by Peter Darman
‘The winter was hard,’ agreed Lamekins, ‘but now spring is here we must address strategy for the coming year, lord.’
‘The punishment of Mindaugas and Ykintas will be our top priority this year,’ Arturus informed him. ‘They fancy themselves as young heroes so we must disabuse them of that notion. Such stupidity can be infectious.’
‘And the Sword Brothers, lord?’
Out of the corner of his eye Arturus noticed a group of riders approaching the fort, one holding a seagull banner behind a man with red hair. They slowed when they reached the wooden bridge over the moat. Arturus smiled and slapped Lamekins on the arm.
‘We shall know soon enough.’
They descended the log steps to the courtyard as the riders trotted through the open gates, Arturus striding over to the leader as he dismounted ordering slaves to take his horse to the stables. Torolf, Arturus’ ambassador and spymaster, was taller than his duke and strikingly different in appearance. His red hair was shaved above the ears and plaited from the crown to the back of his neck, his red beard neatly trimmed. Like his lord he wore a black tunic, tan leggings and gaiters. He bowed to Arturus.
‘I bring good news from Riga, lord. Bishop Albert has been taken ill.’
Arturus smiled and bid Torolf and Lamekins follow him as he led the way to his great hall, striking the face of a daydreaming slave hard with the back of his hand when he got in his way. Guards on the battlements laughed as the poor wretch was knocked to the ground.
More slaves served the duke and his two guests bread, cheese and hot soup in the feasting chamber, others bringing large jugs of beer. Arturus and Lamekins sat enthralled as Torolf told them what he had learned from his sources.
‘The bishop has been struck down by some sort of paralysis that has disabled one side of his body. His speech is slurred and rambling and he is incapable of leaving his palace in Riga.’
‘This is excellent news, Torolf,’ said Arturus, ‘I congratulate you.’
‘Who is in charge of Riga?’ asked Lamekins.
‘Archdeacon Stefan by all accounts,’ replied Torolf.
‘Then the whole of Livonia is paralysed,’ smiled Arturus, ‘for he will not travel to Germany to raise soldiers to fight for Riga, nor will he lead an army of crusaders.’
Torolf went on to inform Arturus about the Bishop of Riga’s abortive campaign against Oesel, which drew derision from Lamekins.
‘Only a fool would attempt to make war in the middle of the coldest winter in living memory.’
‘It is not foolishness, prince,’ said Arturus, ‘it is arrogance. The Christians no doubt believed that their god froze the sea so they could walk to Oesel. Perhaps they thought that the Oeselians had been turned into pillars of ice.’
‘What of the crusaders who came to Riga last year?’ Lamekins asked Torolf.
‘As is their custom they will be leaving Riga in the early summer,’ Torolf told him.
Lamekins’ mind was racing. ‘And if no new crusaders come to replace them then the Christians will be stretched thinly. Riga will be vulnerable, as will Mesoten. A rapid strike may…’
Arturus held up a hand to him. ‘Not this time, prince. I know that you see an opportunity but Riga’s discomfiture will allow us to concentrate on dealing with our young bulls in the south.
‘They robbed me of victory at the Kandava Hills and it would be remiss of me not to repay them.’
‘But lord,’ pleaded Lamekins.
Arturus smashed his fist on the table. ‘No! Mindaugas and Ykintas have made me a laughing stock and I will have my revenge.’
A slave involuntarily caught his eye as he was carrying a tray holding an empty jug back to the kitchens.
‘Come here,’ commanded Arturus.
The trembling slave approached the table and threw himself on the floor, prostrating himself before Arturus, who picked up a piece of cheese and began nibbling it.
‘Why were you looking at me?’ asked the duke calmly.
‘Forgive me, highness,’ babbled the slave.
In a blur Arturus stood, pulled his dagger, gripped it with both hands and thrust it down hard on the back of the slave’s head. There was a hideous crunching sound as the blade penetrated the bone to enter the victim’s brain.
‘As Mindaugas and Ykintas will discover,’ grinned Arturus, ‘forgiveness is not in my nature.’
Torolf held up some food to Lamekins. ‘Very good cheese.’
