Castellan (45 page)

‘Stay there,’ came the reply.

Hans, Anton and Leatherface behind looked like statues being buffeted by snowflakes as the wind picked up and darkness came. It would be an inhospitable night. Conrad could only see the first few files of the column of riders behind his friends; the rest had been obliterated by the whiteout. For what seemed like an eternity they remained immobile, feeling slowly leaving their fingers. But then one of the gates creaked open and a group came out of the fort, led by Sir Richard who offered a hand to Conrad.

‘Good to see you, marshal, get your men inside the fort and out of this snowstorm.’

The other gate opened and Conrad led his horse forward. He was surprised to see the elderly Bishop Bernhard in his white tunic bare headed.

‘You should take care, lord bishop, not to catch a chill.’

‘Don’t you worry about me, young Conrad,’ he replied, ‘I’m not the one wandering around a frozen Saccalia in the dark.’

Two hours later, after the men had been billeted in some of the huts inside Lehola’s outer compound and the horses and mules had been unsaddled, rubbed down, fed and stabled, Conrad’s men were feasted in the hall. The great chamber could seat five hundred people but it was half empty, the crusaders that had taken part in the assault on Fellin sitting along benches in one corner. Tonis’ wolf shields sat on the opposite side while Sir Richard’s knights, or at least some of them, the rest being in the villages they now headed, occupied the benches at tables in front of the top table where their lord sat with his guests. His white boar’s head banner hung on the wall behind him.

‘So, you go to Leal and then to make war in Harrien,’ Sir Richard said to him as he chewed on a boar’s rib.

‘Yes, your grace,’ said Conrad. He looked at Riki sitting at the end of the top table talking to Tonis. ‘Harrien has for too long been the plaything of foreign powers.’

‘This Varbola,’ said Bishop Bernhard, ‘it is strongly fortified?’

‘The strongest in all Estonia, lord bishop,’ answered Conrad.

Bernhard looked in confusion at Sir Richard, who shrugged. The prelate pointed at the fifty Harrien and crossbowmen stuffing their faces.

‘And these are all the men you brought with you?’

Conrad nodded. ‘Hillar has many more men under his command in Rotalia, lord bishop.’

‘And he has siege engines?’

‘No, lord bishop.’

Bernhard looked even more perturbed. ‘And yet you still believe that Varbola will fall to you?’

Conrad took a swig of his
medalus
. ‘Oh, yes.’

‘Then I’m coming with you, Conrad,’ announced the bishop. ‘Your venture intrigues me.’

Conrad looked alarmed, as did Hans sitting next to him.

‘You, lord bishop? Surely you are needed here.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Bernhard loudly, ‘the duke has more than enough men to secure his border with Ungannia and all I and my men do is eat up his stores.’

‘I am glad to have you here, lord bishop,’ said Sir Richard.

Conrad looked at the men in shabby clothing eating at the tables. They had not made a great impression on him at Fellin and that had been in summer. To take them on a five-day journey across a frozen landscape to Leal might be beyond the endurance of many of them. Then there was the matter of the bishop’s great age. He did not want the Bishop of Semgallia’s death on his conscience.

‘You will wish to bring your crusaders with you, lord bishop?’ said Conrad.

‘What’s left of them,’ replied Bernhard. ‘Many went back to Germany, two hundred were killed at Fellin and another one hundred and fifty succumbed to their wounds in the aftermath. With further deaths, desertions and those men who are staffing Sir Richard’s hill forts I can muster two hundred men to accompany you, Conrad.’

‘It is very cold in Livonia and Estonia during the winter, lord bishop,’ began Conrad.

‘Especially for one so old,’ interrupted Hans, who had obviously drunk too much
medalus
.

Bernhard leaned forward and glared at him. ‘Old, Brother Hans? I hope you are not casting aspersions on my ability to take part in a winter march.’

Bernhard was a veteran of many campaigns, a hard-bitten soldier who as the Lord of Lippe had fought in many wars. But it had been twenty-three years since he had entered the monastery of Marienfeld as a simple monk, and at the age of sixty.

‘May I be blunt, lord bishop?’ asked Conrad.

