by Peter Darman
It took the rest of the day and all of the following morning to prepare the pyres outside the town, on which the bodies would be cremated. While this was being done and the women dressed the dead in their finest clothes, Sigurd summoned the earls and leading freemen to the king’s hall, the huge building located at the centre of Kuressaare. Bearded warriors with thick forearms and broad shoulders crowded the tiered side benches either side of the centre of the hall. Slaves served honey mead to the assembly as the temperature inside the oak building began to rise markedly.
Sweat ran down Sigurd’s neck as he stood in the centre of the hall. He felt short of breath, though whether it was due to the airless interior of the hall or his nervousness he did not know. Guards hurried the slaves away and then closed the doors at either end of the hall. Thin shafts of sunlight came through the ports at each end of the steeply pitched roof and slits cut high in the walls. Torches, fixed to the massive oak posts that supported the roof, burned to provide extra illumination and also added to the hot, stuffy air and the smell of sweat and leather.
Sigurd raised his arms. The hall fell silent.
‘I Sigurd, son of Olaf, am here to ask if there are any among you who wish to dispute my claim to be rightful king of the Oeselians?’
A loud belch made Sigurd jump but the laughter that filled the hall in response put him at ease. He looked at the brawny Bothvar who gave him a reassuring nod. There was no one that disputed Sigurd’s claim to the throne.
‘Very well,’ the new king said. ‘Today we bury a great king, one who kept Oesel and its people free. And that will be the purpose of my reign – to preserve the freedom of my people.’
The earls and freemen stamped their feet in approval and Sigurd smiled. He had passed his first test. Afterwards the doors to the hall were opened and he left in the company of Kalf and Stark, neither of whom were particularly happy.
‘You said nothing of avenging father’s death,’ complained Stark.
‘We should burn Harrien,’ said Kalf, ‘and after that Ungannia. Kill them all.’
Sigurd stopped and faced his brothers. Stark, like him, was tall and slim, though Kalf had inherited his father’s stocky, shorter frame.
‘I will decide if and when there is any retaliation. You forget yourselves.’
‘We are princes of Oesel,’ snapped Stark.
Sigurd walked on. ‘Then act like you are.’
At dusk they cremated the bodies of the slain on huge pyres that turned the bodies to ash. As the flames roared and spat, smoke rose high into the sky to carry the souls of the dead men to their rightful destination in the afterlife. As was the custom everyone remained until the pyres were nothing but piles of ash, which were then carefully collected and placed in small wooden chests. Sigurd, Stark, Kalf and the chief earls then each carried a chest to the waterfront where a longship with a black sail waited in the bay.
It had been built by the island’s most accomplished shipwrights who had selected the finest oaks to be used in its construction. It had not been specifically built to be Olaf’s funeral ship but the king had commissioned it some months before and it had recently been completed. The only thing that had been changed regarding its appearance was the black sail. Fashioned by a small army of woodworkers using broad axes, they had split the oak tree trunks, which had been specially chosen by the shipwrights, into long, thin planks. The boards had been fastened to a single sturdy keel with iron nails and then to each other, each one overlapping the next in the so-called ‘clinker’ method of construction.
The shipwrights then affixed evenly spaced floor timbers to the keel to ensure resilience and flexibility. Crossbeams were afterwards added to provide a deck and a massive beam along the keel to support the mast. There was a shield rack outboard of the ship where leather-covered shields painted black were arranged in an overlapping fashion. Sigurd and his brothers placed the box containing the ashes of Swein at the rear where the steering oar was positioned. The ashes of their father were placed at the prow near the carved dragon head. The ashes of the king’s bodyguard were positioned at the ship’s rowing stations – a dead crew to row their fallen lord to the afterlife.
Like all the island’s fighting ships it was constructed wholly from oak, not only because of the great strength of the timber but also because it was sacred to Taarapita, God of War. And because the tree was sacred to the god nothing was wasted from the trees that had been felled to build it. So the bark went to tan hides, the bast fibres just below the bark were used to make rope, the twigs were chopped up and added to sawdust and chippings to be used to smoke fish, meat and cheese, and the smaller off-cuts were saved to make charcoal.
