‘My boys need plenty of bolts to shoot the heathens down.’
This brought a great cheer from the crossbowmen, who waved their weapons in the air. The brother knights released the warhorses to the charge of the novices and walked back to their palfreys.
‘I wish I was coming with you,
Susi
.’
He laid a hand on Kaja’s arm. ‘It is a comfort to me that you are safe here. But remember that you are also responsible for defending this place. So take heed of what Master Thaddeus tells you.’
‘Yes,
Susi
.’
He hauled himself into the saddle and wheeled his horse right following another blast of trumpets. Hans and Anton raised their hands to Kaja as Rudolf led eleven brother knights, thirty sergeants, twenty novices and one hundred and twenty crossbowmen from the courtyard. They trotted across the courtyard and down the track to the outer perimeter gates, children waving and running alongside them as they did so. Another twenty sergeants sat on loaded wagons and carts waiting to follow the horsemen, and outside the gates were the garrisons of Segewold and Kremon and Rameke’s Livs. Nearly five hundred men began the journey north to halt the advance of Kristjan, while ahead of them Riki’s fifty Harrien were scouting the land to insure against any nasty surprises.
*****
Despite it being the beginning of summer the days could still be cool and rainy, the tracks quickly turning to rivers of mud when pounded by hundreds of hooves and feet. The forests and meadows had sprung to life and brimmed with game and birds. The days were long, which meant that Kristjan made good progress as his army headed south. His Ungannians and Vetseke’s Russians were all mounted, which meant they could endure the long days easily enough, but those on foot were soon complaining.
‘You think that Taara is interested in the bleatings of the common folk?’ asked Kristjan.
The sun lanced through gaps in the forest canopy and the air was heavy with the scent of pine. Vetseke riding beside him thought the young man’s recovery from the hornet stings had been remarkable, but believed that his youthful enthusiasm was now laced with a dangerous dose of arrogance.
‘I think that men driven to the limits of their exhaustion will not be much use in battle, young lord,’ replied Vetseke.
‘Don’t call me young,’ snapped Kristjan. ‘I am the appointed servant of Taara. My age is irrelevant.’
‘We should make camp soon,’ suggested Vetseke. ‘To give the men and beasts an opportunity to rest.’
‘Rest?’ scoffed Kristjan. ‘They can rest when they are dead.’
He turned in the saddle and shouted at the long, winding column behind.
‘On, on. Taara points the way to victory!’
Vetseke decided to broach a topic he had thus far avoided.
‘Where are we headed, Kristjan?’
The Ungannian smiled. ‘To Livonia, prince. To butcher Livs and burn their villages, to entice the Sword Brothers out of their stone castles so we can destroy them.’
Vetseke, who had personal experience of fighting and losing to the men of iron, was taken aback.
‘They are tenacious foes, Kristjan.’
‘I agree.’
‘You do?’
Kristjan smiled once more. ‘Of course. My father taught me that it is a gross error to underestimate an enemy. But if I cut a swathe of destruction through Livonia then I will show how weak the Bishop of Riga is. As a result Novgorod and Polotsk will not be able to resist invading Livonia. This is the message that Taara sent me when my body was filled with poison.’
Vetseke did not reply but pondered over whether being stung by hornets could make the victim insane.
Two scouts who knew the area well were leading the column through a largely uninhabited strip of land between what had been the realm of the Livs and Estonia. The two races had raided each other for generations in search of slaves, livestock or just the pleasure of burning and killing. Vetseke did not trust them but Kristjan seemed content to be flattered by the pair. The scouts rode out of the trees into a meadow of long grass and white and yellow flowers, and pulled up their ponies. On the far side of the meadow, around two hundred paces away, sat three men on ponies. They wore helmets and carried spears and shields.
‘Don’t like the look of them, lord,’ said one of the scouts to Kristjan.
Vetseke turned to his deputy. ‘Ride them down.’
