Conrad was amazed by his knowledge of Christian weapons and tactics. He just nodded.

  ‘I see no reason why the same tactics should not be successful here, Master Conrad, but it will hinge on you holding that rise. Your crossbows will be the determining factor rather than your mounted knights, I think.’

  ‘You know much about our tactics and troop types, majesty.’

  Lamekins wheeled his horse away. ‘Battles are often decided before the first clash of arms, Master Conrad, as you well know. Let us hope the god we both follow smiles on us today.’

  Then he was gone, half his army, his horsemen, followed their king and disappeared into the sleet blanketing the land. He nudged his own horse forward towards the rise and saw lines of Kur axe men and spearmen trudging towards the rise. A thought crossed his mind: how would he or anyone communicate with them as no one spoke Kur?

  On the large, oblong-shaped grassy mound that was turning into a mud heap his warlords had the same worry, though he and they were immensely relieved when a man with a greying beard announced, in German, that he had been left in the command of the Kur foot soldiers,.

  ‘I am Ringaudas, lord.’

  ‘You are a Kur?’ asked Conrad.

  ‘No, lord, a Selonian and once in the service of Prince Vsevolod.’ His German was very good. ‘I have accompanied Ambassador Torolf to Riga on many occasions where I had the chance to study your language.’

  There was no time to discover by what accident of fate Ringaudas had ended up in the service of Lamekins because the sleet had reduced visibility to less than two hundred paces and Conrad feared the enemy could be on them any minute. So he did a quick scan of the ground they occupied and decided on his battle plan.

  He looked at Leatherface. ‘This battle will be decided by your crossbowmen. Place them in front of the line and tell them to kill as many of the enemy as possible before they fall back. After that we will have to hold them off as long as possible.’

  ‘Where is King Lamekins?’ asked Sir Richard.

  ‘He has taken his horsemen to spring a surprise on the enemy,’ Conrad told him.

  ‘Or buggered off and left us all here to die,’ said Leatherface under his breath.

  ‘The soldiers that accompany the king,’ said Ringaudas, ‘are all professionals, not farmers or fishermen.’

  Conrad smiled at him and was comforted by his words. His men too were all professionals, which would to some extent make up for their depleted numbers. Just under a thousand men stood on the rise, waiting for the Samogitians, two hundred Estonians being detailed to guard the camp and a hundred Kurs performing the same function. With the absence of Lamekins’ horsemen Conrad wondered if even professionals would be able to withstand a determined onslaught by a numerically superior enemy. He accompanied Leatherface to where the crossbowmen were forming up in front of the long wall of shields and knights on top of the rise. Wind and sleet was blowing from behind them.

  The mercenary seemed satisfied. ‘They will have the wind and sleet in their faces when they attack and our bolts will fly faster and further with the wind behind them. That gives us a chance.’

  ‘Do not take any chances,’ Conrad told him. ‘Get you and your men back behind the shield wall before the enemy gets too close.’

  ‘The longer we carry on shooting the more chance you have of holding them until that heathen king attacks, if he attacks.’

  ‘He is a Christian king,’ Conrad admonished him, ‘and our valued ally.’

  ‘And I’ve got wings,’ sniffed the mercenary.

  Conrad heard a low rumbling noise and craned his neck to determine where it was coming from. Then he heard faint horn blasts coming from the same direction – directly ahead. The enemy was upon them. He slapped the mercenary on the arm.

  ‘God be with you.’

  ‘And you, Master Conrad,’ replied Leatherface, throwing back his cloak to reveal his crossbow and hooking the bowstring over the metal claw positioned in the front of his belt.

  ‘Ready!’ he shouted left and right.

  The line of crossbowmen began to load their crossbows, among them the garrison of Odenpah. Like all Sword Brother members they had been taught to use a wide variety of weapons. With Falcone’s Genoese, Sir Richard’s missile men and those of ‘the bastards’ Leatherface had just over one hundred and seventy crossbowmen to rake the enemy. Behind them stood, from left to right, Sir Richard’s knights, those of Sir Paul, the warriors of Hillar, Riki, Andres and Tonis in the centre, together with Ulric’s spearmen, and on the right the Kur spearmen and axe men. The latter stood on the end of the line, a logical deployment as they were trained to use their broadaxes left handed so the axe head would strike the right sides of their opponents, forcing them to pivot to the right to deflect the blow with their shields and thus throw them off balance.

