by Peter Darman
‘The Kurs will not return this year,’ he said, ‘so calm yourself archdeacon. They are pirates and scavengers who look for easy victories. They have received a bloody nose and will be licking their wounds for a long time. Of more immediate concern is the Lithuanians.’
‘Fortunately their assault against Kokenhusen was beaten off,’ said the bishop, ‘we have Prince Vsevolod to thank for that. He at least is loyal.’
‘The garrison at Kokenhusen should be reinforced, lord bishop,’ said Volquin, ‘to deter any further Lithuanian aggression.’
The bishop smiled at the crusader commander. ‘I would ask that you send some of your knights to the castle for the next few months, Sir Frederick.’
Frederick nodded and then stroked his beard. ‘What of the campaign against the Estonians?’
‘We cannot march against the Estonians,’ Volquin answered for the bishop, ‘without first securing Riga and the outlying castles. As well as Kokenhusen we must reinforce the garrisons of Holm, Uexkull and Lennewarden. Who knows where the Lithuanians will attack next?’
‘Where indeed?’ said the bishop.
‘And do not forget Riga, lord bishop,’ said Stefan who was now quite drunk. ‘It stands naked in the face of its enemies.’
‘Hardly that,’ replied the bishop, ‘though I agree that its defences also need strengthening.’ He sighed. ‘I therefore have no option but to postpone the crusade against the Estonians until next year when hopefully our position will be much stronger.’
‘Those who came with me from Germany will be disappointed, lord bishop,’ said Frederick.
‘Those who stay might yet be able to wash their swords in heathen blood,’ remarked Volquin, causing Frederick to look at him with interest.
‘How so?’ said Frederick.
‘Once the winter sets in the swamps, rivers and lakes freeze hard and our horsemen can use them as roads, our wagons too. Those who stay will be able to test their mettle against the pagans, that I promise.’
Though it was customary for crusaders and their retinues to stay for a year, individuals were under no compulsion to stay in Livonia for twelve months, the more so if there was little prospect of campaigning.
Frederick was pleased by Volquin’s words and smiled at the grand master, though Stefan was far from reassured.
‘Frozen rivers may mean that your soldiers can march over them, Grand Master Volquin, but it also means that the Lithuanians can flood across the Dvina.’
‘The Dvina does not freeze, archdeacon,’ said Theodoric dismissively. ‘At least not enough to allow an army to walk across it.’
‘That may be so,’ continued Stefan, slurring his words, ‘but…’
Bishop Albert held up a hand to still him. ‘The reinforced garrisons along the Dvina will halt any Lithuanian invasion, archdeacon, or at least stay it long enough for us to organise a riposte. In the meantime I will send word to the Lithuanians via Prince Vsevolod requesting a meeting. I believe the prince’s wife is a native of the peoples who inhabit the lands south of the Dvina, so hopefully he has some influence among them.’
‘We should take the army across the river and teach them a lesson,’ said Frederick, sipping his wine.
‘Alas,’ replied the bishop, ‘our resources do not allow us to wage war against the Lithuanians and the Estonians at the same time.’
There was a knock at the door and one of the young monks entered carrying a silver tray, upon which was a small rolled note. The monk, a boy no more than thirteen or fourteen, went over to the bishop, bowed his head and held out the tray. Everyone’s eyes were upon Albert as he took the note and unfolded it, his brow creasing as he read the words. He sighed.
‘Word form Master Berthold at Wenden. Lembit has attacked the castle but was beaten off, praise God.’
‘That means the Estonians are only fifty miles from Riga,’ said Volquin, causing Stefan to reach for the wine jug and refill his flagon.
Caupo, who until this moment had remained silent, now spoke. ‘I must return to my lands, lord bishop. Lembit is a cruel enemy who will burn farms and rape my people and your loyal subjects. My men are needed in the north.’
Bishop Albert nodded his head. ‘Go, lord king, and may God go with you.’
Caupo rose, bowed his head to the bishop and then followed the young monk out of the room.
