by Peter Darman
‘Has no one told this foreign priest about the lord of this land?’ said Vetseke. ‘Have you all forgotten so quickly the family who ruled over you, your fathers and forefathers?’
There was silence among the villagers, many of whom had their heads cast down.
Vetseke left the bleeding monk and began to walk among them.
‘Have you forgotten the gods who bless you and this land? Mara, the Great Mother; Saule, the Sky God, and Jumis who blesses the land that gives you the food that fills the bellies of your children? Have you been so corrupted by the false god of the crusaders that you tolerate this barbarian priest among you?’
They averted their eyes as he walked back to stand before the monk once more.
‘They have all accepted baptism into the Holy Church,’ said the monk. ‘They are no longer lost lambs.’
‘They are my people!’ bellowed Vetseke. He waved forward two of his men. ‘You have a hut in this village, priest?’
‘It is a church, heathen,’ replied the monk, ‘a house of the Lord though it be a simple affair.’
Vetseke smiled maliciously. ‘Excellent. Nail him to its door.’
‘You may kill me, heathen,’ said the monk as he was bundled away, ‘but you cannot extinguish the flame of the Lord.’
The villagers started to groan and mutter among themselves.
‘Silence!’ barked Vetseke. ‘I have been away too long and can see that the fever of treachery has spread among you.’
The headman, alarmed, shuffled forward. ‘Highness, he is a gentle man who meant no harm.’
With lightning speed Vetseke pulled his sword from his scabbard and swung it right to slash the headman’s neck. He clutched at the gaping wound as blood sheeted over his hands and he collapsed to the ground, groaning faintly before he died.
‘I am not,’ said Vetseke.
The headman’s wife screamed in anguish and rushed to her husband’s body while his sons drew their swords and advanced on Vetseke. They were both hacked to pieces by the prince’s Russian guards. The villagers, horrified and terrified in equal measure, stood in silence as more screams came to their ears as nails were driven through the monk’s palms to pin him to the door of his tiny wooden church.
‘If the god of the crusaders is so powerful,’ said Vetseke, ‘then why does he allow his priests to be so easily humiliated?’
One of his men brought him a lighted torch. Vetseke walked to where the monk, slumped with his head down, was reciting a prayer, his voice weak. The villagers followed the prince, ‘encouraged’ by the spears of the Russians. Vetseke looked at the small wooden cross fixed to the thatched roof of the hut. Vetseke tossed the torch on to the roof, which was soon ablaze. The women among the crowd began to groan and sob as the flames consumed the thatch, spread to the wooden walls and began to roast the friar’s flesh. He screamed and tried to wrench his pinioned hands free, to no avail. There was a great roar and then the hut became a huge fireball as the flames consumed it and the priest.
Vetseke turned to face the villagers. ‘I go to reclaim my kingdom and call on those with courage still in their veins to march with me to rid this land of the crusaders. Those who wish to remain living on their knees can stay behind with the women.’
The villagers had been fond of the kind-hearted monk who had dipped their heads under the water to baptise them into the faith followed by Caupo, their king, but many remembered their oaths of allegiance that had been sworn to their prince. Many had thought him long dead and though they did not agree with his killing of the monk and the headman and his family, his appearance had shamed them. Those young men with no families therefore collected their axes and shields and marched after the prince, who after a week had collected five hundred impressionable young men around him and had made his base in the great forest ten miles north of Kokenhusen.
Not all the Livs in his former principality were loyal. It was soon reported to Master Griswold at the castle that Prince Vetseke had returned and was gathering an army. Those Livs still loyal to the Christian faith brought their weapons and families into the castle while Griswold sat with his deputy and the leader of the loyal Liv warriors, plus the commander of a crusader detachment, Rudolf von Jerichow, who had been sent to the castle to strengthen the garrison. Kokenhusen was the most easterly of the Sword Brother castles along the Dvina and as such was, like Wenden on the Gauja, the most vulnerable. It had been taken from Vetseke only three years before but was already assuming the features of a mighty fortress. Masons laboured on scaffolding to replace the timber walls and towers with stone bastions. Inside the great enclosure on the wedge-shaped hill were kitchens, a brewery, bakery, mill, dining hall, chapel, barracks, forge, granary, stables and hall of the master. The meeting took place in the latter, Griswold sitting at a large table where once Prince Vetseke had taken his meals.
