by Peter Darman
He used his wealth to win influence among the Buxhoeveden family in Saxony and bribe church officials when he sniffed a chance for advancement. His efforts had paid off when Bishop Ekkehard of Merseburg had died suddenly. The bishopric of Merseburg was an important episcopal position in eastern Saxony, the city lying on the River Saale, its cathedral having been consecrated two hundred years before. Normally the chapter members of a cathedral would gather in its chapter house to elect their new bishop. His family had alerted Stefan to the available position and had lobbied the cathedral’s ecclesiastical superior, Archbishop Wilbrand of Kasernberg, on his behalf. On condition that Stefan made a large donation to the archbishop and the dean of Merseburg Cathedral, the position was his. Thus did Stefan become Bishop of Merseburg.
The bishop-in-waiting had the quay where the cog that would take him to Lübeck cleared of all he termed ‘lower elements’ as his chests of belongings were taken aboard. Also accompanying Stefan was an entourage of fifty, including scribes, priests, young and attractive novices and many officials who had served in his court. They included all the summoners who functioned as the court’s bailiffs. They had been assiduous in their duties and were almost as hated at Stefan himself. None of them desired to stay in Riga without the archdeacon’s protection.
Stefan looked at the sturdy cog and screwed up his nose. ‘I hope this vessel is in seaworthy condition.’
‘It has made many trips between Riga and Lübeck,’ said Gunter, ‘and its captain is an old hand.’
‘Mm, well at least the weather is good. Have a care with those barrels,’ Stefan shouted at sailors managing a pallet of barrels swinging on board from a crane, ‘they contain expensive wine. Oafs.’
‘You will miss the execution of Hastein, archdeacon,’ said Gunter, ‘in addition to the marriage of King Lamekins and Princess Rasa in the cathedral.’
Bishop Nicholas, who was conspicuous by his absence, had rejoiced when Ambassador Torolf had informed him that the princess had agreed to be baptised in return for a formal alliance between Livonia and Selonia and Nalsen, both kingdoms feeling threatened by the approach of the Mongols. In response the bishop had announced that he would conduct the marriage ceremony between Lamekins and Rasa. The Kurs had become valued business partners and allies since Lamekins had accepted baptism and in the general rejoicing and congratulatory atmosphere the king had been made an honorary burgomaster of Riga. Only Stefan was unimpressed.
‘What, stay to witness the burning of one pagan and the sham marriage between two others? I think not,’ he sneered.
‘King Lamekins owns this vessel, archdeacon, along with numerous other merchant ships. He has done well for himself.’
Stefan looked down his nose at him. ‘What a dullard you are, Gunter. Lamekins is a filthy pagan, always has been, always will be. The good burghers of Riga tolerate him because his army of bearded brutes is useful for the moment. But when it has served its purpose it and its king will be cast aside, mark my words.’
‘Bishop Nicholas seems to think differently,’ said Gunter.
Stefan raised a hand. ‘Whether the bishop thinks at all is debatable but before I leave I should make clear to you what type of man you serve.’
‘Archdeacon?’
Stefan wore a smug expression when he snapped his fingers to bring an equally fat priest to his side, who handed him a rolled parchment. Stefan handed Gunter the document.
‘A leaving present for you, Gunter. I no longer need it but you may find it useful. I will not say that I will miss you because I will not.’
Then he was gone, waddling up the gangplank to board the cog, the priest scuttling after him. Gunter ordered his men to stand to attention as the great square sail of the cog was unfurled, its crew cast off and the vessel towed out into the mouth of the Dvina by two riverboats. He could scarce believe that his tormentor and commander had left Riga and while he sympathised with the people of Merseburg for the misery that was about to be visited upon them, he rejoiced at his own good fortune.
