The Sword Brothers (83 page)

Lukas formed Conrad,
Hans, Anton and Johann into one such group as the rain stopped and
sent them on their way.

‘Make sure you can see
other groups and fall back if you come across any large bodies of
the enemy,’ he warned them.

Most of the shelters
were small two-man affairs made from wicker panels but there were
also wooden huts and larger tents, with temporary stables fashioned
from branches and sheets. Conrad and his companions walked between
shelters, stooping down to see if any were occupied. None were.
They walked past rain-filled cooking pots hanging over extinguished
campfires and hastily vacated tents. They could hear fighting all
around them but in the immediate vicinity there was no one.
Occasionally they caught a glimpse of enemy soldiers fleeing
towards the river but this part of the spacious camp seemed to be
deserted. They kept glancing left and right to see brother knights
and sergeants examining empty tents and shelters.

There was a rumble of
thunder and then it began raining again, a light downfall at first
that became increasingly heavy as the sky darkened once more.
Conrad’s mail feet sank in the mud as he stepped forward. He looked
at the others.

‘I’m tempted to
shelter in one of the huts until this passes.’

‘Good idea,’ said
Anton, ‘before we all drown.’

‘I wonder if the enemy
has left any food in the huts,’ remarked Hans. The others
laughed.

They continued on,
stepping over pools of water that were forming all around as the
rain teemed down. But of the enemy they saw nothing. The visibility
had reduced to such an extent that they could see barely fifty
paces in front of them. On they tramped, coming across four huts,
outside which a number of horses were tethered.

‘Stay alert,’ called
Conrad, his sixth sense telling him that they were no longer
alone.

The others came
alongside to form a line as they approached the first hut, a crude
structure with log walls and a wicker roof. It had no windows, a
hole in the roof to allow the escape of smoke and a doorway covered
by a large patch of hide. The volume of rain and claps of thunder
made any attempt at stealth unnecessary but the mud was becoming
deeper. Conrad’s right foot sank in it up to his ankle as the hide
door was swept aside and a dozen Lithuanians exited the hut.
Wearing helmets, mail armour and carrying shields, they at first
did not see the four novices standing a few feet away.

‘Get the horses,’
barked the leading Lithuanian.

The enemy soldiers
began wading through the mud towards the horses that had their
heads down before one spotted Conrad and his companions and
screamed the alarm.

‘Keep your feet,’
Conrad shouted to his friends. ‘God with us!’

The others cried ‘God
with us!’ in unison and then walked towards the enemy, who were
also advancing towards them with swords drawn. Conrad saw that some
of them wore lamellar armour as well as mail and their commander
had an aventail beneath his helmet.

Conrad turned the axe
handle in his left hand before swinging it up and then down so the
spike went into the shield of its Lithuanian owner who raised it to
defend himself from the blow. Using the axe he pulled the shield
down and thrust his sword over its rim, driving the point through
the man’s mouth. Blood frothed at the wound and he shook violently
for a few seconds before collapsing into the mud, dead.

Hans, Anton and Johann
were involved in their own duels, the fights appearing to be in
slow motion, as they had to make allowances for the mud and rain,
their opponents similarly hamstrung by the conditions. Brother
Lukas had taught them to keep moving in combat, to dart and weave
around their opponents, but today they were more like old
washerwomen swinging sacks of laundry.

Conrad left his axe
embedded in the dead man’s shield, took his own shield off his back
and slid his left arm through the leather straps, then attacked a
Lithuanian who was making his way towards Hans. The latter was
fighting off two opponents, one of them having stepped into a pool
of water and sank up to his knees. If it had not been so deadly the
scene would have been comical.

The Lithuanian saw
Conrad and faced him, swinging his sword over his head to bring it
down on Conrad’s shield. He kept swinging his sword, Conrad easily
deflecting the blows but being forced back by his assailant. As
they fought and the rain continued to fall he did not notice that
he was being herded away from the others towards another hut. The
Lithuanian continued to hack with his sword and Conrad let him. His
blows were clumsy and predictable and Conrad could see that he was
panting and becoming tired. But he continued to press his attack,
probably convinced that the youth in front of him was inexperienced
and frightened. It was a fatal assumption to make as he dragged his
boots from the cloying mud to deliver a fresh succession of blows
at Conrad, the latter stepping back and either parrying the swipes
with his shield or ducking to the side to avoid them
altogether.

