by Peter Darman
Conrad liked this cardinal who did not rant and rave but reasoned and persuaded. The next day he accompanied him on his journey to Dorpat, having first despatched messages to his warlords to assemble at Varbola. Hans and Anton stayed behind at Odenpah where life continued as normal. Leatherface invited himself along with Conrad, arguing that as the commander of the Marshal of Estonia’s crossbowmen he should be present at Varbola.
As they rode through a heavy rainfall on the way to the fort after stopping off to inspect Bishop Hermann’s grand project at Dorpat, the legate’s entourage struggling to move the wagons in the mud, the mercenary pointed at the legate in front of them.
‘I can tell you’ve warmed to him. He’s very clever.’
‘He is,’ agreed Conrad, ‘he speaks several languages and is well versed in canon law.’
Leatherface shook his head. ‘I didn’t mean all that rubbish. He’s clever because he is very good at diplomacy. After all, he made you give up Narva to the Danes without a squeak.’
‘I did not give it up,’ snapped Conrad. ‘It was part of an agreement with the legate.’
Leatherface rubbed his nose. ‘If you say so.’
When they arrived at Varbola, grey mist twisting around its towers, the warlords had already arrived, their warriors filling the huts in the compound. The next day the clouds parted and the sun made an appearance, banishing the rain. But because it was autumn it was cold and damp and everyone made sure they were wearing cloaks and thick woollen clothing for the baptism ceremony, which was held in the icy waters of the Kasari, one of the small rivers near the fort.
The banners of Riki, Andres and Hillar fluttered beside the flags of the Sword Brothers and the legate as hundreds of warriors stood on the riverbanks watching their lords being led into the clear, ice-cold waters by Bishop Hermann, whose teeth were already chattering before he walked into the water. However the three Estonians, stripped to the waist, showed no signs of emotion as they followed him. There was absolute silence as their warriors watched the strange ceremony being carried out. On one riverbank stood a hundred Rotalians, their shields painted with a stag symbol, and beside them the same number of Jerwen carrying a bear motif on their shields. On the opposite bank three hundred Harrien watched their lord, together with nearly four hundred of the ‘Bishop’s Bastards’, the glum-faced Ulric standing beside Leatherface in front of their men.
Legate William, fascinated by the assembled pagans, looked right and left at the hundreds of mail-clad warriors, behind them their blonde-haired women and children. He was very animated, smiling and clenching his fists in equal measure. And no wonder. By the end of the day the men who ruled great swathes of Estonia would be Christian lords, sworn to serving God and the Pope, His representative on earth.
To make the ceremony as quick as possible three white-robed priests also waded into the water to administer the salt, while the bishop would make the sign of the cross on the men’s foreheads with holy oil. Bishop Hermann began the ceremony and the priests began putting salt into the recipient’s ears. Hillar took exception and gripped the deathly pale priest in front of him by the throat.
‘It is all part of the ceremony, Hillar,’ Conrad called from the bank, ‘he means you no harm.’
Hillar curled his lip but released the frightened priest, who proceeded with utmost care, explaining the significance of what he was doing. Salt was used as a defence against demons to stop them impeding the recipient’s salvation. It was placed in the ears to signify the reception of the new religion that he was joining, into the nostrils to signify praise and into the mouth to signify the recipient’s confession. Then the three were ducked under the cold water for a few seconds, Hillar spitting out a mouthful of Kasari on the priest afterwards. His warriors cheered as a now shaking Bishop Hermann walked forward, dipped a finger in a small pot of sacred oil and used it to mark the sign of the cross on Hillar’s forehead.
‘I sign thee with the sign of the cross, I confirm thee with the chrism of salvation, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.’
He repeated the words as he made the sign of the cross on the foreheads of the stout Andres and the taller Riki. Legate William wore a broad smile as the frozen bishop, priests and warlords hurried from the water, subordinates coming forward with warmed mead and thick cloaks to return feeling to their numb bodies. The warriors raised their shields and weapons in the air and began cheering their lords.
‘Most excellent,’ said the cardinal.
