Castellan (40 page)

On he went, Hans and Anton behind swinging their maces at any targets that became available. An arrow glanced off Conrad’s helmet, another embedded itself in his shield and all around the shrieks, cries and shouts of men fighting and dying filled the air. Suddenly he was pressed up against a bearded brute who stank of sweat, both of them being shoved forward by their comrades behind. He could not swing his axe or move his shield and neither could his opponent. He saw the ugly features of the Ungannian through the vision slits of his helmet and smelt his foul breath as the warrior grimaced in frustration. He was so close to a Sword Brother but could do nothing; neither could Conrad. The walkway was no wider than a yard, making it impossible for anyone to get by them. But out of the corner of his eye Conrad saw a warrior clamber on to the timber wall, axe raised high above his head, ready to bring it down on the top of his helmet. Anton must have seen him too because the warrior had his legs swept from under him by a swing of his friend’s mace. But instead of falling backwards, over the wall, the man pitched forward and fell on Conrad and his stinking opponent, knocking them off the walkway.

He fell on to the roof of a hut, the straw breaking his fall but not halting it as he tumbled through the thatch and into the interior. He fell on his back and had the wind knocked out of him but managed to clamber to his feet, a woman and children screaming in alarm around him. The warrior he had been pressed against on the rampart had also fallen into the hut and now he attacked Conrad, swinging his axe. Conrad instinctively ducked, the blade missing his neck and slicing deep into the cheekbone of the woman behind. She screamed and collapsed as Conrad turned his own axe in his hand and brought the spiked end down on the foot on the warrior. The warrior released his axe. The man groaned in pain as Conrad pulled his sword and rammed it hard through the man’s mail shirt and into his guts. He yanked the blade back and then thrust it forward again, this time into the man’s neck.

He sheathed his sword, retrieved his axe and rushed outside into the fort’s interior. He looked up to see Sword Brothers battling on the walls and Sir Richard leading his men down wooden steps into the compound. He also saw crusaders coming over the walls after ascending their scaling ladders. Around him Ungannians were running to the foot of the steps to the ramparts to battle the Christian tide that was engulfing the fort. Others were forming up in front of the hall, including what looked like Russians with their almond-shaped shields, to form a reserve, ready to launch a counterattack. He saw an archer aiming at the Sword Brothers on the ramparts, ready to shoot. He ran forward and threw his axe at the man, who saw his approach and moved aside to miss the flying weapon. But then Conrad was on him, hacking at his bow with his sword and then slashing at the man’s face when the weapon had been split in two. He sensed movement behind him, turned and slashed sideways with his sword, to disembowel a young girl no older than ten who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He cursed himself but had no time to think of his actions when the pagan reserve in front of the hall charged forward as Sir Richard and Sword Brothers ran from the steps to battle them. Another arrow struck his shield, which he now tossed aside as he picked up his axe with his left hand and stood ready to fight a Russian armed with a sword. The man paced towards Conrad but then collapsed on the ground, a crossbow bolt in his shoulder. More and more Russians were hit by the order’s crossbowmen who had followed the crusaders up their scaling ladders and were now taking shots from the ramparts. The enemy reserve fell back towards the hall.

‘Rally, Sword Brothers.’

He looked behind to see Rudolf, bare headed, holding his sword aloft with Walter standing next to him. He also saw Hans and Anton and ran over to them as a small phalanx of brother knights and sergeants took shape in the compound. Around it there was no discipline or order as men grappled and fought personal battles, crusaders and Ungannians locked in combat, oblivious to what was happening around them. Pigs and goats, freed from their pens, were running around in terror. Some lay dead alongside human corpses and some of the huts were now on fire. But still men kept coming over the ramparts to join the fight. Then the enemy reserve charged again.

‘God with us!’ screamed Rudolf who raced forward.

