Castellan

by Peter Darman

  On the fourth day they neared an Ungannian village that looked very similar to the dozens of others within the kingdom.

  ‘Do you recognise this place?’ Conrad asked his companions.

  ‘No,’ muttered Hans.

  Anton shrugged and Leatherface was too busy yanking the ropes pulling the oxen to notice.

  ‘It is called Restu,’ announced Conrad proudly.

  Blank faces stared back at him. He frowned at them.

  ‘Let me give you another clue. Do you remember two old men and two boys from that village who offered battle when we were stealing their cattle?’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Leatherface, ‘when you rode forward on your own without waiting for me to accompany you. Very foolish. It only takes a lucky throw of a spear to bring down even a mighty Sword Brother.’

  ‘Well this is the place,’ replied Conrad. ‘I told the old man that I would bring back his cattle and so I have.’

  ‘These aren’t his cattle,’ said Anton, ‘they are from Dorpat.’

  ‘I’m sure the villagers or indeed the cattle won’t mind,’ his friend replied.

  ‘We are about to find out,’ said Leatherface, pointing ahead to where a group of people was walking from the village.

  Dressed mostly in linen shirts, trousers and skirts, some wearing hats in the summer heat, a quick glance revealed there to be more women than men and of the latter most had white or thinning hair. Conrad wondered where all the men of fighting age were. He realised with a shock that they had probably all been killed following Kristjan. He hoped that some were still making their way home but doubted it.

  ‘Say nothing about the fall of Dorpat,’ he told the others before the villagers arrived. ‘I don’t want to plant the idea in their minds that their men aren’t coming home.’

  ‘Why not?’ grunted Hans. ‘It’s true.’

  The villagers were led by a man with a white beard and hair that fell to his shoulders – the same individual who had tried to prevent Conrad from stealing the settlement’s cattle when he and the others had last visited Restu.

  ‘Stay here,’ said Conrad.

  He dismounted and pulled down the mail coif that covered his head as the old man led the villagers towards him. This time he carried only a spear. A boy, whom Conrad assumed was his grandson, also carried a spear and a couple of the other elderly men held bows. Their leader held up an arm to halt the villagers as he continued to walk forward purposely. Conrad stepped towards him until they were only a few paces apart.

  ‘Greetings, friend,’ he said. ‘I have come to return your cattle, as I promised I would.’

  The old man rested the end of his spear on the ground and peered past Conrad to stare at the cattle that were munching on grass. He also saw the oxen.

  ‘Did you steal the oxen from another village, Sword Brother?’

  Conrad was slightly taken aback that the old man had not been more grateful.

  ‘They are the property of my order and are for your village, too. A gift from the Sword Brothers.’

  Now it was the elderly man’s turn to be discomfited.

  ‘Well, I thank you for that. They will be invaluable to assist in the ploughing this year. Many of our menfolk have failed to return from the war, though their wives are hopeful that they may still see them before the leaves turn brown.’

  Conrad knew otherwise. ‘I hope so, sir.’

  The man turned and raised his arms to get the attention of the villagers.

  ‘Our cattle have been returned and the Sword Brothers have given us a pair of oxen as well.’

  His words were met with joyous acclaim from the villagers who rushed forward to take possession of the beasts, the cattle scattering in alarm as they did so. Leatherface threw the ropes attached to the oxen to a gangly teenage boy.

  ‘You’re welcome to them,’ said the mercenary.

  Another youth ran up to his grandfather. Conrad smiled. The last time he had seen the boy moving fast he had been trying to run him through with a spear. This time he wore a beaming smile instead of a hateful scowl.

  ‘Have you been practising your skills with a spear?’

  ‘Yes, sir. My grandfather has been teaching me.’

  Conrad looked at the sinewy old man with skin like leather. He had the appearance of a man who had seen his fair share of fighting in his long life.

  ‘A good teacher, I’m sure. What is your name?

  ‘Arri,’ replied the boy.

  ‘I have something for you.’

