Schism, page 47
part #5 of Crusader Chronicles Series
‘Your orders, my liege?’
The king turned to his tired deputy, his right arm bleeding, his mail shirt torn and three crossbow bolts lodged in his shield.
‘Where is my brother?’
‘There is no news of Prince Kalf, sire.’
Stark’s eyes settled on two dead warriors at the prow of his longship, both killed by crossbow bolts. How many more were dead? He was suddenly seized by uncertainty.
‘Sire?’ pressed the deputy.
Stark looked up from the dead to scan the docks and jetties lined with the town’s residents. The crews of the trebuchets, having used up all their ammunition, had armed themselves and were standing beside the civilians to await the Oeselians. But the sea pirates would not be coming.
Stark turned and looked at the tired, listless faces of what remained of his crew.
‘Sound retreat,’ he said quietly.
Fifteen longships eventually sailed from the harbour to the sounds of cheers and cries of relief from the docks. Many rowing stations were empty as undermanned crews pulled on oars with tired limbs and heavy hearts. Stark was relieved to discover his brother was still alive but that was his only consolation. He left behind dozens of dead Oeselians with dozens more grievously wounded lying on the decks of his battered ships. He had gambled and failed and Oesel would pay the price.
Lukas stood on the deck of the longship, its crew dead around him, and surveyed the wreckage. His line of riverboats, some partly submerged, all filled with dead and wounded men, had done its job. Already smaller boats were coming from the jetties carrying priests to comfort the dying and dockers to transport the dead to shore so they could be given a decent burial. He could see but a few of his crossbowmen and spearmen left alive on the boats. He lowered his head and said a quiet prayer of thanks, all thoughts of what was happening outside Reval’s walls far from his mind.
*****
Conrad had requested that Gintaras bring his warriors forward to assist in the corralling of what was left of the legate’s army, which had clustered round some sort of banner on a wagon. The Kur leader readily acquiesced, sensing more slaughter in the offing. He was to be disappointed as a ring of desperate men levelled their spears against the encircling Army of the Wolf. Leatherface joined Conrad and Hans as his crossbowmen took up position in the front rank of the Estonian warriors.
‘The enemy’s horsemen have given themselves up to Grand Master Volquin,’ said the mercenary, ‘what are you going to do with this lot?’
‘Good question,’ remarked Hans.
‘Bring Falcone to me,’ commanded Conrad. He looked at Leatherface. ‘If he still lives.’
‘Oh, he’s alive,’ smiled Leatherface, ‘a good mercenary always has a high regard for his own safety.’
Conrad waved an arm at him. ‘Just get him.’
The mercenary disappeared as an ominous silence descended on the remnants of the legate’s army and the Army of the Wolf, the former desperate and beaten, the latter thirsting for more blood. Falcone came trotting up, his demeanour remarkably calm for a man who had just been fighting enemy horsemen.
‘Good to see you,’ said Conrad.
‘And you, Master Conrad,’ he replied.
Conrad pointed at the bedraggled ranks of the Italians.
‘Order them to lay down their weapons and I will grant them their lives.’
Falcone saluted, handed Leatherface his crossbow and took a few steps forward, arms raised. He shouted some words in Italian that Conrad did not understand, after which the enemy began disarming, one or two at first followed by more and more. Falcone, beaming, returned to Conrad.
‘Well done, Falcone,’ said Conrad.
More and more of the enemy began throwing down their weapons. And so it was that a grateful Italian crossbowman tossed his weapon to the ground, relieved that he had survived the bloody mauling his comrades had been subjected to, and watched horrified as the weapon’s trigger slammed into the ground, released the bowstring and shot the bolt.
Conrad heard a gasp and turned to see a crossbow bolt lodged in Hans’ neck, blood gushing from the wound. His friend had a bewildered look on his face as he collapsed to the ground.
‘Hans!’ shouted Conrad, rushing to his friend’s side and cradling him. Blood was sheeting from the wound.
‘Kill them!’ screamed an enraged Conrad.
