The Sword Brothers (27 page)

‘To cure the meat from
these beasts,’ he said. ‘There’s none of it here so it has to be
imported.’

Conrad was glad when
the hunting trips ended and he could return to his training. He and
the others were taught to ride holding a shield and lance,
receiving instruction in how to jump into the saddle from the
ground rather than using stirrups. They practised on the garrison’s
ponies, not the expensive warhorses that were treated like equine
kings. Lukas also took them on long-distance runs through the
forest to improve their stamina.

‘You are all gaining
in strength but there is no point in being able to wield a sword in
battle if you are too exhausted to lift it.’

Conrad tried to be
clever. ‘I thought you told us to finish an opponent as quickly as
possible, Brother Lukas.’

‘So I did, Conrad, but
you may be surprised to know that in battle you will face more than
one opponent. We are almost always outnumbered so we must have the
stamina to stay on our feet to kill many opponents.’

Even though the hours
of daylight were shortening they trained until past dusk, honing
their skills until they became second nature. They all asked when
they would be issued with real swords and were given extra fatigue
duties for their impudence. In the end they gave up asking but all
of them looked forward to the day when they had their own
swords.

The regime they lived
under was hard but fair and though the brother knights were a rough
lot they were not cruel. Master Berthold was a wise old fox who
tolerated no ill discipline among his subordinates. And he ruled
with an iron fist. One day Conrad stood with his companions in a
heavy rain as justice was meted out to one of the mercenaries who
had attempted to rape the young daughter of a stonemason. The
brother knights sat on their warhorses in their armour and helmets
as Otto stood on the back of a cart saying prayers beside the
ashen-faced prisoner who had a noose around his neck, his hands
bound behind his back. He looked imploringly but forlornly at his
fellow mercenaries who were arrayed before him in their ranks. But
they had no sympathy for his plight: the Sword Brothers paid well
for their services and they were unwilling to risk their
livelihoods for the sake of a stupid man.

The priest stopped
reciting prayers and the prisoner looked at the stony faced
civilians on one side of the three-sided square who had been
assembled to witness justice being administered. He licked his lips
and began shaking as Master Berthold nodded his head and one of the
sergeants slapped the horse that was hitched to the cart. The beast
walked forward and the prisoner was left dangling from the wooden
crossbeam. His legs kicked frantically for perhaps a minute and his
body twisted on the rope but then he was still. Master Berthold
made everyone remain in their positions for at least ten minutes
before dismissing the assembly. Conrad’s mind was filled with
images of his father’s execution and he shuddered. He detested
seeing people being put to death, whatever their crimes.

As the days shortened
Lukas introduced them to the quintain, a method of teaching a rider
to charge carrying a lance. The device consisted of a shield fixed
to the end of a swinging arm, with a sandbag attached to the arm’s
other end. A rider rode at the shield and struck it with his lance,
whereupon the arm would rotate and the sandbag would swing round.
The rider’s task was therefore not only to strike the shield but
also avoid being struck on the back by the sandbag and unhorsed.
The quintain itself was a simple structure made from pine with a
heavy base to prevent it being toppled over when it was struck.

The boys’ first
attempts at training with the quintain were lamentable, each of
them being so intent on not being hit by the sandbag that they
missed the shield altogether. Their lances had no metal points but
rather blunt ends so as to minimise any chance of injury, which
seemed highly unlike as Conrad and the others cantered at the
targets and missed them.

‘You are thinking
about the bag and not the target,’ Lukas shouted at them. ‘Go
again.’

Conrad wrapped the
reins of his pony around his left hand and concentrated on the
target a hundred yards in front of him. It had been rainy and the
ground was already cutting up. His pony grunted as Conrad felt the
stirrups beneath his feet and dug his spurs into its flanks.

‘Concentrate on the
target, Conrad,’ Lukas bellowed as the pony trotted forward and
then broke into a canter. He gripped the lance tucked under his
right arm and brought up the blunt end as the shield came into
view. This time he would not miss. He focused on the target as the
distance between him and it shortened – fifty yards, thirty yards,
ten yards – and then he struck it. He smiled as his lance hit the
shield dead centre and shoved it aside. He gave out a triumphant
shout and was knocked from the saddle as the wooden arm swung round
and slammed the sandbag into his back. He fell heavily, his padded
gambeson preventing any serious injury, but he was still winded. He
gasped for air as the other boys cheered and burst into laughter.
Lukas ambled over and helped him to his feet.

