by Peter Darman
This was madness. He knew he would get stung but at least his armour would afford him some protection. He sighed and removed the mail armour, dropping it to the ground.
‘Your tunic as well,’ commanded the keeper.
Kristjan shook his head. The hornets would be able to sting through the thin material with ease anyway, not to mention his face, neck and hands.
He reflected that he might follow his mother, father, brother and sisters into the afterlife, leaving his disfigured sister as the only surviving member of his family. But, for better or ill, he had come to this place and would not turn back now. He concentrated on the nest, which seemed calm with only a few hornets flying around it. He closed his eyes and asked Taara for protection, then raced forward.
The nest was resting on a branch around five feet off the ground and so he was able to smash his fist into it to knock it to the ground. It fell on the soft earth and he ducked under the branch and drove his boot into the soft, crumbly material. He was elated to see a glint of metal and bent down to retrieve the silver torc, and was then engulfed by a swarm of enraged hornets.
The first thing he experienced were not stings but noise, an angry buzzing that grew in intensity until he thought his ears would burst. The volume of the humming got louder and louder as the insects became more and more enraged. He clutched the torc in his hand and stood. And then pain engulfed him. It was not one or two or even a number of stings but an intense heat that originated in his hands and then crept up his arms as the hornets stung him viciously. It was as if his limbs were being slowly immersed in boiling hot water. It took all his willpower to keep hold of the torc as the insects stung his chest, back, legs, neck and face.
He closed his eyes as searing pain was inflicted on his whole body. He screamed out loud as he staggered away and then tried to run to get away from the hornets. But his efforts were in vain as they kept on stinging him and every part of his body cried out for mercy. He closed his eyes to protect them as his eyelids were repeatedly stung. He tried to swat away his tiny tormentors but this enraged the hornets even more and resulted in more stings. It was as if a thousand red-hot pincers were pulling his body apart. He could no longer scream or even wail, just emit pitiful low moans as his body was tortured beyond endurance. He tried to keep hold of the torc as he fell to his knees and then collapsed face-first on the ground. The last thing he remembered before passing out was the accursed buzzing in his ears.
He could not open his eyes when he regained consciousness, so swollen were his eyelids. His whole body was aflame with itching and pain. Had he been able to see he would have viewed laid out on a bed a naked body that was almost completely red, with a thousand wheals surrounding each tiny puncture denoting a hornet’s sting. He could feel the pain that occupied every muscle and bone of his body and tried hard not to cry out in agony. But he was also aware of cool relief being applied on parts of his frame.
The keepers worked fast, applying fresh bandages that had been soaked in vinegar for at least fifteen minutes to the most injured parts of his flesh. He did not know how many of them worked around his bed but their touch was tender and their skill high. They crushed fresh basil leaves to release the herb’s natural oils and pressed it gently on to a sting to draw the poison. After a day of intensive treatment, during which he was turned frequently so the wheals on his back could be treated, he began to feel partly alive as opposed to being roasted over a fire.
‘The gods are with you, Kristjan,’ he heard, the voice female and soothing.
Gentle fingers applied honey to each sting to calm the skin around it and all the time sweet reassuring voices told him that he would live and not be scarred. On the second day he was able to open his eyes, to see four young women in pure white robes attending him. One lifted his head so he could drink water from a cup while the others washed and treated his athletic body. On the third day the pain and swelling had subsided and the crushed basil relieved his itching. He noticed that all the female keepers had blonde hair, blue eyes and flawless skin. They smiled sweetly and touched him with the gentleness of forest nymphs and his body responded. First by healing itself and then being aroused as he observed the shape of their breasts and the curves of their hips and buttocks. They washed every inch of him and giggled when his manhood responded.
‘Your strength returns, Kristjan,’ said one as she washed his inner thigh with a soft cloth.
He mumbled an apology and redness returned to his cheeks, though it was not the fire of hornet poison but embarrassment as he blushed.
