Master of Mayhem

by Peter Darman

  ‘Varbola will be the shield that will protect Estonia, as you said,’ Hans told him, ‘but if you hold on to the outposts that Master Rudolf captured in the winter then I fear you will condemn their garrisons to certain death.’

  Conrad nodded at the crackling and hissing funeral pyres. ‘Then those men will have died for nothing.’

  Leatherface chuckled grimly. ‘Most soldiers die for nothing, Brother Conrad, it is the nature of things.’

  The next day Conrad gave the order for the outposts ringing Reval to be abandoned and their garrisons to withdraw to Varbola. It was a decision that left a bitter taste in his mouth but with the forthcoming crusade in Semgallia he did not know when he would be returning to Estonia. If he returned to Estonia. He was determined to retain Narva, though, and sent orders to Riki and Andres to stiffen the garrison with additional warriors. Thus far there had been no opportunity to raise a force of Wierlanders from the kingdom that had been liberated from the Danes the previous year. In any case many of the villages were either deserted or had been looted and burned. No one knew where their inhabitants were: perhaps hiding deep in the forests, fled to nearby Jerwen or even Novgorod or perhaps dead. It would take years to rebuild the kingdom.

  The previous summer the Army of the Wolf had mustered just over fourteen hundred men for the assault against Dorpat, but Conrad commanded a mere six hundred when he took it south to Riga. But those six hundred were among the best in the crusader army, bettered only by the Sword Brothers themselves. Each tribe – Saccalian, Harrien, Rotalian and Jerwen – contributed a hundred men. Every warrior was a veteran, many having served under Conrad for a number of years. Tonis, the Count of Fellin, a man who had fought for Conrad for six years, commanded these men. Ulric, the dour-faced German, commanded the hundred spearmen of the ‘Bishop’s Bastards’, the crusader foot soldiers that had been recruited in Germany by Bishop Albert and subsequently led by Bishop Bernhard in Livonia. Bernhard had fallen at Dorpat but his soldiers, once an ill-equipped rabble but now a well-trained force, had been bequeathed to the Army of the Wolf – the dying wish of Bishop Bernhard. The other contingent of ‘Bastards’ comprised one hundred crossbowmen, equipped by the armouries of the Sword Brothers and trained by Leatherface. He was still technically a part of Wenden’s garrison but Master Rudolf had seconded him to the Army of the Wolf until Conrad got tired of him. But the Marshal of Estonia, like Wenden’s Castellan, endured the mercenary’s barbed tongue because he knew that he was a master of his craft.

  So the Army of the Wolf marched south, or rather rode south as every one of its soldiers was equipped with either a horse or a hardy Estonian pony. In this way it was not only a veteran force but also a highly mobile one, its supplies being carried in light two-wheeled carts hauled by ponies.

  The spring was nearing its end when the constituent parts of Bishop Albert’s army congregated at Riga prior to the great crusade south of the Dvina.

  *****

  The throne room at Panemunis was packed but so silent that a dropped pin would be heard easily. Vsevolod stood on the wooden dais, his ashen-faced wife Rasa seated next to his empty throne. By the side of the dais stood Prince Mindaugas, Vsevolod’s son-in-law and heir apparent with his wife Morta. Now twenty-five years old, he had grown into a tall, rather thin individual with a severe countenance. What his father-in-law was saying did nothing to remove the scowl on his face. The rows of Selonian and Nalsen princes and chiefs were likewise downcast as the Russian prince relayed the news he had received from Riga.

  ‘Soon the Bishop of Riga will cross the Dvina with a great army to take possession of the remains of the hill fort of Mesoten, which as you all know is currently held by troops loyal to Duke Arturus.’

  There were angry murmurs among the assembled warlords and the atmosphere in the chamber began to turn ugly. It took a turn for the worse when the prince spoke again.

  ‘He does so with my blessing.’

  The murmurs tuned into angry shouts and hateful stares. The guards around the walls – all Russians wearing helmets with nasal guards and carrying shields bearing Vsevolod’s silver griffin emblem – looked decidedly nervous and one or two levelled their spears in expectation of violence breaking out.

  ‘Silence!’

