‘That’s you told,’ said Hans.
Kaja tied the bandage and closed her box.
Rameke made a fist. ‘Feels warm.’
‘That is the puffball powder working. I would advise keeping your arm bandaged for at least two weeks and not getting it cut again.’
Conrad laughed. ‘Better stay clear of the enemy, then.’
‘Are there any left?’ said Hans.
Rameke smiled at Kaja, who smiled back. When she wasn’t being aggressive she really was a most attractive girl. He stood up.
‘Thank you, Kaja.’
‘You are welcome, Rameke.’
He stayed until the sun was dipping in the west in a blood-red sky. The days were lengthening and getting warmer, though for the Semgallians it threatened to be a cold, cruel spring.
*****
Viesthard felt cold, weak and demoralised. He sat in his chair in Tervete’s great hall and drank mead as the princes, chiefs and village elders filed into the chamber. Outside Semgallia was bursting into spring, the meadows filled with snowdrops and buttercups, the groves and meadows lush and green after being watered by rain. The fire raged in the hall’s hearth but an icy cold gripped his soul. He had led his people to a crushing defeat and many of his warriors had died fighting the invaders. He should have died and now he wished for death. What sort of duke was he? He sat with his arm in a sling and his head bandaged. His healer had washed his wounds with lead water and placed yarrow on them and assured him that he would live. But he did not want to live; he wanted to join his fallen comrades in Perkunas’ great feasting hall in the afterlife. When the last chiefs had entered the hall’s doors were shut. The white-robed priest stood beside Viesthard who rose unsteadily to his feet. The
Kriviai
went to assist him but was waved away. He saw that many of his men had sprigs of rowan pinned to their tunics, which everyone knew protected the wearer against evil. He laughed gruffly; it would take more than a bit of foliage to beat the crusaders.
‘I am standing down as duke,’ he announced.
There was a stunned silence and then a steadily rising murmur as the warriors voiced their opposition to his proposal. He held up his unslung arm.
‘I allowed Duke Vincentas to be seduced by the honeyed words of the Bishop of Riga,’ said Viesthard, ‘and that resulted in his death. I decided to fight the bishop’s army at the Dvina and that led to the loss of many sons of Semgallia. It is clear that the gods have abandoned me.’
No one said anything as he slumped back in his chair but they all looked at the bearded priest standing beside him.
‘No one can know the will of the gods,’ said the holy man, ‘and sometimes it may appear that they have turned against us. But I say to you, Duke Viesthard, and to you all that Perkunas has not abandoned our cause. We are being tested and should not lose our faith.’
There were mutterings of agreement as the priest continued.
‘The
Kriviu
Krivaitis
himself has declared a holy crusade against the heathen Christians and the Selonians and Nalsen have pledged their support.’
There was a deafening silence at this announcement, many men shaking their heads and shouting that they were enemies of the Semgallians.
‘Have faith,’ the priest shot back. ‘Do you not think that former enemies that are now friends is not a miracle in itself?’
Viesthard’s shoulders rose and fell as he chuckled to himself. He looked at the priest with tired eyes.
‘As a holy man I commend your faith but talk is cheap and we will see if Prince Vsevolod sends spears against the crusaders.’
‘More likely he will send spears against us,’ shouted one of the princes in the hall, to rapturous cheers from the others. Viesthard raised a hand to still the noise.
‘I would rather embrace the Bishop of Riga than Prince Vsevolod. But I did not invite you all here to discuss the merits of our enemies’ promises. You must decide among you who is to lead our people.’
‘We chose you,’ shouted one. More cheers.
Viesthard ran a hand through his rapidly thinning hair. He sighed and was about to speak when he saw the doors of the hall opening. Two guards made their way through the warriors, a man in rich lamellar armour, mail aventail and green cloak between them, gilded helmet in the crook of his arm. The Semgallians all stared in silence as the man was escorted to the front of the hall. He bowed his head to Viesthard.
‘Who are you?’ asked the duke.
‘Prince Skiras, lord, here to convey a message from Duke Butantas of Samogitia.’