  Hans and Anton sat in their saddles smiling as the young women and old men of the village gathered in the cattle and began patting the oxen. To them they were just two beasts of burden but to the villagers they were the means that would allow them to plough the fields to plant their crops. As such they were a gift more precious than gold. Conrad walked to one of the packhorses that carried tents and supplies and extracted something wrapped in a red cloth. He walked back to Arri and handed it to the boy. The youth’s eyes lit up when he removed the cloth to reveal a sword in an iron scabbard bound with leather.

  ‘It is called a myech,’ Conrad said as the boy pulled the blade from its scabbard and marvelled at the straight, two-edged blade. ‘It is Russian but now belongs to you.’

  ‘What do you say, Arri?’ said his grandfather sternly.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ whispered a stunned Arri.

  ‘I’m sure your grandfather will teach you how to keep it clean and use it well,’ smiled Conrad.

  ‘Help the others to get the cattle into the village, Arri,’ commanded his grandfather.

  Arri grinned broadly at Conrad, carefully replaced the sword in its scabbard and ran off to help gather in the cows, scabbard clutched to his chest.

  ‘You are very clever, Sword Brother,’ said the old man.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘You give a fine sword to a boy knowing that by doing so he will remember you with affection and perhaps yearn to be like you.’

  Conrad feigned surprise. ‘I found it lying on the ground and thought it could be put to good use, that is all.’

  ‘Its owner was very remiss in mislaying it.’

  Conrad’s lips curled into a thin smile as he remembered the dead Russian bodies around the warrior with the green cloak he had killed at Dorpat.

  ‘He has no use for it any more. If your grandson has a mind in the future to become a soldier rather than a farmer, send him to me. He will be warmly received. And now, sir, I must leave you.’

  Conrad nodded at the man and turned to walk back to his horse.

  ‘What hear you of the war?’ the grandfather called after him.

  ‘There is no war,’ said Conrad, ‘Ungannia is at peace.’

  ‘What is your name Sword Brother? In case my grandson decides to take you up on your offer.’

  ‘Conrad Wolff, Marshal of Estonia.’

  The three Sword Brothers and Leatherface left the inhabitants of Restu happy and one boy deliriously so. Now free from their bovine guests they could make good progress back to Dorpat as the afternoon sun abated in its fury.

  ‘That was a generous gift for a total stranger,’ said Anton.

  ‘It was not a gift, it was an investment,’ Conrad told him.

  Anton gave him a bemused look.

  ‘Now that the war against Ungannia is over,’ announced Conrad, ‘we have to ensure that its people are loyal to the Sword Brothers. Today we have ensured that those who live in the village of Restu are our friends, not our enemies.’

  ‘Loyal to the Sword Brothers or loyal to you, Marshal of Estonia?’ queried Leatherface.

  ‘They are one and the same,’ Conrad told him.

  Chapter 13

  The crowd shouted ‘Lamekins, Lamekins’ as the prince escorted the body of Duke Butantas to the tent of Duke Arturus. Soldiers were deliriously happy; a mixture of disbelief and relief that they not only still lived but had won another victory. A victory snatched from the jaws of defeat in the valley of the Venta River. The riv
er, some eighty miles south of the Dvina, flowed from the heartland of Samogitia and Arturus believed that a small, mobile army marching alongside the Venta could deliver a fatal blow to the Kingdom of Samogitia. So he had collected three thousand horsemen and the same number of foot and had led them into the heart of Duke Butantas’ domain, only to run into an army three times the size of his own.

  Abandoning his wagons and wounded, Arturus had retraced his steps through the Venta Valley, every day enemy horsemen harassed his retreating army. The Kurs had been disheartened to discover that they faced not only the Samogitians but also the Aukstaitjans, for unknown to Arturus Butantas had convinced Duke Kitenis to send him reinforcements. Butantas had reasoned, convincingly, that if Samogitia fell to the Kurs then Aukstaitija would suffer the same fate. No one trusted Vsevolod, ‘the Russian’, whose duplicity was well known. And so Kitenis had despatched horsemen and foot soldiers to Butantas. These and his son conducted a skilful campaign against the Kurs. Whilst their foot created a cordon around Arturus’ army Ykintas had darted in with groups of horsemen to torment the Kurs, inflicting a steady stream of casualties. The morale of the Kurs plummeted and that of their enemies soared and after five days of incessant harassment Butantas believed that one final assault would finish the Kurs and rid the world of the heinous Duke Arturus. But he had reckoned without the genius of Prince Lamekins.