‘You should not be ashamed of your body,’ she told him, her touch doing nothing to dampen his now throbbing manhood. ‘The gods have given you a body that is strong and beautiful. You should be proud of it.’
Nevertheless, the next day he asked for a long tunic to cover his modesty and was given a pair of linen undergarments instead. The keepers informed him that his body needed air to recover and opened the shutters of the hut he was lodged in. Village huts were usually dusty, dim places but this abode was clean, spacious and remarkably airy. The result was that by the sixth day he was able to stand and put on his clothes, minus his old leggings and shirt that had been burnt. He was given fresh breeches and a new shirt and walked into the spring sunshine a man reborn.
Vetseke and two of his senior chiefs came to him, relieved and delighted that he still lived after his ordeal. He noticed that they studied his face and neck for any scars or blemishes.
‘Not a mark on you,’ admired Vetseke.
‘Was it very terrible, lord?’ asked one of his bearded chiefs.
‘Like being thrown on a raging fire,’ he answered.
‘This belongs to you, Kristjan, son of Kalju.’
He turned to see the faceless keeper with the hood holding the silver torc that he had nearly died for held in his right hand. The man lifted his arm and held out the prize.
‘The torc of Taara is yours, Kristjan, son of Kalju. Your prayers have been answered.’
Kristjan took the silver band and placed it around his neck, expecting the sky to crack with thunder. Nothing happened. Vetseke and the chiefs looked around at the empty village, expecting to see an army of warriors spring from the ground. For that is what they came for. Instead a black cat walked nonchalantly in front of them, turned its head to give them a disapproving stare, before wandering off.
‘Your life is over as Kristjan,’ said the keeper. ‘Just as Taara sent the hornets to cleanse your spirit with their stings so must you now go as poison among your enemies. Henceforth your name is Murk.’
‘Venom,’ said one of the chiefs.
‘Your poison must strike down the wolf,’ stated the keeper.
‘I do not understand,’ said Kristjan.
He detected the semblance of a smile on the keeper’s lips. ‘You will.’
‘Eat well today, young lord,’ said the keeper, ‘and sleep well tonight. Tomorrow climb the sacred hill once more and turn your eyes to the east. Then you will have your answer.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Vetseke as all of them instinctively gazed eastwards. To see nothing except trees and sky. Kristjan turned back to ask the keeper another question but he was not there, having seemingly vanished into thin air.
He hardly slept at all that night and was attired in his armour before the dawn broke. As guards wrapped in cloaks marched up and down to keep themselves warm he walked from his tent towards the sacred forest hill. Ponies were tied to wooden rails and bleary eyed men emerged from their shelters with aching limbs to throw damp firewood on the barely warm embers of campfires. He left the camp and walked across the meadow at the foot of the hill, his boots soaked by the early morning dew. It may have been spring but the land was still damp and so the hill was wrapped in a thick mist that would take a while for the sun that was now emerging in the east to burn away. He ascended the hill, occasionally slipping on the wet grass, being careful not to disturb the sodden branches of the trees as he went. He kept a hand on the hil
t of his sword and pulled the woollen hat down over his ears to keep them warm. After half an hour he was at the edge of a thicket of alders and halted. He pulled the cloak around himself and waited, for what he was not sure.
‘Murk,’ he muttered.
A strange choice of a name, he mused. He touched the torc around his neck. The coolness of the metal reassured him. He wondered if the keepers set such a task for every visitor to the hill. He dismissed the idea. Too many travellers would die from hornet stings. He also wondered about the beautiful female keepers who had restored his health. Were they married? To have one as a wife would be a gift from the gods indeed.
Kristjan filled his head with these thoughts as the sun climbed slowly into the sky and warmed the earth. To the south was his camp where men were cooking porridge over a myriad of fires that were replacing the mist with smoke. To the west were the forests and meadows of Harrien and Rotalia, and beyond those kingdoms the island of Oesel. He looked around for any signs of life but saw only trees, shrubs and flowers. The hill appeared to be empty.
