The Sword Brothers (58 page)

Behind the thirty-six
brother knights came sixty sergeants dressed exactly the same as
the former aside from their kettle helmets. And behind the
sergeants rode Conrad, Hans, Anton and Johann. Just over a hundred
horsemen charging into a mass of pagan warriors.

Grand Master Volquin
had ordered that the garrisons along the Gauja remain where they
were. But Thalibald’s scouts had reported that Vetseke had gathered
a great army and Master Berthold knew that the flux had greatly
weakened the bishop’s forces at Riga. He therefore disobeyed orders
and rode south with his men. He asked Thalibald to reinforce the
garrison at Wenden and made the same request of Caupo regarding the
castles of Segewold and Kremon. Now he had arrived on the
battlefield, his men exiting the trees that had sheltered Vetseke’s
army the night before. He could see the banners of the crusader
horsemen on the right, heard the sound of fighting to his front and
could not discern any activity on the left. He had no time to
formulate a plan so ordered a charge into the heart of the enemy
army.

Conrad looked over at
Hans and grinned as he couched his lance and urged his horse on.
Hans was on his left while Anton and Johann rode on his right.
Lukas had ordered them to remain in the rear of the formation but
as the Sword Brothers thundered across the beaten-down crops the
sergeants divided into two groups and galloped to the right and
left flanks of the brother knights. Fearful of disobeying Lukas’
orders Conrad and the others remained behind the front line, and
then there was no time to think about formations as the Sword
Brothers hit the Livs like a mailed fist punching soft flesh.

The collapse of the
Christian centre had increased the numbers of Liv warriors leaving
the flanks to join their victorious comrades in the centre,
resulting in a great press of men eagerly waiting to join the
slaughter being enjoyed by those men in front. If they even saw the
Sword Brothers who had charged out of the forest it was only
fleetingly, before they were speared and cut down by Christian
weapons. Those Livs Master Berthold’s men killed first had been
widely spaced with their backs to the Sword Brothers. When their
comrades turned around to see the source of the tumult that had
suddenly erupted behind them the mailed horsemen were already among
them.

Conrad rammed his
lance through the back of a Liv warrior, let go of the shaft and
drew his sword, bringing it down on the bare head of another
warrior who turned and froze in horror as Sir Frederick’s sword
split his skull. On Conrad rode, through the scattering Livs,
hacking left and right at any targets within reach. Hans and the
others clung to him as he forgot about Master Berthold, Rudolf,
Henke and the others and just thought of killing the enemy. Around
him hundreds of men were fighting for their lives as Sword Brothers
charged headlong into the seething mass of pagans, the momentum of
their charge stuttering and then dying as the enemy swarmed around
them.

*****

‘To me. Rally to
me!’

Vetseke held up his
gore-covered sword and waited for his Russians to close around him.
He had seen the crusader wings being halted, had led the charge
that had shattered their centre and now spied the man who was the
cause of all his misfortune: Bishop Albert. The prelate was on his
horse amidst his warriors, desperately trying to stem the pagan
victory that was unfolding. He forgot about storming the crusader
camp and butchering all inside, ignored the flood of warriors
heading towards Riga and thought of only one thing: kill Bishop
Albert.

His men were breathing
heavily, their hauberks ripped and torn, their shields splintered
and their helmets dented. But they once more formed into a wedge
formation and followed Vetseke as he walked purposely towards the
man who had polluted his beloved land with foreigners. The bishop’s
guards had valiantly charged into the Livs but had been simply
overwhelmed and now most of their corpses lay trampled underfoot.
Around a dozen still stood, desperately trying to fend off a ring
of predators.

And then the Russians
closed as one on the bishop, cutting down his guards and then
killing his horse, causing the prelate to fall to the ground. Grand
Master Volquin jumped from his saddle to stand beside him. He
fought well but there were too many of the enemy and as he fended
them off he became separated from the bishop and looked on,
helplessly, as a burly Russian barged him to the ground. The bishop
lay prostrate as the Russian raised his sword above the bishop’s
head to kill him.

