by Peter Darman
The surviving nine stood before Olaf in his great oak hall, the king seated on his wooden throne flanked by his remaining sons, his ashen-faced queen beside him. The heavy doors had been closed and guards stood on either side of them and behind the thrones, more guards lining the walls, light provided by small stone lamps hanging from the ceiling, filled with fish liver oil with a lighted wick of cottonweed. The oppressive silence in the hall was broken by the sound of scurrying mice.
Olaf held the pommel of his sword between his legs and turned the great weapon on its point. He stopped and raised his eyes to the line of unshaven, filthy men standing before him.
‘So, Eric is dead.’
They nodded. He had been told how they had been ordered to leave by his son and their subsequent travails in Estonia.
‘What of Lembit?’ asked Olaf.
‘He came with his soldiers, majesty,’ answered one of them, his eyes cast down. ‘And he fought beside us against the crusaders.’
‘Is he dead as well?’
The man looked at the others. ‘I, we, do not know, majesty. We heard that…’
Olaf stood. ‘What did you hear? Answer!’
‘It was only a rumour, majesty. But we heard that Lembit wanted to withdraw as soon as we got wind that the crusader relief force had arrived. But the prince…’
Olaf could see that the man was sweating, out of fear of speaking the truth, no doubt. He sat back down and saved the poor wretch the effort.
‘But the prince wanted to fight.’
The man swallowed and shook his head. The others murmured their agreement. Olaf waved a hand at them.
‘Get out. I will decide what to do with you later.’
They trudged out and the doors were closed. Dalla jumped up and began pacing in front of her husband and sons. Her fists were clenched in anger as she looked at Olaf, though her eyes were moist with tears.
‘You should have them executed to show what happens to deserters. And you should send longships against the Estonians to exact vengeance for Eric’s death.’
Stark and Kalf were nodding enthusiastically though Sigurd was staring down at the floor and keeping his counsel.
‘It is obvious that this Lembit deserted Eric in his hour of need,’ spat Dalla, becoming more hysterical by the minute. She stopped and faced Olaf. ‘I demand justice for my dead son.’
Olaf stepped forward and embraced his wife as she buried her head in his chest and began weeping. It had all been too much for her and the desire to lash out in her grief was understandable. Olaf called for his wife’s women servants, who entered the hall minutes afterwards.
‘Take her to our longhouse,’ he commanded. He held his wife’s face in his hands and kissed her forehead. ‘I will be along shortly, after I have discussed with our sons our next course of action.’
‘I miss him,’ she said softly.
He smiled at her. ‘So do I.’ He waved the women forward and they led his wife from the hall. Aside from the scratching of the mice silence returned to the hall.
‘When do we sail against the Estonians, father?’ asked Stark, his eyes burning with the fire of vengeance.
‘We will kill all of the Rotalians,’ boasted Kalf.
Olaf sighed and caught Sigurd’s eye. He walked back to his throne and retook it.
‘Sigurd is now my heir,’ he announced, ‘and you two will speak only when asked to do so,’ he rebuked Stark and Kalf. ‘Eric died in battle, which I would have thought you would all approve of. Your mother is upset because that is what women do. They weep and wail when their sons are killed. But you are not women. You are princes and should act accordingly. Sigurd, what say you on this?’
‘We all grieve Eric’s death, father, none more so than me,’ said Sigurd. ‘But our enemies are the crusaders, not the Estonians.’
Stark laughed derisively.
Sigurd remained calm. ‘You may wish to wage war against the Estonians, Stark, but to what end? We know that Lembit honoured his pledge to bring his army to Treiden and now we know that Eric gave battle when it would have been more prudent to withdraw. We should preserve the alliance with the Estonians.’
Stark and Kalf were outraged but Olaf ordered them to be silent.
‘We have always raided the Estonian coast,’ said Olaf, ‘and also sent our longships into the Baltic to plunder shipping. We have never sought allies in the past but now circumstances are different. If the crusaders conquer Estonia then they will turn their eyes towards Oesel. Eric’s death has not changed this. We will continue our alliance with Lembit. That is my decision.’