‘Well done, Conrad.
Try to remember the bag next time.’

After a month he and
the others had gained a certain amount of competency against the
quintain and were introduced to ‘running at the rings’. For this
they were given lances with steel tips and rode at a gallop against
metal rings suspended on a cord from a beam, which they attempted
to carry off on the tip of their lances. After several weeks they
were all comfortable in the saddle and so Lukas took them out into
the countryside to undertake mock patrols, armed with their wooden
swords and shields. They learned to ride in column formation and
deploy into line at a moment’s notice. They began to feel like real
knights until their fantasy was dashed one afternoon when they were
‘attacked’ by Rudolf and Henke armed with blunted lances with
padded ends. The brother knights knocked Conrad and the others out
of their saddles and then scattered their ponies, providing a
salutary lesson in the art of ambush. Their spirits were deflated
further when Lukas told them that it would be three or four years
before they would be judged capable of taking part in real raids
and patrols.

As the weeks passed
the land changed as winter gripped Livonia. The pine and spruce
trees retained their green foliage but as the temperature dropped
the birch and oaks lost their leaves and became black shapes in a
bleak landscape. The first snow fell in November, the flakes
blanketing the land in a sea of white though it was not yet
bitterly cold and so the rivers and streams were still ice-free.
Travel via the waterways was still possible and at the end of the
month Bishop Albert himself came to Wenden by riverboat,
accompanied by Grand Master Volquin, Sir Frederick and a hundred
knights and squires. Once more Conrad and the others were turfed
out of the dormitory to accommodate the senior officers of the
bishop’s retinue. On the first evening of the bishop’s visit Conrad
and his companions were ordered to act as attendants as Master
Berthold feasted his new arrivals in his hall that now had a
completed vaulted roof.

The kitchens prepared
a meal of stew and roasted pork. Most of the animals had already
been slaughtered and their meat cured but the garrison still
retained a small number of cows and pigs, the latter being able to
subsist on scraps that were fed to them. A fire raged in the hall
to keep the guests warm as Conrad served mulled wine from a jug to
those gathered round the table: the bishop, the bishop’s chaplain,
Grand Master Volquin, Sir Frederick, Master Berthold and Brother
Rudolf. The chaplain said prayers and then Hans, Bruno and Johann
brought meat, stew and bread from the kitchens to the table. Anton
and Conrad emptied their jugs as the guests drank their fill and
then brought more mulled wine as the table was cleared. He and
Anton remained in the hall, Conrad standing behind the bishop and
Anton behind Master Berthold, while the rest were dismissed. Conrad
smiled when he saw Hans picking up food from Sir Frederick’s
half-empty plate and stuffing it into his mouth as he went back to
the kitchens.

The fire crackled and
spat in the hearth as the light from the candles around the table
cast the guests in an eerie pale yellow glow. The bishop ran a
finger around the rim of his cup.

‘These are trying
times, my friends. Though we defeated the Kurs the lands around
Riga were laid waste, with the result that there is a food shortage
in the town. I have made appeals for food through the churches in
northern Germany to be sent to Riga but this winter will be a hard
one.’

Sir Frederick drained
his cup and held it out for Anton to refill it.

‘I have, through
Prince Vsevolod, made appeals to the Lithuanians for talks so that
we can reconcile our differences and halt their raids across the
Dvina.’

‘Do you think that is
likely, lord bishop?’ asked Master Berthold.

The bishop shrugged.
‘I believe that the Lithuanians may have been encouraged by the
audacity of the Kur attack against Riga to cross the Dvina and test
our defences along the river. The defeat of the Kurs, plus their
own failure at Kokenhusen, will hopefully deter the Lithuanians
from attempting any more river crossings. In any case I am
confident that Prince Vsevolod will be a restraining influence on
his father-in-law.’

