by Peter Darman
‘Now that the priest has finished assaulting our ears,’ said Arturus, ‘perhaps I may explain why I asked for this meeting.’
Vsevolod leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, his hands brought together.
‘How long has it been now since Grand Duke Daugerutis crossed the Dvina to wage war against the Christians?’ asked Arturus.
‘Nine years,’ answered Butantas.
‘You would know, my lord,’ said Arturus, ‘for you were one who fought alongside the grand duke. Well, it is time that Lithuania had a new grand duke.’
‘That is a matter for the gods to decide,’ said the priest.
Arturus ignored him. ‘I propose that I become the grand duke.’
Kitenis laughed. ‘Grand dukes are chosen from among the dukes who rule their kingdoms, Arturus, after which the selected candidate is ratified by the Kriviu Krivaitis.’
‘What Duke Kitenis says is true,’ said Butantas.
‘Why would we choose you, you who has waged war against Semgallia and Samogitia?’ asked Viesthard.
‘My apologies,’ said Arturus, ‘I did not make myself plain. I do not ask to be made grand duke. I demand it. I have united the Kurs and see no reason why I cannot do the same with all the Lithuanian peoples. Only in unity can we hope to defeat the Christian filth north of the Dvina.’
‘By uniting the Kurs you mean defeating and killing Duke Gedvilas,’ remarked Kitenis. ‘You threaten us with the same fate should we oppose you?’
‘I do not need to threaten you, Kitenis,’ said Arturus calmly. ‘I have stated my demand. It is up to you how to respond to it.’
‘Semgallia renounces it,’ stated Viesthard flatly.
‘As does Aukstaitija,’ added Kitenis.
Arturus looked at Vsevolod. ‘And what about you, Russian, do you speak for the Nalsen and Selonians or do you have to consult your wife before you decide the fate of those Lithuanians that live under your heel?’
There were gasps around the table and the priest marched forward to harangue Arturus.
‘You are a murderer of priests, a blasphemer who defiles this meeting with his presence. I curse you, I…’
His speech was cut short by the blade of a small knife that Arturus whipped out and slashed across his throat in a blur of a movement. The priest made a gurgling sound as a great fountain of blood shot out from his neck onto the table. His eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed forward, smashing his nose on the edge of the table before falling to the floor, dead. The dukes jumped up and shouted angrily at Arturus, who leaned back in his chair and brought his hands together.
‘If you wish to kill me then do it now,’ he said to them all. ‘Because this is the last chance you will get.’
Lamekins’ hand went to his sword as Mindaugas and Ykintas drew their blades and walked forward. Lamekins met their stares with a look that dared them to fight him.
‘Ykintas,’ shouted Butantas, ‘put that weapon away.’
‘And that includes you, Mindaugas,’ said Vsevolod, alarmed that he would be caught up in any violence.
Arturus stood, staring contemptuously at Vsevolod. ‘This meeting is over. Any of you, apart from the Russian, who wishes to change his mind has a month to prostrate themselves before me at my stronghold at Talsi. I piss on all of you.’
He walked to the tent flaps, untied them and walked outside with Lamekins, hand still on the pommel of his sword, covering his lord. After the Kurs had ridden from the campsite Aras sat with Vsevolod and Mindaugas in Vsevolod’s great pavilion. Mindaugas was seething.
‘We have hundreds of horsemen in this camp. We should hunt Arturus down and kill him for his blasphemy.’
‘It will take more than a few hundred horsemen to kill Arturus,’ said Aras. ‘If we were deep in our own land I would be apt to agree with you.’
He walked over to the pavilion’s open entrance and peered west.
‘But that is the land of the Kurs and not many who enter return.’
‘What now?’ was all that Vsevolod could utter.
‘Now, my lord,’ answered Aras cheerfully, ‘we return home.’
Mindaugas, brimming with youthful enthusiasm and naivety, was also cheerful.
‘Arturus has declared war on all of Lithuania. He will be defeated and dead by the end of summer.’
