by Peter Darman
‘The problem is that if the emperor conquers northern Italy then the Papacy will be squeezed between his territories in the north and south. In such a situation he will be able to overwhelm us with ease.’
‘You could threaten him with excommunication, Holy Father.’
Gregory chuckled. ‘I have tried that, William. Unfortunately whereas most men quake at the prospect of being excommunicated the emperor seems to relish it. No, I think we will try a different stratagem.’
He rose and walked over to a window to view the colours and peace of his rose garden.
‘If the emperor makes war upon the Lombard League he will use Germany as a recruiting ground. But perhaps we can dangle a more tempting prize before our German cousins that will make service with Frederick less appealing.’
William was confused. ‘Holy Father?’
Gregory turned to him and smiled. ‘I will declare a new crusade to deprive Frederick of knights, William.’
*****
The summer was a time of peace in Estonia. Conrad heard little from Grand Master Volquin at Riga and was not summoned to any meetings of the order’s castellans. He took the opportunity to visit Wenden to pay his respects at the graves of his wife, child and friends, and Master Thaddeus who had slipped quietly away in the spring. He stood by his grave with Ilona by his side, a lump in his throat as he stared at the mound of earth.
Ilona linked her arm in his. ‘He was almost eighty when he died, or so Rudolf told me. He was happy here, I think, despite his aloofness and abrasive tongue.’
‘He taught me to read and write,’ said Conrad. ‘I owe him much.’
He turned to look at her. Her sultry good looks had gone but to be fair she still had a lithe frame and an attractive face. But her hair, formerly long and black as night, was now thinner and streaked with grey and her dark brown eyes were no longer full of life. She looked weary.
‘You should take better care of yourself, lady,’ he told her.
She dug him in the ribs. ‘Are you saying I look old?’
‘Not old, lady, tired.’
She rested her head on his shoulder. ‘None of us is getting any younger, Conrad.’
‘I don’t know where the time goes. The years seem to pass in a blur.’
The visit to Kaja and Rameke was also over too soon. The king and queen of the Livs had decided that they would only stay at Treiden for special occasions, choosing to make their stone-built manor house their main residence. They were both happy and their two boys were growing up quickly.
‘We were visited by Bishop Nicholas a month ago,’ Rameke told him on the last night of his visit. ‘He spends much time away from Riga.’
‘He does not like it there, Susi,’ said Kaja.
‘He told you so?’ asked Conrad.
‘He did not have to,’ she replied, ‘it was obvious that he would rather sleep under a tree than in Riga.’
‘He’s a good man, Conrad,’ said Rameke.
Conrad nodded. ‘He accompanied us on the journey to Kurland. I found him likeable enough.’
‘Master Rudolf has told us that you are ignoring Bishop Hermann, Susi,’ said Kaja casually.
He saw no reason to deny it. ‘He’s right. Since the death of Walter I have little appetite to visit Dorpat.’
‘The bishop regrets the death of Master Walter, Conrad,’ said Rameke.
‘If that is so, my brother, then he can come to Odenpah and tell me himself.’
But when he returned to the fort he was immediately confronted by Lady Maarja, who expressed a desire to travel to Dorpat.
‘Of course, lady, I will arrange an escort immediately.’
‘I want you to take me there, Conrad.’
He was nonplussed. ‘I have things to attend to here, lady.’
As usual she was dressed all in back with a veil covering her face. The day was warm and the temperature inside the great hall where her private quarters were located erring towards the uncomfortable. Conrad had dispensed with his long-sleeved mail hauberk, chausses, aketon and gambeson and instead wore a long tunic of dark cloth that reached to the ankles. He retained his sword belt but instead of boots wore simple shoes with no decoration.
‘Of course if it is too inconvenient then I will have to wait. I am, after all, merely a disfigured woman.’
She knew how to manipulate him with her softly spoken words, her head drooping as she turned and walked towards the hall’s entrance. But Conrad raced after her, appalled that his words had caused her distress.
