Castellan (24 page)
Over four thousand horsemen thundered across the damp earth to attack the Kurs’ left wing, which promptly turned and fled. Despite being drawn from a number of kingdoms the charging horsemen managed to slow and wheel right to get behind the Kur foot, to find a line of spearmen drawn up behind the Kur centre. The horsemen tried to smash through these warriors but could make no impression upon them as the Lithuanian foot soldiers marched forward to smash the Kur centre.
It was unfortunate that none of the dukes had thought of conducting a more thorough reconnoitre of the ground because if they had done so they would have discovered a large group of horsemen sheltering in the trees that began a few hundred paces from where the Kurs’ left flank had ended. Prince Lamekins now led these men from the trees to attack the rear of the dukes’ horsemen as the Kur left wing that had fled now reappeared on the battlefield. No one knew if one of the dukes decided that the battle was lost and ordered his soldiers to retreat, many cast Prince Vsevolod’s horsemen as the villains. But whatever the truth soon hundreds of horsemen were falling back.
In the centre the advance of thirteen thousand foot soldiers faltered and then stopped with the withdrawal of the horsemen. As the flood to the rear of the latter increased a trickle of foot warriors, most being farmers, also beat a hurried retreat. This turned into a torrent when the Kur foot suddenly charged forward.
Ironically most of the losses suffered by the dukes were not on the battlefield. Butantas, Kitenis, Viesthard and Vsevolod and the majority of their horsemen escaped. But six thousand of their foot soldiers were hunted down and killed by the Kurs, Lamekins’ horsemen doing the most carnage as he pursued the enemy east. Only the merciful advent of night halted the butchery. Kur losses were two hundred dead.
It had been a most remarkable day.
Kristjan stared at the spitting and crackling fire in the centre of the hall and pulled the fur-lined cloak around himself. The slaves had been feeding the flames all morning, heaping logs on to the stone hearth but he still felt cold. He used his hand to scoop more porridge from the bowl and shoved it in his mouth. It was already lukewarm. He hurled the wooden bowl across the straw-covered floor.
‘Bring me some that is hot,’ he shouted at the slaves.
He rubbed his eyes. The idiot slaves had placed damp wood on the fire that had filled Fellin’s hall with smoke. His clothes stank of it and his eyes smarted, which all added to his misery. Perhaps he would have a couple crucified later. It was the only thing that brought him any cheer these days. He sat with a look of thunder on his face and reflected on a year of heartache and disappointment. The death of his parents and sisters had filled him with rage and a desire for vengeance. He had raised the whole of Ungannia and swept into Saccalia, capturing Fellin with ease. But then his attempts to take Lehola had ended in bloody failure, the accursed Sir Richard defending it like a wily bear does its winter lair. And so with the coming of winter he had been forced to abandon the siege. Worse, in the autumn he had sent many of his warriors back to Ungannia to harvest the crops in the fields. He had been delighted when Prince Vetseke had arrived at the head of mounted warriors, including Russians, but he realised that as long as Lehola still held out he would not be able to strike south into Livonia.
‘Where is this Sir Richard from?’
‘A place called England, I believe,’ answered Vetseke sitting on the opposite side of the fire.
Kristjan gave him a blank look. ‘Where’s that?’
‘A place far to the west,’ said Vetseke, taking a bowl of hot porridge offered him by a slave. ‘He came to Livonia as a crusader and decided to stay.’
Kristjan snatched a bowl of porridge from a slave. ‘I hate these crusaders. I do not go around invading other people’s kingdoms, forcing them to pray to my gods. This land was at peace before they and the Sword Brothers came.’
Vetseke remembered it differently, especially the years of incessant raiding by the Estonian tribes against the Livs, to say nothing of the depredations of the Russians. But he said nothing. He had learned quickly that Kristjan was volatile and liable to fly into blind, murderous rages at the slightest provocation. But then he was just a boy.
‘He has a bald head,’ said Kristjan, ‘this Sir Richard. Let’s hope that he is feeling the cold as I am. Put more wood on the fire,’ he shouted at a slave. ‘If it is damp I will kill you myself.’
‘When the snow melts we should leave this place and march north to join the other Estonian tribes that are fighting the Danes,’ suggested Vetseke.
‘Abandon Fellin?’ Kristjan was appalled.
Vetseke shook his head. ‘I did not say abandon it. Just leave a garrison here. You are the last of the free Estonian leaders; indeed you are the only Estonian leader. The others are dead. You could be the new Lembit, uniting the tribes to destroy the Sword Brothers.’
‘Will the Russians support me if I join the rebellion in the north?’
