The Sword Brothers (95 page)

Conrad and Hans lifted
Johann up and supported him between them as they slowly made their
way down the bank and took him to a cart that was loaded with
wounded. Another cart was taking more wounded back to camp.

‘What’s this?’ asked a
harassed surgeon with a balding head and both sleeves covered in
blood.

‘Our friend has broken
his ankle,’ said Conrad.

‘Put him in the cart.
He will have it bound back in camp.’

They assisted Johann
into the cart where two other men – sergeants – were leaning
against the sides, one with a head wound; the other with his left
arm half hanging off. Both were pale and listless from shock and
loss of blood.

‘We will see you in
camp,’ said Conrad, shaking Johann’s hand.

‘God be with you,’
added Hans.

‘And you, my friends,’
said Johann, his face creased with pain.

They returned to the
rampart, Anton meeting them at its base. His gambeson was ripped
and his mail shirt torn. He held out the water bottle to Conrad and
looked up at the sky that was rapidly clearing of clouds. To the
south and east the sounds of battle could be heard. Conrad took a
sip and handed it to Hans.

‘Get your arses back
on this bank,’ bellowed Henke, helmetless and clearly in a foul
mood.

The three of them
walked slowly up the mound and assumed their positions.

Walter checked that
Wenden’s banner was still firmly rooted in the ground before
joining them.

‘Brother Henke appears
to be most annoyed.’

‘Any particular reason
why?’ enquired Conrad.

‘Probably because
there are no Estonian girls to rape,’ offered Hans.

Anton and Conrad
laughed but Walter frowned. He disapproved of such remarks in much
the same way as he deplored the language Henke employed when he
decided to shout at the enemy.

‘You sons of whores,
come and fight instead of cowering behind your shields. I piss on
your chiefs and your gods, you shit-eating maggots.’

‘Brother Henke,’
shouted Master Berthold, ‘desist using such language at once. You
dishonour the surcoat you are wearing.’

Henke sneered at the
locked shields of the Estonians a few yards away and spat in their
direction, but hurled no more insults. Conrad had to smile. Master
Berthold stood with his sword smeared with blood while Walter’s
tunic was covered in enemy gore. But slaughtering the heathen was
godly work whereas lewd language was a sign of a corrupt mind.
Henke’s mind was certainly corrupt and he revelled in slaughter,
but as Lukas once told him there were few men that he would want by
his side in battle beside Henke. Unfortunately the latter was
frustrated beyond measure by the lull in the fight, especially with
the enemy so close.

‘Let me lead a sally
against them,’ he pleaded with Rudolf beside him.

‘No, Henke, we will
wait for them to attack and kill them here, at the fence.’

Henke picked up an
enemy spear lying at his feet and hurled it at the Estonians, the
front ranks parting when they saw it hurtling through the air. They
whistled and jeered when it thudded harmlessly in the earth. This
made Henke even angrier and Conrad thought he was about to launch a
one-man assault against the enemy when Walter called out.

‘Arrows! Take
cover!’

Conrad looked up to
see the sky filled with missiles and then threw himself against the
fence, lifting up the torso of a dead Estonian slumped over it to
use as cover. Seconds later arrows slammed into the ground and the
corpse. He heard groans and yelps as crossbowmen standing away from
the fence, who carried no shields for protection, were hit. And
then there was a great roar and the Estonians attacked once
more.

Conrad heard Rudolf’s
voice. ‘Wait for the second volley.’

He remained crouched
under the corpse, Hans huddle beside him, as another deluge of
arrows struck their position, and then he sprang to his feet just
as the first warriors were scaling the fence.

He had his shield on
his back and his axe in his left hand as he drew his sword and
thrust it into the stomach of a burly man with a huge black beard
and stinking breath, who was shocked by the sudden appearance of
the mail-clad individual in front of him and even more surprised
when Conrad’s sword point went through his leather armour into his
belly. He collapsed head first over the fence as Conrad withdrew
his blade and stepped on his back to fight the next warrior coming
over the barricade. This was a spearman who wore no armour and
attempted to run his lance through Conrad’s guts. But the novice
was too quick for him and jumped to one side so the warrior thrust
into an empty space, lost his footing and sprawled onto the dead
brute. Conrad jumped on his back and rammed his sword through his
spine.