  The Kur army had been boxed in on an expanse of flat plain against the river, the soldiers of Butantas surrounding them on three sides with the horsemen under Prince Ykintas mustered in the centre with their backs against a great forest of birch. The duke and his son had expected the Kurs to recommence their march west, towards Kurland, but instead Arturus’ men attacked. The assault was furious and unexpected and was led by Lamekins at the head of the Kur horsemen. They charged through the bleary eyed Samogitian foot soldiers and smashed into Ykintas’ horsemen. Ykintas himself fought bravely but was soon separated from his men who were pushed back towards the forest under relentless pressure. When they were forced back into the trees their discipline collapsed and they fled, whereupon Lamekins rallied his tired horsemen and led them back onto the plain to attack the enemy foot.

  Butantas, leading the foot soldiers of Samogitia and Aukstaitija, was now being assaulted from two sides and his men began to give way. For four days they had been chasing the enemy west and had believed that the Kurs were on their last legs. But instead of a glorious victory on the morning of the fifth day they were being cut to pieces. Many ran, more were killed in the fighting but at the end of the morning there were no Samogitians or Aukstaitijans in sight, only a carpet of their dead. Among them was Duke Butantas.

  ‘Behold Duke Butantas, lord,’ smiled Lamekins, his chainmail ripped and his helmet dented, ‘the late ruler of Samogitia.’

  Arturus, himself bleeding and looking half dead, walked from the entrance of his tent and embraced his deputy, to more cheers.

  He raised his arms. ‘Kurland.’

  His men chanted ‘Kurland, Kurland,’ as the duke ordered the body to be taken away and beckoned Lamekins inside. They both flopped down into chairs, exhausted.

  ‘What are our losses?’ asked Arturus.

  ‘Around five hundred of our horsemen fell today, lord,’ replied Lamekins, ‘though more of the enemy did so.’

  Arturus pointed at him. ‘I will not forget this day, Lamekins. Only your brilliance stood between our victory and what should have been our deaths. I was stupid to believe that I could conquer Samogitia with so few men. I will not make the same mistake again.’

  Lamekins smiled. ‘As the gods are smiling on us we should take advantage of their generosity and pursue the enemy.’

  Arturus rubbed his tired eyes. ‘If the gods exist, which I doubt, I am sure they have better things to do than smile on us. Besides, our men are on their last legs. We return to Kurland and prepare for next year’s campaign.’

  ‘What about Vsevolod, lord?’

  Arturus leaned back in his chair. His whole body ached from having little sleep in over a week.

  ‘Our scheming Russian friend has no allies, which means he has no one to do his fighting for him, which means that he will make no offensive moves against us.’

  ‘Then we will complete the conquest of Samogitia next year, lord?’

  Arturus rubbed his eyes and looked at his deputy. ‘We are in the happy position of being able to choose what enemy shall fall to us first, Lamekins. Samogitia or Selonia.’

  *****

  Once again Selonia and Nalsen had been spared a Kur invasion. The harvest had been a good one, the people were well fed and healthy and the autumn signalled that the campaigning season was over for another year. Yet a sense of doom permeated every facet of life in those two kingdoms. Men’s hearts had been cheered when they heard the news that Duke Arturus was leading an army into Samogitia for it meant that the Kurs would not be making war on them. But the mood of the people had darkened with the news that the elderly and frail Kriviu Krivaitis, the high priest of their religion, had finally died. His body had been cremated in the sacred grove near to Panemunis where the eternal flame burnt. The kriviai, the white-robed priests who expounded the will of the gods to the people, declared a month of mourning and gathered to choose a successor, the one who would have been chief priest having been killed by Arturus. But the absence of a Kriviu Krivaitis was seen as an ill omen and the people were cast into the pit of despair by the news of the defeat and death of Duke Butantas.

