So was the temperature. As the captives were freed and placed in the saddles of ponies, Conrad went among the fallen. There were a few red surcoats among the dead, which Paul ordered to be tied to horses so they could have a Christian burial later.

  Conrad heard a groan nearby. He knelt down and turned over the body of a warrior pierced by a lance. The point had gone through his leather armour to penetrate his right shoulder. The blade was sticking out of his leather back plate and the shaft had splintered when the warrior had fallen to the ground. Still, a good four feet still protruded from the front of his body. Blood oozed from the man’s mouth when he was turned on his side. Like those Conrad had fought in the forest his face was smeared with charcoal. He looked at Conrad and grinned, blood between his teeth.

  ‘Come closer, Sword Brother, I have something to tell you.’

  Conrad leaned towards him and the man spat in his face. Instinctively he struck him with the back of a mail-mitten-covered hand, causing him to yelp in pain as he flopped on to his back, pushing the lance point back through his shoulder. Conrad walked to his horse standing in the snow nearby, took its reins and led it back to where the injured warrior lay. He placed his right foot on his chest, gripped the broken lance shaft and yanked it from his body. The man screamed, startling those nearby and causing heads to turn. He then lifted the warrior up and slung him over his horse, between the saddle and the beast’s neck. The horse grunted as he hauled himself into the saddle and used his spurs to get it moving. Already a long column of ponies carrying civilians and horses carrying soldiers was following the path that had led Paul’s men to this meadow. Luck was with them because although the last traces of daylight were leaving the night would be clear and moonlit. And numbingly cold.

  Hans and Anton came to Conrad’s side.

  ‘What are you taking him back to camp for?’ asked Hans.

  ‘He might have some useful information,’ replied Conrad.

  The man was groaning and blood was spilling from his mouth on to the caparison of Conrad’s horse.

  ‘If he makes it back to camp,’ said Anton.

  But when the column of jubilant soldiers and cold, miserable civilians reached Laiuse the man still lived, though he had stopped groaning. The fort was no longer the empty shell Paul had occupied in the summer. While his soldiers trained to fight like mounted knights Andres at Kassinurme had sent labourers to build wooden barracks, storerooms, chapel, stables, forge and huts. The civilians were crammed into the barracks, the soldiers being ordered to pitch tents where they would sleep. The horses were stabled and bonfires lit in the compound, over which broth was cooked in huge cauldrons. While those who had taken part in the fight and those who had remained at the fort quartered their horses and the civilians, Conrad threw his captive on the ground before taking his horse to the stables. When he returned with some rope the man had attempted to crawl towards the shut gates of the fort.

  ‘My thoughts exactly,’ he smiled.

  He grabbed the top of the man’s back leather plate and dragged him to the gates. Sentries on the walkway above the gates gave him puzzled looks as Conrad threw him against the gates and used the rope to secure his outstretched arms to the crossbeam sitting in iron brackets across the back of both gates. The captive hung with his head down. Conrad grabbed the hair on his crown and pulled up his head.

  ‘Who is your leader, this King Kalev?’

  The man, barely conscious, opened his mouth.

  ‘Water.’

  ‘You will get water when you have answered my question. I ask again, who is your leader?’

  ‘King Kalev.’

  ‘What other names does he go by?’

  ‘Water, water.’ His voice was very faint.

  ‘This Kalev, what does he look like? Is he stout and broad chested?’

  ‘Water.’

  Conrad pulled his dagger from its sheath and cut one off a finger from the man’s left hand. He screamed in pain and thrashed around for a few seconds before slumping into semi-consciousness. Women and children, hearing the screams, began sobbing, fearing that another enemy was assaulting the fort. Hans and Anton sprinted over to the gates, followed by Paul.

  Conrad grabbed the man’s hair again.

  ‘Describe your leader. Is he German?’

  ‘What in the name of the saints are you doing, Conrad?’ asked Anton.

  ‘I’m convinced that this King Kalev is in fact Dietrich von Kivel. You remember him, Hans, the man who violated the parley and nearly killed you?’

