Army of the Wolf (7 page)

Conrad leaned on the stone battlements. ‘Endless trees and endless guard duty.’

‘What did you say?’ asked Hans beside him.

‘I was just musing to myself that the number of hours of guard duty we have been given must equate to the number of trees out there,’ he pointed at the foliage disappearing into the north.

‘Our reward for the business at Dorpat,’ remarked Hans. ‘Do you think Kalju will forgive us?’

‘Us, yes,’ replied Conrad, ‘but perhaps not our order and certainly not Henke.’

‘Master Rudolf should have made Walter commander of the mission to Ungannia,’ said Hans. ‘He is more of a diplomat.’

Walter was a fellow brother knight who had journeyed to Livonia aboard the same ship that had carried Conrad and Hans to the crusader kingdom. But whereas both of them had been penniless orphans Walter was a knight from a noble Saxon family who had killed a friend in a duel. Full of remorse, he had given up his life of privilege to join the Sword Brothers and fight the pagans. Men called him Walter the Penitent but Conrad reckoned him among the bravest and truest members of the order and infinitely preferable to the brutish Henke.

‘It is grossly unfair that we are being punished for Henke’s mistakes,’ complained Conrad.

Hans shrugged. ‘Life is unfair, my friend.’ He began munching on an apple. ‘But at least we won’t starve.’

Conrad smiled and shook his head. Hans had been a beggar on the streets of Lübeck who had been sentenced to death for stealing a loaf of bread, before being rescued from the gallows by a church court that decided he would be better fighting the godless pagans in Livonia than dangling at the end of a rope. Now twenty-one years of age, he was no longer the gaunt, haunted figure that Conrad had first encountered on Lübeck’s docks all those years ago, though he was still slim. But no matter how much food he shovelled into his mouth Hans was always hungry, a legacy of a childhood spent starving.

‘All that chiselling and hammering is giving me a headache,’ complained Hans as he finished his apple and tossed the core over the battlements.

Ever since their arrival at Wenden the castle had been in a constant state of construction, carpenters, masons and blacksmiths hired from Germany working on its towers, walls and buildings. Built on an escarpment, the northern and western sides of which were sheer, Wenden could only be assaulted from the east and south. The slope beyond the castle’s eastern walls was steep, which meant that an attacker could only realistically approach from the more gently sloping southern side. However, the Sword Brothers had erected an outer perimeter wall to encompass this southern slope. This circuitous defence comprised an earth rampart with a stake-filled ditch in front of it. The timber wall sat on top of the rampart and formed a great loop to the immediate south of the castle. Within the outer perimeter were located the huts that housed the civilian workers and their families, more huts to accommodate Wenden’s mercenary soldiers of the garrison, their training fields and the cemetery.

The entrance to the castle itself was via a drawbridge over a deep dry moat. The bridge led to a track winding its way down to the two gates positioned in the south of the outer perimeter defences.

‘It will take a few more years to complete the building work,’ said Conrad.

‘More’s the pity,’ grumbled Hans.

They stood on the battlements of the three-story northern tower – the first to be completed. The castle’s southeast tower had also been completed but the one in the northwest corner had as yet only one story and the gatehouse was in the same state of completion. Building castles was a slow business.

It was a beautiful summer’s day, with white puffy clouds in the sky and a slight easterly breeze that prevented it being too hot. Conrad turned away from the masons siting stones and carpenters planing wood to stare once more beyond the battlements. He looked down at the village located immediately north of the escarpment and the fields that ringed it and smiled. Wenden was surrounded by villages populated by Livs, the indigenous people of this land, but the twenty huts of varying sizes located to the north of the castle were filled with settlers: men and women who had been lured to Livonia by the promise of land to farm. The late Master Berthold had high hopes of the settlement, believing that it would grow into a flourishing town. At the moment it was a small village surrounded by fields and pasture literally forged with saws and axes as the forest had been cleared to make way for livestock and huts. Its population had increased slowly over the years and now numbered sixty men, women and children. To the west, east and south were Liv villages, settlements that had existed for centuries, though none to the north. The north was the region that had delineated the frontier between Liv and Estonian where many battles had been fought before the time of the Sword Brothers. Conrad turned to look east and saw columns of smoke on the horizon. A chill ran down his spine.

