As Dust to the Wind

by Peter Darman

  ‘By all accounts only a third of the Swedish army escaped the rout, your excellences. News from Reval where the Swedes docked before sailing back to Sweden report that the Novgorodians outnumbered them by at least ten to one.’

  ‘They won’t be back,’ sniffed Rudolf next to him.

  ‘It matters not,’ announced the Master of the Livonian Order.

  Dietrich von Grüningen was five years older than Andreas and whereas the Landmeister had an athletic, martial appearance the master had a slight frame. His long face and long nose gave him the bearing of a librarian but when he spoke his manner was self-assured and aggressive. He had attained his position in the Teutonic Order by dint of his crusading zeal against the Prussians. He viewed the apostate Russians with the same disdain.

  ‘What are the Swedes but a collection of hill farmers eking out a mere existence? What happened at the Neva is an irrelevance.’

  ‘That may be, Master Dietrich,’ said Bishop Hermann, ‘but instead of the Swedes inflicting a defeat on the Russians and advancing on Novgorod, the latter’s army is intact and boosted by a victory. Can the Teutonic Order guarantee that it can capture Novgorod this year?’

  All eyes turned to von Grüningen who looked at Rudolf.

  ‘How many brethren can Livonia raise?’ he questioned, forgetting that Andreas was technically Rudolf’s superior.

  ‘Including the garrisons along the Dvina?’ asked Rudolf.

  Dietrich shook his head. ‘I cannot release those garrisons for a campaign against Novgorod. To do so would be an invitation to the Lithuanians to try their luck against us.’

  ‘Sixty brother knights, a hundred sergeants and around one hundred and fifty mercenaries,’ stated Rudolf.

  ‘Is that all?’ said Hermann.

  Dietrich turned to Bishop Nicholas and bowed his head.

  ‘Which is why the order looks to your excellency for assistance.’

  ‘Impossible!’

  Archdeacon Stefan had invited himself to the meeting, much to the chagrin of the other attendees. He had become a grotesque figure, his liking for wine having bloated his body and made his tongue more cutting. Immensely rich in his own right by virtue of the estates he owned and the fines levied by his own court in Riga; as governor of Riga he also controlled its garrison and militia. He viewed himself as the prince of the city and Bishop Nicholas seemed reluctant to clip the wings of the corpulent archdeacon. Already inebriated he sat in a high-backed chair to the side of the dais, sneering at the Livonian Master.

  ‘You said yourself that the Lithuanians are a threat. Why then should Livonia weaken its defences for the sake of creating a new Archbishop of Novgorod.’

  ‘You exceed your authority, archdeacon,’ said Hermann sternly.

  ‘Dear uncle,’ replied Stefan, ‘have I touched a raw nerve? I thought that was the intention of subduing Novgorod, to make you archbishop of that realm.’

  ‘It is God’s holy work,’ said Dietrich.

  The archdeacon laughed derisively. ‘I remember Baldwin of Alna bringing an order from the Holy Father himself that all trade with the Russians should cease. Remind me, what became of it?’

  He pointed a plump finger at von Grüningen. ‘Do not lecture me about God’s work. God is better served by trading with the Russians instead of trying to conquer them. This city thrives because its merchants trade with the Russians, which in turn means that taxes are healthy, thus creating the wealth to build the cathedral and the other fine buildings in Riga.’

  He rounded on Hermann. ‘The Russian merchants in Dorpat.’

  ‘What of them?’ snapped a fuming Hermann.

  ‘Will you have them killed when you return to your bishopric?’

  ‘Don’t be absurd,’ answered Hermann.

  ‘Why?’ asked Stefan. ‘We are about to go to war with Novgorod so should you not order the killing of what would be your enemies?’

  Hermann refused to answer. He sat in silence, fury in his eyes.

  ‘The Teutonic Order most humbly requests that the garrison of Riga and the Livonian Militia be put at its disposal for the forthcoming crusade against Novgorod,’ said von Grüningen.

  ‘Request denied,’ Stefan shot back.

  The master and Rudolf looked at the pale face of Bishop Nicholas who thus far had said nothing. Piety was one thing but he was being humiliated in his own palace by the scheming Archdeacon Stefan.

  ‘I concur with my governor,’ came the meek response.