Sigurd nodded his approval as Stark and Kalf fumed in silence.
‘What about the deserters?’ said Stark, hoping to have vengeance upon them if he was to be denied Estonian blood.
Olaf scratched his beard. ‘They will be fed and given time to heal their wounds. We will need all the warriors who can wield a sword in the coming months.’ He rose from his throne, a weary look on his face. ‘And now I must comfort your mother for the loss of her son.’
They stood as he walked from the hall, the guards opening the doors to allow him to pass. He envied Dalla. His anger at his son’s idiocy prevented him from grieving the death of Eric. He could not find it in his heart to forgive him for the loss of nearly a thousand Oeselian warriors.
*****
Lembit looked into the sky and saw a great flock of cranes above, all heading for warmer climes now it was autumn and the icy grip of winter would soon be upon the land.
‘Lucky devils,’ he muttered, drawing his cloak tighter around him.
He and his men had just been subjected to a heavy rainfall that had drenched them and their ponies. Now he was cold as the grey sky continued to wet them, this time with a tedious drizzle that added to the general gloom. The tops of the trees on the higher ground were wreathed in mist and the ground was sodden. Behind him fifty of his wolf shields rode in silence, the heads of both men and animals bowed in the face of the precipitation.
His strategy of sending raiding parties south had had the desired effect of dispersing the crusader army and thus saving Estonia from an invasion, for this year at least. Unfortunately, rather than congratulating him the leaders of the other tribes had spent the summer sulking over the loss of their men at Treiden. This seething resentment had now manifested itself in a meeting of the tribal chiefs at the great hill fort of Varbola, the stronghold of the Harrien people. Lembit had no option but to attend this ‘voluntary’ gathering, for not to do so would threaten his position as Grand Warlord, a rank accorded him by the other tribal chiefs. Though only if he gave them an endless string of victories, it appeared.
The track took them through trees stripped of their bark by elk and scratched by wild boar and bears, the forests increasing in size as they travelled further north. Lembit looked at Rusticus riding beside him, who seemed remarkably cheerful considering the adverse weather conditions. Having no feelings was obviously a great advantage in such dreariness.
‘Tell me, Rusticus,’ said Lembit, ‘do you think that because the land of the Harrien is so dismal the crusaders will not invade it, preferring regions with more agreeable climes to subjugate?’
Rusticus looked perplexed, his ugly face made more unsightly as a frown creased it. ‘I think the crusaders wish to conquer the whole world, lord.’
Lembit was taken aback by his unexpected insight. ‘I think you are right. Though the men of iron would undoubtedly rust in such a climate.’
‘They will not come in the autumn,’ said Rusticus, water dripping off his helmet. ‘The land is flooded and too muddy.’
‘But it becomes more solid in the winter,’ remarked Lembit, ‘and I am sure that they will return when the rivers and lakes are frozen.’
‘We will be ready for them next time,’ said Rusticus defiantly.
‘Let us hope that the other tribes will be standing by us,’ said Lembit glumly. He looked around at the gloomy forest through which they had been travelling
for hours. The land of the Harrien was over a hundred miles from the most northerly crusader fortress and its people no doubt thought that they were safe. His own people, the Saccalians, had once thought that and now the crusaders were on their borders.
‘Fools,’ spat Lembit.
Rusticus looked at him. ‘Lord?’
Lembit shook his head. ‘Nothing.’
It took them two more days to reach the great circular hill fort of Varbola, the stronghold of the leader of the Harrien: Alva, which meant ‘elf warrior’. Lembit found this most peculiar as he was tall and thin rather than short but he seemed to revel in the name, encouraging his people to believe that he had mythical ancestors. Whether he did was debatable. What was not was the strength of his fortress. Varbola was built on the northern side of a knoll that had the shape of an eagle’s beak, beside a huge, brooding forest. Its timber palisade had been erected on an earth rampart fronted with limestone rocks, in front of which was a dry moat that was at least thirty feet wide. The perimeter of the fort was reportedly two thousand feet in extent, wooden towers at regular intervals along its entire length. Alva boasted that Varbola was the biggest, strongest hill fort among all the Estonian tribes, a brag that Lembit believed.