There were mutterings of curiosity behind the prince. Ever since Grand Duke Daugerutis’ disastrous campaign in Livonia Samogitia had withdrawn from Lithuanian affairs, Butantas being content to guard his frontiers and remain aloof from any alliances.
Viesthard visibly sagged in his chair. He had crusaders in the north of his kingdom, Northern Kurs on his western frontier and the poisonous Vsevolod in the east. And now Butantas stirred in the south. Was there no end to the misery that the gods could inflict on Semgallia?
‘What message?’ growled Viesthard.
‘That the duke and his army march to your aid, lord, in your war against the Christian invaders.’
Viesthard leaned forward, thinking that his ears had played a trick on him. Skiras was unsure whether the Semgallian had heard him, his head being heavily bandaged, which might have impeded his hearing.
‘Duke Butantas marches to my aid?’
Skiras smiled. ‘Yes, lord.’
The
Kriviai
raised his arms. ‘Perkunas has answered our prayers and sends the great Butantas to avenge the wrongs committed against Semgallia. Hail Perkunas!’
The warriors cheered and then began chanting the name of their duke, the hall filling with calls of ‘Viesthard, Viesthard’ as they acclaimed their leader. And all thoughts of choosing a new duke were forgotten as Viesthard rose from his chair and accepted the praise being showered on him. Suddenly his arm and head felt much better and the weariness that had engulfed him since the battle at the Dvina miraculously disappeared. Perhaps the priest had been right and there were such things as miracles.
*****
The march to Mesoten was uneventful. Duke Albert sent his lesser knights ahead to burn any village they came across and slaughter the inhabitants, though they found only empty settlements, the people having fled south to Mesoten. They burned the villages anyway and killed any livestock that had been left behind. The Army of the Wolf covered the left flank of the army and Fricis’ Livs the right flank as Duke Albert’s foot soldiers and servants assisted the progress of carts and wagons along muddy tracks. As usual progress was painfully slow, averaging five miles a day at best, but after a week the crusader host arrived at the Semgallian stronghold.
The town adjacent to the great mound upon which that stronghold sat was immediately set alight because the duke and his lords believed that the resulting smoke would choke the inhabitants of the hill fort. Instead it made the crusaders wretch and their eyes smart when a mild easterly wind blew the smoke away from the fort. As a result the whole army was forced to withdraw half a mile north until the flames had died down. This did not improve the humour of the duke or his lords and they pressed for an immediate assault to storm the fort and put everyone inside to the sword. Only the personal intercession of the bishop himself, on the advice of Master Thaddeus, persuaded them that in this instance patience was preferable to courage.
So over eight thousand soldiers, hundreds of non-combatants and thousands of animals surrounded Mesoten on three sides and settled down to a siege while Thaddeus and his engineers sited their engines. They also supervised the building of a wooden pontoon bridge across the River Lielupe that flowed on the western side of the hill fort and was swollen with spring melt water. The Army of the Wolf was camped on the eastern side of the river, the Livs to the south of the hill fort and the Duke of Saxony’s soldiers to the west, beyond the blackened remains of the town. The Sword Brothers and men of the garrison of Riga were camped to the north, by the bridge, where Bishop Albert’s pavilion was also pitched. The charred remains of the Semgallian settlement were still smouldering when the first council of war was held in the bishop’s pavilion. The Duke of Saxony came with a swarthy lord who said nothing but drank much wine offered by young novices from the bishop’s palace. Also in attendance were Grand Master Volquin, Master Rudolf, Abbot Bernhard, Conrad, Manfred Nordheim, Fricis and Rameke.
The duke was in an abrasive mood.
‘My lords and their knights wish to scale that heap of dirt and destroy that pile of sticks on top of it.’
‘That would result in many of your men being injured or killed, my lord,’ said Abbot Bernhard who now wore mail armour like the bishop.
‘We have discussed this, my lord,’ added the bishop. ‘We did not bring siege engines all the way here only for them to stand idle.’
The duke rounded on Thaddeus. ‘And when will your precious engines begin their work?’
Thaddeus’ bony forehead creased into a frown. ‘Within two days, my lord, though it would have been sooner had my men been allowed to dismantle the pagan homes so the wood could be used for platforms for my machines to stand on. But some thought it preferable to burn them.’
