As Dust to the Wind

by Peter Darman

  Yaroslav let the matter rest. The day had been enjoyable and the mood was relaxed. He saw little merit in provoking his friend. But the atmosphere changed when a courier arrived and passed a note to the Thousandman. Kristjan’s men noted the rider’s arrival, suddenly becoming very quiet, peering expectantly at Yaroslav as he read the note.

  ‘Trouble?’ asked Kristjan casually.

  Yaroslav looked at his friend. ‘Perhaps. The Mayor of Pskov has requested Novgorod’s assistance in getting his wife-to-be back.’

  Kristjan laughed. ‘This mayor must be a woman if he needs help taming his wife.’

  ‘It is not as easy as that, Kristjan. The woman has sought sanctuary beyond Pskov’s borders, in Dorpat.’

  Kristjan touched the torc at his neck and rose to his feet.

  ‘Dorpat?’

  His men also stood and made their way to their master’s side, sensing trouble.

  ‘You will give this mayor aid?’ asked Kristjan.

  Yaroslav nodded at his son. ‘I have little choice. Domash Tverdislavich is Alexander’s godfather and in any case the affairs of Pskov are the affairs of Novgorod.’

  He saw a glint in Kristjan’s eyes.

  ‘Will there be war between Novgorod and Dorpat?’

  ‘That will be for the veche to decide,’ replied Yaroslav, ‘but according to this letter Domash is already on the march and is requesting troops to be sent from the city so he has forced its hand.’

  ‘You will be leading those troops?’

  Yaroslav sighed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I will be coming with you.’

  *****

  Conrad stared at the food on the wooden platter placed before him. A heap of bloodless white sausages, regarded as a delicacy in Estonia. The table also contained an abundance of rye bread, cheese and small pies filled with diced meat. It was a feast fit for a king, or at least an army of returning heroes. Meals were always eaten in silence in the order and it was so now, but Odenpah’s brother knights and sergeants were basking in collective glory after their victorious campaign on Oesel. The fort’s hall was bursting with a sense of pride. The garrison also believed that they were blessed because although most of the men had suffered cuts and bruises and a smattering of broken bones, no one had been killed.

  The fort had a resident priest now, a thin German Cistercian named Horton, with white hair. He had been sent to the fort by Bishop Hermann at Dorpat. He was strict but not unpleasant and had lived in Estonia a number of years. In addition to his duties of administering services in the chapel, which was a converted storeroom in the inner compound, he liked to travel to nearby villages to hold baptisms for newborns. He lived in the fort, in a hut in the outer compound. Unlike Otto at Wenden he had never been a soldier so there existed a distance between him and Conrad. But then there was a distance between everyone and Odenpah’s castellan.

  After the meal the garrison returned to its duties, novices clearing away the cups and platters before Sergeant Werner gave them another lesson in the martial arts.

  A novice went to pick up Conrad’s platter, still heaped with sausages.

  ‘Leave it,’ he snapped.

  The boy blushed, bowed his head and withdrew. Leatherface, who was talking quietly to Lady Maarja opposite, frowned.

  ‘What’s upset your apple cart?’

  ‘Have you no duties to attend to?’

  The mercenary pointed a finger at him.

  ‘Don’t you get high and mighty with me, Master Conrad. I remember a time when you were a snot-nosed brat fresh off the boat from Germany.’

  Conrad stood, bowed his head to Maarja and walked from the hall.

  ‘That was a long time ago.’

  ‘The same time when you appear to have lost your manners,’ the mercenary called after him.

  It was a curious thing but the platter of bloodless sausages had cast a cloak of melancholy over him. He had been reminded that the dish was a favourite of Hans and he had suddenly felt very alone. He missed his friend, missed all his friends, and realised that he was alone in the world. On campaign his time was fully occupied but periods of peace brought hours to reflect and emphasised his loneliness. As he left the hall he subconsciously turned the silver ring on his finger. He also missed Daina even though she had died many years ago. Perhaps he would lobby Grand Master Volquin to send him to Mesoten so he could occupy his time fighting Lithuanians.

  A sergeant placed himself in front of Conrad and saluted.

  ‘Message from Dorpat, master.’