‘I will take you there today if you wish, lady.’
On a swift horse the journey to Dorpat would take less than two hours and it was fortunate that Maarja and her ladies-in-waiting had formerly been pagans who had learned to ride at an early age. To Conrad’s surprise they were already packed and ready to leave the fort when he gave the order to saddle horses for the journey. Clearly Maarja had anticipated his surrender to her persuasion. He took Werner and two sergeants with him, leaving Jaan in command and Arri as his deputy. By the time he had donned his aketon, gambeson and mail armour he was already sweating.
They left the fort when the sun was at its midpoint, beating down from a clear sky. The track was bone dry, the horses using their tails to flick away the flies following the riders as they headed north.
‘May I enquire about the nature of your visit to Dorpat, lady?’ asked Conrad.
‘Important business,’ she replied.
Dorpat was now a thriving town, especially the riverside docks where great barges plying the Emajogi were moored to unload their goods from Novgorod. Not only furs but also honey, wax, leather and jewellery. All to be transported overland to Riga and thence to Germany and beyond. The stench of a multitude of animals and people in one place greeted Conrad’s party as it made its way through one of the many town gates. In addition to the aroma of livestock and humans the air was laced with the scent of hot tar coming from the workshops along the river.
‘The Mother of Waters brings life to Dorpat, Conrad,’ said Maarja.
That was the name the pagan Ungannians had bestowed on the Emajogi. He wondered if she yearned for the days when she had been a carefree girl and her father Kalju had ruled over this town? When she had been free of the terrible pox scars that would remain with her until her dying day. And yet as they slowly made their way through the crowded streets to Toome Hill where Bishop Hermann resided, many smiled at the veiled figure, stepping out of the way to allow her horse to pass. Conrad heard ‘God bless you’ and ‘God be with you’ as she rode by them.
The castle on the top of Toome hill had been finished, a square stone citadel replacing the old pagan timber hill fort. From the four corners of the fort flew the banners of the Bishop of Dorpat: red flags bearing silver keys directed from the bottom left to the upper right, over which were silver swords with golden hilts directed from the bottom right to the upper left.
They left their horses in the castle’s stables and walked the short distance to the Bishop’s Palace adjacent to the stronghold. Like the citadel the palace had been built of stone but unlike the castle was filled with enormous, beautifully decorated tapestries depicting biblical scenes. They had been imported from Italy at enormous expense but as Conrad and Maarja were shown into the palace, to the first floor where the bishop’s private hall was located, one in particular caught his eye.
It was a beautifully crafted representation of the Battle of St Matthew’s Day where the pagan leader Lembit had been defeated and killed. Conrad stared at the lifelike representation of Bishop Albert sitting proudly on his horse next to Grand Master Volquin. Around them was a depiction of a raging battle, knights on horseback holding Sword Brother standards crushing pagans underfoot. It was rousing, heroic and not as he remembered it.
‘I realise that it should have shown you, Conrad.’
He turned to see Bishop Hermann smiling at him. He was a tall man but looked like a giant in his mitre. He still possessed a solid frame despite his sevent
y years. Conrad bowed and kissed the bishop’s ring when it was thrust at him.
‘Lord bishop.’
Hermann walked over to Maarja, took her mitten-covered hands and kissed them.
‘You persuaded him to come, then?’
‘Conrad is like an old boar that my father hunted many years ago,’ she said. ‘It took many hunts before he got him.’
Hermann took one of her hands and led her towards the tapestry.
‘I think my brother would have wanted it to show Conrad killing Lembit. He was a stickler for the truth. My apologies, Conrad.’
‘You have nothing to apologise for, lord bishop.’
‘But I think I have, Conrad. Why else would you have avoided me for so long? I know you were close to Walter and perhaps hold me responsible for his death.’
Conrad made to protest but Hermann stilled him with a raised hand. He smiled at Maarja.
‘You have not told him?’
‘Not a word,’ she said.
Hermann pointed to the closed door at the end of the hall.
