The Sword Brothers (55 page)

‘Get up, priest,’
ordered Vetseke.

Two of his men hauled
the monk to his feet. The Cistercian, though bruised and bloodied,
stood defiantly before the Liv prince.

‘You speak our
language, priest?’ spat Vetseke.

‘I do.’

The villagers had now
gathered in the small square before the headman’s hut. It was a
large village around twenty miles north of Kokenhusen, one of many
that had formerly owed allegiance to the prince when he resided in
his stronghold. The original plan had been for Vetseke to raise an
army of Liv exiles at Polotsk. Then word reached the Russian city
that a great plague had ravaged the crusaders and the town of Riga.
Traffic on the Dvina had dwindled to almost nothing as Russian
merchants stayed away for fear of catching the terrible plague and
Vetseke saw his chance. He persuaded Vladimir that a golden
opportunity presented itself to strike a blow against the Bishop of
Riga. So the prince had given Vetseke a hundred Russian soldiers to
assist him raise the standard of rebellion in Livonia. He took his
Russian soldiers by riverboat as far as Kokenhusen, disembarking
them ten miles downstream of his former home, and then set about
travelling around his kingdom to raise an army.

Vetseke, dressed in a
new green cloak, his sword in a red scabbard, looked at the
monk.

‘Do you know who I
am?’

‘I am afraid that I do
not,’ said the monk, blood trickling from his nose down his
chin.

Vetseke looked at the
people,
his
people, clustered behind the priest. He cast a
disdainful glance at the village headman who had been roused from
his bed and brought to him, for it was early and there was still
dew on the grass beyond the village perimeter. The headman’s family
– two sons and a wife – shifted on their feet nervously behind him.
The Russians formed a cordon around the villagers.

‘Has no one told this
foreign priest about the lord of this land?’ said Vetseke. ‘Have
you all forgotten so quickly the family who ruled over you, your
fathers and forefathers?’

There was silence
among the villagers, many of whom had their heads cast down.

Vetseke left the
bleeding monk and began to walk among them.

‘Have you forgotten
the gods who bless you and this land? Mara, the Great Mother;
Saule, the Sky God, and Jumis who blesses the land that gives you
the food that fills the bellies of your children? Have you been so
corrupted by the false god of the crusaders that you tolerate this
barbarian priest among you?’

They averted their
eyes as he walked back to stand before the monk once more.

‘They have all
accepted baptism into the Holy Church,’ said the monk. ‘They are no
longer lost lambs.’

‘They are my people!’
bellowed Vetseke. He waved forward two of his men. ‘You have a hut
in this village, priest?’

‘It is a church,
heathen,’ replied the monk, ‘a house of the Lord though it be a
simple affair.’

Vetseke smiled
maliciously. ‘Excellent. Nail him to its door.’

‘You may kill me,
heathen,’ said the monk as he was bundled away, ‘but you cannot
extinguish the flame of the Lord.’

The villagers started
to groan and mutter among themselves.

‘Silence!’ barked
Vetseke. ‘I have been away too long and can see that the fever of
treachery has spread among you.’

The headman, alarmed,
shuffled forward. ‘Highness, he is a gentle man who meant no
harm.’

With lightning speed
Vetseke pulled his sword from his scabbard and swung it right to
slash the headman’s neck. He clutched at the gaping wound as blood
sheeted over his hands and he collapsed to the ground, groaning
faintly before he died.

‘I am not,’ said
Vetseke.

The headman’s wife
screamed in anguish and rushed to her husband’s body while his sons
drew their swords and advanced on Vetseke. They were both hacked to
pieces by the prince’s Russian guards. The villagers, horrified and
terrified in equal measure, stood in silence as more screams came
to their ears as nails were driven through the monk’s palms to pin
him to the door of his tiny wooden church.

‘If the god of the
crusaders is so powerful,’ said Vetseke, ‘then why does he allow
his priests to be so easily humiliated?’

One of his men brought
him a lighted torch. Vetseke walked to where the monk, slumped with
his head down, was reciting a prayer, his voice weak. The villagers
followed the prince, ‘encouraged’ by the spears of the Russians.
Vetseke looked at the small wooden cross fixed to the thatched roof
of the hut. Vetseke tossed the torch on to the roof, which was soon
ablaze. The women among the crowd began to groan and sob as the
flames consumed the thatch, spread to the wooden walls and began to
roast the friar’s flesh. He screamed and tried to wrench his
pinioned hands free, to no avail. There was a great roar and then
the hut became a huge fireball as the flames consumed it and the
priest.