Later, when the sky had darkened with storm clouds and the only signs of the baptism ceremony were muddy footprints along the banks of the Kasari, Cardinal William presented Conrad’s warlords with their rewards. His chief scribe laid out the large documents on a specially prepared trestle table erected in the middle of Riki’s great hall. Each document was a large piece of good quality parchment that was light in colour. The writing in a clear, dark ink was in Latin that the warlords had no knowledge of; indeed, all of them were illiterate so the beautiful writing accompanied by flourishes in red and green was wasted on them.
Hillar pointed to the red wax seal hanging from the bottom of each document.
‘What is this?’
The cardinal smiled. ‘That is the seal of the Holy Father himself, your grace. Because the seal is oval shaped it called a vesica seal.’
Hillar was confused. ‘Your grace? I have heard Sir Richard called that.’
The cardinal looked at Conrad.
‘Sir Richard, Duke of Saccalia, your eminence. You met him at Riga.’
The cardinal smiled. ‘Of course. That is your title now, Hillar, Duke of Rotalia.’
He pointed to one of the folios. ‘Keep this document safe for it gives you and your heirs lordship of Rotalia in perpetuity.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Andres.
‘It means forever,’ Conrad told him.
Hillar laid a hand on the hilt of his sword.
‘I do not need a piece of goat skin to safeguard my lands.’
‘It is a formality, Hillar,’ Conrad told him.
But he and the legate knew it was far more. It was a legal document valid throughout Christendom that confirmed that Rotalia, Harrien and Jerwen were now ruled by Christian dukes and not godless pagans.
Hillar and Andres went back to their strongholds the next day and life went on at Varbola as normal. Cardinal William expressed his desire to travel north to Reval where he would meet with the Danes to emphasise that they too were under papal control. To this end he sent two of his men ahead with a note for the governor alerting him to his imminent arrival. Conrad said that he would escort the legate to the port, though he insisted on taking all of Ulric’s crossbowmen and two hundred of Riki’s warriors. The newly appointed Duke of Harrien accompanied the party, the progress of which was torturously slow due to the wagons frequently getting stuck in the mud.
Conrad was unusually nervous, scanning the conifers for any signs of movement.
‘You have your scouts out, Riki?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Susi.’
‘The Marshal of Estonia appears fidgety,’ said Leatherface, ‘seeing assassins behind every tree?’
‘You were there the last time we met the Danes under a flag of truce,’ replied Conrad, ‘and I will not bore his eminence with retelling it.’
‘The Danes will not violate your person or attempt any mischievousness, Conrad,’ stated the cardinal sternly, ‘not unless they want to be excommunicated.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Riki.
‘It means, your grace,’ smiled Cardinal William, ‘that a person is cast out of society. Such a man cannot attend church or marriage ceremonies, cannot be buried in a graveyard or take part in any of the church’s festivals. It also means that any oaths given to such an individual become worthless. Furthermore, the church may sanction the persecution of such individuals, for they are outside the holy family of the church. It is also legal for the lands, castles and wealth of such
individuals to be seized.
‘Does that answer satisfy your grace?’
Riki stood tall in the saddle. He liked this man with the strange accent and light brown skin who treated him with respect and courtesy, as opposed to other newcomers who looked down their noses at him and his kind.
‘Yes, your highness,’ replied Riki.
‘The proper address for a papal legate is “your eminence”, Riki,’ said Bishop Hermann.
‘You will soon get used to protocol, your grace,’ the cardinal informed Riki, ‘now that these lands have become part of civilised society.’
‘Halt!’
Leatherface nearly fell off his horse and the mount of the cardinal jumped in alarm as the convivial conversation was rudely interrupted by Conrad’s voice. He drew his sword and spurred his horse forward when he spotted a group of mailed horsemen a few hundred yards ahead. Leatherface called to the crossbowmen behind him to deploy, the hundred men running forward to form two lines in front of the legate and bishop. Riki waved forward his warriors who formed a shield wall around the horsemen and crossbowmen, levelling their spears and locking their shields together for all-round defence.
