Schism, page 23
part #5 of Crusader Chronicles Series
Viesthard was dead.
He had led the assault against the northern outer wall, had taken the ramparts and then once more summoned his warriors for a further attack against Mesoten’s inner wall. Dozens of his men had been cut down in a hail of crossbow bolts but they had not faltered. Once more they followed him up the scaling ladders as the Christians shot down their friends and neighbours. They followed his lead when he jumped from the top of a ladder on to the wall walk to battle with the white-uniformed soldiers of Mesoten’s garrison: brother knights, sergeants and mercenary spearmen. And again dozens died.
But soldiers of the garrison also died and as more and more Semgallian warriors came over the wall it seemed that victory was tantalisingly close. Viesthard, avenging the many wrongs committed against his people by the hated Christians, fought like Perkunas in human form, hacking his way down a flight of steps to reach the fort’s inner compound, the very heart of the Christian presence in Lithuania. His armour was torn, his face bruised and blood showed on his leggings where he had been cut by enemy spears and swords. But he was elated, his senses heightened by triumph. His bannerman carried the standard of the iron wolf behind him and beside him his son Erdvilas organised a dwindling band of warriors for the final battle against the Sword Brothers.
But neither Viesthard nor his son saw Master Rudolf leading over a hundred men along the eastern wall, having left a small detachment on the southern ramparts to safeguard against the Aukstaitijans returning. Rudolf and his men smashed into the Semgallians on the wall walk and did fearful damage with their swords, spears and maces. Their arrival was like a brush sweeping away autumn leaves so sudden and violent was their attack. They killed the Semgallians on the wall walk and pushed away the ladders so others could not reinforce them, also denying a means of escape to those below. Then Sir Richard’s men assaulted Viesthard and his men.
The Duke of Saccalia and his knights wore mail armour and bright blue surcoats, on which was sewn the emblem of a white boar’s head with golden tusks. The blue shields of Sir Richard’s men carried the same design and for a few brief moments the white boar and the iron wolf grappled near Mesoten’s small chapel. But Erdvilas, keeping his head when all those around him did not, had noticed the Sword Brother reinforcements arriving on the wall and knew it was time to leave. He ordered his signaller to sound retreat, a command that made his father apoplectic. But even the tired eyes of the old warrior could see that Ortwin’s men still fighting on the wall had been reinforced and the blue-uniformed Christian warriors in front of him were proving an immovable barrier. So he obeyed his son’s order.
The Semgallians gave ground grudgingly, admirably maintaining their discipline and shield wall as they fell back to the steps. Sir Richard and his men harried them relentlessly, pouncing on any warrior who became isolated and hacking him to pieces. Viesthard was the last Semgallian to leave the fort’s inner compound, his sword glancing off the helm of a tall Christian knight who moved his head at the last moment to avoid the blow that would otherwise have gone through a vision slit.
Viesthard reaching the top of the steps waited until his men and son were over the wall and descending those ladders still in Semgallian hands before taking one last look at the fort’s buildings below Only then was he hauled up on to the top of the wall. He turned and placed his feet on the ladder and a crossbow bolt slammed into his thigh. He grunted in pain and attempted to steady his grip but failed when a spear was thrust into his chest, followed by another and another as Rudolf’s men arrived to complete their relief of Master Ortwin. Viesthard was dead when his body hit the ground. Unlike hundreds of other Semgallian dead, the corpse of Viesthard was retrieved and carried from the fort for proper cremation.
*****
The Army of the Wolf followed the warriors of Mindaugas and Ykintas as they retreated back over the wall and into the outer compound. The crossbowmen remained in the inner compound as they were largely out of ammunition. The outer compound was choked with Lithuanian dead making movement difficult. Conrad swung his sword at a fleeing Lithuanian who had stumbled over a corpse and was seemingly helpless. But Conrad lost his footing when he stepped in a discarded helmet and was forced to shake it free. The Lithuanian clambered to his feet and escaped. The enemy was flooding through the open gates, the choke point slowing their progress allowing the Army of the Wolf to close on them. The Estonians hacked with their axes and stabbed under the rims of shields with their single-edged knives ripping open the bellies of those who wore no armour.
