As Dust to the Wind

by Peter Darman

  ‘Just a few words about customs, lords,’ said Ferapont.

  ‘The entrances to Mongol shelters are always south facing and inside the host occupies the east side and guests the west side.

  ‘When you enter you will be offered a cup of drink called airag, which is fermented mares’ milk. You do not have to drink it but it is considered polite to dip the ring finger of your right hand into the drink, raise your hand above your head and flick your finger to the four winds.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Alexander bluntly.

  ‘To offer a taste to the gods, lord.’

  He saw their disgusted expressions. ‘For the sake of easing negotiations, you understand. And please hold your cups by the bottom, not the top rim.’

  ‘This is very different from our first meeting,’ said Yaroslav, stopping to clear his throat.

  ‘Then you were enemies but now you are regarded as friends,’ smiled Ferapont.

  Yaroslav raised an eyebrow at him but kept his counsel.

  The yurt was warm and inviting, a circular dwelling made of a lattice of flexible wood covered with layers of felt, with an outer layer of waterproof canvas. A wooden floor covered with rugs isolated those inside from damp and cold. The sons of Novgorod stared at the wood-burning iron stove in the middle, from which a long pipe led to the centre of the domed top of the yurt, and through which smoke escaped from the stove.

  ‘Welcome.’

  Khulgen was dressed in a long robe-like white coat with wide sleeves extending only to the elbows, beneath which he wore a blue silk shirt. His wide trousers were tan coloured and tucked into stout leather boots without heels but with thick soles made of felt.

  That was the only word Khulgen spoke in Russian as he offered his guests two seats near the stove so they could warm themselves. He nodded with satisfaction when soldiers offered the two Russians airag and they performed the strange ritual. More soldiers brought steaming hot soup and cups of warm milk that Yaroslav, intermittently coughing, devoured with relish. Khulgen smiled and stroked his thin moustache. Using Ferapont as a translator he enquired after the health of the Russians’ family and friends and the wellbeing of their livestock.

  ‘Ask him what he wants,’ said Yaroslav.

  ‘I will say to Lord Khulgen that you have enquired after the health of his own family first, lord, and especially his herd of horses.’

  Yaroslav sighed but the soup was hot and tasty and so he endured the ritual of Mongol good manners, tedious though it was. At last Khulgen got to the meat of the matter. Ferapont translated his words to the two guests.

  ‘My lord is pleased with the agreement that was brokered between the Mongol Empire and the city of Novgorod.’

  ‘I wager he is,’ said Yaroslav under his breath.

  ‘The tribute has been paid on time and in full,’ continued Ferapont, ‘and Lord Khulgen looks forward to many years of the same. In recognition of your diligence and good manners he therefore presents you with a gift to take back to Novgorod.’

  Khulgen spoke to one of the guards. The man bowed and left the yurt. The Mongol continued to stroke his moustache while Yaroslav and Alexander looked at each other in confusion, at Ferapont who was now silent with his eyes cast down, and at Khulgen. They both turned when the wooden entrance to the yurt opened and in strode Andrey Nevsky. Forgetting all protocol his father and brother jumped up and the three embraced, tears in the father’s eyes. He hugged his son long and hard, cupping his face in his hands, closing his eyes and thanking God for this great gift.

  ‘Your son is a keen and attentive student,’ said Khulgen through Ferapont, ‘and has learned many of our ways since his time with us.’

  ‘And not only your ways,’ said Alexander observing his brother’s thin moustache and leather breastplate.

  ‘We release him from our service,’ stated Khulgen, ‘in the hope that he will one day return as a friend and guest once again.’

  Andrey walked forward and bowed to Khulgen, telling him something in his native tongue. The Mongol smiled and snapped his fingers at one of the servants who brought over something wrapped in hide. Khulgen stood, took the package and handed it to Andrey, whose face lit up when he saw a Mongol recurve bow. The pair exchanged more words and then the three Russians left the yurt, Yaroslav with his arm around his younger son’s shoulders.

  ‘You look tired, father,’ said Andrey.

  Yaroslav waved away his concerns, nodding at the bow.

  ‘A departing gift.’

