by Peter Darman
Arturus shook his head. ‘Viesthard tried that once and his reward was defeat. Besides, it would appear that we might have to fight Vsevolod’s army as well as the Bishop of Riga’s. Torolf, what information have you gleaned regarding the Christians’ intentions.’
‘They desire Mesoten, lord,’ replied the ambassador.
Lamekins looked bemused. ‘Mesoten is a ruin.’
‘Apparently one of their priests was killed there, a crusader lord too,’ said Torolf. ‘The Bishop of Riga believes that because of this Mesoten is a sacred place. That is what I have been told.’
Torolf had a network of informants working in Riga, mostly among those who worked in the docks, as well among the other Lithuanian kingdoms. Information was easy to gather, the comings and goings of crusaders producing huge amounts of gossip. In addition, the bishop and his priests were always trumpeting forthcoming campaigns from their pulpits in the city and throughout Livonia.
‘We have a garrison at Mesoten,’ stated Lamekins, looking behind to make sure the woman was still lingering. She was.
Arturus raised a hand to acknowledge the fealty a group of his people were showing him.
‘I had clean forgot. Give the order that they are to abandon Mesoten. They will not be able to hold a pile of charred timbers against a crusader army.’
‘We should engage the Christians as quickly as possible,’ insisted Lamekins. ‘Any hesitation on our part may be interpreted as weakness.’
He was speaking aloud, mulling over ideas in his mind, and was suddenly conscious that he might have spoken out of turn.
‘I meant no offence, lord.’
Arturus smiled. He appeared to be remarkably relaxed about the whole business.
‘You are the commander of my armies, Lamekins. I would be worried if you did not have an opinion on these matters. But I think it would be best if we met the crusaders on ground of our own choosing rather than rush into a battle that we might not win.’
‘If Vsevolod joins with the Bishop of Riga,’ said Torolf, ‘then he will try to convince the crusaders to invade Kurland, both to weaken your position, lord, and to enhance his own power.’
Lamekins forgot the girl as his thoughts turned to Vsevolod’s machinations.
‘We could always strike at Panemunis with a mounted column. Move fast and hit hard. Loot and burn our way there and back again.’
Arturus smiled and shook his head. He placed an arm around the shoulders of each man.
‘My friends, we have no need to act rashly just because the Bishop of Riga has turned his gaze southwards. He was sent back across the Dvina with his tail between his legs before, and there is no reason to suppose that he will not suffer the same fate this time. Your sources are certain that Vsevolod will join the crusaders when they cross the Dvina, Torolf?’
‘I am certain, lord.’
‘Good,’ said Arturus. ‘Thus will our elusive Russian adversary be drawn out at long last. There will be no need to attack Panemunis, Lamekins, because when we fight the crusaders we shall also be facing Prince Vsevolod and his Selonians and Nalsen. Beat them all and Lithuania will fall into our laps like a ripe apple.’
He slapped them both on the shoulders and walked off, whistling as he did so. Lamekins looked at Torolf who shrugged and followed his lord. The commander of the fearsome Kur army glanced behind and saw that the girl was still lingering. He saw Torolf hurrying after Arturus and sighed before following. Sometimes duty was not at all amusing.
*****
Conrad sat at the table brooding, as his commanders took their seats around him. Hans was still nursing his bruised side, though his wound was as nothing compared to Conrad’s injured pride. He sat with elbows on the table; his chin resting on his thumbs as the brute Hillar wrapped his huge hands around a cup of honey mead offered him by a blonde-haired Harrien girl. She offered her lord, Riki, another full cup and a third to the stout Andres, the warlord of all the Jerwen who had travelled from his stronghold of Kassinurme to be here at Varbola, the great stronghold of the Harrien people and Riki’s centre of power.
