Food and a change of clothing revived spirits and the sleet finally stopped as the light began to fade, though the northerly wind still chilled man and beast. Conrad bound his broken finger and Leatherface, not a scratch on him as usual, used a splint and sling to secure Hans’ broken arm. Soon everyone in camp was talking of the Battle of Broken bones on account of the number of broken, fractured and sprained limbs the Army of the Wolf had suffered.

  ‘Clever bastard, that Lamekins,’ remarked Leatherface, tying off Hans’ sling. ‘He knew exactly how the enemy would fight and what would be the outcome, even if we had to fight in a snow storm.’

  ‘Sleet,’ Conrad corrected him.

  ‘What now?’ asked Hans, nodding in appreciation to the mercenary.

  ‘Now we return to Mesoten,’ said Conrad. ‘We have suffered mercifully few casualties but it would be foolish to advance further into enemy territory.’

  It was not the opinion of Jaan and Arri, both of whom had fought their first battle, tasted victory and emerged unharmed. They were very animated when they and the rest of the garrison stood on parade in front of Conrad’s tent that evening. The wind had finally dropped, the clouds had disappeared and stars twinkled in a clear, icily cool night. All the men wore new, clean surcoats, though half a dozen were propping themselves up with makeshift crutches and more had arms and hands bound with bandages and splints.

  ‘You acquitted yourselves well today,’ Conrad told them, ‘and God has seen to it that we still have a full garrison. Tomorrow we will be marching back to Mesoten.’

  There was an audible groan and Jaan looked most disappointed.

  ‘We should follow the enemy and finish him off, master.’

  ‘Silence!’ barked Werner, ‘master on parade. The next man who speaks out of turn will be flogged.’

  ‘Stand at ease,’ ordered Conrad. ‘If any of you have an opinion you think I should hear then speak freely.’

  Werner frowned, unused to such informality, but Conrad could see that his men were chafing at the bit and thought it useful for them to get any frustrations out of their system rather than brood on them over the coming days.

  ‘The enemy is finished,’ said Arri to murmurs of agreement.

  ‘Do you know Duke Ykintas personally, Arri?’ asked Conrad.

  ‘No master.’

  ‘Then how do you know that his army has been destroyed? What we fought today might have been a vanguard, a mere fragment of the forces he is able to assemble.’

  ‘One Sword Brother is worth a hundred pagans,’ boasted Jaan. ‘We are better trained, better armed and better than any pagan army.’

  They clearly felt invincible and Conrad was loath to bring them back down to earth but he had no option.

  ‘You should all savour your victory, for you have surely earned it. But I will not snatch defeat from the jaws of victory by embarking on an exercise in folly. And to continue on would be the height of folly.’

  ‘What of King Lamekins, Master,’ asked Arri, ‘what will he do?’

  ‘He will follow the advice of Master Conrad.’

  Conrad turned to see Lamekins himself standing nearby, flanked by four of his huge axe men. The king was dressed in a new gleaming suit of mail armour and had a fur-lined cloak around his shoulders.

  ‘If I may address your knights, Master Conrad.’

  Conrad nodded, ‘Please do, majesty.’

  ‘Even as I speak Duke Ykintas will be writing messages to his princes to muster their men to fight us. That means either fighting his fresh forces while we are wounded and short of supplies, or retreating and meeting the Samogitians at a time and place of our own choosing. Logic dictates that we adopt the latter course.’

  ‘You could order the rest of your army to join us, majesty. It is well known the Kurs are undefeated.’

  Werner glared at Jaan for his impudent outburst but Lamekins, clearly enjoying himself, was glad to reply.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Brother Jaan, majesty.’

  ‘Well, Brother Jaan, an army will not remain undefeated for long if its commander allows arrogance to dictate his strategy. The Kur army exists to protect Kurland, not conquer the other kingdoms of Lithuania.’

  ‘You are all dismissed,’ said Conrad. ‘Make sure that your weapons and armour are clean for tomorrow’s inspection.’

  Werner brought them to attention and gave the order to fall out. Lamekins walked over to Conrad.

