He drew his sword and raised it in the air. ‘To victory!’
His standard bearer came to his side as he pushed through the throng and made his way towards the noise of battle in the south. His lords closed in around him, and behind and either side of them came the squires and lesser knights – a thousand men following their lord into battle. The crossbowmen, militiamen and spearmen who had accompanied him from Germany followed, marshalled by their sergeants and commanders into their companies. Among their ranks fluttered the banners of Arnsberg, Dortmund, Minden and Münster, a sea of red, blue, yellow and red flags and uniforms advancing to save a phalanx of drab greens and browns.
Butantas saw the crusaders approaching on foot and recalled his horsemen. His great banner displaying elk antlers flew behind him as he led his horsemen against the crusaders. Unlike the Livs these men from overseas did not form a shield wall on the battlefield. It was so now as they marched across the plain. Butantas was emboldened by the absence of any crusader horsemen and believed he could scatter these men with ease.
As they had done at the start of the battle the Samogitian horsemen deployed into a long line of two ranks, each rider carrying
spisas
to hurl at the enemy. The duke rode out in front as his men broke into a canter, the two sides around six hundred paces apart. But the easy victory he had anticipated was cruelly snatched from him as crossbowmen suddenly ran in from the wings to form a line of missile troops in front of the foot soldiers. He heard a succession of sharp thwacks and then his horse pitched forward, throwing him to the ground. He sprang up and saw that his mount was dead, two crossbow bolts lodge in it neck. Other riders had been felled, and some killed, as the Duke of Saxony’s seven hundred crossbowmen began their shooting.
Butantas frantically waved his arms to indicate that his horsemen should fall back as a second volley culled more men from his front rank that had now halted in confusion at seeing their lord’s horse fall. His standard bearer rode up and the duke hauled himself up behind him. He screamed at the man to ride out of range as the crossbowmen reloaded their weapons.
The Samogitians galloped away but not before another fifty had been killed by crusader missiles. The Duke of Saxony’s men gave a great cheer and Albert raced forward through the standing crossbowmen, nearly knocking one over as he gave the man a congratulatory barge with his shield. The crusader horde was now heading for the left flank of the Samogitians fighting on foot and Butantas realised that his men risked being enveloped and then destroyed unless he took action. One of his princes gave up his horse to allow the duke to ride to the rear of his advancing foot soldiers and order the signallers to sound withdrawal.
His horsemen reformed and trotted towards the advancing crusaders, forcing them to halt for a second time. But once again the crossbowmen came forward and deployed just beyond the front ranks. The Samogitians halted and withdrew and the Duke of Saxony’s men recommenced their advance. But the delay had been enough to allow Butantas to extricate his foot soldiers from their battle against the Livs. Their chiefs and elders bellowed at them to speedily fall back and the warriors cursed them and their duke who sat on his horse and watched them trek past him. They believed he had robbed them of a great victory but he knew he had saved them from a catastrophic defeat.
Three hundred Livs were dead and a further five hundred wounded when the fighting stopped. The rest were physically exhausted and many removed their helmets and sank to the ground, gulping in great lungfuls of air. Others fell to their knees and thanked God for their deliverance, while Fricis, blood running down his face from a cut to his brow, grinned and heaved a huge sigh of relief.
As the Semgallians disappeared back into the woods where they had appeared from and the Samogitians conducted an orderly withdrawal south, Conrad, Hans and Anton rode to where the Sword Brothers and Rigan troops stood in their ranks, many of the brother knights and sergeants sitting helmetless on the ground or standing idly chatting to each other. Conrad found Bishop Albert just behind the centre of the line, in the company of Bernhard, Nordheim, Volquin and Rudolf. He dismounted and bowed his head to Albert.
‘Ah, marshal,’ said the bishop, ‘your appearance was most fortuitous and resulted in the enemy withdrawing. My congratulations.’
‘We came as quickly as we could, lord bishop.’
Hans and Anton slid off their horses and also bowed to Albert, then to Volquin and Rudolf.
‘So there’s no enemy approaching from the east?’ Rudolf said to Conrad.
‘We encountered a few hundred enemy horsemen but they withdrew after a show of force, master’ answered Conrad. ‘We stayed for a week in case they returned but we did not see them again.’
