by Peter Darman
Conrad sat in Kuressaare’s king’s hall and stretched out his legs. The wind had finally dispelled the noxious air that had hung around the settlement, he had had the chance to rest after the battle and Hastein and the remaining members of Stark’s army had surrendered themselves to the victors’ mercy. Volquin, pacing up and down the centre of the hall admiring the interior rows of massive oak posts that supported the steeply pitched roof, had been generous. He had allowed the Oeselian warriors to return to their homes and had despatched Sir Richard, Sir Paul and Master Rudolf with two hundred horsemen to accompany them north to where their women and children were located, to ensure they got back to their homes safely.
‘With many of their menfolk dead harvesting crops will be difficult,’ said Rameke sitting opposite Conrad, the empty stone hearths in the centre of the hall between them.
‘But at least their homes and farms still stand,’ retorted Volquin, ‘and in time we will bring settlers from Germany to colonise the island.’
‘Not all of it, grand master.’
Lamekins came into the hall escorted by Gintaras, the commander of his axe men, a brute of a man, though surprisingly light on his feet.
Conrad stood and he and Volquin bowed their heads to the Kur king. Rameke, out of courtesy, also rose to his feet, Kaja doing the same. Though they did not bow. But Lamekins, all smiles, went over to the queen and bowed his head to her, laying a hand on his chest.
‘Long have I desired to meet you, Queen Kaja. Master Conrad has told me much about you.’
Kaja gave him a beautiful smile, charmed by his genuineness.
‘And you, King Rameke, brother of Master Conrad and leader of the Liv people. It is an honour to meet you.’
‘And you, lord king,’ replied Rameke.
Gintaras said nothing, merely nodding to Conrad and folding his arms across his broad chest. Lamekins sat on one of the benches where formerly great Oeselian earls and kings had sat.
‘So, at long last the Oeselian spectre has been banished, never to return. All that remains is to clarify the division of the island. To which end,’ he pulled a rolled parchment from his tunic, ‘I have this from the Bishop of Riga.’
He handed it out to Volquin, who walked over, took it and read the contents.
‘I trust all is in order, grand master?’
Volquin nodded and handed the document back.
‘The land on Oesel is more fertile than that in Kurland,’ stated Lamekins, ‘so I will be importing farmers from my kingdom immediately. I must congratulate you, grand master. Not burning or destroying the farmsteads on the island will make their task much easier.’
‘What of the Oeselians, majesty?’ asked Conrad.
Lamekins shrugged. ‘What of them? They are a beaten people and must accept their fate. As long as they obey our laws they have nothing to fear.’
The Bishop of Riga, encouraged by the Duke of Riga who had financed the whole campaign and who had provided the ships to transport the Kur army to Oesel, had granted Lamekins ownership of a third of the island, though the Sword Brothers and by extension the Holy Church took control of the whole of Hilu and Muhu. Nevertheless a third of Oesel was worth having with its rich soil, seas teeming with fish and forests filled with deer and elk. The dozens of farms and settlements would yield greater harvests than those in Kurland and would ensure that Lamekins’ people would never again face the prospect of starvation. The southernmost tip of Oesel was less than twenty miles from the Kur coast, which meant that food could be shipped easily from the island to Lamekins’ people. But not in longships.
In one of the saddest ceremonies that Conrad had witnessed every Oeselian longship was sailed to Kuressaare Bay where they were burnt. Every karv, skeid and snekke was assembled in the harbour, beached, loaded with brushwood and set alight. Oeselian men, now forbidden from carrying weapons, stood in silence, their women weeping, as one by one the warships became burning wrecks. Conrad stood with the other masters of his order and watched the destruction of the ships that had once ruled the eastern Baltic, whose appearance had struck terror into the hearts of pagan and Christian alike. Some were decades old and had made dozens of voyages. Now they were reduced to black husks on the shore of the bay. It was the end not only of a fleet of ships but also a way of life, one that would never return.