‘Ready,’ commanded Conrad, prompting the crossbowmen to load their weapons.
He gripped his sword as he stared sullenly at the mailed knights who were now walking their horses towards the legate’s party. The cardinal’s guards had also come forward to take up position directly behind the square shield wall, within which was the legate on his horse. Conrad felt anger rise within him when he saw the heraldic device he had come to loathe on the surcoats and shields of the approaching knights: a black eagle on a yellow background. Then his anger intensified when he saw the bare-headed rider leading them – Dietrich von Kivel. His eyes turned away from the squat imp to the line of crossbowmen ready to shoot their weapons, and smiled. Just a little closer, Kivel, and I will repay you for your treachery a hundred fold.
‘Conrad, you will stand down your men immediately.’
He heard the legate’s command and grunted in frustration. If he gave the order his men would shoot, Kivel would be killed and he would be excommunicated. If that happened he would not be buried next to his wife and child.
‘Stand down,’ he shouted, sheathing his sword and nodding to Leatherface who went among his men.
‘Unload your weapons and put away your bolts. No killing today, boys.’
Riki ordered his warriors to assume their former positions, the Harrien walking back in the company of the crossbowmen. Kivel had a condescending smirk on his face as he saw the shield wall being dismissed and continued to walk his horse forward, halting a few paces from Conrad.
‘My men have occupied Narva,’ smiled Kivel. ‘I see you have been babysitting your new master. Tell me, now you no longer have any powers in Estonia are you the legate’s official arse wiper?’
‘One day, Kivel,’ growled Conrad, ‘your tongue will talk your head off its shoulders.’
Kivel winked at him. ‘But not today.’
He spurred his horse past Conrad. ‘Your eminence, Count Rolf is looking forward to meeting you.’
He dismounted and bowed deeply to the cardinal, who held out his ring for it to be kissed.
‘As I am looking forward to meeting him, duke,’ replied William.
Kivel’s knights, hard-bitten mercenaries from Germany like their master, looked bored as the Duke of Narva played the courtier. It was excruciating to watch and Conrad could barely contain his anger. The cardinal noticed this and ordered him and Kivel to embrace each other.
‘You will exchange the kiss of peace with each other,’ he ordered.
Conrad was stunned. ‘Your eminence?’
‘Yes, yes,’ commanded the cardinal, ‘you will embrace one another. The kiss shows that your souls are united and all injuries will be banished.’
Kivel was all smiles as Conrad slowly dismounted, the eyes of the mercenary knights, the legate’s guards, the bishop and Riki upon him. He was fuming and would have preferred to have drawn his sword to lop Kivel’s head off. This happy vision partly offset the bitter taste in his mouth as he and Kivel embraced and kissed each other’s cheeks.
‘Arse wiper,’ whispered Kivel.
‘Dwarf,’ replied Conrad as they parted and smiled falsely.
‘Excellent,’ said William.
There was a low rumble of thunder, prompting everyone to look up at the darkening clouds overhead.
‘I fear we must be away unless we desire a good drenching,’ said the legate. ‘I have never known a land that has so much rain.’
‘Does your eminence require my men to escort you further?’ asked Conrad innocently.
Kivel retook his saddle. ‘The legate will be quite safe. Areas under Danish control are free from bandits.’
‘And civilians,’ remarked Conrad, ‘you having killed them all.’
Kivel snorted and wheeled his horse away, the legate and Bishop Hermann following. The cardinal tipped his head to Conrad who bowed in reply. The legate’s guards closed around the prelates and the former’s entourage once more struggled to move the heavily laden wagons over the soft ground. Riki and Leatherface walked over to stand by Conrad.
‘It will be raining soon, Susi.’
‘We will camp among the trees for the night,’ Conrad told him, ‘there is little point in getting drenched for nothing.’
‘It might be about to rain,’ said Leatherface, ‘but the future is bright and sunny what with Conrad and that snake Kivel kissing and making up. All Estonia is at peace.’
