Castellan

by Peter Darman

  ‘Forgive me, highness, but might we know the reason you summoned us here?’

  Mstislav looked confused. ‘Mm? Oh, yes. Forgive me, it was such a pleasant meeting I had clean forgot. In truth the interruption in trade troubles me greatly. Novgorod is a centre of commerce and without commerce it cannot thrive.’

  ‘We are all troubled by events in the west, highness,’ remarked a boyar with a steel-grey beard.

  Mstislav placed his cup on the table and spread his hands.

  ‘What to do, what to do?’

  He brought his hands together. ‘For years now our merchants have had to pay taxes to the apostates in Riga for the privilege of transporting their goods to markets overseas. And when the servants of the corrupt Pope of Rome fall out who suffers? We do.’

  ‘It is most regrettable,’ agreed one of the boyars.

  ‘And more than regrettable it is expensive,’ added Gregori, friend of Yuri.

  Mstislav nodded his agreement. ‘To which end I propose taking measures to ensure that Novgorod’s trade is not interrupted by the petty disputes of the crusaders. I intend to capture Reval.’

  The boyars looked at him in disbelief.

  ‘I realise that the prospect of conflict fills many members of the veche with dread,’ continued Mstislav, ‘but we must take action to secure our western border.’

  ‘How does seizing Reval add to the security of Novgorod, highness?’ queried Yuri.

  ‘I will tell you,’ replied Mstislav. ‘Not only will it provide a secure port from which Novgorod’s goods can be shipped to northern Germany without having to pay taxes to the Bishop of Riga. It will also remove the threat of Estonian bandits raiding Novgorod’s territory. Chaos rules west of Lake Peipus and the longer it continues the danger increases of armies of bandits flourishing where no law exists.’

  ‘Such a move would provoke a war with the Danes,’ warned Mikhail.

  Mstislav shook his head. ‘Danish power is broken, my friend. Their king was humiliated on Oesel last year and had to crawl back to his homeland, his army destroyed.’

  ‘If, and I stress if,’ said Yuri slowly, ‘the veche was to support your venture, highness, and Reval was seized, Novgorod is not a seafaring power. We have no ships to transport our goods across the Baltic.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said one of the boyars, the rest nodding their heads.

  ‘Ships would come to Reval,’ Mstislav reassured them, ‘just as they go to Riga.’

  ‘And what about the Oeselians?’ asked Mikhail. ‘They would prey on those ships like wolves among a flock of sheep.’

  ‘Not if we had a treaty with Olaf,’ replied Mstislav.

  ‘A treaty, with pagans?’ said an appalled Gregori.

  ‘Why not?’ replied Mstislav. ‘Olaf may be an old pirate but he is no fool. His ships may be the scourges of the Baltic but Oesel is not a thousand miles away. Just as the Sword Brothers invaded the island last year so could we land soldiers on Oesel if Olaf proves uncooperative.’

  ‘What would be the size of the force required to take Reval?’ asked Yuri.

  ‘Novgorod and Pskov between them would need to furnish ten thousand soldiers,’ stated Mstislav. ‘In addition, it may fortify you to know that my cousin, Grand Prince George of Suzdal, has agreed to provide an additional ten thousand men should I march against Reval.’

  Yuri smiled politely. Mstislav had clearly given the venture a lot of thought. He had no love for the prince but what he said about Reval was true. If Novgorod and Pskov could ship their goods through the port, which had been enlarged and strengthened by the Danes, then not only would profits increase but, more importantly, commerce would no longer be subjected to the vagaries of Riga’s politics. Reval was certainly closer and if an agreement could be reached with the Oeselians then trade with north Germany would certainly flourish.

  ‘We would have to consult with other members of the veche, highness,’ announced Yuri.

  ‘Naturally,’ said Mstislav. ‘But may I ask what will be the advice of the Council of Lords?’

  The boyars looked at each other before Yuri spoke.

  ‘That your highness’ proposal has merit.’

  Afterwards the boyars walked from the kremlin, their personal guards escorting them back to their mansions in the city.

  ‘I am glad that you will soon be reunited with your son, Yuri,’ said Mikhail.