‘Of course,’ Vetseke lied. ‘I am but the vanguard of a great army that will be put at your disposal in the summer. Prince Mstislav himself has assured me that he will support your war against the Sword Brothers, the apostates who stole his banner.’
Kristjan appeared pleased by this. ‘It was taken to Wenden where it remains, I assume. It can be retrieved easily enough.’
Vetseke raised an eyebrow. The boy obviously inhabited a fantasy world. Taking the timber walls and towers of Lehola had been beyond him and stone castles such as Wenden were even tougher nuts to crack. And yet the fact that he was the son of Kalju, ‘the rock’, and the last male member of his family alive after the others had been killed made him the figurehead of the fight against the Sword Brothers and the Bishop of Riga.
Vetseke pressed his case. ‘The fact is that among the Estonian kingdoms only Ungannia and its people remain free. Saccalia and Rotalia have become playthings of the Sword Brothers, while Wierland, Harrien and Jerwen are swapped between the Oeselians and Danes like an old whore. Go north, Kristjan, and rekindle the flame of freedom among your people.’
Kristjan looked at the hissing and spitting fire and dreamed of leading the whole of Estonia in a war of liberation. He looked at the Sword Brother shield hanging by the side of the throne he had had made during his stay at Fellin. Vetseke had given it to him as a gift after the Russian prince had won a skirmish with the Christian knights just before he and his men had arrived at Fellin. How he would love to take such a trophy.
‘We should move before the snows melt,’ Vetseke told him, ‘to steal a march on the Sword Brothers. We do not want to be trapped here if they lay siege to Fellin.’
‘You think I fear the Sword Brothers and their engines?’ snapped Kristjan, his nostrils flaring.
Vetseke masked his contempt. ‘You are the son of Kalju so I know that you fear no one. But your father was not only fearless, he was cunning and possessed great foresight. That is why he remained one step ahead of his enemies and that is why Ungannia remained free under his rule.’
Kristjan was soothed by the prince’s words.
‘You really think that the Harrien, Wierlanders and Jerwen will listen to me?’ asked Kristjan.
Vetseke stood and walked around the fire to look at the arrogant young pup.
‘I am certain of it. They are crying out for leadership. Unite the tribes, Kristjan, and become the man you are destined to be.’
Kristjan gave him a twisted smile. ‘I will give the order this afternoon. We will march north to give heart to those fighting for Estonia’s freedom.’
Vetseke smiled but inside he was mightily relieved. The winter had been a long one and he feared for his sanity if forced to remain cooped up any longer in this dismal fort with only the dreary tantrums of this boy for company. He was beginning to regret leaving Novgorod.
And by the frozen lake a short distance from Fellin iced skeletons with nightmarish grins hung from crosses, the skin on their frames having long since been picked clean by the fat ravens that came every day looking for fresh meat.
*****
Hans always suffered in the winter. He felt the cold more than Conrad and Anton and though his body had padded out after the years of nutritious and plentiful food provided by Wenden’s kitchens, his face retained a slightly gaunt appearance. All three were wrapped in thick cloaks with fur collars and had fur-lined caps on their heads as protection against the biting cold. The birth of Christ had been celebrated a month ago and the land was in the iron grip of winter. Roofs were covered with frozen snow but the castle’s cobbled courtyard was swept clean every day and the battlements were likewise kept tidy. Inside the outer perimeter paths and the main track were similarly kept unblocked, novices, brother knights, sergeants, mercenaries and civilians armed with shovels and brushes working furiously after every snowfall to prevent the passageways becoming stretches of ice. The civilian workers shivered in their wooden huts and burnt peat blocks supplied by Master Rudolf to keep the cold at bay.
Conrad loved Livonia’s winter. The vivid blue cloudless skies, the crisp air and the absolute quiet. Hans pulled part of a loaf of bread from under his cloak as they headed towards the armoury.
‘I don’t,’ he complained. ‘It makes me feel hungry.’
‘You are always hungry,’ said Anton.
They had eaten lunch and had been to the chapel afterwards to give thanks for the food and were now preparing to go hunting elk. The garrison, workers and villagers in the settlement below the castle’s northern escarpment all needed feeding, to say nothing of the Saccalians in Thalibald’s old village. The harvest had been bountiful but the extra bellies that needed to be filled meant hunting parties were being despatched on a daily basis to kill elk, wolves, beaver and deer. The surrounding lakes were also plundered for fish, holes drilled in their frozen surfaces so lines could be dropped into the water to lure fish to the hooks on the end of them.
‘You three look like a bunch of slave traders in your fur hats and felt boots. Off to raid a village for some maidens?’