‘I thought he was dead,’ remarked the master.
‘He is very much alive,’ said the Liv chief, a middle-aged man with wild blonde hair.
‘Who is this Vetseke?’ asked Sir Rudolf.
‘This was once his castle,’ answered Griswold. ‘And now he wants it back, it seems.’
‘His camp is but half a day’s ride from here,’ said the chief.
‘Then tomorrow we will ride out and bring this pagan pretender to heel,’ smiled Griswold. ‘I will send him to Riga in chains. The bishop can deal with him.’
‘It will be good to fight,’ said Sir Rudolf, ‘I and my knights grow tired of sitting by this river.’
‘Better than dying of the flux in Riga, my lord,’ said Griswold’s deputy.
Master Griswold smiled at Sir Rudolf. ‘Well, my lord, tomorrow we will give battle to Prince Vetseke and his rabble.’
There was a knock on the door and one of the garrison’s sergeants entered, walking up to Griswold and saluting.
‘The duty officer requests your presence on the walls, master.’
‘I am in the middle of a meeting,’ Griswold rebuked him.
‘Apologies, master,’ said the sergeant, ‘but he said that you would want to see it.’
Griswold folded his arms in irritation. ‘See what?’
‘The Lithuanians, master. They are crossing the river.’
Master Griswold rushed from the hall followed by Sir Rudolf, his deputy and the Liv chief. The alarm bell was being rung in the courtyard, sending brother knights, sergeants, crossbowmen and spearmen racing to the armoury to collect their weapons before manning the walls. The latter were still mostly timber palisades though the foundations of five stone towers had already been laid, the two largest of which would face the Dvina.
Master Griswold stood on the battlements watching boats leaving the opposite bank of the river being rowed across the wide expanse of water. Five were already in mid-stream with another half dozen leaving the far shore. They were all filled with warriors whose shields hung on the sides of the boats. From the first boat flew the banner of a black bear on all fours on a red background – the emblem of Grand Duke Daugerutis.
‘Daugerutis himself comes?’ said Griswold’s deputy.
‘Not with just ten boats,’ answered Griswold, who looked behind him at the mangonels being loaded with rocks to shoot at the boats.
Sir Rudolf’s knights and squires – a hundred men – were also lining the walls now, together with the Livs who had fled from Vetseke. Men gripped their weapons and shield straps as they waited for the enemy attack.
‘They do not appear to be in any hurry,’ remarked Sir Rudolf.
‘No, indeed,’ agreed Griswold.
In fact the approach of the boats could only be called leisurely, the oars dipping into the water in short strokes. And as the lead boat came closer those on the walls saw that a man in mail armour at the prow held not a spear or sword but a sprig of oak. He held it aloft for those on the walls to see.
‘What pagan trick is this?’ said Sir Rudolf.
‘No trick, my lord,’ said Griswold, ‘it is a signal that the
y want to talk not fight.’
Half an hour later Master Griswold and Sir Rudolf led a party of Sword Brothers and crusaders from the castle to the sandy riverbank at the foot of the castle. The Lithuanian boats had all crossed the river but their crews had shipped their oars and now sat in their vessels while their leader and the crew of his boat left their vessel and stood on the sand. One man remained on board holding the banner of Grand Duke Daugerutis that fluttered in the stiff breeze. The two groups halted a few paces from each other.
‘Prince Stecse,’ said Griswold. ‘Have you come to attempt once more to take my castle?’
Stecse flashed an impudent smile. ‘Not this time, Master Griswold. Today I am here to attend to the grand duke’s business.’
Sir Rudolf did not understand the language of the Lithuanians and so stood frowning at the pagan lord who strutted before him.
‘My apologies, lord,’ Griswold said to him, ‘this is Prince Stecse, a vassal of Grand Duke Daugerutis.’
‘Vassal?’ said Stecse in German. ‘Chief warlord is more correct, Master Griswold.’
Griswold rubbed his beard. ‘Your star rises, prince.’