  Ulric’s men rushed forward to hold their shields over the crossbowmen of ‘the bastards’ and the Estonian warlords detailed some of their men to afford the same protection for Odenpah’s garrison and Sir Richard’s missile troops. Even though the wind was behind them the enemy would probably loose one or two volleys of arrows before their charge. Conrad looked up into the sky filled with freezing raindrops. Then again, if the enemy’s archers could not see their target they might not have the time to shoot any missiles.

  He walked back to where Hans was standing in the front rank, the Estonians around him relaxed and chatting to each other. The drums and horns of the enemy were very slowly getting loudly. They were designed to strike fear into an opponent but for veteran soldiers they were a useful indicator for determining how far away the enemy was. Hans handed him his helm.

  ‘You had better put this on, Conrad, I wouldn’t want you getting an arrow in your head.’

  Conrad took the full-face helm. ‘Not before the battle starts.’

  He had lost count how many times he had waited for battle, that strange blend of excitement, terror and above all exhaustion deciding the fate of armies and kingdoms. Those who had never participated in the ritual of bloodletting and horror every battle became, imagined that men hacked at each other for hours before the contest was decided. But the reality was both men and horses became tired very quickly once combat began. Fighting for any extended period of time was unrealistic for even the strongest and fittest men. Conrad looked to the right where the Kur axe men stood. Even the Kurs were not supermen. So men conserved their strength for when it was needed and appeared unusually relaxed. They were not of course, their senses and reflexes heightened, but they were veterans and veterans could make the transition from standing at ease to killing machines in the blink of an eye.

  They also had good weapons and armour. The Sword Brothers had always equipped their men well, sparing no expense when it came to horses, weapons and armour. Poverty may have been one of their oaths but on the battlefield they were rich men. Every brother knight and sergeant was given the same attire to give them maximum protection in battle. Conrad’s cotton breeches and vest were expensive items, the material being imported from the East. Linen covered his head. Over his vest he wore a quilted, cotton-covered aketon, a garment that could deflect sword and axe blows. Over this he wore a long-sleeved mail hauberk with integral mittens that had soft leather palms to facilitate holding swords, maces, axes and pole arms. Over the mail he wore another item of padded protection: a sleeveless, linen-covered, quilted gambeson. And over this a white surcoat bearing the red cross and sword emblem of the Sword Brothers.

  Hans offered him his hand. ‘As dust to the wind.’

  ‘As dust to the wind.’

  For a moment he thought about the others who were no longer with him but snapped back to reality when he heard Leatherface give the order to shoot, followed by a rapid succession of sharp cracks as crossbow bolts were released. Then he saw the black mass of the enemy emerge from the swirling sleet.

  The Samogitians did not assault them in a feral charge of wild, screaming men; rather, a quick walk of stooping figures, heads down and shields raised not only against Leatherface’s missiles but also the driving sleet and wind in their faces. In the wet, windy conditions the crossbowmen only managed a maximum of three bolts a minute – five hundred iron-tipped missiles slamming into the densely packed ranks of the enemy. Above the howling wind came dozens of shrieks that combined to produce a long, haunting wail as Samogitians were hit and fell, some dying, others being wounded and trampled on by those following. Leatherface gave the order to fall back after his men had shot a final volley dropping many in the Samogitian front rank, which suddenly charged forward.

  The chiefs and warlords were in the front ranks, men armed with swords and wearing mail armour and helmets. Most of them had been cut down by crossbow bolts, leaving those following who were less well-armed and armoured to surge forward to attack the men standing on the crest of the rise. Many wore fur-trimmed leather caps on their heads for protection, carried shields but none wore armour, just long tunics or kaftans and leggings. For weapons they carried either a spear or an axe and every man was also equipped with a knife. Only the chiefs and village headmen carried swords.