  Rudolf wondered why the bishop indulged the pompous Stefan so much. It was a mystery that he had neither the time nor the inclination to fathom but he was more pressing when it came to the forthcoming campaign.

  ‘Are there any crusaders coming from Germany?’

  Von Grüningen shook his head. ‘Alas the nobles’ ongoing problems with the emperor make them reluctant to release men for a crusade.’

  ‘Perhaps King Rameke might be willing to support the crusade,’ suggested Andreas without enthusiasm.

  Rudolf looked down his nose at Stefan. ‘Unfortunately the king and his queen feel that Riga has insulted them and they are therefore unwilling to provide any soldiers for a crusade.’

  ‘They have told you this, Rudolf?’ asked Hermann.

  ‘They have.’

  ‘Then I can see no possibility of mounting a campaign this year,’ stated von Grüningen forlornly.

  ‘There is one ray of hope, master,’ said Rudolf.

  All ears pricked up.

  ‘Enlighten us, please,’ said Hermann.

  ‘Master Conrad. He holds the key to unlocking the riddle of how troops can be raised for your excellency’s crusade.’

  Hermann visibly wilted. ‘He will not order his commanders to muster their men to our cause. I have already asked him.’

  ‘I will command him,’ stated von Grüningen.

  ‘That will not work,’ said Rudolf. ‘The Army of the Wolf’s commanders react badly when their commander is threatened. Is that not correct, archdeacon?’

  Bishop Nicholas smiled with relish as Stefan blustered at Wenden’s castellan.

  ‘Master Conrad is a lowborn heretic who should have been executed years ago. And would have been executed were it not for his wretched followers rescuing him.’

  ‘The arrest warrant was subsequently rescinded,’ Rudolf reminded him, ‘because it was a travesty of justice.’

  ‘That is debatable,’ sniffed Stefan.

  Hermann raised a hand. ‘This is getting us nowhere. Cardinal William believed that if Master Conrad was part of the crusade then his commanders would join him. But we cannot launch a crusade with paltry numbers in the hope that others join it.’

  ‘Then there is only one other course of action,’ stated Rudolf. ‘We must appeal to the Danes to support our venture.’

  ‘The Danes?’ scoffed Stefan. ‘Correct me if I am wrong, Master Rudolf, but have you not spent a considerable amount of time during your service in these parts fighting the Danes?’

  Rudolf’s temper was beginning to fray. ‘If you have a better idea then let’s hear it.’

  Stefan smarted at the tone in Rudolf’s voice but von Grüningen was intrigued.

  ‘The idea is worth considering. Perhaps I could travel to Denmark to make an appeal to King Valdemar.’

  He looked at Bishop Hermann. ‘We may entice him with the offer of Russian territory around the Gulf of the Finns, perhaps?’

  ‘You mean the territory the Swedes were supposed to conquer before their defeat?’ said Hermann. The master nodded. ‘Good enough. Go with our blessing.’

  ‘It will mean that the campaign will commence late in the year,’ warned Rudolf.

  ‘Better that than no campaign at all,’ replied Hermann.

  *****

  Grüningen travelled west to Denmark, Rudolf and Hermann north back to Wenden and Dorpat respectively and Andreas took ship east along the Dvina to convey the respects of the Teutonic Order to a brave and steadfast ally. Or at least that is what the scr
oll signed by Bishop Nicholas stated. Prince Vsevolod had passed away peacefully in his sleep, his wife waking in the morning to find the cold corpse of her husband beside her. The prince had been as slippery as an eel during his life, always engaged in plots and intrigue in a futile attempt to safeguard the independence of the Principality of Gerzika. But his town and lands had fallen to the Sword Brothers and he had been forced to flee across the Dvina to seek sanctuary in the lands of his father-in-law, the late, great Grand Duke Daugerutis. Despite his humiliation Vsevolod had learnt his lesson and was determined to do two things: let others do the fighting for him and safeguard his wife’s lands, the tribal regions of Selonia and Nalsen. In both he had been successful and while other parts of Lithuania had been ravaged by war those two kingdoms had remained at peace and had prospered.

