Schism, page 21
part #5 of Crusader Chronicles Series
‘My lord,’ said Ykintas solemnly, ‘they only need a quarter of our strength to give us a bloody nose.’
That night the commanders finalised their plans. To deny the Sword Brothers as much forewarning as possible the decision was taken to halt the army the next day to allow time for trees to be felled and scaling ladders fashioned. The following day the army marched to within ten miles of Mesoten and then melted into the nearest forest. No fires were started so the Christians would not see telltale tendrils of smoke on the horizon. The plan was simple. Ten thousand men would attack Mesoten on three sides. No attack would be made on the fort’s eastern side due to the steepness of the slope and the river. Duke Viesthard briefed all the senior princes of the army, describing the fort’s layout, the incline of its slope, stressing that it was imperative to reach the walls quickly.
‘Do not let your men delay. No shield walls when the crossbows begin shooting. Get to the walls so your men can scale them. Once they are over those Christians manning them will be cut off from the rest holding the inner perimeter. When we gain entry to the outer walls penetrating the inner wall will be easier.’
Ten thousand men thrown against three sides of the fort would simply overwhelm the garrison. Everyone believed it would work, not least Mindaugas whose eyes were full of fire as he went among his men to fortify their courage. He was accompanied by the Kriviu Krivaitis who blessed the men’s spears, swords and axes. The high priest even issued sprigs of rowan to a chosen few to ward off evil. Aras followed the pair as Selonians and Nalsen crowded round them, asking for the high priest’s blessing and cheering Mindaugas. When the press of the crowd became too much the general ordered some of his men to form a cordon around the pair to give them some air. A flustered, sweating high priest smiled at him. Black hair was matted to his glistening forehead and he was panting in the heat. Aras uncorked his water bottle and handed it to him.
‘Thank you, general.’
The priest took a swig and handed it back to him. Mindaugas continued to embrace his warriors and clasp their forearms while Aras’s men kept a wary eye on them.
‘So you decided to join our great crusade,’ said the priest, his piercing blue eyes studying Aras.
‘I got tired of walking the walls of Panemunis.’
‘And guarding your Russian prince?'
Aras shrugged. ‘He is my lord.’
‘He is a heathen,’ hissed the priest.
‘We are all heathens in one way or another,’ said Aras.
‘Prince Vsevolod thinks he is clever but he cannot outwit the gods, general. The future lies with Mindaugas.’
‘So we will win this battle?’ asked Aras.
‘Victory and defeat are irrelevant,’ answered the priest. ‘What is certain is that Mindaugas will become grand duke, as the gods have decreed.’
Aras sighed. The gnawing in his stomach told him that the coming battle would be a bloody one.
*****
The work parties sweated in the sun as they dug a series of trenches. Guards stood sentry as they hacked at the rich soil, behind them more sentries kept watch from the towers of Mesoten. There was not even a hint of a breeze and so the Sword Brother banners hung limply from their flagpoles. Conrad stopped, stretched his back and looked up at the sun in the sky. He rested the wooden spade with its iron edges on the lip of the trench and reached for his water bottle. He took a gulp and handed it to Hans.
His friend, stripped to the waist and also sweating, gladly accepted.
‘When Master Rudolf told us to leave the novices behind I did not realise it was because he wanted us to dig latrine trenches,’ he complained.
Anton likewise stopped and waited for the water bottle.
‘I would prefer to fight than spend my time digging trenches.’
Conrad looked around at the peaceful scene – cows grazing at the foot of Mesoten’s slope, watched over by herdsmen to ensure they did not stray into any stake-lined trenches positioned all around it. Undisturbed meadow grass extended in all directions up to the forests of birch and pine plundered to build the fort’s walls and buildings.
‘Perhaps the information that Grand Master Volquin received was false.’
‘What bit?’ queried Hans. ‘That there would be an attack against Mesoten or that the Kurs would not be taking part?’
‘The Kurs are at war with the other Lithuanian tribes,’ Anton told him.
