The Sword Brothers (15 page)

‘If you remain
stationary the enemy can harm you,’ Lukas told them, striking
anyone who stopped moving.

They returned to the
dormitory with aching limbs and bruised bodies and every night
slept like the dead. They consumed their generous meals like
ravenous wolves and always seemed to be hungry. They attended
prayers and then went back to their training, all the time the
eagle-eyed Lukas picking up their failings and pointing out
mistakes with a sharp, painful blow with his waster.

‘Keep moving!’ he
shouted as the rain lashed them and their clothing became
drenched.

Conrad was fighting
Rudolf, who parried his every strike with consummate ease. He held
his waster in his right hand and let his left hand hang by his
side. He was tired, wet and cold. He flinched as a sharp pain went
through his left wrist. He spun round to see Lukas behind him.

‘How many times have I
told you: keep your free hand behind your back. If your free hand
is not holding a shield or a weapon it is just another target.’

Lukas hit Conrad
again, this time on the back of the thigh with the flat of his
waster’s blade.

‘Keep moving.’

The days turned into
weeks and the training was unrelenting. Everything and everyone
else became a blur as sword fighting filled the minds of Conrad and
his fellow novices. Their first thoughts were about fighting, they
spent their days fighting and their dreams were filled with swords
and fighting. The days became longer and warmer as spring gave way
to summer and still there was no let-up in their training.

At the end of one
particularly gruelling day, as they lay in their beds having spent
the whole afternoon in duels with brother knights, in which Conrad
had received waster blows to every part of his body, he just wanted
to close his eyes and forget the pain caressing his body.

‘I don’t understand,’
said Hans beside him, propped up on one elbow.

‘Go to sleep,’ pleaded
Conrad as his eyelids closed.

‘Why are we exercising
so hard?’

‘So we can defend
ourselves,’ said Conrad, drifting off to sleep.

‘Defend ourselves from
what?’ queried Hans, ‘where are these enemy pagans we have heard so
much about?’

There was no answer.
Conrad and the others had taken refuge in blessed sleep, which
would seemingly last an instant before they were called once more
to the chapel at dawn.

*****

The warriors were
waiting on the bank as the riverboat eased onto the sandbank and
two soldiers jumped from the vessel. The warriors, mostly spearmen
carrying round wooden shields and armed with spears and axes, stood
motionless as Prince Vsevolod was assisted from the boat by two of
his soldiers and walked towards them.

The prince’s men were
more heavily armoured than the hundred or so motionless warriors,
being attired in hemispherical iron helmets, mail neck protectors
termed
barmitsa
,
kuyaks
– leather vests with
overlapping steel plates on the outside – and almond-shaped shields
painted blue and bearing red Byzantine crosses. More of the
prince’s men clustered around him as they got out of the boat, and
were reinforced by a score more as another boat ran up on the
sandbank and disgorged its occupants. But they were still greatly
outnumbered.

There was movement
among the warriors facing the prince and his soldiers and a stocky
man pushed aside two men in the front rank and marched up to the
prince. Their appearances could hardly have been more different.
The prince was dressed in a long crimson tunic with narrow
wrist-length sleeves and a high-cut neckline, over which was a
white
dalmatica
that was shorter than the tunic but which
had wide, straight sleeves and was belted at the waist. A rich
purple cloak lined with fox fur was clasped on his right shoulder.
His embroidered green boots completed his opulent appearance.

The only thing he had
in common with the man he faced was that they both sported thick
beards, though his was much darker. The fair-haired man wore a
simple knee-length green tunic edged with red, brown leggings and
boots and a functional brown leather belt around his waist. Only
two things indicated that he was a man of standing: his sword in
its richly decorated scabbard and his gold, jewel-encrusted belt
buckle. He took off his helmet and passed it to one of his men and
then stepped forward to embrace the prince.

‘Welcome, son.’

His warriors began
cheering and banging their spear shafts on the insides of their
shields as the prince embraced his father-in-law and then stepped
back.

‘Hail, Grand Duke
Daugerutis, Lithuania’s greatest warlord.’

