Master of Mayhem

by Peter Darman

  *****

  When Conrad reached Varbola the great fortress was wreathed in mist. He wrapped his cloak around himself as a protection against the cold, damp air. After leaving Riga in the aftermath of the conference with the papal legate he had hurried back to Odenpah from where he had sent messages to Andres and Hillar to meet him at Varbola. Sir Richard, the architect of the plan to make the Estonian warlords Christian nobles, had agreed to accompany Conrad to the hill fort. And so now he rode in the company of Conrad, Hans, Anton and Leatherface as the mist turned to a fine rain that drenched everyone.

  It was autumn now and though the evergreens retained their colour the leaves of the maples, rowan and birch were turning red and gold. The days were getting shorter and wetter but the forests were still thick with blueberries, cranberries and mushrooms, all of which could be eaten. And there was an abundance of elk, roe deer, wild boar, beavers and lynx that could be hunted and also eaten. Even bears could still be tracked and killed for their fur and meat, though the time when they hibernated was fast approaching.

  Conrad always thought that Estonia seemed larger when the days were wet and miserable, the mist that hung around the edges of forests and over meadows making the green landscape appear never-ending. Or perhaps the absence of conversation was the reason. As the mist had turned into drizzle everyone pulled their cloaks around them, their heads disappearing under the hoods and cast down. Even the heads of the horses dropped as they plodded through the damp gloom.

  ‘Thank God we are here,’ moaned Leatherface, ‘every part of my body is aching.’

  ‘But not your mouth, it appears,’ said Conrad.

  The mercenary ignored him as Varbola’s timber walls and towers came into view. Guards wrapped in capes watched the column of riders approach and then shouted down to those manning the gates to open them as they recognised Susi and Sir Richard. Their boots splashed with mud the riders slid from their saddles after they had entered the fort, as slaves rushed from the stables to take their horses. Riki came from the fort’s hall in the company of Hillar and Andres as the sky darkened and it began raining.

  ‘There’s too much water in this wretched land,’ moaned Leatherface, his head sunk into his shoulders, his leggings soaked.

  Ten minutes later he was in a better mood as he stood in front of the fire in the great hall, slaves feeding the flames with fresh logs to warm the great chamber. A trestle table had been arranged at the side of the fire where the others were sitting. Slaves brought hot soup and freshly made bread from the kitchens, which was eagerly consumed by the new arrivals. Leatherface spread his arms and turned his back to the fire to warm his limbs.

  ‘Don’t you go eating my fare, Brother Hans,’ he called, ‘I have eyes in the back of my head in case you are thinking of anything improper.’

  ‘There is plenty of food for everyone,’ Riki told him.

  ‘Not when Brother Hans is around,’ mumbled the mercenary.

  After the new arrivals had warmed themselves and filled their bellies Conrad addressed his warlords.

  ‘My friends, the meeting at Riga did not go entirely in our favour. The papal legate, the man sent by the Pope in Rome, has decided that Estonia will be ruled by the Pope for the foreseeable future.’

  Hillar, Riki and Andres stared blankly at him.

  ‘Who is the Pope, Susi?’ enquired Riki.

  Sir Richard laughed at their ignorance. ‘He is the lord over the Bishop of Riga, my friends, a man of great importance, some say greater than any king.’

  ‘He is at Riga?’ asked Andres.

  Conrad shook his head. ‘No, he sent his envoy, the papal legate, to the city.’

  ‘To take control of Estonia, Susi?’ said Hillar.

  ‘I found out that the reason he came was because the Danes have made complaints to the Pope about the Sword Brothers. Apparently we have been disrespectful to them.’

  The warlords burst into laughter, as did Hans and Anton, earning them frowns from Conrad.

  ‘You must admit, Conrad,’ said Hans, ‘it is amusing.’

  ‘What is not amusing,’ said Conrad forcefully, ‘is that the Danes have made accusations that pagans control those parts of Estonia not under their rule.’

  He looked at his warlords. ‘They mean you, my friends. That is why, to secure your futures and thwart the Danes, who desire to conquer all Estonia, I must ask you to accept baptism.’