‘Lucky for us,’ said Conrad. ‘I have heard that their army has never been defeated.’
‘Neither has the Army of the Wolf,’ Anton remarked. ‘Perhaps we could hold a competition, like a jousting match, between our army and theirs to decide who is the best.’
‘Perhaps I should send you to fight their new duke, Anton,’ said Conrad, ‘you are, after all, of noble blood.’
‘Now that Duke Arturus is dead,’ grinned Hans, ‘I would wager all my money on Anton to beat whoever has taken his place.’
‘What money?’ asked Anton.
‘Lamekins, that is the new duke’s name,’ Conrad told them. ‘Grand Master Volquin told me that he was the one who organised and trained the Kur army so he is a formidable opponent by all accounts.’
Anton picked up his spade. ‘Well, neither he nor the other Lithuanian dukes are here so we might as well complete this trench.’
The siting of latrine trenches was an important part of garrison life, especially if a stronghold was suddenly reinforced, as at Mesoten. Eight hundred men produced a lot of daily waste so it was important to ensure it was deposited well away from the fort where it could be quickly buried. Using the Lielupe as a latrine was strictly forbidden, not least because it was slow moving and so foetid waste would quickly collect along its riverbanks. Maintaining hygienic practices kept a garrison healthy, or at least helped to prevent diseases killing more of it than the enemy.
Conrad and his friends were around four hundred paces from the western base of the fort’s mound, along with two score of other Sword Brothers, all digging at the soft earth with gusto. As one they stopped when a group of mounted sergeants came into view. It divided into four riders and headed towards the various groups of makeshift labourers, who began to exit their trenches and pick up their weapons and armour. The hairs on the back of Conrad’s neck stood up and he looked at his friends. Like him they could detect the change of atmosphere. Seconds before it had been relaxed and calm; now the sense of impending violence laced the air. A sergeant brought his sweating horse to a halt a few paces from them. He remained calm but spoke loudly enough for others nearby to hear.
‘The enemy has been sighted to the west, around five miles away.’
‘How many?’ asked Conrad, pulling on his gambeson.
‘Thousands,’ came the answer, ‘many horsemen and more on foot.’
The sergeant saluted and turned his horse towards the fort. Another rider must have reported the presence of the enemy to Master Ortwin because the alarm bell began to ring to alert the garrison to stand to arms. Conrad strapped on his sword belt and picked up his shield, slinging it on his back by using the strap fixed to its inner side. He and the others began walking back to the fort.
Hans looked back at the unfinished trench. ‘All that effort wasted.’
Anton was less pessimistic. ‘I don’t know, we beat the enemy today and we’ll be back to finish the job tomorrow.’
The herdsmen were rounding up the cattle and marshalling them towards the track leading to the entrance in the outer perimeter wall. The garrison was about to discover if Grand Master Volquin’s plan to use Mesoten as bait in order to inflict high losses on the Lithuanians was a masterstroke or a death warrant for the entire garrison.
Mesoten was a strong position: both the inner and outer walls were solid structures built in the same style as the original pagan timber hill forts of the Livs. Indeed, Liv builders had been hired to construct the new fort, which would suffice until a stone castle could be erected on the site. Both walls had been built in the same way: large tree trunks had been driven deep into the ground, around which a framework of horizontal, interlocking timbers had been raised. Behind each wall was a wooden wall walk. Shoulder-height loopholes had been cut in both walls along their entire length to enable crossbowmen to shoot at any attacker. These loopholes were positioned two feet below the top of the wall, which meant that a soldier could walk the length of the wall without being exposed to enemy missiles. As yet there were no shingle roofs over the wall walks because the workers had returned to Livonia when funds had run out. Unusually there were no towers along the walls themselves, only two flanking each of the two sets of gates. But the timber fort was only a temporary structure until a stone castle could be built on the site.
Conrad, his friends and the ‘Bishop’s bastards’ were deployed along the western section of the wall – two hundred and twenty men, including a hundred and twenty crossbowmen. Master Ortwin and his garrison, a hundred and fifty men, defended the northern section of the outer perimeter while Master Rudolf and the other Sword Brothers – a hundred and fifty men – manned the southern section of the outer perimeter.
