by Peter Darman
‘The bishop will offer them mercy in return for their surrender.’
‘Does that extend to the city’s mayor?’ asked Conrad.
‘Inevitably.’
Conrad looked at his friend. ‘Is it still Domash Tverdislavich, the man responsible for your scars?’
‘What a good memory you have, Conrad.’
‘Perhaps it would be better if Pskov resists and we can storm the city.’
Rudolf slapped him on the arm. ‘Perhaps, though it is all irrelevant if we can’t get the bishop off his arse and get this army moving.’
*****
‘None of the Voi have returned to the city. They are either dead or have fled to their homes in the countryside, the latter most likely. Of the city militia less than two hundred have reported for duty thus far, which leaves your Druzhina, lord, as the main defence of the city.’
Domash sat slumped in his chair in the throne room as the man he had appointed temporary governor made his report. The senior members of his Druzhina stood in front of him, tired, bruised and bloody, their battered helmets held in the crooks of their arms. The governor stepped back and bowed his head. Everyone waited, waited for the mayor to reveal his plan to defeat the crusader army that would be in front of the walls within two days. But Domash had no plan. He needed Gleb more than ever but his adviser had left him at a most inopportune moment. He looked at them with tired eyes.
‘Send a courier to Novgorod immediately to request assistance.’
He looked at the boyars. ‘The city has strong defences. We can hold out until relief comes. Novgorod will not abandon us.’
They glanced at each other, worry etched on their faces.
‘If you have something to say let’s hear it,’ snapped Domash.
The governor spoke for them. ‘Begging your pardon, lord, but there are too few men to man the walls and food supplies are low because…’
His voice faltered but Domash chuckled.
‘Because I opened the granaries to feed the army. Nevertheless, I cannot give up this city without a fight. Novgorod would hang me for such an offence. Perhaps they would be right.’
He heard the ringing of bells. ‘What’s that?’
‘The churches are holding special masses to call for divine assistance, lord,’ the governor told him.
‘If God wanted to assist us He would have given us victory at Izborsk,’ remarked Domash. ‘We hold the city. Give the order to close the gates.’
The mayor was right about the city’s strength. Pskov had been built at the confluence of the Velikaya and Pskova rivers, the first strongpoint being the Kremlin or krom, meaning ‘the edge of the cape’. Since then high timber walls erected on earth ramparts had sprung up around the Kremlin, which over time was surrounded by four districts. They were Dovmont Town where the mayor’s palace and administrative buildings were located, Midtown, Skirt Town and Zapskovie. Pskov had flourished as a trading centre between Novgorod and Kiev, linked by waterways forming part of a strategic trade route between the Baltic and Black seas. Its tightly packed streets were filled with wooden houses and tiny squat churches, indicative of a striving and expanding city.
But a cloud of despair gathered over Pskov when news reached the city of the defeat at Izborsk, the mood of the population darkening when the scale of the disaster became apparent. What also became apparent was the lack of food in the city, the granaries having been well stocked the previous autumn but now bare after the mayor had issued food to the army he had led west. Pskov was gripped with fear.
*****
‘Three days, master, then we can begin shooting. But not before.’
Rudolf looked at the engineer, scratched his head then gazed across the river at the timber walls and earth ramparts of Pskov. The city was surrounded on three sides by water, to the south the wide and deep River Velikaya, to the north the narrower and more shallow River Pskova. The crusader army had camped around the city to establish siege lines, with a dozen mangonels positioned behind wooden mantlets in front of the city’s western wall. But the six larger and more powerful trebuchets were sited along the banks of the Pskova so when they were assembled they could hurl their ammunition south across the river, over the walls and into the city.
‘The sooner we get those machines working the sooner we can burn this city to the ground,’ said Rudolf angrily.
‘I thought the bishop wants to show mercy,’ said a surprised Conrad.
‘What the bishop wants and what he gets are two entirely different things,’ Rudolf shot back. ‘He seems to have forgotten that Novgorod lies only a hundred and fifty miles northeast of here. A relief army could be here within a week.’
He turned to the engineer and jabbed his finger in his chest. ‘Which is why I need these trebuchets working.’
The engineer’s brow creased. ‘A trebuchet is not a wheelbarrow, Master Rudolf, but an intricate machine that requires proper construction. Base, framework, throwing arm; each one has to be set up correctly for the trebuchet to work.’
‘You were trained by Master Thaddeus?’ asked Rudolf.
‘I was,’ said the engineer proudly.
‘It shows.’
‘Thank you, Master Rudolf.’
Rudolf walked away. ‘It was not a compliment. Walk with me, Conrad.’
The engineer went back to his work, the great A-frames already taking shape just yards from the riverbank. Swans glided gracefully over the calm blue water and geese flew overhead. The closeness of the two rivers had been a boon for the army, which used one to dump sewage in and the other to draw water from, ensuring the former did not flow into the latter of course.
‘Beautiful country,’ said Conrad.
‘I suppose, though it will be less so once our two Danish princes and my masters have finished with it.’
‘Oh?’
‘I have ordered those villages and monasteries nearby to be torched,’ said Rudolf, ‘to illustrate to those inside the city that they will suffer a similar fate if they do not open the gates.’