Conrad, tired and sweating heavily in his padded layers and mail armour, managed to kill a Lithuanian who appeared by his laboured movements and sluggish defence to be as equally exhausted as he was. The sun was now overhead, there was no wind and the temperature inside the fort was rising rapidly, made worse by the large amount of smoke from the burning buildings. A last effort against the Lithuanians reaped a fresh harvest of dead but the Army of the Wolf was spent. As the enemy fell back down the slope Estonians rested their shields on the ground, removed their helmets and filled their lungs with smoke-filled air. Water bottles were uncorked as thirst gripped everyone.
‘Conrad!
He heard the despair in Hans’ voice and knew before he turned that something dreadful had happened. He saw his friend cradling Anton in his arms and rushed over to him. Tears were running down Hans’ face as Conrad knelt beside the body of his friend. A weapon, a spear most likely, had punctured Anton’s thigh and he had died from severe loss of blood. Conrad, his eyes filling with tears, closed his dead comrade’s eyes as a crowd began to gather around the trio. When word spread of Anton’s death the Army of the Wolf formed a phalanx around the body. Hardened warriors wept for the brother knight who had been present at the birth of Susi’s army.
They carried his body into the inner compound where the Christian dead were being arranged in a line, prior to internment in the cemetery near the castle.
‘I request permission to take him back to Wenden,’ Conrad asked Rudolf, choking back emotion, ‘where he can be buried alongside Bruno and Johann.’
Rudolf, exhausted, battered, his mail armour missing links on the arms and legs, nodded.
‘I will accompany you and him back to Wenden.’
‘The grand master was right, Conrad.’
Conrad looked around at the pagan dead at the foot of the western wall and on the wall walk and the other corpses that littered the foot, steps and wall walk of the northern ramparts. He saw Sword Brothers bodies among them, their white surcoats and gambesons conspicuous among the green and brown clothing of the enemy slain.
‘It does not feel like a victory.’
But when the bodies of the fallen were collected, the pagan dead placed in wagons and dumped outside the fort for cremation, the true extent of Lithuanian losses was revealed. Over two thousand slain were gathered and dumped on what became a huge mound of dead flesh, after anything useful had been stripped from them, including used crossbow bolts that had to be retrieved to replenish the garrison’s depleted supplies. The buzzing of flies around the mound was thunderous so many dead were there. The reinforced garrison had lost less than a hundred men, the majority when the enemy had breached the inner compound. The vast majority of enemy slain had fallen not to the blades of the Sword Brothers but to the order’s crossbowmen and the missile troops of ‘the Bishop’s bastards’. It had been a stark example of the power of the crossbow in the hands of trained marksmen.
Fulfilling his promise, Rudolf left the fort in the company of Conrad, Hans and the Army of the Wolf mounted on ponies. The ‘bastards’ remained at Mesoten, as did the Sword Brother reinforcements from the northern garrisons and Sir Richard and his men. Ortwin thought it prudent to keep the garrison strong in case the Lithuanians mounted another attack. What he did not know was that the Lithuanian army had disintegrated, the various tribal elements dispersing back to their homelands, taking their wounded with them.
‘Are you okay?’
Conrad did not look at Leatherface as his horse trudged along a dry dirt track leading to the Dvina. The mercenary had invited himself along because he had known Anton for years and wished to be present at his burial.
‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘Losing a friend you’ve known for years is a hard blow.’
‘Life is a series of hard blows,’ said Conrad, ‘it is the nature of the work we do. You above all should know that.’
The column of ponies and carts moved under a pall of gloom that did not lift when it crossed the river and entered Livonia. At great expense Grand Master Volquin had Anton’s body encased in salt when it stayed for one night in Riga’s castle, the garrison and Sword Brothers quartered there parading in honour of the brother knight’s passing. The colour party of the garrison was organised by Gunter, now second-in-command behind Manfred Nordheim. It was a nice gesture and both Conrad and Hans thanked him for his consideration.
Anton was buried on a beautiful summer’s day freshened by a slight breeze ruffling the standards hanging from Wenden’s gatehouse and towers. Rudolf turned out the whole garrison, which was joined by Rameke, Kaja, Ilona, Master Thaddeus and many of the workers, now middle aged, who had stayed on at the castle and lived in the small town adjacent to it and who remembered Anton from his days as a novice. The ceremony was conducted by Otto who appeared moved by Anton’s passing, though it was difficult to tell if his misshapen features were registering grief.
