by Peter Darman
‘You see, Stefan,’ said Albert, ‘how important Conrad Wolff is to our mission in this land.’
Stefan said nothing as he sat on his silk-covered chair and fumed in silence.
‘So, brother,’ said Hermann, ‘we march to capture Dorpat.’
Albert nodded. ‘It is most strange that Ungannia, formerly a loyal ally of Riga, suddenly became its chief foe. Why this should be I cannot fathom.’
Stefan shrugged. ‘Who knows the workings of the pagan mind, uncle, save only the Devil? Only by banishing paganism can reason and justice be planted in this land.’
‘Master Rudolf at Wenden has informed me that Russian soldiers have been fighting alongside the Ungannians,’ said Hermann. ‘If this is the case, then we may be fighting them in Ungannia itself.’
Albert waved over one of the servants and placed his empty flagon on the silver tray he carried. The boy bowed and retreated.
‘It cannot be helped. Ungannia has betrayed our trust and must be punished. There can be no sanctuary for those who commit crimes against God.’
He looked at his nephew. ‘And that is what we are here for, what the Sword Brothers exist for: to serve God. Not to advance our own personal interests or those of the Buxhoeveden family. But to establish the kingdom of God in Livonia and Estonia. Remember that, Stefan, when you are conducting your personal feud against the Sword Brothers.’
For the archdeacon it was a chastening meeting. In his uncle’s absence he had ruled Livonia like a king, treating it as a personal fiefdom, the area around Riga at least. Now Bishop Albert had returned and his wings had been well and truly clipped. It was an experience he found most disagreeable. He said no more on the matter of the Sword Brothers but he was determined to redouble his efforts to clip their wings and that of Conrad Wolff, the low-born baker’s son.
*****
For the first time in years Rotalia was free of foreign incursions. The outposts along the coast deterred Oeselian raids, which in truth had declined markedly of late anyway, and the rebuilt fort of Leal meant Hillar could dispatch men to every part of his kingdom. He was not actually a king but a governor, made so by Conrad and confirmed by Bishop Bernhard. When the spring came Hillar returned to Leal while Conrad and the rest of the Army of the Wolf stayed at Varbola. There the Marshal of Estonia’s broken arm mended itself and he recovered his strength. Riki, delighted to be home at long last, gladly accepted baptism in the cold waters of a nearby river in return for him becoming governor of Harrien. His men, now numbering forty after the hard fight at Lumandu, also agreed to have their heads ducked under the water to wash away their sins and become members of the Catholic faith.
It was a good time. The rivers and streams were filled with pure, fast-flowing melt water, the forests teemed with elk, deer and wolves and the meadows with hares and buttercups. Among the trees the thick snow disappeared to reveal lush undergrowth and in the wetlands there was a profusion of bog moss, cotton grass and bog whortleberry. But more heartening than the changing landscape was the return of villagers to their homes. Not many at first, the news of a Harrien leader once again in Varbola being slow to travel throughout the land. Many of the villages, especially in the north of the kingdom that had been raided by the Danes, remained empty, their inhabitants having been either killed or taken as slaves long ago. But further south people came out of their hiding places in the forests and returned to their homes. Those village elders still alive gathered together to hold parish meetings and elect a parish elder, the elders in turn electing a county leader.
From Varbola Riki sent out riders to all the villages requesting reports of how many people lived in each settlement so as to paint an accurate picture of the state of Harrien. As the weeks passed a steady stream of reports were sent to Varbola, along with young men making their way to the fort to offer their services to the new ‘elf warrior’.
‘Who?’
Bishop Bernhard scratched his head as two young men were escorted from Varbola’s great hall, having been accepted into Riki’s service.
‘That was the name given to Alva, lord bishop,’ answered Riki, ‘the last leader of the Harrien to sit in this hall.’
‘They think you are a reincarnation of him?’ asked Bernhard.
Riki nodded. ‘Some do, though I dissuade them of the notion.’
‘You should indulge it,’ Conrad told him, ‘Alva was a great leader of your people.’
