Master of Mayhem

by Peter Darman

  The mounted crossbowman had ridden into the trees, witnessed the ambush and frantically turned his horse to make his escape. He dug his spurs into the animal but toppled from the saddle when three arrows slammed into his back. His horse bolted away but he died face down, three Semgallians armed with axes severing his spine and neck.

  Viesthard pointed at the dead boy, eyes unblinking, tip of a crossbow bolt protruding from his chest.

  ‘Pick him up. We will burn his body later. Move!’

  The guards in the watchtowers would have seen the riderless horse galloping from the trees and would report that something was awry. Soon there would be a mounted patrol on its way and it would number more than four.

  Erdvilas, eyes afire with the prospect of another easy kill, his sword wet with crusader blood, ran over to stand in front of his father.

  ‘We can kill those they send just as we did these, father.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Viesthard, ‘but we will also lose men and I have lost too many warriors already to risk that. Now obey my orders.’

  Erdvilas bit his lip in frustration, wiped his blade on the soft moss around the base of a pine and slammed the sword back in its scabbard.

  The Semgallians moved fast, Viesthard holding the wrist of the surviving boy tightly to haul him along.

  ‘Keep up,’ he snapped, his only thought being to put as much distance between his men and the crusaders as possible. The boy tripped and hurt his ankle but was allowed no rest. If the crusaders caught him they would hang him, or worse. Better a sore shin than a stretched neck. He was sobbing now, probably over his dead friend whose body was slung over the shoulder of the strongest warrior. Viesthard was angry with himself. The crusaders never mounted their crossbowmen. Until now.

  They ran faster when they heard the shouts of the crusaders behind them, his men cursing as they stumbled and almost fell as they made their escape. They ran by the side of a stream, skirted a thicket of brambles and waded through a small bog before Viesthard called a halt. He strained to hear anything above the panting of sweating men and the blubbing of the boy.

  ‘Silence!’ he hissed.

  He craned his neck to hear men’s voices or the sound of branches being broken by horses’ hooves but he heard nothing. They remained there for at least five minutes, weapons gripped and arrows nocked in the archers’ bows, scanning the trees for any sign of movement. The tension increased as the minutes passed, the boy no longer crying but a look of abject terror on his face. At last Viesthard placed his sword in its scabbard.

  ‘We have evaded them. We will proceed to camp.’

  There was a perceptible sense of relief as men relaxed, nodded to each other and clasped forearms. Aside from the boy they had suffered no casualties and had killed four of the invaders. They would now go back to camp, stay for one night and in the morning relocate to another part of the forest in preparation for operations against another fort. In this way Viesthard hoped to wear down the crusaders with nuisance attacks, like a wasp stinging an elk. The burly warrior had dumped the body of the boy on the ground when they had halted. He now hauled the corpse up and again slung it over his shoulder. Viesthard walked past him to the head of the column. They would burn the body in the morning after they had struck camp. Just one of hundreds of funeral pyres that had been lit in Semgallia since the crusaders had arrived in the kingdom. How many more would burn before the hated Christians were expelled from Semgallia?

  *****

  ‘When will he arrive?’

  Conrad looked at the note from Walter at Dorpat and shook his head. Two sergeants had arrived from the town with a missive from the order’s master there informing him that Legate William himself would soon be arriving at Odenpah.

  ‘Two or three days, master,’ replied one of the sergeants.

  Conrad was tempted to ask why but knew that the sergeants would know less than he did. He looked at the note again.

  ‘The legate intends to stay one night at Odenpah before travelling on to Dorpat.’

  The sergeants stood in silence as he studied the few words from Walter, thinking that if he stared hard enough they might reveal more information. They did not.

  ‘Get your horses rested and some food in your bellies before you travel back to Dorpat,’ he told the sergeants.

