As Dust to the Wind

by Peter Darman

  The Russians did not interfere with their ride from the bridge, Rudolf turning frequently to observe the corpse of the mayor. Conrad wondered what emotions his friend was experiencing, having killed the man who had been responsible for the burn scars on his neck. It was a kind of justice, he thought. Rudolf halted his horse a short distance from the bridge; the others did the same.

  ‘They will take the body back to Pskov,’ said Rudolf to no one in particular. ‘He deserves that.’

  ‘If the roles were reversed would he accord your body the same courtesy?’ asked Conrad, surprised at Rudolf’s apparent compassion.

  But Rudolf did not answer, wheeling his horse away to ride back to camp some five miles distant.

  The Russians did not pursue and so the ride back to camp was uneventful. The next day the garrisons of Wenden, Segewold and Kremon, together with Sir Richard and his knights and Saccalian foot, plus Sir Paul and his knights, reached Dorpat. The town was crowded with soldiers and refugees from nearby villages, though there was not a Russian to be found inside the walls.

  ‘They’ve all buggered off back east until this fuss has died down.’

  Leatherface had a slight limp now and still looked as though he had been dragged through a hedge backwards. But he had built up an impressive business and now had a son to boast about, his pretty young wife having delivered the bairn during the summer and happily surviving the experience. The interior of The Faithful Crossbowman was warm, welcoming and packed with paying customers.

  Rudolf looked around at the ruddy faced occupants of the inn.

  ‘Your business does not seem to have suffered.’

  Leatherface sat down on a stool at the table with his old comrades, young attractive maids ferrying ale from the back.

  ‘Men like to drink before they go into battle,’ he said. ‘I heard you have already had a little skirmish, Rudolf.’

  ‘Gossip travels fast,’ replied Rudolf, downing a cup of ale.

  ‘More ale over here,’ he shouted, to bring a buxom fair-haired girl to the table.

  ‘Anna, be a darling and fetch my friends more drink.’

  He slapped her on the backside and she grinned before departing.

  ‘You remind me of a harem owner,’ said Conrad.

  ‘You ever been to a harem, Conrad?’

  Conrad was horrified. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Well, then,’ replied Leatherface, ‘you don’t know what you’re talking about. Anyway, I’m a good inn keeper. I always care for my staff, not like the Sword Brothers.’

  Henke looked around. ‘You seem to have prospered.’

  Leatherface feigned shock. ‘What, this? I worked my fingers to the bone to get this little place, no thanks to the Sword Brothers.’

  ‘That’s ingratitude for you,’ smiled Rudolf, the serving wench placing another jug of ale on the table.

  Leatherface frowned. ‘All those years serving at Wenden and then under Master Conrad and nothing to show for it aside from a pile of salary demands. It was King Lamekins, God bless him, who paid for this place. His silver, anyway.’

  ‘I’m sure the bishop would pay you more if you came out of retirement to rid his bishopric of the Russians,’ said Conrad.

  ‘No chance,’ replied the innkeeper. ‘My days of tramping around in the snow and fighting with numb fingers are over.’

  ‘He’s too busy making babies,’ said Henke who appeared remarkably relaxed.

  ‘Got another on the way,’ smiled Leatherface.

  ‘It beggars belief,’ said Rudolf.

  ‘Where is your wife?’ asked Conrad.

  Leatherface cleared his throat. ‘This place is too raucous for her and the infant so I’ve packed her off to a house I purchased in a more respectable part of town.’

  ‘I will pay my compliments to her before we leave,’ announced Conrad.

  ‘So you are going to give battle, then?’ Leatherface was apprehensive.

  ‘Naturally,’ said Rudolf.

  ‘That’s what we do,’ added Henke.

  ‘Best to wait until the Russians return home,’ said Leatherface, ‘they will use up their food supplies soon enough in this weather.’

  Rudolf shook his head. ‘Impossible. They have burned many villages.’

  ‘Bishop Hermann regards it as a personal insult,’ added Conrad.

  ‘He wasn’t saying that when you lot were burning all those villages around Pskov, I’ll warrant,’ the innkeeper shot back. ‘He’ll never be Archbishop of Novgorod so he might as well make peace with the Russians and return to prayers and trade.’