‘Don’t forget, boys, keep your eyes on those markers and not the enemy. Find your target first before shooting. Remember your training.’
Leatherface was going up and down the wall walk, shouting encouragement and patting individual crossbowmen on the arm as he passed them. The spearmen of ‘the bastards’ were placing full quivers next to each crossbowman, each one holding twenty bolts. Falcone was talking loudly in Italian to his men, who seemed to be taking it all in their stride.
The markers to which Leatherface alluded were sticks that had been planted on the slope around the fort to designate distances from the outer wall: fifty paces, a hundred paces, a hundred and fifty paces and two hundred paces. They had white cloths tied to their tops so they stood out against the green grass and would be used by the crossbowman to range their shots.
Leatherface watched as a spearman placed half a dozen full quivers behind Conrad, Hans and Anton. He walked up as the spearmen placed more quivers next to the crossbowmen beside them.
‘Now, lads, those double-pronged claws attached to the front of your belts are used to load those crossbows your are holding.’
Anton looked at Hans who rolled his eyes. Leatherface used his own crossbow to show them.
‘You place the metal claw over the centre of the bowstring like this.’
Either side of him men stood and grinned as he instructed the three veterans.
‘Now raise your right foot and place it in the metal stirrup fitted to the fore-end of your crossbow. That’s the end opposite to the stock that goes in your shoulder.
‘Then straighten your bended leg to force the crossbow downwards. See.’
There was a click as the bowstring, which had been forcibly drawn along the crossbow’s stock, slipped over the catch of the lock.
‘Now you are ready to load a bolt.’
Conrad pulled one of the bolts from a quiver and threw it towards Leatherface. It landed inches from the mercenary’s left boot.
‘Like that one?’
Leatherface smiled wryly. ‘Master Conrad has wasted a bolt so will be digging latrines for the next week,’ he said loudly.
There were cheers and whistles from those within earshot as Leatherface prised the bolt from the planking and handed it back to Conrad.
‘Best not to waste ammunition, Master Conrad, this bolt might be the difference between you living and an enemy dying.’
A grinning Hans glanced back at the loophole nearest to him and his smile disappeared.
‘We are going to need a lot of bolts.’
Conrad and Anton turned to peer through their loopholes and saw the land around the hill foot begin to fill with enemy warriors. Then they heard the drums, a low, monotonous rumble as hundreds of men banged stretched hide skins with pieces of wood, interrupted by screeching horns. Instantaneously the light-hearted atmosphere evaporated, to be replaced by serious concentration as men checked their crossbows, positioned quivers so they were easily accessible and stared at the enemy.
Conrad turned away from the thickening mass of the opposition to adjust his sword belt. In the moments before the fighting a man was alone with his thoughts. He knelt on the planks and said a silent prayer, asking that his courage would not fail him this day and that his friends would be kept safe, at the expense of his own life if need be. He stood and drew his sword. Immediately an image of Sir Frederick of Tangermünde came into his mind. He had been a gruff Saxon knight, a crusader who had been mortally wounded at Fellin but who before he died had bequeathed his sword to Conrad. It was a fine weapon with sweet handling characteristics. The blade was just over thirty inches long and curved gradually to a point. It weighed only two and half pounds, making it easy to wield. Its grip was birch wrapped with black leather and the disc-shaped pommel had chamfered edges with unicorns carved into both sides. The arms of the cross-guard were ‘waisted’ to flare back to their original width at their ends. He cut the air with the blade, the sun appearing among the small white clouds dotting the sky catching the burnished steel. He slid it back into its scabbard and looked at his friends. Once more they would fight beside each other. Anton extended his right arm, his hand outstretched, his palm facing the planking. Hans placed a hand on top of his friend’s and Conrad did the same. He spoke the words that were their pre-battle ritual.
‘As dust to the wind.’