  ‘That was a surprise, I agree,’ replied Yuri.

  ‘As was his idea to attack Reval,’ offered Gregori behind them.

  ‘It has merit,’ said the boyar with the steel grey beard. ‘Riga has proved itself unreliable. If we have our own port, and an agreement with the Oeselians, then trade will not only be secured, it will increase markedly.’

  ‘Mstislav has embroiled us in wars before, Vasily,’ warned Yuri, ‘that proved not to Novgorod’s advantage.’

  ‘Reval is a prize worth fighting for, Yuri,’ replied Vasily, ‘especially now that Danish power is weak. We might not have another chance.’

  At the city hall two days later the veche agreed to support the venture against Reval, the deciding factor being the guarantee of aid from Grand Prince George and Mstislav’s pledge that Suzdal would not share in the profits once Reval had become a Novgorodian port.

  *****

  During his more than twenty years of ruling over his people the thing that Olaf took the greatest pleasure in was not the raiding, pillaging and slaughtering of his foes, though these were pleasant enough activities. No, the thing that brought him great joy was visiting the longhouses of his earls, the farms of his freemen and the shops and smiths of his villagers. It was a source of great pride that the blessed island of Oesel, surrounded by a warm sea, a land of kind summers and light breezes, was free from the never-ending warfare that plagued the mainland. In his youth there was incessant strife between the Estonian tribes, between the Estonians and Livs and between the Russians and Estonians and Livs. Now in his sixties, the mainland was the plaything of Danes, Russians and crusaders. The gods had cursed the land across the sea but they had blessed Oesel. His people had been delighted when the Danish king had been surrounded and defeated, even if the Sword Brothers had managed to spirit him away from certain death. They had walked from Kuressaare and the surrounding villages to marvel at the many Danish corpses that had been stripped and laid out on the ground for their viewing, before being consigned to great pyres. It was said that such was the booty taken from dead Danes that every man on the island had a coat of mail and a sword with which to go to war. His people were delighted and in high spirits but Olaf had been saddened.

  He knew that Sigurd was thoughtful and cunning, possessed of a keen, enquiring mind unlike Stark and Kalf, who were brave and hot-headed like their dead brother Eric. He had trusted Sigurd when his eldest son had recommended allowing the Danes to land on Oesel where they could be surrounded and destroyed. And though the Danes had left many dead on the island and their king reduced to a laughing stock, he regretted the fact that for the first time a foreign invader had landed on Oesel. He feared it was a foretaste of things to come.

  Olaf’s hair and beard were now completely white and thinning, though his eyes were still clear and alert and his squat frame did not have an ounce of fat on it. Unlike his father Sigurd kept his face clean-shaven but he had the blonde hair and blue eyes of the majority of his people. They had spent the morning with a friend of his father, a barrel-chested old brawler who had taken them boar hunting. Olaf had been in his element, reminiscing about the old days in between skewering squealing boar, but now he rode at the head of his bodyguard in silence, the only sound the jangling of the ponies’ bits and the occasional eagle taking flight from a nearby branch. They were riding by the side of a forest of oak and juniper on the way back to Kuressaare.

  ‘It was good to see Klun again, father,’ said Sigurd in an attempt to break the silence that was becoming oppressive.

  Olaf snapped out of his daydream. ‘Yes, good man Klun. The sort of man
you want beside you in a shield wall.’

  Because it was summer both had dispensed with mail shirts, wearing only linen tunics and leggings and nothing on their heads. The men of the bodyguard behind them sweated in mail corselets and helmets, their beards either plaited or forked as symbols of their masculinity.

  ‘Stark and Kalf are eager to fight in the shield wall this year, father,’ said Sigurd.

  His two brothers were on the mainland, part of the garrison of Varbola that had been captured in the aftermath of King Valdemar’s ignominious flight from Reval following his defeat on Oesel.

  Olaf sighed. ‘We will not retain Varbola beyond the end of the year.’

  Sigurd was surprised. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Danish ships no longer patrol the sea outside the mouth of the Dvina, which means that more crusaders will soon be arriving at Riga. We will need every warrior on Oesel to defend our island.’

  ‘You think the Danish king will return, father?’