Stecse looked at the stern, mail-clad knight clad in a red surcoat sporting a yellow unicorn.
‘This is Sir Rudolf von Jerichow, a noble knight from Germany,’ said Griswold, who had noticed that Stecse was holding a rolled parchment.
Stecse bowed his head at Sir Rudolf who looked with disdain on the long-haired barbarian in his midst.
‘What business brings you to the walls of my castle, prince,’ enquired Griswold, ‘and with so many men?’
Stecse looked hurt. ‘You would not expect me to present myself naked surely, Master Griswold?’
‘Apparently not,’ sighed Griswold.
‘The grand duke wishes to cross the river with his army to make war upon Novgorod,’ announced Stecse, which was greeted by laughter from the brother knights behind Griswold.
The master held up a hand to silence them. ‘Your humour has improved since our last meeting, prince.’
Stecse shook his head and held out the document. ‘I am deadly serious, and so is the grand duke.’
Griswold took the parchment and unrolled it.
‘You recognise the seal, I think,’ said Stecse as Griswold’s eyes widened with surprise and horror as he read the words.
‘This cannot be,’ said the Sword Brother.
‘A two-year truce in exchange for the right to cross the Dvina and march through Livonia, as agreed by the bishop himself,’ said Stecse triumphantly.
Sir Rudolf was horrified when Griswold told him about the document’s contents. ‘This must be a trick.’
Griswold rolled up the parchment and handed it back to Stecse. ‘When?’
‘In two weeks. The grand duke wishes to make Novgorod bleed and be back in his castle before the autumn comes. He had thought to cross at Gerzika but Kokenhusen is much closer to his objective.’
‘My soldiers will act as guides to ensure there are no depredations against the local populace.’
Stecse wore a hurt look again. ‘Depredations, master? Grand Duke Daugerutis is a great warrior not a brigand.’
‘Nevertheless, I have been charged by the bishop to protect this region so my men will ensure there are no regrettable incidents.’
‘Surely you are not going to allow this outrage?’ said Sir Rudolf.
‘I have no choice, lord,’ answered Griswold. ‘The bishop himself has authorised it.’
Stecse tapped the document in his palm. ‘Excellent! I shall convey your accommodating demeanour to the grand duke.’
He bowed his head to Griswold and Sir Frederick, turned on his heels and walked towards his boat, his men following. He stopped suddenly and returned to the master, leaning forward to whisper into his ear.
‘You think Prince Vsevolod is a friend but you are mistaken. You may look south but you have enemies on this side of the river. This I say as one warrior to another.’
When he returned to the castle Griswold sent a letter by pigeon to Riga requesting verification of the document he had seen earlier. But he knew the bishop’s seal and had no reason to doubt its authenticity. Why had the bishop agreed to such a compact? He wrestled with this question as he waited for a reply.
The next day he called a council of war to announce that he would still be leading an expedition against Prince Vetseke. But at midday, as he sat on his horse in the courtyard with Sir Rudolf at the head of their soldiers, a scout arrived with news that Vetseke had stolen a march on them and had left his camp at dawn. He was leading his army west towards Riga itself. With the imminent prospect of a Lithuanian army crossing the Dvina Master Griswold had no choice but to stand down his men and write another despatch to Riga alerting the bishop that Vetseke was approaching the town.
*****
‘Do we know how many they number?’
Bishop Albert sat with his elbows on the table as he looked at Grand Master Volquin, the Sword Brother stroking his beard thoughtfully.
‘Master Griswold’s most recent report was that Vetseke had gathered around a thousand men to his banner.’
When Griswold’s message had reached the bishop he had summoned Volquin and Stefan to his audience chamber. He had decided to keep the matter of Prince Vetseke’s uprising to himself for the moment, not least because it might spark panic in Riga, whose citizens were already in a state of terror over the recent outbreak of the bloody flux.
‘How many soldiers are fit for duty among the crusaders?’ he asked Volquin.
The grand master sighed deeply. ‘Before the pestilence nearly four thousand men were camped outside Riga’s walls ready to march against Lembit.’ He spread his arms. ‘Now barely half of that number remain, and of those hardly two-thirds are fit for duty, if that.’