  ‘What? Oh, thank you.’

  Conrad took the small piece of rolled paper that had been fastened to the leg of a courier pigeon and unrolled it. The sergeant still stood at attention before him.

  ‘Dismissed.’

  Conrad sighed. No doubt it was a missive from Bishop Hermann pestering him regarding some inconsequential matter. He unrolled the paper.

  Russian army approaching Dorpat. Muster your warlords and come with all haste.

  Hermann.

  It took him a few seconds to realise the enormity of the words. A Russian army marching on Dorpat? Part of him was pleased. At least he would be occupied for the foreseeable future. He looked up at the guards in the tower beside the gate giving access to the inner compound. A brass bell hung below the shingle roof.

  ‘Sound assembly.’

  Seconds later the bell was being frantically rung and men and boys were racing to the armoury to equip themselves with weapons and armour. According to standard procedure everyone outside the fort stopped what he or she was doing and made his or her way to the outer gates. The women and children were ushered up the steps leading to the inner compound. While this was going on Conrad went back into the hall and penned messages to Riki, Andres and Hillar to bring their men to Dorpat. The keeper of the courier pigeons, one of Lady Maarja’s Ungannian guards and a foul-mouthed rogue, was his usual unhelpful self when Conrad took the pieces of paper to be fastened to his pigeons. He had written six messages in total, three of which were duplicates, because it was customary to send two pigeons to each destination in case one was brought down by a bird of prey on the way. He watched as the keeper fixed the rolled paper to each pigeon.

  ‘So two to Varbola, two to Kassinurme and two to Leal,’ said Conrad.

  The keeper stopped and glared at him. ‘I’ve done this more years than I care to remember, since you were an infant sucking on your mother’s teat.’

  It seemed to be a day when all and sundry were reminding Conrad of his youth. The keeper began to release the pigeons, which all flew in the same direction: north.

  ‘That’s not the way,’ Conrad said too loudly.

  ‘If you haven’t got anything useful to say then be off with you.’

  Conrad rolled his eyes, turned and walked away but then stopped.

  ‘Wait, I should notify Sir Richard. I will be back.’

  ‘I tingle with excitement.’

  Conrad returned to the hall and penned two more letters to be sent to Lehola, after which he explained to his commanders why the alarm had been sounded. Werner, Leatherface and Falcone gathered in Conrad’s office, a small hut located next to the armoury, containing a stool, small table and pigeonholes on one wall for documents. They stood as their men prepared to defend the walls of the fort.

  ‘I have received a message from Bishop Hermann at Dorpat that a Russian army is approaching the town.’

  ‘The Russians?’ said Leatherface, ‘I thought we had peace with them.’

  ‘As I discovered with the Oeselians,’ replied Conrad, ‘peace appears to be a temporary state of affairs.’

  He looked at Werner. ‘The fort is well stocked?’

  ‘Yes, master, though only provisioned to withstand a short siege.’

  ‘Do not worry about that,’ Conrad assured him, ‘I have alerted Leal, Varbola, Kassinurme and Lehola of the position and they will be marching here forthwith. The bishop wishes me to lead this garrison to Dorpat but we will remain here until the situa
tion becomes clearer and my warlords have mustered their men.’

  ‘You would defy a prince-bishop of the Holy Church?’ asked Falcone, crossing himself.

  ‘Master Conrad would defy the Lord himself if he’s in one of his moods,’ said Leatherface.

  ‘If I abandon Odenpah then the Sword Brothers would lose a stronghold,’ said Conrad. ‘Besides, Dorpat has high walls and an adequate garrison and if things get bad the bishop can always takes refuge in Walter’s castle on the top of Toome Hill.’

  He leaned back and placed his hands behind his head.

  ‘The real question of course is why the Russians are marching on Dorpat, a place that by all accounts has benefited Novgorod greatly?’

  ‘Perhaps they wish to depose the bishop and seize all its wealth,’ proffered Leatherface.

  Falcone nodded. ‘They are apostates after all and therefore little better than pagans. God is on our side.’

  Conrad stood. ‘Every man who goes into battle believes that God or the gods are on his side, Falcone, else he could not fight.’

