They surrounded a run-down barn that was missing half of its roof. A lazy curl of gray smoke from within the barn indicated the barn was used as the communal mess. Andreas guessed the Heermeister, the Livonian Grandmaster, had sectioned off a private space for himself underneath the portion of the building that was still covered.
A corral of rope and logs kept the horses sequestered on the eastern side of the compound, and several pieces of sailcloth had been stitched together to make a clumsy shelter and windscreen. Andreas would have set aside part of the barn for the horses—that was its original function, after all—and let the men sleep in their tents, but the Livonians clearly thought differently about their mounts.
The entire compound was protected by a fragmentary bulwark made of debris piled behind hastily dug trenches, clumps of rubble, and stacked logs. It wasn’t defensible, not like the Mongolian ramparts, but it was enough of a barrier to grant the knights the illusion of being fortified and entrenched. Half of the winning strategy in any battle is making your enemy believe you are stronger than you are, Andreas thought, glancing back at Hans, who was perched—perfectly still—on the wooden beam like a hunting bird, waiting to be loosed.
“How many knights?” Andreas whispered. “Men with armor and swords.”
Hans shrugged and, without losing his balance, held up both hands, fingers spread. He opened and closed his hands.
“More than twice ten?” Andreas interpreted. Hans nodded.
Andreas peered over the lip of the barrier hiding them, trying to get a count of his own. There were nearly three dozen horses—near as he could tell—which didn’t conflict with Hans’s number. Each knight had more than one horse. And there were more than twenty men milling around. Some were men-at-arms; some were squires and craftsmen retained by the order—noncombatants. Not all of them were knights. Still, more than twenty was as good a guess as any.
There weren’t twenty full knights at the Shield-Brethren camp. Some of the young ones might be ready in a few years, but most—like the boy Haakon had been—had not been tested. Their swords were plain and their pommels were blank. They had promise, but they weren’t ready.
A group of Livonians was drilling in the northwest corner of the compound, and Andreas settled down on the beam to watch. After a little while, he shook his head and sat down, letting his legs dangle off the wood.
“Their drillmaster must be blind in one eye,” he explained in response to Hans’s quizzical glance. Seeing no change in the boy’s expression, he tried to explain and then gave up after a minute or two. “Clumsy,” he summarized, miming dropping his weapon and cutting his fingers off. “Not very dangerous.”
Hans nodded and smiled. “Very clumsy,” he said. “And noisy.”
“Some things never change,” Andreas chuckled. “Okay,” he nodded, “I’ve seen enough. Let’s go find that drink house of the Heermeister’s.”
Hans dropped off the beam and made for the gap in the rubble. Andreas was right behind him, but he paused when he caught sight of the church spire framed in the gap. “Wait,” he said. He stared at the church for a moment, thinking fiercely, and then a large smile broke across his face. “Do you remember the priest who was supposed to bring the message from the Flower Knight?” he asked, and when Hans nodded, he continued. “Let’s stop by the church, then. I may be in need of...confession.” He smiled. “Yes, let us call it that. I have something to confess. If I remember how that works.”
I can’t get into the Mongolian camp, he thought, but I don’t need to. Not if they opt to come out.
*
An hour later, after walking past the front of The Frogs—noting the Livonian presence in the street—Hans and Andreas ducked around the building and found a sheltered spot along the back wall. Hans showed him one of several peepholes, and while they waited for the three Shield-Brethren who had been shadowing them all day to catch up, he looked for the Livonians inside.
There had been seven horses in front of the drinking house—three hobbled and four whose riders were milling about aimlessly. The escort, unsure how long they were going to be left waiting.
Andreas felt the presence of other people behind him and turned his head slightly to acknowledge the arrival of his shadows. “Seven,” Eilif said in way of a report, confirming Andreas’s count.
Andreas nodded at the hole in the wall. “The Heermeister is inside, with a pair of bodyguards.”
“Rutger said to not engage them,” Maks reminded Andreas.
“I think he was referring to their entire host,” Andreas suggested.
Styg choked, caught trying to laugh and inhale at the same time. Andreas glanced at him, trying not to dwell on the pale stippling of a beard the young man was trying to grow.
Rutger, for all his caution, was right, Andreas reminded himself. Starting a fracas with the Livonians would only end up getting one of his charges hurt—or killed, even. They were his responsibility, and he needed to be sure they got back to the chapter house alive.
He put his eye to the hole again. The Livonian Grandmaster—based on his position directly between the two other men sporting white surcoats—was a short man with thick-hewn features and stringy brown hair that hung to his shoulders. He was leering at the servingwoman as she refilled his tankard. It was fairly obvious what was on his mind. The two bodyguards seemed alert and proficient soldiers. They’d react quickly to any threat, and he’d have to deal with them decisively if he was going to get close to the Heermeister.