Varbola had two entrances, in the south and east, Lembit and his men entering via the former. They rode through two sets of gates before entering the fort’s expansive interior, comprising dozens of huts, a great hall in the centre and stables, storerooms, armouries and smiths around the edge. Above the gates hung great banners bearing Alva’s symbol: the lynx.
Lembit walked his pony forward to where Alva and the other chiefs awaited him. He was the last to arrive. Good, it was fitting that they should stand before their supreme leader. The drizzle had finally stopped and the sun was attempting to peak from behind the grey clouds that filled the sky. The fort was filled with the smell of pony dung, cooking fires and charcoal forges.
Lembit slid off his pony as Rusticus did the same to stand beside him, his standard bearer hurrying to take his position behind them. Alva stood with a stupid grin on his face in the middle of the other chiefs. Behind them were the banner men with their standards, though the flags hung limply on their staffs in the windless fort. But Lembit knew them well enough. The boar of the Wierlanders, the Lynx of the Harrien, the bear of the Jerwen, the golden eagle of the Ungannians and the stag of the Rotalians.
Lembit spreads his arms. ‘Greetings, brothers. It has been too long since we have all been together.’
Alva stepped forward. ‘Hail Lembit, lion of Estonia.’ He embraced his ally as the other chiefs walked forward to likewise offer their respects.
The feast that night in Alva’s great hall was a magnificent affair, the benches filled with warriors of all the tribes. Lembit was placed next to his host at the top table, flanked by the other leaders as their men gorged themselves on great quantities of bean soup, pig’s head broth, roasted pork, cheese and rye bread. They drank huge amounts of beer and honey mead and as the evening wore on arguments and fights broke out among the assembled host. No weapons were drawn as only the chiefs were allowed to wear their swords in Alva’s hall, but plenty of noses were broken as men slugged it out in drunken bouts before their cheering comrades. Afterwards the antagonists invariably swore eternal friendship and embraced each other before either staggering back to their seats or passing out and being dragged outside and doused with cold water.
Lembit indulged in polite conversation with the other chiefs, finding the evening agreeable enough but knowing that the real business would begin the next morning. And so it was, as slaves cleared away the vomit, beer and food encrusted reeds from the floors and replaced them with fresh ones, that the chiefs gathered once more in the hall to discuss matters of strategy. It was a curious thing that among the drunken brawls and raucous behaviour bread was never thrown or stepped on at feasts, being considered sacred by Estonians.
Rusticus belched loudly and sat his great bulk on a bench, head in his hands at the table. He looked pale and about to vomit, his shirt drenched after he had emptied a bucket of water over his head in the courtyard in an attempt to freshen himself up.
The tall ‘elf warrior’ was already in his hall, accompanied by his stocky, barrel-chested champion who also looked the worse for wear. The other chiefs began to arrive: Edvin, leader of the Wierlanders, round faced with a mop of curly blonde hair; Jaak of the Jerwen, a man with a narrow face and untrusting eyes; and the hard, uncompromising Kalju of the Ungannians. It meant ‘rock’ and was most apt. Finally there was Nigul, chief of the Rotalians, a thoughtful individual who looked more like a holy man with his thinning white hair and wild blue eyes.
The doors of the hall had been open but the room still stank of sweat, vomit and beer from the previous evening. Slaves cleared away the tables and benches, stacking them against the walls and then bringing high-backed chairs that Alva ordered be arranged in a circle near the fire burning in the central stone hearth, smoke drifting up to the vent in the roof.
The chiefs sat facing each other with their subordinates behind them. Slaves finished scattering fresh reeds on the floor and then disappeared to the kitchens to fetch refreshments. In the morning it was customary for the leftovers from the night before to be heated up, supplemented by fresh bread and Baltic herring on the side. Lembit refused anything to eat but did take a cup of warm milk offered him. He glanced behind him and saw Rusticus heartily tucking in to a platter heaped with food. The man had the constitution of an ox.
