“I suppose you imagine that I have a man in the enemy’s camp who might be able to do such a thing,” Hermann said as he pushed back from the desk. He shook his head as he walked over to the hearth and picked up the metal poker leaning against the wall. He turned toward Kristaps, holding the poker as if it were a sword. “This man should merely walk up to the prince”—he jabbed the poker lightly at Kristaps—“and, like this, put several inches of steel into him. Is that what I should do? What I should have done already?” His lips curled slightly as he turned away from Kristaps and used the poker on the logs in the hearth. A fountain of sparks leapt up from the Prince-Bishop’s assault. “It is one thing to demand ‘Why have you not killed this man?’ when he is standing in the same room, or even living within a short distance of where you stand, but Alexander Iaroslavich is not here.” He waved the poker around. “He is no fool. I have men out looking for him, but they either cannot find him or they don’t come back at all. Does it make sense, Heermeister, to waste men and resources chasing this ghost when I could be strengthening the base of my power here instead?”
Kristaps stared into the fire, his thoughts straying to the arena in Hünern and his fight with the Shield-Brethren knight, Andreas. “You don’t chase your enemies,” he said, “unless you know you’ve the better horse, or better yet, you’ve a horse and he has none.” Andreas the horse thief, fighting desperately with his spear against Kristaps’s sword and maille. He had thought Andreas a prideful fool for entering the arena without a sword until the knight turned his back and ran toward the Khan’s box at the other end of the arena. Only then had he realized that he had never been the knight’s true target. “You make your enemy come to you. You offer them something they think they want, something they cannot refuse. A feint, exposing an opening your opponent thinks is his one chance to destroy you.”
Hermann poked at the logs in the hearth with a casual indifference, mulling over Kristaps’s statement. Kristaps knew that Hermann of Dorpat was one of those men who had reached his station in life by virtue of shrewd negotiation and decisive action. He was not above taking a risk when the reward was significant; it was merely a matter of carefully articulating the risk, and giving Hermann the opportunity to frame the risk in his own mind. Once a decision was made, Kristaps would have the freedom he needed to accomplish his task. It was better to let the Prince-Bishop think the decision was his to make; he would give his blessing more readily.
“Walk with me,” Hermann said suddenly, dropping the poker onto the floor. “I wish to show you something.”
He followed Hermann of Dorpat out of the estate, where they picked up an escort of four bodyguards. The Prince-Bishop walked briskly toward the wall surrounding the city, his cloak wrapped around his body to ward off the brisk wind. The fog had been blown away while Kristaps had been inside the estate, and the pale blue sky was clear.
“The wind blows from the north almost constantly,” Hermann said. “The locals are fearful of it, as they believe it means a short spring and a shorter summer.”
Kristaps said nothing, though his thoughts were tumbling over one another. He watched the bodyguard carefully, noting how these men were not as indolent as the men at the gate had been.
Hermann led him through a narrow alley between houses to a wooden stair that went up to the battlement. The Prince-Bishop went first, and Kristaps followed, his back twitching at letting the four men crowd behind him. Pskov’s defenses were not the most fabled in Rus, and they did not even begin to approach the grandeur of Kiev, but they were nonetheless high enough to afford a view of the surrounding lands. As they reached the top, Kristaps could see thick clouds marshalling north of the city. They would arrive in a few hours, most likely dumping their load of snow on the city.
“What you do you see, Heermeister Kristaps?” Hermann asked, his arm sweeping to encompass the land outside Pskov.
“I see clouds and empty fields and a forest of ugly trees. I see a hard land that is not ours. Even if we conquer it, it will never welcome us.”
“I know what happened at Schaulen,” Hermann said, folding his arms across his chest. “I know the name your first Heermeister had for you, Kristaps of Fellin. You are not a stupid man, that much is clear, but are you a man with the necessary subtlety to bring these people to heel?”
Kristaps looked at the Prince-Bishop, waiting for him to say something of import. There was more coming, he knew, and it was best to let the Prince-Bishop say what he felt was necessary. If patience was subtlety, then he could demonstrate that he was capable of it.