He was followed by the order’s brother knights and sergeants in a wild charge, smashing into the Ungannians and Russians to stop them dead in their tracks. A great, swirling mêlée ensued, the compound echoing to the sound of hundreds of weapons clashing. The soldiers of the garrison, trained to fight in compact shield walls, were soon being isolated and cut down by the Sword Brothers’ superior fighting skills. Conrad used his axe to force a Russian spear down towards the ground, thrusting his sword forward so the point pierced the right shoulder of his enemy. The Russian yelped and dropped his weapon, whereupon Conrad ducked left and slashed the man’s right calf with a sideways swing of his sword. Hans finished him off with two blows from his mace.

Sir Richard had kept his men under tight control, leading them to the doors of the hall behind the enemy reserve that was now being whittled down by the Sword Brothers. He ordered a score of his men to secure the hall then led the rest against the rear of the enemy. Within minutes, surrounded and suffering serious casualties, the remnants of the Ungannians threw down their weapons and gave themselves up. The dozen or so Russians did the same.

One or two individual fights carried on for a while but soon ended with the cessation of hostilities in the central area of the compound. Conrad and his friends removed their helmets and stood gulping in air, their heads covered in sweat. The burning huts were the first to be dealt with, after which the women and children, those still alive, were ordered from their hiding places into the compound. The male prisoners – just over a hundred – were locked in the stables until their fate was decided, the ponies that had been held in them being taken from the fort to be watered in the lake as they appeared to be on their last legs. The women and children were confined to huts and placed under guard.

It had been a relatively swift victory but not a cheap one. Over two hundred crusaders had been killed in the assault and a further hundred wounded, fifty seriously. Ten brother knights had been killed along with twenty-five sergeants, a further fifteen wounded. That night Sir Richard and Grand Master Volquin held a council of war in Fellin’s great hall. Neither was in a merciful mood.

‘The prisoners must die,’ announced Sir Richard, ‘to send a signal to Kristjan.’

‘Agreed,’ said Volquin, ‘but let one live so he can convey a message to his fellow Ungannians that they make war upon us at their peril.’

‘And the women and children?’ enquired Bernhard.

‘I have given the women to your crusaders, lord bishop,’ said Sir Richard, ‘they deserve some amusement after today. Afterwards they and the children will be released to go where they will.’

‘We should organise a raiding party to lay waste Ungannia,’ said Volquin. ‘We are too weak to lay siege to Dorpat but need to make a gesture.’

‘May I make a suggestion, grand master?’ asked Conrad.

They all looked at him, tired, angry men sitting at a table in a great hall ill-lit by a few candles. Volquin nodded.

‘That we do not raid Ungannia.’

Sir Richard ran a hand over his crown. ‘That is all very noble, Conrad, but you seem to have forgotten the many atrocities committed by the Ungannians in Saccalia. I must have revenge.’

‘And you shall have it, your grace,’ replied Conrad, ‘but burning and looting will only alienate the Ungannians.’

‘So what?’ said Volquin.

‘May I speak freely, grand master?’ asked Conrad.

‘You are Marshal of Estonia,’ replied Volquin, ‘so you may speak as you find in Estonia.’

Conrad nodded in thanks. ‘Matters are coming to a head in these parts. Denmark is weakened and next year Bishop Albert will return with more crusaders. We will march into Ungannia and take Dorpat, and after that I hope Jerwen, Wierland and Harrien. The latter three kingdoms have suffered greatly at the hands of King Valdemar’s soldiers. I am hopeful that they will join our cause if we treat Ungannia differently to how the Danes have treated them.’

‘I am apt to agree with the lord marshal,’ said Bernhard. ‘It is mid-August now. I suggest we let the Danes and Ungannians bleed themselves dry before Reval and keep the army in Saccalia to deter any Russian incursions south and also allow the Saccalians to gather in the harvest.’

He looked at Sir Richard. ‘Unless you have any objections, your grace.’

The Duke of Saccalia suddenly looked very tired.

‘Very well, Conrad, we will allow the Ungannians the privilege of gathering in their harvest. But next year Kristjan’s kingdom will know my wrath.’

‘And that of the Sword Brothers,’ added Rudolf.

