The Sword Brothers (29 page)

Rudolf flicked the
reins and the pony began to move forward. Rudolf nodded at his
flowing mane.

‘Hardy beasts, these
local ponies. They can endure extreme cold and subsist on low
rations.’

‘They are small
compared to our warhorses,’ said Conrad.

‘Size is not
everything, Conrad,’ replied Rudolf, ‘and we will not be taking the
warhorses north.’

‘You won’t?’

Rudolf shook his head.
‘They would be useless in a siege and they are worth too much to
risk dying of cold standing around idle. So they will stay at
Wenden.’

Guards wrapped in
cloaks stood on the timber wall of Thalibald’s village as the
sleigh entered the settlement and halted before his hall. The
sentries had alerted their chief of its approach and now he stood
outside its doors with his wife, two sons and Daina to greet the
arrivals. Even though the journey had been short Conrad’s face was
frozen and he was glad to get inside where a fire was raging in the
stone hearth and drink some warm milk, and even gladder to be
served by Daina. She was wrapped in fox furs, her green eyes
lighting up when she handed Conrad the cup.

‘The gallant knight
returns,’ she smiled.

Conrad’s cheeks
reddened slightly as Rudolf and Thalibald began discussing the
coming campaign.

‘We will need all the
sleighs and ponies you can muster,’ said Rudolf. ‘The army will be
arriving soon and I can guarantee that it will not bring enough
supplies with it.’

‘The king will be
accompanying it?’ asked Thalibald, referring to Caupo.

‘Unlikely,’ replied
Rudolf, ‘but Master Berthold would appreciate your own presence and
that of some of your warriors.’

‘You go to kill
Lembit?’ asked Thalibald.

Rudolf cast him a wry
smile. ‘The bishop would prefer his baptism.’

‘Lembit may bend his
knee to the bishop but in his heart he will never yield to Riga, I
think.’

While this
conversation was going on Conrad sat down on a bench near the fire
and gave Daina furtive looks. She was holding her tray and talking
to one of her brothers, a stocky boy about the same age as Conrad.
He had big hands and thick, shoulder-length hair. He too had green
eyes though his face was long like his father’s. He saw Conrad
admiring his sister.

‘You have an admirer,
sister.’

Conrad turned away
quickly and stared at his cup, his cheeks starting to burn as he
blushed.

‘Leave our guest
alone, Rameke,’ said Daina. ‘He is most polite and helpful. You may
be interested to know that he wounded Lembit in a fight.’

Rameke rose from his
bench and came over to sit opposite Conrad, offering his hand
across the table.

‘A shame you did not
slay him but a wound is a good start.’

Conrad smiled and took
his hand.

‘My name is Conrad
Wolff.’

‘And I am Rameke,
youngest son of Chief Thalibald.’

Conrad estimated his
age to be the same as his own but looked with envy at the sword in
its scabbard strapped to his belt, a weapon also carried by his
elder brother Waribule.

‘Daina,’ said Rameke,
‘fetch more milk for us.’

Daina came over and
Conrad stood up, much to her amusement.

‘Would
you
like
more milk, Conrad?’ she asked, ignoring her brother.

‘Thank you,’ Conrad
stammered, reaching for his cup and knocking it over. He blushed
again and Rameke laughed.

‘Conrad, we are
leaving,’ called Rudolf, who embraced Thalibald and walked with the
chief towards the hall’s exit. Conrad excused himself and hurried
after them, turning to catch a last glimpse of Daina.

‘Thank you for the
milk.’

She dazzled him with a
smile and a slight curtsy as Conrad raised his hand to Rameke and
Waribule. He replaced his fur cap on his head and stepped onto the
front of the sleigh. Rudolf tugged on the reins and the pony walked
forward, turned right and trotted from the village. Conrad looked
behind him as Thalibald was joined by his sons outside the hall but
not by his wife or daughter.

‘Daina is a fine
girl,’ remarked Rudolf casually when they were half a mile from the
village.

‘She is,’ agreed
Conrad.

‘Would you like to
wear the surcoat of the Sword Brothers one day, Conrad?’

‘Yes, Brother
Rudolf.’

‘Do you know what
“chastity” means, Conrad?’

‘No.’

‘It means that you
cannot enter the order of Sword Brothers if you take a wife,
Conrad, for only those who are pure of mind and body can truly
serve God. Do you understand?’

