The Sword Brothers cheered their victory and Rudolf called for a roll call. Miraculously the only casualties were two sergeants and three spearmen injured. The crossbowmen aimed their weapons into the trees, sheltering behind the spearmen around the wagons as they waited for a second assault that never came. The sergeants and brother knights formed a semi-circle at the rear of the last wagon and likewise waited for a fresh assault. After a few minutes Rudolf gave the order to stand down, Conrad taking off his helmet and tucking his axe back in his belt. Wenden’s master gave the order to fetch the horses that had been abandoned while he rode up the track to ascertain the damage caused by the Semgallian attack.
Henke kicked a dead enemy warrior. ‘This was just to test us.’
‘I agree,’ said Lukas, ‘they have no armour or helmets. This is just the beginning.’
Conrad walked over to the tree where his sword had pinned a Semgallian to the trunk. He gripped the black leather grip and pulled. Nothing happened, though the Semgallian groaned. Conrad stepped back in surprise. The front of the man’s brown tunic was soaked in blood as he continued to groan.
‘Put him out of his misery, Conrad,’ said Anton as he, Hans and Johann stood behind their friend. Conrad worked his sword from left to right to loosen the point in the wood, causing the poor wretch impaled on it to moan some more.
‘You should kill him,’ urged Anton.
‘Not until I have freed my sword,’ said Conrad.
‘Stand back!’ ordered Henke.
Conrad turned and saw Henke holding a two-handed axe he had taken from a dead Semgallian. Conrad and the others stepped back as Henke walked forward, heaved the axe up and then down as the Semgallian lifted his head and the brother knight severed it with a single blow. The curved blade cut deep into the tree and Henke left it there.
‘I think he’s dead now,’ said Henke.
Everyone laughed as Conrad retrieved his sword and no one heard a mute thwack coming from the trees. But their mirth halted immediately when a sergeant collapsed with a crossbow bolt in his chest, the man twitching for a few seconds before he expired.
‘Shields!’ screamed Lukas as everyone crouched low to present small targets to the crossbowman.
‘Where is he?’ called Walter.
One of the crossbowmen thought he saw movement in the trees and shot his weapon, as did three of his comrades either side of him. But there was no scream or other noise to indicate their bolts had struck flesh. Conrad was kneeling behind the tree his sword had been embedded in, Hans beside him.
‘See anything?’ asked his friend.
‘Nothing,’ hissed Conrad.
They remained in their positions for at least five minutes. No other missiles came from the trees and so Walter ordered everyone on their feet.
‘They’ve gone,’ he said.
‘This is just the beginning,’ said Lukas.
They placed the wounded men in one of the carts and tethered the horses to the carts as the column at last began to move forward once more. Rudolf returned with news that the Semgallians had attacked the length of the whole column, inflicting a sizeable number of dead among Duke Albert’s militiamen who had panicked when the attack occurred, many running into the forest rather than staying with the column. As the army continued its march the rearguard passed the bodies of Semgallians who had been killed in the fighting, together with slain crusader foot soldiers.
Walter shook his head when he saw them. ‘They deserve a Christian burial even if they were common soldiers.’
‘No time for that, brother,’ said Henke. ‘The longer we are in this God-forsaken kingdom the more casualties the enemy can inflict on us.’
‘No kingdom is forsaken of God,’ replied Walter.
There were no more Semgallian attacks that day but the army had only travelled five miles before making camp for the night in a meadow, the wagons again being formed in a great rectangle to present a barrier to the enemy. Once more the Sword Brothers removed their surcoats and cloaks so as not to present a target to enemy crossbowmen. While the wagons were being arranged by Master Thaddeus, Duke Albert and Grand Master Volquin sent out short-range patrols to ensure the army was not disturbed while making camp, giving strict orders that the horsemen were not to go more than half a mile from camp and withdraw immediately if the enemy was encountered. They also despatched parties of foot soldiers to collect firewood so campfires could be lit to cook food. Hundreds of mounted knights searched for the enemy, riding through ravines and by the side of hillocks while squires and servants pitched tents and prepared evening meals.