  ‘Barely,’ replied Hans.

  Conrad went to cut off another of the man’s fingers.

  ‘Hold,’ shouted Paul.

  He walked up and stood in front of Conrad.

  ‘You are frightening the women and children.’

  ‘I have unfinished business with this captive,’ said Conrad through gritted teeth.

  ‘This is my fort, Master Conrad,’ said Paul, ‘so I would be obliged if you did not torture anyone without my permission.’

  Conrad looked at the swarthy former squire. Anton laid a hand on his friend’s arm.

  ‘Even if Kivel is the commander of the bandits, what does it matter?’

  ‘It matters because he has caused us much trouble,’ said Conrad, ‘and if he is the leader of the bandits then he will cause a lot more.’

  Hans shrugged. ‘If he is then at the very least we know where he is.’

  ‘This King Kalev is an idea that must be stamped out ruthlessly before it spreads,’ stated Conrad.

  ‘This man’s half dead,’ said Paul, examining the captive. ‘He won’t answer any more questions tonight.’

  He looked at his shoulder wound and the bloody stump where a finger had been. He pulled his own dagger from its sheath and drew the blade swiftly across the captive’s neck. There was a faint gurgling sound and then silence as the man died.

  ‘Now he’s all dead,’ said Paul, walking past the three Sword Brothers. He stopped and turned.

  ‘Respect, Master Conrad, that is what this was about. I would no more walk into your stronghold and begin torturing someone without permission than try to bugger the Pope. I would esteem it a favour if you would take the body into the woods in the morning so the boars can eat it.’

  The chapel was a miserable affair: a wooden hut with a small table to serve as an altar and leather to cover the opening where a door should have been. On the altar stood a wooden cross. It was a world away from the opulence of the Bishop’s Palace in Riga. Anton led Prime Mass as Conrad and Hans stood with heads bowed before the altar in the pre-dawn gloom. Riga had yet to allocate a priest for the fort even though Conrad, as Marshal of Estonia, had alerted the Bishop’s Palace that a new Christian fort had been established at Laiuse. He had received no reply to his letter. No doubt it had been conveniently ‘lost’ for Riga had no love for the Marshal of Estonia.

  After prayers he went to the gate to free the frozen corpse fixed to the gates. The eastern sky was a mixture of blues and reds as the sun crept over the trees to the east. Again there was no wind. It would be another brilliant, bitterly cold day. He cut the body free, tied a rope around its legs and went to the stables to collect his horse. He returned and tied a rope around the iron-hard corpse’s feet. He asked the sentries on duty, their eyes red and beards frosted from the cold, to open the gates and then he dragged the body to the nearest woods where he left it.

  After breakfast he and his friends departed from Laiuse. Paul saw them off after he had made morning inspection. For all his caustic wit and sarcastic comments Conrad had to admit that Paul had become a stickler for order and proper procedure. The camp was tidy and his men well equipped and disciplined.

  ‘You ride back to Odenpah?’

  ‘We will stop off at Kassinurme first,’ said Conrad.

  Anton nodded towards the women and children outside the barracks.

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Their village has been destroyed, their menfolk killed,’ replied Paul. ‘They will have to stay here.’

  ‘I will instruct Andres to send more food,’ Conrad told him. ‘God be with you, Paul.’

  ‘And with you, Master Conrad, try not to torture too many people before the spring.’

  Conrad raised his hand as he turned his horse and walked it towards the fort’s gates. He was convinced that Dietrich von Kivel was the leader of the forest bandits and it irked him that the mercenary had once again escaped his clutches.

  The ice-hardened snow crunched under the horses’ hooves as the trio made their way back to Kassinurme, leading two ponies loaded with a tent and spare weapons, fodder, food and clothing. In summer the journey would have taken less than a day but in mid-winter the ride would take longer as the animals negotiated snowdrifts, ice and the freezing temperature. The tent and supplies was a precaution against a sudden blizzard or heavy fall of snow that would force them into the nearest forest to seek a place to camp.

  ‘Paul has turned into an excellent leader,’ remarked Hans, ‘as Sir Richard predicted.’