  He could feel his heart beating in his chest. What he was asking was no small thing; indeed, in many ways it was the greatest sacrifice that he could request of them. Sir Richard also knew that this was a moment of great magnitude.

  ‘Just as Tonis became Count of Fellin after he was baptised, thus ensuring that his sons would inherit his lands when he died,’ stated the Duke of Saccalia, ‘so will your sons inherit your lands when you die, and their sons will be lords of this land and so on for all time.’

  Andres looked at Conrad. ‘We would have our heads ducked beneath the water like Tonis, Susi?’

  Conrad nodded.

  ‘And afterwards?’ said Riki.

  ‘The papal legate will create you Duke of Harrien,’ Conrad told him.

  Riki’s face lit up. ‘I will have the same title and powers as Sir Richard.’

  Conrad nodded. He looked at Hillar.

  ‘And just as Riki will be a duke so will you become Duke of Rotalia, my friend.’

  ‘And you will become Duke of Jerwen,’ Sir Richard told Andres.

  Hillar picked at one of his thick leather wristbands.

  ‘We would have our heads ducked under the water, like the others who have been baptised?’

  Conrad nodded.

  ‘Getting wet is a small price to pay for guaranteeing the future of my people,’ said Riki.

  ‘We have many gods, what does it matter if we have another?’ declared Andres.

  Hans and Anton exchanged glances. It was apparent that the warlords did not understand what baptism meant; specifically that it was an act of renouncing false gods and embracing the one true God. But why should they? They were commanders in the Army of the Wolf not ecclesiastical students. Conrad seized the moment.

  ‘My thoughts exactly.’

  The warlords exchanged nods and raised their cups to him.

  ‘When will the ceremony take place, Susi?’ asked Hillar.

  ‘Soon,’ replied Conrad.

  The next day, the rain having stopped and the morning cool but bright, Conrad walked outside the fort to where Leatherface was putting some of the crossbowmen of the ‘Bishop’s Bastards’ through their paces. They were shooting bolts at straw targets set up on the open ground immediately beyond the thirty foot-wide dry moat. The ‘bastards’ were a far cry from the miserable militiamen who had first come to Livonia under the command of the late Bishop Bernhard. Furnished with the finest crossbows that money could buy, they were protected by thickly padded gambesons covering the thighs and arms. Constant practice had turned them into excellent shots, which in turn made them a valuable addition to Conrad’s army.

  He wandered over to where Leatherface was observing them loading, shooting and reloading. The mercenary was not shouting or cursing as he stood with his arms folded across his chest, nodding contentedly.

  ‘You appear happy.’

  Leatherface pointed at the straw targets as the bolts struck them with a dull thud.

  ‘Good groupings. You see? Ulric has whipped these boys into shape and no mistake.’

  Conrad looked around. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Taken his spearmen on a long march through the woods. Good man, Ulric, even if he looks like he’s about to burst into tears most of the time.’

  The mercenary gave Conrad a sly glance. ‘Like you’ll be when the legate discovers your commanders think that baptism involves nothing more than getting wet.’

  ‘That can’t be helped. It was Sir Richard’s idea, baptism I mean. He thought it would negate the Danes’ ambitions.’

  ‘They still covet Estonia,
then?’

  ‘With an insatiable appetite.’

  ‘And you think the Pope taking over these lands will protect them?’

  Conrad considered for a few seconds. ‘For a while, yes, but eventually only those who are prepared to oppose the Danes with force will be able to protect Estonia. But for the moment the Papacy assuming control suits us.’

  ‘It does?’

  ‘Next year Bishop Albert is determined to again crusade in Lithuania. He wants revenge on Duke Arturus for the attack on Riga, he wants to conquer Kurland, strengthen Mesoten and consolidate his position south of the Dvina.’

  ‘He’ll need a big army to do that,’ stated Leatherface.

  ‘He will have it. He was most anxious that the Sword Brothers should show contrition for their supposed insults to King Valdemar. That is why I was forced to give up Narva. The Danes were placated, the papal legate was pleased and so Bishop Albert has returned to Germany armed with letters from the cardinal calling for all men capable of bearing arms to rally to Riga’s call. They are to be read in churches throughout northern Germany.’

