The Sword Brothers (101 page)

The fires burned
themselves out and after the dawn Master Berthold himself rode to
the village to survey the damage, bringing with him half a dozen
brother knights and ten sergeants. The area around the settlement
was scoured for any signs of the raiders but nothing was found;
indeed, inside the village itself there were no clues as to who had
raided the village: no broken shields, dead bodies or discarded
helmets to identify the attackers. Whoever they were they had
carried out their mission with deadly efficiency. No one was left
alive in the village, at least almost no one.

‘Only he can provide
an answer to this mystery,’ remarked Berthold as he watched Anton,
Hans and Johann place Conrad’s body in the back of the cart.

He was taken to
Ilona’s hut where Rudolf assisted her in washing the body and
cleaning the wounds with a lotion made from marigold, after which
rosemary was placed in the cuts and dressings soaked in honey to
prevent infection were wrapped around them. Ilona was most
concerned about the gash on the right side of Conrad’s head so she
packed yarrow into the wound to staunch the flow of blood.

‘Do you know who
attacked the village?’ she asked, washing Conrad’s hands.

Rudolf stood next to
the door. ‘Not yet.’

‘It can only have been
the Estonians,’ she said.

‘Daina and her child
died in the village. We found Conrad next to them.’

He saw her head drop
and momentarily stop what she was doing.

‘They should be buried
in the cemetery here, at Wenden,’ she said. ‘Conrad would want
that.’

‘If he lives.’

She finished cleaning
his hands and stood up, holding the bowl of dirty water. ‘If he
dies then he can be buried alongside his wife and child.’

She passed him to go
outside and empty the bowl. He followed her. She was crying.

‘I hope the Sword
Brothers will exact vengeance for this crime.’

‘We cannot launch
reprisals without the authority of the bishop,’ replied Rudolf. ‘To
do so would spark a war.’

‘You already have a
war, Rudolf, whether you know it or not.’

They both saw Hans
approach, his face etched with concern. In his arms he held a sword
in a scabbard, a dagger in a sheath and an axe.

‘These are his
weapons,’ he said. ‘They should be with him when he wakes up.’

Ilona saw the
dejection in his eyes and embraced him. Rudolf took the
weapons.

‘They will be the
first things he sees when his eyes open. Thank you, Brother
Hans.’

*****

Olaf nursed his
injured arm as his men pulled on their oars to power the longship
through the choppy waters of the Baltic. Long and slim, it cut
through the grey sea with ease despite carrying nearly two hundred
warriors. Fifty more had made the journey to Riga in this dragon
ship, the greatest vessel in the Oeselian fleet, but they had
fallen vainly trying to storm the high stone walls of the bishop’s
town. The crews of the ten longships that trailed his own boat had
suffered similar losses in the abortive assault. The pain in his
arm was nothing compared to the realisation that gnawed at him like
a toothache, that Riga was now too strong a fortress to be taken.
Gradually the crusaders were tightening their control over the
eastern Baltic, once his and his predecessors’ domain.

‘We should be back on
Oesel before nightfall, father,’ said Sigurd.

Olaf growled a reply
that his son did not hear. They stood near the stern of the vessel
in silence for several minutes, sea spray brushing their faces as
the ship with its great carved dragon at the prow cut through the
water. On the port side was the coast of northern Kurland, the
kingdom of the Lithuanian Duke Arturus, a man who had also tried
and failed to seize Riga. Olaf glanced at the shoreline and looked
for any signs of Lithuanian vessels. He would welcome an
opportunity to slaughter some of Arturus’ men and sink their
vessels. At least that would be something to talk about in his
longhouse that evening. But Arturus kept his men safely on dry
land.

‘You were right,
Sigurd,’ said Olaf at last.

‘Father?’

‘You among all of us
saw the future accurately. That the strength of the crusaders would
grow just as ours and that of the Estonians would decline.’

On his return to
Saccalia Lembit had sent a missive to Sigurd alerting him to the
fact that he would be renewing hostilities against the bishop, the
sons of his chiefs having been sent back to their fathers as a sign
of goodwill by Albert a few weeks before his own release. Burning
with hatred against the Christians, Lembit’s usual calm,
calculating nature had abandoned him as he sought vengeance for the
humiliation of having his head dunked under the waters of the Dvina
by Bishop Albert when he was baptised into the foul Christian
faith. Lembit promised endless war against the crusaders and
pledged eternal friendship between the Estonian people and the
Oeselians.