*****
Conrad drew the cloak around his shoulders. The heat of summer had gone now and the deciduous trees were turning red and gold as their leaves died and gently drifted to the ground. Today was unusual in that there was a brisk northerly wind; usually the autumns at Wenden were long and pleasant. Soon the farmers in the surrounding villages and the settlement next to the castle would be harvesting their crops. And that included the fields around Thalibald’s old village, now rebuilt, expanded and home to those Saccalians he had escorted back from Lehola. Those that had not been killed along the way, that is. He clenched his fists but then shook his head. He was angry with himself for thinking harsh thoughts in this place of peace and calm.
The cemetery at Wenden was a beautiful place, if such a term can be applied to a place of graves and dead bodies. But the gardeners kept the grass and paths well tended and the low white stone wall that surrounded it was always in pristine condition. He looked up at the castle’s great round southeast tower that watched over the cemetery, the huge standard bearing the insignia of the Sword Brothers being gently ruffled by the wind. Two flags bearing the same design fluttered from the mighty gatehouse and another banner hung from the southwest tower. No one would be in any doubt as to who occupied Wenden Castle. The shouts and encouragement of Brother Lukas on the training field reached his ears and he smiled. He remembered his time as a novice; it seemed like yesterday.
He looked down at the grave of his wife and child and read the inscription on the gravestone, just as he had done a hundred times before. He saw the fresh flowers before him and said a silent prayer to keep safe Ilona who always ensured a tribute was on their grave. And he asked God to protect Kaja too, who likewise paid her respects to his wife and son even though she had never known them. He looked at the graves of his friends Bruno and Johann, and then at the other brother knights who had been laid to rest here. With each year that passed more of his comrades were buried here and he knew that he would one day be lying with his family. The thought comforted him.
He became aware of a presence behind him and turned to see Master Rudolf.
‘I hope I am not disturbing you, Conrad.’
‘No, master.
He walked up to stand beside him and looked at the grave.
‘Ilona was very fond of Daina. I think it comforts her to attend to her grave when you are away.’
‘It comforts me too, master.’
‘The Saccalians seems to have settled into Thalibald’s village, Conrad. The elders from the other villages tell me that it is going to be a good harvest this year.’
‘Praise God.’
He glanced at Conrad. ‘It seems but a short while ago when we were working in the fields outside Thalibald’s village helping his people gather in the crops. You were a fresh-faced novice then. How the years pass.’
Conrad looked at the graves of Bruno and Johann. ‘Many have fallen since that time.’
‘And more will follow, I fear. But not this year, Conrad. This year the Oeselians and those Estonians that have not joined your banner are locked in conflict with the Danes, and as you know Sir Richard stands firm at Lehola.’
‘We should mount a campaign in the winter against Ungannia, master,’ said Conrad.
‘You feel that Kristjan has betrayed you, Conrad?’
He looked at Rudolf. ‘No, master. But he has allied himself with the Russians and that presents a direct threat to our order and Livonia.’
‘That will be a matter for the bishop to address. But for the moment I have a more immediate task for you.’
Conrad looked at him expectantly. ‘Yes, master, of course.’
‘I w
ant you to deliver the document that King Valdemar signed to the office of Grand Master Volquin at Riga.’
Conrad’s heart sank. ‘Riga, master?’
‘Yes. Normally I would send it to the bishop’s palace but Bishop Albert has taken ship to Germany to raise recruits for next year’s campaign and I don’t trust that toad Archdeacon Stefan.’
Conrad could barely hide his disappointment. ‘Yes, master.’
Rudolf heard the indifference in his voice.
‘You do not seem pleased by my decision.’
Conrad shrugged. ‘I go where you command, master.
Rudolf laughed. ‘I do not command you, Conrad. I ask. You seem to forget that you are Marshal of Estonia and a very famous man in Livonia.’
Now it was Conrad’s turn to laugh. ‘I am?’