Chapter 2
The years had been kind to Domash Tverdislavich. He was now in his early fifties and if his dark brown hair and beard were showing signs of grey they were still long and thick rather than thin and patchy. His face was still handsome, albeit with a few worry lines, and his build powerful. Admittedly the days of leading raids into pagan Liv and Estonian lands were long gone but he was still able to amuse himself with hunting, drinking, gambling and whoring. He was a notorious philanderer, well known for seducing the wives and daughters of the city’s boyars, which occasionally resulted in him having to pay substantial sums of money to the aggrieved family to purchase their silence and loyalty. Only rarely did he have to fight single combats with outraged husbands and fathers, and then his skill with a sword served him well, though he tried his utmost not to kill his foe. And he was careful to seduce only the wives of minor boyars and merchants, desirous to retain the loyalty of the city’s most powerful families. He himself was from an ancient and powerful dynasty, though from Novgorod. And it was the patronage of that city that had made him posadnik – mayor – of Pskov.
Pskov was known as the ‘younger brother’ of Novgorod but, being set amid fertile agricultural lands, was certainly not an impoverished sibling. For two hundred years it had flourished as a trading centre between Kiev and Novgorod, linked by waterways forming part of a strategic trade route between the Baltic and the Black Sea. Not only did Pskov reap the reward of its favourable position on this trade route, it was also an exporter of long-stemmed flax used to produce clothing, bedding, fishing nets, rope and wicks for candles. Thousands of bales of flax were exported annually to Livonia. Indeed, the flax trade was as important and nearly as lucrative to Pskov as the fur trade was to Novgorod.
It came as a great surprise to Pskov’s boyar families when Mayor Domash announced that he was to be married, to a princess of Smolensk no less. It was because Smolensk had signed a trade treaty with Riga that Novgorod’s veche desired closer ties with the city to offset what it saw as the increasing influence Livonia and its religion was having over the Russian people. Smolensk for its part was eager for alliances as the fearsome Tartars were approaching its borders. For his part Domash was not averse to Novgorod’s proposal. Not only would he be marrying a girl at least half his age, it would enhance his position and power substantially.
The betrothal ceremony for Domash and the young Princess Ivanna had taken place in the city’s Holy Trinity Cathedral, the grand white stone building in Pskov’s kremlin. It was as important as the marriage service itself and after the princess had been inspected for chastity she had been given a ring sent by the groom’s mother and presented with a cross. Rings had been exchanged and the metropolitan of the city had sanctified the union. To all intents and purposes betrothal was as binding as the marriage ceremony itself.
‘Gone where?’
The commander standing in front of Domash swallowed and avoided eye contact as he stood spear shaft-stiff in front of his master.
‘I do not know, lord.’
Domash rose slowly from the chair, the great banner of Pskov showing a golden snow leopard on a blue background hanging behind him on the wall of the palace’s hall.
‘Have you checked her quarters?’
‘Yes, lord. She and her women servants have left the palace, lord. A stable hand saw them leave earlier.’
‘A stable hand!’
Domash’s roar made the commander jump. The mayor stepped from the wooden dais and began circling the commander.
‘The Princess Ivanna is my betrothed, to all intents and purposes my wife, and you and your men have allowed her to walk out of the palace, kremlin and th
e city without batting an eyelid.’
‘The princess may go where she pleases, lord, they were your orders,’ answered the commander, clutching tightly his helmet in the crook of his arm. Perspiration began to form on his upper lip.
‘Where has the princess gone?’ asked Domash. ‘She cannot have left the city when the gates were closed for the night, unless your men have been so lax in their duties that they left them open.’
‘The gates were closed last night, lord.’
‘Then she can’t have gone far. Find her.’
The commander saluted and hurriedly retreated from the chamber. Guards standing at the doors closed them after he had left.
‘Idiot,’ spat Domash.
‘What do you expect?’
He rolled his eyes before turning to look at Gleb sitting in a chair by the side of the dais. Unlike Domash the Skomorokh was showing his age, his hair more grey than silver and his beard more wispy than full. But he still wore flamboyant, brightly coloured clothes and plucked at his gusli, the multi-stringed instrument favoured by his kind.
