Castellan (7 page)

Conrad shook his head. ‘The saints preserve us. Just keep your plans to yourself, don’t tell her. Her sword is as sharp as her tongue.’

Leatherface suddenly became serious. ‘You made a mistake teaching her how to use a sword, Brother Conrad. She will get ideas above her station.’

Conrad laughed. ‘You mean she can defend herself from lecherous old goats like you.’

‘And she can shoot a crossbow,’ complained Leatherface. ‘Just think of a world full of women who can fight like men. Don’t bear thinking about.’

‘I would have thought an old mercenary such as you would like a woman who has a bit of fight in her,’ jested Conrad.

The dog of war slapped him on the back.

‘Must be away. The lads are cooking a deer they caught earlier. You take care Brother Conrad, and give my girl a big fat kiss. And before you teach any more girls to fight remember that women and weapons don’t mix.’

Hillar, who had little knowledge of German, had remained silent throughout the conversation. He looked at Leatherface as the mercenary walked off whistling, seemingly without a care in the world. The Rotalian had seen the old dog of war before of course, but was still amazed that this man who had coarse manners, scruffy clothes and a haggard appearance held a high position among the Sword Brothers.

‘He is very good at what he does,’ said Conrad, ‘and he holds the respect of the other mercenary crossbowmen that the order employs.’

‘Why does he dress like a beggar,
Susi
?’

‘Always has done. I think he regards his dishevelled appearance as something that marks him out from the rest. Besides, in battle he is someone you would want by your side. He remains calm when others are losing their wits.’

‘He should buy himself some new clothes,’ said Hillar.

When they arrived at Rudolf’s tent they found masters Bertram and Mathias in attendance, both tall like Rudolf though more thickset. The master of Wenden was now forty years old but the castellans of Kremon and Segewold were older by perhaps five or six years. Conrad introduced Hillar to them as Rudolf indicated they both should take a seat around the table arranged in the centre of his tent. Out of courtesy to Hillar the conversation was in Estonian. Rudolf poured them both a drink of beer as they waited for Sir Richard to arrive. The patter on the tent’s roof indicated the arrival of more rain before the English lord, who was wrapped in a brown cape when he appeared.

Rudolf closed the tent flaps and tied them together as the raindrops turned into a short downpour, battering the sides and roof of the tent. Then suddenly it was over.

‘I thought England was bad when it came to weather,’ remarked Sir Richard as he removed his cape and draped it over the remaining chair, ‘but Estonia and Livonia make it appear positively arid.’

Rudolf poured beer into his cup.

‘I apologise for luring you from Lehola, your grace.’

Sir Richard took a swig. ‘Can we please dispense with this “your grace” nonsense? We are all friends here and have shed blood together, so let us not stand on ceremony. So, when do we set out for Oesel?’

Rudolf looked at Conrad. ‘We are in your hands, lord marshal.’

‘I am no longer Marshal of Estonia, master,’ said Conrad.

‘In my eyes you are,’ replied Rudolf, ‘and I think I can speak for my fellow masters.’

Bertram and Mathias nodded grimly.

‘So please continue.’ Rudolf said.

Conrad looked at Hillar. ‘Tell them what your scouts have discovered.’

Hillar made to stand but Rudolf told him to remain seated.

‘As Sir Richard says, we are all friends here.’

Hillar gestured with his huge hands as he spoke, using them to cut the air as he told of how the Danes had landed on the northeast coast of Oesel where they were currently besieged by the Oeselians. They had advanced only a small distance inland, establishing a camp and staying close to the ships that had dropped anchor in the nearby cove. But the Oeselians had fired the ships and blockaded the other Danish boats that had sailed back to the mainland, taking shelter in Matsalu Bay.

‘My people have also heard that the Oeselians also maintain their blockade of Reval.’

Rudolf laughed. ‘Valdemar is well and truly bereft of hope.’

He tapped a finger on the rim of his cup and pondered for a moment.

‘Hillar, what would be the best way to transport this army to Oesel so it may come to the aid of King Valdemar?’