  ‘Spoken like a true mercenary,’ said Rudolf, taking a gulp of ale.

  ‘We beat the Russian army here then Novgorod will have to agree a harsh peace,’ said Conrad.

  ‘You are a fine soldier and a good man, Conrad,’ said Leatherface, ‘but you have a naive view of how the world works. Novgorod holds all the advantages, seeing as Dorpat relies on it sending its wares here rather than Reval and Riga. If Bishop Hermann gets too haughty then the good merchants of Novgorod will simply send their goods elsewhere and Dorpat will whither and die.’

  ‘Unless we take Novgorod,’ said Henke defiantly.

  ‘And then you can fight the Mongols,’ replied Leatherface, pointing at the black cross on his surcoat. ‘Remind me, how did that go when the Teutonic Order encountered them last year?’

  Henke did not answer, deciding to concentrate on his ale. Conrad smiled and toasted Leatherface’s wife; the others joined in loudly. All talk of Novgorod and the Russians disappeared as the fire was stocked, the ale flowed and the evening passed in drunken revelry. The next morning, the two Teutonic Knights and Conrad having fallen asleep on the floor of the inn, sobered themselves up harshly by ducking their heads in the horse trough at the inn’s rear, breaking the ice first. After a shave and breakfast of hot porridge they said their goodbyes to Leatherface. He appeared dejected.

  ‘You take of yourselves,’ he told them.

  ‘We’ll be back to drink your profits when your second child is born,’ said Rudolf.

  ‘I go to give my regards to your wife,’ said Conrad after embracing the old rogue.

  The innkeeper stood and watched them walk down the street and disappear round a corner. A feeling of dread overwhelmed him and for the first time he felt regret for hanging up his crossbow and not marching to war with his friends.

  ‘Brave men.’

  Leatherface was startled by the man beside him, a poor wretch in rags.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The one wearing the red sword and cross insignia. I have not seen that emblem in a long time.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Leatherface was wary of strangers asking questions, especially one with an accent that he did not recognise.

  ‘Just a traveller who was enjoying the hospitality of your inn last night. I confess that I was also eavesdropping on your conversation with the Teutonic Knights. It cheers me that such men are defending Dorpat. I apologise.’

  Leatherface was still suspicious. ‘What sort of traveller?’

  ‘Just a hawker who scratches a living when and where he can. I remember seeing many Sword Brothers on my travels but I thought they were no more.’

  ‘Long gone,’ said Leatherface.

  ‘And yet one of those who just departed was wearing their uniform, was he not?’

  ‘That was the Marshal of Estonia’ said Leatherface wistfully, ‘a man returned from the dead. He was, is, a good soldier, nay great I would say. His return has put courage back into the hearts of men. What trade did you say you were engaged in?’

  The traveller was nowhere to be seen. Leatherface spat on the frozen ground.

  ‘Time waster.’

  *****

  The vast number of tents and wagons were clustered along the western edge of Lake Peipus, the thousands of men like black ants against the white background. The bright, crisp days were mercifully free of the biting easterly wind that chilled even the most warmly wrapped limbs. The
dozens of campfires burning day and night were devouring a prodigious amount of firewood brought in the wagons, requiring parties to be sent out every day to chop fresh wood and bring it back to camp.

  ‘So, is he there?’

  Kristjan scraped at the snow with his boot.

  ‘Yes, lord,’ said Tracker. ‘I saw him with my own eyes. He wears the uniform of the Sword Brothers.’

  Kristjan smiled to himself. ‘What else?’

  ‘Danish soldiers have come to Reval,’ Tracker told him, ‘and there are also the Estonians of Master Conrad.’

  Kristjan slapped him on the arm. ‘Excellent. Get some hot food and some new clothes.’

  Tracker looked at his shabby attire. ‘Clothes, lord?’

  ‘I’m sure we can replace those filthy rags you wear with something better. I have a council of war to attend.’

  ‘I like these clothes,’ mumbled Tracker as Kristjan paced away.

  Lord Murk was in high spirits but he found Prince Alexander and his commanders in a sombre mood when he arrived at his tent. Andrey, looking like a Mongol with his thin moustache and leather armour, stood by his brother as Alexander announced that he would give the order to withdraw back to Novgorod.