  ‘I wonder what God thinks of it all?’ asked Leatherface.

  ‘He would be infuriated that an army marches against a prince-bishop of the Holy Church,’ said Falcone, ‘and who possesses a fragment of the true cross.’

  Leatherface looked at Conrad but said nothing. Odenpah’s master remembered being highly sceptical that the silver crucifix reportedly holding a fragment of the cross that Christ was crucified on was genuine. It had been captured when Baldwin of Alna, the Papal Legate, and his army had been defeated before the walls of Reval. Falcone and his Genoese crossbowmen had visited what would become Dorpat Cathedral where the cross sat on the altar and had prostrated themselves before it. As had dozens of pilgrims, part of a growing number of worshippers who were making their way to Hermann’s town. Falcone and his men had no doubt that the fragment was real. Who was he to question their faith?

  ‘Your zeal does you credit, Falcone,’ said Conrad. ‘But I remember a time when I stood on a frozen lake surrounded by enemies and was saved by an army of apostates led by a fine man named Yaroslav Nevsky. I would not like to think that I would have to draw my sword against him all these years later.’

  *****

  At the head of the long column of riders flew two banners, one showing the coat of arms of Novgorod, the other displaying a golden eagle. By rights the banner of Kristjan should have had no place beside that of Novgorod. The fair-haired Estonian was an unrepentant pagan, a man who ridiculed Christianity and all its trappings. Normally such a man would have been hounded out of the city but Kristjan was not just any man. He was rich, powerful, violent and a close friend of Yaroslav Nevsky, the city’s Thousandman, its military commander and the general who led the army marching southwest. Kristjan was also beloved of the ordinary citizens of the city who believed he had been sent by God to deliver them from famine and the tyranny of Rostislav. For that they loved him and because they did so the veche tolerated him and overlooked his pagan ways.

  ‘Remember, Kristjan, we go to support the Mayor of Pskov and not to start a war.’

  Kristjan smiled at Yaroslav. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I mean it, Kristjan. The city does not want war with the Bishop of Dorpat. Many of Novgorod’s merchants trade with Dorpat, including your business partner.’

  ‘If that is the case,’ said Kristjan, ‘then why do you lead an army against this bishop?’

  ‘As I said, we go to support Pskov’s mayor whose betrothed has absconded herself to Dorpat. We cannot have Pskov or its mayor reduced to a laughing stock. We make a show of force, get back his wife and then march home.’

  Kristjan rubbed his scarred cheek, a gesture seen by Yaroslav’s son who rode beside his father.

  ‘You have heard of the Sword Brothers, Alexander?’ asked Kristjan.

  ‘I have heard of them.’

  ‘One of them gave me this years ago, that is why I keep my face free of hair. To remind me what the Sword Brothers are.’

  ‘What are they, lord?’ asked Alexander.

  ‘Thieves and murderers,’ growled Kristjan.

  The thin face of Yaroslav wore a scowl as they made their way through Novgorod’s hinterland, a low-lying area of forests, lakes, swamps and boggy river valleys unusually dry for late summer. Among the usually damp, wooded terrain were dozens of villages that eked out a living growing barley, millet, rye, pumpkins, turnips, cherries and plums, also raising cattle, pigs, sheep, oxen, chickens and ducks, and hunting elk and boar. The land never yielded grain surpluses that could be sent to Novgorod and so it had to be imported via Riga – another reason for not alienating the Bishop of Dorpat.

  ‘One day, Alexander,’ said Kristjan, ‘Novgorod will have to fight the Sword Brothers and their followers.’

  Alexander was confused. ‘Why? They have not stolen the Mayor of Pskov’s wife.’

  Kristjan laughed. ‘I doubt the Sword Brothers care about a woman. They do not mix with women. They take a vow of chastity before they are allowed to join their order. All they are interested in is making others kneel to their religion. Novgorod has peace with them at the moment but it will not last. It never does.’

  Yaroslav grew concerned. ‘Remember what I said, Kristjan, we go to support the Mayor of Pskov rather than fight the Bishop of Dorpat. There are many among the veche who have grown rich trading with the Catholics. They do not wish to see their interests damaged unnecessarily.’

