before the bishop and his knights
came. You will know, of course, that around four hundred of the
latter are currently camped but five miles to the north of this
tent.’

Stecse nodded. ‘The
grand duke is campaigning to the north with over ten thousand
men.’

Vetseke sighed and ran
a finger around the rim of his cup.

‘Daugerutis is dead,
lord prince.’

Stecse, taken by
surprise, dropped his cup. He kicked it away in anger but then
quickly regained his composure.

‘How can you know
this?’

‘You forget that this
was once my kingdom. My men are camped deep in the forest but ten
miles north of here, but in all the time your men have been on this
side of the river they have not discovered them.’

Vetseke got up and
walked to the jug of beer to refill his cup. ‘When you kindly
besieged my former home you removed the influence of the Sword
Brothers from the land, meaning I and my men, formally forced to
hide among the trees like bandits, were free to go where we wanted.
I still have loyal subjects among the villages who inform me of
news.’

He walked back to his
chair. ‘They told me of a great battle between the crusaders and
Caupo at Wenden in which Daugerutis was killed and his army
scattered.’

‘Why should I believe
village gossip?’ said Stecse angrily.

‘Because I know my own
land and my own people,’ replied Vetseke. ‘I do not relay this news
to you out of spite or with relish. I have more reasons to hate and
despise the bishop than you, I think.

‘You have to disperse
the crusaders to the north, who are poised like a dagger at your
bridge of boats. If you wish to remain on this side of the river,
that is.’

‘Why wouldn’t we?’
snapped Stecse.

Vetseke turned the cup
in his hand. ‘With Daugerutis dead I believe that you are now
commander of what remains of his army. That being so, will you
underestimate the crusaders as he did?’

Stecse jumped up and
placed a hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘You forget yourself,
prince.’

Vetseke remained
unconcerned. ‘You may kill, Prince Stecse, and by doing so you
would release me from the travails of this world. Death would free
me from the torment of being a stranger in my own land, a vagrant
who has been reduced to living like an animal within the forest.
But that would not alter the truth that I have just told you. The
decision is yours.’

He finished his drink,
stood and placed the cup on the table. He bowed his head to Stecse.
‘You need to strengthen your position here, lord prince, for I fear
the crusaders to the north will strike at your camp within days.
And within the week the bishop and his army will be here and your
problems will multiply.’

‘And you, Vetseke,
where do you go?’ said Stecse.

‘Back to my men, there
to await your decision whether you wish to enlist my aid. If you
do, light a signal bonfire. I will see it.’

He stopped at the tent
flap.

‘You look tired, lord
prince. You should get some rest for upon your shoulders rests the
fate of the Lithuanian people.’

Then he was gone like
a wraith in the night. Stecse refilled his cup and sank back into
his chair. He dismissed the idea that Daugerutis was dead, and yet
Vetseke knew this land better than he so why would he lie? He was
also a mortal enemy of the bishop and the crusaders and for that
reason alone made him an ally of sorts. After two more cups of beer
he fell asleep in his chair, his mind a whirl of confusion and
dread.

*****

After mopping up the
remnants of Daugerutis’ army the brother knights went back to a
Wenden that had returned to normality. Rameke had taken his people
back to his father’s village, which was now his, and in the spring
sunshine the castle grounds once more reverberated to the sounds of
chisels, picks and spades as the construction work continued apace.
The quarry was reopened and the armourers got to work mending mail
armour, helmets and shields and making crossbow bolts. So many had
been used during the siege that replacements had to be sent from
Segewold and Kremon.