After the crowd had dispersed and the labourers had covered the body with soil Conrad stood with Hans at the side of the fresh grave. He looked at the graves of Bruno and Johann and where his wife and son were buried, fresh flowers at the foot of the gravestone as always.
Conrad looked up at the stone castle. ‘It does not seem eighteen years since we first set eyes on this place.’
‘I wonder if we will see another eighteen?’ queried Hans.
They looked at each other and already knew the answer to that question.
Chapter 7
Like most days in the months when the Dvina was free of ice Riga’s port was packed with people, only today there was a different class of person standing on the wide, stout jetty protruding into the great waterway. Ordinarily this particular jetty was reserved for the great cogs of the city’s Higher Burgomaster: Magnus Glueck, Duke of Riga and the richest man in all Livonia. Some said he was the richest man in the whole Baltic and the duke did nothing to dissuade anyone of the notion.
Fat, squat and ugly, he had a wife that could only be described as beautiful in every way, from her delicate cheekbones, flawless skin, shapely body and shining hair. He dressed her in silks and showered her with silver and gold jewellery and expensive gemstones. She should have been the happiest woman in all Livonia but everyone agreed that she was the most miserable.
The original dockside and jetties had all been timber affairs but now the main jetties were stone structures. Because of the amount of ships and boats that docked at Riga there had not been the time or resources to replace all the wooden jetties with stone ones. But the entire length of the quay outside the city’s southern gates was now a magnificent stone structure fronting the river and was yet another indication of Riga’s growing wealth and status.
Glueck stood beside Archdeacon Stefan and behind them were the city’s burgomasters, council members, leading merchants, priests, monks and senior commanders of the garrison. The soldiers of the garrison, resplendent in their red uniforms and shields bearing the cross keys symbol of the city in gold, stood along the jetty, quay and at the gates to the city. They also lined the walls either side of the gates. After chatting to his commanders Manfred Nordheim sauntered over to Stefan and Glueck, smiling at them both.
‘Everything is in order.’
Stefan, attired in a white silk cassock that matched Glueck’s blue silk tunic for opulence, sneered at the crowd gathering along the quay.
‘Make sure the vice-legate is not molested on his way from the docks to the palace, Manfred, you know how excitable commoners can be when dignitaries arrive in the city.’
Nordheim smiled. ‘Talking of which.’
They all turned to see Grand Master Volquin and Master Rudolf making their way towards them, both wearing mail beneath their white surcoats, though their mail coifs were off their heads to reveal their neatly cropped hair. Both wore their swords and carried daggers in sheaths.
Stefan smiled. ‘Grand Master, welcome.’
Glueck gave Rudolf a thin smile. ‘I heard about your recent success against the pagans, my congratulations.’
‘It was a close thing, your grace,’ replied Rudolf, ‘if we had run out of crossbow bolts we would have been carrion for crows.’
‘An heroic tale to tell the vice-legate, I’m sure,’ said Glueck.
‘When does he arrived?’ asked Volquin.
‘He stayed the night at Dünamünde,’ said Stefan, ‘a courier arrived this morning stating his ship would dock at Riga around midday.’
Glueck looked at Stefan. ‘Do we know the purpose of his visit?’
Stefan shook his head, causing his flabby chin to wobble.
‘Only that he comes to convey the wishes of the Holy Father.’
Volquin stared admiringly at one of Glueck’s great cogs moored at the jetty. It was one of four that the merchant owned, each one nearly one hundred and fifty feet in length and twenty-six feet at the beam. Other merchants hired space in its hold to transport their goods to and from Riga. Because the waters of the Baltic were for the most part calm either side of winter the trip to Lübeck was uneventful, which meant that merchants rarely lost their goods. For men like Glueck who owned large ships it was a lucrative trade, one that allowed him to purchase the biggest house in Riga and live a blessed life. He had other cogs, of course, but his four great cogs were his pride and joy, almost like children.
‘A fine vessel, your grace.’