Conrad thought he would suffer a sleepless night after killing the girl during the battle but he slept like the dead. He and his two friends found a hut in the compound and fell into slumber as soon as their heads hit the straw. He awoke feeling dirty and aching, his surcoat splattered with blood and his helmet dented. He and the other two walked to the chapel tent to attend Prime Mass and then headed to the eating tent for breakfast. Bodies still littered the compound and ground outside the castle and no one was showing any inclination to bury them.

After eating they left their helmets and shields, what remained of them, with the armourers to weave their magic. Bishop Bernhard, possessed of an energy that mocked his great age, went among the captains of the crusaders and ordered them to organise burial details to inter the bodies of the slain. Conrad went to see the prelate as he was haranguing a circle of commanders who resembled a party of thieves with their shifty looks and surly attitudes.

‘I’ve heard the pagans burn their dead, bishop,’ said one. ‘Don’t see why we can’t build a big bonfire and throw them on top.’

‘Because that is not the Christian practice,’ replied Bernhard. ‘We bury our dead.’

‘But they aren’t Christian, bishop,’ said a second captain, a man with a black eye patch.

‘Once mass is said over their bodies their souls will belong to God,’ Bernhard informed them. ‘Now see to it.’

They nodded half-heartedly and grumbled as they ambled away, shuffling their feet as they did so.

‘The scrapings of northern Germany,’ muttered Bernhard with contempt. ‘How they contrast with the brother knights of your order, Conrad, especially you, a man who fights with honour and godliness.’

Conrad saw the agonised expression of the girl he had disembowelled the day before in his mind.

‘I am just a baker’s son, lord bishop, not born into nobility.’

‘Ah, Conrad, have you not yet learned the riddle of nobility? The accepted wisdom is that it is inherited, passed down from one generation to the next.’

‘God has decreed it so, lord bishop.’

Bernhard laughed. ‘
Man
has decreed it so, Conrad, so the nobles and their sons may enjoy unrivalled power. But they forget that nobility is not something that can readily be passed from a father to a son. It has to be earned, renewed so it burns like a beacon in the dark. You are possessed of nobility, Conrad, of that I am convinced.’

‘You flatter me, lord bishop.’

‘You think that saving Bishop Albert’s life, killing Lembit and becoming Marshal of Estonia were pure chance?’

‘I do not know, lord bishop.’

‘They are the will of God,’ Bernhard said sternly, ‘of that I am convinced.’

‘I have a favour to ask, lord bishop.’

Bernhard shook his head as one of the crusaders bent over and threw up on the ground.

‘A soldier of God in all his glory. What favour?’

‘A couple of carts and some ponies so the women and children may have a less arduous journey back to their homes.’

Bernhard seemed unconcerned. ‘If you wish. But why do you take an interest in them? They have their lives, after all.’

‘It is not right that they should bear witness to the execution of the prisoners, lord bishop.’

In truth Conrad hated all forms of public execution as it transported him back to the death of his own father that he had witnessed all those years ago. Bernhard gave his assent and the women, their clothes torn and their faces and bodies covered in bruises, and children were loaded on to the carts and escorted from camp. Conrad, Hans and Anton provided the escort, the latter two not knowing why they had been dragged away from witnessing the execution.

‘Squire Paul used to be an executioner before he was a squire,’ Hans told them, ‘so it should be carried out without any problems.’

‘I would have thought, Hans,’ said Conrad, ‘that having nearly been hanged yourself you would be averse to seeing others suffering the same fate.’

‘Hans is not a deep thinker like you, Conrad,’ joked Anton, ‘as long as he has food to fill his belly anything else is irrelevant.’

‘You were brought up in a rich household,’ said Hans. ‘If you had been a beggar you would not treat food so lightly.’

While the three friends laughed and talked the women and children on the carts said nothing, merely staring ahead with blank expressions and eyes devoid of emotion. The women had been raped the night before and the children were gripped by terror, but at least they were alive. When they reached the western shore of Lake Vortsjarv Conrad told them to follow the shoreline south and then east. He had managed to scrounge a couple of tents from the quartermasters and food for their journey. He watched them head south along the water’s edge.