  Mindaugas was all for mustering an army and marching to the aid of Prince Ykintas, who had taken refuge with his wife and an entourage in the east of Samogitia. Rasa, egged on by Morta, had also recommended such an action but Vsevolod had vetoed it. He had no desire to suffer the same fate as Butantas, though he did not tell his wife and son-in-law this, and in any case he doubted if any army he put in the field would fare any better against the Kurs than the soldiers of Butantas.

  Vsevolod stopped and looked out from the battlements of Panemunis. Beyond the wooden palisade extended a land of unbroken greenery. It was a vision of lush forests, rolling plains, hillocks covered with white birch groves and glittering blue lakes. He rested his hands on the top of the wooden battlements.

  ‘I want you to deliver a letter for me.’

  Aras stopped and looked surprised. ‘Letter, lord?’

  Vsevolod looked left and right to ensure no guards were within earshot.

  ‘The letter I am about to write to the Bishop of Riga. I want you to take it to Riga and deliver it personally.’

  Aras, dressed in black boots, leggings and a thick leather tunic, stroked his neatly trimmed beard.

  ‘May I enquire the nature of this correspondence, lord?’

  Vsevolod again made sure that they were far enough away from the nearest tower so as not to be heard.

  ‘Before I answer tell me this, Aras. Do you think that we can prevail if we march against Arturus, as Mindaugas desires?’

  ‘No,’ stated Aras flatly.

  ‘And do you believe that Panemunis will be targeted next year when Arturus once again casts his gaze to the east.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I am faced with a dilemma,’ said Vsevolod. ‘To do nothing will result in Arturus arriving at the gates of this fortress. To take action will result in the destruction of my army, after which Arturus will arrive at the gates of this fortress anyway. Feel free to interrupt me if you disagree with anything I say.’

  Aras remained silent.

  ‘Our allies,’ continued Vsevolod, ‘such as they are, lie dead, demoralised or reluctant to leave their kingdoms. We are alone, Aras, and to compound our misfortune that old idiot chief priest decided that he would die at a most inappropriate time.’

  Aras looked at the prince. He was immaculately dressed in a white tunic in the Byzantine style with narrow wrist-length sleeves and a high-cut neckline, over which he wore a red dalmatica with wide, straight sleeves shorter than the tunic’s and belted at the waist. H
is green leggings matched the colour of his boots and the white, fur-lined cloak he wore was clasped at the right shoulder by means of a silver griffin brooch. Many of his chiefs and elders derided Vsevolod for what they saw as his effeminate dress but the former ruler of Gerzika never abandoned his Russian roots.

  ‘So you are asking the Bishop of Riga for aid, lord?’

  Vsevolod smirked. ‘Not aid, Aras. I will invite him to cross the Dvina to take possession of Semgallia, thus creating a bulwark between us and Duke Arturus.’

  Aras’ black eyes narrowed.

  ‘You disagree?’ asked Vsevolod. ‘If you have a better proposition then by all means tell me.’

  ‘The Christians crossed the Dvina before, lord. It did not end well for the Bishop of Riga. But if he accepts your offer then you invite an angry bear into Lithuania, one that will be reluctant to leave.’

  Vsevolod brought his hands together.

  ‘Let me put another image into your mind. If the Bishop of Riga and Kurs lock horns and bleed each other white, who benefits? We do. It gives us time, Aras. Time to rebuild our strength, to forge a new alliance while the Catholics and Kurs kill each other.’

  Aras said nothing as he stared at the landscape of Selonia.

  ‘I would have your opinion,’ snapped Vsevolod. ‘Speak freely.’

  ‘I have heard that the Bishop of Riga has recently won a great victory in Estonia.’

  Vsevolod nodded.

  ‘Now that Riga is no longer blockaded,’ continued Aras, ‘it grows rich from trade with Novgorod and Polotsk. Both it and the Sword Brothers are stronger than they were when they first crossed the Dvina. My worry is that this time they will prove too strong to eject from Semgallia, lord.’

  ‘That is a price I am prepared to pay,’ said Vsevolod grimly, ‘for the alternative is too dreadful to even consider.’