Schism, page 5
part #5 of Crusader Chronicles Series
Leatherface looked at Hans and Anton and rolled his eyes.
‘He’ll never make a courtier. It’s quite simple, Master Conrad, the Oeselians love raiding and pillaging. Many of the king’s earls are not happy about his pact with you but they are more than willing to inflict pain and suffering on others. They’re happy, the king’s happy, you’re happy, everyone’s happy.’
‘Aside from the Kurs,’ remarked Hans.
‘How do you know all this?’ asked Conrad.
Leatherface winked. ‘I’ve been talking to his warriors. They are not a bad lot really. Godless pagans, of course.’
Conrad drew his sword and inspected the blade. ‘Of course.’
But though the expedition to Kurland might be great sport for the Oeselians for the Sword Brothers it was deadly serious. The death of Bishop Albert meant no crusading army would come to Riga, which meant no campaign could be mounted against the Kurs and the Semgallians, who were still fighting under their lord, Duke Viesthard. Master Ortwin’s stronghold of Mesoten was well garrisoned but it was an island surrounded by enemies: to the west the Kurs, to the south the Semgallians and to the east Prince Vsevolod. No one trusted the former ruler of Gerzika whose allegiances changed quicker than the wind. For the moment Duke Arturus was preoccupied with the Samogitians but when they had been dealt with he would once again turn his gaze towards Mesoten. And when he did the Sword Brothers would be hard pressed to raise an army large enough to safeguard its possessions south of the Dvina.
‘Land ahead.’
Conrad was snapped out of his pondering by a shout from the prow of the ship. A ripple of excitement ran through those on board as men took shields from the racks and used the leather straps fixed to their inner sides to sling them on their backs. Those armed with javelins moved to the front of the ship as Sigurd came from the stern to stand at the prow. He would be the one to get his feet wet first. Conrad looked left and right and saw other square sails in the distance approaching the shore. The boat he was standing on was a skeid, a long, sleek vessel equipped with sixty oars and carrying eighty warriors. They were the largest longships in the Oeselians’ fleet and were owned exclusively by the king and his earls. Slightly smaller but no less dangerous were the karvs with thirty-two oars and a crew of forty warriors. Last came the smaller snekke, a tidy, speedy craft of twenty-six oars and thirty warriors. Sigurd had brought twenty longships of each category to terrorise the Kurs – three thousand warriors to rape and pillage the locals.
The Oeselians ignored the three Sword Brothers and the crossbowman as they made their final checks, teasing each other and boasting of the number of slaves they would be taking back to Oesel. Conrad knelt on the boards, gripped his sword with both hands and bowed his head.
‘Lord, give to those in the villages we are about to attack time to flee into the forests so they may escape with their lives.’
He rose to his feet, sheathed his sword and picked up his helmet and shield, positioning the latter on his back, adjusting the strap across his chest so it sat comfortably. He checked his dagger in its sheath and the axe tucked into his belt. His two friends were going through the same drill and Leatherface was meticulously examining the three quivers slung over his shoulder, each one carrying twenty bolts. They had done this a hundred times and, God willing, would do it a hundred more before they had finished in this world. As they had also done many times before they placed their hands together and recanted the words that fortified them on the eve of battle.
‘As dust to the wind.’
There was silence among the warriors as they focused on the approaching shoreline, an endless stretch of white sand, beyond which was grass-covered dunes, a small village and an unending expanse of forest. Conrad and his friends put on their helmets and waited for the longship to run aground on the sand. Conrad peered through the vision slits of his helm to detect any movement in the village. There was none. Either the settlement was deserted or the residents had already fled. They would have seen the sails on the horizon, giving them time to flee. He felt the ship slow, shudder to a halt and saw Sigurd launch himself from the prow, followed by dozens of mail-clad, helmeted warriors.
Moments later Conrad launched himself from the ship, waded a short distance through the seawater before treading on soft sand. Already warriors were fanning out left and right to search for any Kurs. A large group had formed a defensive wall around Sigurd, while other men had been despatched to form a perimeter around the village. A handful of scouts had been ordered to reconnoitre the terrain beyond the village. They may have given the impression they were a bunch of filthy pirates but in fact Oeselian raids were highly organised.