The battle raged all
along the fence, Estonians attacking the thin line of Sword
Brothers and mercenaries as they attempted to break through to the
fort. But unbeknown to both sides the battle had already been
decided to the south.

Grand Master Volquin
had ridden to where Count Horton sat on his charger at the head of
nearly four hundred horsemen. The count needed no persuasion to
lead his men to the relief of the bishops, having been previously
frustrated with his role as de facto commander of the reserve. And
so he gave the order and trotted south at the head of his men,
though not before he had granted Grand Master Volquin’s request for
the loan of a score of knights.

*****

Rusticus killed the
spearman and stepped over his body to tackle the soldier behind. He
could see the bishop now, surrounded by the traitor Caupo and
horsemen in mail carrying lances. He stuck close to Lembit who was
fighting like a forest demon, hacking and slashing with his sword
as the wolf shields cut deep into the enemy’s ranks. Their battle
with the Livs was particularly vicious, drawing on the enmity
between the two races that was hundreds of years old. The wolf
shields fought in a tight formation, shield to shield as they had
been taught, making it almost impossible for the enemy horsemen to
break their ranks.

The wolf shields
formed the centre of the Saccalian line, flanked by the village
warriors whose ranks were more ragged. However, Lembit’s warriors
were methodically grinding their way forward in their desire to
slay the bishop. The latter’s spearmen were brushed aside with some
ease and his crossbowmen had been sent away to reinforce Sir
Helmold, so it was left to the horsemen under Sir Jordan to hold
the line. Their commander and his most trusted knights stayed with
the bishops, riding forward to jab their lances at the advancing
shield wall. But though those horsemen on the flanks could ride
among the Estonians easily enough, spearing some and killing others
with their swords before withdrawing, they could make no impression
on the warriors in the centre who sported a leering wolf design on
their shields. The bishops would not ride from the field and so the
knights and squires were forced to defend him, Caupo and Sir
Jordan.

Rusticus picked up a
discarded lance and thrust it into the horse that was in front of
him, driving the point through the red caparison into its shoulder.
The animal squealed and collapsed on the ground, trapping the leg
of its rider underneath. Lembit stepped on the knight’s full-face
helmet and hacked down at his neck. There was a muffled cry, a
spurt of blood and the wolf shields pressed on.

‘Kill the bishop,’
screamed Lembit, a call answered by those men around him.

Saccalians were being
cut down on the flanks but their phalanx was still advancing. In
the rear ranks of Lembit’s men were archers, no more than forty,
but they were able to shoot at the mailed horsemen who attempted to
charge at their comrades in the front ranks. Their missiles hissed
through the air to strike the Christian riders, killing a few but
wounding more. In this battle of grim attrition and wills between
Lembit and Bishop Albert the former was winning. The bishop grabbed
the shaft holding his banner, resolved to die rather than flee.

And then he heard the
blissful sound of trumpets.

Lembit did not hear
them but he saw the crusaders in front of him raise their weapons
and give a mighty cheer and felt a chill run down his spine. He
heard shouts of alarm to his right and saw the warriors from the
village begin to pull back.

He raised his arm.
‘Halt!’

Rusticus glowered at
him. ‘On! They are beaten.’

‘No, something is
wrong.’

Then he too heard a
blast of trumpets coming from the rear and knew that he was beaten.
The men from his villages instinctively grouped around their chiefs
who rallied their men around their banners: crude carved wolf heads
on the ends of poles. Their warriors thrust the blunt ends of their
spears into the earth, locked shields and awaited the crusader
horsemen who were cantering towards them.

The rear ranks of the
wolf shields turned to face the approaching horsemen, pointing
their spears at the riders as the archers also turned and nocked
arrows in their bowstrings. Count Horton led his men to within two
hundred paces of the pagans and then halted and formed a long line
of horsemen, sending riders to the bishop to present his
compliments. No one noticed Volquin leading a party of knights
through the open gates of Lehola in the rear.