  Leatherface grinned. ‘Politics is a dirty business, Master Conrad. We all have to kiss someone’s arse sometimes to get what we want, even you.

  ‘You will be taking your army south next spring, then?’

  ‘Some of it,’ answered Conrad. ‘The majority of it will remain in Estonia to keep an eye on our Danish friends. It is a mistake giving up Narva; it will only encourage the Danes to try and snatch more land.’

  Nevertheless, in the days following Conrad informed his warlords of the decision taken at Riga to abandon Narva. This weighed heavily on his commanders, who had all fought the battle on the ice and had lost comrades to Danish swords. They did not understand why they had to meekly surrender a place won with blood, and they did not realise that Livonia was prospering and becoming a pawn in the battle between the Pope and Europe’s kings. Where once there had been wooden huts and timber hill forts there was now a thriving city and stone castles. The city of Riga had become a jewel in the Baltic and Bishop Hermann’s ambition was to make the Bishopric of Dorpat as wealthy and powerful as his brother’s city. Conrad had preferred it when there were no burgomasters of Riga, no Bishopric of Dorpat and no Danes in Estonia.

  ‘Life was simpler then,’ he said aloud.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. I was merely reflecting on the situation a few years ago when the world seemed a much more straightforward place.’

  ‘Is Grand Master Volquin feeling pushed out?’ smiled Leatherface.

  ‘Pushed out?’

  There was a succession of thuds as another volley of bolts slammed into targets.

  ‘Not so long ago the Sword Brothers were rulers in this land. They did what they wanted and killed who they wanted but now they find themselves having to obey the orders of the Pope.’

  ‘We always obeyed the Holy Father,’ insisted Conrad.

  Leatherface smirked. ‘No you didn’t. The Pope wasn’t interested in Livonia when it was just an expanse of endless trees inhabited by pagans. As long as the Sword Brothers were slaughtering the enemies of the Papacy he was willing to let the order play at being kings. Not any longer. You know what the coming of the Papal legate signifies?’

  ‘I’m sure you are going to tell me.’

  ‘It means that Livonia has become part of Christendom, the complex web of intrigue, thievery, murder, rapine and corruption that lies beneath the cloak of holiness. Still, you might not have to worry about any of that.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘You might be killed next year in Lithuania fighting the heathens.’

  Conrad rolled his eyes. ‘Most heart warming.’

  The mercenary smiled as a fresh volley of bolts found their targets.

  ‘Perhaps when you crusade again in Lithuania the Army of the Wolf will find itself redundant if the Livonian Militia takes the field once more.’

  Conrad burst out laughing, causing the nearest crossbowmen to lose their concentration and send their bolts high over the targets.

  *****

  Viesthard looked kindly at the two young boys, no more then ten years old, as they stood before him. His son, Erdvilas, pointed at them both.

  ‘You know what to do?’

  The boys grinned sheepishly, revealing missing front teeth. They wore dirty, torn tunics and frayed leggings and their faces and arms were grubby.

  ‘Off you go, then,’ Erdvilas told them. ‘And don’t forget to run.’

  Viesthard watched them skip out of camp with a heavy heart. He was the Duke of Semgallia but here he was, skulking around the forest like a common bandit. Around him Erdvilas gave orders to the warriors to follow the boys. His son checked his sword belt and picked up his shield. Like the others it carried the iron wolf symbol of Semgallia, a motif that had not been seen in this part of the realm for a while.

  ‘Father, we must be going.’

  Viesthard sighed and joined his son as they walked to the head of the column of warriors and followed the boys. Half the men stayed behind to guard the horses and camp, which had been established seven days earlier deep in the forest near one of the accursed timber forts that had been built by the crusaders. Sited at one-mile intervals from Mesoten to the Dvina, they comprised a timber wall built on a piece of rising ground. There were a couple of watchtowers to guard against an enemy attack and a large signal beacon that was lit in the event of an attack on the fort.