‘That few?’ Stefan was horrified. ‘We must send an urgent summons to Germany for more soldiers to defend this holy place against Vetseke with what resources we can muster.’
‘You must order your castellans to gather here, at Riga,’ Stefan said to Volquin, his agitation clearly visible.
‘Calm yourself, Stefan,’ said the bishop. ‘It is unseemly to panic in the face of adversity. What would you advise, grand master?’
Volquin rose from his chair and walked over to the large vellum map of Livonia and the surrounding kingdoms mounted on the wall of the bishop’s chamber. He pulled his dagger from its sheath and used it as a pointer.
‘If we do not march against Lembit then he will be tempted to send his warriors south, if only in retaliation for our raids against him during the winter. This means that the garrisons at Segewold, Kremon and Wenden cannot be weakened.’
He looked at the bishop. ‘You still intend to offer him the hand of peace, lord bishop?’
Albert nodded. ‘I do, though not until we have defeated Vetseke. Lembit will respond more positively if we bargain from a position of strength, I think.’
Volquin nodded approvingly. He turned back to the map. ‘Along the Dvina only the garrisons of Holm and Uexkull can be called upon. The forces at Lennewarden and Kokenhusen must be left where they are to stand watch over the forces of Grand Duke Daugerutis that are to be allowed to cross over the river.’
He frowned disapprovingly at Stefan but the archdeacon dismissed his fears.
‘The duke is an ally. If he wishes to make war upon the Russians instead of us then he should be encouraged to do so.’
Volquin replaced his dagger in its sheath and returned to the table. ‘Whether the grand duke is our ally remains to be seen. But your agreement with him, archdeacon, forces our hand and loses us the garrisons of two castles in our fight against Vetseke.’
Stefan, growing in confidence, waved a hand in the air. ‘Vetseke. What is he but a landless pagan who wanders the earth like a beggar?’
‘That may be,’ said Volquin, ‘but he comes knocking on Riga’s gates with an army at his back.’
Stefan raised an eyebr
ow but said no more. Bishop Albert looked at the map and then at Volquin.
‘Very well. Summon masters Gerhard and Friedhelm to Riga. Instruct them to empty their castles and bring the garrisons here. Let us hope they arrive before Vetseke.’
The troops from Holm and Uexkull did arrive before Vetseke, as did Bishop Theodoric and the prior, dean and monks from the monastery at Dünamünde. Theodoric was eager to bring his clergy to fortify the soldiery against the pagans, though for the first few days after their arrival they treated those still suffering from the bloody flux. Bishop Albert himself went among the crusader army, imploring the soldiers to rise from their state of lethargy and march forth to fight the heathen. Some eight hundred did so, donning their mail armour and helmets, picking up their shields, spears and crossbows to muster on the fields east of their camp and about a mile from Riga’s eastern gates.
From the town itself marched all that remained of the garrison of Riga – fifty spearmen and the same number of crossbowmen – plus fifty well-armed men of Riga’s militia and a hundred Liv warriors raised from the surrounding villages. The garrisons of Holm and Uexkull numbered seventy-seven men and seventy-two men respectively, reinforced by a hundred Liv warriors supplied to each of the two castellans.
The largest contingent of the bishop’s army was the crusader element: two hundred knights, the same number of squires, two hundred lesser knights and eight hundred foot soldiers. This gave a total of just over two thousand men, including the two brother knights, five sergeants and ten mercenaries employed by the office of Grand Master Volquin, who assumed joint second-in-command of the army under the bishop’s supreme leadership. The other deputy commander was a knight from the Ruhr valley: Count Walram of Jülich, who had lost a third of his body weight to the flux but was still determined to lead the crusaders. A huge man with great hands and a round face, his cheeks were now sunken and his eyes hollow. Clearly still gravely ill, he could barely strap on his sword belt let alone pull it from his scabbard. Nevertheless, men were heartened when they saw him on his horse with his great banner of a rampant black lion on a yellow background fluttering behind him. The bishop entrusted him to lead the six hundred horsemen of the crusaders, the mounted brother knights and the sergeants of the Sword Brothers. However, the masters of Holm and Uexkull would ensure that they were employed with care when battle was joined.