  Andrey pointed to a column of Mongol warriors on horseback, two abreast.

  ‘That is my departing gift, father, two hundred horse archers. This bow is merely an afterthought.’

  The rain had stopped, the air was fresh and the day darkening.

  ‘If we hurry we can be back home before nightfall,’ said Yaroslav, taking the reins of his horse brought from the stabling area. His Russian escort was also forming up.

  Alexander slapped Andrey on the back.

  ‘It’s good to have you back among us, brother. We will be needing you and your men in the coming months.’

  Novgorod was delighted by the return of one of its sons, though it did not know what to make of the strange-looking soldiers who followed Andrey Nevsky. Kristjan was also pleased because he knew it meant that Prince Alexander would be free to turn his attention to the west once more. He had visited his old friend Yaroslav when he and his two sons had returned but was saddened to discover that their father had caught a chill confining him to his bed. He doubted he would ever lead soldiers in battle again.

  ‘And you, Kristjan, what will you do now that the Mongol menace has gone?’ asked Hoidja.

  ‘I will go west with Alexander, of course,’ smiled his friend. ‘I did not bring over a thousand men south so they could sit in tents outside the city. Had I a mind to I would visit the veche and demand they be quartered in the city, but as it is I do not think we shall be staying long.’

  Hoidja looked at Hella who wore a mask of sadness. The older man shook his head and stared into the fire. The hour was late and the mansion quiet. It was a time for reflection.

  ‘You could stay here,’ suggested Hoidja, ‘and make sure I do not spend all the wealth we have accumulated.’

  ‘Wealth has never interested me,’ said Kristjan, ‘spend it if you wish.’

  Hoidja winked at Hella. ‘You see, once a man is born into wealth and privilege he becomes accustomed to both things. As a consequence they hold little worth for him.’

  He stood and walked over to Hella and kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘The hour is late and I need my sleep. I will see you both in the morning.’

  They bade him goodnight and sat for a few moments in silence, staring into the fire. Eventually Hella left her seat and knelt before Kristjan, taking his hand in hers.

  ‘Why must you go with Alexander? You are not of his faith, he has no hold over you.’

  He smiled at her. ‘He is the son of my friend and is relying on me.’

  ‘Novgorod is ruled by ungrateful men,’ she spat. ‘They despise you, us, and yet still you do their bidding.’

  She hoped to provoke him but he knew her too well.

  ‘I have unfinished business to attend to, Hella.’

  Her eyes became moist. ‘We have warmth, you and I, and our union has been blessed by the gods. Do you not wish to see your sons grow into manhood?’

  He leaned forward. ‘More than anything, my love. But what would the gods think of me if I left the man who murdered my parents free to walk the earth?’

  ‘The past is the past, Kristjan. I thought your parents died of a pestilence.’

  His face hardened. ‘They were happy until they became involved with the Sword Brothers, and one in particular.’

  ‘Let it go, Kristjan, for your sake and your family’s.’

  But he could not. He had hated Conrad Wolff from the first time he had met him all those years ago in his father’s hall at Odenpah. His father’s hall, now violated
by the Christian filth. Anger rose within him as he thought of his beautiful mother and proud father, murdered by the Sword Brothers.

  ‘There is no more to say on the matter,’ he told her.

  *****

  Bishop Hermann hoped the coming of winter would signal a halt in hostilities between his bishopric and Novgorod but it was not to be. Conrad informed him that the Duke of Harrien and Anu were still hunting down groups of bandits in Wierland, Riki’s own lands and those parts of Harrien supposedly under Danish control, assisted by Hillar and his war band. The Danes had barricaded themselves behind the walls of Reval and Dorpat and refused to venture out, despite the bishop’s pleas. The birth of Christ was celebrated and the land was a sea of brilliant white. But any celebrations were cut short when word reached Dorpat that Pskov had fallen. Actually ‘fallen’ was the wrong word because it had been given up with just a whimper. When a large Russian army had appeared before Pskov the tiny garrison had locked itself in the Kremlin’s palace , abandoning the outer walls of the city. The gates had been opened by the populace. Mindful that he himself had been shown mercy Domash informed the garrison that he would allow them to march back to Dorpat unmolested with their horses, weapons and armour if they gave themselves up. They accepted his offer and so once again Domash Tverdislavich became the Mayor of Pskov.

