Army of the Wolf (50 page)

Thaddeus was standing beside the great trebuchet waiting for Bishop Albert to give the order to commence shooting, but instead he sent Bernhard to start proceedings. Semgallia was his bishopric after all and it was only correct that he should be to the one to punish his errant flock. The former hard-bitten soldier, now nearly eighty years old, walked his horse to the large machine and nodded to Master Thaddeus. The latter turned and pointed at the pin that restrained the machine’s throwing arm. A burly member of the crew picked up a two-handed mallet and with one swing knocked out the pin. There was scraping sound as the sling was pulled along the groove before being whipped up and launching the two-hundred pound stone towards the fort. The projectile arched up and then down and smashed into the fort’s main gates, the force of impact dislodging the ancient oak trunks above them, creating a large gap where battlements had stood for decades. The missile itself killed no spectators on that section of the ramparts, but several died and many were injured when the timbers collapsed and they fell among the debris. The bishop’s soldiers gave a mighty cheer and continued to shout and whistle as the two other trebuchets hurled smaller stones at the fort. One removed the shingle roof of one of the towers and the other smashed a hole in the roof of one of buildings. Then the mangonels began shooting.

Having a shorter range than a trebuchet they were positioned closer to the fort, their crews sheltering behind tall mantlets that gave protection from enemy arrows. Essentially a one-armed throwing machine, a mangonel used a bundle of twisted horsehair or animal sinews, known as a skein, to create tension.

Strung across the bottom of a frame, in the middle of the skein was an upright wooden throwing arm. At the end of the latter was either a leather sling or a metal basket depending on the type of ammunition being used. The arm was lowered and secured by means of a hook, after which the ammunition was loaded. When released the arm flung forward and struck a padded buffer attached to the machine’s vertical wooden frame, throwing the projectile towards the target.

Each mangonel had a range of up to three hundred yards when throwing a ten-pound stone, less when launching heavier projectiles. However, Master Thaddeus did not intend his mangonels to be used for hurling rocks; that was the task of the trebuchets. Instead, the mangonels were to be used to demoralise those inside the fort. Five were equipped with baskets and five with slings and on his express orders they began shooting their missiles over the walls and into the fort. Those equipped with baskets threw small casks of burning tar and lighted sacks stuffed with straw and bound by rope, the latter to create choking smoke the former to set fire to buildings. The mangonels fitted with slings shot more varied ammunition: sulphur bags that burst on impact to burn out the eyes and lungs of the enemy; small stones burned into clay balls that shattered on impact to lacerate the flesh of anyone unfortunate enough to be nearby; pots of urine to infect the wounds of the injured; and beehives to add to the general panic and misery of those in the fort.

The two trebuchets behind the mangonels began a systematic destruction of the towers and walls of the fort’s western ramparts, the great trebuchet wrecking the main gates and towers on the northern side and also hurling stones into the stronghold’s interior. After the first day the fort was permanently wreathed in smoke from the fires burning inside it. The occupants had difficulty putting out the fires caused by the casks of burning tar, as they had to take cover from the other missiles hurled at them simultaneously by the mangonels. By the end of the second day half of the fort’s western wall had been destroyed and Thaddeus moved the wheeled trebuchets forward so they could smash the eastern wall.

The top platform of the siege tower was filled with crossbowmen who amused themselves by shooting at anyone who showed their face on the southern ramparts. After two days they ran out of targets as the garrison abandoned the battlements altogether and sought sanctuary within the charred and splintered fort. On the third day of being tortured by Thaddeus’ machines the garrison requested a parley.

Three warriors appeared amid the shattered gates at midday carrying upturned spears in their hands. They descended the hill and called upon the Sword Brother sergeants who were standing sentry in the north of the siege lines that they wished to speak to Bishop Albert. Unfortunately none of the sergeants understood what they were saying, but fortunately for the three pagans the order’s soldiers had enough insight to understand the meaning of their upturned weapons. So one sergeant was sent to the rear with a message for the grand master while stones and incendiaries continued to be hurled into the fort.