‘Mm,’ grunted Glueck. ‘That is the youngest of the four, which was commissioned, at considerable expense I might add, to replace the one that was seized and destroyed by the Oeselians. You remember them, grand master? They are now the friends of the Marshal of Estonia.’
‘Better friends than pirates preying on your ships,’ stated Rudolf bluntly.
‘Former enemies can quickly revert to type,’ sneered Glueck. ‘Perhaps the vice-legate comes with a message from the Pope that the Sword Brothers should concentrate on killing pagans instead of becoming friends with them.’
Volquin glanced at Rudolf who gave a slight shake of the head. How ridiculous Magnus Glueck was, a fat man with too much money who had too much to say for himself. Yet his wealth and position meant that the Sword Brothers would be fools to antagonise him, so they endured his mild insults.
‘We will soon find out,’ said Stefan, pointing towards the single-masted cog making its way towards the harbour. The sail bore the arms of Pope Gregory, the emblem of the Segni family – an eagle on a red background. The tension started to build as the cog was manoeuvred into position and a gangplank placed against its hull. People craned their necks and agitated babbling broke out among the onlookers. The guards began to take a keener interest in the throng and Gunter, Nordheim’s deputy, began sprinting up and down the lines. Glueck saw him.
‘That officer looks like he is about to have a seizure.’
‘He has an unfortunate appearance, your grace,’ agreed Nordheim, ‘but Gunter is a fine officer and a useful man to have around in a tight spot.’
The gangplank was positioned and a party of soldiers was the first on to the jetty. Stefan frowned and peered at the clerks, monks and priests that followed them, searching for the vice-legate dressed in his robes. He failed to spot the tall, severe-looking man in a simple off-white habit striding purposely towards him. When he stood before the archdeacon the latter was most annoyed. He shot out his hand.
‘Don’t you know the procedures of the Holy Church, monk?’
Baldwin’s fervour-filled eyes narrowed. ‘I am well acquainted with the rules of the Holy Church. I have spent a considerable amount of time in Spain burning heretics who failed to follow the laws of the one true religion.’
A soldier wearing the arms of the Pope on his surcoat stood beside the monk.
‘May I present Baldwin of Alna, representative of His Holiness Pope Gregory.’
Stefan stared at the monk in disbelief. ‘You?’ he said softly.
‘You must be Archdeacon Stefan,’ said Baldwin, ‘Abbot Nicholas has told me much about you.’
Stefan quickly recovered his wits. ‘Welcome, your eminence.’
Baldwin held up a hand. ‘You may call me “brother”, for that is what we are, brothers united in one mission, to serve God and His Holy Church.’
Curt formalities were exchanged with Magnus Glueck, Volquin and Rudolf before the archdeacon escorted the vice-legate from the docks to the Bishop’s Palace. Baldwin did not smile, say anything or acknowledge the crowd as he maintained a quick pace Stefan found tiring. He was perspiring heavily when the party arrived at the palace and was glad to be offered refreshments by a young novice holding a tray of wine goblets. Stefan drank greedily from the silver vessel as Baldwin examined the intricately carved handles.
‘I have the feeling that this legate will be very different from the last one,’ Volquin whispered to Rudolf, ‘and not just in appearance.’
The monks of the Cistercian Order were known for observing the ideals of poverty and simplicity. Because they wore habits of undyed wool, which like the one Baldwin wore were of a greyish-white appearance, they were nicknamed the White Monks. Tonsured like all other monks, they subsisted on a diet of coarse bread, vegetables, herbs and beans. On special occasions, such as feast days, they might be served fish, eggs and other delicacies, known as pittances.
Rudolf stared at the aged sandals Baldwin wore on his feet. ‘I think you are right, grand master.’
Baldwin sighed and asked Stefan to announce that he was about to speak. The audience chamber was filled with the senior officials of the city administration, plus the dean, vice-dean and canon of Riga Cathedral, Nordheim and Gunter and the head of the Sword Brothers and his deputy. The wives of the dignitaries had been sent back to their homes. Flustered, Stefan ordered his steward to make the announcement. Baldwin walked purposely to the high-backed chair on the dais at the far end of the chamber, followed by his guards and numerous clerks who held bundles of parchments, quills and containers of ink.