Domash returned to his chair. ‘I do not know what you mean.’
‘Do you not? Then let me enlighten you. You agree to marry this poor girl from Smolensk but when she arrives in Pskov you continue to live a dissolute lifestyle, culminating in your betrothed discovering you in bed with one of the city’s most infamous whores.’
‘How dare you speak to me in that manner.’
‘I dare,’ responded Gleb.
Domash Tverdislavich was a follower of the Orthodox religion, or at least he attended its church services and was polite to its officials, but he disliked the pompous and self-serving attitude of the church’s prelates and kept them well away from his court. In truth he had little time for religion but listened to the blunt-speaking Gleb, not only because he was not afraid to tell the mayor the truth, however unpalatable, but also because he was a Skomorokh.
The Skomorokhs were the last remnants of Russia’s pagan past; groups of travelling minstrels, puppeteers, magicians, actors, dancers and guardians of epic songs and tales telling the stories of the old gods. They travelled from town to town and entertained people with their talents, including fortune telling and healing. Many Skomorokhs were also pagan priests who could tell the future. Every Skomorokh dressed in brightly coloured knee-length tunics and played a variety of musical instruments, including the gusli, gudok and domra. The Orthodox Church hated them and condemned them as the ‘devil’s servants’, seeing their musical instruments as proof of their devilry because only trumpets and drums were sanctioned by the church. All other church music was vocal.
But the common people loved the Skomorokhs and flocked to see them and seek their advice. The church may have held sway in the cities and large towns but in the countryside the old ways still had a powerful influence on the common folk. It was for this reason that Domash kept Gleb close for it was believed that this particular Skomorokh had the ear of Perun himself, the highest pagan god.
‘You cannot expect a young woman of spirit to put up with your indiscretions,’ said Gleb.
‘Indiscretions? How I live my life has nothing to do with my forthcoming marriage, which is taking place because Novgorod and Smolensk desire closer relations.’ He stopped and looked at Gleb.
‘What do you mean woman of spirit?’
Gleb shook his head and sighed. ‘Have you actually ever talked to your intended?’
Domash screwed up his face. ‘Of course.’
‘Then you would know that she has her own mind. She is young and filled with the fire that comes with one of tender years. She will not bend to your will easily and nor will she stand by idly while you humiliate her.’
The mystic looked at Domash whose face was a blank canvas.
‘Why any woman would want to marry you is beyond me.’
Domash wagged a finger in his face. ‘Why? I would have thought that was obvious. To share in the power and prestige that comes with being the wife of the Posadnik of Pskov.’
Gleb laughed. ‘According to your ridiculous religion the wives of noblemen are nothing more than chattels, expected to be chaste, obedient and pious and thus akin to a house slave. Well, when she witnessed your whoring at first hand she saw a glimpse of her future and decided it was not to her liking. She has left you.’
‘I will get her back and when I do she will be sorry.’
Gleb stood and walked over to the mayor, leaning close so their faces were but inches apart.
‘Let her go, lord. Wife and child, hearth and home, it is not for you. If you pursue this matter you will regret it.’
Domash waved him away. ‘It is now a question of honour. I am betrothed to the Princess Ivanna and am duty bound to bring her back to her home.’
Gleb scratched his beard. ‘Home or prison? And I would suggest that her fleeing is a matter of pride rather than honour. If you had any honour then you would not have humiliated her. Most remiss.’
‘I am within my rights to have her hanged once she is apprehended,’ said Domash darkly, ‘and you for that matter.’
Gleb had heard it all before. ‘If you have tired of my advice I can depart forthwith. It is of no consequence and would spare your executioner the task of hanging an old man.’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ snapped Domash.
Gleb knew that the mayor would never willingly dispose of his services and so did Domash who knew that while his soldiers ensured the loyalty of Pskov’s population, the presence of Gleb beside him ensured the allegiance of those living in the countryside. Every one of the dozens of villages surrounding the city possessed a prominent oak, on which was carved an image of Perun, the god of storms, thunder and lightning who was also the patron of soldiers and noble warriors. The villagers paid homage to the image and held festivals near the tree, as they had done for hundreds of years. They considered it highly auspicious that the ruler of Pskov had by his side the Skomorokh Gleb, whose name meant ‘heir of god’.