‘He fought against you, Susi,’ said Riki.
Conrad laughed. ‘So did you, my friend, at one time.’
The Harrien leader was sitting in one of the two chairs on the dais, the other having been given to Bishop Bernhard on account of his age. Conrad, Hans and Anton stood on one side; Riki’s two most trusted lieutenants on the other. A pair of guards escorted another potential recruit into the hall, a boy no older than thirteen or fourteen. Like his race his hair was blonde and his eyes blue. He had a handsome face, though it wore a scowl. He paced between the two guards, one carrying a sword in a scabbard. They halted in front of the dais.
‘Name?’ said Riki.
‘Jaan,’ replied the boy. ‘I have come to offer my sword to you, high one.’
One of the guards held out the sword. ‘He came with this, lord. Probably stole it.’
Jaan’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘I did not steal it. It belonged to my father.’
‘Where is he?’ asked Riki.
The boy’s eyes filled with pain. ‘Dead. Murdered by the Danes.’
‘Where are you from, boy?’ asked Riki.
‘Maardu.’
‘Near Reval?’ Riki was impressed. He looked at the tatty leather shoes on his feet. ‘You walked here?’
Jaan nodded.
‘And the rest of your family,’ enquired Conrad, ‘where are they?’
Jaan looked at the Sword Brother, unsure who he was and yet knowing that he must be an important person if he was standing next to Riki.
‘Dead,’ he answered flatly.
‘I remember another youngster whose family had been killed, Conrad,’ said Hans, ‘who came to us an orphan with a desire to kill the enemy. She turned out all right.’
Jaan studied Conrad closely. ‘You are the one they call Susi?’
‘I am,’ replied Conrad, ‘but I have no authority here. Governor Riki rules in Harrien.’
‘You are too young to join my war band, Jaan,’ Riki told him. ‘But you may stay here at Varbola and work in the kitchens or stables until you reach sixteen years.’
‘I have a right to avenge my parents,’ shouted Jaan.
‘If you want to do so,’ said Riki calmly, ‘then the first thing you need to do is obey orders. You may keep your sword, Jaan, but you must learn how to use it before you stand beside me in battle.’
He indicated to the guards that the youngster’s time was over. They grabbed his arms and manhandled him from the chamber.
‘It is good for Harrien that it breed such firebrands,’ said Bishop Hermann, ‘though I doubt he will be happy mucking out stables. I have seen that sort of desire in men before. You should take him with you when you next march, Riki.’
Before he could answer one of the guards reappeared and walked to the dais, saluting Riki.
‘There is a courier from Wenden, lord, with a package for you.’
‘For me?’ Riki was confused.
‘Excellent,’ said Conrad. ‘I did not think it would get here so quickly. It is a gift for you, Riki.’
The courier was ordered to enter, a Liv in a green tunic and mail shirt carrying a large bundle wrapped in hides. He was a big man but found the package awkward and heavy to carry. Conrad asked him to place it on the reed-covered floor before Riki. He pulled his dagger, walked forward to cut the string around the hides and asked Hans and Anton to assist him. He discarded the hides and unwrapped the large white banner, Hans and Anton each held up a side as Conrad stepped back. Riki stood in amazement as he looked at the standard, which had a red lynx with great claws against a w
hite background edged with gold.
‘The good textile workers at Wenden laboured hard to create this, Riki,’ said Conrad, ‘A fitting standard for the new leader of Harrien, I think.’
‘It is magnificent, Susi,’ said Riki, extending a hand to touch the red lynx.
It was not the only banner that was presented to the commanders of the Army of the Wolf. Conrad also gifted standards to Andres, Tonis and Hillar, all of them depicting the symbols of their respective kingdoms and all made from the finest materials. The morale of the army rose and so did its numbers. Those crusaders that had been at Leal, plus the ones that had remained in Saccalia, were concentrated at Varbola under the command of Bishop Bernhard. Those that had made the winter journey to Leal had all recovered their strength and made the trip to Harrien without incident, as did those from Saccalia. The result was that four hundred crusader foot soldiers mustered outside the fort at the end of May to be inspected by Conrad and the bishop. A few days later they were paraded again, this time being joined by the other contingents of the army. Afterwards the man elected to be the commander of the crusaders, a dour-faced individual named Ulric, spoke to Conrad.
