by Peter Darman
‘How many men did you bring, lord?’
‘Two thousand,’ replied Yaroslav as Domash smiled at Alexander before noticing the clean-shaven Kristjan.
‘Who is this?’
‘I am Kristjan, former ruler of Ungannia,’ replied Kristjan before Yaroslav could respond.
‘You are a pagan?’ said Gleb.
Kristjan looked at the strange fellow in the bright blue tunic. ‘If you mean do I follow the true gods, yes.’
Gleb clapped his hands together. ‘Excellent. And you march with us to reclaim your lands, lord?’
Now it was Yaroslav’s turn to speak first. ‘We march to uphold the laws of Pskov and Novgorod and reclaim that which belongs to the Mayor of Pskov. Nothing more.’
‘The Christians might not see it in the same way as you do, lord,’ smiled Gleb.
‘The Bishop of Dorpat will not jeopardise the trade relations he enjoys with Novgorod and Pskov,’ said Yaroslav, ‘and will also understand that the honour of the Principality of Novgorod must be maintained.’
Gleb walked over to the stiff Alexander and pinched his cheek. ‘Having sold their souls for money I doubt that the good citizens of Novgorod know much about honour.’
He spun and pointed at Yaroslav. ‘I will tell you what I have told my lord, though he has not the wit to understand my words. If you embark on this foolish mission then nothing good will come of it.’
‘And I told you,’ hissed Domash, ‘I will have back what belongs to me.’
Gleb threw up his arms. ‘How many women have you had, my lord? How many wives of noblemen and merchants have you seduced? You made no claim upon those poor females you used and abused so what is so special about this one?’
Alexander blushed at Gleb’s words but Domash flicked a dismissive hand at the mystic and ordered the servants to serve his guests stevlenniy myod, the strong, honey based drink favoured by Russians. In normal circumstances Yaroslav would have struck the impertinent Gleb but he knew that he was high in the favour of Domash and many of the mayor’s Druzhina. The Orthodox Church grumbled and prayed for the Skomorokh’s death while the populace thought Pskov’s peace and prosperity was due to Gleb’s presence among them. And the mayor of the city kept the Skomorokh close enduring his cutting tongue, knowing that his position was almost unassailable while Gleb remained his adviser.
‘If the princess has taken refuge in Dorpat then we cannot remain idle,’ said Yaroslav. ‘Ivanna has been betrothed to Lord Tverdislavich. I’m sure a demonstration of strength will convince Bishop Hermann to return her.’
‘So am I,’ stated Domash.
Kristjan regarded the mayor, the son of Pavel Tverdislavich, a man he admired greatly. But his son seemed to him to be a petulant child, an individual who threw tantrums to get what he wanted. He did not like what he saw. Kristjan in turn was also being studied.
‘And you,’ Gleb said to him, ‘what do you think about this little adventure?’
‘I have no opinion on the matter.’
‘How can that be?’ replied Gleb. ‘Your very presence here suggests you have a keen interest in this expedition. Perhaps it is to seek retribution against the one who gave you that scar on your face.’
Kristjan felt his cheek grow hot. ‘My scar?’
‘Naturally,’ said Gleb, ‘why else do you refuse to grow a beard if not to remind yourself daily of the one who gave you it.’
Kristjan emptied his cup, tipped his head at Domash and left.
‘You know nothing,’ he said as he left the pavilion.
The army departed the next day, Yaroslav and Domash giving strict orders that there was to be no plundering as it entered the Bishopric of Dorpat, formerly pagan Ungannia. Kristjan remained silent as he rode through what had once been his kingdom, a land at peace and prospering. Yaroslav allotted horsemen to guard the flanks of the army, not against enemy attacks but to ensure that Domash’s foot soldiers did not stray and steal livestock from the villages they passed by on their way to Dorpat. The mayor had brought with him Pskov’s militia, urban troops armed with shields, spears and axes who drilled regularly and had all been issued with mail armour and helmets. They presented a formidable spectacle with their whetted spears and burnished helmets but like most city militias they had seen little actual combat.