Hillar puffed out his cheeks. ‘It would take many boats to transport hundreds of men and animals.’

‘What if we left the horses and ponies on the mainland?’ Rudolf pressed him. ‘Can the Rotalians provide me with enough vessels to transport a thousand men to Oesel?’

Bertram raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought there are nearly fifteen hundred men in this camp, Rudolf.’

‘There are,’ Wenden’s master agreed, ‘but I will leave a few hundred on the mainland to guard the animals and supplies. Besides, we need room in the boats to accommodate our esteemed Danish allies.’

‘What is left of them,’ said Mathias grimly.

‘I know the elders of Lääne County, the region on the western coast of Rotalia,’ said Hillar. ‘I can ask them to assemble as many boats as their people can gather. From there the army can sail to the island of Muhu, which is but a short distance from the mainland. Muhu lies between the mainland and Oesel. My advice would be to spend one night on Muhu and then sail through the strait between the islands to land near where the Danes are besieged.’

‘You know these waters and islands you speak of?’ Mathias asked Hillar.

The Estonian nodded. ‘Before I joined
Susi
Lääne was my home.’

Conrad suddenly remembered the time, many years before, when he was on a cog travelling to Livonia.

‘If we are attacked by Oeselian longships we will be slaughtered, master.’

‘He’s right, Rudolf,’ said Bertram.

But Rudolf had already thought of that.

‘Hillar has told us that Oeselian ships are blockading the Danes in Matsalu Bay and in the harbour at Reval, and we know that an Oeselian army is besieging King Valdemar. Unless the Oeselians are devils from hell in human form then I would hazard that they are stretched thin. That being the case I believe we can get to Oesel unnoticed and snatch Valdemar from the jaws of defeat.’

‘We risk much for someone who shouts loudly that he is an enemy of the Sword Brothers,’ said Bertram.

‘Why can’t we let the bastard die?’ asked Mathias.

‘Because he is more use to us alive,’ said Rudolf, though when questioned further on the matter he would say no more.

‘We go to steal a king,’ Rudolf announced. ‘Hillar, I must ask you to ride to your people to assemble the boats so we may accomplish our mission.’

As the camp was subjected to another heavy shower and the others filed out of the tent, Rudolf asked Conrad to stay.

‘When we get to Oesel try to resist the temptation to kill King Valdemar, Conrad, and order your warriors to likewise refrain from harming his regal body. I know that they are loyal to you.’

‘They obey orders, master, have no fear.’

Rudolf smiled. ‘Good. And bring that girl that you and Lukas have turned into a fighter with you.’

‘Kaja, master? Why?’

Rudolf smiled again. ‘You will see.’

*****

The Danish engineers had laid out the ground for what would become the castle of Berengarian, named in honour of the king’s late wife, the Estonian slaves being whipped to encourage them to dig the giant rectangular ditch and earth rampart behind it. Inside the fledgling stronghold the king’s pavilion was erected in the centre, the Bishop of Roskilde’s immediately behind it and around them both the tents of Count Albert, his knights and the men of the king’s bodyguard. As the slaves hauled stones from the nearby moraine plain, parties were sent into the forest to hunt elk and boar for the king’s table. Patrols of axe men and foot knights were despatched in every direction to hunt for the enemy but they returned with news that villages had been abandoned and the Oeselians were nowhere to be seen. It was as if the island was deserted of human life. The king spent most days consulting with his chief of engineers over how many towers Berengarian would have and how tall they should be, while Count Albert amused himself with hunting wild boar. It therefore came as a rude shock when the Oeselians burnt the Danes’ ships, and even greater distress was inflicted on Valdemar when his camp was attacked on the very same evening. Hundreds of screaming Oeselians flooded from the forest and surrounded the camp. The king’s men stood to arms. Count Albert was in his element as he stood on top of the rampart fighting off the enemy, who seemed to show a marked reluctance to cross the ditch and get to grips with him and his men. Indeed, the Oeselians made a lot of noise and shot a few arrows but remained behind their shields as they taunted the Danes. And then, as quickly as they had appeared, they melted back into the trees.