Guards with shields carrying a lynx motif stood by the closed doors and Riki’s great banner displaying the same animal hung on the wall of the feasting hall near the table, while servants piled wood on the fire to keep the chamber warm. But the commanders of the Army of the Wolf detected a distinctly frosty atmosphere as they looked at the stony faced Conrad and then at Hans and Anton for answers. Anton gave them a smile and a shake of his head as he looked at his friend. The dour-faced Ulric, the leader of the ‘Bishop’s Bastards’, appeared even glummer as he took his seat. Only the scoundrel Leatherface appeared unconcerned. He winked at the shapely serving girl who offered him more drink. He belched, placed his empty cup on her tray and picked up a full one.
‘Do you have to do that?’ said Conrad.
The old mercenary wiped his nose on a sleeve. ‘Do what?’
‘Treat a council of war in a disrespectful manner.’
Leatherface stifled a laugh. ‘My apologies, Master Conrad, I did not realise you took yourself so seriously. Perhaps you would like me to leave, being a low-born mercenary and the like whereas you are a fine knight with fame and titles and…’
Conrad held up a hand. ‘All right, all right, you have made your point.’
He looked up at his warlords.
‘The Bishop of Riga will soon be crossing the Dvina to make war on the Lithuanians and avenge the cruel injustices that were committed against the Holy Church the last time we crusaded in Lithuania.’
Hillar grinned. ‘You will muster the army to join the bishop, Susi?’
‘Only part of it,’ replied Conrad. ‘I intend to march south with a hundred men drawn from the Harrien, Jerwen, Rotalians and Saccalians, plus two hundred of Ulric’s men.’
Andres gave Hillar a confused look. Riki frowned.
‘That is not many men, Susi,’ said Hillar. ‘The bishop must be expecting an easy victory.’
‘Whether he does or does not is not my concern,’ replied Conrad. ‘My concern is Estonia and safeguarding it against the Danes. To which end, my friend, I ask you to remain at Leal to keep an eye on Reval’s garrison.’
Hillar looked most aggrieved as Andres grinned at him.
‘Do not worry, Hillar, I will kill enough of the enemy to satisfy both our honours.’
‘I have asked Riki to remain at Varbola,’ Conrad said to Andres. ‘And you, Andres, must remain in Estonia to keep watch at Kassinurme.’
The three warlords were now far from happy. Each had been appointed governors of their respective tribal lands and they were now men of power, veteran commanders of the famed Army of the Wolf. And when that army marched they expected to be marching with it, not sitting at home like old maids while others washed their swords in the enemy’s blood.
‘Koit can stay and hold Rotalia,’ insisted Hillar. ‘I will leave him enough warriors to deter any Danish aggression.’
‘No,’ said Conrad loudly, causing Hans to jump. ‘The Danes cannot be trusted and may I remind you all that we are still at war with the Oeselians. I will not jeopardise all the gains we have made for the sake of killing a few Lithuanians. I care nothing for Lithuania. My responsibility is Estonia and I intend to safeguard it. Were it my choice I would not risk the life of a single Estonian south of the Dvina. My decision is final.’
Hillar’s large head sunk into his shoulders as he stared at the table top with a face like thunder. Riki sighed loudly and Andres slammed his cup down on the aged oak surface, splitting the vessel and spilling beer on his hand, which did nothing to improve his humour. Conrad sank into a sulk as he thought of the treachery at the parley. Anton looked kindly at Hillar and Hans began chewing on a cold sausage.
‘Well,’ mused Leatherface, ‘I’m sure Bishop Albert will be fortified to know that you are an enthusiastic member of his great crusade, Master Conrad.’
Chapter 2
Most days he walked to the shore and stared west, a
cross the shimmering blue surface of Lake Peipus. The vast inland lake – fifty miles in length and up to twenty-five miles wide in some places – was in reality a giant fishpond. Its rich waters were teeming with bream, roach, perch, pike, whitefish and whitebait. Because of this the lake was always filled with dozens of fishing boats of all sizes, their crews casting nets on the water and always winning a rich haul. They shared the lake with tens of thousands of birds that grew fat off its abundant contents.