‘I have a gift for you, Conrad, in my office.’
Conrad looked quizzically at him but the bishop said no more as he held out an arm towards the office door.
‘You will not be disappointed, Conrad,’ said Maarja.
Still confused Conrad walked slowly to the door, lifted the latch and entered the office. It was a sumptuous room, oak panelling around all the walls, silver candle holders above the wood and glass in the windows. No one sat behind the large desk opposite the door and as Conrad closed it behind him he thought he had been the target of some sort of joke. Then he saw a figure sitting on a bench on the wall opposite the windows: a nun with a black wimple covering her head and neck and a white habit covering her frame.
‘My apologies, sister.’
She looked up and smiled.
‘Conrad?’
For a moment he thought he was in a dream as he beheld her. She was older of course but there was no mistaking the grey eyes and round face.
‘Marie?’
He began to shake and emotion welled up inside him. His eyesight became blurred as tears flowed down his cheeks and he buried his face in his hands and wept. She rose from the bench and threw her arms around him, weeping also as they held each other. They did so for what seemed like an eternity, finally wiping away their tears and sitting together on the bench.
‘I am sorry,’ was all Conrad could say.
‘Sorry for what?’
‘For leaving you alone in Lübeck all those years ago.’
She smiled. ‘You left me among a family of sisters, Conrad, and they took good care of me.’
The last time they had seen each other they had been children and like excitable youngsters they blurted out their experiences since that fateful night in their parents’ home. They laughed as they interrupted each other and remembered all the trivial, insignificant things that had made them laugh as children. The battles and campaigns that Conrad had taken part in became meaningless as they held hands and rolled back the years. For Conrad it was one of the greatest moments of his life and he had Bishop Hermann to thank for a priceless gift.
They spent the next few days walking around Dorpat, oblivious to their surroundings as they talked about their lives after they had been parted.
‘The bishop tells me that you have become a famous knight, Conrad.’
He laughed. ‘A penniless one, certainly.’
He had not spoken of his time with the Sword Brothers but he did so now, his memories pouring forth like spring melt water. Marie listened and nodded as he told her about his friends, his enemies and the strange fate that had made him the Marshal of Estonia. She in turn told him of how Bishop Hermann had requested the presence of Abbess Marie at Dorpat.
‘You are an abbess?’
She smiled. ‘God has been good to me, Conrad, and has answered my prayers for here you are. Healthy, brave and famous.’
Those few days at Dorpat were a happy time for Conrad but were over far too quickly. He rode with his sister to Reval where a cog waited to take her back to Lübeck. Once more the tears came as they stood on the quay and said their goodbyes. He watched the single-masted ship leave the harbour, become a small dot on the horizon before disappearing completely and wondered if he would ever see his sister again.
*****
Leatherface watched as a mass of warriors flooded the valley between two grass-covered hills and swarmed forward.
‘I don’t like this,’ he said, ‘we should close up.’
Lamekins laughed. He liked his new commander, the gruff, coarsely spoken mercenary who looked like he had been dragged through a wood by wild horses. Since he had arrived in Kurland he had set about his task with gusto and now the fruits of his labours were present for all to see. Two hundred crossbowmen stood in a widely spaced line on the grassy slope that gently descended to the valley floor. They stood in front of the medium foot soldiers with their rectangular shields and well away from the king’s horsemen that were grouped around their monarch.
‘They’re too isolated,’ protested Leatherface as the enemy halted to form into a battle line.
‘We are not here to fight,’ Lamekins assured him, ‘but to accept Duke Ykintas’ tribute.’
The king pointed at the Samogitians. ‘Look beyond the soldiers.’
He smiled when he saw a large group of horses being marshalled by Samogitian riders and behind them a long line of carts. Ykintas had kept his word but then he had little choice if he wanted to avoid war with Kurland and the Sword Brothers.
‘My crossbowmen are not ready,’ complained Leatherface. ‘It takes more than three months to turn raw recruits into proficient soldiers.’