  The commanding voice of General Aras shot through the air. He walked forward from his position on the other side of the dais to Mindaugas and placed his right hand on the pommel of his sheathed sword. His black eyes flashed with menace as he dared any of the warlords to dispute his position as their commander. None did. The hubbub died down and Vsevolod spoke once more.

  ‘In this hall in the centre of this great stronghold we may delude ourselves that we can defeat the Kurs on our own. But have you so quickly forgotten our great losses at the Abava River when not even a combined army of Selonians, Nalsen, Samogitians and Aukstaitijans could overcome Duke Arturus? And may I remind you that Duke Butantas was killed and his army destroyed at the Venta, leaving us alone to fight the Kurs.’

  ‘Not alone,’ shouted one of the princes, ‘Duke Kitenis still lives.’

  There were murmurs of agreement at this interruption but Vsevolod poured scorn on the idea.

  ‘Duke Kitenis? Where is he? Where is his army? I have written to him, I have pleaded and begged him to send us aid in our darkest hour and what answer did I receive?’

  He spread his arms. ‘None. Duke Kitenis hides in his kingdom hoping that Duke Arturus will feast on our flesh and avert his greedy eyes from Aukstaitija.’

  The hall fell silent and men cast down their eyes.

  ‘That’s right,’ continued Vsevolod. ‘Duke Kitenis is willing to see this land ravaged and its people killed or enslaved without lifting a finger. Who else can we turn to? Samogitia?’

  He turned to look at his beautiful red-haired wife. ‘My wife and I do not even know if our own daughter is alive so fractured and laid low is that kingdom following to the death of Duke Butantas. We hope Prince Ykintas, leader of his people, is alive and well but his kingdom is now weak and incapable of fighting the Kurs.’

  ‘Does anyone in this hall believe,’ shouted Vsevolod, ‘that we alone can defeat Duke Arturus and his army?’

  Aras looked at the rows of bearded faces and knew that everyone wanted to shout ‘yes’ with one voice. But in their hearts they knew that the Russian spoke the truth. Many had been at the Abava River where the Kurs had cut a Lithuanian army of nearly eighteen thousand men to pieces. Six thousand of that army had died that day. Aras had been there and reckoned himself lucky to have escaped with his life. The strength of five kingdoms had been broken on that battlefield. What chance would two have against a Kur army that seemed beloved of the gods? None, and he and the rest of those present knew it.

  ‘I know,’ said Vsevolod, ‘that I am not one of you. A Lithuanian, I mean. And because of that I know that my presence in this ancient and revered place has bred anger and resentment throughout Selonia and Nalsen, and that you and your people tolerate me only because of the great love and respect you all have for Princess Rasa.’

  The warlords stamped their feet to indicate it was so. A tear ran down Rasa’s cheek as her face remained emotionless. Morta, her daughter, was clinging to the arm of her husband weeping openly. She had yet to learn the importance of maintaining royal protocol even in the most adverse situations.

  ‘So to preserve this land and its people I invited the Bishop of Riga across the Dvina. That’s right, I asked the Rigans for help, which means that the Sword Brothers will be crossing the river to take possession of what remains of Mesoten.’

  There was silence in the hall. Vsevolod continued.

  ‘If you think that my decision to request aid from the Bishop of Riga was an easy one you are wrong. If you think that I do not loathe and despise the bishop and the Sword Brothers as much as you all, you are wrong. I lost my home to the Sword Brothers but I am determined that you shall not lose yours to the Kurs.’

  ‘Do you walk with our gods, Russia
n?’

  No one had noticed a painfully thin individual enter the hall, dressed in a spotless white tunic and leggings, his beard and long hair black in contrast, his eyes, unusually for a Lithuanian, a piercing blue. Men bowed their heads respectively and moved out of the way as he walked towards the dais. Even Aras, the ‘eagle’ who watched over the prince and his family like the bird of prey he was named after, withdrew for this was the Kriviu Krivaitis, the high priest of the nation’s religion who lived in a sacred oak grove where the holy fire burned night and day. The gods spoke to him and he spread their wisdom and will throughout Lithuania using the Kriviai, his white robed priests.

  The Kriviu Krivaitis halted before the dais and bowed his head to Rasa. She rose and bowed back. He did not bow to Vsevolod.

  ‘You wilfully invite the heathens into this blessed land, Russian. To what end?’