Johann managed to shoot a deer with one of the spare crossbows to provide the food for that night’s meal.
‘At least we will have roasted meat tonight,’ said a delighted Hans, the carcass slung over the back of his horse.
‘As long as Hans has a full belly then he can die contented,’ remarked Anton.
They were less than a quarter of a mile from camp and frequently spied other groups of crusader horsemen exiting or entering the trees. Of the enemy there was no sign.
‘They are in no hurry,’ said Conrad. ‘This is their country and they will attack at a time and place of their choosing.’
‘You words fill me with hope,’ remarked Anton dryly.
‘You will feel more hopeful with a full belly,’ said Hans, eliciting a smile from the others.
They returned to camp as the sun was dipping in the west, other parties of horsemen and foot soldiers carrying bundles of firewood also returning to the enclosure of wagons. Already smoke from a myriad of campfires was filling the air as hungry and tired men sat and heated pots of potage. The lucky ones skinned rabbits they had managed to catch.
Hans dumped the dead deer on the ground and slid off his horse as the others also dismounted. Nearby Rudolf was talking to Grand Master Volquin, the latter’s dour expression more doom laden than usual. Rudolf saw Hans rubbing his hands as he took out his dagger preparatory to skinning the carcass.
‘Just a minute,’ said Rudolf to Hans.
Conrad, Johann and Anton were leading their horses to the temporary stabling area when the master called them back. Rudolf walked over to the deer in the company of Volquin.
‘A fruitful patrol, Brother Hans?’
Hans smiled. ‘Yes, Master Rudolf. A warm, fulsome meal always raises the spirits in a dire situation.’
Volquin nodded. ‘Quite right.’
‘And I am sure that Bishop Albert and the Duke of Saxony will think the same when he is tucking in to a meal of venison tonight,’ said Rudolf. He looked at Conrad. ‘You remember Brother Conrad, grand master?’
Volquin nodded once more. ‘Who could forget the man who saved the bishop’s life and went on to slay Lembit himself?’
Rudolf smiled at Hans. ‘Brother Conrad will take this deer to the bishop, with the compliments of the garrison of Wenden. I am sure it will raise his spirits.’
‘And they certainly need raising,’ said Volquin.
Hans looked as though sentence of death had just been passed on him. ‘But, master, surely the bishop has food enough?’
‘You would put your own needs before those of the bishop, Brother Hans?’ said Rudolf.
‘No, master,’ muttered a thoroughly deflated Hans.
The carcass was placed on the back of Conrad’s horse and then he and Volquin rode through the camp to the bishop’s pavilion pitched in its centre, passing rows of tents, mules and horses tethered together or corralled in temporary enclosures. Squires and servants were grooming and feeding them as the animals pissed on the ground and defecated. The pungent smell of their emissions was mixing with the smoke of the campfires to create the aroma that was unique to campaigning.
‘Master Rudolf has been telling me how you raised an army of Estonians to fight the Cumans and Russians,’ said Volquin.
‘Hardly an army, grand master,’ said Conrad modestly.
‘Still, at least your story is one of success, not like the sorry mess we have managed to get ourselves into,’ remarked Volquin.
They passed soldiers sitting round campfires, shields bearing the insignia of Stotel leaning against carts nearby. Volquin pointed at them.
‘Lord Rudolph dead and his body denied a proper burial. What do you think they will do with it?’
‘Burn it, most likely,’ replied Conrad. ‘That is what the pagans like to do with their dead. Either that or...’
‘Or what?’ snapped Volquin.
‘Or leave it to the pigs, grand master.’
They rode on in silence until they came to the pavilion of Bishop Albert, a flag bearing the cross keys symbol of Riga hanging limply from its top spike. A large rainfly provided cover over the main entrance where two guards dressed in red surcoats bearing the insignia of Riga stood sentry. Volquin and Conrad dismounted and the guards took the reins of their horses. Conrad pulled the dead deer off the back of his horse and dumped it on the ground. A steward dressed in Riga’s livery came from the pavilion and bowed to the grand master, who pointed at the deer and ordered it to be taken away and prepared for the bishop’s evening meal. Conrad could hear raised voices from inside the pavilion as Volquin ordered him to follow him inside.