  ‘Young men who have experienced victory are eager to taste the same elixir again. I was the same.’

  ‘And I,’ admitted Conrad, ‘though the more battles I take part in I treasure being alive and intact more than I do the thirst for glory. You think Ykintas will attack us again?’

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ replied Lamekins, ‘but we will not give him the opportunity to do so.’

  ‘We need a day’s grace to rest, majesty.’

  Lamekins concurred. ‘Yes, it is important that our withdrawal does not turn into a rout.’

  Riders were sent out the next day to search for any signs of the enemy and while they were doing their work Conrad and hundreds of others attended to the chores that came with being on campaign. Conrad’s warlords sent parties of men to scour the battlefield to ensure that none of their comrades had been left behind but also to put any enemy warriors still alive out of their misery. Werner sent Arri and Jaan with them to assist in the grisly work.

  Conrad and Hans sat on stools outside their tent trying to clean their mail armour. The battle had been fought in very wet conditions, which meant it would quickly rust if not treated. Immediately after the battle the chain mail had been cleaned with dry cloths. But now they rubbed a combination of beeswax and olive oil on the metal links to both clean and protect them. The process of cleaning hauberks, chausses and helms took hours, after which scabbards, belts and sheaths were treated with neatsfoot oil and lanolin to keep them waterproof. Neatsfoot was made from oil rendered and purified from the shinbones and feet of cattle. Because of his broken arm Hans was unable to clean his equipment properly and so Conrad did it for him. The brother knights and sergeants also had to clean the crossbows dumped in the mud during the battle, Leatherface hovering over them like a mother hen as they did so. But at least the weather improved, the day dawning overcast but at least dry. The Kurs burned their dead on a great funeral pyre filling their own camp and that of the Army of the Wolf with the aroma of roasting human flesh.

  Everyone was glad to strike camp the day after and march north back to Mesoten. Sir Richard and Sir Paul, revelling in each other’s company, providing the rear-guard with their knights. Lamekins sent couriers back to Talsi to announce that he had won a great victory in Samogitia. Conrad wondered if the part played by the Sword Brothers and Army of the Wolf in the Battle of Broken Bones would be passed over by the Kur king.

  Chapter 11

  Gotland was a Swedish island but the main town of Visby was German owned. The end of the wars between King Valdemar of Denmark and the north German nobles had brought peace and prosperity to the western Baltic, and where peace flourished so did trade. Freed from Danish control Lübeck had also prospered, its merchants establishing trading posts throughout the Baltic, including Visby. They bartered with their Norwegian and Swedish counterparts to sell German grain in Scandinavia and negotiated to ship iron and copper in the other direction. But Lübeck and its merchants were special because they were the destination of the ‘white gold’ that could command a king’s ransom.

  A significant portion of the diet of Christian Europe was made up of fish since meat was expensive and the church insisted on many fast days, in addition to forbidding the eating of meat on Fridays. Lübeck’s fishermen caught vast amounts of Baltic herring and because the city was at one end of the ‘salt road’ salting could easily preserve the herring. The salt mines at Lüneburg were only seventy miles south of the city and the ‘white gold’ was carried on the backs of mules or loaded into oxen carts for transportation along the ‘salt road’ to Lübeck where it was used for preserving fish and meat or transported on to Norway, Denmark, Sweden, Russia and Riga, for an appropriate price. And that price was high. Salt was shipped out of Lübeck and money poured into the city as a result. Furs from Russia were also shipped to the city where they were traded for salt and gold.

  There were Russian merchants in Visby albeit in a minority compared to Germans, but the pirates had now all gone. Visby was too important as a trading centre to allow criminals to use its harbour. For years the port had been a sanctuary for raiders but the authorities, supported by the Cistercian priests on the island, had moved against them. Some had been quietly asked to leave, others had been seized, tried and publicly executed as a warning to others. But Visby was no longer a haven for the lawless.