Conrad and his comrades walked into the empty village, a collection of miserable wooden huts and barns with animal pens attached. Some were empty, the goats having been taken by their owners. But they had left their chickens, pigs and a few scrawny sheep, all of which were quickly slaughtered.
‘Burn it,’ commanded Sigurd standing in the middle of the settlement, ‘burn it all.’
Minutes later the Oeselians had torched the huts and barns, roaring flames consuming the old timbers as the king led his men into the fields surrounding the village. The soil of Kurland is poor but with careful planting and much care crops can be grown, mainly wheat and rye. The golden crops were now destroyed as warriors set them alight, the flames aided by a westerly breeze. The warriors whooped and howled with delight but the Sword Brothers stayed silent. Leatherface, loaded crossbow in his arms, wiped his sleeve on his brow as the flames added to the summer heat. Conrad turned away from the destruction and saw other plumes of smoke on the horizon – the Oeselians were burning Kurland.
Sigurd led his men to the edge of the forest then raised a hand. Conrad took off his helmet and glanced up at the sun. It was warm but at least the wind gave some relief. Screams made him turn and draw his sword. The warriors grouped around the king began laughing as another group herded two women and two young girls, their daughters he assumed, towards them.
‘Silence,’ barked the king.
‘We found these at the edge of the forest, majesty,’ reported the scout leader.
The girls were quivering with fear, their mothers likewise terrified.
‘There was a teenage boy and an old man with them,’ the warrior continued, ‘the old man probably slowed them down. We killed them both.’
Sigurd walked up to the women, both in their twenties and comely in appearance.
‘Take them back to the ship. You can keep one of the women, the girls will be sold as slaves.’
The man bowed and rudely shoved the women and girls away, causing them to scream and wail.
‘Shove some rags in their mouths. I don’t want their screeching in my ears on the way back to Oesel. And bind them otherwise they might fling themselves overboard when we are at sea.’
‘Very considerate,’ muttered Leatherface.
Satisfied there were no more Kurs hiding nearby Sigurd ordered his men back to the ship. The captives were secured to the mast and the crew used their oars to power the vessel away from the beach. The steersman directed it south towards the next village that was also deserted. Once again the buildings, fishing boats and crops were torched and any livestock slaughtered. Conrad was glad when the day ended and he could take off his armour and stretch out on deck under the stars. Not that there was much room.
‘I would not want to be an Oeselian,’ said Hans after they had both eaten a sparse meal of salted fish and bread washed down with water.
Conrad looked at the dejected captives. ‘Nor me.’
The ship had been anchored offshore to prevent it being attacked during the night. The wind had dropped and the sea was as calm as a village pond. Belching, flatulent warriors slept on deck but Conrad could not sleep, tormented as he was by thoughts that the raid he had suggested violated the vows he had taken when he had become a brother knight. Hans, Anton and Leatherface were sleeping soundly, a sign of clear consciences. Conrad sat up and rested his back against the gunwale. He looked up at the stars but turned away from them when he heard whimpering and saw a bearded beast standing over one of the women captives. He dropped his leggings and grabbed the woman’s long hair, twisting it in his fist as he pulled her towards his groin.
‘Leave her alone,’ said Conrad loudly.
The warrior let go of the woman, pulled up his leggings and spun round.
‘This is not your concern.’
Conrad stood and drew his sword. ‘I am making it my business.’
The warrior gave him a leering grin. ‘Your mouth has just pronounced your death sentence.’
The man suddenly staggered backwards as a result of Sigurd striking his face with the back of his hand. The sleeping crew was stirring now with men grabbing their weapons and rallying to their king. The eyes of the struck warrior flashed with rage but he bowed his head and restrained his anger.
‘Get some sleep,’ Sigurd ordered him. ‘All of you get some sleep. This expedition is not over.’
His men murmured among themselves and gave Conrad derisive glances as they returned to their slumber. Sigurd pointed at Conrad’s sword.