“The heretics of the east have managed to lay the blanket of their false doctrine across this land,” Hermann continued, “but it was not so long ago that this place, and all the people in it, were pagan to the core. This land is brutal and hard, and the people in it doubly so. They do not yield easily, and they do not change their allegiances readily. They know the forests and the fields better than we do. They know their old and secret paths and they know their forbidden lore. Even the most ardent Eastern Christians still leave a bowl of milk to appease the domovoi they know reside in their homes. You can conquer a land, bring it to its knees with sword and fire, but even a defeated people will always hold to the ways of their ancestors over yours. In time, the old ways would bring them together, and they would challenge you. Just like they did at Schaulen.”
“The mistakes at Schaulen were our own,” Kristaps replied, keeping his voice calm. “And what you speak of has been the crisis of any conqueror for the last thousand years.” He shrugged, dismissing the Prince-Bishop’s concerns. “Burn enough houses down, and the people will forget their own names in favor of the ones you give them. It is a matter of will. Doing God’s work is never easy, and one must understand and be ready to do what is necessary in order to achieve God’s wishes.”
“And would you burn all of this if God called for it to be so?” Hermann asked, staring at Kristaps as if he was seeing the knight in a new light.
“I believe,” Kristaps answered, “that when God’s representatives on earth give you a holy order, you must accomplish it, and not make excuses about how hard the people and the weather are.”
Hermann gave a derisive snort as he looked out over the bleak wilderness beyond the edge of the walls. “Even if I had been able to find Alexander Iaroslavich earlier this winter, I don’t have enough men to fight him in the field. We have allies coming, which will bolster our numbers, but the Danes will not bring me any closer to the prince than I am now. The Novgorodians distrust the Danes twice as much as they do men from Dorpat and Riga,” Hermann said.
“Why is he out in the wilderness?” Kristaps asked. “Why is he not guarding Novgorod directly, or marching against you now, if these Ruthenians are such masters of this frigid land?”
“There was a matter concerning tributes and taxes,” Hermann replied. “After beating the Swedes back at the Neva—where he earned that silly designation—he sought compensation for his men from the boyars of Novgorod.”
“A not unexpected request,” Kristaps said.
“Aye,” Hermann agreed, “but pride intervened, and Nevsky was sent into exile without any compensation at all.”
“But the boyars will change their minds, won’t they?” Kristaps said. “That’s why you are wintering here, to give them time to panic and call him back.”
“Aye,” Hermann said. “And then we’ll know where he is.”
“He’ll gather more men,” Kristaps said. “You’re allowing him the opportunity to increase his numbers.” He shook his head. “It’s a matter of pride, isn’t it? He’ll want to be seen; he’ll need to be seen. He will want assurances from the boyars and people of Novgorod that they won’t treat him badly again. To make sure that doesn’t happen, he’ll made a concerted effort to get the people on his side.”
Kristaps turned his head shake into a nod. “He’ll want recognition before he acts,” he said, thinking out loud. “That is when he will be vulnerable, when he is among the pe
ople, reminding them of how badly they need him.”
Hermann glanced at him, and Kristaps saw the gleam in the Prince-Bishop’s eye. “It is a risky proposition,” he said.
“If there were any other way, you would have tried it already,” Kristaps pointed out.
Hermann laughed and indicated that they should walk along the parapet. “You surprise me, Kristaps,” he said. “I would not have thought you capable of such a soft touch.”
Kristaps glanced at the four bodyguards before following Hermann. The wind continued to bluster about them as they walked. In the streets below, Kristaps could sense the tension that always seethed beneath the surface of day-to-day affairs in an occupied city. A change in sovereignty split the people as readily as it could unite them, as loyalists clung desperately to their former convictions whilst collaborators sought to enrich themselves, and readily flocked to protect the new power that was responsible for their good fortune. That tension could be used by any side of the conflict that understood how to move men, how to manipulate them and make them do as suited their designs.