Moments later half a dozen Russians were galloping across the meadow, spears levelled as they rode towards the unidentified warriors. But the latter immediately scattered as they turned their horses and disappeared into a forest of birch. Kristjan and Vetseke continued forward, the two scouts urging their mangy beasts on as the army flooded into the meadow.
‘Who were they?’ asked Kristjan as the Russian horsemen followed the mysterious riders into the dark green forest.
‘Livs, most likely, lord,’ replied the second scout, ‘it’s too far south to be our people.’
‘You mean Estonians,’ said Vetseke.
The other scout spat. ‘The Livs used to be lambs ripe for raping and killing before the men of iron arrived. See how they ran without their friends the Sword Brothers to back them up.’
Behind Vetseke his deputy, like him a Liv, bristled at the insult directed at his people.
‘You have killed many Livs?’ asked Vetseke casually.
‘Oh, yes,’ replied the other scout. ‘We used to call this land the happy hunting ground.’
‘There was a tidy profit to be made from capturing slaves as well,’ said the other scout, ‘before the men of iron came.’
‘Do not worry about them,’ interrupted Kristjan, ‘they will be only a temporary presence in this land.’
Vetseke stared ahead and said nothing. Behind him hundreds of Estonian warriors continued their journey south to Livonia. He too had once led an army against the Sword Brothers that had reached the gates of Riga before being destroyed. He had been captured but Bishop Albert had freed him on condition that he never set foot in Livonia again. But here he was, part of an army led by a boy who was beloved of the gods.
*****
The force from Wenden covered ten miles on the first day and fifteen on the second, a splendid achievement given that it rained every day and the tracks quickly turned to mud. But men got off their horses and ponies and helped the progress of the carts and wagons and everyone was hopeful that they would reach Lehola in a week. At the end of each day Rudolf, as commander of the expedition, would ride up and down the column and issue the order that was given at the end of a day’s march on all Sword Brother campaigns: ‘Make camp, lord brothers, on God’s behalf.’
Pitching the tents was a straightforward and speedy affair, each garrison of the order having practised it so many times that the men could do it in their sleep. The chapel tent was set up first, then those of the masters and the tents of the brother knights and sergeants that circled them. The vehicles were placed in a wagon park and the order’s horses, ponies and mules were housed in a temporary stabling area. By the time this had been done and the beasts had been watered, fed, groomed and examined for injuries the sun was dipping in the west.
The Livs had their own camping arrangements that were simpler, their two-man felt tents being pitched around their chiefs’ and their ponies tethered either to low-lying branches or carts after being allowed to graze on the lush meadow grass.
After Vespers in the chapel tent evening meals were cooked. Rudolf had insisted on tight camp security so there were no hunting parties, which meant that meals comprised cured meat and porridge. It was customary on campaign to duplicate the eating arrangements that were observed at Wenden. Thus there was a tent where meals were taken and where the brother knights ate first followed by the sergeants. However, because he was Marshal of Estonia Conrad was allowed to take his meals separately, as were Hans and Anton who were his allotted deputies. So, as on many other occasions, they sat outside their tent watching their food being prepared.
‘I miss Kaja,’ said Hans as he watched a novice stirring the pot of porridge hanging over the fire.
‘Rameke was most insistent that she no longer accompany us on campaign,’ replied Conrad.
‘It is the end of an era,’ opined Anton as the novice began serving the porridge into wooden bowls.
He handed one to Conrad, then Hans and Anton and went back to his stirring. Conrad estimated his age at around fifteen. He was gangly and had yet to grow into his frame. His name was Manfred.
Hans gulped down his porridge and then called to him.
‘Fill it up, Manfred.’
The novice scurried over and took Hans’ bowl to refill it. He handed it back to the brother knight. Moments later a familiar figure made an appearance.
‘Now then, boys, any chance of a spare morsel for a penniless dog of war?’
Leatherface smiled mischievously at Manfred before sitting on the ground beside Conrad. Manfred picked up a spare bowl and began filling it with porridge.