Stefan’s eyes widened in horror. ‘We need Caupo’s warriors here, lord bishop, to protect Riga from the heathens.’
‘They are all slaughtered, archdeacon,’ announced Frederick with pride. ‘Have you not seen the landscape decorated with their funeral pyres?’
Stefan twisted up his nose. ‘I have both seen and smelled them, Sir Frederick, but that does not mean that more will not return to avenge their dead kin.’
Volquin was tiring of the archdeacon’s mouse-like utterances. ‘The pagans will not return. They do not have an unlimited supply of warriors, archdeacon, despite your wild imaginings. The main threat lies to the north, as it always has done.’
Stefan cast Volquin a disdainful look and went back to his wine. It would soon be autumn and the crops would be gathered in, except that the crops and most of the farms around Riga had been destroyed by the Kurs, the farmers and their families having been either roasted alive in their homes or slaughtered in the fields. The people of Riga might have escaped such a fate but they now faced a winter of food shortages.
‘God is testing us,’ said the bishop, ‘and we must remain steadfast in our determination to spread His word. We therefore consolidate our position around Riga, strengthen our defences along the Dvina and seek to make peace with the Lithuanians. Then we will be free to campaign against Lembit next year.’
‘In the meantime our priority is gathering supplies to see us through the winter. Grand Master Volquin, I will leave the matter in your capable hands.’
Volquin nodded sternly and Stefan belched. The bishop had considered replacing him as administrator of the town with Theodoric, but the latter was a visionary and brave preacher not an intriguer. And for all Stefan’s faults he was an able clerk. Theodoric would have a richer reward for his services when the time came.
*****
Vetseke saw the German patrol and sank deeper behind the lichen around the base of the tree to stay concealed. Luckily for him he had a green cloak to cover his mail shirt and he had lost his helmet days ago. The soldiers were about thirty yards away: two men on horseback and four men on foot – two spearmen and two crossbowmen. Vetseke kept very still. He was well acquainted with the lethality of crusader crossbows and had no wish to follow his men into the afterlife. He had landed with the Kurs along with a hundred of his warriors, the last of the retainers from his lands around Kokenhusen, but now the Kurs were defeated and his men were dead. At first the attack against Riga had exceeded all expectations. The settlers had been taken completely by surprise and the Kurs had seized the land all round the town. But instead of establishing proper siege lines and sending out patrols they had indulged in rape, pillage and destruction, so that when the crusader army appeared they had been cut to pieces by the mail-clad crusaders on horseback. Now the Germans were scouring the countryside for survivors. To be taken back to Riga and hanged, no doubt.
He slowed his breathing as the patrol halted on the track. The forest was silent, the air still and he could hear their voices. He had knowledge of their wretched language, having received instruction in different tongues as part of his upbringing as a prince.
‘I heard something, I know I did.’
‘Can you see anything?’ asked another.
‘Only trees.’ There was laughter.
‘Be quiet,’ snapped another, presumably the commander.
Then there was silence. Vetseke thought that the thumping of his heart in his chest would give him away. He heard the tapping of a woodpecker in the distance and hoped that the patrol would think the bird was the sound its members heard. He remained frozen then heard the sound of running.
�
��There!’
He heard someone shout and raised his head a couple of inches to peer over the lichen.
He saw the crossbowmen shooting their weapons in the opposite direction to where he was hiding and then the two riders spurred their horses into the trees on the other side of the track. He thought he saw a fleeting glimpse of a figure in a white tunic fleeing from the patrol. Then he heard a scream and decided to head deeper into the forest before the patrol returned. Whoever he was who had broken cover and made a run for it had saved his life, at the expense of his own.
He kept moving for the rest of the day. He had not eaten for three days and his face carried four days’ growth. He was tired but he knew he had to keep moving, keep moving east and then south to the Dvina. If he could find a boatman prepared to take him upriver he might yet save himself. Night came and he stumbled over large stones, fell down steep slopes and tripped over tree roots. He rested by the side of an oak tree for a few minutes and closed his eyes.