  The Selonians and Nalsen had always loved Princess Rasa, the red-haired daughter of Daugerutis. Loved her for being her father’s daughter, for being a pagan like them and for her fiery temperament. But they had despised her husband, nicknaming him ‘the Russian’ and ridiculing him for losing his kingdom. But as the years passed loathing had turned to acceptance and even respect in recognition that Vsevolod’s policies had benefited them. No foreign armies laid waste their towns and villages or burned their crops. Their sons were not marched off to die on a far-away battlefield and their wives and daughters were not raped or carted off into slavery. Foreigners did come to Selonia and Nalsen but to trade, not make war. It had been eleven years since General Aras travelled to Riga to sign the trade treaty agreed between Livonia’s merchants and the princes of Smolensk, Polotsk and Vitebsk. Everyone agreed that had been Vsevolod’s greatest achievement.

  But now the prince was dead and the future allegiance of Selonia and Nalsen needed addressing.

  Vsevolod had been a follower of the Orthodox religion but his funeral was very much a pagan affair. According to the old ways Rasa ordered all the windows and doors at Panemunis to be opened so the prince’s soul could leave freely. In this way the souls of the prince’s relatives would be able to meet with his to escort it to the afterlife where he would find a beautiful garden across the waters on a large mountain. There he would reside with the souls of the other good and honest people who had died. The prince’s body had been dressed in his finest clothes and laid out on boards covered in white linen. Rasa ordered everyone to wear white, the pagan colour of mourning. For three days the princess sat by her husband and the prince’s Russian guards stood sentry around the walls, their heads bowed. Rasa was lifted momentarily from her despair when her daughters arrived at Panemunis on horses lathered in sweat after riding hard for many hours. Morta’s horse collapsed and died the moment she dismounted, which was reckoned a good omen by the Kriviai resident in the fort. Prince Vsevolod would have a fine steed to ride in the afterlife. The husbands of Morta and Elze arrived after the prince had been interred in a grave within the grounds of the stronghold. There then followed a huge funeral feast to which, according to ancient custom, everyone was invited to attend. The gates of Panemunis were thrown open to allow nobles and commoners alike to partake of the princess’ hospitality.

  When Andreas von Felben arrived at the stronghold the feast had ended and the guests had returned home. He came in the company of Master Ortwin, the castellan of Mesoten, who usefully spoke Lithuanian whereas the Landmeister did not. There was a stiff breeze blowing when the party of Teutonic Knights arrived, the banners above the gates of the fort being clearly identifiable. Ortwin pointed up at them.

  ‘This should be interesting. It appears that the Lithuanian dukes are in attendance.’

  He halted his horse and examined the rows of fluttering banners.

  ‘Let me see. We have the iron wolf of Semgallia, the elk antlers of Samogitia and the black axe of Aukstaitija. The silver griffin on a blue background is, or was, Prince Vsevolod’s emblem. The last one showing a black boar on all fours is the emblem of Selonia.’

  ‘We are still at war with the pagan Lithuanians,’ said Andreas with concern.

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about that,’ Ortwin reassured him, ‘Princess Rasa will not tolerate any funny business in her lands.’

  They once called her ‘savage beauty’ with her fierce nature and long red hair. Rasa was no longer beautiful but was still striking and her eyes missed nothing. The white-uniformed guards escorted Ortwin and Andreas into the throne room where Dukes Erdvilas and Ykintas stood in the company of Grand Duke Mindaugas. Ortwin smiled to himself when he saw Rasa seated on her throne and Mindaugas, supposedly her superior, standing by the side of the rostrum. A gentle way of letting Mindaugas know that he was in his mother-in-law’s hall.

  ‘She may be a pagan but she is still royalty,’ Ortwin whispered to Andreas, going down on one knee and bowing his head to Rasa. The Landmeister followed suit.

  ‘Highness,’ began Ortwin in perfect Lithuanian, ‘we come at the behest of Bishop Nicholas of Riga who was immensely saddened to hear of the passing of the great Prince Vsevolod, staunch ally and friend of Livonia.’

  The chamber was deathly silent. Ortwin continued.

  ‘Know that in your hour of need the bishop, nobles and soldiers of Livonia stand by you and your people.’

  This brought murmurs of disapproval from the other dukes and their entourage but Rasa cut them dead with a stern look.

  ‘Please get up,’ she told the two knights. ‘Please convey my thanks to the bishop for his kind thoughts and inform him that Selonia and Nalsen look forward to continuing amicable and mutually beneficial relations with Livonia.’