  ‘Domash is dead, we have raided Bishop Hermann’s domain and I see no reason to tarry here any longer.’

  Kristjan noted the nodding heads of the boyars who led the Druzhina. Prince Alexander obviously needed some leadership.

  ‘Why? Why throw away the great advantage we have gained? Are we to give the crusaders a cheap victory because the Mayor of Pskov was foolish enough to get himself killed?’

  ‘We have no engines with which to besiege Dorpat,’ said Alexander brusquely.

  ‘All we need do is stay here until the enemy marches out of Dorpat,’ insisted Kristjan.

  ‘Why should they do that?’ asked Alexander’s senior boyar.

  ‘How little you know of these Christians,’ Kristjan shot back.

  ‘I am a Christian,’ the boyar replied.

  ‘Then you will know how powerful pride is,’ said Kristjan calmly, ‘how the sight of your enemy just a stone’s throw away is at first infuriating and then intolerable. But, to placate you, we should withdraw.’

  The Russians looked at each other in confusion.

  ‘But you said we should not withdraw,’ said Alexander angrily, ‘you speak in riddles, Kristjan.’

  The Ungannian smiled. ‘When the enemy marches out of Dorpat, which he will, then we should withdraw so we can fight the enemy on ground of our own choosing. Apart from firewood we have enough supplies, do we not?’

  Alexander shrugged. ‘We have enough, though not enough to stay here indefinitely.’

  Kristjan walked over to the tent’s entrance and peered out at the white landscape.

  ‘From the ramparts of Toome Hill the enemy will see the smoke of our campfires. To the bishop it be like a toothache that refuses to go away.’

  He turned and walked back to face Alexander.

  ‘It is quite simple. We stay and beat the bishop’s army and you safeguard Novgorod’s western border. You withdraw and the bishop will be invading again in the spring, and in the summer perhaps more crusaders may come from over the seas.’

  Alexander looked at his brother.

  ‘What Kristjan says is correct,’ said Andrey. ‘It is best to fight an enemy on his territory as opposed to your own.’

  ‘Send some horsemen to taunt the bishop,’ suggested Kristjan, ‘like a hungry fish he will take the bait.’

  ‘Very well, Kristjan,’ said Alexander, ‘we will play your game. We will see if we can stir the hornet’s nest.’

  Instinctively Kristjan went to touch the torc at his neck, but he had given it to his sister. He remembered the hornet’s nest that had surrendered it long ago and shuddered. He hoped the gods would forgive him for giving up the gift they had bestowed on him.

  Alexander led a large force of horsemen to the walls of Dorpat where they proceeded to goad the garrison, keeping a safe distance in case any crossbowmen were on the walls. There was no response from the defenders of Dorpat but a furious Bishop Hermann had observed the audacity of the Russians and was determined to put an end to their arrogance.

  *****

  His smashed his fist on the table top.

  ‘I want them ejected from my bishopric. Their presence is an affront to me and God.’

  ‘In that order,’ whispered Rudolf to Conrad.

  Conrad laughed.

  ‘Something amuses you, Conrad?’ asked Hermann.

  ‘No, lord bishop, apologies.’

  The bishop was seated at the head of the table but he made the others stand. This was no time for a civilised debate, this was a time for action.

  ‘Tomorrow I will lead the army out at dawn and we will give battle to these squatters who dare to invade my realm. You can all dedicate this evening to prayers to ask God for His help and forgiveness.’

  *****

  Kristjan could not stop grinning. Despite the cold and the heavy snowfall covering the lake earlier he felt a warm glow inside. The conditions were better than he could have hoped for: a severe frost, snow and now a cruel northerly wind chilling men to the bone, though he did not feel it. All he could feel was the certainty of his victory and his revenge.

  Skinner stomped his feet. ‘Any longer and I will be frozen to the spot.’

  Mongrel plucked his bowstring. ‘At least it has stopped snowing. If it had continued my bow and those of the other archers would have been severely restricted.’

  Tusk grinned at Tracker. ‘Feeling nervous?’

  Tracker tried to appear nonchalant. ‘No.’