A soft touch? Kristaps kept his opinion to himself. A carefully worded compliment was sometimes more useful than an outright threat. Whatever kept your enemy off guard.
“You think the prince will come to the rescue of Pskov?” Hermann asked.
“He has to,” Kristaps said. “A prince in exile is not a prince. Even when Novgorod deigns to bring him home, he will still seek the love of the people. Until he is sure of their devotion, he will be constantly reminded of what he has lost.” Kristaps smiled, baring his teeth against the wind. “Once he returns to Novgorod, he will no longer be able to do as he pleases. He will act in a way to ensure the people’s love. He will come to Pskov, and we will kill him.”
CHAPTER 5:
ONE OF US
The messenger knelt in the tent, his long cloak of furs doing an ill job of masking how he shook from the cold he had endured to reach this encampment. Outside, the night wind made the hide walls ripple with its angry, icy lash; inside, braziers burned sweet-smelling coniferous wood, filling the air with a warmth that could not quite drive off the chill from without.
Melting snow dusted the messenger’s shoulders, and his short cropped hair framed a youthful face. He bore no weapons, having left sword and bow in the hands of the heavily scarred retainer who stood watch outside the door. His eyes were a light blue of the sort common in the north. Despite the dirt on his clothes, he had the look of a boyar’s son, nervous but eager to succeed, and as afraid of failure as he was hopeful for success in his mission.
Illarion felt a small knot twist in his gut—equal parts pity and grief. Had it not been for Onghwe Khan, this boy could be my son, he thought. He looked away from the boy, directing his gaze at the other person in the tent—the man whom the messenger had come to see.
Sitting in a dark chair, wrapped in surprisingly utilitarian garments for one of his station, was Prince Alexander Iaroslavich. He had a long, young face and his dark eyes had a weight to them that made his gaze hard to meet straight on. In years, he was little older than twenty, but the beard lining his jaw made him look older, and there was an energy about him that lay beneath the austere expression with which he watched the kneeling man. The Novgorodians had taken to calling him Nevsky after the battle of Neva he’d won in his nineteenth year. They had named him and then exiled him, and now they were asking him to come back.
The messenger fidgeted, looking sidelong at Illarion. Nevsky had heard his words, but was taking a long time to respond. Illarion had no advice to offer the young man.
Finally, Alexander sighed and the messenger stiffened, his gaze snapping back to Nevsky.
“Was there any dissention in the Veche?” Alexander asked. “Were they unified in this…request?” The prince’s tone was quiet and congenial, but Illarion heard the stress laid on the last word. In the brief time he’d been with Alexander, he had learned to hear the undercurrents in the prince’s diction. For all his youth, there was a hardened veteran—in both war and politics—that lived within that body. I am who I am because I have earned it, this voice said. Do not take me for a fool.
“They speak with one voice,” the messenger gulped, “and I am that voice. Lord, Novgorod the Great is in peril and, as one, the people call their Kynaz to his duty.”
As a prince of Novgorod, Alexander had been responsible for coming to its defense and negotiating its relations with foreign powers, all under the watchful, but distant, authority of his father, Iaroslav, in Vladimir. When the Mongols had come, Alexander had struck bargains with Batu and the other Khans: in return for taxes and obedience, Novgorod and Pskov were to be spared. The people had looked upon Alexander as their savior, and in retrospect, Illarion wished he and the other nobles of Volodymyr-Volynskyi had been less proud in their defiance when the horde had come to their walls. Shortly after the battle of Neva, where the young Alexander earned the name of Nevsky, the prince had laid claim to rights that the ruling boyars of Novgorod—the Veche—had been unhappy to grant. Their solution had been to exile the prince.
“Do you think I have abandoned my duty?” Alexander asked.
The messenger looked down at the floor of the tent, trying to hide the glimmer of fear in his eyes. Illarion stirred slightly, feeling the knot in his gut again, but he remained silent. While it had been clever of the boy to keep Alexander’s focus on him and not the Veche, the ploy had brought the entire weight of the Veche’s actions down upon his shoulders.