He watched the cog disappear on the western horizon and turned to go back to the city’s castle and his office. He stopped when he realised that he was holding the parchment Stefan had given him. He untied the ribbon binding it and unfolded the document. He read the signed confession of Abbot Nicholas of Dünamünde and sighed. He went immediately to the Bishop’s Palace where Nicholas was directing a pair of blacksmiths fixing a set of newly made wrought iron gates at the entrance to the palace gardens. The smiths had been heating iron pins in a brazier to slot into the hinges, the bishop watching their work intently as they hammered the tops of the red-hot pins to secure the gates in place. Gunter stared at him, seeds of doubt planted in his mind as a result of Stefan’s parting shot. In his early forties Nicholas had a pale, unhealthy face, made worse by his thinning hair and emaciated frame. But he had a kindly nature and Gunter had seen nothing untoward since his arrival at Riga, and neither had he heard any rumours alluding to the things written on the parchment he held in his hand.
‘Gunter,’ the bishop had noticed him.
Gunter saluted and walked over to him. ‘Excellency. I would speak to the bishop alone.’
The smiths stopped hammering, grunted and sauntered away.
‘The archdeacon has left Riga, excellency,’ Gunter told Nicholas.
Relief filled the bishop’s eyes. ‘I should have seen him off, I suppose.’
His voice trailed away. Gunter held out the parchment.
‘He gave me this before he departed, excellency.’
Nicholas took the document and visibly wilted before Gunter’s eyes as the past caught up with him. He hung his head in shame and began mumbling something. Gunter snatched the parchment and tossed it into the brazier. It crackled and erupted in flames as the heat incinerated it. Nicholas was speechless.
‘The archdeacon was not a moral or decent man, excellency.’
He stepped back and saluted. ‘I will report to your excellency when I have completed my rounds.’
As soon as he had boarded and had settled in the captain’s quarters Stefan began drinking. The skipper joined him in a goblet of wine and informed the churchman that the Baltic in summer was like a lake and that their journey would be relatively short and uneventful.
‘Oeselian longships no longer plague the eastern Baltic, sir, so the greatest threat is boredom.’
Stefan looked around the sparse cabin at the rear of the cog, his only comforts a hammock, piss pot, two stools and a small table.
‘Just as our Lord was tested in the wilderness so I will endure the privations of this voyage,’ Stefan told him.
He dismissed the captain and set about drinking himself into a stupor. A beautiful novice with blue eyes and flawless skin visited him later that afternoon but Stefan was too inebriated to indulge himself and so the boy left. Stefan dozed for a while and then ate a meal of cooked lobster, which had been stored in a barrel and prepared by the archdeacon’s own cooks. They had used the on-board clay oven to prepare it. He drank some more and listened with disinterest to a minstrel singing a song about a knight slaying a dragon. Tedium.
He endured a fitful sleep, eventually waking up in the dark when his bowels began to move. He cursed when he realised that he would have to make his way to the bow of the ship where two seats, projecting out on either side of the prow, were located to enable bowels to be voided.
The evening was still and moonlit and the captain, who had plied this route many times, had decided to sail through the clear night and calm sea rather that drop anchor for the night. In his stupefied state Stefan had great difficulty threading his way through the barrels, chicken cages and people occupying the deck. Above him were the rigging, shrouds, stays and sail. He could have used the piss-pot but the idea disgusted him. And the smell! So he clutched the gunwale and finally reached the seats hanging over the side of the prow. He dismissed a gruff sailor who offered to help him before holding the ropes on the side of the hull for dear life as he li
fted his robes with one hand and seated himself, the black waters of the Baltic gently lapping against the side of the hull below. The night was warm, the breeze gentle and soothing and after he had emptied his bowels he relaxed. The mellow motion of the cog as it cut through the calm water made his eyelids feel heavy. As he had done many times in his private privy in the Bishop’s Palace he drifted off to sleep. His head dropped, his hands releasing his grip on the ropes. His head rocked from side to side as he drifted off into a sublime sleep and toppled from the seat into the waters below, never to be seen again. The cog sailed on. The good people of Merseburg would require a new bishop.