  Conrad put on his helmet, took the shield off his back and removed the axe tucked in his belt. The brother knights and sergeants dumped their crossbows on the ground and took up position around him and Hans, ready to defend themselves with whatever weapons they favoured. Many liked the flanged mace that could cave in an opponent’s helmet with ease and when wielded against even a mail-covered limb delivered enough force to break the bone beneath. The Samogitians were closing fast, some tripping on the waterlogged ground, to be assailed by a hail of javelins as the Estonian warriors hurled a volley of spears at them. Not all found a body to pierce but they slammed into the soft earth, causing men to trip over them and stumble. And then the whole front rank of the Army of the Wolf surged forward.

  The sound resembled a chisel being scraped along a stone wall as the two sides collided, axe heads striking shields and helmets. Through the vision slits of his helmet Conrad saw a drenched warrior in a helmet gripping a spear with both hands. He in turn saw Conrad and instinctively drove the shaft forward. But in his desperation to spear the Sword Brother he had misjudged the distance and the spear point pierced only air. Conrad hacked down with his axe to splinter the haft and drive it down, lunging forward to barge into the warrior with his shield. He brought his axe up as he did so and swung it against the side of the man’s head, the iron edge smashing his jawbone. The man went down.

  Hans and Werner were beside him as he raised his shield to catch the overhead strike of a wooden club, the force of the blow impacting hard on the leather and wood. As the Samogitian pulled back his club to attempt another strike Conrad chopped his axe forward to hit the man’s left forearm. He heard a high-pitched yelp as the bone was broken. The enemy dropped the club and Conrad put his full force behind a blow to the man’s neck. As he fell more enemy warriors came at him, a spear striking his shield and the edge of a sword slicing into his surcoat and gambeson beneath. The blow did not pierce his mail armour but he stepped back as more enemy warriors came at him. Werner and Hans did the same as a fresh wave of Samogitians entered the fray, urged on by their chiefs. But they slid and slipped on the mud beneath their feet and stumbled over the bodies lying in front of them.

  The shouts and screams of hundreds of men locked in mortal combat rose above the howling wind as the Samogitians made a determined effort to break the enemy line. But there was now a wall of dead that men had to scramble over to reach Conrad’s troops and as they did so Sword Brothers and Estonians walked forward to attack them. Running was not possible in the freezing wet conditions and men paid careful attention to retaining their footing. A sergeant slipped and fell flat on his back. A Samogitian scrambled over a wounded comrade with his axe held high. Conrad walked forward, caught the axe blow on his shield, drew his sword and rammed it forward into the man’s guts. His own axe dangled by its strap from his wrist. He slid his sword back into its sheath and hauled the sergeant to his feet.

  The enemy attack had lost its momentum, those Samogitians not dead or injured shuffling back after their worsting at the hands of the Kurs and Army of the Wolf.

  ‘Horse, horse!’

  Conrad heard the shouts and turned to see a great number of enemy horsemen behind his men, riders carrying pavise-like shields that had elk antlers painted on them. All these men wore mail or lamellar armour, helmets and carried spisas.

  ‘Shoot them, shoot them.’

  As the Estonians in the rear rank turned, locked shields and held their spears at an angle of forty-five degrees, Leatherface was screaming at his missile men to shoot their crossbows. A few bolts shot out from behind the Estonians, then more and more as Falcone’s men went to work with aplomb, followed by ‘the bastards’. But Odenpah’s crossbows were useless now, tossed to the ground as the brother knights and sergeants used their close-quarter weapons to battle the Samogitian foot soldiers. They lay in the mud, redundant. Spisas flew in one direction and crossbow bolts in another as men and horses were hit. The beasts whinnied and screamed as they collapsed, crushing their owners beneath them. Others, tormented by one or more bolts embedded in their flesh, bolted away, colliding with other horses and knocking them to the ground.