‘Should this not be
so,’ added Grand Master Volquin, ‘we have strengthened the garrison
of Kokenhusen plus those of Holm, Uexkull and Lennewarden. As long
as we control the river line the Lithuanians can be contained.’

‘Which leaves Lembit
and his Estonians as the most pressing threat,’ said the bishop. He
looked at Master Berthold. ‘What news do you have of him?’

Berthold scratched his
beard. ‘That he sits in his stronghold at Lehola boasting of how he
nearly took Wenden.’

The bishop wore a
worried look. ‘That he felt confident to venture this far south and
assault this stronghold is bad enough, but his audacity gives hope
to the pagan cause and is an affront to the Holy Church.’

‘He will be brought to
heel next year easily enough,’ boasted Sir Frederick, wiping his
wine-soaked beard on his sleeve.

‘That may be,’ replied
the bishop, ‘but the spectre of Lembit casts a log shadow over this
land. Caupo fears that his exploits make our cause look weak, which
in turn might fan the flames of rebellion in our own lands.’

The room smelt of wood
smoke and Conrad’s eyes smarted a little as the wind outside blew
down the chimney. He saw Berthold look at Rudolf, who nodded.

‘Lord bishop,’ said
the master, ‘my deputy, Brother Rudolf, has an audacious plan that
I think you should consider. One that may exorcise the spectre of
Lembit.’

The mask of doom
disappeared from the bishop’s face. ‘Let us hear this most wondrous
scheme.’

Rudolf took a sip of
his wine. ‘It is quite simple, lord bishop, we strike at Lembit
before he can strike at us, thereby illustrating that our cause is
the stronger.’

Sir Frederick was
unimpressed. ‘Of course we are going to attack. Next spring we will
be marching north with all our strength. Not much of a plan.’

Rudolf continued. ‘I
propose that we attack Lembit in two months’ time.’

‘In January?’ said the
bishop with surprise.

‘Impossible,’ barked
Sir Frederick, ‘the land is already covered in snow. In January
there will be more.’

‘Precisely,’ said
Rudolf triumphantly. ‘The land will be frozen solid, which means
that we can use the lakes and rivers as roads with ease.’

‘Campaigning in winter
is most unusual,’ cautioned Grand Master Volquin.

‘But audacious,’ said
Master Berthold.

‘And Lembit will not
be expecting an attack,’ added Rudolf. ‘It will be our turn to
surprise him.’

The bishop began to
drum his fingers on the table as he pondered Rudolf’s suggestion.
The latter looked at Conrad and then at the bishop to indicate that
he should fill his cup. Conrad stepped forward and poured wine into
the cup. The bishop stopped his drumming and half-smiled at
Conrad.

‘You may be interested
to know that during the recent assault upon Wenden, lord bishop,’
said Rudolf, ‘this novice, Conrad Wolff, fought a personal duel
with Lembit and wounded him in the face.’

The bishop looked up
at Conrad, his square face highlighted by the glow of the fire. He
nodded at Conrad.

‘Well done, young
lad.’ The bishop studied Conrad for a few seconds, making the boy
feel most uncomfortable. ‘Well, it would appear that God has a plan
for you, Master Conrad, one that involves smiting the infidel.’

Conrad bowed his head
and Rudolf waved him back.

‘What about attacking
Lembit?’ said Sir Frederick impatiently.

The bishop was still
unsure. ‘Fighting in winter carries grave risks, Brother Rudolf. If
our forces were to get trapped in enemy territory we would have no
way to reinforce them by river, or indeed evacuate them by
water.’

Rudolf shook his head.
‘The pagans will not be expecting an attack, lord bishop. As a
result their warriors will be scattered among the villages of
Estonia. We can raid those villages, steal their winter supplies
and burn them before we assault our objective.’

‘Which is?’ asked the
bishop.

‘The fort of Fellin,’
answered Rudolf, located around seventy miles due north of this
castle. It is located only ten miles south of Lembit’s own
stronghold of Lehola.’

‘Can we take and hold
a place so deep in enemy territory?’ queried the bishop.

‘We do not hold it,’
replied Master Berthold. ‘By taking it we demonstrate that Lembit
is unable to protect his territory and people, unlike the garrison
of Wenden, and in so doing prove that our cause is righteous.’