*****

Henke yawned. ‘So what
is to be done about Conrad Wolff?’

It was a legitimate
question but no one was prepared to grasp the nettle. Everyone knew
that Conrad had suffered grievous wounds that would have killed a
lesser man and had been nursed back from the brink of death by
Ilona’s healing arts. He had been confined to his sickbed for six
weeks. He had been in a state of delirium for two of those weeks,
eventually waking and speaking his first words: ‘wolf shields’.
Everyone also knew that he was the only one who had survived the
Estonian attack on the village and they thus regarded him as
special, someone whom God had chosen for a specific purpose.

‘And that is my
point,’ stressed Henke. ‘If God spared him then he should be about
his business, not moping about Wenden feeling sorry for
himself.’

‘Blasphemy!’ snapped
Otto. ‘No mortal can know what the Lord is thinking.’

Henke waved a hand at
him. ‘Spare me the sermon.’

Otto’s cheeks coloured
with anger but Berthold prevented another outburst.

‘Your words are
intemperate, Brother Henke. Father Otto is correct, we must not
question the Lord’s plans.’

‘Conrad attends to his
duties diligently,’ said Rudolf. He looked at Lukas. ‘Including his
practise at arms.’

Lukas scratched his
beard. ‘He trains well enough and the novices respond well to his
presence. He has become something of an inspiration to them, though
he never talks to them and they never exchange words with him.’

‘You teach him what he
already knows well enough,’ said Henke. ‘He has fully recovered
from his wounds?’

‘Ilona says so,’
answered Rudolf.

Henke looked in turn
at Hans, Anton and Johann. ‘What about you three? You are his
friends. What does he say to you?’

‘Very little,’ said
Hans.

‘He still feels the
loss of his wife and child deeply,’ added Johann.

‘He believes that he
should have died in Thalibald’s village alongside them,’ said
Anton.

Henke looked up at the
ceiling. ‘Well, he didn’t.’ He pointed at Hans. ‘You should tell
him to get off his arse and either become a brother knight or join
a monastery.’

Thus far Walter had
kept his counsel but now his face wore a deep frown. ‘You exceed
your authority, brother. A man must come to the order voluntarily
or not at all, else he cannot be a true warrior of Christ.’

Berthold could see
that the exchange was going nowhere and so called a halt to
proceedings.

‘We will not be
marching until the spring when the bishop returns so I see no need
to make a decision now. The matter of novice Conrad is closed until
I raise it again.’

But after the meeting
Henke sidled up to Rudolf as they left the master’s hall.

‘You and I both know
that Conrad’s place is among us, as a brother knight. He saved the
bishop’s life, wounded Lembit and was the only survivor of a
massacre. It would also be good for morale if he marched with us in
the spring. Soldiers are superstitious, you know that. If he
marches beside them they will fight twice as hard.’

‘A fair point,’ said
Rudolf, ‘and we will certainly need all the fighting men we can
muster if we are to subdue Lembit. But you heard what the master
said and we must respect his wishes. We must let Conrad find his
own path.’

The winter passed
slowly. The new settlers found life hard in the iron grip of the
snow and ice and several of their children died of exposure despite
Ilona’s efforts. The temperature was so cold that the sea froze and
Caupo led an audacious raid against the island of Oesel, but Olaf
and his warriors were more than a match for the Livs and beat them
off with ease. Life carried on at Wenden as usual: brother knights
and sergeants trained, prayed, went on patrol and hunted in the
woods. And every morning Conrad accompanied the novices onto the
training field where Lukas gave them instruction in the martial
arts. This day was no different, everyone’s breath misting in the
bitter cold, made worse by a biting wind that came from the east
and not alleviated by the sun that shone from a cloudless sky. It
was so cold that the boys had been issued with felt boots, woollen
leg wraps under their leggings and fur-lined caps to keep their
ears from freezing. They stood in a line before Lukas, Conrad on
the end, each one armed with a waster and shield.

‘Now remember,’ Lukas
told them, holding up his shield, ‘a fighter carries a shield to
protect himself from an attack but a shield should also be used as
a weapon. It’s the same with armour. A fighter wears armour in case
he is hit, not so that he can be hit. Do you understand?’