‘The mangonels are ready, are they not?’ asked Conrad.
‘They will be used to support the main assault against the western wall,’ said Rudolf, a glint in his eye, ‘but I hope that we will not need to assault the walls, which is why I need those wretched trebuchets working. In the meantime I have ordered siege towers to be constructed. Can I count on your dukes assisting me?’
Conrad was confused. ‘If we are not going to assault why do we need siege towers?’
‘I did not say that we are not going to launch an assault but that I hope it will be unnecessary.’
‘I am sure they will lend a hand.’
And they did, sending work parties into the forests to fell trees while others in camp set about building the towers. The structures themselves were erected in full sight of the enemy, though out of arrow range, so they could see that an assault was being planned. Each tower required a great quantity of lumber to be higher than the wall being assaulted. The wooden framework, inside which were floors connected by ladders leading to the top fighting platform, would be covered with wet hides for the assault to prevent the enemy setting fire to it. Thick oak trunks were required to create the four wheels that would move it to the walls.
While this work was going on the Danish and Teutonic Knights burnt villages and age-old monasteries that had enjoyed a quiet existence, their residents praying, cultivating the land and creating manuscripts and icons. These were now destroyed along with the buildings housing them, pillars of black smoke on the hills around the city signalling their eradication. And all the time the Russians watched from the walls.
When the trebuchets were finally ready the whole army was arrayed before the western wall. The bishop on his horse among the Dorpat militia, his priests and monks, watching the walls where spear points and helmets glinted in the sun. Six siege towers, each one over eighty feet high and faced with wet hides, stood between the wheeled mangonels that would be pushed forward alongside the
towers to provide support in the assault. Five towers for the five Estonian tribes that had built them – Saccalians, Harrien, Jerwen, Rotalian and Wierlanders – and one built by the Livs.
Conrad walked with his warlords to the towers while spearmen, crossbowmen and archers took their places behind mantlets, ready to moved forward in front of the towers to provide additional missile support.
‘So,’ said Paul to Sir Richard, ‘do you think you can fight on your own two feet or should I arrange for your warhorse to be taken to the top of the tower?’
‘Certainly my warhorse would provide better company,’ replied Sir Richard, ‘though I would not want him troubled by your rough manners.’
Their good-natured bickering was interrupted by the appearance of Canute, Abel and around a hundred Danish knights, all wearing red surcoats emblazoned with a white cross, carrying shields bearing the same design and armed with maces, swords and hand axes. Alongside was Andreas von Felben and dozens of brother knights and sergeants similarly armed.
‘We have come to see if you can fit a few of us in,’ said Lukas.
‘It seems like you’ve made them big enough,’ remarked Mathias, looking at the nearest tower.
‘Always room for a few friends,’ grinned Hillar.
‘You are welcome to stand beside me, Lukas,’ said Riki.
Former Sword Brothers clasped forearms with old friends and engaged in trivial conversation as they waited for the signal to mount the towers. But it was a different story with the Danes who proceeded to walk passed the knot of Estonian warlords.
‘Where do you think you are going?’ said Riki threateningly.
Abel stopped, bristling with anger at the curt words.
‘Have a care, Estonian.’
Riki squared up to him. ‘Care to find out if a Dane can finally defeat an Estonian? Every time I have faced your race I have triumphed. I see no reason to believe that this time will be any different.’
‘We had better do something,’ Rameke said to Conrad, stepping between the pair.
‘Lord prince,’ smiled the king, ‘I would consider it an honour if you and your men would share my tower.’
Conrad led Riki away. ‘Try to remember you are a Christian duke. It’s bad form to kill your allies in front of your enemies.’
‘They are not my allies,’ growled Riki.
‘Pretend they are, just for today,’ said Conrad.
Horses appeared carrying Rudolf and a score of sergeants. He frowned when he saw dozens of men milling aimlessly around.
‘To your positions,’ he shouted, ‘the trebuchets are ready. Try to look like soldiers. No advance until I give the order.’
He dug his stirrups into the flanks of his horse and galloped towards the pontoon bridge assembled to span the Pskova, the sergeants following. Danes, Estonians, Livs and Teutonic Knights and sergeants, stung by Rudolf’s words, began to file into the towers. Conrad embraced Rameke.
‘God be with you, my brother.’
Rameke smiled. ‘And you.’
Behind the towers stood thousands of men of the Army of the Wolf and Danish foot soldiers. They would push the towers forward, the great wooden structures positioned flush to the walls thanks to the efforts of those same men who had hacked at the earth rampart every day and night to cut into the slope so the towers could be pushed against the wall above. Crossbowmen and archers had used up a huge amount of ammunition to provide cover for the garrison as they did so.
But Rudolf was confident they would not need to expend any more ammunition. He gave the order to the tetchy commander of his engineers who signalled to the trebuchet crews to commence shooting. Priests blessed the barrels of burning pitch slung across the Pskova and over the walls to land among the wooden houses of Pskov. The barrels were not large and the rate of shooting was not rapid but after ten minutes there were plumes of smoke coming from the city. Rudolf ordered the crews to halt and then sent a courier to where the bulk of the army was formed up in front of the city’s western wall and main gates. A short time later a single knight on horseback accompanied by a herald trotted forward towards the gates.