Vetseke turned to face
the villagers. ‘I go to reclaim my kingdom and call on those with
courage still in their veins to march with me to rid this land of
the crusaders. Those who wish to remain living on their knees can
stay behind with the women.’

The villagers had been
fond of the kind-hearted monk who had dipped their heads under the
water to baptise them into the faith followed by Caupo, their king,
but many remembered their oaths of allegiance that had been sworn
to their prince. Many had thought him long dead and though they did
not agree with his killing of the monk and the headman and his
family, his appearance had shamed them. Those young men with no
families therefore collected their axes and shields and marched
after the prince, who after a week had collected five hundred
impressionable young men around him and had made his base in the
great forest ten miles north of Kokenhusen.

Not all the Livs in
his former principality were loyal. It was soon reported to Master
Griswold at the castle that Prince Vetseke had returned and was
gathering an army. Those Livs still loyal to the Christian faith
brought their weapons and families into the castle while Griswold
sat with his deputy and the leader of the loyal Liv warriors, plus
the commander of a crusader detachment, Rudolf von Jerichow, who
had been sent to the castle to strengthen the garrison. Kokenhusen
was the most easterly of the Sword Brother castles along the Dvina
and as such was, like Wenden on the Gauja, the most vulnerable. It
had been taken from Vetseke only three years before but was already
assuming the features of a mighty fortress. Masons laboured on
scaffolding to replace the timber walls and towers with stone
bastions. Inside the great enclosure on the wedge-shaped hill were
kitchens, a brewery, bakery, mill, dining hall, chapel, barracks,
forge, granary, stables and hall of the master. The meeting took
place in the latter, Griswold sitting at a large table where once
Prince Vetseke had taken his meals.

‘I thought he was
dead,’ remarked the master.

‘He is very much
alive,’ said the Liv chief, a middle-aged man with wild blonde
hair.

‘Who is this Vetseke?’
asked Sir Rudolf.

‘This was once his
castle,’ answered Griswold. ‘And now he wants it back, it
seems.’

‘His camp is but half
a day’s ride from here,’ said the chief.

‘Then tomorrow we will
ride out and bring this pagan pretender to heel,’ smiled Griswold.
‘I will send him to Riga in chains. The bishop can deal with
him.’

‘It will be good to
fight,’ said Sir Rudolf, ‘I and my knights grow tired of sitting by
this river.’

‘Better than dying of
the flux in Riga, my lord,’ said Griswold’s deputy.

Master Griswold smiled
at Sir Rudolf. ‘Well, my lord, tomorrow we will give battle to
Prince Vetseke and his rabble.’

There was a knock on
the door and one of the garrison’s sergeants entered, walking up to
Griswold and saluting.

‘The duty officer
requests your presence on the walls, master.’

‘I am in the middle of
a meeting,’ Griswold rebuked him.

‘Apologies, master,’
said the sergeant, ‘but he said that you would want to see it.’

Griswold folded his
arms in irritation. ‘See what?’

‘The Lithuanians,
master. They are crossing the river.’

Master Griswold rushed
from the hall followed by Sir Rudolf, his deputy and the Liv chief.
The alarm bell was being rung in the courtyard, sending brother
knights, sergeants, crossbowmen and spearmen racing to the armoury
to collect their weapons before manning the walls. The latter were
still mostly timber palisades though the foundations of five stone
towers had already been laid, the two largest of which would face
the Dvina.

Master Griswold stood
on the battlements watching boats leaving the opposite bank of the
river being rowed across the wide expanse of water. Five were
already in mid-stream with another half dozen leaving the far
shore. They were all filled with warriors whose shields hung on the
sides of the boats. From the first boat flew the banner of a black
bear on all fours on a red background – the emblem of Grand Duke
Daugerutis.

‘Daugerutis himself
comes?’ said Griswold’s deputy.

‘Not with just ten
boats,’ answered Griswold, who looked behind him at the mangonels
being loaded with rocks to shoot at the boats.