Grand Master Volquin reported to the bishop that a party of the enemy had descended the hill and probably wished for a parley.

‘Probably, grand master?’

Bishop Albert had just attended sext mass with Bishop Bernhard, one of the masses celebrated during the first, third, sixth and ninth hours of daylight, in his private chapel tent.

Volquin, who had likewise attended the same mass, though in the company of the masters and those brother knights not on duty in the Sword Brothers’ chapel tent, spread his hands.

‘Unless they asking for sanctuary then I would hazard that they are requesting that we stop the work of our siege engines. None of my men understand their language.’

‘They will only cease when those inside the fort beg for my mercy,’ stated the bishop firmly.

‘I think that is the purpose of their delegation,’ said Bernhard. ‘Where is Commander Nordheim, he speaks the pagan language, does he not?’

‘Excellent idea,’ concurred Albert. ‘But ensure that you and he have a large escort. These people basely murdered Father Segehard. Be careful of treachery, grand master.’

Volquin saluted and ordered one of the soldiers guarding the bishop’s pavilion to search out Nordheim and request his presence at the northern siege lines. He heard a scraping noise and then a bang and saw another large stone being launched by the great trebuchet arch into the cloudless sky. It really was a most beautiful day, notwithstanding the camp odour of wood fire smoke and human and animal waste that permeated the air. He saw the stone disappear behind the broken ramparts of the fort and considered a few repugnant smells preferable to being under siege.

He collected Rudolf and the brother knights of Wenden on his way to see the pagan delegation, Nordheim arriving with a dozen of his spearmen ten minutes later. The three Semgallians wore anguished expressions as they waited for the bishop’s party to assemble, glancing behind them every time a trebuchet or mangonel launched a missile.

At last Volquin addressed them, speaking through Nordheim.

‘What do you want?’

‘We wish to speak to Bishop Albert,’ declared the warrior in the centre, whose bearded face was dirty and who had tired, red-ringed eyes.

‘I am Grand Master Volquin, the bishop’s representative and authorised to speak on his behalf.’

‘We wish to yield the fort,’ said another of the warriors suddenly.

‘Silence!’ snapped the one in the middle.

‘Duke Viesthard himself must come down and parley with me,’ said Volquin.

‘Duke Viesthard is not in the fort.’

‘Is he alive?’ probed Volquin.

The warrior nodded.

‘Then where is he?’

The warrior avoided Volquin’s stare and shifted uneasily on his feet. The grand master turned and walked away.

‘At Tervete,’ the warrior called after him. ‘At least I think he is. Mesoten is full of women and children, many now dead and wounded. The garrison numbers less than two hundred.’

Volquin stopped and called over Nordheim.

‘You think he is telling the truth?’

Nordheim nodded. ‘If Viesthard was in Mesoten he would have come down himself. He is not the sort of man to hide himself away.’

They walked back to the Semgallian delegation.

‘You will surrender the fort immediately,’ Volquin said to them. ‘The occupants will present themselves at this spot within one hour. Failure to do so will result in the continuance of the siege.’

The warriors glanced at each other. Their leader looked at Volquin.

‘Will the women and children be allowed to go back to their homes?’

Volquin was going to inform him that their homes had been destroyed but merely stated blandly. ‘That will be for the bishop to decide. But in the interim our machines will cease their operation as a sign of our good faith that you are going to yield the fort.’

He sent one of his sergeants to instruct the crews of the mangonels and trebuchets to the west of the fort to stop operating their machines, and another to the crew of the great trebuchet with the same order. Glum but satisfied, the pagan warriors retraced their steps up the hill.

‘That was a waste of time,’ said Henke rather loudly. ‘A few more days and they would have been all dead anyway.’

‘Thank you, Henke,’ said an annoyed Rudolf. ‘Please keep your opinions to yourself.’

Volquin heard Henke’s intemperate words and walked over to him. He knew the uncouth brother knight from Wenden from old.

‘You disagree with the bishop’s opinions, Brother Henke?’