Hans and Anton repeated them, they embraced each other and prepared to face the Lithuanian horde.
The pagans advanced at a steady pace, the front ranks equipped with scaling ladders and the others holding their shields aloft as protection against the storm of crossbow bolts they knew would come. Those front ranks contained the cream of each tribe: the princes, chiefs and bodyguards of the dukes. They left their horses in the rear and formed the vanguard of the assault. They were easy to spot, their pavise-like shields – rectangular shaped, made out of pine, covered with leather and brightly painted – and their helmets, lamellar and mail armour marking them out as horsemen. Behind them walked foot soldiers carrying ladders fashioned from the trunks of young birch and pine.
Mesoten’s outer wall was large in extent and the Lithuanians used its length to their advantage, the dukes spreading out their men so they could assault it along its span. The southern wall was the target of Duke Kitenis and his Aukstaitijans – four thousand men including the old duke himself who insisted that he was still able to climb a ladder the length of two spears, the height of the wall. The northern side of the wall, where the gates were located, was allocated to Duke Viesthard and his two and half thousand Semgallians. He and Erdvilas led the assault, their men carrying dozens of banners showing the iron wolf, the symbol of Semgallia. The western wall, the longest section of the outer perimeter, was given to Mindaugas and Ykintas who mustered three and half thousand men between them.
‘Target those carrying the ladders,’ shouted Leatherface as the enemy reached the foot of the slope and began their ascent.
They were still banging their drums and blowing their horns but there was a deathly silence in the fort as the garrison waited until the enemy got within range. The occasional piercing scream as a Lithuanian fell into a stake-lined trench could barely be discerned above the din coming from the enemy army, though those peering through loopholes could see parts of the enemy line bunch and temporarily halt as a trench was discovered and skirted. The trenches were narrow, just wide enough to cause the unwary to step into it and break a leg or step on a stake. There were enough to cause mild disruption to an attacker only, and so the Lithuanians came on, closing to within two hundred paces of the wall. And then the crossbows began shooting.
A crossbow can kill a man at a range of three hundred yards but are most effective at half that range. When the first rank of the enemy reached the two hundred yards markers the missiles troops on the wall began shooting. Conrad released the trigger and watched as the bolt lanced through the air and struck a man in the face. He turned away from the loophole and reloaded, hearing a great cheer from beyond the walls as the Lithuanians rushed forward. As soon as crossbow bolts began felling men among them they charged to get to the wall as quickly as possible to reduce the time they would be exposed to missiles. Or so they thought because just as at Wenden the upper part of the wall projected slightly forward, giving soldiers on the wall walk above a view of the foot of the wall below.
Many Lithuanians flung themselves against the timbers when they reached what they thought was the sanctuary of the foot of the wall, only to be shot by crossbow bolts from the gap resulting in the overhang. Those armed with crossbows – two hundred and seventy including brother knights and sergeants – were frantically loading and reloading to shoot up to four bolts a minute. Over a thousand bolts a minute raked the Lithuanian lines as the attackers made a rush for the wall. But the dash became fragmented when those carrying scaling ladders were hit, tripped or dropped them in their desperation to escape the Christians’ missiles.
Conrad saw a man pitch forward, a bolt in his chest. The ladder he was carrying fell on the grass. He pulled his trigger as another man stooped to pick it up, the bolt going into his belly. He doubled over and collapsed on the ground as a third warrior endeavoured to retrieve the ladder. He shot him as well. An arrow thudded into the timbers beneath him and another arrow shot over his head. There were too few enemy archers to make an impression on the battle but now, despite shooting upwards of four thousand bolts at them, the Lithuanians were at the wall.
Conrad shot a man at the foot of the wall, the bolt going through his helmet into his brain. As he reloaded the top of a ladder appeared above him.
‘Have a care,’ he called to Hans and Anton who were both engaged in shooting enemy warriors at the foot of the wall. An enemy helmet and then a face appeared on top of the wall and disappeared when Leatherface shot a bolt through the man’s eye.
‘Spearmen!’ he shouted.