More cheering erupted
as the duke’s men chanted his name and he led the prince away with
his arm around the younger man’s shoulders. They walked to where
Daugerutis’ bodyguard waited on their horses, the grand duke and
the prince mounting horses that were being held for them and then
trotting down the dirt track with their escort following. They rode
for some miles before they came to the duke’s stronghold, a great
wooden hill fort with an outer wall containing ten towers and an
inner stronghold containing a hall, barracks, storerooms and four
towers in each corner, flags displaying the bear symbol of the
grand duke fluttering from the top of every one.

The visit of Prince
Vsevolod occasioned the gathering of all the princes, chiefs and
village elders in the grand duke’s considerable domain. Lithuania
was a tribal land of dense forests, lakes and rivers controlled by
a small number of dukes, under which were a greater number of
princes who swore allegiance to their duke. At least that was the
theory. Weak dukes held little sway over their princes and were
often deposed and killed when an upstart prince decided that he
should be duke. Those dukes who were feared and respected had the
absolute loyalty of their princes. And the most feared of all was
Grand Duke Daugerutis.

His loyal lieutenants
gathered in his hall to welcome his gaudily dressed son-in-law who
was married to his only daughter. The hall stank of their sweat as
Vsevolod took his place on the top table on the right hand of
Daugerutis, his bearded, raucous son on his other side. Most of the
men sitting on benches at tables were already drunk as women
ferried great serving jugs from the kitchens to satisfy their
seemingly unquenchable thirst. They swore oaths, just swore,
slapped each other on the back and banged their fists on the table
as the Prince of Gerzika viewed them with distaste. He had always
believed that civilisation ended and barbarity began at the Dvina
and every visit to his father-in-law reinforced his belief. That
the Lithuanians were strong and free only increased his resentment
and jealousy.

Daugerutis rose and
spread his arms, calling for silence. The din in the hall died away
as every pair of eyes turned to him. He picked up his cup and
raised it to the assembly.

‘To your health,
brothers.’ He then drank from his cup and handed it to Vsevolod.
Drinks were always passed to the right in imitation of the spring
seeding, when the grain was always sprinkled on the right side. In
this way the gods would look favourably upon the gathering.

Vsevolod took the cup,
rose, toasted the gathered lords and then drank from the cup. There
was loud cheering and thumping of tables and then everyone drained
their own cups and called for more drink.

The grand duke said
nothing to his son-in-law as slaves brought a platter holding a
loaf of black rye bread to the top table but he knew why he was
here. It had been a year since the Christian Bishop Albert and his
army of crusaders had stormed the city of Gerzika, the formerly
impregnable fortress on the banks of the Dvina, and captured the
wife and daughters of Prince Vsevolod, the prince having escaped,
some say fled, from the crusaders and their siege engines. The
price he paid to get his family and city back was to swear fealty
to the bishop and become his servant. And ever since that time he
had pestered the grand duke to lead a great army over the Dvina to
destroy the bishop’s army.

The slave laid the
platter holding the bread before the grand duke and once again the
hall fell silent. The cutting of bread held deep significance among
the Lithuanians and the drunken men with their beer-soaked beards
watched intently as the grand duke took his knife and cut a slice
off the black loaf. Vsevolod looked on with barely concealed
contempt as he witnessed at first hand this absurd pagan ritual.
The grand duke gave the slice to his married son with wishes that
his firstborn would be a son. The duke ensured that the cut end of
the loaf was not pointing towards the hall’s entrance, for it was
widely believed that if it did the aforementioned first son would
be born mad. Satisfied that the loaf had been cut correctly the
elders and princes went back to their drinking.

Slaves brought cooked
meat from the kitchens, mostly huge steaks and ribs of wild boar
that had been hunted and killed in the days before the feast. They
also brought cauldrons filled with
juka
– blood soup – and
ladled it into large wooden bowls. Vsevolod may have believed that
the Lithuanians were backward pagans but they knew how to feed
their guests. He loved the surprisingly edible black bread and the
juka
containing boar blood, rye flour, bay leaves, salt and
mint, dipping the bread in the soup and shoving it greedily into
his mouth. And Lithuanian beer was far better than the Russian
equivalent.