Another drekar, a dragon-headed longship, was used to tow the funeral ship from the bay as the population of Oesel stood on the sands to watch the last journey of King Olaf. Sigurd stood at the stern with his brothers as the crew pulled on their oars to tow the funeral ship out to sea. Bothvar steered the vessel through a calm water, a light breeze just enough to fill the black sail behind them. After an hour, when Oesel was no longer on the horizon, the drekar was turned to take it alongside the funeral ship. Then a single archer lit a flaming arrow and shot it across the water to land among the pitch-covered firewood that had been stacked on the deck of the funeral ship. The rowers dipped their oars gently in the now totally flat sea to take the drekar away from the funeral ship as the pitch caught alight and fire roared along the deck. The flames turned from red to yellow as the heat increased and the ship was suddenly engulfed in a raging inferno.
Sigurd stared at the burning vessel as the mast and sail were suddenly enveloped and then disappeared. The ship burned like a huge signal torch for around half an hour before suddenly sinking in an angry hissing sound. He sighed and closed his eyes.
‘Farewell, father, until we meet again.’
Chapter 10
It took Archbishop Mitrofan nearly an hour to travel from the Cathedral of Saint Sophia, the Holy Wisdom of God, in the kremlin district across the Volkhov River to the Yaroslav Court, the magnificent palace near St Nicholas’ Cathedral where the veche met. Novgorod’s citizens were in an ugly mood after having received news of the heavy losses suffered by Prince Mstislav’s army at Reval and they vented their fury on any they associated with the prince. That included Mitrofan, the fawning head of the Orthodox Church in the realm who had always been the first to endorse Mstislav’s disastrous wars. He was visibly shaking when he and four of his red-dressed bishops reached the sanctuary of the Yaroslav Court. The guards had had to use their spear shafts to clear a way through the angry mob, which had pelted the churchmen with dirt and rotten vegetables. When Mitrofan had complained to the commander of the guards the man had shrugged his shoulders and told him that it could have been far worse. They could have thrown the archbishop in the river.
The main hall of the palace was packed with the city’s boyars and merchants, all standing and mingling freely according to the principle that every man was equal in the veche. The animated chatter died instantly when Mitrofan and his priests entered the frescoed hall, the archbishop looking even more nervous as he observed a sea of angry faces. He looked around for allies but found none. Like a group of frightened children the priests huddled together for security.
‘Your eminence.’
The words of Yuri Nevsky cut through the tension as eyes turned away from Mitrofan to the leader of the veche. The head of the Nevsky clan came forward, a reassuring smile on his face.
‘Make way for the archbishop,’ he commanded, coming to Mitrofan’s side and leading him to the steps up to the raised area at the far end of the hall. The bishops followed like chicks scuttling after a mother hen.
‘My thanks in attending, your eminence,’ said Yuri, ‘but dire news dictates that we must act quickly.’
At the top of the steps Yuri turned to face the dozens of his friends and colleagues who had gathered in the hall.
‘Esteemed members of the veche,’ he began, ‘today I have
received news of events at Reval. My friends, the news is not good. Hundreds have died in abortive assaults against the walls and hundreds more have been wounded. Far from falling easily Reval stands firm like a rock.’
Angry mumbling spread among the veche’s members as fathers thought of their sons who were serving with the Druzhina. Yuri raised his hands and asked for quiet.
‘My friends,’ he let his hands drop to his side, ‘for too long the sons of Novgorod have been sacrificed needlessly in fruitless wars to satisfy the vanity of Prince Mstislav.’
His words were met by nods and mutterings of agreement. Mitrofan’s look of alarm returned to his face.
‘We have fought the Sword Brothers and lost,’ continued Yuri, ‘and now it would appear that we have made enemies of the Danes, whose ships control the Baltic. What price will Novgorod now have to pay to be able to sell its goods to the people of northern Germany?’