  The candles flickered on their stands as Lukas finished his summation of the dire events to date.

  ‘Thank you, Lukas,’ said Bishop Hermann with a heavy heart.

  The churchman was still tall but his great age and the events of the previous months had taken their toll on him, made worse by news coming from Rome reporting the death of Pope Gregory. His cheeks were sunken and he no longer possessed the solid build that had made him so imposing.

  ‘What now?’ he said softly, looking at the faces around the table.

  ‘First of all we need to reassemble the Army of the Wolf,’ said Dietrich von Grüningen firmly.

  The Livonian Master had returned to Riga after overseeing operations against the pagans in Prussia. But the disaster at Liegnitz had shaken him to the core and he appeared less cocky and sure of himself than previously. Conrad thought that at least something positive had come out of the Mongol victory.

  ‘Impossible,’ said Odenpah’s former master. Sir Richard and Andres nodded.

  Dietrich frowned. ‘I have heard no reports of heavy casualties among its contingents.’

  ‘Riki, Hillar and Anu are still clearing northern Harrien and Wierland of bandits. They will be loathe to commit men to Dorpat’s defence while their own people are threatened.’

  ‘You can order them to do so,’ Dietrich shot back. He had requested their presence at the meeting in the bishop’s palace at Dorpat but they had not bothered even sending a reply.

  ‘I could but I will not,’ replied Conrad calmly. ‘For one thing they are my friends and I do not order my friends about. For another Riki and Hillar are dukes and out-rank me.’

  Sir Richard and Andres smiled at him.

  ‘And you, your graces,’ said von Grüningen to the pair, ‘can we rely on you should the Russians attack us?’

  ‘With Anu covering my northern border I will bring my men south,’ confirmed Andres, ‘but not all of them. I have no wish to return to a plundered land.’

  ‘I too will commit men to the defence of Dorpat,’ said Sir Richard, ‘though not as many as last year. I must secure Saccalia and its people.’

  ‘You are both right, your graces,’ said Hermann. ‘A Christian lord’s first duty is to the people that rely on him. What numbers can the Teutonic Order muster to protect us from the apostates?’

  ‘Not as many as I would like, excellency,’ admitted von Grüningen. ‘The disaster at Liegnitz, the ongoing war against the Prussians and the need to protect the Dvina will mean the dilution of our strength in Estonia.’

  ‘The Danes should contribute men,’ said Rudolf, ‘seeing as we are covering their arses at the moment after their two princes skulked back to Denmark. Who is the new Danish king anyway?’

  ‘Eric,’ answered the bishop.

  ‘Whom Abel dislikes intently,’ added Conrad. ‘I doubt we will be seeing any Danish princes in these parts for a while, not if civil war breaks out between them in Denmark.’

  Hermann wilted. ‘These are indeed trying times.’

  ‘But your excellency should still appeal to Reval for assistance,’ suggested Rudolf. ‘We need all the knights we can get our hands on.’

  ‘I concur with Master Rudolf’s opinion,’ said von Grüningen.

  ‘What are the Russians doing now?’ asked Hermann.

  ‘My scouts report they are still at Pskov,’ said Andres, ‘but it is only a matter of time before they attack.’

  ‘You know that for certain, your grace?’ asked von Grüningen.

  ‘Why else would they keep their army at Pskov and not disband it if not to strike across Lake Pskov?’ replied Andres.

  Conrad nodded and then a shiver went down his spine. If the Russians took that route Odenpah and Lady Maarja’s home would be the first places they would encounter.

  ‘Assemble what forces are available to us here at Dorpat,’ said Hermann with a heavy heart. ‘Thank you, gentlemen.’

  When he stood the others rose from their seats and bowed their heads. Hermann shuffled from the chamber, the weight of the world on his shoulders, his hopes of becoming Archbishop of Novgorod having vanished into thin air.

  The others departed, Conrad in the company of Sir Richard and Andres. They walked from the ornate, ordered interior of the palace back to the castle a short distance away. It was night now and the air was painful to inhale it was so cold. A full moon hung in the sky to bathe Dorpat in a silver glow.