  Following his strange meeting with Arturus, Viesthard had led a large force of warriors north to assault Mesoten. But the crusader ramparts and crossbowmen had repulsed his efforts and so he withdrew his men into the forests. He tried his luck against one of the small forts, his men swarming over the ramparts. But the garrisons of the two forts to the immediate north and south, alerted by the signal fire, arrived on their horses and inflicted many casualties on the Semgallians. So, on the advice of his son, he adopted new tactics. He sent many of his warriors back to their homes and divided the rest into small groups, ordering them to try to lure the forts’ garrisons from their strongholds. In this way he could wear down the crusaders.

  ‘It’s not war,’ he grumbled as he followed the boys through the fir trees.

  ‘Father?’

  ‘Sneaking around like a common thief. Using children as bait. It is not proper.’

  ‘We could always go back to the old ways, father,’ suggested Erdvilas, ‘and see our men cut down by crusader crossbows or butchered by their mailed knights.’

  Viesthard gave no reply but he knew his son was right. Too many sons of Semgallia had been lost fighting the crusaders on the invaders’ terms. He had fought them at the Dvina and at Mesoten and had twice been defeated. He had seen northern Semgallia become the plaything of the Kurs, Prince Vsevolod and the Bishop of Riga and now the hated Christians had a foothold south of the Dvina. There had been few villages left in the area following the conflict of the past few years, but those that had remained had been burned to the ground by the crusaders, their inhabitants butchered. The Christians saw the Semgallians as worthless, to be hunted like wild boar. That was why Erdvilas knew they would take the bait.

  The warriors moved silently through the trees, their boots stepping on soft moss and grass. Occasionally a corncrake or kestrel would fly from a branch overhead to break the quiet or a deer would bolt away from the mailed and helmeted warriors. A few wore lamellar armour for these were Viesthard’s bodyguard who traditionally fought on horseback. But today they left their horses and spisas in camp. Each man was still heavily armed with a sword, axe or mace and a dagger, though the most important among them were the half a dozen archers who wore no armour and only leather caps for head protection.

  Viesthard held up a hand when they reached the edge of the forest. Ahead, on a hillock in the middle of an area of levelled ground, was the fort. In the watchtowers were guards who instantly spotted the two urchins who ran towards the stronghold and threw stones in its general direct
ion. Viesthard heard a bell being rung as the boys turned around, dropped their leggings and bared their behinds at the fort.

  ‘Positions,’ hissed Erdvilas to the men behind him.

  The warriors melted into the trees as the gates of the fort swung open and horsemen galloped from within. There were four of them, all wearing mail and three carrying lances. Their horses were not covered with the thick padded protection that could deflect arrow and spear strikes. Only one wore a full-face helm; the rest wore simple iron helmets with nasal guards.

  Viesthard saw the boys running frantically towards the trees, their skinny arms flapping as they did so. The iron hooves of the horses kicked up great clumps of earth as the riders levelled their lances as they bore down on them. Viesthard drew his sword and crouched beside a tree, Erdvilas doing the same. The boys were laughing as they reached the treeline and hurtled past Viesthard. But one of the horses had stopped, its rider placing something to his shoulder. There was a sharp crack, a high-pitched squeal and then the other horsemen were in the forest. They slowed their horses and chased after the surviving boy, cantering past the waiting warriors. The archers pulled back their bowstrings and shot their arrows, the missiles striking the horses and felling them.

  Viesthard and Erdvilas charged towards the crying and panting horses. The other warriors did the same, axes in hand as they closed on two crusaders who had been thrown from their horses. They got to their feet but were cut down by a plethora of axe blows. Viesthard closed on the knight wearing the full-face helmet, who swung round and made a side cut with his sword. Viesthard brushed the blade aside with his shield and hacked down with his own sword, slicing into the mail protecting the crusader’s right arm. He heard a groan from within the helmet as the crusader stepped back and thrust his sword forward towards Viesthard’s belly. The older man managed to leap back at the last minute so the steel point did not pierce his mail armour. The crusader stepped forward but then collapsed as Erdvilas cut down with his blade and hamstrung the knight as he was turning his head to look at his new attacker. He saw Viesthard’s son plunge his sword into his side, Erdvilas putting his whole weight behind the strike. The crusader collapsed when the blade was withdrawn; the side of the dead knight turning crimson as blood gushed from the deep wound.