‘We must reinforce Lord Fricis and Duke Albert, lord bishop,’ said Volquin. Brother Conrad, as your men are already mounted please take them to reinforce those two noble souls.’
Conrad bowed and went to his horse, but at that moment another rider appeared, a servant in the livery of the Duke of Saxony. He jumped from the saddle and went down on one knee before Bishop Albert.
‘His Highness, the Highborn Duke Albert sends you greetings, lord bishop,’ announced the servant, ‘and is pleased to report that the enemy has withdrawn from the field, basely fleeing to the south. He awaits your orders.’
Volquin was all for pursuing the two enemy forces with columns of horsemen but the bishop declared that there should be a service of thanksgiving for their salvation from two great pagan hordes. And so nearly eight thousand men and hundreds of servants and non-combatants gathered just north of the camp, the few Semgallian dead having been removed, and fell to their knees as the bishop raised his hands to heaven and thanked the Lord for his divine intercession. That night the Army of the Wolf camped on the eastern side of the river and its commander was invited to a celebratory feast in the bishop’s pavilion.
As the bodies of slain pagans were collected and consigned to great pyres and the poor wretches who had left the fort were corralled on the slopes where it had once stood, boys in red and gold livery served the bishop and his guests freshly baked bread, roasted venison and poured fine wine into silver cups engraved with Riga’s arms. The Duke of Saxony had brought his minstrels who now played a soothing tune that banished all thoughts of war and death. Fricis’ head was heavily bandaged to staunch the bleeding of his gashed brow but the other guests were all unharmed and attired in fresh clothes.
‘What do you intend to do with the women and children from the fort, lord bishop?’ asked Volquin.
Albert dabbed his lips with a cloth. ‘What would you suggest, grand master?’
Volquin stroked his beard. ‘The last time we retreated from this place we had the enemy snapping at our heels. If we used the pagans as a shield around our rearguard then doubtless our journey will be more trouble-free this time.’
Duke Albert and Rudolf nodded in agreement and Nordheim laughed but Conrad was appalled, pursing his lips in disapproval. Bishop Bernhard caught sight of his gesture.
‘You oppose the grand master’s suggestion, marshal?’
Conrad glanced at Volquin, the head of his order and the man whom he respected greatly for being the individual who more than anything else held Livonia together.
‘Forgive me, grand master, I did not mean to cause offence.’
Volquin sniffed. ‘You haven’t said anything so how can you have offended anyone? If you have something to say spit it out. I like my Sword Brothers to speak their minds.’
‘I do not agree with killing woman and children,’ said Conrad. ‘If they are used as shields then they will be caught between our own men and the enemy if our army is attacked retreating to the Dvina.’
‘If that happens,’ said Duke Albert, ‘then surely the fault will lie with the pagans for attacking us rather than with us for using their civilians to our advantage.’
Conrad looked at the imposing duke with a pointed nose and high forehead.
‘If I wished to lessen my sense of guilt then I would use such an argument, my lord.’
Bishop Albert’s eyes widened at Conrad’s words that could be construed as an insult.
‘Your words are incendiary, marshal.’
The duke chuckled. ‘You asked him to speak his mind, grand master, and he did. So, warlord of Estonia, what would
you
do with the women and children?’
‘Let them go,’ replied Conrad.
The duke said nothing as he weighed up Conrad’s opinion but Nordheim was very vocal in his opposition to the idea.
‘You let them go and every one of those male children will grow up to become a pagan warrior dedicated to making war against Livonia. They should be taken back with us as slaves.’
Conrad was astounded. ‘Slaves? There are no slaves in Livonia.’
Nordheim smiled slyly. ‘Of course not. But they could be sold to those who do use slaves. The Russians, for example.’ He looked contemptuously at Volquin and Rudolf.
‘Or the slave markets of Constantinople, perhaps. I have heard that the Sword Brothers are not averse to trading in slaves when it suits them.’
Volquin was fuming and Rudolf shifted uncomfortably in his chair for he knew that several years before the garrison of Wenden had raided Estonia to captures slaves to sell to the Russians. Bishop Albert had speedily put an end to the practice but he had obviously discussed it with his poisonous nephew.