  Olaf shrugged. ‘He may, he may not. But what I do know is that the Sword Brothers will be back once they have settled affairs on the mainland. It is only a matter of time.’

  He suddenly pulled up his pony and looked at his son. The leading pair of his bodyguard nearly collided into him and Sigurd as they too pulled up their mounts.

  ‘When you are ruler, Sigurd, you must above all safeguard the people.’

  ‘That time is many years away.’

  Olaf waved away his reassuring words. The older man’s blue eyes bored into those of his son.

  ‘Save the people, Sigurd, that is my command to you. Forget about glory and bravado. When the time comes your duty will be to safeguard the lives of those you rule over. Do you understand?’

  Sigurd matched his father’s iron stare. ‘I understand, father.’

  Olaf nudged his pony with his knees to prompt the beast to resume walking, Sigurd doing the same. The latter attempted to make more conversations with his father but gave up when the old man gave either one-word answers to his questions or merely grunted in response to statements. As a light rain began to fall they rode on towards Kuressaare in silence.

  *****

  ‘Cattle?’

  Hans was scratching his head, wondering if Conrad was having a joke at his expense.

  ‘That is what Master Rudolf ordered,’ replied his friend. ‘Two hundred head of cattle.’

  ‘Why?’

  Conrad shook his head. ‘You know as much as I do.’

  ‘It makes no sense,’ said Anton on the other side of Conrad.

  ‘Perhaps Master Rudolf wants to supplement Wenden’s food supplies,’ suggested Riki riding behind the three brother knights.

  ‘Wenden has enough supplies of food,’ Hans told him.

  ‘And Hans takes a keen interest in the castle’s food supplies, Riki,’ grinned Conrad.

  Following the battle at the Sedde Rudolf had ordered Conrad to take Riki’s fifty Harrien, plus Leatherface and ten crossbowmen and the same number of sergeants from Wenden, and strike east to the south of Lake Vortsjarv. Meanwhile he would take the main force and chase Kristjan north, both to relieve Sir Richard at Lehola and ensure that the enemy would not have a chance to rest.

  ‘Remember,’ Rudolf had told Conrad on the eve of his departure, ‘the majority of Ungannia’s warriors will be under Kristjan’s command, leaving southern Ungannia undefended. Ride hard and fast, seize the cattle and retreat back to Wenden.’

  Rudolf would say no more on the matter and so Conrad and his ad hoc force left the next day, along with half a dozen packhorses loaded with tents, crossbow bolts and food. The land was now bathed in summer sunshine and the column of riders made good progress as it headed east.

  ‘Did Master Rudolf say anything about burning villages?’ asked Leatherface casually.

  Conrad spun in the saddle. ‘There is to be no burning, no looting and no raping.’

  ‘Are they Rudolf’s orders or yours?’ teased Leatherface.

  ‘Mine,’ snapped Conrad.

  ‘You’ve got a lot to learn,’ replied Leatherface. ‘You can’t beat an enemy with soft words and good intentions. In Germany after a victory we would always make sure the enemy’s territory suffered accordingly. I remember a time…’

  ‘We are not in Germany,’ said Conrad sternly. ‘Once Kristjan has been defeated Ungannia will be under my control. I want the people to be loyal, not rebellious.’

  But Leatherface would not have it. ‘You see that’s where you are going wrong, Brother Conrad.’

  ‘Conrad is right,’ said Hans. ‘If you burn villages the inhabitants will be resentful.’

  ‘We solved that problem in Germany easily enough,’ replied Leatherface.

  ‘How?’ asked Anton.

  ‘We killed all the inhabitants of the villages we plundered.’

  Southern Ungannia was a carpet of green and blue, the thick forests of pine, birch and fir interwoven with crystal-clear lakes and slow-moving rivers. The trees were alive with birds and the forests were filled with game as the riders moved stealthily along ancient forest tracks and by the sides of meadows and rivers to position themselves within sight of settlements. At first Conrad and his two friends would charge out of the trees around mid-morning to carry off grazing cattle. At night the beasts were kept in barns to keep them safe from wolves but during the day it was easy enough to steal them away from under the noses of young boys or old men who were watching over them. The problem was that each village usually possessed only half a dozen cows at most, and so after two days Conrad split his command into four groups to speed things up. He commanded one group, Hans a second, Anton a third and Riki the fourth. Conrad stressed again the necessity of avoiding plunder, rape and bloodshed and arranged to rendezvous in a week on the southern shore of Lake Vortsjarv where the Cumans had been defeated. To reduce the likelihood of violence he ordered Leatherface to be a member of his group.