The duke’s cheeks reddened. ‘I gave the order to burn that pagan hovel.’
Thaddeus raised an eyebrow. ‘A short-sighted decision, my lord.’
‘Be that as it may,’ interrupted the bishop. ‘It was done and now we must address other matters. Master Thaddeus, I believe that you have some concerns regarding the size of the camp.’
‘Yes, lord bishop. ‘Very soon the whole area will become a giant field of mud due to the softness of the ground and the frequent rain. It would be better if there were less men and beasts in and around the siege lines.’
‘To which end,’ said Volquin, ‘I think it would be a good idea to send mounted parties east and west to ensure we are not surprised by a pagan relief force.’
‘Pagan relief force?’ spat the duke. ‘I thought we killed all their warriors at the river.’
‘There are others, my lord,’ said Nordheim. ‘To the west lies the hill fort of Tervete, the stronghold of Duke Viesthard.’
The duke belched. ‘Who?’
‘The leader of the Semgallian people,’ answered Nordheim. ‘If he was not killed at the Dvina then he will be rallying his men at Tervete.’
‘Then let us march to this place,’ said the duke, ‘and storm it while Thaddeus plays with his machines.’
His dark-haired companion nodded in agreement but Nordheim shook his head.
‘Tervete is very strong, my lord, I have been there. It will take siege engines to storm it.’
‘And it will divert us from our task,’ said the bishop, ‘which is to destroy Mesoten.’
‘It would be better if your horsemen were to ravage the area to the west, my lord,’ said Volquin, ‘and keep Viesthard’s attention focused on your activities instead of the siege here.’
‘Commander Nordheim will escort you,’ said the bishop, ‘as he is acquainted with the area.’
Volquin looked at Conrad. ‘The Marshal of Estonia will take his mounted warriors and reconnoitre the area to the east to guard against a surprise pagan attack from that direction.’
‘Yes, grand master,’ said Conrad.
Fricis looked alarmed. ‘Lord bishop, if you send a thousand horsemen west and eight hundred more east then you will weaken our position here.’
The bishop looked at Volquin.
‘We will still have over six thousand soldiers in camp, lord, including over twelve hundred crossbowmen.’
The Duke of Saxony pointed at Nordheim. ‘How many warriors does this Viesthard have left after his mauling at the Dvina?’
Nordheim stroked his chin. ‘Perhaps eight thousand, but they would include all men of every age in the kingdom capable of carrying a spear.’
The duke smashed a fist into his palm. ‘Then let us ride to this fort, this Tervete, and invite the enemy to embrace us on the field of honour.’
‘Have a care, my lord,’ said Volquin, staring at Nordheim, ‘remember that the Semgallians still have two hundred crossbows in their possession.’
‘A most unfortunate oversight,’ remarked Thaddeus.
After the meeting Rameke walked with Conrad through the Sword Brothers’ camp, the ground already turning to mud.
‘I have a mind to ride with you,’ he said.
‘You would be most welcome,’ said Conrad. ‘How is your arm?’
Rameke held up his limb. ‘Just about fully healed. Your Estonian princess was right. I am in her debt.’
‘You should tell her that.’
And he did when he arrived at Conrad’s camp the next day in the company of fifty mounted warriors of his bodyguard. They looked identical to the Estonian warriors in the Army of the Wolf in their mail armour, green cloaks and large round shields attached to their saddles. But the symbols on the shields were different: the zigzag line of the sign of Mara, the Morning Star, the sign of the Thunder Cross, the fir twig that denoted the sign of Laima and, the most popular of all, the Sign of the Moon. All were pagan symbols that were from a time when the Church of Rome had never been heard of in Livonia and Estonia. But the Livs saw no contradiction in retaining vestiges of their old religion while embracing the Holy Church. For his part the Bishop of Riga needed the Livs to fight in his armies and so did not insist that they sever all ties with their pagan past. Accompanying Rameke were fifty of the order’s crossbowmen led by leather face, who informed Conrad that Master Rudolf thought it advisable to reinforce the Army of the Wolf with missile support. The crossbowmen were all mounted on horses, though leather face was far from happy.