‘It is considered the height of bad manners for a guest to draw a sword in his host’s presence.’ Conrad slid it back in its scabbard as Hans and Anton, bleary eyed, stood beside their friend.
‘My apologies, majesty.’
Sigurd looked at the captives. ‘The women are the property of the man you insulted, Sword Brother. He is within his rights to seek redress for the indignity you have subjected him to.’
‘I will be delighted to accept his invitation,’ replied Conrad.
‘There will be no need for that,’ smiled Sigurd, ‘but I would ask you and your companions to refrain from interfering with my men’s property.’
‘My apologies, majesty.’
‘Annoying the crew, Conrad?’ said Hans as Sigurd ambled away.
Conrad did not answer, slumping back down by the gunwale.
The next day dawned clear and bright and once again Sigurd’s ship raided several Kur villages. A handful of unfortunates, those too young or old to escape in time, were captured. The elderly were killed; the young were taken to become slaves or be sold. At the last village, as the flames roared to consume another settlement, Sigurd led his men to the edge of a great pine forest adjacent to a meadow, part of which had been planted with crops. The crops were torched as the king stood at the edge of the trees.
‘Sword Brother,’ Sigurd called to Conrad.
He walked over to the king who, like all of them, was sweating in his armour. Behind them the village and crops were burning, cinders carried on the wind blowing into the forest. Sigurd followed them and beckoned Conrad to accompany him. The dry lichen broke and crackled under Conrad’s feet. The dry forest air was heavily scented with the smell of lichens, moss and pine needles.
‘Do you notice the trees, Sword Brother?’ asked Sigurd.
‘The trees, majesty?’
Sigurd pointed to the nearest pine. ‘The crooked trunks, low branches and squat stature are all signs of the winds that batter this coast and land. The same winds that brought us here, and the same wind that will consume this forest.’
‘Majesty?'
‘We will burn it, Sword Brother, all of it. Such a fire will burn for days, perhaps weeks.’
Conrad saw the fire in the king’s eyes as he thought of the destruction he was about to unleash.
‘Majesty, I would…’
Sigurd shook his head. ‘No, Sword Brother, you have no authority here. You desired destruction be brought on the Kurs so now I grant you your wish.’
He walked out of the forest and issued orders to his men to start fires among the trees. Within minutes tendrils of grey smoke were weaving their way through the pines as a score of fires were lit. The forest floor hissed and spat as flames spread among the bone-dry lichens and pine needles. Within no time they were licking the tree trunks and setting branches on fire. The forest was soon filled with whooshing sounds as the heat and flames combined to engulf whole trees, the wind fanning the flames jumping from tree to tree in an easterly direction. Huge plumes of grey smoke billowed into the sky as the forest fire took hold.
‘Back to the ship,’ ordered Sigurd as the forest turned into a fireball.
On the voyage back to Oesel Conrad sat on the deck of the ship and stared at the four frightened, dejected female prisoners. Years ago he had been despondent in the aftermath of a raid by Wenden’s garrison to capture slaves to sell to the Russians. Now the same feeling returned to haunt him. He kept telling himself that he had had no choice. Grand Master Volquin had told him that only he could persuade Sigurd to raid Kurland. The military order was thinly spread and once the Kurs had dealt with the Samogitians they would attack Mesoten. Livonia had mounted two campaigns against the Kurs and both had achieved miserable results, and then the crusader armies had comprised hundreds of mounted knights. What chance would they have without an army of crusaders from Germany? None, most likely, and that made Conrad’s mission to Sigurd most urgent. And he had succeeded. The coastline of Kurland had been devastated and villages, crops, tools and livestock had been destroyed. Fishing vessels had also been burnt, which meant the Kurs would not be able to fish the sea. Their crops had been burnt before they could be harvested and their homes had been destroyed. It would be a long, hard winter for those who lived along the coast. Many would not see next spring, a thought that should have cheered Conrad but which cast him further into despair.