He had originally intended to ride north to Novgorod where he would use the gold he had taken from his ancestral home to raise soldiers to enable him to win back his kingdom. But when he had arrived on the eastern shore of Lake Peipus in the aftermath of his defeat at Dorpat a malaise had taken possession of him. His rage and grief had evaporated, to be replaced by lethargy and a belief that the gods had abandoned him. He frequently touched the silver torc around his neck to make sure that it had not disappeared. He feared that Taara, the God of War who had bequeathed it to him, would steal it away while he slept. That was why he always went to sleep with a hand touching the cool metal.
He had rented a hut in a thriving fishing village that was in reality a small town. Its inhabitants were hale and hearty, their bellies filled by the fish caught in the lake. The surplus, and there was always a surplus, was sold to inland villages, or salted and transported further afield. For the fishermen life was good; for Kristjan it was miserable. He kept the large leather pouch filled with gold with him at all times, together with his sword and dagger for he did not trust the Russians. But nobody troubled the tall, powerfully built man with a vivid red scar on his cheek who paid his way but made no attempt to converse with anyone. Not until today. Today the gods sent Kristjan a sign that they had not forgotten him.
‘Are you going to stand there all day?’
Today, like most days, he had wandered to the water’s edge to stare across the calm surface of the lake beyond which lay his homeland: Ungannia. The shore was sandy, the water untroubled by any wind or waves. He frowned and turned. To see a man in his forties pushing a small boat to the water’s edge. His calloused hands and muscly forearms indicated that he had fished the lake for many years. Normally Kristjan would not have given such an individual the time of day, but the fisherman had spoken to him in Estonian, which aroused his interest.
‘You know my language.’
The fisherman released his grip on the boat’s gunwale.
‘It’s common knowledge that you came from the west. But by the look of you I don’t think you are here for trade or fishing.’
‘I am on my way to Novgorod,’ muttered Kristjan.
The fisherman gripped the gunwale again. ‘Well I have some fish to catch so if you will excuse me.’
Kristjan mumbled something and stepped aside to allow the man to push his boat into the water. He floated it for a few feet before halting.
‘Do you want to come?’
‘To fish?’ said Kristjan.
The fisherman looked up and down the beach. ‘Unless you have more pressing matters to attend to, why not?’
In truth Kristjan had nothing better to do and so he waded into the shallow water and assisted the fisherman to push the boat a few more feet before both of them jumped in. The vessel’s owner was a talkative fellow who imparted much information to the morose fair-haired Ungannian as he rowed the boat away from the shore and then cast a net over the side.
‘Perch is the most abundant, of course, but roach and lamprey are close behind.’
Kristjan watched him haul the net back in as he sat near the prow of the boat, empty baskets around his feet. The fisherman knew his trade and soon those baskets were filled with fresh catch. Gulls swooped overhead and dived into the water as the fisherman cast some of his catch, those too small, overboard.
‘The lake provides a good living,’ he said as he hauled the net out of the water after the final catch and stowed it under his feet, ‘even in winter when we build shelters on the frozen surface so we can cut holes in the ice to catch fish. It must be the same for your people.’
‘My people?’
The fisherman studied Kristjan. ‘You are Ungannian?’
The son of Kalju nodded.
‘I thought so. You accent is different to a Wierlander and aside from your people they are the only others on the western side who fish the lake. But I am forgetting my manners.’
He offered Kristjan a wet hand. ‘I am Dmitriy Hoidja.’
Kristjan was initially startled. In the Estonian religion Hoidja was a protector sent by the gods, a kindly helper who guided a mortal in a time of trial. Hoidja smiled as Kristjan shook his hand.
‘And you?’
‘Murk,’ answered Kristjan.
Hoidja’s face showed surprise. ‘Venom. A curious name.’
Kristjan said no more as he was rowed to shore. But the next day he sought out the fisherman once more. Why he did so he did not know. Perhaps it was because he was far from home and alone and conversing with someone in his native tongue was a pleasing activity. Or perhaps he was drawn to the man because of his name and was convinced that Taara had sent him. But most of all it was because he liked Hoidja, his affable manner and the wealth of information that he possessed. He learned that the fisherman’s wife and child had died of a pestilence two years earlier. Kristjan told him of the loss of his own family at the hands of the Sword Brothers, and after too much drink one night revealed his intention to return to Ungannia to avenge their deaths. Hoidja smiled and listened and the next day, when they were once again on the lake with dozens of other fishing vessels, told him that his mission was foolish.