*****
Domash was glad the attack was beginning. The constant wailing and crying of the women and children in the streets and around the Kremlin had got on his nerves, as had the apprehension that he had seen in the eyes of what remained of the militia. Only the Druzhina were up for a fight, though how long they would endure in the face of the crusader assault he did not know. His plan was to hold the outer walls as long as possible before retreating into the Kremlin, there to wait until a relief force arrived. But he had reckoned without the crusaders’ siege engines.
At first they had appeared worthless as men toiled on frames and baseboards to construct things he had never seen before. Even when the trebuchets were fully erected he had no idea how deadly they could be. Until they began hurling flaming incendiaries into the city. He was standing on the western wall, above the main gates into the city, when a message arrived that houses along the northern wall were aflame.
‘Well put them out,’ he shouted at the hapless soldier who had been sent by the officer responsible for that part of the wall.
He turned round and saw more black shapes coming over the wall as each trebuchet shot its ammunition.
‘The enemy has struck a church, lord,’ stammered the man, ‘all those inside are on fire.’
He was going to strike the soldier when the governor beside him spoke.
‘The enemy wishes to parley, lord.’
Domash spun back to see the knight in white surcoat with a black cross sitting motionless on his horse, a herald beside him.
‘Shall I order him to be shot, lord?’ asked the commander of the city archers.
It was tempting but Domash hesitated. He looked back to the northern wall and saw that the infernal machines had stopped their work, for the moment at least.
‘No, let’s hear what the apostates have to say. I will meet him inside the gates.’
He and the governor left the walls to meet the envoy. It was Master Franz, former commander at Narva before that place had been given up to the Danes. He was selected because he was one of the few men in the crusader army who spoke Russian. It was the first time he had seen the Mayor of Pskov up close.
‘Bishop Hermann sends greetings, Posadnik.’
‘If he retreats and takes his army with him then I will gladly reciprocate the sentiment.’
‘I am here to relate the bishop’s terms for the surrender of the city,’ said Franz.
‘What makes you think I am of a mind to give up my city?’ replied Domash.
Franz had no diplomatic skills. He was a rough soldier and had no interest in whether the Russians surrendered or not.
‘If you refuse then our engines along your northern wall will begin shooting again. At the same time the engines facing these gates will also shoot fire into the city and then the assault will commence. Or…’
‘Or what?’ snarled Domash.
‘The bishop guarantees the life of every man, woman and child in the city if you open the gates to him. Furthermore, any person who wishes to depart the city may do so, to go where they will with their possessions, unmolested. He further guarantees that all churches, religious icons, priests and monks will also be under his protection. Finally, he guarantees that only a token force will occupy the city so as not to alarm those who remain.’
Franz saluted. ‘You have one hour to make your decision.’
Then he was gone, back through the half-opened gate to the waiting crusader army.
Domash hastily convened a council of war, inviting the metropolitan of the cathedral, to discuss the enemy’s offer. But first he gave all present the facts.
‘We have enough food for a week if we can withstand an assault. If not the city will fall. If the crusaders begin shooting incendiaries again then most likely most of the city will burn anyway, including the wooden churches. I do not know if any relief is coming.’<
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He told them of Bishop Hermann’s offer and his inclination to carry on fighting, though he had no way of destroying the enemy’s machines and so to carry on would result in inevitable defeat. The metropolitan, a barrel-chested man with a great bushy beard, was not impressed.
‘If the enemy’s machines are capable of reducing the city to ashes then what will you be fighting over?’
It was a fair point Domash had to admit.
‘It would be better to preserve the city so it can be saved at a later date,’ reasoned the metropolitan.
‘If we can trust Bishop Hermann,’ warned the governor.
‘We can trust him to burn the city to the ground if we resist him,’ the metropolitan shot back. He turned his ire on Domash.
‘Of course if the army had not been defeated then we would not be in this most unhappy position. It is God’s punishment for your association with pagans.’
‘What would I give for an army of pagans now,’ mused the mayor.
‘Blasphemy,’ boomed the metropolitan.
‘This may surprise you,’ Domash told him, ‘but I care for this city and its inhabitants.’
‘Then I advise you to accept the enemy’s terms in the certainty that Novgorod will send an army to recapture it in due course.’
The governor was nodding and the metropolitan was surprised when Domash agreed. But he had an ulterior motive for not continuing with the fight. If Pskov was reduced to ashes he would have no city to rule and the prospect of returning to Novgorod was worse than submitting to the Catholics.
‘I will leave the city,’ stated Domash.
His Druzhina went with him, along with their families and retainers, a long column of horses, wagons and servants on foot leaving by the main gates. Very few of the city’s population went with them. Unlike the boyars who followed Domash they had no families in large houses in Novgorod where they could seek temporary shelter. So they stayed and prayed that the crusaders would not loot the city.
*****
The bishop did not plunder the city and nor did he occupy it with a large force. Indeed, Master Rudolf was far from amused when he discovered the new garrison would be a token force only.