The next morning the king, egged on by Count Albert, led his mounted knights out of camp escorted by nearly a thousand foot soldiers. Valdemar had revenge on his mind but the Oeselians were waiting and sprung an ambush that killed a hundred Danes in the first five minutes. Thereafter there was a grim mêlée in which the Oeselians tried to kill the Danish king but were thwarted by the bravery of Count Albert and the king’s bodyguard. But in the subsequent retreat to camp the Danes lost a further three hundred men. Thereafter there was relentless pressure as the Oeselians attacked day and night to further whittle down the Danes. On the second day Valdemar lost an additional fifty horsemen and four hundred foot soldiers when he led an attack against the enemy, the latter having dug a trench during the night, into which his horsemen and spearmen fell.

The Oeselians then brought up the
paterells
and positioned them on all four sides of the camp and began pelting the Danes with stones. The machines were small, crude affairs, no taller than a man, but they could hurl stones into the Danish camp well enough. Using the same moraine plain for ammunition that the Danes had pillaged for building material, the Oeselians maintained steady withering volleys of missiles that drove Valdemar’s men to distraction. Count Albert led a foolhardy mounted charge in an effort to destroy those
paterells
that had been deployed against the camp’s entrance. But the Oeselians had dug three rows of holes immediately in front of the machines and a score of Danish horses broke their legs when they reached them. Albert lost fifty men killed and nearly the same number of horses as the
paterells
lobbed stones at his riders.

On the fourth night the Oeselians launched a general assault against the camp, which was repulsed with heavy losses. But in the fighting the Danes lost a further two hundred men and many horses were killed when an Oeselian party infiltrated the stabling area and inflicted terrible wounds on the animals with their axes. The dawn broke to the pitiful sounds of dying horses crying and whimpering, further shaking the Danes’ morale.

‘They are finished father.’

Sigurd, his face smeared with blood, though not his own, his eyes red-rimmed due to lack of sleep and a night of hard fighting, was nonetheless in an ebullient mood.

‘Keep on shooting!’ he bellowed at the nearest
paterell
crew as they rested their hands on their knees. Each machine had a crew of three: two to lower and secure the throwing arm; one to load the basket and release the throwing arm. Sigurd was immensely proud of his fifty machines, which now ringed the Danish camp like a coiled snake.

‘If we lose any more men
we
are finished,’ muttered Olaf, his right arm bandaged. ‘We lost many men last night.’

‘But the enemy lost more, father,’ insisted Sigurd, ‘including all their horses. All that remains is to batter them into submission. Keep shooting.’

Tired warriors, their leather and mail armour ripped and torn, sat on the damp ground and watched with listless eyes as the
paterell
crews continued to lob stones into the Danish camp. The morning air was filled with dull thuds as throwing arms slammed into crossbeams. Occasionally a Danish archer would appear next to parts of a wall that had been started by Valdemar’s engineers and built by the Estonians, loosing an arrow at the besieging army that sometimes found its target. Sigurd had given strict orders that no arrows were to be shot into the Danish camp, which would only be shot back. Early on it had become apparent that the Danes had no crossbowmen.

He rubbed the stubble on his chin. ‘There will be no more attacks, father. There is no need. We will let hunger and low morale defeat the Danes.’

Olaf grunted. He was tired, hungry and his arm hurt, a gift from an enemy spearman. But beneath his gruff countenance he was happy enough.

He would be the first to admit that he had poured scorn on his son’s strategy, especially when Kalf and Stark had berated him that to allow an enemy to set foot on Oesel’s sacred soil would offend the gods. But they had been sent away with Bothvar and Swein, who commanded the longships that were blockading Matsalu Bay and Reval respectively. Sigurd had kept his nerve and now had his reward: the Danes were penned in and being ground down and soon the head of their king would be decorating the roof of Olaf’s hall in Kuressaare.