Conrad moved around him as the soldier tucked his shield tight to his body and attempted to match the brother knight’s movements. But he was losing a lot of blood and Conrad was like an angry hornet, darting in and out to slice his hamstring, calf and thigh. When the latter was cut he yelped and went down on one knee. He was beaten and threw his sword on the cobbles to surrender, just at the moment Conrad stepped forward and slashed his sword diagonally across his opponent’s neck, severing the windpipe. The man gurgled as a huge red fountain shot from his neck and he pitched forward on to the stones.
The courtyard was the scene of a plethora of individual combats, with spearmen battling brother knights and the occasional crossbow bolt hissing through the air. The shooters on the battlements had desisted their activities now that brother knights and sergeants were weaving around their targets. More sergeants came from the dormitory in answer to the alarm bell but their addition was not needed. The Rigan spearmen, trained to fight as part of a unit of soldiers, were being cut down by the better-trained and motivated brother knights.
Conrad turned when he heard footsteps on the cobbles behind him and saw Abbot Hylas coming towards him, clutching one of the crucifixes that hung around his neck in front of him.
‘Imp of Satan, I curse you.’
‘Get back to the chapel, abbot,’ Conrad told him.
But Hylas had fire in his eyes and carried on advancing. Conrad had no time for him as a spearman thrust his lance at him, the brother knight leaping back to take his belly beyond the reach of the spear point.
‘Kill him, avenging angel!’ screamed Hylas at the spearman as Conrad feinted left and then right as the soldier jabbed his spear at him. He held his almond-shaped shield on his left side and so Conrad swung his sword at the man’s head to allow him to dart right. The spearman swivelled and thrust his weapon forward – straight into Abbot Hylas’ guts. The abbot gasped in surprise, the soldier froze and Conrad struck. He jumped forward, twisted his sword and drove one of its cross guards into the soldier’s eye socket. The man shrieked in agony, dropped his spear and died when Conrad plunged his dagger into his other eye socket.
He sprang back and grabbed the faltering Hylas, just at the moment a crossbow bolt slammed into the churchman’s side. He groaned and became a dead weight as his life seeped away.
‘Kill him,’ Conrad screamed at Hans, pointing his sword at the crossbowman who was frantically reloading.
Hans rushed forward just as the crossbowman placed a bolt in the stock of his weapon. He looked up to see Hans swing the sword he was holding with both hands horizontally at him. The blade flashed, the metal cut deep into his neck and his head was detached from its body. Conrad looked around and saw that the fight was over. All but one of the men from Riga were dead, along with one sergeant who had been shot by a crossbowman. Two brother knights had been injured, though not seriously, and three horses had been cut down.
Henke stepped back and spat part of Clausse’s nose from his mouth. His face and surcoat were smeared with blood, none of it his own. The captain staggered back and fell on to his back groaning loudly, clutching at what remained of his nose.
Rudolf, bloody sword in hand, walked over to Henke.
‘Look at the state of you. Get that mess cleaned off your face and go to the laundry to collect a new surcoat. You are supposed to be a Sword Brother.’
Henke grinned to reveal teeth coated with blood. ‘What about him?’
He nodded at Clausse.
Rudolf sighed. ‘Lukas.’
Brother Lukas, expert swordsman that he was, had amused himself against the Rigans by fighting with a mace in one hand and an axe in another. He now tossed the latter to Rudolf. The master stood astride the prostrate Clausse, gripped the axe with both hands and brought it down hard on the captain’s neck, decapitating him.
Rudolf threw the axe back to Lukas. ‘What about him?’
The master looked around as Conrad, Hans and Anton shook hands and grinned at each other. Walter was kneeling by the body of Abbot Hylas, deep in prayer. Conrad walked over to Rudolf.
‘Thank you, master, for defending me.’
Rudolf slapped him on the arm. ‘Like I said, Conrad, the Governor of Riga has no authority over the Sword Brothers. Arrogant little toad. He dares to send an armed gang to my castle to demand that I surrender one of my men. I am within my rights to go to Riga and disembowel him. Lucky for him that I am a reasonable man.’