He awoke to the calls of finches and larks. It was light and he was infuriated with himself for sleeping for so long. He grasped the hilt of his sword and looked around. No sign of any patrols. He listened intently. No sounds of men tramping through the forest. He felt grubby and his mouth was dry. Keep moving east.
Three hours later, his limbs aching and a nausea induced by lack of nourishment sweeping over him, he crouched down in the trees fifty yards from the black waters of the Dvina. He stayed hidden until he saw a small fishing vessel approaching the sand bank directly in front of his position. It was of the type that had plied the Dvina for centuries: a simple boat with a hull made from ash stakes and withies, over which a skin of animal hide had been stretched. It had a small mast that was secured into a tapering hole cut into an oak mast board that was lashed to the boat’s frame. The mast was supported by a similar hole in the central oak plank that also served as a seat. These riverboats had a wattle ash panel that served as a deck for standing on when getting in and out of the boat. An elderly man sat on the spars at the stern of the boat, steering the vessel.
It ran aground on the sand and the fisherman stood, stepped into the water and then hauled the vessel onto the sand bank. He then began to furl the sail. Vetseke pondered his choices as the fisherman began to prepare a small fire with which to cook a large catfish that he hauled from the boat and tossed on the sand. He could kill him and take his boat. But he had no knowledge of steering boats or navigating the Dvina. He decided to take a more civilised approach.
He broke cover and walked towards the fisherman who was using a flint to light the kindle. He sensed Vetseke’s presence immediately and jumped to his feet, spinning round with a knife in his hand. The prince spread his arms to indicate he intended no violence.
‘Greetings, friend,’ he said.
The fisherman, still holding out his knife, looked past him to the trees to ascertain whether the stranger was alone.
‘I do not know you,’ said the fisherman, ‘so how can I be your friend?’
Vetseke halted and let his arms fall by his side.
‘State your business,’ said the fisherman.
‘I wish to journey upstream,’ replied Vetseke. ‘I will pay you well if you take me where I want to go. I have gold.’
The fisherman’s eyes lit up at the mention of gold. He was obviously poor judging by his tattered leggings, bare feet and filthy, threadbare tunic and gold could transform his life, or at least make it a lot more comfortable than it was at present. The fisherman lowered his knife. His eyes narrowed as he weighed up the prince standing before him. Despite his bedraggled appearance and dark stubble on his face Vetseke still gave the appearance of one who enjoyed rank and privilege: his green cloak edged with fur, his mail shirt and his sword in its red scabbard.
‘Where do you wish to go?’ enquired the fishermen in a less aggressive tone.
Vetseke smiled. He knew he was winning him over. ‘East of Kokenhusen.’
The fisherman sniffed. ‘That is a long way from here and will take many days, especially if the wind is against us. Show me the gold.’
Vetseke was unused to being spoken to like this and for a moment thought that perhaps he should kill the miserable wretch after all. But that would still leave him with the problem of how to steer the boat. He smiled at the fisherman and untied a leather pouch that was attached to his belt. He shook a few tiny ingots into his palm and held it out to show the fisherman, whose eyes lit up at the sight of the means to change his life but a few feet away.
‘I will take you,’ he grinned at Vetseke, revealing a row of discoloured teeth.
Vetseke put the ingots back in the pouch and nodded towards the catfish.
‘I have not eaten for a while and would appreciate a meal.’
As a sign of good faith Vetseke gave the fisherman one of the ingots, which delighted him to such an extent that he started singing as he lit the kindle and started the fire to cook the fish. Vetseke unbuckled his sword belt and flopped down on the sand, leaning his back against the man’s boat. The day was warm and bright, a slight breeze blowing from the west – a good sign. The Dvina was calm, the current slow at this spot. Even though there were rapids along the length of the river the lightweight boat could be beached and hauled around them easily enough.