  They saluted and led their horses towards the stables in the fort’s outer perimeter. Odenpah now had the semblance of a working garrison, the novices and Lady Maarja’s household supplemented by blacksmiths, armourers, farriers and stable hands that had been sent to him by Sir Richard at Lehola. They also brought their families so the fort was gradually filling with noise and people, as opposed to being an empty, silent shell. He was grateful for that but he had no idea how to entertain a papal legate.

  ‘You called a council of war over what to feed a priest?’ Leatherface could barely conceal his mirth over Conrad’s discomfiture.

  ‘It’s not a council of war,’ snapped Conrad, ‘and if you have nothing constructive to say then please refrain from saying anything.’

  They sat huddled near the fire in the great hall that crackled and spat in the stone hearth. Novices placed more firewood on the flames to warm the great chamber, the smoke swirling upwards towards the vents in the roof. It was starting to get cool now, both in the evenings and during the day.

  Conrad looked at Hans and Anton. ‘Do you two have any ideas?’

  Hans’ brow creased as he searched his mind for ideas and Anton appeared hopeful. But after a while both of them shrugged.

  ‘May I suggest something, Conrad?’

  They all looked at Maarja seated at the head of the table. When Conrad had first come to Odenpah she had avoided any company, preferring to stay with her female servants, but gradually she had warmed to the new occupants of what had been her home. Hans in particular had become her great friend. Conrad had been delighted that she was no longer retreating from the world and included her in the fort’s activities whenever it was possible and practical. In truth he felt guilty regarding her circumstances, not only with regard to her disability but also because he was now master of her home.

  ‘I would welcome your contribution, lady.’

  ‘I know nothing about a papal legate or how he is supposed to be entertained,’ she said softly, ‘but Mikk has organised many feasts in this hall and I am sure that he will be able to feed this important individual.’

  ‘Not a bad idea,’ said Hans. ‘I remember when we first came here and Kalju entertained us to a mighty feast…’

  He suddenly remembered that Kalju’s daughter was present and perhaps did not want to be reminded of happier times. He fell silent, lowering his eyes in shame.

  ‘I remember those times too, Hans,’ she said.

  ‘Do we know how big the legate’s entourage is?’ asked Anton.

  Conrad looked around at the cavernous hall.

  ‘Unless he is bringing a small army I think accommodating him and his entourage is the least of our worries. Still, we might not have enough servants.’

  ‘Use the novices, master,’ suggested Werner. ‘It will be good experience for them.’

  ‘That sounds a most excellent idea,’ agreed Conrad, ‘but what about food? What does an Italian cardinal eat?’

  ‘If he is so eager to visit this place,’ said Leatherface, ‘then give him Estonian food. If he’s hungry he’ll eat it, if not he won’t.’

  ‘Trust Mikk, Conrad,’ said Maarja reassuringly, ‘he will not let you down.’

  Having placed the whole of Estonia under papal control Cardinal William was most eager to see the Holy See’s new province. He was accompanied on his ‘grand tour’ by Bishop Hermann, though Archdeacon Stefan, who was asked to also accompany the cardinal, politely declined due to having to safeguard Riga from further Kur assaults. Because it was now autumn the papal party travelled in riverboats up the Gauja to visit the castles of Kremon and Segewold and Fricis’ capital at Treiden. The small armada of boats then travelled further nort
h to stop off at Wenden, Master Rudolf entertaining his guests lavishly with jousting displays, banquets and falconry exhibitions. The legate then retook a riverboat to the far north of the Gauja before linking up with horses and wagons sent from Dorpat and escorted by Master Walter and a party of Sword Brothers from the garrison. When the party reached Odenpah it numbered around a hundred.

  Conrad and his two friends rode out of the fort when one of Maarja’s guards alerted the garrison of the approach of the papal party. A small group of mailed knights wearing the red livery of Pope Honorius preceded the legate, Bishop Hermann and Master Walter; behind them the banners of the Savelli family and the Sword Brothers fluttered in the stiff breeze. Then came the legate’s priests, novices, clerks and guards, all walking on foot. Four-wheeled wagons carried all the items required to make the legate’s life comfortable under canvas: tents, cots, trestles, tools, ropes, eating utensils, tent pegs, grain, wine, beer, clothing and weapons.