  The priest’s words shot from his mouth like crossbow bolts but Vsevolod was not unnerved by his tone. He had been in Lithuania long enough to know how these forest dwellers used fear and superstition to bend the people to their will. These berry eaters and mystics who prayed to trees and worshipped the beasts of the forest. But Vsevolod spoke with reverence and respect to the unwelcome guest.

  ‘Welcome to Panemunis. You honour us with your presence, sir. In answer to your question I hope that the Sword Brothers and Kurs will devour each other like two ravenous serpents, and in doing so will allow Lithuania to rebuild its strength. If the Kurs and Sword Brothers are killing each other then they aren’t killing anyone else.’

  The priest raised an eyebrow, all eyes on him.

  ‘What is to stop them uniting and turning their combined wrath on all of us?’

  Vsevolod smiled. ‘Greed, sir, pure and simple. Duke Arturus desires the whole world and so do the Sword Brothers. But there is only one world and neither is willing to share it. That will be their undoing.’

  The Kriviu Krivaitis said nothing for a few seconds.

  ‘It is said that you are a deceiver, Russian, a weaver of falsehoods and illusions but I believe that the gods sent you to us for a purpose, which has yet to be revealed to me. But I can perceive that you have the ability to look into men’s hearts to discover the true purpose of their actions and in your judgement of the Christian heathens and Kurs you are not wrong.

  ‘Duke Arturus has declared war on the gods and they will have their revenge upon him. The high ones have not forgotten that he murdered the chosen Kriviu Krivaitis.’

  ‘I know,’ interrupted Vsevolod, ‘I was there.’

  ‘That being the case,’ said the priest, ‘I am willing to sanction your risky endeavour, Russian.’

  Vsevolod looked very smug and had difficulty stopping himself from grinning.

  ‘However,’ said the priest sternly, ‘the gods are watching you closely. You disappoint them at your peril.’

  With that he turned and paced from the chamber. Vsevolod closed his eyes and breathed a silent sigh of relief. The berry eater had just endorsed his plan, albeit with a caveat. He looked at Aras who gave him a half-smile. The general then dismissed the warriors who bowed their heads to the dais and filed out of the chamber. After they had done so a tired Vsevolod sat back on his throne. Rasa extended an arm and gripped his hand but Mindaugas was far from happy.

  ‘So we grovel to the Sword Brothers now?’

  Vsevolod closed his eyes. ‘What would you have done in my situation, Mindaugas? Muster the army and march against Duke Arturus? Do you think that you are a better general than Butantas, myself or Aras?’

  ‘Father,’ said Morta, ‘you should not speak to Mindaugas so.’

  Vsevolod opened his eyes, rose and sprang from the dais to stand before her husband. He pointed at the throne.

  ‘One day that will be yours. But not if this stronghold is a ruin like Mesoten.’

  ‘It is a ruin because of the Sword Brothers,’ Mindaugas shot back. ‘They are our enemies.’

  ‘Of course they are,’ replied Vsevolod. ‘You think I don’t know that? But at this present juncture they are useful allies and please don’t start going on about honour. Honour will not save Selonia or Nalsen and nor will it defeat Duke Arturus. We tried that once when we assembled a great army to invade Kurland. And we all know how that ended. Politics, Mindaugas, that is what you must learn if you are to lead your people.’

  ‘Your father is right,’ said Rasa.

  Mindaugas’ eyes blazed with anger. ‘My father was Prince Stecse who was murdered by the Sword Brothers.’

  He held out his hand so Morta could take it. He bowed to Vsevolod and Rasa.

  ‘If you both will excuse me.’

  The couple walked briskly from the chamber, the guards closing the oak doors behind them.

  ‘He will come round,’ said Rasa.

  ‘Will he?’ replied Vsevolod despairingly. ‘I worry that he does not understand what I am trying to achieve for him.’

  ‘He will simmer down now that the Kriviu Krivaitis has given you his support,’ said Aras. ‘The gods smile on you, lord.’

  Vsevolod often wondered if Aras realised that he was a follower of the Orthodox faith. But he never paraded his religion, especially now that he was living among pagans. Anyway he always took a pragmatic approach to religion, as he did in less spiritual affairs.

  ‘Let us hope so, Aras, for all our sakes.’