‘Hans, look.’

He pointed at the thin shafts of smoke in the distance and reached for the leather strap attached to the clapper of the alarm bell that hung from a wooden frame on top of the tower. He began ringing the bell frantically, which was answered by the alarm bell at the fledgling gatehouse and then by another bell positioned above the gates in the outer perimeter wall. As Conrad kept ringing the bell soldiers rushed to the armoury to collect their weapons and civilians raced to the sanctuary of the castle. And to the east more columns of smoke appeared in the sky.

Minutes later Master Rudolf appeared on the battlements, his coif around his shoulders. He was the same height as Conrad, who now possessed a more powerful physique than the slimmer, older commander of Wenden. Conrad pointed at the smoke columns filling the sky.

‘I am all too familiar with burning villages, master.’

‘Get yourself down to the courtyard,’ said Rudolf. ‘You too, Hans. We need to get everyone inside the castle.’

‘I thought we had defeated the Estonians,’ remarked Conrad as he began to descend the ladder that led from the top of the tower down to the floor below.

‘So did I,’ said Rudolf.

They descended the tower and formed up in the castle’s expansive cobbled courtyard. It was a scene of organised chaos as the families of the civilian workers rushed from the compound below the castle into the courtyard where they were reunited with their menfolk. The mercenary spearmen and crossbowmen, having collected weapons, armour and ammunition from the armoury, were going the other way: down into the compound to line the outer perimeter wall. The drills in response to the alarm being sounded were well rehearsed and the garrison went about its business quietly and methodically. Only the women and children had fear in their eyes.

The eleven brother knights formed up in a line in front of the master’s hall, the sergeants in two ranks behind them. Each Sword Brother castle normally had a garrison of twelve brother knights in honour of the number of apostles that Christ had with him in Galilee. But reflecting its position as the strongest of the order’s garrisons in Livonia, Wenden’s garrison had an additional fifty sergeants, fifty crossbowmen and the same number of spearmen. Ten of the sergeants were at the quarry five miles to the west of the castle that was worked to provide the material to build the castle’s wall and towers.

Rudolf stood in front of the order’s knights and sergeants. ‘An unidentified attacker is burning villages to the east. My first responsibility is to evacuate the quarry. To this end Brother Walter, six brother knights and twenty sergeants will ride there immediately to evacuate the guards and civilians there. Walter, you have your orders.’

‘Brothers Conrad, Hans, Anton and Johann will go the village beyond the northern wall and bring the civilians who live there inside the castle walls.’

Wenden’s deputy commander saluted and walked to the stables, followed by the brother knights and twenty sergeants.

Conrad and his companions raced over to the armoury. The village was located immediately north of the castle’s northern ramparts but could only be reached via the gates in the outer perimeter wall. The northern escarpment was sheer and though an excellent impediment to an attacker, it also meant that the village’s civilians could not be evacuated to a northern gate. But the village was located at the foot of the escarpment and the guards on the castle’s towers would give enough prior warning of any threat for the villagers to be evacuated safely. Nevertheless, Conrad and his friends were eager to get to them as quickly as possible.

They entered the squat stone building that was the armoury and waited at the long wooden counter that separated the armourers from their customers. It was semi-dark inside the armoury, notwithstanding the candles around the walls, and it smelled of leather and chainmail. One of armourer’s placed his thick forearms on the counter. Either side of him his colleagues were handing out lances, maces, axes and helmets to the men who would be riding to the quarry.

‘Brother Conrad.’

‘I need a spear, my axe and a kettle helmet.’

The man screwed up his nose. ‘Brother knights wear full-face helms.’

‘I know that.’

The stocky armourer looked more confused. ‘Then you want a full-face helm.’

Conrad shook his head. ‘No, I need a kettle helmet.’