Lembit shoved his way
through his men behind him to gaze at the line of knights who sat
on their horses to the rear of his men, then came back to stand
beside Rusticus.

‘We can fight our way
back to the fort,’ spat his deputy.

Lembit shook his head.
‘There are too many of them.’

He sheathed his sword
and unbuckled his sword belt.

‘What are you doing?’
said an incredulous Rusticus.

Lembit handed the belt
to him. ‘Saving my people.’

He walked from the
ranks as the two sides eyed each other warily. Injured horses lay
on the ground grunting and wounded men groaned as Lembit spread his
arms and called to Bishop Albert.

He spoke in perfect
German. ‘Bishop Albert, if your soldiers will leave my lands then I
will embrace your faith, for is it not better to live in peace than
butcher each other?’

Sir Jordan removed his
helmet and burst out laughing. ‘A cornered rat will say anything to
save his hide, it would appear.’

But the bishop was not
laughing and neither was Caupo. Albert had been charged by the pope
with the holy task of converting the pagans to the true faith.
Caupo, formerly a foe, was now a servant of the Holy Church and had
brought his people into the fold. Now Lembit, his most intractable
foe, was standing before him offering to accept baptism. If Caupo’s
conversion was remarkable enough, this was nothing short of a
miracle. The bishop closed his eyes and thanked God, for surely it
was His hand that was at work here. He opened his eyes and nudged
his horse forward.

‘My lord bishop,’
protested Sir Jordan but the bishop raised a hand to still him.

He rode through the
horses of his bodyguard and dismounted, Lembit standing but ten
paces away.

‘You will travel with
me to Riga and accept baptism into the Holy Church?’ said the
bishop.

Lembit nodded. ‘I
will.’

‘Your chiefs must
provide me with hostages as a sign of good faith,’ continued the
bishop.

‘I will order it,
bishop.’

‘And you must permit
my priests to travel freely through your lands to preach the word
of God.’

Lembit swallowed and
hesitated but then smiled. ‘It shall be so.’

The bishop could not
continue to hold the mask of severity he wore. He stepped forward
and embraced a somewhat surprised Lembit.

‘Then let us put away
our swords,’ said the bishop, ‘and treat each other as
brothers.’

Thus did Saccalia,
most powerful among the Estonian kingdoms, accept the word of God
and become an ally of the Bishop of Riga. The Estonians stared at
each other and the crusaders in confusion, the latter also unsure
what to make of it. But the bishop was seized with joy and ordered
riders to be sent to all parts of the battlefield to announce that
Estonian and Christian were now brothers and brothers did not harm
each other.

While this outbreak of
peace was occurring Grand Master Volquin calmly rode into Lehola
and ordered the knights with him to scale the tower and cut down
the wolf banners flying from them. This act had a demoralising
effect on the Jerwen and Wierlanders battling to the north and east
of the fort. Edvin and Jaak both saw the banners fall from the
ramparts and assumed that it had fallen, which in reality it had.
Soon horns were being sounded and bands of warriors were falling
back to seek the sanctuary of the forest.

Saccalia had fallen
and southern Estonia was at the mercy of the crusaders.

Chapter 20

Wenden’s garrison had
lost three brother knights wounded, five sergeants killed and a
further two wounded. Among the mercenaries a dozen crossbowmen and
six spearmen had been killed, most by Estonian arrows. The other
garrisons had suffered similar losses, though the enemy had
incurred many more casualties. Fresh water bottles were brought
from camp to quench the raging thirst everyone was experiencing in
the aftermath of the battle.

Walter, his helmet
dented and his mail armour pierced in numerous places, took off his
headwear and knelt beside a wounded enemy warrior who had been
knocked unconscious when he had lost his helmet. He lay on the
ground concussed, fear in his eyes and expecting to be killed by
the Christians but grateful when Walter gently lifted his head and
placed the water bottle at his lips. Everyone just stood and
admired his piety and graciousness in victory.

‘I truly hope that if
the roles are reversed and Walter finds himself at the mercy of the
enemy,’ remarked Rudolf in admiration, ‘that the foe will show him
the same grace. But I fear it will not be so.’