*****
Livonia and Estonia were beautiful in the spring. After the melt water in the rivers had subsided and the land began to dry out the meadows were suddenly filled with flowers. In the forests reindeer moss formed a white carpet and fungi abounded among the long grass and trees. Bears came out of their hibernation and roamed the forests in the company of boar, deer and elk. Otters hunted along riverbanks and lesser-spotted eagles swooped down from the sky to catch their prey. The winter had been cruel but now villagers were planting crops, repairing their homes and looking forward to a bountiful harvest. The stone castles of the Sword Brothers were visible signs of the strength of the Christian kingdom, there was peace with Novgorod and the Bishopric of Dorpat was prospering as a result of that peace.
Surveyors had arrived at Odenpah to map out the site and size of the leper house for Lady Maarja, a promise at last being fulfilled by Bishop Hermann. They had been sent by Master Thaddeus, the old architect and engineer being unable to attend himself on account of the great volume of work given to him by the bishop. The master builder, a stout, blunt-speaking individual, was quartered in the fort while he and his assistants chose a site nearby and marked out the foundation trenches. Conrad took the opportunity to speak with him when his duties allowed.
The master builder selected a site near a deep, fast stream to the south of the fort.
‘You can see the fort from here,’ the master builder told Conrad, ‘so your lady will have time to seek sanctuary there in the event of an attack.’
‘Attack by whom?’ Conrad asked.
‘The pagans, of course, this land is infested with them.’
‘The Lady Maarja is herself a pagan,’ Conrad informed him.
The builder wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘She is? Then why is the bishop building a nice house for her?’
‘It is a long story but suffice to say Bishop Hermann has a great fondness for her. How is the bishop?’
The builder rolled his eyes. ‘He wants a new stone town to replace the wooden buildings in Dorpat and no expense to be spared.’
‘That is fortunate for you,’ said Conrad.
He put down his measuring stick and stretched out his back.
‘The work is plentiful, I’ll not lie to you, but I would prefer being in a Christian kingdom rather than this godless land. It’s no place to raise a family.’
‘How so?’
‘Too many pagans, you see. They look odd, dress in strange clothes and don’t think like us.’
‘Then why don’t you return to Germany?’
The master builder looked at him as though he was mad. ‘There’s no work there, mercenary bands roam freely in the countryside and the church and city authorities tax a man to his bare bones.’
He shuddered. ‘Dreadful place.’
Conrad shook his head and took his leave, riding back to his fort. Gradually more and more people were returning to the surrounding villages as news spread that Odenpah was not cursed after all. For the first time in a while sheep were being grazed on the great meadow in front of the fort and fishing boats were on the lake to the north. Despite the master builder’s ridiculous remarks Estonia was a land that was prospering, benefiting natives and settlers alike. And yet there was still a dark spectre that threatened to ruin the calm and drench the land in blood. That was something that Conrad could not allow to happen.
*****
The harbour of Reval was a glittering lake, the jetties that thrust out into the calm water mostly empty, the great fleet that was supposed to have docked
at the port having been destroyed by the Oeselians. Cogs and smaller vessels still berthed at the quays, bringing supplies and messages, and transporting people from Denmark. But there was no army to conquer Estonia.
Rolf, Count of Roskilde and Governor of Reval, was not a happy man. He stood at the dockside with his hands behind his back, jaw jutted forward as he looked at the ships. Fishermen from villages on the other side of the bay were steering their boats to the jetties, bringing their daily catches to sell in the town’s market. The Harrien had been badly mistreated by the Danes but even the Danes needed to eat and so purchased fish from the locals. For their part the Harrien fishermen were glad to exchange their catches for tools, jewellery and clothing, though the Danes were careful not to provide them with any weapons. But there was little trade beyond the strong walls of Reval because the majority of Harrien was under the control of the duke of the same name, a close ally of the cursed Marshal of Estonia.
‘Thinking of going for a swim?’
Rolf was distracted from his musings by the gruff Duke of Narva who had arrived from his town that very morning.
‘I was thinking that there should be a host of ships moored in this harbour and thousands of soldiers quartered in the town,’ replied Rolf glumly.