The thunder got louder and small spots of rain began to fall as the legate’s party entered the great pine forest ahead. Conrad shook his head.
‘The one thing I have learned these past few years is that peace is merely the interval between wars.’
*****
It was also raining in Samogitia but that was no surprise to the people that lived there. It was perhaps the wettest of the Lithuanian kingdoms, a damp, green land of endless pine, spruce and birch forests. Those woodlands swarmed with bees, the honey and wax of which was highly prized among the commoners. As was the meat and hides from the elk, wolves, wild boar and squirrels that also roamed among the trees. Bears were usually avoided, being large and aggressive. Life in the dozens of villages sited along rivers and around lakes was hard, the inhabitants living in low, oblong huts with roofs of thatch or boards. Their existence was made easier by the rich clay soil that yielded immense harvests of crops and flax – when their fields were not being put to the torch by marauding Kurs.
At the beginning of autumn it was not uncommon for sleet to lash the land and snow fell regularly between autumn and spring. It was sleet that was pounding Medvegalis, aided by a cruel eastern wind, when Ykintas stood on the highest ramparts of the fort and gazed out over his land. It might have been cold but at least he no longer suffered from the debilitating headaches in the aftermath of his head wound. In the euphoria of his victory he had forgotten all about his bleeding head but it reminded him constantly in the weeks afterwards. He shook his head. Many of his people might well starve during the coming winter because the Kurs had destroyed their crops and killed their livestock. The Kriviai provided them with spiritual assistance and called on the gods to aid them but prayers and sacrifices were not enough to fill empty bellies. He was not sure he believed in miracles anyway. He made to turn away from the battlements but something caught his eye: a red flicker amid the grey gloom. He peered intently and realised it was a signal fire on some far-off hill. Then he saw another fire, this one slightly closer. Then he heard the alarm bell being rung and heard shouts coming from the courtyard below. A knot tightened in his stomach. It could mean only one thing: the Kurs had returned.
He ran down the steps to where a slave was holding his horse, his bodyguard checking the straps on their own mounts before hoisting themselves into the saddle.
‘Stop that accursed bell from ringing,’ he ordered the garrison commander who ha
d reported to him. ‘Any enemy is still many miles away. While I am absent bring in food supplies from the surrounding villages, their inhabitants too.’
‘It is unwise for you to leave the fort, lord,’ the grey haired veteran told him, ‘you might come to harm.
Ykintas laughed. ‘If the Kurs are back then we might all come to harm. I need to see what we are up against.’
Elze came running from the great hall, all long red hair and furs.
‘You must stay here,’ she declared.
‘That’s what I told him, lady,’ said the garrison commander.
Ykintas took her in his arms and disarmed her with a tender kiss on the lips.
‘I will return, have no fear. Now someone get me a cloak otherwise I will freeze to death on the journey.’
The slave bowed, handed the reins to Ykintas and ran away as though a forest demon was chasing him.
‘Another signal fire has been lit,’ shouted down a sentry in one of the towers. Ykintas looked up at him.
‘How far away?’
‘Perhaps fifteen miles, lord,’ came the reply.
Ykintas pointed at his commander. ‘Fetch those supplies and people. Go.’
The man saluted and headed away, barking orders at his soldiers.
‘Get me a sword,’ Elze called after him.
Ykintas’ bodyguard cheered and whistled, causing many of their horses to move sideways in alarm.
‘Perhaps you should command them,’ he teased his wife.
‘No Kur will take me alive,’ she spat defiantly.
He kissed her again and took the helmet offered him by the slave. He wrapped the thick fur cloak around his shoulders and fastened its clasp shaped like a pair of elk antlers. The same symbol was painted on the shields of his bodyguard and sewn on his standard unfurled behind him. He put on the helmet and gained his saddle, smiling at his firebrand wife and then wheeled his horse about to lead his men from the courtyard.
It was still early morning when he led a hundred horsemen wearing lamellar armour from the fort, their necks and shoulders protected by mail aventails. In addition to their swords and axes they also carried a pair of spisas each, long spears with thin shafts that could be used as javelins.