  The day was windy but thus far dry when Conrad halted in front of the legate and bowed his head to the cardinal and Bishop Hermann. The legate extended his right arm so Conrad could kiss his sapphire ring, an act of respect for his high office, a successor of the Apostles.

  ‘Greetings, Master Conrad.’

  ‘Welcome to Odenpah, your eminence. May I introduce my deputies, Brothers Hans and Anton?’

  His friends came forward and also kissed his ring. The cardinal, wearing a wide-brimmed red hat held in place by a cord running beneath his chin, gazed at the imposing fort.

  ‘Bishop Hermann has told me much about this place and your association with it. Tell me, is the Lady Maarja still in residence?’

  ‘She is, your eminence,’ replied Conrad. ‘I hope this does not displease you.’

  ‘Not at all, Conrad, it reminds us all that those who have suffered such terrible afflictions and survived are beloved of God. Their Christ-like sufferings and purgatory on earth are surety for their place in heaven. I shall be humbled to meet her.’

  ‘It is my intention to build her a leper house, your eminence,’ said Bishop Hermann, ‘so she may live in the style according to her position.’

  Conrad did not mention that Maarja was a pagan as he and the others rode into the fort, the legate’s entourage following. They left their horses in the stables in the outer compound and walked up the steps giving entry to the higher, inner compound where the paltry guard of honour awaited.

  ‘Why is access to the inner fortress by foot only?’ asked the cardinal.

  ‘To make an attacker’s task more difficult, your eminence,’ said Conrad, pointing up at the timber walls. ‘Attacking uphill on foot while being shot at by those on the walls would incur heavy casualties.’

  The party walked through the single thick oak gate accessing the inner compound.

  ‘And has this fort been taken by force?’ asked the legate.

  ‘Never, your eminence.’

  ‘And yet it fell to the Sword Brothers, surely proof that your order is beloved of the Lord.’

  ‘Yes, your eminence.’

  Inside the walls the novices, Sergeant Werner and Leatherface were drawn up in what was a pathetic guard of honour. Two of Maarja’s guards flanked their mistress who stood at the entrance to the main hall, as ever veiled and dressed in black.

  ‘Your garrison is deficient in numbers, Conrad,’ observed the legate.

  ‘Yes, your eminence. My apologies.’

  William waved a hand at him. ‘We shall have to rectify that.’

  He spotted Lady Maarja and hastened towards her, ignoring the guards. Leatherface rolled his eyes as the legate passed him, Hermann following.

  The cardinal halted before Maarja, took off his hat and held it to his chest as he bowed his head to her.

  ‘This is the Lady Maarja, your eminence,’ stated Conrad. ‘Maarja, may I introduce Cardinal William, the legate of his Holiness Pope Honorius.’

  Maarja bowed her head as William reached forward to take one of Maarja’s gloved hands. Then, in an act of piety that surprised everyone, even Leatherface, he took off her glove and kissed her scarred hand. Maarja was frozen in horror and embarrassment but William carefully replaced the glove and smiled at her.

  ‘Long have I looked forward to meeting you, lady.’

  ‘You have?’ came a quivering voice.

  ‘Bishop Hermann and Master Conrad have told me much about your courage and dignity’ said William, ‘so I made Odenpah my top priority so that I might meet you myself. Perhaps you would be kind enough to show me your home.’

  Maarja nodded and so the two of them went into the great hall, the cardinal chatting to her as though they were old friends. At that moment Conrad realised why the Pope had chosen William of Modena to be his representative. He was not only highly intelligent but also a commensurate politician, at ease in different company, quick to flatter but always aware of opportunities to turn situations to his advantage. Conrad looked behind, at the novices standing to attention, and saw their faces turned towards the doors of the great hall. Many were smiling, no doubt glad that the legate, a man of great importance, had been so kind to Maarja, a young lady they had all come to respect, even love, after their initial trepidation. Even Leatherface would not hear a harsh word said of her. The legate had won them all over. Clever, very clever, thought Conrad.