Conrad thrust his
sword into the Russian’s shoulder blade as he passed, then slashed
at another mail-clad giant on his left side, his blade glancing off
the man’s shield. He tugged on his reins to halt his horse but then
the beast collapsed beneath him and he was lying on his side, his
right leg under the animal. He heard Lukas’ words in his mind –
keep moving
– as he yanked himself free and sprang to his
feet. A warrior, a brute in a pointed helmet and mail armour, had
killed his horse with a spear thrust and now he was determined to
kill him.

Conrad glanced behind
him and saw the bishop struggling to his feet. He turned and spat
at the Russian and then ran to the side of Bishop Albert. He
grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet.

‘Have no fear, lord
bishop,’ he said grandly.

Hans leaped from his
horse and came to Conrad’s side as half a dozen Russians approached
them like ravenous wolves. Then Anton and Johann appeared behind
them and split the helmets of two with their swords. Conrad shouted
with joy and sprang at the four survivors, crouching low at the
last moment to catch the enemy sword on his shield before thrusting
his sword beneath the Russian’s shield and into his belly. The man
groaned as Conrad attacked the soldier next to him, Hans fighting
beside him. They were fresh and strong and forced their opponents
back with a series of lightning-fast sword strikes.

Anton and Johann,
having both dismounted, rushed to their friends’ sides and now it
was four against four. Conrad’s opponent was bigger than him but he
was faster and cut the man’s thigh with the point of his sword, the
metal biting deep into his leg. The Russian hobbled and tried to
chop Conrad’s neck with his sword but the youth caught the blow on
his shield and then thrust his sword into the enemy’s armpit. The
man yelped and collapsed, then died as Conrad rammed his blade
through the man’s throat.

‘Defend the bishop,’
shouted Conrad as Hans killed his opponent with a single strike to
the groin.

Conrad and the others
retreated to stand in front of Bishop Albert, who had now been
joined by Grand Master Volquin, a score of mounted crusaders,
Master Berthold and Rudolf.

Volquin looked in
alarm at the bishop. ‘Are you hurt, lord bishop?’

Albert, helmetless and
sweating, laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘No, thanks to these boys
who appeared as if sent by the Lord himself. Master Berthold, never
have I been so glad to see you and your brother knights.’

‘Your servant, lord
bishop,’ said Berthold, raising his sword to him.

The pagan tide had
ebbed now as more and more crusader horsemen from Count Walram’s
wing had joined the battle in the centre, riders heading towards
the crusader camp to cut down Livs moving towards the town. And
from the Christian right wing the Sword Brothers from Holm and
Uexkull had launched a charge against the Livs, cutting down dozens
and forcing hundreds more to retreat back to the forest.

The bishop walked
forward and pointed at Conrad. ‘This young man saved my life. What
is your name?’

‘Conrad Wolff, lord
bishop.’

Albert looked
thoughtful. ‘I have heard that name before.’

‘You saw me when you
last came to Wenden, lord bishop.’

The prelate nodded.
‘Ah. Yes, of course. The boy who wounded Lembit.’

He turned to look at
Berthold sitting on his horse. ‘You must be most proud to have such
young lions among your garrison.’

Berthold nodded
approvingly. ‘Yes, lord bishop.’

‘Even if they have
lost their horses,’ remarked Rudolf.

Conrad looked at Hans
and the others and felt his cheeks flush. The bishop laughed.

‘As have I. So you are
all in good company. Now, someone fetch me a horse so we may bring
this drama to a rightful end.’

*****

Vetseke saw the four
riders collide into his Russians and growled in frustration. He had
been on the verge of a great victory but triumph had been cruelly
snatched from him with the arrival of Christian reinforcements. He
watched in despair as the Sword Brothers came from nowhere and
began scything down his warriors. The fifty or so Russians still
alive forgot about killing the bishop and closed ranks around him,
forming a small shield fort to ward off any horsemen. But the Livs
were not so fortunate. They had no protection as the knights rode
among them, first spearing them with their lances and then using
their swords to wreak havoc.

‘We must leave,
highness,’ urged his Russian commander. ‘Their crossbowmen will
finish what the horsemen have started.’

He was right. After
the knights had finished their butchery the crossbowmen would reap
a grim harvest with their weapons.