  ‘You should be,’ the big brute told him, pointing his axe to the west, ‘soon thousands of crusaders will be attacking, men of iron on warhorses whose lances can skewer two men at once.’

  ‘Quiet,’ barked Kristjan. He turned to Tracker. ‘You know what to do?’

  Tracker nodded.

  ‘Fleeing in the face of the enemy is what Tracker was born for,’ sneered Tusk.

  ‘I won’t be fleeing,’ insisted Tracker, ‘I will be conveying an important message.’

  Kristjan poked him in the chest. ‘When the time comes do not fail me or I will kill you myself.’

  Tracker nodded.

  ‘Why is this place called Raven’s Rock?’ asked Mongrel, checking the arrows in his quiver.

  ‘Because when the gods walked the earth,’ Kristjan told him, ‘they fished in the lake with their bare hands and tossed what they did not want on this piece of land, which soon became deluged with ravens.’

  The piece of ground he was alluding to was part of the eastern shoreline of Lake Peipus extending into the water in a semi-circular shape. It was in the far south of the waterway near the narrow channel that connected it to Lake Pskov some six miles to the south. Four miles to the northwest of Raven’s Rock was the low-lying island of Piirissaar, covered by a scattering of pine and spruce. Raven’s Rock itself had no ravens and no rocks but it did have an expanse of evergreen forest that began a hundred paces from the water’s edge, not that any water was visible today. What were very visible were the hundreds of black-clad Karelian soldiers standing beside a brown rectangle of Novgorod militiamen.

  The front two ranks of Karelians were all equipped with long spears, round wooden shields and a mixture of iron helmets and fur-lined leather caps. The two ranks behind were lacking in shields and spears though every man had a weapon of some sort, usually a combination of an axe and knife. Hardly any of those who had marched south with Kristjan had armour save the chiefs who wore back and breast plates fashioned from leather. There were twelve hundred Karelians in total. They were not bothered by the cold and every one of them was spoiling for a fight.

  To their left stood the soldiers of Novgorod’s militia, more numerous – two thousand – better armed and equipped but lacking in the animal bloodlust of the Karelians. The men of Novgorod were mostly shopkeepers, artisans, tr
aders and manual labourers with just a smattering of professional soldiers. They had been well fed and warmly clothed but the chill in their bones was not due to the cold but apprehension. The three hundred archers who stood behind the militiamen, ready to loose arrows over them to strike the enemy, were better trained and more professional but wore no armour and carried only long knives in addition to their bows and quivers.

  Kristjan’s eyes were red with cold as he peered out across the frozen surface of Lake Peipus, the trees of Piirissaar Island a soft grey smudge to the west.

  ‘They aren’t coming,’ said Tusk dismissively.

  ‘They are coming,’ insisted Kristjan, ‘the gods have promised me this day.’

  He stood with his most trusted companions in front of his wild Karelians who were chattering to each other, the occasional loud guffaw coming from their ranks. He turned away from the front when he heard the grating sound of Christian prayers. The Novgorod Militia were singing songs to their god in an effort to fortify themselves. He curled his lip. Among his pet hates were Christian prayers and singing. They always sounded like the whining of women and children. What sort of god reduced his followers to helpless, pathetic infants?

  ‘The gods preserve us,’ he said under his breath.

  He heard Boar’s voice.

  ‘Lord.’

  His deputy was pointing ahead, to a pair of riders on the lake’s surface. Against the white background it was difficult to make them out as they were wearing white surcoats and their horses were covered in white caparisons. But Kristjan smiled triumphantly when he saw the black crosses on their shields and horse coverings.

  They had come.

  *****

  A hasty council of war was convened on Piirissaar Island following the news conveyed by the scouts that the enemy was deployed at Raven’s Rock. The sergeant stood to attention in front of Bishop Hermann and the Livonian Master, Conrad, Rudolf, Sir Richard, Andres and Hillar standing to one side under a tall spruce with branches sagging under the weight of snow.

  ‘The enemy are deployed in front of the trees, lord bishop.’

  ‘How many?’ asked von Grüningen.

  ‘Two, three thousand, master.’

  ‘They are expecting us,’ said Hermann.

  ‘And we should oblige them, excellency,’ replied von Grüningen.