‘An exorbitant one,’ someone shouted.
‘Indeed,’ agreed Yuri. ‘My friends, it is time that this august body resolved to put an end to these ruinous wars before the Sword Brothers or Danes are besieging the walls of this very city.’
Rapturous applause filled the cavernous chamber. Yuri pointed to the windows.
‘This morning I had heralds relay the news that many Novgorodians will not be returning home. You will have noticed the reaction of the citizens on your way here.’
The applause was replaced by laughter as Yuri turned to Archbishop Mitrofan.
‘Your eminence, it is the duty of your priests to spread the word among the villages that many of their men folk lie dead before the walls of Reval.’
Yuri looked at Mitrofan, as did the rest of the veche and his bishops. He must have felt like a cornered stag as his eyes darted left and right.
‘You might also ask your priests to provide comfort to the families of those who have died at Reval,’ said Yuri.
‘Their families?’ stammered the archbishop.
‘Yes, your eminence,’ replied Yuri, ‘for without their men they will most likely starve during the coming winter because there were not enough hands to gather in the harvest. And the city granaries are also greatly depleted.’
The hall fell deathly quiet as Yuri stared at the archbishop.
‘Well, I will ask them to relay the sad news from Reval, of course. Yet God might be merciful and still grant us victory.’
‘There will be no victory, your eminence,’ hissed Yuri. ‘There is division and demoralisation in the army. That being the case, your eminence will also instruct your priests to convey a decision that has been taken within the walls of this ancient palace.’
Mitrofan gulped. ‘Decision, Lord Nevsky?’
‘That Mstislav has been deposed as Prince of Novgorod,’ announced Yuri loudly, ‘and will be denied entry into the city when he returns from Reval.’
Mitrofan’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. ‘Deposed?’
‘Deposed,’ shouted one of the veche, ‘and good riddance.’
Loud applause and cheers followed the words as Yuri Nevsky regarded the archbishop with a satisfied expression. The boyar raised his hand and called for quiet once more.
‘Where shall he go?’ asked Mitrofan.
‘Wherever he wants,’ answered Yuri, ‘in the company of those who still support him. Your eminence will be staying in the city?’
Mitrofan was a man who liked good living and high station, which is why he had supported Mstislav. He had no desire to be reduced to a wandering beggar, homeless and penniless. On the other hand he did not want to be thrown in the Volkhov or lynched by an angry mob.
‘The church takes no interest in politics,’ said Mitrofan quietly. ‘My only purpose is to serve God.’
‘Then in the name of Saint Sophia, the Holy Wisdom of God,’ said Yuri, ‘I ask you to support the veche in this weighty matter as our spiritual leader. Can we rely on the church’s support regarding the removal of Prince Mstislav?’
‘What of Princess Maria?’ asked Mitrofan. ‘I will not condone murder.’
Yuri was horrified. ‘We are boyars and men of commerce, your eminence, not thieves in the night. The princess will be accorded the proper respect and dignity commensurate with her rank. Our primary concern is the wellbeing of Novgorod and its trading interests. Had Prince Mstislav been mindful of those things we would not be standing here discussing his removal and successor.’
Mitrofan’s ears pricked up. ‘May I assume that I am addressing the prince’s successor?’
‘You may not,’ replied Yuri tersely. ‘That is to be decided by this assembly.’
‘We will be sending a letter signed by the representatives of the veche,’ Yuri told him, ‘informing Prince Mstislav of our decision. I trust said document will carry your eminence’s signature?’
Every pair of eyes in the hall was looking at Mitrofan, daring him to say no. He did not.
‘In the interests of peace and the security of Novgorod I will be happy to sign,’ replied Mitrofan.
The veche broke into polite applause and the archbishop looked like a man reprieved on the scaffold.
‘Captain,’ shouted Yuri as Mitrofan’s bishops congratulated their superior, no doubt as relieved as he to have retained their positions, prestige and comfortable lodgings.