He saw a row of blank
faces. Conrad, not listening, was staring at crows circling in the
sky, no doubt having spotted a dead or dying animal below and
waiting patiently to satisfy their hunger.

Lukas carried on. ‘No
fighter purposely receives a blow on his armour. Rely on your wits,
not your shield or armour.’

‘What if a fighter’s
wits have deserted him?’

The boys turned to see
Henke behind them, dressed in mail armour, felt boots and carrying
a sword in a scabbard in his hand.

‘What then, Brother
Lukas?’

Lukas twisted up his
mouth. ‘Is there something I can do for you, brother?’

Henke walked on the
freshly fallen snow to stand beside Lukas. Conrad saw him and gave
him a disinterested stare, until he saw his sword in Henke’s
hand.

‘That is my sword,’ he
spat, ‘what are you doing with it?’

Henke feigned hurt.
‘Your sword, are you accusing me of stealing it?’

Conrad marched over to
him. ‘Well if it is mine and you have taken it then draw your own
conclusions.’

‘Henke,’ protested
Lukas, ‘this is not the time…’

‘No, brother,’
interrupted Henke, ‘this is precisely the time.’

Conrad was now inches
from Henke’s face. ‘Give me my sword.’

Henke stepped back and
held out his hands in innocence. ‘You know very well that personal
property is not allowed in the Sword Brothers, poverty being one of
our vows. So how can it be yours? In any case, don’t you prefer to
play with a wooden sword in the company of boys? The latter carries
a severe penalty in the order, by the way.’

‘Give me my sword,
Henke,’ hissed Conrad, ‘and I will show you how it should be
wielded.’

‘No!’ shouted Lukas as
the novices glanced at each other nervously and backed away as
Henke smiled and threw Conrad the scabbard holding his sword.

‘This is between me
and him,’ Henke said to Lukas.

‘If the master finds
out you will be flogged,’ Lukas warned him.

Conrad caught the
scabbard, placed his waster on the ground and drew his sword.

Henke drew his own
sword and slashed the icy air with it. ‘A chance I’m prepared to
take, my friend. This has been a long time coming.’

Conrad clenched the
black leather of his sword’s grip. It felt good to hold it again,
the first time he had done so since that dreadful night that he had
tried to block out of his mind. He had tried to block everything
out of his mind in an attempt to keep the feelings of loss and pain
from him. But now he was forced to recall everything he had learned
over the past five years as Henke came at him. The brother knight
was big and strong but exceedingly light on his feet, wielding his
sword as though it was a feather-light stick.

He smiled triumphantly
as Conrad jumped to one side but not before Henke’s sword had
ripped the right arm of his gambeson.

‘This won’t take
long,’ he announced loudly.

A side stroke, a
lunge, an attack with his shield and Henke once more tore Conrad’s
clothing, this time on his left thigh. Henke flicked his wrist and
whipped his sword point towards Conrad’s exposed neck, missing his
windpipe by inches. Henke jeered at him.

‘Is this all you’ve
got? No wonder your wife and child died.’

The words hit Conrad
like crossbow bolts piercing his flesh and a steely determination
rose within him. It was not anger but a cool conviction to avenge
his loved ones. It infused every fibre of his soul and for the
first time in weeks he felt alive, suddenly aware of every little
thing that was going on around him. Phlegm dripped from one of
Henke’s nostrils; a look of fear was on the face of one of the
young novices and Lukas’ eyes watched the duel with a piercing
gaze.

‘You should be in a
nunnery you…’

Henke did not have
time to finish his sentence as Conrad set about him with a plethora
of attacks, his sword moving with such speed that the brother
knight had difficulty in blocking them let alone avoiding them.
Conrad cut off a corner of his shield, severed the chainmail links
on his shoulder and ripped open his surcoat. Henke smashed his
shield into Conrad’s chest, knocking him to the ground. But before
he had chance to drive his sword through Conrad, the latter swept
back with his right leg to catch the back of Henke’s right ankle,
causing him to topple backwards. Conrad sprang to his feet as Henke
rolled but recovered his balance quickly. And so it went on, each
fighter delivering a dazzling variety of sword strokes that the
other either parried or avoided.