‘The men aren’t happy, lord.’
‘Oh? They look healthy enough and now they all have some sort of armour after the victory at Lumandu.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s not that, lord.’
‘Then what is it?’
‘No standard, lord. The pagans have new standards and we don’t have one.’
Conrad thought it was some sort of joke until he looked at Ulric and saw that his expression was glummer than normal. It was really extraordinary that his men’s top priority was a piece of cloth rather than weapons and armour. But then he realised that soldiers attached great importance to banners. Would he not sacrifice his own life to preserve Wenden’s standard? Of course he would. And Novgorod had gone to war over the loss of one of its banners at Dorpat. The cloth still resided at Wenden, in Master Rudolf’s office.
‘You are right, Ulric. Your men shall have a banner.’
Riki summoned the best seamstresses and weavers from the surrounding villages and put them to work creating a flag. There was no silk or gold edging available so the banner would be made of wool with the design on each side being sewn linen. Conrad thought it trivial at first, but as the days passed he became more interested in its design. Bishop Hermann, Ulric and the crusader commanders spent many hours in a hut in the fort’s compound thrashing out the details. And as they did so and then conveyed their instructions to the women who had been charged with creating the banner, the chief topic of conversation in Varbola was when it would be completed. Leatherface tried to get the bishop drunk so he would reveal its design to him and thus win the sizeable sum that had been wagered on the standard’s pattern. But the bishop had drunk the mercenary under the table, the latter having to be carried by Conrad and Hans back to his hut, unconscious.
It took a month to create the banner and when it was finished it was escorted under armed guard from the hut where it had been created to the fort’s main hall. There it was placed on a table in the centre of the chamber where Bishop Hermann blessed it. Those monks who had journeyed to Varbola with the crusaders were also in attendance, holding a vigil through the night over the sacred standard. No one was allowed into the hall while this was going on. After being thus consecrated the banner was then fixed to a staff with a traverse bar at the top so it would never hang limply and would be visible even when there was no wind.
Warriors filled the fort’s walls and towers when the bishop carried the banner from the hall to present it to his men. Riki’s signallers blew their horns as Ulric’s men, drawn up in a square, knelt and bowed their heads. Conrad, Hans and Anton stood with Leatherface in a tower overlooking the compound crammed with civilians. He smiled when he saw Jaan among the crowd, spade in hand, craning his neck trying to see what was going on.
Bishop Bernhard said a prayer, his words clear and loud in the warm morning air. Conrad and his friends bowed their heads as the bishop implored God to protect His banner and the men that carried it. He tapped Leatherface on the arm to indicate he should do likewise. After he had finished the bishop ordered his men to stand and he handed over the banner to Ulric, to loud cheers from the crusaders and accompanying acclaim from the assembled warriors and civilians.
The design showed a yellow bishop’s mitre on a white background, the mitre adorned with three blue crosses to symbolise the Holy Trinity. Beneath was a red rose, the symbol of the city of Lippe in honour of Bishop Bernhard. Beneath the mitre and rose was a scroll bearing the motto episcopi spurii.
‘What does that mean?’ asked the illiterate Hans.
Conrad had no idea, having no knowledge of Latin.
‘The bishop’s bastards,’ said Anton, who could not only read Latin but write it as well.
Thus did the bishop’s soldiers have their banner and, their morale high, prepared to march with the Army of the Wolf. Only one question remained: where would they march to?
Two weeks later Conrad called together the commanders of his army to inform them of his plans. They gathered in Varbola’s great hall, around an old oak table that had reputedly been made by the gods. The mood was relaxed and confident. Riki had settled into his new position and was becoming accustomed to settling disputes and giving his judgement to his people. Hillar was kept fully abreast of affairs in Rotalia by Koit, which continued to be free from Oeselian raids. Only the stout and courageous Andres appeared slightly glum, no doubt thinking about his homeland that was under the control of the tyrant Kristjan.
