Castellan

by Peter Darman

‘The Sword Brothers have no jurisdiction here. Hand her over and be on your way.’

  ‘I cannot do that,’ replied Conrad.

  The commander nodded to the two sergeants as the other four horsemen arrived behind him. Conrad noticed that one was dressed in a red mantle and had a mitre on his head but he had other things to worry about as the sergeants drew their swords and came at him. They shifted their shields to cover their torsos as Conrad jumped forward, pulled his sword, ducked to the left, thrust the blade forward and then whipped it back to slice the hamstring of the sergeant on the right of the pair. Both wore mail hauberks but their legs were unprotected and thus an easy target. The man gave a sharp yelp and went down on one knee, his face contorted in pain.

  The second sergeant spun to his right to face Conrad who pulled the shield off his back and thrust his left forearm through the straps on its inside. The commander shouted at his other men to dismount as Hans and Anton sprang forward to assist their friend.

  The second sergeant attempted a vertical cut to Conrad’s head but the brother knight jumped back so the blow sliced only air. He then sprang forward and used his shield like a battering ram to knock the sergeant off his feet. The sergeant stumbled rearwards and fell on his back, Conrad ramming his left foot down onto his groin. The man emitted a high-pitched scream as a voice thundered a command.

  ‘Enough!’

  Conrad kept pressing his foot into the man’s groin as the individual in the red mantle and mitre jumped from his horse and strode over to him. He was perhaps in his late fifties or early sixties, of solid build with a round face. With his mitre he was well over six foot and appeared to have a solid frame. He pointed at the man groaning at Conrad’s feet.

  ‘Release him.’

  Conrad did not recognise the individual, though the gold pectoral cross that dangled from a gold chain around his neck indicated that he was a man of some importance in the Holy Church. The other soldiers had now dismounted and drawn their swords but Hans and Anton had likewise unsheathed their blades and were standing beside their friend.

  The churchman looked at them and then at the soldiers of the Riga garrison.

  ‘All of you will place your swords back in their scabbards or will face severe punishment. Do not think that because my brother Albert is in Germany I will allow Livonia to become a domain of bandits.’

  Conrad removed his foot from the man’s genitals. ‘You are the brother of the Bishop Albert?’

  ‘I am Bishop Hermann of Buxhoeveden, formerly of Germany but now a resident of Livonia.’

  He looked at his guards who slid their swords back in their scabbards. Hans and Anton did the same, leaving Conrad the only one with a weapon in his hand.

  ‘And now,’ said Hermann, ‘as I have introduced myself to you, brother knight, perhaps you would afford me the same courtesy. Unless you propose to martyr me.’

  ‘Lord bishop?’ said Conrad, who suddenly remembered he had a blade in his hand. He hastily put it back in its scabbard. ‘I am Brother Conrad of the garrison of Wenden and Marshal of Estonia and I apologise for my ill manners. These are my friends and fellow members of my order: Brother Hans and Brother Anton.’

  They both bowed their heads to Hermann.

  ‘So you are Conrad Wolff,’ said the bishop. ‘My brother has talked much of you, of how you saved his life and killed the pagan leader Lembit. And here you are, standing before me.’

  The officer of the open helmet stormed over to the bishop.

  ‘The Sword Brothers should be arrested, sir. They have wounded two of my men.’

  Conrad looked at the soldier hobbling back to his horse with a sliced hamstring and the other being helped to his feet.

  ‘They will live.’

  The officer glared at him. ‘You have shown disrespect to the soldiers of the garrison of Riga, for which you will be punished.’

  Conrad laughed. ‘Are they soldiers? I thought they were overdressed bodyguards of Archdeacon Stefan, fit only for frightening children or raping young maidens.’

  The officer went to draw his sword again.

  ‘Think carefully,’ Conrad warned him. ‘Draw that sword and only one of us will be alive afterwards.’

  The bishop, far from intervening, was watching the unfolding drama with interest. On one side was the angry officer in a fine surcoat but who was already running to fat, on the other the sturdy killing machine that was Conrad Wolff. He did not intervene because he was a good judge of men and knew that the officer treasured his own life above that of the reputation of the garrison of Riga, such as it was. He fumed for a few seconds, gave Conrad a hateful look and then stormed off to assist his man with the sore testicles.