The commander of the Yaroslav Court’s guard came forward and saluted.
‘Please escort his eminence and his bishops back to the kremlin, and make sure they are not molested on the way. They are servants of the church and should be treated with respect. Tell your men to use their weapons if they have to.’
Mitrofan signed the letter that was despatched the next day. At the same time as the courier galloped west the archbishop instructed that his priests were to inform their congregations that Prince Mstislav had proved unworthy to rule in Novgorod and the veche, under the direction of God himself, was in the process of choosing his successor. Princess Maria and her servants were quietly removed to St George’s Monastery, a short distance south of the city, a beautiful white stone building on the shores of Lake Ilmen. There the monks treated them with great civility.
*****
The tent of Arturus was a simple affair: a round structure with a single entrance flap. It was open as the tired and hungry warrior was escorted towards it, his face deathly pale and his steps faltering. He had been left in command of over three hundred warriors who had taken refuge in the remains of Mesoten hill fort in the aftermath of their army’s defeat at the hands of the Kurs. General Aras had promised that a relief force would be sent to rescue them but that had been a month ago. Since then the Kurs had established siege lines around the hill of Mesoten and had amused themselves ravaging the countryside. The pillars of smoke around the fort had been testimony to the torching of villages by Arturus’ men. But the Kurs had made no moves to storm the hill, being content to send envoys to request that the warriors surrender themselves, promising them their lives if they did. At first they had refused as they waited for their relief. But as the days passed it became apparent that no rescue force was going to arrive. It was autumn and the days were growing cooler. Their food ran out and so, when Arturus sent another courier requesting that the commander of Mesoten should at least hear what the duke had to say, he accepted. Now, surrounded by a host of black-uniformed soldiers, he was certain that these were his last moments on earth. He began to say a silent prayer to the gods that his death would not be too painful when the commander of his escort stopped him. One of the soldiers ducked inside the tent, reappearing moments later to nod to the leader. He was then roughly searched for any concealed weapons and bundled into the tent.
His eyes took a few moments to adjust to the dim interior of the tent, which contained a simple cot and a table, behind which sat a swarthy individual with a scarred face whose eyes studied him with a hint of menace. Behind stood two huge warriors holding two-handed axes and wearing sleeveless, knee-length hide armour with shields slung on their backs. Two mo
re similarly equipped brutes flanked the inside entrance to the tent. Standing to the right was a lean individual with a thick beard who, to his great surprise, smiled at him.
‘I am Arturus,’ said the man behind the table, ‘and am glad that you accepted my invitation to talk.’
The guest gulped and opened his mouth to say something but no words would come out. Eventually he managed to say ‘thank you, lord’.
Arturus looked at one of the guards standing by the open flap.
‘Fetch something to drink.’
He looked back at the slightly less alarmed man from the hill.
‘And you are?’
‘Ringaudas, lord.’
Arturus leaned closer. ‘You are a Semgallian?’
‘No, lord, Selonian.’
The guard returned with a tray of wooden cups. He offered one to Arturus, another to the tall, lean man who had smiled at him and the third to Ringaudas. Arturus held up his cup.
‘To Selonia, home to brave warriors.’
Ringaudas drank the strong mead sparingly. He would have liked to drain the cup in one gulp but his shrunken stomach, for many days not having eaten anything, would have rebelled on ingesting such a rich mixture. Throwing up in the presence of Duke Arturus would surely cost him his head.
Arturus pointed his cup at the lean individual.
‘This is Prince Lamekins, my general and the architect of the last, great victory over your people, the Samogitians and the Semgallians.’
Lamekins grinned. ‘You give me too much credit, lord.’
Arturus suddenly stood and walked round the table. Ringaudas’ heart began to beat faster as the most feared man in Lithuania approached. To his great relief and surprise Arturus placed an arm around his shoulders.
‘Do you know why my armies are victorious, even in the face of superior odds, Ringaudas?’