After a while he sat on the ground and used an alder as a back support, first checking that there were no hornet nests in its branches. His stomach rumbled; he should have eaten something before he left camp. He drew his knees up to his chest, rested his chin on them and closed his eyes.
He thought he had been asleep for only a few minutes but the position of the sun indicated that it was mid-morning. He rose to his feet and stretched out his arms and back. Parts of his body were still sensitive and he winced when his scabbard brushed against his left leg. Then all thoughts of pain and hunger left him as he looked east and saw Taara’s gift. The tracks and meadows were filled with groups of men on foot and riding ponies, streams of humanity making their way towards the sacred forest hill. He clenched his fists and gave a shout of triumph. The sun glinted off hundreds of whetted spear points and the blades of axes tucked into belts. There were also lines of men who had no weapons. He smiled to himself. They would be furnished from the supplies he had brought from Dorpat. Among the groups of warriors were carts and standards displaying the emblems of the region they had travelled from: the lynx of Harrien, the boar of Wierland and the bear of Jerwen.
Estonia had rallied to his banner.
*****
The brother knights looked at each other and then at the blonde-haired Estonian warrior standing by the side of Conrad. The weekly meeting of the twelve brothers was usually a mundane affair devoted to either financial or administrative matters. But this meeting was different. A rider had arrived from Hillar in Rotalia to inform Conrad that a new army had arisen in Estonia. Worryingly, Hillar reported that a few of his men, mostly Jerwen, had deserted to join Kristjan.
‘It’s Lembit all over again,’ said Henke, unconcerned, ‘and we all know what happened to him.’
He smiled at Conrad. ‘Looks like you have a rival, Lord Marshal of Estonia.’
‘I killed Lembit,’ replied Conrad, ‘I can do the same to Kristjan.’
‘Nevertheless,’ said Rudolf, ‘this is a dangerous development. He already holds Fellin and another victory might convince all of Estonia to join his cause.’
‘Is that likely?’ asked Walter
Conrad looked at the warrior. ‘Tell them what you have heard.’
The man spoke in his native tongue, which was understood by all those present. Even Hans, who could not read or write, had an intimate knowledge of the Estonian language as well as the Liv tongue, and also knew a smattering of Russian.
‘Kristjan marched his army to the holy site at Paluküla.’
Henke sighed. ‘Where in the name of all that’s holy is that?’
‘In Harrien, lord,’ replied the warrior.
‘He is no lord,’ said Conrad.
‘I like to think of myself as a lord of war,’ retorted Henke, ‘first among equals in the order.’
Conrad laughed and shook his head. Henke’s brow furrowed.
‘I would be more than willing to prove this to you in single combat, brother.’
‘Enough,’ snapped Rudolf. He looked at the warrior. ‘Continue.’
‘The keepers of the sacred forest hill have given him the name Murk and the rumour is that Taara himself fights alongside him,’ the warrior stated.
‘Who is Taara?’ enquired Walter as Henke yawned.
‘The Estonian God of War,’ replied Conrad.
‘This Kristjan has a large army?’ asked Rudolf.
The warrior nodded.
‘He will try to take Lehola, master,’ said Conrad, ‘and after that will invade Livonia.’
‘We need to nip this in the bud,’ stated Rudolf, ‘both to help Sir Richard and to prevent a general conflagration in Estonia.’
Henke was bemused. ‘When the bishop arrives with an army we can crush this Kristjan, retake Fellin and conquer Estonia.’
‘There are also Russians among Kristjan’s forces,’ said Conrad.
There were murmurs of concern around the table. If Kristjan had allied himself with Novgorod the consequences for Livonia could be grim.
‘That settles it,’ said Rudolf. ‘We cannot wait for Bishop Albert to arrive. I will contact Kremon and Segewold and order their garrisons here. In addition, I will request that Fricis sends Rameke and a sizeable contingent of warriors to Wenden to join with us. Then we will march north and deal with this Kristjan. Conrad, order your men in Rotalia to march south to join us.’
‘Yes, master,’ replied Conrad.
‘No getting married for Rameke, then,’ whispered Hans to his friend.