  ‘Take your men back to the city,’ the bishop called after him. ‘I will make my own way there.’

  ‘It is not safe for you to ride alone, lord bishop,’ the officer replied.

  ‘We are travelling to Riga, lord bishop,’ said Conrad, ‘and would be honoured to be your escort.’

  The bishop clapped his hands together. ‘The Lord provides. Excellent.’

  The officer sniffed and assisted his soldiers into the saddle, then gave the order for the others to mount up. With a curt salute he bid farewell to the bishop and led his men away from the village.

  ‘So,’ said Hermann, looking at the Liv girl, ‘what is happening here?’

  ‘A familiar tale, lord bishop,’ Conrad told him. ‘A lecherous priest and a pretty young girl who found his advances repugnant.’

  Hermann walked over to Father Arnulf and extended his right hand, on which was his bishop’s ring with its large amethyst. Father Arnulf fell to his knees and kissed the stone, his parishioners also kneeling.

  ‘Welcome, lord bishop,’ said Father Arnulf.

  ‘I will be taking the girl,’ stated Hermann.

  The priest looked up. ‘She is a witch, lord bishop, and should be burnt for her sins.’

  ‘That will be decided by a church court in Riga,’ said Hermann sharply, ‘it is not a matter for a lowly priest to decide.’

  The bishop looked at the villagers. ‘Go back to your work, all of you. Do you not know that the devil makes work for idle hands?’

  The villagers sheepishly rose to their feet and shuffled away, some muttering as they did so. Conrad placed his cloak around the girl’s shoulders as Hans and Anton regained their saddles. Father Arnulf made to rise.

  ‘Did I tell you to get off your knees?’ asked Hermann.

  ‘No, lord bishop,’ answered the priest, who resumed his position. ‘Forgive me.’

  ‘You have no authority to execute people, Father Arnulf,’ stated the bishop, who saw the bruises on the girl’s face, ‘or torture them. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, lord bishop,’ came the mumbled reply.

  ‘Well,’ smiled Hermann, ‘let us be on our way, Conrad.’

  He walked back to his horse and regained his saddle. Conrad helped the girl onto his horse so she could sit behind him. She wrapped her arms around his waist and clung on for dear life, not saying a word as they trotted from the village. Behind them Father Arnulf stood up and dusted himself down.

  The bishop riding beside Conrad took a cloth from his sleeve and carefully wiped the amethyst.

  ‘Do you know why amethyst is chosen to be the stone of a bishop’s ring, Conrad?’

  ‘No, lord bishop.’

  ‘It is because the purplish colour is supposed to prevent drunkenness and bring a sense of peace and devotion. The gem’s colour resembles wine, you see, and is a reminder not to succumb to the temptation of drink. It also reminds the wearer not to become drunk with power but to focus on more spiritual matters.’

  ‘Most interesting, lord bishop,’ said Conrad, in truth not at all interested.

  Hermann noted the indifference in his voice. ‘Something troubles you?’

  ‘Forgive me, lord bishop, but is this girl, having been saved from being burnt at the stake, now going to be taken to Riga where she will most likely suffer
a similar death?’

  Hermann smiled. ‘Of course not. I said that to appease Father Arnulf, deluded fool that he is. We will take her to her home, if she has one.’

  A relieved Conrad conveyed this happy news to the Liv who gave him a broad smile. They rode to the outskirts of her village that was around three miles from the Christian settlement. He told her that she should avoid it in future and warn the other residents of the settlement to do likewise. They then resumed their journey to Riga.

  ‘Where is your army, Conrad,’ enquired the bishop, ‘your Army of the Wolf?’

  ‘Part is at Wenden,’ answered Conrad, ‘the greater part is in Rotalia.’

  Hermann, fascinated, asked him questions concerning Wenden, the Oeselians, Danes and affairs in Ungannia.

  ‘So you believe this Kristjan will prove an implacable enemy?’ asked Hermann.

  ‘I met him only once, lord bishop,’ said Conrad. ‘He has an unforgiving nature. Apparently he believes that the Sword Brothers killed his parents and has sworn revenge. He also has the support of the Russians, which means that Saccalia will be very vulnerable, as will be Livonia.’

  ‘What course would you advise, lord marshal?’