Sir Rudolf’s knights
and squires – a hundred men – were also lining the walls now,
together with the Livs who had fled from Vetseke. Men gripped their
weapons and shield straps as they waited for the enemy attack.

‘They do not appear to
be in any hurry,’ remarked Sir Rudolf.

‘No, indeed,’ agreed
Griswold.

In fact the approach
of the boats could only be called leisurely, the oars dipping into
the water in short strokes. And as the lead boat came closer those
on the walls saw that a man in mail armour at the prow held not a
spear or sword but a sprig of oak. He held it aloft for those on
the walls to see.

‘What pagan trick is
this?’ said Sir Rudolf.

‘No trick, my lord,’
said Griswold, ‘it is a signal that they want to talk not
fight.’

Half an hour later
Master Griswold and Sir Rudolf led a party of Sword Brothers and
crusaders from the castle to the sandy riverbank at the foot of the
castle. The Lithuanian boats had all crossed the river but their
crews had shipped their oars and now sat in their vessels while
their leader and the crew of his boat left their vessel and stood
on the sand. One man remained on board holding the banner of Grand
Duke Daugerutis that fluttered in the stiff breeze. The two groups
halted a few paces from each other.

‘Prince Stecse,’ said
Griswold. ‘Have you come to attempt once more to take my
castle?’

Stecse flashed an
impudent smile. ‘Not this time, Master Griswold. Today I am here to
attend to the grand duke’s business.’

Sir Rudolf did not
understand the language of the Lithuanians and so stood frowning at
the pagan lord who strutted before him.

‘My apologies, lord,’
Griswold said to him, ‘this is Prince Stecse, a vassal of Grand
Duke Daugerutis.’

‘Vassal?’ said Stecse
in German. ‘Chief warlord is more correct, Master Griswold.’

Griswold rubbed his
beard. ‘Your star rises, prince.’

Stecse looked at the
stern, mail-clad knight clad in a red surcoat sporting a yellow
unicorn.

‘This is Sir Rudolf
von Jerichow, a noble knight from Germany,’ said Griswold, who had
noticed that Stecse was holding a rolled parchment.

Stecse bowed his head
at Sir Rudolf who looked with disdain on the long-haired barbarian
in his midst.

‘What business brings
you to the walls of my castle, prince,’ enquired Griswold, ‘and
with so many men?’

Stecse looked hurt.
‘You would not expect me to present myself naked surely, Master
Griswold?’

‘Apparently not,’
sighed Griswold.

‘The grand duke wishes
to cross the river with his army to make war upon Novgorod,’
announced Stecse, which was greeted by laughter from the brother
knights behind Griswold.

The master held up a
hand to silence them. ‘Your humour has improved since our last
meeting, prince.’

Stecse shook his head
and held out the document. ‘I am deadly serious, and so is the
grand duke.’

Griswold took the
parchment and unrolled it.

‘You recognise the
seal, I think,’ said Stecse as Griswold’s eyes widened with
surprise and horror as he read the words.

‘This cannot be,’ said
the Sword Brother.

‘A two-year truce in
exchange for the right to cross the Dvina and march through
Livonia, as agreed by the bishop himself,’ said Stecse
triumphantly.

Sir Rudolf was
horrified when Griswold told him about the document’s contents.
‘This must be a trick.’

Griswold rolled up the
parchment and handed it back to Stecse. ‘When?’

‘In two weeks. The
grand duke wishes to make Novgorod bleed and be back in his castle
before the autumn comes. He had thought to cross at Gerzika but
Kokenhusen is much closer to his objective.’

‘My soldiers will act
as guides to ensure there are no depredations against the local
populace.’

Stecse wore a hurt
look again. ‘Depredations, master? Grand Duke Daugerutis is a great
warrior not a brigand.’

‘Nevertheless, I have
been charged by the bishop to protect this region so my men will
ensure there are no regrettable incidents.’

‘Surely you are not
going to allow this outrage?’ said Sir Rudolf.

‘I have no choice,
lord,’ answered Griswold. ‘The bishop himself has authorised
it.’

Stecse tapped the
document in his palm. ‘Excellent! I shall convey your accommodating
demeanour to the grand duke.’

He bowed his head to
Griswold and Sir Frederick, turned on his heels and walked towards
his boat, his men following. He stopped suddenly and returned to
the master, leaning forward to whisper into his ear.