‘Hard times forced hard decisions,’ said Conrad. ‘But these are not hard times and so we can allow ourselves to be merciful.’
‘Mercy is an overrated virtue,’ scoffed Nordheim.
‘Perhaps,’ said Bishop Albert, ‘but I am apt to agree with the marshal. We shall not be enslaving the pagans and nor will we be using them as shields. I came here to destroy Mesoten, which has been achieved. Now I intend to march back to the Dvina and address matters in Estonia.’
Conrad smiled triumphantly at Nordheim who glared back at him. After the meal Rudolf stood with Conrad outside the pavilion while he waited for his horse to be brought to him. Nordheim brushed past them in silence, turning and casting a hateful glance at Conrad.
‘It would appear that you have made an enemy of the commander of Riga’s garrison,’ observed Rudolf.
‘I will not lose any sleep over it, master.’
‘You should be more careful in your choice of enemies, Conrad. Nordheim has the ear of Archdeacon Stefan, one of the most powerful men in Livonia.’
Conrad remembered Gunter’s words concerning the archdeacon. ‘The archdeacon plays politics, master, but we play at war and that makes the Sword Brothers more powerful than intrigues at the bishop’s palace.’
A servant arrived with his horse and he saluted Rudolf before gaining his saddle. It was four hours before midnight and the light was fading fast, the sun a great yellow ball in a blood-red sky.
‘And now we march to fight the Danes, master?’
‘We march to settle the boundary between Livonia and Danish Estonia, Conrad,’ Rudolf corrected him.
Conrad smiled and gently pressed his spurs into the horse’s sides. The only affair that Conrad was interested in settling was the debt he was determined to collect from the Count of Schwerin.
*****
‘Tiresome man.’
Gleb disliked having to accompany the mayor of Pskov when he did his rounds among the bland, characterless scribblers who occupied the offices of the city’s Dovmont Town, the location of the mayor’s residence and Pskov’s administrative centre. He and Domash had just met the merchant who owned thousands of acres of fields that grew flax in the fertile lands that surrounded the city. Fat, pompous and short, the merchant also stank.
‘You would have thought that being one of the richest merchants in the city he would be able to afford to bathe once in a while.’
Domash stared up at the sun. ‘It’s very difficult to stop sweating in this heat.’
‘Especially if one is fat,’ remarked Gleb.
But Domash was not listening. The merchant had just informed him that this year the flax crop would be excellent. The area around Pskov was ideal for the cultivation of long-stemmed flax, especially during the long humid days of the first two months of summer, which was fast approaching. The common people used flax to produce clothing, bedding, fishing nets, rope and wicks for candles. But of far more importance was the plant’s export value. Every year thousands of bales of flax were exported to Riga where they were sent on to Lübeck. To the Principality of Novgorod, the flax trade was second in importance only to the fur trade. Pskov’s merchants grew rich off the proceeds of the flax trade, and as their wealth increased so did the amount of taxes they paid to the city treasury, which meant that the mayor’s coffers were also filled. It was a most satisfactory state of affairs.
‘Are you listening to me?’ said Gleb in irritation.
‘Not really,’ replied Domash.
The narrow streets of Dovmont were filled with traders and clerks going about their business, long-robed priests, hawkers, minstrels, guards keeping order and common folk. The mayor’s guards shoved aside anyone in their lord’s way as the hubbub that always accompanied crowds temporally subsided when they saw Domash and his blue-shirted companion. As usual the ordinary folk bowed respectively at Gleb and mothers offered him their infants to touch, for they knew that this
Skomorokh
was beloved of Perun, the chief of the gods, himself. Gleb meant ‘heir of god’ and everyone knew that he spoke daily to Perun who ruled the living world from his citadel atop the World Tree. Domash smiled politely and waved to the crowds, whispering to the officer of his guards to ensure his men kept the reeking multitude a safe distance from him. But Gleb loved the common people, loved them for their simple honesty, bravery and respect for the old ways. And they loved him and the mayor knew this. And as long as he had Gleb by his side he had the loyalty and affection of the people, or at least he flattered himself that he did.