Kivel shrugged. ‘The king will send another army.’
Rolf gave him a grim smile. ‘I think not. I received word recently from Roskilde that the king is preparing to fight his enemies in northern Germany. He will not be sending any reinforcements to us this year. That is why I asked you to come here. We must plan our strategy.
‘What news have you of events in the south?’
‘News from Dorpat is that the Bishop of Riga has suffered some sort of affliction that has rendered him speechless and invalid,’ grinned Kivel.
Rolf crossed himself. ‘I will pray for him.’
‘Pray that he doesn’t recover,’ said Kivel, ‘because at the moment Livonia is paralysed as well. You should mention that when you next write to the king.’
‘I do not have the manpower to launch an invasion of Estonia,’ complained Rolf. ‘I have barely five hundred men to hold Reval and the outlying positions.’
Kivel liked Rolf because he was honest and courageous but he was also prone to periods of self-doubt. He himself never experienced apprehension or hesitation, especially when it came to killing the enemy. ‘Now is the time to strike, Rolf, when our enemy is weak and lacks leadership.’
Rolf was appalled. ‘Strike with what? Did you not hear me? I can raise five hundred men at most. If I lead them from this place who will garrison it?’
‘Let me bring my Germans here, then,’ said Kivel. ‘I can leave Narva in the hands of my Danish knights and the native militia. That will give you another two hundred men.
‘A flying column of four hundred horsemen, that is all we need. Strong and quick enough to torch a lot of villages and get back here before the Sword Brothers or Marshal of Estonia can mobilise their forces.’
‘After which we will reap the whirlwind,’ said Rolf, far from convinced.
Kivel gestured at the town and castle beyond. ‘This place has withstood thousands of Russians and Estonians. It is impregnable.’
He grabbed Rolf’s arms. ‘Now is the time, Rolf, to show our enemies our steel, when they least expect it. The king will prevail over the rebels and then he will reinforce us, or perhaps come himself at the head of a great crusading army. What shall you say to him when he asks what have you done to preserve his interests?’
It was a clever appeal for Rolf was above all an honourable man, loyal to his king and to Denmark. He had been horrified when Valdemar had been imprisoned by the Count of Schwerin; a man who had formerly sworn allegiance to the Danish crown, now turned traitor. Kivel’s words had struck a chord: he could not remain idle while his king was fighting for his crown in Germany.
‘Very well, Dietrich, bring your men here but do not leave Narva undefended.’
Kivel smiled. ‘My Danes and locals will hold it, have no fear.’
‘You trust Wierlanders to hold your stronghold for you?’
Kivel nodded. ‘Of course. After the first lot deserted I made a determined effort to recruit some loyal natives. I feed them, clothe them, provide them with weapons and don’t flog them too much. Why shouldn’t they be loyal?’
‘They are loyal to you or to King Valdemar?’ said Rolf.
‘To me, of course. I doubt most of them have even heard of King Valdemar.’
‘We fight for King Valdemar, Dietrich, remember that,’ said Rolf sternly. ‘This is not Germany where lords with private armies seek to set themselves up as kings.’
Kivel’s face was a mask of innocence. ‘Of course not.’
‘You say that a lot,’ observed Rolf. ‘Bring your men here so that we may organise our great raid.’
*****
When Conrad reached Wenden he bypassed the castle and rode to the village five miles to the south where Rameke and Kaja lived. She had given birth to a boy and he was overjoyed to learn that both mother and baby were healthy. The village was full of rosy cheeked children and blonde, blue-eyed women. He was amazed how it had grown in such a short time. He halted his horse at the entrance to the village and stared at cows grazing nearby, ploughed fields beyond.
‘What’s wrong, Conrad?’ asked Hans.
‘Is your horse lame?’ queried Anton.
Conrad sighed. ‘I was just thinking of a time when we were novices and Master Rudolf brought us here to assist in the gathering of the harvest.’
‘That was a long time ago, my friend,’ said Anton.
‘Much has happened since then,’ added Hans.