  Kristjan shook his head. ‘We should have brought more men, Yaroslav. The Sword Brothers only understand strength.’

  ‘Why do you hate them so?’ asked Alexander.

  ‘Why?’ said Kristjan. ‘They stole my home, my lands and killed my family, that’s why.’

  ‘We have enough men,’ stated Yaroslav.

  They had brought two thousand soldiers with them: Kristjan’s band of cutthroats and part of Novgorod’s Druzhina. The latter were the city’s finest – rich boyars and their retainers whose armour and weapons were the best that money could buy. Each rider wore a pointed iron helmet with an immovable nasal guard. Chain mail in an arrangement called barmitsa was attached to the bottom edge of the helmet and hung down to the shoulders and back, being wrapped under the chin to protect the neck and throat. To protect their torsos Yaroslav’s men wore lamellar armour of rectangular iron plates arranged first horizontally and then vertically and made so that the rows of lamellae overlapped upwards.

  Their weapons were exquisite: long swords called myech carried in iron scabbards bound with leather and decorated with silver inlay. Even daggers – poyasnie – were carried in decorative sheaths attached to the belt. The mace never achieved the popularity it enjoyed among the Catholics, Russian horsemen favouring short axes called topor.

  Long gone were the days when Kristjan’s men dressed in furs and resembled a band of robbers. Yaroslav had agreed to his friend accompanying him but had insisted that his men be equipped appropriately. Lord Murk’s men would after all be representing the city also. So Kristjan paid for his men to be fitted out in fine armour and helmets, though their weapons had always been of good quality. But he refused to dress his hundred followers in lamellar armour, preferring instead the mail hauberk. Called a kol’chuga it ended just above the elbow and was similar to the mail armour that had been worn by Ungannia’s warriors when that land had been free. His men and followers also carried the round shields that had protected his forefathers in battle, being made of wood faced with leather with a central iron boss to protect the handgrip. And every shield was painted with a golden eagle motif.

  The shields of the Russian horsemen were almond shape, protecting the rider from the chin to the knees. They too were made of wood, covered with hide and bound with iron on their edges. They were painted red but carried no motif.

  ‘Hold that banner straight,’ Kristjan snapped at Tracker behind him.

  ‘Yes, lord,’ grinned his scout.

  Despite being a miserable wretch Tracker was very good at
his job and Kristjan had become fond of him, as an owner becomes attached to a mongrel dog.

  ‘If I have to hold this flag I won’t be able to scout ahead, lord.’

  ‘You won’t have to,’ Kristjan told him, ‘I know every inch of where we are going.’

  The column of riders and packhorses moved swiftly through the forested terrain, reaching the eastern shore of Lake Peipus after only eight days. There Kristjan slid from his horse, squatted by the blue waters of the lake and thanked the gods for the blessings they had bestowed on him – his family, his friends and his followers. Other men would have given thanks for the great wealth that had come his way but money meant nothing to him. He gripped the torc around his neck and closed his eyes. His commanders – Skinner, Mongrel, Tusk and Boar – sitting on their horses nearby waited for their lord to finish his meditations. They had learned long ago that it was unwise to interrupt him when he was conversing with the gods.

  The horsemen from Novgorod linked up with the forces of Pskov on the low-lying banks of Lake Tyoploye, the narrow waterway linking Lake Peipus to Lake Pskov to the south. Domash’s army – barely a thousand men, including two hundred of his Druzhina – was already camped along the eastern shore of the shallow lake, the mayor’s pavilion in the centre of the expanse of tents. Yaroslav and Kristjan made their way to the mayor’s pavilion as soon as they arrived at the encampment. They took young Alexander with them so he could meet his godfather. They also found Gleb in attendance, as irreverent as ever.

  ‘I hope you have brought many men and siege engines, my lord,’ he said to Yaroslav, ‘for the mayor intends to burn Dorpat to the ground. Though whether he does so before or after he has rescued his betrothed he has yet to reveal.’

  ‘Be silent,’ snapped Domash. He looked at Yaroslav with tired eyes. He suddenly looked old, a far cry from the reckless raider who had once terrorised the pagan lands to the west.