The large tent was oblong in shape and divided into two parts: a reception and a sleeping area, a white curtain separating the two. The bishop sat at a rectangular bench resting on trestles that had been covered with a sheet, Abbot Bernhard beside him and a concerned Master Thaddeus opposite, as Manfred Nordheim, immaculate in his red surcoat and mail hauberk, was pouring himself more wine from a jug.
‘My course of action will see us back across the river in two days, my lord.’
He smiled at the squat Duke Albert whose wild beard was in stark contrast to Nordheim’s neatly trimmed affair.
‘Impossible!’ snapped the duke, his yellow surcoat emblazoned with the black lion of Saxony. ‘To run like frightened women only adds insult to the injuries we have already suffered.’
Bishop Albert saw the grand master. ‘Ah, Grand Master Volquin, you have returned.’
‘With a gift from your garrison of Wenden, lord bishop,’ said Volquin. ‘A deer that Brother Conrad here and his fellow brother knights shot earlier.’
He waved Conrad forward.
‘Conrad Wolff,’ said the bishop. ‘It is good to see you.’
He looked at the duke and pointed at Conrad. ‘This Sword Brother saved me in a battle outside Riga a number of years ago and two years ago killed Lembit during our great victory on St Matthew’s Day.’
Duke Albert nodded approvingly. ‘You have been in these parts long, Conrad?’
‘Nine years, lord.’
‘He is a veteran of many campaigns,’ said Thaddeus.
Manfred Nordheim regarded the brother knight for a few seconds and returned to his seat at the table. Like his master the archdeacon he shared a mistrust bordering on hostility towards the Sword Brothers.
‘Excellent,’ boomed the duke, ‘then I would be interested in knowing his opinion of our current situation. If you were leading this army, Conrad Wolff, how would you proceed from here.’
Slightly taken aback, Conrad looked at Grand Master Volquin.
‘Speak freely,’ commanded the head of the order.
‘Yes, please do,’ insisted Bishop Albert. Abbot Bernhard leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table.
‘The pagans will harry us all the way to the Dvina,’ said Conrad. ‘But if we maintain our march discipline we will reach the river having suffered only minimal casualties.’
The duke looked at Nordheim but spoke to Conrad. ‘And would you advise us abandoning our wagons to speed our journey to the river?’
Conrad shook his head. ‘No, my lord. They contain our supplies, food and fodder. They also provide us with the means to erect temporary defences at the end of each day.’
‘We crawl like a snail through the enemy’s territory,’ said Nordheim, ‘and thus make ourselves an easy target.’
‘Better to crawl than to flee, lord,’ said Conrad. ‘The enemy may inflict small losses on us but he lacks the means to destroy us.’
‘You seem to know a lot about the enemy,’ remarked Duke Albert who poured some wine into a cup and handed it to Conrad.
‘Thank you, lord.’
‘Brother Conrad has much knowledge of the pagan mind,’ said Volquin. ‘Indeed, during the winter just passed he led a force of pagans that relieved our outposts at Lehola and Fellin.’
‘A general in the making,’ remarked Bernhard.
The duke moved to stand before Conrad. ‘You have fought among the pagans?’
‘Among the Estonians, lord, yes.’
Albert took a gulp of his wine. ‘And if we offer ourselves for battle tomorrow, array the army on this piece of ground, the pagans will fight us?’
Conrad shook his head. ‘No, my lord.’
‘You see, my lords,’ said Nordheim, his cheeks flushed with the wine he had consumed, ‘the pagans fear us.’
‘They do not fear us, lord,’ said Conrad, ‘but they see little merit in meeting us in open battle where our crossbows and mounted knights will prevail.’
‘So you would recommend continuing our strategy?’ asked the duke.
‘Yes, lord.’