‘A fight is not a
dance,’ Lukas had told them more than once. ‘Get it over as quickly
as possible to conserve your energy. Tired men make mistakes.’

Tired men make
mistakes. One did so now as the Lithuanian, having failed to even
scratch Conrad with his blur of sword strikes, lunged forward in an
attempt to drive the point into his belly. Conrad brushed aside the
blade with his shield, sweeping it from right to left, away from
his body, to expose the Lithuanian’s torso for an instant. And an
instant was all that he needed. Conrad screamed and drove the sword
into the man’s guts, straight through the mail armour, tunic and
into soft flesh and intestines. The Lithuanian, a look of horror on
his face, moaned softly and went limp on the sword. Conrad tugged
back his sword and the dead enemy slumped to the ground.

He saw his other
companions holding their own against the Lithuanians, who seemed to
be fighting a defensive battle as he saw two others going back to
collect the horses. He began walking back to the fight when he
heard a noise behind and turned to see the hide flap over the
doorway of the nearest hut open and two men exit. Both were in war
gear but one was badly wounded and was being helped to walk by a
smaller individual, a boy, who had his arm round the shoulders of
the older man. The latter was pale faced and had a crossbow bolt in
his belly. He groaned in pain as the boy helped him out of the hut.
They were going to the horses.

There was a large clap
of thunder and Conrad stepped forward to bar their way. He looked
behind them to ensure that there were no soldiers following but saw
only an old man in tunic and leggings, a bag slung over his
shoulders. The young boy froze as Conrad held his shield in front
of him and brought his sword up to chest height, drawing it back so
he could plunge it into the youth, and then afterwards into the
wounded man. The old man gasped in alarm and froze, the boy, who
had a long face, showing no fear as he matched Conrad’s stare. His
eyes showed hate and defiance but no fear, not even alarm. Perhaps
that was why Conrad decided to let him go, or perhaps he thought it
dishonourable to slay a boy who was assisting a wounded comrade.
Whatever the reason he lowered his sword and backed away, the boy
taking a long, hard look at him before helping the man with the
bolt in his belly towards the horses.

The soldier with the
aventail suddenly appeared and Conrad stepped away a few more
paces. He looked left and right to ensure there were no more
Lithuanians approaching and prepared to fight the well-armoured man
before him. But the Lithuanian merely raised his sword and stood
still, the boy and the old man helping the wounded man to the
horses. When they reached them and gained their saddles the
Lithuanian backed away and joined them. Conrad watched as rain
coursed off his helmet and the Lithuanians rode away, their horses
threading their way through the mud and filth.

He heard Hans’ voice.
‘Conrad.’

He saw his friend and
the others making their way towards him as the Lithuanians
disappeared in the rain.

‘Are you all right,
Conrad?’

He slammed his sword
back into its scabbard. ‘Fine, thank you. I saw a boy helping a
badly wounded man to his horse. I could have killed them easily but
I didn’t. I let them go.’

‘I would have done the
same,’ said Anton.

‘Me too,’ agreed
Johann. He slapped Hans on the arm. ‘Whereas Hans would have killed
them and searched their bodies for food.’

‘Better not tell
Henke,’ warned Anton.

‘Tell Henke what?’
sounded a voice from behind.

They turned to see
Henke, Rudolf, Lukas and Walter a few feet away, helmets shoved on
top of their heads.

‘Nothing,’ said
Conrad, ‘it was nothing, Brother Henke.’

Henke spat on the
ground. ‘And nothing is what we’ve found. I’m going to die of the
chills and I haven’t killed anyone for at least an hour. Complete
waste of time. Where is the enemy?’

Conrad and Hans shook
their heads.

‘After we’ve cleared
the camp we’ll burn some of these huts, Henke,’ said Rudolf. ‘That
should improve your humour.’

‘Come on,’ said Lukas,
‘let’s try and find him someone to kill to cheer him up.’