*****
Conrad sat holding his sword in front of him, the point resting on the floor of the hall, a finger on top of the pommel as he flicked the cross-guard to spin it. He watched the unicorns carved on either side of the pommel flicker as he did so. He smiled. Such was the trivia that amused him. His weapon was now his longest companion, that and Walter of course. He stopped his toying when he heard the alarm bell. He rose and walked from the hall into Odenpah’s inner compound. He had despatched scouts east to report on the movements of the Russian army making its way from Novgorod’s territory towards Dorpat: a column of horsemen, foot soldiers and wagons moving slowly through the lush greenery of Bishop Hermann’s realm. Many years of peace and trade had made his bishopric a prosperous place and as Conrad made his way to the armoury he wondered if the Russians really had decided to seize it for themselves.
Already women and children were hastening into the compound to take sanctuary in the highest and strongest part of the fort.
‘No pushing.’
The air inside the armoury was heavy with the scent of iron and leather. The armourers, squat, ugly and bad tempered, were berating Arri and Jaan for their eagerness.
‘Hurry with that crossbow,’ snapped Jaan.
‘I need another quiver,’ Arri shouted to another armourer.
‘You will wait your turn,’ a surly bearded dwarf told him.
Brother knights and sergeants were lining up to be issued with crossbows, quivers, maces, axes, helmets and shields.
The dwarf smiled at Conrad. ‘Master Conrad. Just one minute.’
He scuttled away and returned with a crossbow, three full quivers, a shield and full-face helm.
‘Kettle helmet, I think,’ said Conrad.
The dwarf was most unhappy. ‘Order regulations state that brother knights and above should always wear full-face helms.’
‘Just get one.’
He hurried away, muttering to himself, as Jaan berated the armourer who was handing him his weapons.
‘The enemy could have breached the outer walls while I have been standing here.’
‘Well instead of talking to me you had better get yourself to the walls, then,’ came the insolent reply.
Conrad walked with Jaan and Arri as they made their way down the steps to the outer perimeter and thence to the walls.
‘They should be flogged for their impertinence,’ said Jaan.
‘They are a law unto themselves,’ complained Arri.
‘Armourers are the same the world over,’ Conrad told them, ‘but as I cannot mend a damaged helmet or put a new grip on my sword we must tolerate them.’
They made their way through the bustle in the outer compound, sheep and goats being herded back into the stronghold after grazing on the great meadow in front of the fort. Two sergeants at the gates were calling to those still outside the walls – men who had been fishing on the lake and boys who wanted to see the enemy before they were ordered into the great hall – to get a move on or they would be left to their fate. Two more sergeants were standing beside their horses near the stables chatting to Leatherface and Sergeant Werner, having just returned from a reconnaissance mission. Jaan and Arri hurried up the steps to the walls as Conrad made his way to the scouts.
‘Report.’
‘Party of horsemen making its way here, master,’ a sergeant told him.
‘How large?’
‘A hundred, perhaps more.’
‘The Russians must have their information wrong if they think they can take this place with a hundred men,’ scoffed Leatherface.
‘And the rest of their army?’ asked Conrad, ignoring the mercenary.
‘Still marching towards Do
rpat, master.’
‘Numbers?’
‘Two or three thousand.’
Conrad adjusted the straps on his helmet. ‘Siege engines?’
‘None that we could see, master.’
‘Are you sure they haven’t got lost?’ suggested Leatherface. ‘Perhaps they wandered out of Russian territory without knowing.’
‘Perhaps we should send you outside the gates to find out,’ said Conrad. ‘To your positions.’
The walls were already lined with just under fifty members of the garrison in addition to Falcone’s score of crossbowmen. The brother knights and sergeants had also been equipped with crossbows, which meant that Conrad had enough missile power to shoot the enemy to pieces if they got too close to the walls. The question was: why were they here at all and why were there so few of them?
‘It’s against regulations for you to be wearing that,’ said Leatherface, looking at Conrad’s kettle helmet.
Conrad sighed as they reached the top of the wooden stairs leading to the walkway on the outer ramparts.
‘Don’t you start.’
‘Load,’ shouted Werner.