Seconds later Leatherface and his crossbowmen shot a volley at the Italians less than thirty paces away and then the Army of the Wolf attacked. The Italians frantically tried to retrieve their weapons but were overwhelmed by a tide of infuriated men. The other contingents of Conrad’s army surrounding the Italians, including the Kurs, needed no prompting as they gleefully joined in the renewed slaughter.
Conrad’s mailed sleeve was soaked in his friend’s blood as he held Hans’ head, tears running down his face to drip on to the dying man.
‘I have always prayed for my mother,’ said Hans softly, ‘do you think she will recognise me?’
‘I am certain of it,’ said Conrad with a faltering voice.
‘I never knew her,’ his friend whispered, the flow of blood from the deep wound relentless. ‘I hope she will not be disappointed in me.’
‘You are the bravest of the brave, my friend,’ said his sobbing friend, ‘she will be proud of you, as am I and every man in Estonia.’
Hans looked up at him, his expression serene, peaceful. He smiled, his brown eyes full of affection, sighed and then passed from this world. Thus died Brother Hans, Deputy Master of Odenpah Castle and best friend of Conrad Wolff. The commander of the Army of the Wolf held his friend for a long time, the tears refusing to stop as he cradled the lifeless body. He did not notice the screams and cries of those being butchered, the triumphant shouts of his men or the angry rage of the horsemen riding among them with lances levelled to restrain their bloodlust. It took some time and a few horsemen were pulled from their saddles but mercifully unhurt as Hillar, Andres, Anu, Riki and Ulric restored order among their men. When they had done so there remained only a few hundred Italians left alive, all of them compressed in a tight huddle around the carroccio.
Conrad pulled the bolt from Hans’ neck, crossed his hands across his chest and laid his sword on top of his body. His warlords, their bodies and faces splashed with enemy blood, offered their condolences and knelt beside the body to pay their respects. They had known Hans for many years and felt his loss keenly. Volquin himself arrived and also paid his respects, as did Rudolf. The number of individuals paying their respects gave Conrad a small degree of comfort.
‘Take the body back to the castle,’ Conrad ordered a distraught Leatherface.
‘It will be taken to Wenden for burial, Conrad,’ said Rudolf next to him, ‘to lie beside his friends.’
Conrad was not listening. He saw Baldwin of Alna and Dietrich von Kivel being escorted by Volquin, the Italian looking dazed and confused, the German chatting to the grand master. Behind them, threading their way through the heaps of dead, paced a grim-faced Bishop Hermann and a relieved-looking Manfred Nordheim. Following them were a score of the commander’s soldiers, all disarmed. Conrad wondered where the rest were and then smirked when he realised they must have been killed. Rudolf was talking to him but he did not hear his words as he looked at his left arm, still covered in his friend’s blood. He left Rudolf, walked past Hillar and Riki, drew his sword and ran at Dietrich von Kivel, driving the point hard into his chest. Baldwin’s mouth opened in horror and Volquin’s in surprise as the Duke of Narva gurgled, tried to say something and then fell silent as Conrad used every ounce of his strength to plunge his sword into the German’s torso.
He pulled his sword out of the German’s chest and gripped it with both hands, ready to lop Baldwin’s head off, the legate frozen in terror before him. But suddenly an arm was round his neck and Volquin’s sword point was at his throat. He heard Rudolf’s words in his ears.
‘You can’t kill a papal legate, Conrad, that would surely damn you.’
Volquin emphasised the point. ‘Withdraw, Master Conrad, else I will kill you myself.’
Riki, Hillar and Andres sprinted forward and assisted Rudolf as he dragged a screaming Conrad away.
‘I will cut that ugly head off its shoulders, you spawn of Satan. This is not over, monk, this is not over.’
Riki, Andres and Hillar, his great hands wrenching Conrad’s sword from his grip, were grinning with amusement and those within earshot were cheering and whistling their approval as Volquin ushered Baldwin and Nordheim away with haste.