“I…I would not be here, my Prince,” the messenger said, “if I thought such a thing were possible.”
Alexander glanced at Illarion, a thin smile touching his lips, and Illarion inclined his head in return.
“I find such faith reassuring,” Alexander said quietly. “And I would hope that the Veche is of the same mind as you, as well as the same voice. I, too, am filled with faith—faith that the Veche has come to realize that their security must be paid for. Or do they still believe that men will die for them out of duty?”
The messenger touched his lips briefly with one hand, considering the prince’s question. “Will you heed the Veche?” he asked, opting to interpret the prince’s question as a decision.
“I might,” Alexander said. He clapped his hands, summoning the retainer from outside the tent. “See that he is fed and given a warm place to sleep. His ride has been long, and I can see that he is exhausted. God alone knows how difficult it was to find my camp in the dark.”
The retainer, a bearded man with a northern look who was one of Alexander’s sworn Druzhina, nodded in response and gestured for the messenger to follow him. The young man rose, seeming at once nervous and relieved, and made to follow the retainer. But he paused before he left the tent. “Is that the message you wish for me to take back?” he asked.
“Yes,” Alexander said. “Remind them that if they wish to lay claim to me in the guise of duty, I will expect the same from them.”
After the retainer and the messenger had left, the prince leaped out of the chair and began to pace around the tent. His face lost some of the severity it had held during the messenger’s visit, and his posture relaxed. “I had been planning on returning anyway,” he said to Illarion. “It will be easier now that they are expecting me.”
“Pride can slow a man’s actions,” Illarion said.
Alexander peered at his face for a moment and then laughed. “You are like an old grandmother,” he said. “I never know if you are talking about me”—he gestured at the wall of the tent—“or those old fools in the Veche.”
Or myself, Illarion thought fleetingly, an image of the old crone he had seen outside the citadel walls in Kiev flashing through his mind.
“Though it does not matter whether it was my zealousness or the Veche’s wounded honor,” Alexander continued, a frown pulling at his mouth. “The Veche may not trust me, but they will not stand in my way, and the militia of Novgorod will be at my back.”
“Dare you lay y
our trust there?” Illarion asked.
Alexander walked over to a small table shoved against the wall of the tent where a number of hide maps were scattered. From previous examination, Illarion knew they were out of date, but the inked details were of little import to Alexander. He hadn’t lived a cloistered life—much of his boyhood had been spent traveling between his family’s extensive holdings; as a result he knew the intimate details of his country better than any city-bound mapmaker.
“Perhaps it is a dangerous assumption,” the prince admitted as he shuffled through the maps to find one to his liking. “But this Hermann of Dorpat still has an army in Pskov. When the spring thaw arrives, he will march on Novgorod; otherwise, why would he be wintering in Rus when he could be in the comfort of his own home? Time is running out for the Veche, and I suspect they’ve called up what reserves they have and have realized they do not have enough men to make the Teutonics reconsider their plans.”
He found the map he was looking for and spread it across the top of the others. “They lack battle-tested commanders, and foolishly hoped that the Prince-Bishop would abandon Pskov when winter came.” He shook his head. “Naive fools. Winter did not stop Batu Khan from marching up our rivers and defeating my grandfather, my father, and my uncles in their turns. These knights know it is possible to conquer Rus; they might not have a strategist as brilliant as the Mongols, but they can follow a course laid by others.”
Hermann of Dorpat was the Prince-Bishop of Riga, a trading city that lay along the river route that the Vikings used to reach Byzantium. Livonia had been brought under Christian rule by the Livonian Brothers of the Sword and when the order was broken by a pagan army of Semigallians and Samogitians at Schaulen, Hermann had turned to the Teutonic Knights, who had only been too happy to crusade in the north. Bolstered by former members of the Livonian Order, Hermann’s army of Teutonic Knights had set their sights on Mongol-battered Novgorod.
Katabasis (The Mongoliad Cycle, Book 4) Page 5