  The first few days were easy enough and soon Conrad was the proud owner of thirty stolen cattle, which only slowed down the raiders but also required guarding night and day.

  ‘You don’t want some cattle rustlers stealing them from under your nose, do you?’

  Leatherface was having the time of his life, constantly reminding an increasingly irritable Conrad that he was no better than a thief.

  ‘Though a thief with a nice horse, I’ll grant you that,’ smirked the mercenary.

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Strictly speaking, of course, you aren’t really a thief.’

  ‘I’m not?’

  ‘Seeing as you are Marshal of Estonia and all, you can requisition what you want.’

  Conrad was leading a small party of Leatherface, another crossbowman and two sergeants through wheatgrass at the edge of a forest of pine on their way to raid a village they had scouted the night before. Like dozens of other villages in Ungannia it was a collection of huts adjoining a couple of barns surrounded by pasture and slash and burn land. The abundance of land in Estonia made slash and burn a sensible policy for farmers who planted crops in a field for one or two seasons, thereafter letting the field lie fallow for several subsequent seasons. The farmers moved on to a field that had lain fallow for several years removing the vegetation and burning it, hence slash and burn. The ash produced by the burning added nutrients to the soil to aid the growing of crops. But Conrad was not here for crops and urged his horse on to seize half a dozen cattle grazing in a field nearby the settlement.

  ‘No violence,’ he shouted to Leatherface as a young boy, having seen the approaching riders, sprinted towards the huts.

  They slowed when they reached the cows so as not to stampede them, the sergeants circling them and using the blunt ends of their lances to move them towards the forest so they could be taken back to camp.

  ‘Here’s trouble,’ said Leatherface from on his horse behind Conrad. ‘Look lively,’ he said to the crossbowman beside him, both of them taking a foot out of a stirrup and shoving it in the metal stirrup fitte
d to the fore-ends of their weapons to load them.

  Conrad saw four figures advancing from the village towards them, all carrying round shields and wearing helmets. Three were armed with spears, the other with a sword.

  ‘This should be easy,’ remarked Leatherface as he brought up his weapon to aim it.

  ‘No violence,’ ordered Conrad.

  ‘Don’t be an idiot,’ the mercenary told him, ‘in case you hadn’t noticed they are all armed.’

  Conrad spurred his horse forward to intercept the group, which as he got nearer saw was comprised two old men and two young boys, the helmets of the latter too large for their heads. They stopped when he neared them, the old man with a sword taking a few steps forward. He pointed the blade at Conrad who slowed his horse.

  ‘Return those cattle, thief, and I will let you live.’

  Conrad halted his horse and dismounted, pulling his mail coif off his head and keeping his sword in its scabbard. He walked towards the old man, who must have been seventy if he was a day. His beard was white, his skin leathery as befitting his age but his eyes burned with defiance.

  ‘I cannot do that, sir,’ sighed Conrad.

  Leatherface and his subordinate were now behind Conrad pointing their crossbows at the old man.

  ‘I have seen many summers and killed many bandits,’ sneered the old man. ‘They are all the same no matter what robes they wear. Cowards and bullies who only come out of the shadows when the menfolk are away.’

  ‘And why are they away?’ said Conrad. ‘Because they are fighting beside Kristjan who makes war on Livonia.’

  ‘Do the Sword Brothers make war on women and children?’ scoffed the old man.

  ‘The Sword Brothers obey orders,’ answered Conrad vaguely. ‘I wish you no harm but I must take your cattle. For that I apologise.’

  The old man laughed. ‘A thief with manners, now that is a first.’

  One of the boys suddenly ran at Conrad, his spear levelled at the brother knight’s belly.

  ‘Do not shoot!’ Conrad shouted at the crossbowmen as the boy neared him.