Conrad looked to the east, to where a group of horsemen was slowly approaching the fort. Among them was a banner but there was little wind and so it hung limply from its staff. Men began loading crossbows as the enemy got closer, resting maces and axes against the timber wall and arranging their spare quivers over their shoulders. The horsemen continued their leisurely approach.
‘A man could die of old age before they get here,’ said Leatherface quietly.
‘Are they really going to ride right up to the moat?’ said Werner disbelievingly.
But they did not, suddenly halting around two hundred paces from the water-filled ditch surrounding the fort. They formed into a long line in front of the bridge spanning the moat, one suddenly nudging his horse forward. As one the soldiers of the garrison brought their crossbows up to their shoulders and aimed them at the lone rider.
‘Wait for my order,’ shouted Conrad.
The rider, shield dangling from his saddle, spread his arms to signal no hostile intent. The crossbows remained pointed at his chest. His horse walked to the end of the bridge and stopped. The rider removed his helmet and looked up at the walls.
‘Is this any way to treat a man who has returned home?’
Conrad’s blood ran cold. ‘Kristjan.’
‘I have returned,’ called Lord Murk, ‘who is in charge of my fort?’
‘So the little bastard’s alive,’ said Leatherface, ‘let me put a bolt in him.’
Conrad thought about it but the idea of killing an unarmed man who posed no threat was distasteful. He was aware that the eyes of Jaan and Arri were on him and he valued their respect more than the life of Kristjan.
‘No, it would not be honourable.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Leatherface, ‘I don’t have any honour.’
‘Stand down,’ shouted Conrad, taking off his helmet.
‘I now rule Odenpah,’ he called down to Kristjan.
The Ungannian looked with fury at the castellan, the man who had robbed him of his home, his family and his heritage. The wretch who had scarred his face and made him a penniless exile.
‘Do you fear me, Sword Brother? Is that why you shut the gates and hide behind timber walls like women?’
‘We fear no one,’ shouted a helmetless Jaan in Estonian, the language that Kristjan was speaking.
‘What tribe are you?’ Kristjan shot back.
‘Harrien,’ replied Jaan.
‘And yet you wear the uniform of your people’s enemies. Are you not ashamed?’
‘I am Ungannian,’ called Arri, ‘and proud to be a Sword Brother. Who are you to make accusations against us?’
‘I wish to see my sister, if she still lives,’ demanded Kristjan.
‘She lives, and prospers,’ said Conrad. ‘But if you wish to see her you will have to swear not to attempt any violence before you enter the fort.’
‘What surety will you provide that you will not try to kill me, Sword Brother?’
‘Cheeky little bastard,’ sneered Leatherface.
‘What surety?’ replied Conrad. ‘The fact that you are not lying dead on the ground with a score of crossbow bolts in your body should convince you of that. Open the gates.’
‘I would advise against that,’ said a concerned Leatherface.
‘As would I,’ added Werner. ‘They could rush us.’
Conrad brushed away their concerns. ‘If they do we can shoot them down with ease. But look at them. They are not going anywhere.’
‘Go and request the Lady Maarja’s presence,’ he ordered Werner. ‘Tell her that her brother is here to see her.’
Some of Kristjan’s men had removed their helmets and were chatting to each other; the horses of others had their heads down and were grazing on the grass. The gates opened and Kristjan nudged his horse across the bridge. Conrad descended the steps to meet him. A novice ran to his horse to take the reins as Kristjan dismounted. Conrad stood before him. Kristjan’s eyes were filled with loathing as he looked at him.
‘You appear to have done well for yourself,’ said Conrad as he studied Kristjan’s fine mail armour, expensive sword and quality clothing.
‘Where is my sister?’ was the terse reply. ‘Is she a prisoner here?’
‘She is not a prisoner, Kristjan, she is a respected member of this stronghold and is held in high regard by many in Estonia and beyond.’
Kristjan stood with his arms folded, looking around at the outer compound but saying nothing.
‘Kristjan.’