Henke was not amused
but Rudolf and Lukas thought it hilarious while Walter frowned. He
disapproved of frivolity on the battlefield. Killing in God’s name
was a serious business where mirth had no place.

‘You boys keep
checking the camp,’ said Lukas. ‘And watch yourselves. The enemy
might have fled but there still might be a few stragglers
lurking.’

He slapped Henke and
on the arm and both of them pulled down their helmets and together
with Walter went in search of the enemy. The boys did the same,
though Conrad stopped and turned around.

‘I need to retrieve my
axe,’ he shouted. ‘I will catch you up.’

He trudged through the
mud to where the dead Lithuanian he had killed lay face up,
lifeless eyes staring up to the heavens, the puddle around him
stained with his blood. He placed a foot on the shield and worked
the axe up and down before extracting it from the wood. He slung
his shield on his back and tucked the axe in his belt, turned and
saw Rudolf, arms folded, looking at him.

‘Brother Rudolf.’

‘I knew from the
beginning that you would be a good soldier, perhaps even a great
one. And you keep proving me right.’

The rain was now
abating once more though the wind was still blowing and the
southern sky was filled with dark, threatening clouds.

‘You are too kind,’
said Conrad, smiling in self-satisfaction.

‘Walk with me,’ said
Rudolf.

They waded through the
mud; the only sounds the squelching made by their feet. The
Lithuanians were now pouring back across the pontoon bridge and the
Christian army was reluctant to pursue them. It had been a hard,
bloody fight to win possession of the rampart and the crusaders had
suffered many losses, as had the Livs who were stalking the
Lithuanians towards the river. Thalibald thought to trap them
against the riverbank and either slaughter them there or force them
into the water where they would drown. But the Lithuanians on the
other side of the river had despatched boats to evacuate their
comrades, and in the boats were archers to keep the Livs at bay
while they did so.

‘Why did you let those
Lithuanians go?’ asked Rudolf suddenly.

‘Lithuanians?’

Rudolf sighed. ‘I saw
with my own eyes so do not insult me by pretending otherwise.’

Conrad felt his cheeks
flush. ‘It was a boy helping a wounded man who looked close to
death. There was an old man too. There was no honour in murdering
them.’

‘Let us hope that your
noble decision will not have serious repercussions in the
future.’

‘I doubt it,’ said
Conrad casually, ‘the wounded man had a crossbow bolt in his belly.
I doubt he will live.’

‘There is an old
saying, Conrad. Better to kill an enemy today than let him live so
that he may kill you tomorrow. Or worse, he may kill one of your
comrades. Compassion on the battlefield is often purchased at a
very high price, Conrad. Remember that.’

*****

Three thousand
Lithuanians made it across the river to their homeland, five
hundred taken off by boats while archers kept the pursuing Livs at
bay. The latter had suffered nearly three hundred casualties in the
battle and the crusaders had suffered a further seven hundred
killed and wounded. The bishop’s soldiers were wet, tired and many
were wounded and for these reasons there was no pursuit over the
pontoon bridge. The Sword Brothers had lost only fifteen men.

When the rain finally
stopped and the wind dropped the bishop, Caupo and Sir Helmold
stood at one end of the pontoon bridge and peered across the river
at the locked shields of Lithuanian warriors who held the other
end. The Christian end soon became wreathed in smoke as soldiers
began using the two-man shelters as firewood, the soaking fuel
producing copious amounts of thick white smoke.

The healer knelt
beside the bed Stecse had been placed on in the first village they
had come across, located two miles inland of the river. He examined
the wound as the village headman, a Selonian, looked on, waving his
wife and daughters away who had been standing in the doorway.
Stecse’s breathing was shallow and laboured. He looked up and shook
his head at Mindaugas. The boy pushed past the headman and went
outside where the commander of his bodyguard was standing next to
his horse. He saw Mindaugas.

‘The prince needs to
make a decision about the bridge, young sir.’

‘He is unconscious,’
said Mindaugas softly.

‘Sorry to hear that.
But a decision has to be made nevertheless,’ pressed the commander,
‘otherwise the Christians will be flooding across it after they
have rested.’