  Stark saw the rotting corpses hanging at the entrance to the harbour when his skeid rowed into its waters. The grinning skulls, in the process of being picked clean by crows, and maggot-infested bodies presented a ghastly spectacle, which was precisely the point. If the message had been too subtle for those with dull minds, signs hung around their necks stating ‘the fate of pirates’ emphasised the point. The prince was not a pirate; the port authorities knew he was the brother of the Oeselian king. But they also knew that he traded in slaves and was not averse to attacking ships in the eastern Baltic, though as yet no warrant had been issued for his arrest. The Cistercians were eager for him and his crew to be banished from Visby and Gotland at the very least, though what they really desired was to see his pagan body dangling at the end of a rope. But for the moment they bided their time.

  Once his longship had been moored at one of the wooden jetties extending out from the harbour’s stone quay he issued his usual orders to his deputy: pay the berthing fee at the harbour master’s office and give the men money so they could enjoy themselves in Visby’s many alehouses, gambling dens and brothels. The crew drew lots to determine who would remain on board to guard the boat while the others enjoyed themselves. Two warriors escorted the prince down the jetty and through the warehouses fronting the harbour to the new brick-built ‘factories’ that had sprung up in the port. Every merchant of note had one of these ‘factories’, which were grandiose warehouses comprising a ground floor where buying and selling took place, a first floor that was a warehouse and a second floor that housed an office and living quarters.

  Stark brushed aside an officious trader who welcomed him when he walked into one of the ‘factories’. He was not there to barter over the pallets heaped with furs or barrels of grain arranged in neat rows. Two ugly, heavily armed men barring access to the wooden steps leading to the upper floors moved aside as Stark gave them a cursory nod. They were well acquainted with the Oeselian prince and the nature of his business. He walked briskly up the stairs with his men until he came to the office on the second floor, the slatted window beside the door providing an excellent view of the ship-filled harbour. He knocked at the door, standing by the window as the pair of ugly brutes who had followed them guarded the office door. There was no hint of threat, just mutual disdain; both sides had done this many times and familiarity had bred boredom as well as contempt.

  ‘What?’ was the irritable reply.

  Stark went in.

  ‘Ah, Prince Stark, take a seat. It’s always good to see an old friend.’

  Stark pulled up a chair and placed it in front of the pristine pine desk that Tagd One-Eye sat behind.

  Gone were the days when the prince met the grubby slave trader in his stinking, mouldy hut in a back street behind the harbour. Now he was a merchant made rich by selling blonde-haired young pagan boys and girls to wealthy Christians.

  ‘Drink?’ smiled Tagd, his eye patch still a piece of old leather.

  Stark nodded, unsure what to make of the clear liquid Tagd poured into two silver cups. He handed one to the prince who sipped at the fruity liquid.

  ‘Wine from the Moselle region of Germany,’ bragged Tagd, ‘finest quality.’

  He took a great gulp and emptied his cup. Stark thought the drink pleasant enough.

  ‘So, prince,’ smiled the slaver, ‘how can I help you?’

  ‘I have a new batch for you, all under ten summers, half boys, half girls.’

  Tagd refilled his cup and offered Stark more wine. The prince refused.

  ‘Alas, prince, the price has dropped substantially since the last time we spoke. I can only offer you a third of what I paid you for the last batch.’

  Stark put down his cup. ‘Is this some sort of joke?’

  Tagd pursed his lips. ‘No joke, prince. You see there was a famine in Novgorod and the people there were so desperate to save their children that they offered them to foreign merchants.’

  Stark sneered at him.

  ‘It’s true,’ insisted Tagd. ‘Visby’s merchants have a branch in Novgorod and, well, to cut a long story short I brokered a nice little deal whereby I purchased the little darlings for a nominal fee. I grant you it was a bit of a job lot, some being a bit older than I would have liked and not all were blonde and blue eyed, or even virgins come to that. Still, at least they didn’t starve to death.’

  Stark was not amused. ‘What about my goods?’

  ‘I will purchase them, of course, but the price will be a lot lower, as I said. Supply and demand, you see. They are currently on Oesel?’