  ‘He keeps his men on a tight leash,’ agreed Anton, ‘as well as his guests.’

  ‘Strange that a former hangman would object to a spot of torture,’ said Hans.

  ‘The ceremony of becoming a knight has exorcised his former life,’ stated Anton, ‘his soul has been cleansed of its former sins.’

  ‘Torturing a murderer is not a sin,’ said a sullen Conrad.

  ‘An interesting legal point, Conrad,’ mused Anton, ‘one I’m sure that the scholars of the Holy Church would be delighted in debating with you.’

  ‘But you are wrong, Conrad,’ said Hans.

  Conrad turned to look at his friend. All three were wearing their linen and mail coifs over their heads for warmth, their faces already pinched by the icy air.

  ‘We hang murderers,’ Conrad shot back.

  ‘Indeed we do,’ agreed Hans, ‘but surely you must have realised by now that a man will tell you anything to stop the pain of torture.’

  ‘He did not tell me anything, which tells me that your theory is wrong.’

  ‘On the contrary, Conrad,’ smiled Anton, ‘Hans is precisely correct. The man did not know whom Dietrich von Kivel was, despite you cutting off his finger. That tells me he had no knowledge of Kivel.’

  ‘He would have talked,’ said Conrad, ‘had he not died.’

  Anton laughed. ‘Yes, you should have had a word with the man who drove a lance through his torso. Very remiss of him, not thinking of how it would interfere with your interrogation.’

  Conrad was not amused. ‘I think we should change the topic.’

  They had travelled for perhaps a quarter of a mile through the white stillness; the only sound being the cawing of hungry ravens looking for frozen carcasses to pick at. But then they heard a soft crunching sound and saw a black figure emerge from behind a pair of birch trees, their branches hanging low under the weight of snow. He was a bundle of black rags and on his back was a wicker basket loaded with what appeared to be wood. It must have been heavy because he was bent over under its load.

  ‘Is there a village nearby?’ asked Hans.

  ‘Not that I am aware of,’ said Conrad.

  They halted their horses as the figure shuffled through the snow, halting around twenty paces from them.

  ‘Good morning, sirs,’ the voice was that of an old man.

  He had a hood over his head and his visage was facing the ground, making it impossible to see his features.

  ‘A cold day for a walk,’ said Anton.

  ‘I am on a mission of mercy, good sirs,’ came the reply. ‘I take firewood to the fort. There are many women and children who have need of warmth and shelter.’

  ‘We know that,’ said Conrad, ‘but how do you?’

  The man began walking again. ‘I must not delay, good sirs, the weather is cruel this time of year.’

  Conrad looked at a bemused Hans, while Anton was smiling as he watched the old man plod through the snow with the over-loaded basket on his back. He spurred his horse forward. Conrad watched the old man disappear behind a clump of pines before he too urged his horse forward. He tugged on his reins to halt his horse as a mocking voice echoed through the trees.

  ‘You owe me a finger, Master Conrad.’

  *****

  Winter brought an end to significant military operations. The Christian men of iron were known to fight in the snow and ice and the Sword Brothers often conducted raids in the white wilderness. But large-scale operations in winter were difficult to organise and even more formidable to mount. The Bishop of Riga himself had nearly come to grief when he took a crusader army across the frozen sea to Muhu to fight the Oeselians. He had lost half his army before coming to an agreement with the sea pirates that let him and what remained of his crusaders escape with their lives. Men and animals required large quantities of food to operate effectively in freezing conditions, which in turn required a host of carts and wagons to transport food, in addition to tents, spare weapons, clothing and blankets. Moving such bulk also required dozens of draught animals, which in turn required large quantities of fodder, which in turn required more wagons. And moving carts and wagons through a landscape of snow and ice was time-consuming and often required vehicles being dug out of snowdrifts if a blizzard struck the army. Such work was physically taxing, which required more food to prevent men from becoming weak and lethargic.