  Conrad and the others facing the enemy foot could do nothing except sling their shields on to their backs and hope that a spisa did not hit them. To abandon their posts would be to invite the enemy foot soldiers to renew their assault. Which is exactly what they did. Conrad transferred his axe to his left hand and drew his sword as the Samogitians came at them again, clambering over their own dead and slipping and sliding in the mud and blood as they advanced. Emboldened by the attack of their horse behind the Kurs and Christians, they believed they could break the thin line of soldiers standing in front of them. But the Samogitians were poorly armed and largely devoid of armour and facing men who were equipped with the best weapons and armour that money could buy, and whose only purpose was war.

  In the wind and hail and standing in mud Conrad did not attempt to move around his opponents for to do so would only cause him to lose his footing. But it was easy to predict the cumbersome, ill-judged strikes of opponents’ spears and axes. The first warrior, wearing a long kaftan and a leather cap, delivered a downward strike with his weapon that Conrad stopped with his own axe. The man had his shield tight to the front of his body but Conrad jabbed his sword quickly forward to pierce an eye with its point. The man recoiled from him, dropping his axe and shield to clutch at his bleeding socket.

  A spearman tried to thrust his weapon into his guts but he flicked his axe to sweep the point away, lunged forward to stab the warrior in his exposed right thigh, the attack going beneath his shield. A club was hurled through the air striking him on the left hand. Conrad felt a searing pain and nearly dropped his axe. He winced when he tried to grip its haft and realised that a bone had been broken. Fortunately the fighting had abated again, the Samogitians having received another bloody nose for no result.

  ‘Stop shooting, stop shooting.’

  He turned to see Hans with his left arm hanging uselessly by his side. He slid his sword back into its scabbard and shoved up his helmet.

  ‘Are you injured?’

  Hans, bloody mace in his right hand, used the weapon to force up his helmet.

  ‘Arm’s broken, it’s useless.’

  They both turned to watch Leatherface order his men to stop shooting as the wind carried fresh horns calls. The Samogitian horsemen were pulling back because King Lamekins had launched his attack and Leatherface did not want to shoot the Kur horsemen. Though by the time he had become aware that the king’s men were among the Samogitians several had already been shot and killed. Nevertheless the king’s attack was decisive, cutting down many enemy horsemen and prompting a hasty withdrawal of the Samogitian foot. It was now sleeting so heavily that visibility had been reduced to less than fifty paces. Everyone still alive was drenched, the freezing rain having permeated tunics and armour. At least the Sword Brothers, their torsos covered by vests, aketons, mail armour, gambesons and surcoats, were drier than most.

  Exhaustion quickly overtook men who had been standing and fighting in the inclement weather, and many began to shiver as their aching limbs were chilled by the wind and sleet. Conrad gave the order to return to camp as Lamekins leading his horse by its reins, drenched to the skin but wearing a broad grin, found him.

  ‘This weather is not natural,’ complained Conrad.

  ‘As I said, Master Conrad, Samogitia is a wet kingdom. But victory must warm your heart, surely?’

  Conrad’s boots squelched in the mud as he and hundreds of others trudged from the rise back to camp, which he hoped had not been raided by the enemy. Many were hobbling and being assisted by their comrades, others had blood pouring from wounds. No one bothered about the enemy wounded littering the ground among the heaps of dead, some crying out for water, others just groaning in pain, their lifeblood oozing into the waterlogged ground. Werner was going among Odenpah’s garrison and immediately after made a report to Conrad.

  ‘No fatalities, master, but half have broken wrists, ankles or fingers.’

  Conrad held up his own left hand. ‘I know how they feel.’

  ‘You see,’ said Lamekins whose boyish enthusiasm was starting to annoy him, ‘only minor injuries. A small price to pay for a great victory. After his losses at Mesoten and suffering many more here Duke Ykintas will not be bothering Kurland for the foreseeable future.’

  Only Lamekins was thinking of victory. Everyone else was concentrating on getting out of the wind and sleet, resting and getting some warm food inside them. The king embraced him before taking himself off to his own camp where news of the casualties the Kurs suffered on the right flank might dampen his high spirits. Conrad’s own spirits were raised by two strokes of good fortune. Firstly, the Samogitians had not raided the camp and secondly, those left behind to guard it were able to get fires going to cook porridge and stew to fortify tired bodies.