There was a knock at the door to the main chamber of the master’s hall.
‘Come,’ ordered Rudolf.
A sergeant entered, marched up to Rudolf and saluted.
‘Forgive the interruption, master, but there is a contingent of the garrison of Riga at the outer gates requesting entry.’
A circle of confused faces looked at each other.
‘The garrison of Riga?’ smirked Henke. ‘Perhaps they have come to support your new campaign, Rudolf.’
‘What business are they on?’ Rudolf asked the sergeant.
‘I do not know, master. Their commander is insistent that he speaks to you on a matter of some urgency.’
‘Must be important to march all the way here,’ said Walter.
‘Perhaps Archdeacon Stefan has run out of young boys and wants to know if Wenden has any to spare,’ opined Henke.
The brother knights laughed but Rudolf was not amused.
‘Quiet. This is no laughing matter. Allow them in,’ he told the sergeant.
The man saluted and left, closing the door behind him.
Conrad thought it unusual but gave it no more thought as Rudolf dismissed them and he, Hans and Anton left the master’s hall and made their way to the armoury. Their two-week punishment had been completed and now they could concentrate on preparing for the march north to relieve Lehola and deal with Kristjan.
‘Who would have thought that bad-tempered boy at Odenpah would turn out to be a threat to Livonia,’ remarked Hans.
‘Who indeed,’ replied Conrad.
He stopped when the party from Riga marched across the drawbridge, through the gatehouse and into the courtyard. There were five riders followed by half a dozen crossbowmen and ten spearman, all wearing red, their surcoats and gambesons sporting the gold cross keys emblem of Riga.
‘Halt’ called their commander who wore an open-faced helmet.
‘I recognise him,’ said Anton.
‘As do I,’ added Conrad.
It was the man who had been escorting Bishop Hermann on the day they had rescued the Liv girl from the villagers.
‘I have a bad feeling about this,’ said Hans.
Rudolf, Walter and the other brother knights had also exited the master’s hall and observed the soldiers as they stood behind their commander.
‘What business brings you to Wenden?’ called Rudolf.
The commander, who had register
ed Conrad’s presence, nudged his horse forward.
‘I am Captain Clausse here on official business of Archdeacon Stefan, Governor of Riga, Keeper of the Official Seal and Lord of all Livonia in Bishop Albert’s absence.’
Laughter echoed around the courtyard as the brother knights, except Walter who was a sticker for correct procedure, heaped derision on Stefan’s ludicrous claim to be ruler of Livonia.
‘Surely you missed out Lord High Warden of the Privy,’ mocked Henke, which was followed by more laughter.
Captain Clausse was not laughing as he reached into a saddlebag and pulled out a document with a wax seal.
‘This is for Master Rudolf,’ he said firmly.
‘Get off your horse, captain,’ replied Rudolf menacingly as the laughter died down.
Clausse stared at the tall, athletic Rudolf. ‘You are Master Rudolf?’
Rudolf folded his arms across his chest. ‘It is considered good manners for guests to dismount when they are invited into my castle.’
Clausse took a deep breath and got off his horse. He walked over to Rudolf, saluted and handed him the document.
‘This an arrest warrant for one Conrad Wolff, a brother knight of this garrison. We are to take him back to Riga immediately.’
The brother knights began laughing again but Rudolf told them to be silent. Walter was appalled by the warrant.
‘Archdeacon Stefan has no jurisdiction over the Sword Brothers. They are answerable to Bishop Albert only.’
Rudolf tilted his head at Walter.
‘My deputy, Brother Walter, is a keen student of the law. Your warrant has no authority here.’
Conrad and his two friends had ambled over to where Clausse faced Rudolf. The captain pointed the document at him.
‘He injured two of my men and interfered in a legally sanctioned execution. I will not be leaving without him.’
Rudolf held out his hand so Clausse could give him the document, which he duly did. The master ripped it in two and threw the parts to the ground.
‘Turn around, get back on your horse, leave this castle with your men and do not look back.’