‘Of course. The man who saved the bishop’s life, killed Lembit, raised an army of pagans that defeated the Cumans and Russians and defied the most powerful king in northern Europe before the gates of Reval. And let’s not forget you subsequently humbled said king on the island of Oesel. Your name is well known not only in these parts but throughout Germany as well. An important document should be in the safe keeping of such a famous warrior during its transportation.’
‘I think it was you who humbled King Valdemar on Oesel, master.’
Rudolf smiled, a glint in his eye. ‘The point is I want you to go to Riga to deliver the document. Take Anton and Hans along with you.’
The next day the three friends set out, Conrad with the document in a leather tube tucked into a saddlebag. Hans and Anton were delighted to be on a new adventure, though Conrad was far from happy, barely speaking as they trotted along the track that followed the course of the Gauja. A packhorse that Anton led carried their food and tent for the journey that would take two days.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked Hans after they had travelled an hour in silence.
‘He got out of the wrong side of the coffin this morning,’ quipped Anton.
Hans laughed but Conrad shook his head.
‘I have been reduced to an errand boy,’ he complained.
‘Next year you will be doing what makes you happy. Killing people, so don’t worry,’ said Hans.
‘I do not take pleasure in killing,’ insisted Conrad.
‘I do,’ stated Anton.
‘So do I,’ said Hans, ‘as does Conrad. He just convinces himself that he doesn’t.’
But as they got nearer to Riga their mood brightened with the prospect of seeing the city again. It had been twelve years since they had first landed there after their journey from Lübeck and they were curious to see if the place had changed. And as they neared the city they realised that the countryside around it certainly had. Livonia was covered in forests, lakes and rivers but as they rode south on the morning of the third day, being only around fifteen miles north of Riga, they noticed that areas of woodland had been cleared to make way for villages.
The settlements were small, perhaps a dozen huts in addition to a wooden church in the centre and a few barns and sheds around it. The buildings had been made of wood from the surrounding forests with roofs made of thatch. Surrounding the settlements were fields, grazing land and a mill used to crush crops. The mill could either be a windmill or, more likely because of the abundance of rivers and streams in Livonia, sited near a water source. And so it was that on an overcast autumn day the three brother knights rode into a village populated by German settlers to witness a most distressing scene.
Just outside the simple wooden church, which in truth was nothing more than a square barn with a wooden cross mounted on the roof, a crowd of villagers was gathered in front of their priest. Conrad recognised him instantly as a member of the Cistercian Order in his undyed habit, tonsured head and leather shoes. A large wooden crucifix hung around his neck, much like the one that the mad Abbot Hylas wore at Wenden. As the riders approached Conrad could see a young woman being held between two male villagers, her head cast down. She was dressed in a dirty long skirt that was ripped in several places. She was also bare foot.
‘You have been found guilty of witchcraft, girl,’ announced the priest loudly to murmurs of agreement from the villagers. ‘Have you anything to say before sentence is pronounced?’
The girl looked up, tears and pleading in her eyes. ‘No understand,’ she muttered in Liv.
Conrad brought his horse to a halt a few paces from the church, the priest turning away from the girl when several of the villagers began pointing at the three brother knights.
‘She does not understand what you are saying’ Conrad told the priest.
The churchman, annoyed that his work had been interrupted, pointed at the girl.
‘She understands well enough.’
One of the men holding the girl, an ugly wretch with a sadistic leer on his face, suddenly grabbed her long hair, twisted his hand and yanked her head back.
‘Look at Father Arnulf, witch.’
‘Let her go,’ said Conrad calmly.
Hans sighed. ‘We don’t have time for this, Conrad.’
‘It’s not our business,’ added Anton.
Conrad passed his reins to Hans and dismounted.
‘We protect the weak and helpless, remember.’
He walked over to the priest. ‘What crime do you accuse this girl of?’
‘I told you, soldier. She is a witch. Now be on your way and leave the matters of God to those who understand His word.’