‘Why not,’ said Bernhard. ‘Tact and subtlety have never been the hallmarks of the Sword Brothers.’

Conrad took a large gulp of his drink. ‘Your men will suffer greatly on the march to Leal, and when we get there I wonder if they will become a hindrance rather than a help. I fear the former. I also worry about you, lord bishop. Notwithstanding your achievements in war this land can be unforgiving and makes no allowances for reputation or age.’

‘He has a point, lord bishop,’ said Sir Richard as a servant laid a large wooden bowl filled with cooked meat on the table, another placing freshly baked bread either side of it. Hans’ arm shot out faster than a crossbow bolt to grab a piece of bread.

‘It touches me greatly that the Duke of Saccalia and the Marshal of Estonia are so concerned about my welfare and that of my men. God will decide when and where I die, so until that time I intend to remain as active as possible. You two can fret about my age; I will concentrate on more martial matters. As for my men, they volunteered to take the cross and so their lives, like yours, are in the hands of God. I think the Almighty is more than capable of looking after their welfare without your help. Besides, one overriding consideration dictates my actions.’

‘Which is, lord bishop?’ queried Sir Richard.

‘That a prince of the Holy Church out-ranks a duke and a marshal.’

So two hundred men of Bishop Bernhard’s contingent set out for the winter campaign against Varbola. Conrad was far from happy and Hans and Anton thought half would be dead before they reached Leal. But Sir Richard furnished them with thick felt capes and winter clothing, in addition to leather boots and warm headgear. Bernhard himself, invigorated by the prospect of returning to his campaigning days, went among them to fortify their spirits. Conrad stood with his two friends, Riki and Tonis in Lehola’s outer compound as the bishop rallied his men.

‘We go to do God’s work, my brothers. After your great victory at Fellin no enemy will be able to withstand your courage and fortitude. The Marshal of Estonia, a man blessed by the Lord who is undefeated in battle, leads us against the heathens. He is Livonia’s King David who smote the Hittites with his courage.’

The men, all wrapped in cloaks, gave a mighty cheer and raised their spears in acclamation.

‘Who is this King David,
Susi
?’ asked Riki.

‘The man who united the Israelites,’ answered Anton for his friend, ‘just as Conrad will unite the Estonian tribes.’

‘There is a hard march ahead first,’ said Conrad. He looked at his two friends. ‘I want you two to keep an eye on the bishop to ensure he does not freeze to death on the way.’

Though the bishop’s soldiers were all on foot Sir Richard had supplied them with a number of sleds pulled by ponies to transport their supplies. As Riki and Tonis led their men from Lehola, Leatherface’s crossbowmen following, Conrad gathered the commanders of the crusaders to him. Only two wore mail armour, the other four being attired in knee-length gambesons. Split at the front from the crotch down, the garments were put on over the head and fastened by two buttons at the neck. The padding that covered the body comprised cotton and wool between two outer layers of linen, all quilted vertically; the padding on the arms being two layers only. Gambesons offered some protection against sword, axe and spear strikes, though decreasing the penetration of weapons, not preventing them altogether. But at least they were comfortable and warm and offered good protection against the cold and bitter winds the men would experience on the march.

Most of the six were older than Conrad, but his position, reputation and membership of the Sword Brothers earned him their respect, albeit grudging.

‘Keep an eye on your men,’ he told them. ‘It may be sunny but marching through snow is strength sapping. They will be tempted to stop and get their breath; don’t let them, especially if there is any wind.

‘Our pace will be slow to conserve our stamina and there will be frequent rest stops. When we do stop get your men out of the wind.’

‘What wind?’ said one in a gambeson, looking up into the cloudless sky.

‘The weather can change drastically in a very short time,’ Conrad told him. ‘And when the wind does pick up make sure those marching against the wind, those in the front ranks, are relieved frequently. One last thing, don’t let your men sing or make loud noises when the wind has dropped. In clear, frosty weather sounds carry to great distances and I don’t want any enemy patrols learning of our existence unnecessarily.’

They nodded sullenly, grumbled among themselves and wandered back to their men lined up near the gates.