Hans was munching on a small pie filled with meat and herbs as the rest were served with beer and honey mead. Bishop Bernhard sat at one end of the table, Riki at the other, as Hans finished his pie and tore off a chunk of bread a servant had place before him.
Conrad banged the end of his dagger on the table to get everyone’s attention.
‘We have received news from Wenden that Bishop Albert has landed at Riga with an army. Master Rudolf has informed me that Dorpat will be the objective of the coming campaign.’
The others banged their fists on the table to show their support.
‘Ungannia will not be able to withstand the bishop’s army combined with the Sword Brothers,’ stated Conrad.
‘Or indeed your army, Conrad,’ said Bernhard, which resulted in more fists hitting the table top.
Conrad held up his hands to request quiet. ‘But first I intend to occupy Jerwen.’
Andres looked at him in surprise.
‘That’s right, Andres. You and your men have been away from their homeland for too long. The Army of the Wolf will therefore free Jerwen before it marches south to assist in the capture of Dorpat.’
Conrad thought he detected tears in Andres’ eyes but the big Jerwen raised his cup to Conrad and downed his beer in one gulp.
‘Go and tell your men, Andres, that they are marching to free their families, villages and farms. We leave in two days.’
*****
Novgorod’s veche was packed with the city’s finest as a grim-faced Mikhail Vsevolodovich stood before the assembled delegates. He had accepted their offer to be the new prince of Novgorod. He was a member of the ancient and prestigious Rurik dynasty, a descendant of the Varangian Prince Rurik who had been invited by the people of Novgorod to be the ruler of their city some three hundred and fifty years before. He had been away from the city for some months, having taken part in a great campaign against a cruel enemy from Asia. A coalition of Russian princes and Cumans had gathered in the Ukraine to stop these infidel raiders who some called Mongols. Rumours had reached northern Russia of subsequent events but now the veche was informed of what had happened by one who had been there.
‘Eighty thousand Russian soldiers were deployed in battle order near a river called the Kalka,’ said Mikhail. ‘We greatly outnumbered the eastern devils and were confident of victory. What followed I can only attribute to God deserting u
s for the enemy horsemen charged and unleashed deadly volleys of arrows. Hundreds were cut down before our own horsemen had a chance to reply.’
There was a collective groan as he continued his tale of woe.
‘When our horsemen charged the enemy retreated. But it was only a ruse to lure them away from the rest of the army. The enemy suddenly turned and engulfed our mounted warriors. None returned. And then the slaughter began. The enemy, all horsemen and armed with spears and bows, rode around our men and peppered them with arrows. For hours they shot at our men, gradually whittling down our numbers until the sons of Russia could take no more. They ran. We tried to rally them but to no avail. Only darkness saved the army from total annihilation.’
He cast his head down and spread his long arms.
‘How many men rallied after the battle, highness?’ enquired Yuri Nevsky.
‘Twenty thousand survived the battle,’ reported Mikhail, ‘though only because the Mongols did not follow up their victory.’
Sixty thousand men killed was almost an incomprehensible number. Men looked at each other in despair and alarm. What if these Mongols returned and headed north instead of west?
‘We must look to our own defences,’ said Mikhail. ‘The strength of Novgorod must be directed towards the defence of this kingdom. There can be no more expeditions against the Danes or Sword Brothers.’
This declaration was met with warm applause. Mikhail held up an arm and the hall fell silent.
‘The defences of this city are strong and the Mongols have no siege engines. They are raiders and plunderers so we should not be unduly alarmed.’
More applause greeted this declaration. Mikhail smiled, knowing that if the Asian horsemen returned they would probably overrun the Kingdom of Novgorod with ease. He had never seen such ferocious and, crucially, well-organised horsemen and he feared their return.