  ‘You do not have to report here,’ said Conrad, ‘and if you were to ask my opinion I would advise against it.’

  ‘And abandon the bishop?’ Sir Richard was surprised.

  ‘Dorpat’s defences are strong,’ said Conrad, ‘and the Russians have no siege engines. My guess would be that they will come, cause as much damage as possible and then return to Novgorod, honour satisfied.’

  ‘And you, Susi,’ said Andres, ‘what will you do?’

  ‘I will stay by the bishop’s side, Andres. He gave me a great gift once and for that alone I owe him my allegiance.’

  ‘I will not abandon him,’ stated Sir Richard.

  ‘Me neither,’ said Andres.

  *****

  ‘Strike them and strike them hard.’

  Fifty miles away another meeting was being dominated not by a Christian but by a pagan. Kristjan had a clenched fist as he raged at those present. Domash may have been sitting on his throne with Prince Alexander on another beside him, but it was Kristjan who was dictating the agenda. He paced up and down in front of the dais in Pskov’s palace, a delighted Prince Andrey agreeing with his every demand.

  ‘We have taken Pskov but it was a victory in name only,’ said Kristjan through gritted teeth. ‘If we do nothing more then the Christians will see us as weak and will return next year.’

  ‘We are all Christians,’ growled the metropolitan.

  Kristjan rounded on him. ‘My sympathies.’

  ‘What?’ roared the priest.

  Domash stood, impressed and bemused by Kristjan’s performance.

  ‘I think we should hear what Prince Alexander has to say, as it is he that commands this great enterprise.’

  ‘What purpose would it serve to campaign in winter, Kristjan?’ asked Alexander. ‘We do not have enough food for a long siege of Dorpat.’

  ‘Besieging Dorpat will not serve our purpose,’ replied Kristjan. ‘We plunder and burn to draw the enemy out of his castles so we can give battle and destroy him at a time and place of our own choosing.’

  ‘You think we can win?’ asked Domash, memories of his own defeat at Izborsk fresh in his mind.

  ‘Of course,’ smiled Kristjan. ‘The enemy has been weakened. The Danes have locked the
mselves away in Reval and Narva and the Estonians are busy trying to hunt down the men I sent into their lands.’

  He could see that Alexander was tempted but still hesitant. So he threw him a lifeline.

  ‘If we attack and retain the initiative then we also have the option of withdrawing if circumstances are unfavourable. We can always return at a later date.’

  He walked up to Alexander. ‘We are close to enemy territory, we are strong and the enemy is weak. Now is the time to strike.’

  Alexander looked at Domash who puffed out his cheeks and then at Andrey, who gave him a determined nod. He knew that many among the veche were eager for peaceful relations to be restored between Novgorod and Dorpat, not least because the interruption of trade had harmed their interests. And peace would surely come if he strengthened Pskov’s garrison before marching home. But that would be dishonourable and in any case if the Catholic lands were untouched Bishop Hermann might be tempted to launch another invasion in the spring. No, Kristjan was right. The enemy needed to be struck now, and hit hard.

  ‘We attack,’ said Alexander.

  Chapter 12

  The Russians swarmed into the Bishopric of Dorpat, marching south of Lake Pskov to sweep west and north. Prince Andrey took his horse archers and a hundred of his father’s Druzhina deep into enemy territory while Prince Alexander began burning villages to the east and north of Dorpat itself. Kristjan and Domash moved more slowly, having a large number of foot soldiers under their command, plus a multitude of sleds to carry the army’s supplies. The plan was quite simple: burn and destroy as many settlements as possible before withdrawing to the short neck of land that separated the southern shore of Lake Peipus from the northern extent of Lake Pskov. Both lakes were frozen but it was March and though still cold temperatures were not as low as in January and February. As a result the thickness of the ice was variable. After a hard frost it could be strong enough to bear a charge of mailed knights, but during a mild day a man on foot might fall through it.

  After three days Kristjan halted the column and gave orders to swing north.

  ‘North?’ Domash was confused. ‘We have barely entered the enemy’s territory.’