Her voice was quivering with emotion as Maarja escorted by Werner rushed up to her brother. For a brief moment Kristjan endeavoured to maintain his aloofness but as she held out her arms Conrad thought he saw a look of relief and joy on his face as she embraced him. She sobbed quietly as he held her in his powerful arms, a big brother protecting his little sister. It was a touching scene and Conrad waved Werner away as he himself retreated a few steps so they could be alone.
‘I cannot stay,’ Kristjan said to his sister, ‘but you are welcome to travel back with me to Novgorod where I have a home and a wife.’
‘A wife?’
Kristjan smiled, the only time Conrad had seen him do so. ‘Her name is Hella and she has given me two sons called Kalju and Villem.’
Everyone on the walls above were staring down at what was a touching scene and for a moment Conrad forgot that Kristjan had incited a rebellion against the Sword Brothers and was a dangerous foe. That was after all ten years ago and perhaps he had changed. Perhaps he no longer carried hatred in his heart. Then the hope was shattered.
‘You should leave this place, Maarja, which is infested with the enemy. Come with me now and free yourself of your gaolers.’
‘They are not my gaolers, Kristjan, they are my friends. Master Conrad has shown me nothing but kindness over the years and has been a great comfort to me.’
Kristjan turned to sneer at Conrad. ‘He follows a false god.’
‘I follow Conrad’s god,’ said Maarja firmly.
Kristjan looked with horror at his sister. ‘You?’
He stepped back from her and gave Conrad a look of cold fury.
‘Will you come with me, now, Maarja? I will ask only once.’
Maarja’s voice was soft and tremulous. ‘After all these years you make this demand of me? Is there no compassion in your heart, Kristjan? You cannot expect me to make such a momentous decision in a heartbeat.’
Kristjan stiffened, turned and walked back to the gates. ‘I will be at Dorpat should you decide my company is preferable to that of the Sword Brothers.’
He brushed past Conrad and strode from the fort. Maarja’s knees buckled and Conrad rushed to support her before she collapsed to the ground. She began to sob as he held her in his arms.
‘Let me kill the little bastard,’ Leatherface shouted from the walls.
; Angry murmurs accompanied his plea but Conrad would not sanction the murder of her brother before Maarja’s tear-filled eyes.
‘No, I forbid it. Close the gates.’
He took Maarja back to her quarters. Kristjan took his men off to Dorpat and the garrison stood down, Werner sending a pair of scouts to shadow the Ungannian in case he decided to double back and spring a nasty surprise. But he did not. The women and children returned to their homes in the outer compound and garrison life carried on as before, though its members were aggrieved to see Maarja in such a distressed state. When she had gathered her composure Conrad went to see her in her private rooms adjacent to the feasting hall. Horton had been comforting her but left them alone, Maarja dismissing her female servants.
‘I am sorry that Kristjan was so cold towards you, lady.’
Maarja’s head drooped. ‘He was always a wilful child but now he has a callous side to him. I will pray for him.’
‘The men are worried, lady, worried that you will leave them and go to Dorpat to journey on to Novgorod.’
She sighed. ‘Ungannia is my home, Conrad, and I will not leave it. But I would ask a favour.’
‘Name it.’
‘You go to Dorpat soon?’
He nodded.
‘Then I ask you to request of the bishop that he allow Kristjan to stay in his bishopric should he wish to do so.’
‘I have to tell you, lady, that I believe it highly unlikely that your brother would wish to stay in Estonia as long as it is ruled by the Holy Church.’
‘But you will ask him?’
‘I will ask him.’
Conrad did as requested three days later when he sat with Bishop Hermann in his palace on Toome Hill in Dorpat. The Army of the Wolf had arrived at the town to augment the garrison and Walter’s brother knights and sergeants. Andres had marched at the head of his Jerwen from Kassinurme, Riki had travelled from Varbola and Hillar from Leal. Sir Richard and Tonis had arrived at Odenpah and had marched in the company of Conrad and half of his garrison to the bishop’s capital.
Hermann’s proud forehead was creased by a deep frown.
‘Absolutely not, Conrad. It may have escaped your attention but Kristjan incited a revolt in my bishopric ten years ago, a revolt that resulted in the death of Bishop Bernhard, may the saints bless his soul.’