  Conrad thought for a moment. ‘If Kristjan cannot be reasoned with he will have to be defeated and Ungannia conquered. After that the rest of Estonia will have to be subdued, both to rid it of the Oeselians and crush the power of the Danes, which means capturing Reval.’

  Hermann’s eyes widened. ‘The list of the enemies of Livonia grows long.’

  ‘That is why your brother created the Sword Brothers, lord bishop.’

  Hermann looked at him and his friends riding behind them, hard men, heavily armed and attired in mail.

  ‘There are some that say that the Sword Brothers are too powerful, that they strive to make Livonia their own kingdom rather than my brother’s.’

  ‘I thought it was God’s kingdom,’ replied Conrad, then realising who he was talking to. ‘My apologies, lord bishop, I meant no respect.’

  ‘You are right, Conrad. It is God’s kingdom.’

  ‘I must also apologise for insulting your son, lord bishop,’ said Conrad.

  ‘My son?’

  ‘Archdeacon Stefan. I had no idea that he was your son.’

  A look of horror spread across Hermann’s face.

  ‘He is my sister’s son, not mine, thank the Lord. So your apology is unnecessary.’

  ‘He will not take kindly to his soldiers being assaulted, Conrad,’ said Hans.

  ‘They are not his soldiers,’ replied Conrad irritably, ‘they are Bishop Albert’s.’

  ‘Perhaps you could tell my nephew that,’ suggested the bishop.

  They arrived at Riga two hours later after a pleasant ride through sweet-smelling meadows and woods teeming with game and birds. The air was fresh, the weather warm and the company most agreeable and Conrad thought Livonia was truly blessed. Until he entered Riga.

  An imposing stone wall now surrounded the city, but more impressive were the castle and the cathedral, the latter more massive and magnificent than the former and both dominating the skyline. It had been eleven years since Bishop Albert had laid the foundation stone of the cathedral and, notwithstanding the fire that had severely damaged the structure three years later it had become a powerful statement of the might of the Holy Church in the Baltic. It had been constructed of bricks, stone blocks being used only in the outer corners of the building. The architects had constructed it in the style of ancient Rome so that it displayed a strong sense of proportion and order. It was also solid, like a rock to withstand the assault of paganism, and like the buildings found in ancient Rome its design included numerous rounded arches and vaults. It literally dwarfed the other wooden churches in Riga.

  As they drew nearer to one of the gatehouses Conrad’s nose was assaulted first by the stench of dung, animal and human, the result of night soil men who were tipping barrels of excrement into the streams that ran to the Dvina. Though the likelihood that the filth would be carried to the great river was minimal. Pigs rooted around in the dung, lifting their muck-covered snouts up to peer with their tiny eyes at the four riders as they passed them to walk their horses into the city.

  Now the quarantine had been lifted the road was full of hawkers, carts, Livs and boys with dirty faces and even dirtier clothes running between the horses and carts to beg. The bishop ignored them and Conrad waved them away but Hans threatened to cut off the light-fingered hands of one who tried to interfere with the load carried on the packhorse. Above them spearmen in the livery of the garrison leaned against the battlements, unconcerned by the bustle below.

  Fortunately it had not rained earlier so the dirt road was not too badly churned up as they walked their horses passed by town houses of merchants and abbots, servants shovelling animal dung that had been deposited in front of their masters’ houses. Conrad was amazed by the noise, the voices of hundreds of people arguing, bartering, chatting and laughing. The raucous revelry of alehouses spilled into the streets to compete with the haranguing of white-robed friars threatening hell and damnation on the drunkards. At Wenden everything was ordered, calm and quiet, aside from when it was at war. But here everything was chaotic and loud. Outside the castle Bishop Hermann said his goodbyes.

  ‘I hope to see you all again,’ he said to the three friends. ‘A word of caution, Conrad: I would not stay too long in Riga. My nephew has a malicious aspect to his character and has probably already learned of the incident at the village.’

  ‘I will sleep with one eye open, lord bishop,’ said Conrad.

  Hermann raised his hand, turned his horse and headed towards the bishop’s palace just a short distance away.

  ‘A curious day,’ opined Anton. ‘We have made a friend of the bishop’s brother and an enemy of his nephew.’