Conrad did not,
really. All he knew was that he wanted to be like Rudolf and Henke
and wear a white surcoat bearing a red cross and sword and fight
the pagans. He also knew that he wanted to see more of the fairest
Daina. But most of all he wanted to march north to fight the
Estonians.

The days following
were filled with activity as Thalibald and his sons arrived with
fifty warriors, each one driving a sleigh pulled by a pony. Master
Berthold had sent a plethora of messages via pigeon to Bishop
Albert at Riga concerning the size of the force that would march to
Fellin. He emphasised that a large force would soon eat up all the
supplies he had amassed at Wenden and, unless they brought their
own food, would probably have to retreat before it could achieve
anything. The bishop wrote back saying that because he had had to
send soldiers to reinforce the garrisons along the Dvina, and also
keep troops in and around Riga to safeguard the area from further
Kur attacks and also reassure the citizens, the force that would
march north would be a pale imitation of the army that had
assembled at Wenden in the summer. In addition, many crusaders had
returned to Germany rather than spend the winter in Livonia.

In the first week of
January Sir Frederick arrived at the head of his crusaders: twenty
knights, forty lesser armoured knights, a score of squires, fifty
of the bishop’s crossbowmen, an additional fifty of his spearmen,
and various support personnel – carpenters, armourers, surgeons and
priests – a further forty men. Sir Frederick and his knights came
attired in their war gear and accompanied by their warhorses.

‘Those beasts will
never return to Riga,’ said Lukas to the boys as the squires
pitched tents outside the castle perimeter and Sir Frederick rode
through the gates at the head of his knights on his way to the
castle. ‘Shame.’

Along the way he had
linked up with the brother knights, sergeants and mercenaries of
the garrisons of Segewold and Kremon, who had been furnished with
sleighs and ponies provided by Caupo. Combined with the men from
Wenden’s garrison these totalled thirty-six brother knights, fifty
sergeants, thirty crossbowmen and the same number of spearmen.
Master Berthold was still concerned that there were too many mouths
to feed but was persuaded by Rudolf that there were enough supplies
to feed such a host, especially as most of the horses brought by
Sir Frederick and his crusaders would soon expire from the freezing
conditions.

Two days after their
arrival the army left Wenden, the crusaders mocking the Sword
Brothers riding on their little ponies. Thalibald and Rudolf rode
ahead with a small party of scouts to map the trail the long column
of sleighs, men on foot and horsemen were to follow to Lembit’s
stronghold of Fellin.

*****

‘I’ve always hated the
snow,’ remarked Vetseke as he sipped at his drink. He had been
morose since his arrival at Gerzika in the autumn, looking like a
beggar in his tattered cloak, his face unshaven and his hair
unkempt. His cloak had been repaired and he had been given fresh
clothes but his mood had darkened as the days grew shorter and the
temperature dropped. Vsevolod looked at his wife and rolled his
eyes but said nothing.

‘Even with the fires
burning,’ continued Vetseke, now taking great gulps of his
beverage, ‘Kokenhusen was always cold during the winter.’

‘I trust your quarters
here are warm enough,’ said Vsevolod.

Vetseke drained his
finely engraved silver tankard and held it out for one of the
slaves standing around the wall of the hall to fill it. One came
forward, bowed his head and poured more
stavlenniy myod
into
the vessel. This honey based drink, similar to the mead that the
Catholics drank, was strong and was best imbibed in moderation, not
consumed like water as Vetseke was doing.

The former ruler of
Kokenhusen managed a half smile. ‘Warm, thank you.’

‘Perhaps a life in a
warmer clime might be beneficial to you, prince,’ hissed Rasa,
barely able to conceal her contempt. The daughter of Grand Duke
Daugerutis had received her name after the first thing her father
had seen after holding his new-born daughter. It meant ‘dew’ and
her father thought it most appropriate as he thought the child was
soft and gentle. But Rasa grew into a cunning and ruthless woman
whose red hair, slim frame and piercing brown eyes gave her a
savage beauty, a quality matched by her callous temperament.
Vsevolod had a similar disposition, which had been the reason he
had wanted to marry her, that and because she was the daughter of
Lithuania’s most powerful duke. But sometimes she over-reached
herself.