  *****

  Northern Kurland was more undulating than Semgallia to the east, its hills interspersed with lowland areas, river valleys, lakes, marshes and bog lands. It was a green landscape like the rest of Lithuania, heavily forested and home to great numbers of elk, red deer, wild boar and wolves. But the soil was poorer and less well suited to crop farming than the soil in Semgallia. It was partly for this reason that the Kurs were raiders rather than farmers, quickly learning that it was easier to steal crops and livestock from their neighbours than engage in backbreaking work on the land in return for poor yields. It was the same on the coast where the fishing villages not only reaped bulging nets filled with Baltic herring but also used their seafaring skills to raid Balt villages to the south and Liv settlements to the north. When the crusaders came with their great ships, crossbows and mailed knights, raids against the newly formed Kingdom of Livonia were too costly. But the Kurs still sent their boats south to raid the Balt lands and plunder it for amber, the yellow or yellow brown resin that was believed to contain magical powers. Many Kur warriors and leaders wore heart-shaped amber charms to ward off malevolent spirits, though many other people believed that the Kurs themselves were the embodiment of evil.

  The inhabitants of the township of Talsi looked far from intimidating or nefarious as they went about their everyday tasks. Like most civilians north and south of the Dvina they were dressed in linens of various colours, the men in leggings the women in skirts, and wearing woollen shawls. They sat on stools weaving on vertical looms, chafed grain on millstones, made bread in kiln ovens or tended to goats and chickens outside their huts. Their men made pottery, jewellery and attended to their beehives.

  Talsi had been built among an area of nine hills, the highest of which was the site of Duke Arturus’ hill fort, a sprawling timber stronghold located on the southern side of a long lake some two thousand feet in length and five hundred feet wide. The water from the lake had been used to fill the moat at the bottom of the hill the fort was situated on. From the timber walls and towers guards looked down on the bustling township that the duke and his two subordinates strolled through.

  They wore no armour, only shirts, boots and leggings, though they did carry swords at their hips and were escorted by two burly guards wearing black leather armour cuirasses and carrying short spears and oblong wooden shields with metal rims. It was a warm day and the men sweated in their armour and helmets as they followed the three most powerful men in all Kurland.

  Arturus stopped at a stall and picked up a well-crafted silver necklace. The jeweller bowed his head as he did so. Prince Lamekins gave the ma
n’s attractive wife a grin and a wink. After agreeing a price the duke paid the man twice the amount. His wife kissed his hand in gratitude, much to the chagrin of Lamekins.

  ‘My wife will like it,’ said Arturus, walking away. ‘You should get yourself a wife, Lamekins, instead of chasing other men’s.’

  Lamekins wore a mask of innocence. ‘I have no time to marry or chase women,’ he lied, ‘not when there is a war to win.’

  ‘Speaking of which,’ said Arturus, ‘I assume that the information supplied by your spies is timely and accurate, Lord Torolf?’

  The duke’s ambassador, spymaster and general troublemaker nodded gravely. He was tall like Lamekins but unlike the prince had a red beard and hair, which he shaved from above the ears and plaited from the crown to the back of the neck. He was also six years older than the dashing young commander whose easy manner and gregarious personality belied a cool, calculating military mind.

  ‘The Christians are going to cross the river, then,’ reflected the prince.

  ‘It was only a matter of time,’ said Arturus. ‘The Bishop of Riga has seen that the Lithuanians are divided and at each other’s throats. He seeks to take advantage of this.’

  ‘My spies report a flurry of activity between Riga and Panemunis, lord,’ said Torolf.

  Arturus smiled. ‘Of course. I once hoped that Prince Vsevolod would be an ally of the Kurs but his ambition rivals my own and he wants what I also desire.’

  ‘The people of this land would never tolerate a Russian as grand duke,’ remarked Lamekins.

  ‘No,’ agreed Arturus, ‘but through his sons-in-law he will seek to influence affairs throughout the kingdoms. He is clever, very clever.’

  ‘And a traitor,’ spat Torolf.

  Arturus placed a hand on Torolf’s shoulder. ‘He is only a traitor if he loses.’

  Lamekins’ eyes followed the shapely behind of a blonde-haired woman who bowed to Arturus and walked past the trio.

  ‘You wish to fight the Christians at the river, lord?’ asked the prince as the girl turned and flashed him a beautiful smile.