  Stark, fuming, nodded. He did not need the money but raiding enemy territory was in his blood and since the peace agreement between his older brother and the Sword Brothers the coastlines of Estonia and Livonia were out of bounds.

  ‘We live in changing times, prince,’ said Tagd. ‘A few years ago the route between Germany and Riga was a dangerous one, what with ships having to run the gauntlet between your people and the Kurs. But now you and the Kurs are friends of the Sword Brothers.’

  Stark’s ears pricked up. ‘The Sword Brothers are the enemies of the Kurs. They and my brother raided their coast not long ago.’

  Tagd shook his head. ‘Allow me to update you. The Sword Brothers are now allies of the Kurs, whose king has converted to the Christian faith. The Sword Brothers will be asking your brother to convert next, you mark my words.’

  It was not anger that gripped Stark as he and his men sailed back to Oesel it was shame. Shame that his people, a warrior race, had been reduced to farming the Blessed Isle while their enemies outmanoeuvred and laughed at them. As prince and brother of the king he was entitled to call a meeting of all the earls on the island and did so when he returned to Kuressaare, Oesel’s capital and the site of his own and the king’s longhouses. He first visited the lawgiver to announce that he was summoning the earls, which was his right as the brother of the king. The lawgiver gave his assent, after which Stark visited Sigurd and informed the king of the summoning.

  In theory every freeman on the island was entitled to attend the gathering though the king’s hall was not large enough to accommodate thousands. Instead the earls, who were the leaders of their communities, would attend and speak for their chiefs and freemen. Oesel was beautiful that summer: warm, light breezes ruffling the rye growing in abundance round settlements and being gently ripened by the sun. There was no famine on the Blessed Isle, no early frosts to blight the crops and turn the fields into black, sticky expanses. Sheep and cows grazed on the lush grass to produce great quantities of milk and the forests were rich in deer, elk and boar that were hunted for their meat and hides. It was a land at peace and prospering and for men like Stark the idyll was an anathema.

  It was a mercifully cool and breezy day when the great gathering took place. The King’s Hall was already filled with the aroma of leather, sweat and flatulence when Sigurd entered his hall, though at least the open doors and vents in the unusually high ceiling allowed foul fumes to escape and fresh air to enter. Because it was early, those invited to attend having arrived in Kuressaare days earlier and camping with their escorts outside the settlement, the temperature was bearable. Only Sigurd’s guards were allowed to carry weapons in the King’s Hall, everyone else was required to leave their swords outside.

  The hall was packed, the tiered benches on both sides of its interior filled with long-haired, bearded warlords, all wearing tunics, leggings and boots but no armour. The king took his place on the bench at the front, flanked by his guards, behind him Bothvar, his most loyal earl and adviser. In the middle of the floor were stone hearths for fires, though they were not needed today. Running down the centre of the hall were two rows of massive oak posts supporting the steeply pitched roof.

  All eyes were upon Stark who stood rock-like in the middle of the assembly, his blue eyes burning with anger. He and Sigurd had never been close but over the years the gulf between them had grown significantly. Sigurd was intelligent, contemplative and never one to make rash decisions whereas Stark was like his dead brother Eric: brave, quick to temper and reckless. Kalf, the youngest of the royal brothers who sat opposite Sigurd, was brave enough but always heeded Stark’s advice.

  ‘The longships and tall men.’

  Stark’s deep voice lanced through the air.

  ‘Oeselians have always been warriors first and farmers second since the beginning of time. The gods bequeathed us the Blessed Isle in return for our sacred promise that we would never let our enemies rest and would always take the fight to them. Over generations the Baltic came to fear the longships and tall men who sailed from Oesel, men who crushed their enemies and sailed home with the lamentations of their foes’ women ringing in their ears.’

  The men stamped their feet on the wooden boards to demonstrate their approval of his words. Sigurd made no movement and stared with cold eyes at his brother. Stark raised his arms to call for quiet.

  ‘But now our ships lie idle, our swords rust in their scabbards and our axes become blunt. My friends I have to tell you that while we sleep our enemies are active and working against us.’

  His eyes darted left and right to see concerned and confused expressions.