‘I beg you, lord, not to pursue the princess for she will lead to your doom.’
Domash was shocked by Gleb’s words and for a moment worried. But his adviser knew his lord too well and was well acquainted with his pride, the virtue that was the downfall of many men.
‘She is just a girl, Gleb, and I will have her back.’
*****
A hundred and fifty miles north of Pskov another pagan halted in the sun-dappled forest. The deer, alerted to the fact that it was being stalked, had its head up, its ears twitching and its nose sniffing the air. But he was downwind of it and while the beast’s eyes darted around the forest he knew the deer could not see or smell him. The beast’s instincts told him that danger was close but his senses were failing him.
He took the shot in the way his father had taught him, standing with his feet shoulder-width apart and shoulders angled only slightly away from the target so as not to draw the bowstring across his chest. His knees were bent slightly to maintain his balance. He had already picked his spot on the target and was staring at it as he raised the bow up and drew back the sinew bowstring. By the time the arrow was pointing at the beast he had drawn it back to its full extent. He inhaled as he raised the bow before releasing the string from his fingers. The arrow hissed through the foliage and struck the deer broadside, piercing both lungs. It bolted away.
‘Tracker,’ he called, ‘go and fetch it.’
A grubby individual among the small crowd standing around fifty paces behind Kristjan ran forward, passed him and followed the broken branches and disturbed undergrowth.
Kristjan looked at young Alexander beside him. ‘He won’t get far, a hundred paces perhaps. You take the next shot.’
Now in his fourteenth year the boy was slowly becoming a man, though retained the gangly stature of someone growing into his limbs. The eldest son of Yaroslav Nevsky, the Thousandman of Novgorod and a leading member of the city’s Council of Lords, he was a rather serious child but one possessed of an enquiring mind
. He always looked forward to the summer when Kristjan, called Lord Murk by some, the wild pagan who spent the winters in the savage wilderness of Karelia, went hunting with his father. Kristjan was a legend in the city, the man who had single-handedly rid Novgorod of the tyrant Rostislav, or so the stories told.
The day yielded a rich haul of kills, Yaroslav’s servants lining up the dead deer, boar and elk for everyone to admire. The sun was beginning to drop in the west when the hunters settled down to eat some of their kill, Alexander assisting the cooks. Skinner, one of Kristjan’s men and an expert with a blade, showed him how to gut and prepare a carcass.
Kristjan sat with Alexander and his father at a makeshift table nearby as his men devoured great quantities of meat. The appetising aroma of cooking flesh filled the air. Yaroslav’s guards sat at another table, keeping their distance from Kristjan’s wild pagans.
‘The council has been badgering me to get you to be my deputy,’ said Yaroslav to Kristjan.
Kristjan winked at Alexander. ‘So you can convert me to your faith?’
‘It is a requirement for joining the council, yes.’
‘My answer is the same as the last time you asked me,’ said Kristjan. ‘You have my friendship and loyalty but I will not abandon the gods I worship. Besides, I have no interest in the government of Novgorod.’
‘But Novgorod is interested in you, my friend,’ replied Yaroslav. ‘You are rich, powerful and popular. Some men would sell their very souls to possess such qualities.’
Kristjan shrugged. ‘Dmitriy is rich. I own only the clothes on my back and the horse I ride.’
He jerked a thumb at his boisterous men indulging themselves. ‘The only power I have is over those ruffians who cause your men to frown.’
It was all false, of course. Dmitriy Hoidja was Kristjan’s Russian business partner who lived permanently in the city and who oversaw the processing and sale of the pelts Kristjan brought back from Karelia. They also owned large tracts of land around Novgorod where flax grew, which was also harvested and sold both in the city and abroad. Yaroslav liked Kristjan and his son regarded him as a hero, but many among the veche, the political body ruling the city, were nervous that Lord Murk could summon a great number of armed men should he wish to do so.