  Mindaugas wore a look of fury and Erdvilas appeared thoroughly disappointed but interestingly Ykintas was nodding with approval. He had seen Samogitia bled white over the years fighting the Sword Brothers in Mindaugas’ futile wars. Those wars had seemingly come to an end with the victory at Saule, which had increased Mindaugas’ reputation enormously. But Samogitia was still mourning many sons, the Sword Brothers had been replaced by the Teutonic Knights and Mindaugas’ dream to drive the Christians back across the Dvina was as distant as ever. It had been some time since he had seen his brother-in-law, their relationship having deteriorated markedly since the heady days when Mindaugas had left Panemunis to fight alongside him against the Kurs. But they had been young and headstrong then whereas now the burden of being Duke of Samogitia bore down heavily on Ykintas. His careworn appearance increased when the two Teutonic Knights stood and walked to the other side of the rostrum and a steward entered the chamber. He walked to the princess and whispered in her ear. Everyone craned their necks in an effort to eavesdrop.

  ‘Here?’ said Rasa with surprise.

  The steward nodded.

  ‘Show him in. Wait. Announce him first. He is after all a king.’

  The steward walked back to the doors, turned and addressed the room.

  ‘His majesty King Lamekins.’

  Jaws dropped as the Kur king strode into the chamber, resplendent in mail with black surcoat sporting a silver seagull. He marched up to the rostrum and bowed deeply to Rasa who, somewhat taken aback, rose from her throne and bowed back. Ykintas and Elze were far from amused that the despoiler of their realms should make an appearance but the king was all smiles and charm.

  ‘Great lady,’ he said loudly, ‘as soon as I heard of the prince’s death I hurried here to convey my condolences. We had our differences I will not deny but Prince Vsevolod was always a man of honour and conviction.’

  He looked at Mindaugas and Ykintas. ‘Qualities sadly rare these days.’

  ‘You are welcome, majesty,’ said Rasa, returning to her throne, ‘though I am somewhat surprised that Kurland should take an interest in the affairs of Selonia and Nalsen.’

  ‘As am I,’ added Mindaugas, ‘especially as the Kurs once tried to conquer those territories.’

  Lamekins smiled at him. ‘Times change, duke.’

  ‘Grand duke,’ Mindaugas corrected him.

  Lamekins looked perplexed. ‘I was under the
impression that the title “grand duke” was conferred upon a man who had been elected to the position by all the Lithuanian tribes, not just three, one of which was conveniently your own. How fortunate that Duke Kitenis and his sons were killed at Mesoten.’

  He held out a hand to Ortwin. ‘Which was bravely defended by Master Ortwin and his Sword Brothers. How we lament their passing.’

  Mindaugas was having difficulty containing his anger.

  ‘You insult me, Lamekins.’

  The king’s square jaw set rigid. ‘Do I? I thought I was stating facts, which in your case is an inconvenient truth.’

  Rasa waved forward the guards near the walls.

  ‘Now is not the time for politics. I will have no more such talk while my husband is barely cold.’

  Lamekins turned to her. ‘You are entirely right, highness. I will withdraw to await your pleasure.’

  He bowed, turned and retreated from the chamber.

  ‘He was sailing close to the wind,’ Andreas whispered to Ortwin.

  ‘Lamekins? He knew exactly what he was doing. If Mindaugas or Ykintas had drawn their swords the guards would have cut them down in an instant. Lamekins knows this and so goaded Mindaugas with impunity.’

  ‘Hard to believe that Lamekins was a pagan once.’

  ‘He’s no fool,’ Ortwin told him. ‘He was the one who forged the Kur army into a war-winning weapon and rumour has it that he is now very rich, having a fleet of merchant ships that journey between Riga and Lübeck. He also owns a third of Oesel to boot.’

  The feast that evening was an excruciating affair. Rasa had the good sense to ban any weapons from the hall before the guests sat down to eat, doubling the number of guards at the same time. Rasa was flanked by her daughters and sons-in-law and opposite Lamekins, which gave the king ample opportunity to goad the two men. Either side of the Kur leader were the redoubtable Torolf and Ringaudas, the Selonian who had been abandoned by Prince Vsevolod many years before and who had been shown mercy by Duke Arturus. Ortwin and Andreas were seated at the end of the long trestle table, at first unable to hear the conversation between the Kur and Rasa’s sons-in-law. That was soon to change.