Conrad looked at the red-clothed corpses that were being hurled into carts brought into the courtyard from the wagon park below the castle.
‘Most reasonable,’ agreed Conrad.
Schwerin Castle had originally been a pagan timber fort on an island in Lake Schwerin, twenty-five miles east of Lübeck. But the pagans had been defeated and their fort destroyed by the great crusader Henry the Lion, who had founded not only a stone castle on the site but also a city nearby. The island the castle stood on was reached by a narrow causeway, which often flooded in the winter. Over time the causeway was raised and reinforced so the castle could be accessed all year round. But at the same time the castle itself was strengthened and enlarged so that it became a formidable fortress. The causeway ended at a stone barbican, which was entered via a drawbridge, a moat having been dug in front of it. The barbican in turn led to the castle’s gatehouse, the latter also having a drawbridge. In this way an attacker would have to cross two moats before reaching the castle’s thick walls.
Count Henry of Schwerin had often considered King Valdemar to be lucky that he did not have to assault his mighty fortress during the time when he had been his enemy. The count and his brother had been forced to retreat south following a defeat at the hands of the Danes. His castle had been denuded of its garrison and had surrendered without a fight. Valdemar had allowed ‘Henry the Black’ to return to his home in return for his fealty and the promise that henceforth he would serve the Danish king. But it had been an uneasy alliance. On one side arrogance and overbearance, on the other resentment and a barely concealed desire for vengeance.
‘I have to say, count,’ remarked Valdemar, ‘that your table never ceases to amaze me with its varieties of meat and fish dishes.’
It had been some time since the yellow griffin banner of Schwerin had flown beside that bearing the three blue lions of Denmark above the castle’s mighty square keep. But today the two flags fluttered in the May wind against the blue backdrop of the lake.
‘The lake is rich in pike, bream, perch and eels, majesty,’ smiled the count, ‘and the surrounding woods are home to many wild boar and deer.’
Valdemar nodded approvingly at the fare heaped on the great table that was raised on a dais. A small army of pages and servants were serving the king, his eldest son Valdemar the Young, the count’s brother Gunzelin, Archbishop Andrew of Lund, Bishop Nicholas of Schleswig and Bishop Peter of Roskilde. No women were present out of respect for the fact that the king’s wife had died two years earlier and he had yet to choose a replacement.
‘A lavish feast indeed,’ said Archbishop Andrew. ‘The Lord has been bountiful.’
The count could barely hide his contempt as the churchmen gorged themselves to fill their fat bellies. But he had to admit that his cooks had surpassed themselves. The first course had comprised a civet of hare, a quarter of stag, a stuffed chicken and a loin of veal. Next came silver platters holding roasted roe deer, capons, chickens, pigeons and hard-boiled eggs. He ate a small portion of each out of politeness but the prelates shoved food into their mouths as though it was their last meal. How he would like to make that a reality.
‘So,’ said the king, washing his hands in a brass bowl filled with warm water held by a page, ‘how goes the assembly of my German vassals, Count Henry? I am eager to get back to Estonia to wash my sword in pagan blood. I have already despatched reinforcements to the garrison of Reval that will suffice to hold the pagans at bay until I arrive with my army.’
The prelates were nodding and drinking greedily from their silver chalices. The wine the pages were serving was among the finest in all Europe, a white wine produced by the monks at the Cistercian Abbey at Eberbach. It was supposed to be sipped so it could be appreciated more fully. But the churchmen drank it like thirsty men guzzle water.
Beeswax candles mounted on candelabra hanging from the vaulted ceiling cast the great hall in a pale light. Valdemar’s face looked unusually long in the candle glow, and it was about to become very glum.
‘There is no assembly of German vassals, majesty,’ replied Count Henry.
Valdemar stopped eating the pie with a filling of cooked starlings. Bishop Nicholas belched and apologised.
‘No German vassals?’ said the king. ‘Explain yourself.’
Henry sniffed his white wine and then took a sip. Delicious.