‘It’s against regulations.’

‘What?’

The armourer wagged a finger in Conrad’s face. ‘Master Rudolf is very strict when it comes to such things.’

Conrad’s patience was fast disappearing. He smashed his fist down on the counter. ‘Just get me a kettle helmet, and the other things.’

The armourer frowned. ‘You meant a lance, surely?’

‘No,’ said Conrad slowly and purposefully, ‘I need a spear.’

Confusion returned to the armourer’s face. ‘You are not a spearman.’

‘Your powers of observation do you credit,’ remarked Conrad dryly. ‘I need a spear because they are useful to round up panicking civilians. I don’t need a lance because I will not be on horseback. And now, having explained myself to you, will you please provide me with my weapons. Or do you wish me to provide written authorisation?’

The armourer looked annoyed. ‘There will be no need for that.’

He turned and disappeared into the armoury’s interior of cages holding a wide variety of weapons and ammunition, muttering to himself as he did so.

‘They think they own the weapons in here,’ Conrad complained to Hans beside him.

‘They watch over the armoury like an eagle guards its nest,’ agreed his slim friend.

The armourer returned with the items requested.

‘Bring them all back,’ he snapped at Conrad before turning to Hans. ‘And I suppose you want a kettle helmet and spear as well, Brother Hans?’

Hans grinned. ‘You must be a mind reader.’

The armourer scowled, shook his head and went to retrieve Hans’ weapons.

‘I will see you outside,’ said Conrad, tucking his axe into his belt.

The sunlight dazzled his eyes as he stepped outside into the bustle of the courtyard, Brother Walter and the quarry relief party were trotting from the cobbles over the drawbridge. Anton and Johann came from the armoury as Conrad slung his shield of wood covered in leather on his back using the leather guige, the strap that had a buckle that allowed its length to be adjusted. He ensured the strap wasn’t too tight so the shield could be removed from his back quickly and then placed his helmet on his head. Brother knights of the order may have been required to wear full-face helms but Conrad found the kettle helmet much more comfortable, especially when not in the saddle. Its wide brim gave adequate protection against blows from above and as the face was not covered it afforded much greater visibility.

‘Where’s Hans?’ said Anton.

‘Probably stuffing his face before he ventures far from the kitchens,’ remarked Johann.

They all laughed. One of the lasting legacies of Hans’ wretched childhood was his insatiable hunger.

‘This is no the time for mirth.’ The voice of Otto boomed across the courtyard.

Conrad rolled his eyes at the other two as Wenden’s resident priest came striding towards them. Dressed in a simple greyish-white habit of undyed wool, Otto was six inches taller than Conrad and infinitely uglier. All the brother knights had neatly trimmed beards and hair but Otto was bald and clean-shaven, his head covered in battle scars, the deepest of which was on his forehead above his right eye. With his disfigured head, severe countenance and black eyes Otto resembled a gargoyle and a thing of children’s nightmares rather than a priest.

They fell silent as he marched up to them. ‘I am coming with you.’

Conrad saw the sword belt strapped round Otto’s waist. ‘Expecting trouble, Father Otto?’

‘I thought priests were not allowed to shed blood,’ said Johann.

Otto glared at him. ‘Do not presume to lecture me on church law. The villagers are my flock and I shall protect them as I see fit.’

Hans came from the armoury adjusting his helmet straps.

‘Best we get to the village as quickly as possible,’ said Conrad, smiling at Otto. ‘Stay close, father.’

‘Stay close?’ Otto said derisively. ‘You think I cannot handle a few pagans?’

Conrad knew he could, having been a member of Rudolf’s mercenary band that had fought in Germany before venturing to Livonia to become members of the Sword Brothers. Rudolf had told Conrad that it had been a great surprise to everyone when Otto elected to become a Cistercian priest, turning his back on violence and warfare to tend to the spiritual needs of his companions and their souls and those of Wenden’s military and civilian personnel. That was the theory but Otto was not averse to strapping on a sword in emergencies, as he did now.