Lembit decided to cut to the chase. ‘My friends, I assume you requested this gathering because you have something to say concerning our war with the crusaders.’
Alva smiled politely. ‘Some of us believe that, following the reverse at Treiden, it might be better to seek an accommodation with the crusaders rather than continuing hostilities.’
It was amazing how a single reverse could lead to an outbreak of defeatism. Were these the great warlords of Estonia? Lembit nodded gravely. ‘It is, of course, the prerogative of each tribe to look after its own interests, and no chief would put the interests of the Estonian race above those of his own people. However, if we do not stand together then we shall surely fall one by one.’
‘Not if we have peace with the crusaders,’ said Edvin.
Lembit smiled at him. ‘The crusaders wish to subjugate the whole of Estonia, to turn it into another Livonia where their religion spreads over the land like a plague. They have been ordered to do this by their great leader.’
‘You mean the Bishop of Riga?’ said Jaak.
‘No,’ answered Lembit. ‘Their supreme leader is called a pope and he lives in another land. It is he who sends ships filled with crusaders to our land who burn our villages and kill and enslave our people. He views us as heathens to be either wiped out or enslaved.’
‘You do not offer much hope,’ remarked Jaak, his dark eyes narrowing on Lembit.
‘There is hope in unity,’ said Lembit.
‘Under your leadership,’ scowled Kalju.
Lembit feigned a hurt expression. ‘If you all wish to elect another grand warlord then I will readily accept your decision.’
‘We wish for peace, Lembit,’ said Nigul.
‘Of course you do, we all do,’ replied Lembit. ‘But I believe that we can achieve peace through strength not negotiation. If we make the crusaders fight for every inch of ground they wish to take, if we raid their lands just as they raid ours, and if we enlist allies just as they bring foreigners to our lands, then I believe that eventually they will have no choice but to accept that they will never master us.’
‘By allies you mean the Oeselians,’ said Alva.
Lembit nodded. ‘I do.’
‘Many among my people are unhappy that we fight beside Olaf,’ said Alva.
Lembit sighed. Each Estonian village had an elder who sat on a council of elders formed when villages banded together into districts, who elected one of their number to sit on a provincial council made up of s
everal districts. When a chief wanted to raise an army all he had to do was to alert his provincial councils, which would muster the men of their districts. However, this chain of councils could also be a never-ending source of complaints and grumbling, especially if a chief was prepared to listen to them.
‘What of your people, Nigul?’ asked Lembit. ‘Are they unhappy that their villages are no longer raided by the Oeselians, or that the spectre of longships along their shores no longer presages death and destruction?’
‘They are pleased that the sea no longer brings death,’ agreed Nigul.
‘We cannot have endless war,’ pleaded Edvin.
‘My people are first to feel the wrath of the crusaders,’ added Kalju. ‘Ungannia is on their frontier.’
Lembit stood and spread his arms. ‘As is Saccalia. It is my people who are the first to experience the fire and sword of the crusaders. And yet we do not flinch from the struggle. If my kingdom falls then your people will be next, Jaak.’ He pointed at Kalju. ‘If Saccalia falls then you will have the crusaders on your southern and western borders. Do you want that, Kalju?’
The Ungannian chief frowned. ‘What do you want, Lembit?’
Lembit regained his chair. ‘Another year. Give me another year and if the crusaders have not been halted then I will stand aside and another can become grand warlord.’
The fire crackled and spat as the chiefs pondered his offer. They all desired peace but knew that Lembit was right. The Saccalians were the largest and most warlike among the Estonian people. If they were conquered then the crusaders would undoubtedly be emboldened to continue their expansion north. But if they could be stopped…
‘Another year, I agree,’ said Alva.
‘As do I,’ added Edvin.
Jaak was unhappy but nodded his assent.
‘You have your year,’ said Kalju.
‘And the peace with the Oeselians will hold?’ asked Nigul.