‘Miserable bastards,’ muttered Conrad.

‘Bishop Bernhard’s bastards,’ said Anton, shaking his head.

‘I like it,’ said Hans, ‘we should have a banner made up with those words in Latin written on it.’

Conrad gave him a shove. ‘You can’t read Hans so the motto would be wasted on you.’

‘How many do you think will reach Leal?’ asked Anton.

‘All of them,’ insisted Conrad, ‘and it’s our job to make sure they do.’

‘Bishop Bernhard’s bastards,’ said Hans loudly with a grin on his face. ‘I love it.’

‘As far as I know, Brother Hans,’ came a voice behind them, ‘my mother and father were married when they conceived me, though I have to confess that I never did question them closely on the matter.’

Hans turned, mortified, to see Bishop Bernhard wrapped in a huge bearskin cloak, his head encased in a fur-lined cap that covered his ears and the back of his neck.

‘So I take great exception to you calling me a bastard.’

Hans went pale. ‘Lord bishop, forgive me, I did not mean to imply that you are illegitimate. I would never seek to dishonour your name, I…’

Bernhard creased over with laughter. ‘It’s a good job I don’t take offence easily, Brother Hans, so stop your fawning.’

He rubbed his hands together and nodded towards the two hundred men who were beginning to file out of the fort’s gates.

‘So, what do think of north Germany’s finest soldiers?’

Hans stared at the ground, Anton began examining the ends of his mittens and Conrad wore a dumb smile.

‘Frost got your tongues?’ snapped the bishop. ‘Speak freely.’

‘They would be better off back in Germany, lord bishop,’ said Conrad.

‘Well they aren’t, so as commander of this expedition it is your job to make sure they all get to Leal in one piece.’

‘You flatter me, lord bishop,’ said Conrad caustically, ‘in believing that I can work miracles.’

‘Don’t be a smart arse,’ replied the bishop. ‘You are stuck with them and me and that’s the end of it. So get used to it.’

Conrad turned and waved a man forward leading a team of ponies hauling a sled.

‘In that case, lord bishop, you will do me the honour of alighting your transport for the journey to Leal.’

Bernhard was mortified. ‘A sled? Do you think I am a bag of fodder? Where’s my horse?’

‘In the stables, lord bishop,’ said Sir Richard who had exited his hall in the company of Squire Paul. ‘Conrad believed that a sled was a more appropriate method of transport for a prince of the church.’

Bernhard’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘Did he indeed.’

‘As you said, lord bishop,’ said Conrad, ‘I am commander of this expedition so my decision is final.’

Like his commanders Bernhard grumbled and mumbled but did as he was told. Three more horses, all encased in white caparisons bearing the insignia of the Sword Brothers, were brought from the stables. Bernhard said farewell to Sir Richard and Paul and took his seat in the sled, the leader of the ponies wrapping him in a thick blanket once he was ensconced. He led the ponies toward the gates and Hans and Anton, after saying farewell to Sir Richard and Paul, hauled themselves into their saddles and walked their horses beside the sled.

‘Your bodyguards, lord bishop,’ Conrad called after the prelate, ‘to ensure nothing untoward happens to you.’

‘He’s hardier than he looks,’ said Sir Richard.

‘That’s good because I have cut down corpses from the gallows who have looked healthier,’ remarked Paul.

‘You think you stand a chance of taking Varbola, Conrad?’ asked Sir Richard, ignoring his squire.

Conrad shook his hand and then Paul’s. ‘I am certain of it, which is more than can be said for getting the bishop and his men safely to Leal.’

Leal was around fifty miles directly west from Lehola, a hill fort sited on the largely flat inland plain of western Rotalia. When the land was in the icy grip of winter there were only six hours of daylight each day, which meant that only four could be spent on the move. The best that could be achieved in such conditions was five miles each day. Those days were some of the most exhausting that Conrad had spent in the whole of his time in Livonia. He did not concern himself with the welfare of his Harrien or Saccalians, and knew that Hans and Anton would keep a watchful eye over the bishop, so he spent all his time among the crusaders, becoming akin to their nursemaid.