‘Give me back my sword,’ Conrad ordered Hillar, angrily shaking himself free of Rudolf’s grip.
‘Give it back to him when he has calmed down,’ said Rudolf, ‘not before.’
Rudolf pointed at Conrad. ‘I am sorry for your loss but Hans was a soldier like all of us and soldiers get killed in battle. If you kill the legate then you condemn the whole of this land to never-ending war. So collect your wits and behave like everyone expects you to.’
He nodded to the three warlords and walked away. Leatherface appeared, the mercenary looking kindly at Conrad.
‘Come on, let’s take Brother Hans back home.’
So they did. They washed the body, wrapped it in new clothes and armour and laid it in the back of a cart alongside a shield bearing the Sword Brother insignia and Hans’ weapons. Conrad and the Army of the Wolf did not stay at Reval for the thanksgiving service directed by Bishop Hermann and did not witness the mass graves that were dug and filled with thousands of men they had killed. Gintaras was invited and accepted the offer to march south with Conrad, which allowed the Italian horsemen to be repatriated to Riga by sea in Magnus Glueck’s cogs. The camp of the legate’s army, containing many chests filled with Italian florins, was captured by the Sword Brothers. Grand Master Volquin announced that the money would be used to replenish the order’s weapons, equipment and stock of warhorses. He, Lukas and Rudolf made an inspection of the captured foot soldiers, offering those surviving crossbowmen among them immediate employment with the Sword Brothers to replace those killed in Reval harbour. Volquin hired ships to take the rest and a crestfallen Baldwin directly to Lübeck. What became of them after that was not his concern.
They buried Hans next to Anton, a large crowd gathering round the freshly dug grave as Conrad, Tonis, Riki, Andres, Hillar, Sir Richard and Leatherface lowered the simple pine coffin into its final resting place. The majority of the garrison was still at Reval but Rudolf had ordered Otto to accompany Conrad south and it was the tall, gaunt priest who led the service. Conrad was comforted by the fearsome-looking Otto’s presence for he had been at Wenden when he and the other four had first arrived there all those years ago. The grim, humourless priest even laid a reassuring hand on Conrad’s shoulder after the service had ended and people drifted from the graveyard. Two gravediggers began to pile the earth on top of the coffin as they did so.
‘Leave,’ ordered Conrad. ‘I will do that.’
They looked at each other, at Conrad and shoved their shovels into the mound of soft earth.
‘Suit yourself,’ said one gruffly.
Afterwards he visited Thaddeus in his office. The engineer was now very frail and barely able to walk. His wispy beard was almost gone and he was painfully thin. But his mind was still sharp and he quizzed Conrad concerning recent events.
‘So the legate is defeated and humiliated,’ said Thaddeus.
‘But alive,’ said Conrad disdainfully.
‘Just as well, Conrad, for if he had been killed then the Pope would have had no option but to disband the Sword Brothers and excommunicate all its members. As it is you have a chance to extricate yourself from this unhappy situation.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Thaddeus rolled his eyes. ‘Naturally. You are a soldier who spends his time battering enemies into submission. But were you a courtier you would realise that your victory over the legate’s army has put the Curia in a delicate position. It will interesting to see how Pope Gregory addresses it.’
*****
It rarely snowed in Rome during the winter, though this year there was a light dusting of white covering the city. The Colosseum, that monument to Roman barbarity, now owned by the Santa Maria Nova Monastery that rented out its inside space as cheap housing, resembled a white wall because the snow had been followed by a harsh frost. But the outside temperature in the city was as nothing compared to the frosty atmosphere that greeted the arrival of Baldwin of Alna when he visited the Lateran Palace. Despite the season the palace was still full of pilgrims praying at altars upon which holy relics rested, including splinters from the true cross. The altar in the middle of the transept was barred to visitors, only the Pope being sanctified to use it because it incorporated wood that had been part of the altar used by Saint Peter himself over a thousand years before.