*****
The summer had been the happiest time in Tracker’s miserable life. He had been surprised when his lord had decided not to venture further west into the enemy’s lands, preferring instead to take the bulk of his men south with Prince Alexander. But he had been elated when Kristjan had given him command of a hundred mounted Karelians with orders to continue burning and looting. Admittedly those Karelians were a rough lot and were wanting when it came to equipment, most wearing leather armour, nothing on their heads and having only a spear, axe and knife for weapons, with a round wooden shield for defence. But unlike the hundreds of their compatriots who had trudged south on foot they all had horses, which made them mobile. And they liked to kill and burn.
Tracker, totally unsuited for command, had grown tired of leading such a large body of men and so had divided it up into small groups scattered all over Wierland and Harrien. He himself retained a dozen men, as much for his own protection as for raiding purposes. He reasoned that he would probably never set eyes on the others again but as they had been unleashed that did not matter. What mattered was that they would kill until they were themselves killed, thus fulfilling Kristjan’s orders.
His men had made camp for the night beside a small hillock in view of a forest of spruce, well away from the settlement they had burned earlier. Sadly it was, like most they had encountered, empty. But they were not alone in the area because Tracker had spotted hoof marks beside a small stream, which made him suspicious. He knelt down beside them.
‘They could be ours,’ suggested his companion, a big Karelian armed with a long spear.
Tracker shook his head. ‘No, there are too many of them and their size indicates ponies among them. Most odd.’
The Karelian looked bored. ‘Most likely the inhabitants of the village we torched earlier.’
Tracker stood and walked back to his horse.
‘A village that size does not own that number of ponies.’
He mounted his horse and looked around at the trees.
‘Something is wrong.’
He may have been a coward but he had a keen sense when it came to the proximity of danger and anything that might threaten him. He walked his horse slowly back towards camp. Before they had left he had stressed to the parties of Karelians that it was crucial to send out scouts at all times to guard against being ambushed. He doubted they heeded his advice. Kristjan had promised them plunder and that was all they were interested in. What were they to Tracker anyway?
His eyes never left the ground as they rode back to camp, the sun now dipping in the west. He saw hares, a deer and a raven in the sky. He saw no more tracks but he could sense that something was wrong, tasted it almost.
‘Smells good.’
The Karelian snapped him out of his unease.
‘What?’
‘The food, smells good.’
Tracker rounded the hillock and saw the tendrils of smoke from the campfires and smelled the aroma of roasting animal flesh. It did smell good. Men were milling round, grooming horses, creating makeshift shelters from branches and turning meat over fires.
Crack.
Tracker saw a man arch his back before falling headfirst into a fire. A series of thwacks scattered a flock of ravens in a nearby tree, the high-pitched screams sending them on their way. From the trees came crossbowmen wearing yellow gambesons and helmets, others in mail shirts armed with spears and axes, their round shields bearing a lynx symbol. Tracker reacted instantly, lunging at his companion, grabbing the sleeve of his tunic to put him in the way of the crossbow bolt shot at him when the pair was spotted. The bolt struck the Karelian in the chest, penetrating his hide armour. Tracker released him, pulled on his reins to turn his horse, crouched low in the saddle and dug his spurs into the beast. Another bolt went over his head as the horse bolted forward away from the scene of slaughter.
‘You want us to give chase, lord?’
Riki looked at his deputy. ‘No. Ride back to the villagers in the forest and tell them it is safe to return to their homes, what remains of them. Tell them they are welcome at Varbola if they do not wish to return to the village.’
The man nodded and left. Ulric, crossbow slung over his shoulder, appeared beside the Duke of Harrien.
‘All dead?’ asked Riki.
‘Thirteen,’ nodded Ulric.
‘Thirteen down and still too many infesting Harrien,’ said Riki.
As soon as word had reached him that Harrien was being raided he and Ulric had organised combined groups of mounted warriors and ‘Bastard’ crossbowmen to hunt down and destroy the bandits. Ulric had also given Anu fifty of his men to do the same in Wierland, even though that region was now under Danish control, theoretically. But since the departure of the two princes there was little Danish control beyond the walls of Reval and Narva.