‘Interesting word: vassal,’ the count mused. ‘The subordination of one to another.’
One by one the churchmen stopped eating and drinking and looked at Count Henry. Gunzelin continued picking at his roast pigeon.
‘How long has it been now,’ asked Henry, ‘since the lords of northern Germany have been forced to bend their knees to you, majesty?’
‘Your tone is impertinent, Count Henry,’ snarled the king.
‘He should be whipped for his insolence,’ said the king’s son who in physical appearance resembled his father.
The count ignored the boy. ‘To answer your question, majesty, concerning your vassals. They have decided to be vassals no more, being tired of shedding their blood in Danish service.’
The bishops’ mouths dropped open at these words.
Valdemar jumped to his feet. ‘Guards!’
Gunzelin, his mouth full, looked at his brother and shook his head. The king stood and looked smugly at Count Henry as a file of soldiers marched into the room.
‘You will pay a heavy price for your insolence, count,’ snapped the king.
Henry gently dabbed his lips with a cloth offered him by a page.
‘You may be right. But not today.’
Valdemar turned to order the guards to take the count and his brother to the cells but saw that they wore not the livery of Denmark but the yellow griffin of Schwerin.
‘Your guards have been disarmed and locked in the cells, majesty,’ stated Henry calmly. ‘Along with the members of your entourage.’
The guards stood around the table, their swords in their scabbards. The prelates looked at each other nervously as Gunzelin smiled at Archbishop Andrew and took a large gulp of his wine.
Valdemar continued to stand as Henry leaned back in his chair.
‘I did consider reasoning with you, majesty,’ continued the count, ‘but then remembered that reason is not a quality that you possess.’
‘You will die for this, Count Henry,’ threatened Valdemar.
‘Everyone dies,’ said Gunzelin, ‘even kings.’
‘Count Henry,’ said Archbishop Andrew nervously, ‘what you say is treason.’
‘I am aware of the gravity of what is coming out of my mouth, archbishop,’ replied the count, ‘but necessity gives me no choice.’
‘What necessity?’ mocked Valdemar.
‘The necessity of saving northern Germany from the endless wars that you embroil it in,’ replied Henry. ‘I give you a choice, Valdemar of Denmark. Renounce your claims on northern Germany and you may return to your domains.’
‘I will never renounce the lands that God has bequeathed me,’ seethed Valdemar.
‘In that case you and your son will be conveyed to Dannenberg Castle, a comfortable residence provided by my ally the Duke of Saxony, where you will remain until you see sense.’
‘You would not dare,’ said the king.
Gunzelin rose, pointed at the commander of the guards who ordered his men to ‘escort’ the king and his son from the hall.
‘You are an arse,’ spat the boy as two guards seized his arms and hauled him away. Bishop Peter was ashen faced as the king and his son were manhandled away.
‘You have done a terrible thing,’ Archbishop Andrew told Henry.
‘Perhaps, archbishop,’ retorted Henry, ‘but I have the support of Saxony, Pomerania, Lusatia and Meissen.’
‘If northern Germany is fatally weakened the nobles of the south will bring their armies here and plunder it,’ said Gunzelin. ‘We cannot allow that.’
‘Bishop Albert is already raising men to take the cross in Livonia,’ said Count Henry. ‘Someone has to remain behind to protect the towns and villages from mercenary bands.’
‘You use that to justify violating the body of a king?’ said Archbishop Andrew.
‘Believe me, archbishop,’ said Gunzelin, ‘if we had wanted to violate his body we would have killed him while out hunting today.’
The wine had obviously fortified the churchman because he now stood and gave Count Henry a stare of steel.
‘And what do you propose to do with us?’
‘You are free to go back to Denmark,’ Count Henry told him, ‘along with the king’s disarmed guards and his entourage.’
Bishop Nicholas closed his eyes and sighed with relief.
‘But before you go,’ said Gunzelin, ‘we have presents for you.’
He pointed at one of the guards. The man walked forward with three wooden clubs held in his arms. He walked up to Archbishop Andrew and offered the clubs.