‘If you failed with one army what makes you think you will succeed with another?’
‘What makes you believe that I had an army?’ said Kristjan guardedly.
Hoidja was examining his net for any tears. ‘Your appearance, your bearing and the weapons you carry. Not to mention the scar on your face.’
Kristjan ran a finger over the scar. ‘An accident.’
Hoidja laughed. ‘Mm, swords will do that if you allow them too close to your face.’
He stopped examining the net. ‘What is your real name?’
Kristjan’s eyes narrowed. ‘I have told you my name.’
‘Murk is not a real name. A nickname, perhaps, though not an endearing one. The Sword Brothers have no jurisdiction here, if that is what you are worried about.’
‘I do not fear the Sword Brothers,’ said Kristjan. ‘One day I will destroy them and all the traitors that have sided with them.’
He touched his torc. ‘This I have promised the gods.’
‘You won’t get any takers for your cause around here,’ stated Hoidja, ‘people are too busy feeding their families.’
‘I do not seek the aid of fishermen,’ said Kristjan derisively. ‘I will travel to Novgorod to enlist men to my cause.’
Hoidja said no more on the matter and over the next few days Kristjan sank back into his sullen silence as he assisted the older man in his work. Hoidja noticed that in addition to his weapons the young man also carried a leather pouch slung over his shoulder that he touched nearly as often as the piece of silver jewellery around his neck.
The coming of summer meant the days got longer and the temperature of the lake increased. The boats always returned with bulging baskets and the chief concern of the villagers was the availability of salt to treat their catches. After another bountiful few hours on the lake Kristjan assisted Hoidja to row his boat back to the shore, the baskets around their feet filled with grey-scaled perch.
‘You will become rich if the weather holds,’ said Kristjan.
‘There is an old saying, my young friend,’ replied Hoidja. ‘Make hay while the sun shines.’
Kristjan operating the oar beside him gave him a confused look.
‘It means you must take advantage of warm weather and fair winds because there are many weeks when the lake is lashed by high winds and rain, not to mention the months
when it is covered with ice. There are also the tax collectors who take a share of our catch.
‘You won’t find any rich fisherman, at least not on this side of the lake.’
When they landed they hauled the baskets to Hoidja’s small boat shed just off the gently sloping beach, one of many that were positioned a short distance from the water’s edge and two hundred paces from the village. Around midday traders would appear in the centre of the settlement where stalls were arranged for the exchange of goods. Once a price had been agreed the traders would load the freshly caught fish into baskets strapped to ponies for transportation to inland villages and towns. Salted fish, which was more expensive, would be earmarked for sale further afield.
Kristjan’s arms ached as he lifted a full basket to the boat shed. He now understood why Hoidja’s forearms were so thick.
‘Now if I had the means I would import furs from the Finns. There is good money to be made from squirrel pelts.’
Kristjan looked bemused. ‘Squirrels?’
Hoidja stretched his back. ‘The people that are of the same faith as the Bishop of Riga cannot get enough of the grey squirrel pelts of the far north, or so the tax collectors have informed me. They say that Novgorod has grown rich by selling its pelts to the merchants of Riga.’
Kristjan’s top lip cured into a sneer. ‘I would not trade with Riga.’
‘Why not?’ said Hoidja. ‘Money is money. Just because you trade with people you don’t like does not mean that their money is any less valuable. If I had the money I would leave this place and make my fortune at Novgorod.’
Kristjan was surprised. ‘You would?’
‘This time of year the weather is good and the fishing easy. But like I said, there are more days when it isn’t like this.’
Kristjan touched the pouch at his hip, which contained a small fortune.
‘What if someone offered you the opportunity to go to Novgorod and change your fate?’
Hoidja shook his head. ‘I have no interest in fighting or war. I tried that when I was younger and found it not to my liking.’