They turned to see the grinning Leatherface ambling towards them. He had recovered from his cracked rib and was, like them, wrapped in a fur-lined cloak and hat, with the flaps pulled down over his ears.
‘We are off to hunt elk,’ Conrad told him.
‘Want some company?’ he beamed.
‘Not really,’ replied Anton.
Leatherface rubbed his hands. ‘That’s settled, then. You boys could do with someone showing you how to shoot a crossbow.’
Hans rolled his eyes but Conrad smiled. It was good to see the old rogue back to his incorrigible best. So they all went to the armoury to acquire their crossbows and quivers of bolts. Today they would not be riding in chainmail or helmets, not only because they were not going to war but also because the armour was devilishly difficult to keep clean and dry in winter. Novices and brother knights spent hours cleaning it with cloths and coating it with oil. This came from the Mediterranean and was used by the Holy Church in its sacraments. It was prohibitively expensive but nevertheless was supplied to the order by Riga. Conrad saw the hauberks hanging up in rows in the armoury, each one having a gap between it and the others to allow the air to circulate freely to prevent the build-up of moisture.
At the stables they collected their horses, which were kitted out in white caparisons, each one thickly padded and quilted and covering the head for protection against the cold. Two testy mules were also collected, one loaded with a tent and firewood, the other with the crossbows, quivers, spare clothing and food. There was no wind and the sun was already dipping in the west when the four riders exited the outer perimeter gates and trotted across the bridge over the ditch. They then turned left to take them along the castle’s eastern ramparts before passing the village and heading north.
‘It’s going to be cold tonight,’ said Hans, sniffing the air.
‘Don’t you worry, Brother Hans,’ smiled Leatherface, ‘we’ll get a nice fire going to keep you warm.’
In truth they were all well wrapped, with socks, woollen underwear, woollen leg wraps beneath their trousers, woollen shirts, aketons and linen-covered and thickly quilted gambesons that had long sleeves and extended down to their knees. Were it not for the red cross and sword insignia that adorned their horses’ caparisons, their cloaks and fronts of their gambesons they would have blended in perfectly against the white terrain.
The snorts of the horses were the only sounds as the party rode through the soft snow among deciduous trees stripped of their leaves and standing black and stark against the sky, the evergreens’ low-lying branches heavy with snow.
‘So,’ said Leatherface, ‘how’s my girl getting along?’
‘If you mean Kaja,’ said Conrad, ‘then she is doing well. She will be marrying Rameke this spring to become the wife of the Liv’s most famous warlord.’
‘So I’ve still got time to persuade her to change her mind and come with me when I buy my alehouse,’ said the mercenary.
‘What a dilemma,’ said Hans, ‘marry a famous and handsome warlord or agree to run a dingy back-street drinking den with an old goat who will maul her every night. How will Kaja choose?’
The three brother knights burst out laughing, which startled a bull elk nearby who bolted away. In a deft movement that left them all speechless Leatherface, who had loaded his crossbow and had it rested across the front of his saddle, brought the weapon up to his shoulder, shot it and brought down the elk. The beast groaned in agony and collapsed in the snow. Conrad spurred his horse towards it, dismounted, pulled his dagger and slit its throat, the blood staining the snow red.
Hans and Anton looked in amazement at Leatherface. The old soldier took it in his stride.
‘You boys. Too busy picking on an old man instead of studying the ground. I saw the tracks running parallel to our route and knew one was close. I also knew it was a bull because they dribble piss when they are walking.’
They did not get much sleep that night, being forced to stand guard over the carcass as wolves circled their camp. The next day, the carcass having frozen solid during the night, they strapped it to a sled fashioned from fir branches and rode a short distance to pick up a trail of elk tracks. In winter the beasts usually congregated in large herds of males and females that paw through the snow to browse on grass, shrubs, twigs and tree bark.
Despite Leatherface’s mockery the day before all three brother knights knew well enough how to hunt elk in winter. The guidelines were simple enough: always keep the wind in your face because if elk become aware they are being hunted they will use the wind to their own advantage. The golden rule was to go slowly when on foot and stop every couple of minutes to look for the slightest ear twitch or flash of horn. And always be aware of any broken tree limbs or pine needles knocked off overhead branches – a sure sign of being brushed by antlers.
It was a good morning’s work – six bulls killed, which meant well over a thousand pounds of meat once the carcasses had been butchered properly. As with the first kill the dead animals were lashed to makeshift sleds and hauled back to Wenden. Their faces were pinched by the cold but Hans in particular was delighted to be heading back to the castle and its dining hall that always served plentiful amounts of food.