The morning after the
feast, as bleary eyed elders and princes wandered around the hill
fort, occasionally supporting themselves against a wall to throw up
the contents of their guts, the grand duke requested the presence
of Vsevolod in his hall. The latter had also drunk too much the day
before and was feeling delicate as guards opened the doors of the
hall and he stepped inside. He almost threw up as the foul stench
of sweat, vomit and the rancid odour of yesterday’s cooking
assaulted his nostrils. The grand duke gestured for him to retake
his seat at the top table. Slave girls fussed around cleaning up
the mess left by the feast, their eyes cast down in deference to
their masters.

‘Keep the doors open,’
Daugerutis shouted at the guards. ‘Let some air in.’

Vsevolod smiled weakly
at him as he flopped down into his chair and the grand duke ordered
a slave to serve his guest some water.

‘Or would you prefer
beer?’ he asked.

A wave of nausea came
over Vsevolod again as he waved a hand at the grand duke and nodded
to the slave girl holding the jug to pour him some water. He
gratefully took a swig and caught sight of a man standing near the
end of the top table. Tall, handsome in a rustic way, he had blonde
hair and beard, broad shoulders and carried a long sword in a red
scabbard on his left hip. One of the grand duke’s bodyguard,
Vsevolod assumed. The grand duke waved him over. Daugerutis’ son
was nowhere to be seen. Laid low by a hangover, no doubt.

‘You said in your
letter that you see an opportunity to attack the bishop’s lands, my
son,’ he said to Vsevolod.

‘It is true, lord,’
answered Vsevolod, ‘if your warriors cross the Dvina at Kokenhusen
they will reap a rich harvest.’

Kokenhusen, positioned
on the north bank of the river some fifty miles west of Gerzika,
was formerly the stronghold of Prince Vetseke, a Liv who had fought
the Bishop of Riga and lost. Now he was in exile and his stronghold
was in crusader hands.

‘The crusaders are
building a stone fortress at Kokenhusen,’ said the grand duke, ‘and
we have no engines that can be used to batter down its walls.’

‘Those walls are as
yet unfinished,’ replied Vsevolod, who was curious as to why this
blonde-haired warrior was standing before them. ‘And the garrison
of Kokenhusen is but small. A large force of warriors could take it
with ease.’

‘You forget,’ said the
grand duke, ‘that soon the bishop will return with an army of
crusaders. It has been the same every summer for these past few
years. When he does reinforcements can be sent downriver to
Kokenhusen easily enough.’

Vsevolod finished his
water and smiled. ‘The crusaders cannot be in two places at the
same time, lord. My spies inform me that the Estonians are about to
launch a great war to the north that will absorb the crusaders’
attention. The tiny garrison of Kokenhusen is on its own.’

‘Your spies are
reliable?’ asked the grand duke.

Vsevolod smiled
maliciously. ‘I have paid them well enough and they have many
contacts among the Livs who strain under the bishop’s rule. When
the Estonians attack there are many Livs who will rise up to throw
off the crusader yoke. Assailed from the north and from within, the
crusader strength will be shattered. It will be the perfect time to
strike.’

The grand duke leaned
back in his chair as the female slaves began brushing the floor. If
what his son-in-law said was true then an attack against Kokenhusen
was worth considering. The crusaders were erecting four stone
castles along the Dvina – Holm, Uexkull, Lennewarden and Kokenhusen
– and he knew it would be only a matter of time before their eyes
turned south once they had conquered the people living to the north
of the river. He also knew that every year more and more crusaders
remained in Livonia to consolidate the bishop’s rule. Riga was once
a collection of huts but would soon be a great city. He knew that
inaction was no longer an option.

He pointed at the
blonde warrior standing before him. ‘This is Prince Stecse,’ he
said to his son-in-law, ‘one of my best warlords. A man most
accomplished at mounting raids against the enemy.’

Stecse bowed his head
to Daugerutis. ‘You flatter me, lord.’

The grand duke waved
away his deference. ‘Stecse will go back to Gerzika with you, my
son, so you both may plan an attack against Kokenhusen.’