Guards escorted Baldwin through the huge basilica to private apartments reserved for His Holiness. The aged Gregory shot out his hand so the legate could kiss his ring when he was shown into the small, austere antechamber where the pontiff sat. Baldwin fell to his knees and kissed the gold ring, failing to notice two priests standing beside the Pope’s chair with a cardinal on the other side.
‘So, Baldwin, you have returned to us,’ said Gregory icily.
‘To serve you, Holy Father,’ responded Baldwin.
Gregory flicked a wrist to indicate the monk should rise. He presented a pathetic figure in his shoddy habit next to the red and white vestments of the Pope and the purple and gold worn by the cardinal, whom Baldwin recognised as William of Modena. Gregory turned to the priests, both holding documents.
‘Do you know what these are, Baldwin?’
‘No, Holy Father.’
Gregory held out a hand to the nearest priest who handed him a document.
‘This is a letter from the Buxhoeveden family complaining about the treatment of Bishop Hermann of Dorpat at your hands.’
He threw the letter to the floor and held out his hand. Another document was placed in it.
‘This missive is from the Archbishop of Bremen complaining about your demands upon his bishopric concerning supplies for the army that you were marching through Germany on the way to Riga.
‘By the way, Baldwin, where is the army that was raised at considerable expense?’
Baldwin’s head dropped. ‘It has been destroyed, Holy Father.’
Gregory clicked his fingers and was handed another document.
‘Destroyed by the Sword Brothers, which brings me neatly on to Count Albert von Lauenburg.’
He waved the document in Baldwin’s face. ‘He writes to express his astonishment that the loyalty of the Sword Brothers, and the Marshal of Estonia in particular, should be questioned. I have received other correspondence from the city of Lübeck concerning the excessive financial demands you made upon that place. And on and on.’
Gregory tossed the letters to the floor and stood.
‘You are to be congratulated, Baldwin, you have managed to alienate the free cities, princes and bishops of north Germany in one fell swoop. Places and men that are capable of raising tens of thousands of soldiers to settle their grievances should they desire to.’
‘They would not dare raise a hand against the Papacy, Holy Father,’ insisted Baldwin.
Gregory stopped to glare at him. ‘Would they not? It would take only the slightest encouragement from the emperor for them to march against Rome itself, supported I have no doubt by a gleeful Frederick. Idiot.’
He spat the last word with venom and Baldwin visibly wilted. Gregory looked at the cardinal.
‘William, in the spring you will go to Riga and untie the Gordian knot that my legate has created. I myself will write letters to cool the wrath of those Baldwin has insulted, thereby keeping them from the embrace of the emperor. And with God’s help we will save Rome and the Papacy’s towns and cities from Frederick’s avarice.’
Gregory regained his chair. ‘As for you, Baldwin, you will go to the leper colony outside Palermo on Sicily for one year. During that time you may reflect on the mistakes you have made and through your penance will perhaps atone for your sins.’
Baldwin, stunned, clutched the crucifix around his neck. ‘Thank you, Holy Father.’
‘One additional thing,’ said Gregory, ‘did you bring back any money with you?’
‘Holy Father?’ whispered an ashen-faced Baldwin.
‘The tens of thousands of florins that you were furnished with to pay for your army,’ said Gregory. ‘Since you exhorted money from the kingdoms and cities you passed through on your way to Riga I assume that there remains a considerable amount of the Papacy’s money. So where is it?’
‘It was lost at Reval, Holy Father. The Sword Brothers stole it.’
Gregory sighed and shook his head. ‘This is a sorry tale. Get out.’
Baldwin bowed his head and left the room. Gregory flicked his hand at the two priests to signal they should follow him, closing the door as they did so. Gregory pressed his hands together and rested his chin on his thumbs.
‘When you go to Riga, William, you will stress to Bishop Nicholas that it is he who rules in his bishopric and not Archdeacon Stefan. If the merchants of the city insist on trading with apostates, in defiance of my wishes, then they will pay an additional tithe for the privilege of doing so. In that way the Curia may be reimbursed for the money that was lavished on Baldwin’s campaign.’