Lamekins looked at him. ‘Your crossbowmen?’
Leatherface blew phlegm out of a nostril. ‘Apologies, majesty, but…’
Lamekins held up a hand to him. ‘As I said, the Samogitians are here to deliver their tribute, not to fight.’
The Kur army looked magnificent on the green slope: rank upon rank of medium foot equipped with spears, shields, mail armour and helmets. Gintaras’ axe men stood as a compact square block behind them and around the king were hundreds of black-uniformed horsemen, whetted spisa points glinting in the sun. The track threading its way from the foot of the slope into the valley and beyond was an ancient one, used by travellers and traders for generations. Ykintas had also used it when he had led an army against the Kurs, which is why Lamekins had chosen it as the venue for the tribute.
‘How long before my crossbowmen are proficient?’ asked the king.
‘Another six months,’ was the reply. ‘Then they should be blooded. Nothing too lavish, mind. A small, easy victory will suffice.’
The mercenary cleared his other nostril. ‘Pity you are at peace, majesty.’
Lamekins turned and spoke to Valdas, the wiry commander of his horsemen who dug his spurs into the flanks of his mount and cantered forward, followed by a score or more of his men.
Tadas seated on a horse the other side of the king watched him go. The commander of the Kur medium foot pointed at Leatherface but looked at Ringaudas, the Selonian who acted as the mercenary’s translator.
‘Ask him how many of the enemy his men can kill should Ykintas choose war to peace.’
Ringaudas did so.
Leatherface did a quick calculation in his head. ‘Around a thousand before they scarper back to the protection of his lordship’s spearmen.’
Ringaudas told Tadas who threw back his head and roared with laughter.
‘Impossible,’ he said when he had stopped.
Leatherface calmly provided the reasoning behind his estimate, Ringaudas again translating.
‘Each man can now shoot four bolts a minute, which is eight hundred bolts a minute in all. I reckon that the enemy will take around three minutes to cover the ground between them and us, which is two thousand, four hundred bolts. Even if half miss, which they won’t, a thousand casualt
ies is a fair estimate.’
Lamekins smiled. ‘Unfortunately your calculation will have to remain unproven.’
Valdas returned with the news that Ykintas would meet the king at the midway point between the two armies.
‘He has brought the full quota of grain, horses and silver?’ asked Lamekins.
‘Yes, lord.’
‘Then let us go and pay our compliments to Duke Ykintas.’
He nudged his horse forward, Tadas and his bodyguard following. The latter rode black horses like the other Kur horsemen but their beasts were covered with dark grey caparisons sporting a seagull motif. Their black surcoats also bore the same animal, as did their shields. They wore mail armour but also full-face helms like the Sword Brothers rather than the open-faced helmets of the rest of Valdas’ horsemen.
The banners of the two rulers fluttered in the breeze while they had a short conversation before parting. That was the cue for the wagons and horses to be brought forward, Kur carts being driven to meet them to begin the transfer of the grain from the Samogitian wagons. The horses were counted and then driven north back to Kurland, a hundred of Valdas’ riders acting as their drovers. It was all highly organised and efficient.
‘Why does the king want horses and grain?’ asked Leatherface.
‘The king is determined that his people will never again experience starvation,’ Ringaudas told him.
‘He’s going to slaughter the horses?’ Leatherface was bemused.
Ringaudas shook his head. ‘They are to be trained as warhorses for sale in Germany. After they are ready they will transported there in the king’s cogs being constructed on Oesel.’
‘He has it all worked out,’ said Leatherface admiringly.
The discussions were polite and brief and afterwards Ykintas and his men rapidly disappeared south, the Kur carts taking the tribute north back to Talsi. Lamekins spent some time at one of the carts before returning to his commanders, all of them looking bored and frustrated at a missed opportunity to give battle to the Samogitians. But the king was delighted and was beaming when he rejoined his subordinates. Before he gave the command to ride north back to his capital he tossed a large pouch to Leatherface.