‘We must retreat back
to the trees, highness,’ his subordinate insisted.

‘I will remain,’ said
Vetseke. ‘I release you from your obligations.’

‘We cannot leave you,
highness.’

‘I order you to go!’
Vetseke snapped. He attempted a half-smile. ‘Go. Save
yourselves.’

The man saluted,
barked an order to his men who began to shuffle in the direction of
the trees, making their way across the flattened crops and
lacerated bodies.

Groups of Livs were
now throwing down their weapons and raising their hands in
surrender as mounted knights surrounded them to prevent their
escape. The bishop, now back on a horse, was riding among them
ordering them to give themselves up and promising them their lives
if they did so. Leaderless, surrounded and faced by crossbowmen
with weapons loaded, they were only too glad to consent. Where
there had been the clatter of battle there was suddenly a dire
quiet, interlaced with the groans and cries of the wounded.

Vetseke stood alone
among the carnage, observing without emotion the approach of Bishop
Albert with a group of Sword Brothers and crusaders. The bishop
halted twenty paces from him as Grand Master Volquin, Master
Berthold and the other brother knights circled him. Vetseke
sheathed his sword and took off his helmet, placing it in the crook
of his arm. He looked directly at the bishop and ignored the
others. He did notice, however, a youth standing beside the
bishop’s horse, a tall individual dressed in a gambeson with a
kettle helmet on his head. A servant, no doubt. And immediately
behind him were three other young servants, except that they were
mounted.

The bishop rested his
hands on the saddle’s high and broad pommel. ‘Prince Vetseke. It
has been a while since we last met, an event that took place under
more agreeable circumstances, I seem to remember.’

Vetseke tilted his
head ever so slightly at the bishop. ‘It would appear that you have
the advantage once more, bishop.’

Albert looked around,
a pained expression on his face. ‘It saddens me to see so much
blood spilt in so fruitless a cause.’

‘Fighting for one’s
homeland against foreign invaders is not fruitless, bishop,’
Vetseke sneered.

‘Foreign invaders,
prince? Surely you must place yourself in that category. You were,
after all, the ruler of Kokenhusen and not Riga if my memory serves
me well.’

Vetseke folded his
arms. ‘You will never plant your foreign faith in this land.’

The bishop sighed.
‘That remains to be seen but for the moment I must address more
immediate matters. I must ask you to surrender your sword.’

Vetseke smiled and
drew it, prompting the Sword Brothers to nudge their horses towards
him. ‘If I am to die I would prefer it to be here, with a sword in
my hand.’

The bishop was
appalled. ‘You will be my guest in my palace, prince. There has
been too much killing today. But I must ask you to give up your
sword temporarily. You have my word that no harm will befall
you.’

‘I must request that
the same courtesy is extended to those you have captured,’ said
Vetseke.

‘Of course,’ replied
the bishop.

Volquin turned in his
saddle. ‘My lord bishop, the penalty for rebellion is death.’

‘Do the Sword Brothers
presume to instruct their bishop on the laws of Livonia, grand
master?’ snapped the bishop.

Volquin looked most
discomfited. ‘No, lord bishop, of course not.’

Bishop Albert looked
sternly at Vetseke. ‘I would have your sword, prince. Now. And then
we may leave this place of dead flesh to carry on our discussion in
more pleasant surroundings.’

Vetseke curled his lip
at Volquin and unbuckled his sword belt.

‘Conrad,’ said the
bishop, ‘go and bring me the prince’s sword.’

Conrad looked at the
prince and then at Rudolf sitting next to Volquin, who nodded at
him. He swallowed and walked forward, feeling most uncomfortable as
a score of pairs of eyes watched him. Vetseke regarded him for a
few seconds, his stare met by steely blue-grey eyes. He seemed to
have a very expensive sword for a servant. Most odd. He shrugged
and handed Conrad his belt and sword. The bishop smiled.

‘Bring a horse for the
prince.’

Conrad stood in front
of Hans’ horse as the bishop rode back to Riga in the company of
the man who had plotted to kill him. Behind rode the Sword Brothers
and the crusader knights. Rudolf halted his horse.

‘You boys report to
the castle. Where is your horse, Conrad?’