After they had eaten the fisherman unfurled the sail of his boat and he and Vetseke pushed it into the water and jumped aboard. The prince sat on the bench amidships while the fisherman steered the vessel. The westerly breeze held so their progress was excellent and Vetseke began to relax. Each minute placed him further away from the accursed crusaders and closer to the Russians. Though he was not of that race and had been a vassal of the Principality of Polotsk the Russians had always treated him with respect, leaving him free to rule his own, smaller Principality of Kokenhusen. So much so that when the crusaders had attacked his lands the Russians had sent him no aid. But now his castle and lands were in the hands of Bishop Albert and his Sword Brothers and his people enslaved. He had made a mistake in throwing in his lot with the Kurs, in the process losing all his men and almost his life. Now he would throw himself on the mercy of his neighbour, Prince Vsevolod, in the hope that he would give him sanctuary. He had always maintained amiable relations with Vsevolod but knew that he had close relations with the Lithuanians through his marriage to the daughter of Grand Duke Daugerutis. He had no love for the Lithuanians who had frequently raided his lands and carried off his people into slavery. But he knew and so did Vsevolod that Gerzika was the next stronghold in the crusader advance and that alone made him and the prince allies.
When the boat passed by Kokenhusen Vetseke purposely looked away towards the southern bank of the river, so aggrieved was he that the banners of the Sword Brothers flew from the towers of his own stronghold. He heard the fisherman whistling at the stern of the boat. Perhaps he would kill him after all when they reached the end of their journey. That at least would make him happier. He turned and smiled at the foul-looking man who grinned enthusiastically back at him. The gods would surely thank him for ridding the world of such an inconsequential individual.
Chapter 6
Conrad sat dead still in the saddle as the pony he was riding walked south towards the village of Chief Thalibald. Following the defeat of Lembit and his Estonians life had returned to normal at Wenden, which for him and his comrades meant a return to the training fields to continue their education in martial skills. But today they were going to assist the locals to harvest their crops. The day was hot and he sweated as he sat on the chestnut-coloured pony, the beast occasionally flicking its tail to swat away the plague of midges that had greeted the riders as they skirted a lake two miles south of Wenden. Before they had left all the boys had been given tansy leaves to rub on their arms and necks to ward off the tiny pests. So far it had worked.
They rode at a gentle pace, as it was the first time that Conrad and the others, aside from Anton, had been in the saddle. Lukas, Rudolf and Henke accompanied them, the
brother knights riding on horses and armed with swords, shields and helmets dangling from their saddles. Thalibald’s village was five miles south of Wenden, one of the many small settlements that ringed the castle. Though most of the landscape was covered with trees and lakes, around the villages the land had been cleared to create fields that grew crops, some of which were sent to Wenden to feed its occupants. It was accorded a minor miracle that Lembit did not send his warriors to raid the villages and slaughter their livestock, or burn the ripened crops in the fields, and focused entirely on assaulting the castle. Thus had the food supply for the coming winter been saved and everyone had breathed a sigh of relief. The boys did not appreciate it and Bruno and Johann were complaining to each other that it was a waste of their time to be harvesting crops.
Lukas heard their moans. ‘I will decide how your time is spent. I assume you want to eat during the winter?’
Hans nodded his head enthusiastically. ‘Yes, Brother Lukas, food is very important.’
The other boys laughed and even Lukas smiled. Hans always put his stomach above all other concerns.
‘Well, then,’ said Lukas, ‘you all go to do valuable work.’
‘Do not the villagers harvest their own crops?’ asked Conrad, his eyes fixed on the head of his pony and his hands gripping the reins tightly.
‘Of course,’ said Rudolf, ‘but we send help when we can spare it. It shows goodwill and helps build good relations with the villagers.’
‘They should do as they are told,’ sneered Anton, betraying his family’s attitude towards society’s lower orders.
‘This is not Germany,’ Rudolf reminded him. ‘We would have the loyalty of the locals, not their hatred, if we are to build a new Jerusalem in this land.’
Henke riding beside him grunted his disapproval but said nothing. Henke had never enjoyed the privileged upbringing of his friend and commander and believed the strong ruled and the weak suffered. But even he understood that men needed to eat.