‘Have you eaten, Manfred?’ asked Conrad.
‘Not yet, Brother Conrad.’
‘Then sit down and eat that bowl of porridge.’
Leatherface looked aghast. ‘Nothing for me? I preferred it when young Kaja was the cook. She had a soft spot for me.’
Hans finished his bowl and held it out. ‘Manfred.’
‘You have had enough, Hans,’ Conrad told him. ‘Manfred has cooked your meal so let the boy eat.’
‘There is some left, Brother Hans,’ said Manfred in between shovelling the porridge into his mouth at speed.
‘You finish it off, Manfred,’ Conrad told him.
‘None for me?’ said Leatherface in a miserable tone.
Conrad finished his porridge and placed his bowl on the ground.
‘As the commander of crossbowmen I’m sure you have had more than your fill among your own men, to say nothing of the food you have scrounged on the way here.’
‘I’m not into poverty and piety like you are, Brother Conrad,’ he protested. ‘I thought generosity is supposed to be one of the virtues of the Sword Brothers.’
‘Towards those who are desperate and helpless,’ said Anton, ‘which doesn’t apply to you.’
Manfred refilled his own bowl as ordered and emptied the cooking pot, but then scooped some porridge into a fresh bowl and took it over to Leatherface.
‘Thank you, boy,’ he beamed. ‘Now that’s what I call Christian charity.’
‘So,’ he continued, porridge spilling from his mouth, ‘what do you reckon about this Kristjan and his army?’
Conrad shrugged. ‘I’m more concerned that there are Russians among his men. If he has the support of Novgorod then his threat is greater than if he had been operating alone.’
‘He’s caused all Estonia to rise up, I’ve heard,’ said Leatherface.
‘That is the rumour,’ said Hans.
‘And rumours can turn out to be false,’ added Anton.
‘That’s what I like about you boys,’ grinned the old mercenary, ‘you always look on the bright side.’
He scooped out the bowl with his fingers, shoved the last morsels into his mouth and stood up. He tossed the empty bowl to Manfred.
‘What about you, young pup, what do you think?’
‘The Sword Brothers will prevail, lord,’ came the answer.
Leatherface looked at Conrad and back at Manfred. ‘So you think that King Conrad here will defeat King Kristjan.’
Manfred looked confused and unsure how to reply.
‘Be off with you,’ Conrad told the mercenary, ‘and allow us time to pray for your soul.’
Leatherface turned and walked off. ‘Don’t you bother yourself with my soul, Brother Conrad, I sold it years ago.’
‘That I can believe,’ said Hans.
Later, when night had come and there was a chill in the air, Conrad and his friends sat on stools close to the fire and cleaned their weapons. Manfred threw more wood on the fire and sat expectantly on a stool.
‘Would you like me to clean your sword, Brother Conrad?’
‘A brother knight should always clean his own sword, Manfred, but thank you for the offer.’
He could see that the novice was entranced by the weapon, its blade now bathed in the red glow of the fire. Conrad ran a cloth over the black leather grip and then over the cross-guard, each of its arms being ‘waisted’ and flared back to their original width at the ends.
‘It is a fine weapon, Brother Conrad.’
Conrad looked at the broad and evenly tempered blade, the outer third of which curved gradually to a point. He saw the disc-shaped pommel with its chamfered edges and unicorns carved into both sides.
‘It is,’ he agreed.
‘It was given to Conrad,’ said Hans, ‘as a present.’
‘It was bequeathed to me by Sir Frederick of Tangermünde, a Saxon knight,’ said Conrad, ‘after he had been mortally wounded at Fellin.’
‘I have seen his grave in the cemetery,’ said Manfred.
‘That was twelve years ago,’ reflected Anton. ‘How the years pass.’
‘And how history repeats itself,’ mused Hans. ‘For we shall have to assault Fellin again soon.’
‘First we have to find Kristjan,’ stated Conrad.