But Conrad was not listening. He was thinking of a beautiful girl who brought water for him as he toiled in the fields, an angel with sparkling green eyes and shoulder-length hair. He turned the ring on his finger as he thought of Daina and the life that was snatched from him.
Hans was confused. ‘Conrad?’
Conrad spurred his horse forward into the village. At the main hall they dismounted and one of the guards at the door went inside to bring a short, portly steward with thinning hair to the Sword Brothers.
He clapped his hands with delight. ‘Brothers Conrad, Hans and Anton. Welcome.’
‘Have we met?’ asked Conrad.
‘I remember you when you visited Treiden for the prince and princess’ wedding. What a day that was,’ enthused the steward. ‘They will be delighted to see you all.’
He ushered them inside, barking to servants to bring refreshments. In the main chamber Rameke dismissed the farmers he was listening to and embraced his brother and friends. He went to fetch Kaja who appeared with her baby who like her had blue eyes and the purest blonde hair.
‘We are naming him Thalibald,’ announced Rameke proudly.
‘It is fitting,’ said Conrad, kissing Kaja on the cheek.
She had a quiet word with the head servant who bowed and retreated to the kitchens. Servants brought the infant’s cot into the hall and high-backed chairs for his parents and their guests to sit in. A nursemaid fussed over Thalibald when Kaja placed him in the cot beside her. Servants brought the men kvass and Kaja warm milk. She smiled when she saw Hans’ eyes light up when the food was served, a tray of piragi placed on the table before him.
‘You remembered,’ he grinned.
She smiled as he picked up one of the bread rolls filled with diced fatty bacon and onion and shoved it into his mouth. Conrad and Anton also ate the rolls, along with slices of cold pork and cheese.
‘How is your manor house coming along?’ asked Conrad.
Rameke shook his head. ‘All work ceased during the winter but now Master Mancini has returned to his role of tyrant.’
‘He acts like it is his manor,’ said Kaja, ‘he should be flogged for his loose tongue.’
Conrad smiled. It was good to know that motherhood had not erased all of Kaja’s fighting spirit. He did notice that she no longer wore her sword
, though. Nothing stays the same forever.
‘We were all saddened to hear of Bishop Albert’s illness,’ said Kaja as Thalibald began to grumble in his cot.
‘The cruel winter took its toll on his old body,’ remarked Rameke, ‘he is loved by the Liv people and they pray for him.’
‘Fighting in such a hard winter was foolish,’ said Kaja, ‘you were all lucky to leave Muhu alive.’
She looked at Conrad. ‘Rameke told me of your agreement with the Oeselians, Susi. You should not trust them; I have heard that they sacrifice their own children to their gods.’
He had heard many using the same words about the Estonians.
‘I will heed your advice, Kaja.’
‘Well, there will be no crusade this year,’ said Anton, ‘not with the bishop incapacitated.’
‘I have to tell you that my king will not follow the Governor of Riga,’ stated Rameke, ‘this he has told me and neither will I.’
Conrad took a sip of kvass. ‘I would not worry about that, my brother, the Governor of Riga never ventures from the city.’
‘Nor will Livs serve under the Duke of Riga,’ added Rameke.
Clearly the Liv king and his warlords had talked long and hard about the ramifications of Bishop Albert’s paralysis.
‘I can relate to that,’ agreed Anton.
‘But Fricis will still fight beside the Sword Brothers, I hope,’ said Conrad.
‘They will and my king is grateful that you risked your life to save him and his warriors, as am I, from a freezing death on Muhu. But he and I have no liking for the scheming of the rich men of Riga.’
Afterwards, on the way to Wenden, Anton was in a very talkative mood.
‘If the bishop dies Livonia could be torn asunder.’
‘He will not die,’ insisted Hans.
‘Everyone dies,’ Conrad told him, ‘and the bishop is now over sixty. It is foolish to expect him to live forever, which is why we must strike now, while we have the chance.’
‘You know I would follow you into hell if you asked me,’ said Anton, ‘you know that, Conrad.’
‘Which is exactly where we are heading,’ uttered Hans.
Conrad halted his horse.
‘As your friendship means more to me than life itself I do not compel either of you to take part in this venture.’