  ‘I’m quaking in my boots,’ said Conrad, spurring his horse through the gates of the castle.

  Grand Master Volquin was chuckling in his boots when Conrad presented him with the document that had been signed by King Valdemar. He showed it to Master Godfrey, the commander of Holm Castle, one of the order’s castles a short distance east of Riga.

  ‘I wish I had been on Oesel to see that king grovel to the Sword Brothers.’

  Volquin poured wine for Conrad and his two friends into silver flagons.

  ‘So Conrad,’ said the grand master, ‘do you think that Valdemar will return next year with an army at his back to teach us a lesson?’

  Conrad toasted Volquin and Godfrey. ‘I fear so, grand master.’

  ‘He’s right,’ agreed Godfrey.

  Volquin nodded thoughtfully. ‘So what strategy would you recommend, Marshal of Estonia?’

  Conrad saw Hans drain his flagon. ‘Seize Reval, grand master. Without it the Danes will have no base from which to launch a campaign against us.’

  Godfrey emptied his flagon, refilled Hans’ and then his own. He looked out of the window of Volquin’s office in the castle.

  ‘We should muster the order, join with Conrad’s bastard heathens and take Reval before the winter.’

  ‘You would like that, wouldn’t you, Godfrey,’ remarked Volquin. ‘But may I remind you that we are the servants of Bishop Albert not a band of mercenaries. And we now have Ungannia to worry about.’

  Godfrey drained his flagon and belched. ‘You think Sir Richard will be able to see out the winter, Conrad?’

  ‘Yes, master,’ replied Conrad. ‘Lehola will defy Kristjan, of that I have no doubt.’

  ‘You see,’ Godfrey said to Volquin. ‘We have a God-given opportunity to take Reval and present it as a gift to the bishop when he returns from Germany.’

  Volquin smiled but shook his head. ‘Saving Valdemar’s arse is one thing, even if Rudolf did rub his nose in the manure, but declaring war on him is quite another. However, if he does return with an army next year then I will certainly consider your proposal, Conrad.’

  Volquin sighed. ‘Besides, the g
arrison of Riga is in no state to support our order in any ventures this year. The pox killed a quarter of it, another quarter deserted and I doubt we could raise more than a couple of hundred militiamen from the city and surrounding villages.’

  ‘The pox ravaged Riga, grand master?’ asked Hans, nodding as Godfrey offered to refill his flagon.

  ‘It killed and scarred enough, Brother Hans,’ replied Volquin, ‘even took a dozen of my own mercenaries. But cities recover and so will the garrison. That snake Nordheim has taken himself off to Germany to recruit more brigands and cutthroats.’

  ‘Which means Archdeacon Stefan won’t tolerate any of his personal bodyguard leaving the city when he returns from Dünamünde.’

  ‘He returned this very morning,’ said Volquin.

  Godfrey clapped his hands together as in prayer. ‘Praise the Lord he still lives.’

  ‘That one would survive the great flood,’ joked Volquin. ‘Fortunately Bishop Hermann is in charge of the city until his brother returns.’

  ‘We met the bishop on our way here, grand master,’ Conrad told him.

  He then informed him about the episode with the Liv girl, the altercation with soldiers of the garrison and the intercession of the bishop.

  Godfrey pointed at Conrad and his friends. ‘You should have killed all those soldiers, and the villagers too. I hope you are not going soft, Brother Conrad.’

  Volquin shook his head. ‘You speak out of turn, Godfrey. The new settlers are going to turn this land into a new Jerusalem.’

  ‘A new Germany, more like,’ retorted Godfrey, ‘and that’s a den of whores and thieves. I should know, I spent enough years travelling through it as a mercenary.’

  Volquin looked at the three brother knights. ‘I think it would be prudent if you all took advantage of the hospitality of Holm tonight before your return to Wenden. The archdeacon might take it personally that some of his men have been roughly handled.’

  ‘They will recover, grand master,’ said Anton. ‘Conrad only nicked one and made the eyes of another water.’

  Godfrey, now a little drunk, howled with laughter. ‘Allow me to translate the grand master’s words. You stay here tonight and chances are that arch-demon Stefan will send some assassins to slit your throats, either that or arrange an ambush a few miles outside the city tomorrow. He’s a malicious, vindictive little bastard who never forgets.’