Her mood had darkened
of late when news came from her father that her brother, the grand
duke’s heir, had been killed in a hunting accident. He had fallen
from his horse and broken his neck. Rasa and her brother had never
been close but the news of his death had still been a shock.

Vetseke looked at the
wife of his host, dressed as she was in a rich white robe called a
rubakha
with wide sleeves that allowed her to display the
even richer blue
rubakha
underneath with gold-inlaid sleeve
cuffs. Around her shoulders she was wearing a white cloak edged
with fox fur that was fastened at the right shoulder by a golden
brooch. Pampered bitch! ‘I will never desert Kokenhusen,’ slurred
Vetseke. ‘To be a landless prince, a vagrant condemned to wander
the earth, homeless?’ He slammed his tankard down on the table,
causing several of the slaves to jump. ‘Never!’

Vsevolod looked at his
wife disapprovingly but she waved away his censure.

‘Quite right, prince,’
said Vsevolod, ‘to which end I have had communications with Prince
Vladimir of Polotsk who would welcome you at his court, so valuable
an ally have you been to him.’

There was a time when
the Principality of Polotsk had ruled all the lands from the city
to the shores of the Baltic, but internal dynastic strife and wars
with the more powerful Kingdom of Kiev to the south had weakened it
considerably. Strongholds like Kokenhusen and Gerzika had
originally been vassal kingdoms of Polotsk but now were actually
self-governing domains, though still tied to it by trade, culture
and treaties. But Polotsk could still muster large armies, which
could be used against Bishop Albert if Prince Vladimir could be
manipulated to do so.

Vetseke seemed pleased
by this. ‘He is a great ruler who appreciates those who have been
loyal to him.’

‘When the snow clears
I will give you an escort so that you may arrive at his court as
befitting yours status,’ said Vsevolod.

‘Not before?’ added
Rasa, smiling icily at Vetseke.

Vsevolod glared at
her. ‘I am certain that Vladimir will provide you with soldiers so
that you may retake Kokenhusen.’

Vetseke’s spirits rose
as he drank more alcohol and contemplated his visit to Polotsk. He
was carried back to his quarters in a drunken, semi-conscious
state, happy in the knowledge that he would soon be back in his own
stronghold.

In their private
quarters Rasa sat brushing her hair as Vsevolod flopped down in a
chair on the other side of their large bed with its red ornamented
canopy, rich hangings and fine linen sheets.

‘You should have him
killed,’ said Rasa.

‘Who?’ asked Vsevolod,
rubbing his tired eyes.

‘Vetseke, of
course.’

Vsevolod was
horrified. ‘He is our guest.’

Rasa stopped brushing
her hair and turned to look at him. ‘He is a burden who will bring
the unwelcome attention of that heathen bishop upon us. But more
than that, he has no army, no land and no purpose.’

Her eyes burned with
hatred for Vetseke.

Vsevolod rose and
walked over to her, cupping her face in his hands.

‘The bishop, my dear,
has expressed his gratitude to me for taking my army to the aid of
Kokenhusen. And has further asked that I perform the role of
intermediary between him and your father.’

Rasa’s eyes narrowed.
‘Why would you do such a thing? My father will never bow his knee
to the devil of Riga. My father is still angry with you for your
inactivity at Kokenhusen. Prince Stecse says that you deserted
him.’

Vsevolod released his
hold on Rasa’s face and began pacing up and down in front of
her.

‘Prince? He is nothing
more than a dotard who thinks that banging his head against a
palisade makes him a great warlord. The bishop’s approach shows
that he is weak at this moment and fears conflict with your
father.’

‘So he should,’ said
Rasa smugly.

Vsevolod stopped and
held up a hand to her. ‘The point is that if Vladimir can be
persuaded to support Vetseke, or better still march west himself,
then we can combine with him and your father to strike a fatal blow
against my dear friend Bishop Albert. That is why Vetseke must be
kept alive.’

‘Vladimir will never
agree to march beside my father. There is too much bad blood
between them,’ she said disparagingly.

Vsevolod sighed. He
loved his wife but her habit of seeing everything in black and
white sometimes blinded her to the obvious.

‘Both your father and
Vladimir are great warlords who know that there is strength in
unity and who also know that our friend the bishop presents the
greatest immediate danger.’