In a flash Conrad pulled his dagger with his right hand, spun round and drove its pommel into the nose of the man who was holding the girl’s hair, breaking it.
‘And I told you to let her go.’
The villagers began cursing Conrad as he turned the dagger in his hand and pointed it at the other man.
‘Let her go.’
The man with the broken nose was lying on the ground clutching his wounded face, groaning as pain shot through his skull.
‘You have no right to interfere in church business, heretic,’ shouted the priest. He pointed at Conrad and looked at the villagers.
‘Seize him.’
They suddenly stopped shouting and looked at each other nervously, wondering what to do and hoping that someone would try to restrain the tall, strapping knight standing before them. No one did.
‘I do not fear you,’ said Father Arnulf defiantly.
‘I do not want you to fear me, father,’ replied Conrad, ‘I just want an explanation as to why you accuse this girl of witchcraft.’
The man on the other side of her released his grip and retreated as the girl looked at Conrad. She had the fair hair and blue eyes of her race in stark contrast to the more swarthy features of the German settlers around her. Conrad asked her what she had done to provoke them so and she replied that she lived in a nearby Liv village but had often visited this settlement to administer cures.
‘I make ointments and potions from herbs and flowers,’ she said in her own language.
‘You are a healer?’ said Conrad.
She nodded. ‘I cured a baby of a fever, that is all. Their headman said that I was a servant of the devil but I do not know him.’
Hans began munching on an apple as Conrad turned back to the priest.
‘She saves a child’s life and you accuse her of witchcraft?’
The man glared at Conrad. ‘The child was dying and had been given the last rights. And then suddenly it lived. It was the devil’s work.’
The villagers voiced their support for the priest’s opinion.
‘In addition,’ said Father Arnulf loudly, ‘we found proof that she is a servant of the Devil. She has a witch’s mark.’
A gasp of horror came from the villagers. Father Arnulf held up his hands.
‘A mole on her inner thigh,’ he announced.
Conrad looked at him with disgust. ‘I warrant you had fun searching for that.’
‘You mock the Lord’s work?’ the priest shot back.
‘I mock
your pious sanctity,’ replied Conrad. Behind him Anton looked at Hans, shook his head and rolled his eyes. Hans continued munching on his apple.
‘It is written in Exodus,’ the priest suddenly shouted, ‘thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’
‘Burn her, burn her’ shouted the villagers and the girl began to sob. He walked forward, placed an arm around her shoulder and led her away.
‘No one is burning anyone today,’ he said firmly.
The men in the crowd wanted to stop him but they saw his powerful frame, the dagger now back in its sheath on his hip, the sword on the other side and the axe tucked into the back of his belt. They insulted him and shook their fists but did not move.
‘I will take her back to her village,’ Conrad announced. ‘You had better pray that the chief does not send a war party to exact vengeance.’
‘This is our land,’ shouted a villager.
‘There is no room for pagans in Livonia,’ cried another.
‘Conrad,’ said Hans, tossing away the apple core, ‘have you heard of the phrase “biting off more than you can chew” by any chance?’
Conrad led the girl towards his horse. ‘Of course.’
Hans pointed ahead. ‘Well you are about to learn if there’s any truth in it.’
Conrad looked to where he was pointing and saw at least half a dozen riders approaching, men in mail and red surcoats bearing the cross keys insignia of Riga. Father Arnulf suddenly ran towards the horsemen, waving his arms in the air as he did so.
‘Save us, good Christian knights. Deliver us from pagans and heretics. They have saved a witch from justice.’
The horsemen spurred their horses forward into the village, passing the priest to halt next to the villagers, who began pointing at Conrad.
‘He saved the witch and threatened Father Arnulf. Kill him.’
The girl began shaking as two of the riders, both wearing kettle helmets, dismounted and marched towards Conrad. Hans and Anton left their saddles and drew their swords. The commander of the Rigan horsemen, a square-faced fellow with an open-faced helmet, pointed at Conrad.