‘Take one,’ ordered Gunzelin.
The archbishop, confused, took one of the clubs. The guard then offered one each to Bishop Peter and Bishop Nicholas, who were likewise told to take one.
‘Now, your eminences,’ smiled Count Henry, ‘I know that the Holy Church forbids its priests from spilling blood, so should you feel the need to take the cross in Estonia, you can do so with those clubs without fear of shedding pagan blood.’
Archbishop Andrew threw his club onto the rush mats that covered the floor.
‘You blaspheme.’
‘And you are a hypocrite,’ said Henry. ‘Now get out, all of you.’
‘But Count Henry,’ pleaded Bishop Peter, ‘what of Reval and the crusade in Estonia?’
Henry shrugged. ‘What of them?’
*****
There was no time to reflect on the gravity of what had happened at Wenden because riders sent by Hillar in Rotalia brought grim news.
‘Kristjan is marching south.’
‘Marching south?’ Rudolf leaned back in his chair. ‘I thought he would go to Lehola and lay siege to it, thus giving us time to march to its relief.’
He pointed at the chair on the other side of his desk.
‘Take the weight off your feet, Conrad.’
The brother knight sat. ‘The rumour is that Kristjan has raised a great army, master.’
‘An army of Estonians?’ queried Rudolf. Conrad nodded.
‘And how does this sit with your Estonians?’
‘The majority will remain loyal, master, especially the Rotalians who now have their homeland back.’
‘What we need is to inflict a defeat on Kristjan to show Estonia that he is not some sort of liberator,’ said Rudolf. ‘So in that respect his marching towards us serves our purpose, to a degree. However, should he prevail then I fear his stature will rise markedly. As soon as Rameke arrives with his men we will march north.’
‘Masters Bertram and Mathias will be joining us?’ asked Conrad, thinking of the reportedly high numbers that had rallied to Kristjan.
Rudolf nodded. ‘Let’s see how this Kristjan stands up against armoured horsemen. What is he like?’
Conrad paused to recollect his memories of the time when he had been at Odenpah and had saved the life of a slave girl from Kristjan’s vindictiveness.
‘Young and hot-headed, master. Cruel as well.’
‘Excellent,’ said Rudolf, ‘in battle rashness can often lead to defeat.’
Outside the master’s office the courtyard of Wenden was again scrupulously clean and tidy. Life at the castle continued as normal and the garrison and the residents of the village were buoyant regarding the return of Bishop Albert and a crusading army. But Conrad was troubled.
‘I regret what occurred concerning the soldiers from Riga, master.’
Rudolf pinched his nose. ‘Regret? Why?’
‘The incident may have severe repercussions for the order.’
‘You have no need to concern yourself with that, Conrad. I have written to the grand master informing him of Archdeacon Stefan’s gross breach of protocol.’
‘Even so,’ sighed Conrad, ‘the archdeacon will take the insult personally.’
Rudolf laughed. ‘I hope so for that was my intention. You are an important man, Conrad, not some base villain to be taken away and hanged on the whim of a fat churchman. But I’m afraid you will no longer be able to travel to Riga again, at least not without an armed escort.’
Conrad thought of the noise, the ramshackle crowded streets and the stench that filled them.
‘I can live with that, master.’
Rameke arrived the next day at the head of two hundred bearded, hardy warriors on hale ponies, an additional twenty men driving carts loaded with the Livs’ tents, food and spare weapons and armour. The ponies looked slightly ridiculous with their low legs, long bodies and wide and swinging trots, their colours a collection of blacks, greys, chestnuts and creams. But they had amazing stamina and could withstand inclement weather that would kill the horses imported from Germany. The Livs made camp on the meadow outside the outer perimeter while their leader went to pay his respects to Master Rudolf.
He had gone not twenty paces before a delighted Kaja accosted him by jumping into his arms, nearly knocking him over. Conrad, Hans and Anton had also walked down to the outer gates to welcome their friend, who wore a broad smile as his beloved linked an arm in his. Rameke embraced the three brother knights before the party began walking along the track that led to the castle.