  For common folk the winter presented a simpler predicament: staying alive. For thousands of villagers either side of the Dvina a good harvest would be enough to see them through the winter, though the very young and very old were always susceptible to expiring in the weeks of bitterly cold weather. But a single event – a storm, a long dry spell, a late frost after the spring planting or an early frost at harvest – could have a devastating effect on harvests, resulting in crop shortages and famine.

  The winter had not been as harsh as the one that had frozen the sea but Lithuania, Livonia and Estonia were still white wastelands, their rivers and lakes covered with ice and their forests and meadows blanketed with snow. Pagan and Christian commoner alike shivered in their meagre wooden huts, which were invariably one or two-room abodes with an open hearth in one and an inner chamber for sleeping and storage. Floors were mud covered with rushes or hay in a vain attempt to keep them warm. Unsanitary, cold and damp, in winter they became worse when pigs, cattle, goats and chickens were brought indoors to protect them from the elements. They were not the only wildlife that occupied the huts: rats were a common menace and helped themselves to the precious grain stored inside a home.

  Weeks spent huddled around a poorly ventilated fire, which became the only source of light during the long hours of darkness, eating a miserable diet of smoked meat or fish and bread made from coarse, poor quality wheat, all washed down with watery ale, took a toll on the health of commoners. The head of the home would set traps in the woods in the hope of catching rabbits, hares and wildfowl, which would bring a welcome, albeit brief relief from the monotonous diet.

  In such doom and despondency the only succour was the knowledge that the gods might answer their prayers. South of the Dvina villagers flocked to sacred places called alkas where perpetual fires burned. Even though Duke Arturus had sought to rid Kurland of the Kriviai the common folk did not abandon their gods. The white-robed male priests may have gone but the vetulae – witches – remained to conduct religious practices. But despite the pleadings of the old women, in winter the gods still tortured the people. Pikulas, the God of the Underworld, imprisoned Saule, the Sun Goddess, in a cave during the winter months. With her captivity the sun no longer warmed the earth. But in the spring Saule was rescued by her daughter Auszrine, the Morning Star, who used a giant hammer to smash down the door to the cave where her mother was held captive. It was for this reason that many Lithuanians worshipped the hammer during the long winter months. And in the spring Saule, the golden-haired maiden wearing a gold silk raiment with a gold shawl and crown, drove her chariot across the heavens, pulled by two white steeds called the dvynai asvieniai to warm the earth once more.

  Those who ruled them rarely gave thought to commoners. It was enough to know that they bred, grew crops and were numerous enough to provide warriors for armies that were mustered in the spring or summer. But at Talsi the chief topic of conversation among the great men of Kurland was none other than the common folk. Actually they sat in a small room beside the great hall, fires raging in both chambers, heads bowed as they listened to a wiry-framed man of great age standing beside the table they sat round. Tall, his hair and beard snow white, though still full and thick, his deep voice spoke with conviction and knowledge.

  ‘I cannot speak for the villages in the south of the country, those that were formerly part of southern Kurland, but taking all things into consideration their circumstances must be reckoned more dire than those in the north of your lordship’s domain.’

  Those around the table, all dressed in thick black tunics under which they wore woollen vests, their hair and beards as black as their mood, said nothing. One, his hair and beard red, looked at the old man.

  ‘What of the grain that was delivered to us before the ice froze the Dvina?’

  ‘That helped, Lord Torolf, but only in averting immediate famine among the populace. By now it would have all been consumed.’

  Lamekins used a finger to draw imaginary patterns on the tabletop. His demand that Duke Ykintas’ reparations take the form of grain shipments had been agreed. The duke, with the aid of Prince Vsevolod who had sent riverboats filled with grain down the Dvina to Kurland, had fulfilled his promises and Lamekins had believed that it would be enough to feed the refugees that had fled western Kurland in the aftermath of the Oeselians’ raid. The forest fires they had started had burned for weeks and had ravaged the area.

  ‘Come the spring how many will be dead?’ asked Gintaras bluntly.

  ‘Impossible to even estimate, lord,’ smiled the old man. ‘Until the snows melt we will have no reports from the districts. But my concern is not so much for this winter as for the coming spring and summer.’