‘This will take all summer,’ said Ulric.
‘And all winter if need be,’ added Riki.
*****
Tracker rode all the way back to Novgorod, to the mansion of Dmitriy Hoidja where Kristjan and Hella lodged with their sons. Kristjan was sitting with his wife and business partner on the vast porch fronting the courtyard listening to his tale. Boar was leaning against one of the wooden pillars with arms folded, eyeing Tracker like a hawk viewing prey.
‘There were dozens of them lord,’ jabbered the scout, ‘coming at us in all directions. I was lucky to escape.’
‘Though no one else did,’ remarked Boar, ‘strange that.’
‘You did well, Tracker,’ said Kristjan.
Boar was astounded. ‘He did?’
‘Get some food inside you,’ Kristjan told his scout. ‘In the morning you will ride back to the enemy lands with more men.’
‘Yes, lord,’ beamed Tracker, who bowed deeply and scampered away. Boar walked over to his lord.
‘You know he’s lying. I can smell Tracker’s gutlessness a hundred paces away.’
‘I know,’ replied Kristjan, ‘but he serves a useful purpose. A few raiding parties in Wierland and Harrien will tie down many of the enemy’s soldiers, allowing Prince Alexander more freedom when he launches his own attack in the coming winter.’
‘Why not before, lord?’ asked Boar.
‘He has some family business to attend to first.’
The rain lashed the column with venom, men and horses trudging forward with heads down along the muddy track. The autumn rains were turning northern Russia into an ocean of mud and after the mud would come sleet and snow to fringe the lakes with ice. And then winter would come to freeze the land and make the earth as hard as granite.
‘You should not have come, father,’ said Alexander, urging his horse forward so it and he would provide a modicum of shelter for Yaroslav Nevsky.
‘I am quite all right,’ snapped the older man, though clearly he was not. His skin was pallid and the hacking cough gripping his body showed no signs of abating.
‘I am still a member of the Council of Lords and the city’s Thousandman,’ insisted his father.
‘Former Thousandman,’ mused his son.
The rain increased in intensity, the standard bearer behind them having trouble holding the banner flapping furiously in the wind.
‘Roll it up,’ shouted Yaroslav irritably. ‘We might as well spare the flag the indignity we are about to endure.’
The Mongols had sent
word requesting a delegation from Novgorod meet them forthwith, Lord Khulgen himself writing that he would be attending the meeting. Both the Council of Lords and the veche were unsure what the summons was about, though when word spread throughout the city people flocked to the churches to pray for salvation. There was an angry demonstration outside the Yaroslav Court when a false rumour spread that the annual tribute to the Mongols had not been paid. Only with great difficulty had a riot been prevented. The populace was on tenterhooks that the Mongols were about to sack the city.
The column halted while the standard bearer wrapped Novgorod’s banner round the flag pole and slipped a waxed canvas cover over it. By the time the Russians reached the Mongol camp, a mere ten miles from city’s Kremlin, all the riders were thoroughly soaked and dejected. Their mood fell further when a party of Mongol lancers met them a short distance from the camp, their flat faces giving them a demon-like appearance.
‘I feel like a cow on the way to slaughter,’ said Yaroslav.
His son merely grunted.
The rain lessened when they reached the camp of large yurts in the lee of a forest. They were met by the Russian Ferapont wearing a fur cap and a huge cloak, who bowed his head and barked orders at the Mongol riders in their native tongue.
‘They will take your horses, my lords,’ he smiled. ‘Your men will be shown to warm quarters where they can dry themselves and partake of hot food.’
Yaroslav, surprised by the agreeable greeting, ordered his men to follow the Mongols who were dismounting and gesturing to the Russians.
‘They will be quite safe,’ Ferapont assured him.
Two soldiers came forward to take the horses of father and son, Ferapont holding out an arm towards a large yurt directly ahead.
‘Please, lords, let us get out of this infernal rain.’
He ushered them towards the round shelter where two guards stood either side of the south-facing entrance.