  ‘Eyes front!’ bellowed Werner, causing Bishop Hermann to jump.

  That evening the sergeant continued to shout orders to the novices as they served food in the great hall, ferrying a seemingly unending supply of food, beer and honey mead to those seated. The atmosphere was restrained as befitting the high clerics attending the feast. Legate William sat at the top table, flanked by Maarja and Bishop Hermann. Walter, Conrad, Hans and Anton also shared the top table, the knights and senior members of the legate’s entourage filling the other tables. Everyone had been accommodated within the immense fort, thus negating the need to pitch tents.

  Maarja had been right about trusting Mikk. The fare on offer was excellent. The steward had sent her guards into the forest to hunt game and they had returned with fresh wild boar, elk and deer carcasses that the cooks skinned and gutted. The meat was delivered to the tables on wooden platters, along with copious amounts of rye bread, all washed down with beer and honey mead. Cheese was served as a last course, with more bread and drink.

  The legate ate sparingly, conversing with Maarja and Conrad who sat on her other side. The conversation was light and pleasant, though the legate did raise the subject of the baptism of Conrad’s warlords.

  ‘After Dorpat it is my intention to visit Varbola,’ said the cardinal, nibbling on a small pie filled with meat and seeds. He had obviously spent a lot of time being briefed on Estonia, its regions and strongholds.

  ‘Perhaps we might hold the baptism there.’

  ‘I will send a summons to my warlords in Rotalia and Jerwen, your eminence.’

  ‘Remind me of their names again.’

  ‘Riki commands Harrien, your eminence, while Hillar is the lord of Rotalia and Andres Jerwen.’

  ‘Such exotic names,’ reflected William, ‘strange indeed, though no stranger than your own fate, Conrad.’

  Conrad sipped at his mead. ‘No indeed, your eminence.’

  The cardinal looked at Odenpah’s castellan.

  ‘Tell me, Conrad, before you came to this land did you know your fate?’

  ‘Yes, your eminence.’

  ‘What was it?’

  A vision of his father’s bakery and laughing sister flashed through his mind.

  ‘To be buried a hundred yards from where I was born.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘And now, your eminence, I sit beside the Holy Father’s representative, command armies and am Marshal of Estonia.’

  The legate toyed with a piece on meat on his platter.

  ‘None of us, not even kings and nobles, let alone cardinals, can truly know our fate. We might think that our course through life is set but the r
eality is that God sets tasks for us all to see whether we are worthy or not. This being the case we may fail at any time because we fail both God and ourselves.’

  ‘I think it is harder for a king to fail than a commoner, your eminence.’

  The cardinal tilted his head slightly. ‘Do you think God cares about titles, wealth and nobility, Conrad? I believe that God uses individuals to promote His interests, regardless of their birth. Men like you.’

  Conrad laughed. ‘I am a penniless soldier, your eminence, who took a vow of poverty, chastity and obedience long ago. The only thing I own is the sword that was bequeathed to me. Even the clothes I wear belong not to me but to the Sword Brothers.’

  The cardinal nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘Let us consider two men: yourself and King Valdemar. You lost your family and came to Livonia a penniless orphan. King Valdemar was born into wealth and privilege and inherited the crown of the strongest power in northern Europe. And yet now Valdemar has seen Danish power broken and humiliated and he and his son are currently prisoners, whereas you have risen to become a master of the Sword Brothers, Marshal of Estonia and the commander of an army whose fame has travelled far and wide. How could you have done all this if God did not love you?’

  ‘Does He not love King Valdemar, your eminence, whose power comes from God?’

  William waved a ringed finger at him. ‘You seek to trick me, Master Conrad? Kings are appointed by God, you are right. But kings may abuse their position and be punished accordingly, as will we all be, regardless of what position we hold.’