In good conditions and a fair wind a longship could travel up to one hundred and seventy miles a day so it was still light when Sigurd’s longship glided into Matsalu Bay to offload the Sword Brothers. He would have invited them back to Kuressaare to celebrate the wanton destruction he and his earls had unleashed on the hapless Kurs, but his brothers Stark and Kalf despised the Sword Brothers and strongly objected to any Christians stepping on to the Blessed Isle. Kalf in particular hated the sight of Conrad, the barbarian who had humiliated him on Muhu during the bitterest winter.
*****
‘Any sign?’
The soldier shook his head. ‘No, master.’
‘No matter, they will come.’
Master Ortwin waved the man away and stared through the trees at the meadow beyond, through which ran a dirt track that was as old as the land itself. Behind him a line of brother knights sat on their caparison-protected horses, knights wearing the heraldry of the Buxhoeveden family on either side of the Sword Brothers. According to the rules of the order that pertained to battle formations, behind the brother knights were mounted sergeants in their kettle helmets. The squires of the German knights were similarly arrayed behind their lords. One hundred and thirty mailed horsemen waited in the forest. At the treeline fifty crossbowmen crouched low besides pines, their weapons loaded and ready to shoot at an enemy yet to appear.
It had been the first time Master Ortwin had ventured from his stronghold of Mesoten. The former Semgallian hill fort had been reduced to ashes by Bishop Albert only for it to be reoccupied and rebuilt by the churchman in a later crusade. When the bishop had departed he had left Ortwin in charge of the makeshift timber fort, a Sword Brother castle in a land of pagans. To the west lay Tervete, the ancient stronghold of the Semgallian dukes and further west was Kurland that no crusader army had entered. To the east lay Selonia and Nalsen controlled by the duplicitous Prince Vsevolod. Mesoten was isolated and vulnerable, its survival dependent on a string of small timber forts garrisoned by a motley collection of lesser knights that had travelled to Livonia and, offered pagan land for free, elected to stay. What no one told these men was that the land they had been given belonged to the Semgallians who, led by Duke Viesthard, waged an unceasing war against the invaders. The knights responded in kind, riding forth from their forts to kill the locals and lay waste their villages. After more than two years of fighting northern Semgallia was a forested wasteland as a result.
‘We should return to Mesoten, master,’ said Ortwin’s deputy.
The horsemen and crossbowmen had left the fort three days before, taking the minimum of supplies so they could move west at speed. Mounted parties had always been despatched to raid Semgallian villages or chase groups of Vietsthard’s warriors that irritated the garrison with their paltry assaults. But Master Ortwin had never led the majority of his men from the stronghold, and certainly had never ventured near Kurland. But here they were – half the garrison – far from base and in the middle of hostile territory.
‘They will come,’ Ortwin assured him, ‘that I can promise.’
His deputy sighed but said nothing more. As a brother knight it mattered little if he fell in battle on the Kur border or at Mesoten but he could not understand why they were here. The whole affair was risible: a crooked old man with a hooked nose appears at the gates of Mesoten, is nearly shot by a crossbowman, demands to see the commander and then, as a result of their subsequent conversation, Ortwin decides to take all his horsemen west on a whim. Perhaps the master was possessed by madness, though he appeared perfectly calm and rational. Of the old man there had been no sign after his meeting with the master. It was like he had vanished into thin air.
Ortwin’s attention was diverted by the appearance of a panting soldier who saluted.
‘Enemy horsemen approaching, master.’
Ortwin half-smiled and turned to his deputy. ‘Make ready.’
‘Make ready,’ he shouted.
The cry went down the line as Ortwin turned to his men.
‘God with us!’
The knights, sergeants and squires repeated the war cry and the knights placed their full-face helms on their heads. Every rider was protected by a mail hauberk and additional chainmail on his arms, legs, neck and head. The white surcoats and caparisons of the Sword Brothers carried the red cross over a red sword motif of the order, the Buxhoeveden knights sporting the silver fox on a red background that was the coat of arms of Saxony’s most powerful family. Every lance was lowered in preparation for the charge. The great warhorses, trained for war, sensed impending battle and snorted and scraped at the ground. Ideally the horsemen would have preferred to charge knee-to-knee but their deployment among the trees made that impossible. No matter, the crossbowmen would soften up the enemy first.