‘Just saying that it makes no sense taking pagans prisoner if we don’t need to, grand master.’

‘We are here to teach the pagans a lesson, Brother Henke, not indulge our base instincts.’

Henke screwed up his nose. ‘Really? I thought we were here to exact revenge for what the Semgallians did last year.’

Several of the other brother knights smiled, though Rudolf and Walter were far from amused. But Volquin himself smiled.

‘We are here to show the Semgallians the error of their ways, Brother Henke, and we cannot do that if they are dead, can we?’

Henke said nothing.

‘So,’ continued Volquin, ‘when those in the fort give themselves up you will lead the garrison of Wenden into Mesoten to ensure that all the warriors are fully disarmed.’

Henke rolled his eyes as Volquin bade Rudolf and Walter to accompany him as he walked back to the bishop’s pavilion with Nordheim. Henke spat on the ground.

‘I will need an interpreter,’ he shouted at the party led by Volquin.

Volquin stopped and turned. ‘Commander Nordheim will accompany you.’

Henke shook his head. ‘My day gets better and better.’

The siege engines stopped their shooting as promised, though by the time the last barrel of burning tar had landed in Mesoten many of the fort’s buildings were on fire. Rather than attempt to extinguish the flames the occupants gladly accepted the bishop’s offer and began filing down the northern slope of the mound. Henke and Wenden’s soldiers went the other way to oversee the disarming of the garrison: eight brother knights, thirty sergeants and forty spearmen.

Henke grumbled to himself as he used his shield to shove aside women holding infants, their clothes torn and stinking of smoke, their eyes bloodshot and their faces filthy. Young boys gave him hateful glances but he sneered and raised his mace to them as they scampered past him. When the Sword Brothers reached the summit it seemed like the whole of the eastern side of the fort was on fire, with roaring flames consuming buildings and black smoke billowing into the sky. Bare headed, he waved forward Nordheim when he saw the fort’s garrison gathered in a group just inside the smashed remains of the main gates.

‘Tell them to stack their weapons, helmets and shields and get down the hill with the women and children. And tell them to be quick about it otherwise we’ll all roast to death.’

The last of the women, old and young left the fort as the Semgallian warriors began throwing their spears, swords, shields and helmets on a rapidly expanding pile. They then trudged sullenly out of the fort with their heads down. There was a loud crash as Mesoten’s great hall collapsed in a shower of sparks and flames. Henke caught site of a pile of dead bodies heaped against a part of the wall that was still intact. He pointed at it with his mace.

‘Looks like Thaddeus’ machines have reaped a grim harvest,’ he said to Lukas, just before they heard the sound of trumpets coming from the camp of the Sword Brothers. This was followed by more trumpet blasts, this time coming from the west – the crusader camp. The other brother knights looked at each other and instinctively closed ranks with the sergeants and spearmen.

The alarm was being sounded because a relief force had come at last.

Despite the mounted raids conducted by the Duke of Saxony’s knights Viesthard was able to leave Tervete under cover of darkness, accompanied by a hundred horsemen and five hundred warriors on foot. They disappeared into the dense forests that surrounded the hill fort and made their way east using ancient paths through the trees. The crusaders had sent patrols west and north and the bishop had despatched the Army of the Wolf east to keep watch for any Lithuanian forces that might attempt to mount a relief operation from that direction. But no thought had been given to any threats from the south. In that direction lay Samogitia and it was well known that Duke Butantas was no friend of the Semgallians.

Viesthard’s men had made camp in the woods five miles to the north of Mesoten, from where the duke had sent a rider to inform Butantas that he would be attacking the crusaders the next day. He had no idea if the rider, a local man well acquainted with the secret trails around Mesoten, reached his destination but it did not matter. He would launch a surprise attack on the invaders anyway. He could not let those in Mesoten die or become slaves of the crusaders without trying to save them. Semgallia was probably finished in any case. Better to die fighting than being starved into submission when the crusaders besieged his hill fort. But the rider did reach the Samogitian army and Duke Butantas launched his own attack as promised.