by Peter Darman
Bishop Albert had been treated like a returning conquering hero by the great cities of northern Germany and he had lost count of the number of banquets he had attended in his honour. But as the winter turned to spring and he prepared to return to Livonia a terrible realisation had dawned on him: everyone believed that the war in Livonia had been won and thus there was no need to go on crusade against the Baltic pagans.
‘I will have to stay in Germany for another year,’ declared Albert without any enthusiasm.
He picked at the venison on the silver platter in front of him and then pushed it away, sighing with frustration. A young monk dressed in a white habit came forward to fill his goblet with wine. Albert waved him away. Lübeck’s bishop’s palace reflected Albert’s position as a ‘prince’ of the church, being a two-storey brick building filled with a court, reception rooms, bedrooms, dining hall, kitchens, library and private chapel.
Theodoric looked around at the silver candleholders, silver platters and rich furnishings that covered the walls and chairs.
‘Perhaps the church could purchase more mercenaries to bolster our numbers in Livonia.’
Theodoric had spent nearly three months in Novgorod as the guest of Prince Mstislav, during which time they had thrashed out a peace treaty of sorts that gave Novgorod access to the Gauja as a trade route. In the depths of winter the prince had given him an escort to make the journey back to Riga, from where he had taken ship as soon as the ice had left the Dvina. Formerly the Abbot of Dünamünde Monastery, a fortified oasis of calm west of Riga, he had been created Bishop of Estonia by Albert and was eager to take up his bishopric, half of which was still under pagan control.
‘You need knights on horseback to win wars,’ said Abbot Bernhard.
‘I fear it is so,’ remarked Albert, casting him further into despair.
The silence was uncomfortable as both Theodoric and Bernhard decided it would be bad manners to continue eating while Bishop Albert sat glum faced, and so they indicated to the monks standing behind them to take their platters away.
Albert toyed with the gold ring on the fourth finger of his right hand and then looked at Bernhard.
‘Abbot, as a man who was a veteran of many campaigns before God called you, what would be your advice on how to resolve the problem of recruiting sufficient numbers of holy warriors?’
Bernhard had replaced Theodoric as Abbot of Dünamünde, having given up his position of Lord of Lippe to enter the church. A hard-bitten soldier, he had entered the Cistercian Order as a simple monk but his talents had been brought to the attention of Theodoric. He was now nearly seventy-eight years old and rather frail, but his mind was as sharp as a newly forged blade.
‘The Sword Brothers alone are not strong enough to conquer northern Estonia while at the same time holding the garrisons along the Dvina and Gauja,’ he said. ‘The new crusade in the Holy Land might make recruiting sufficient numbers of knights difficult as many of them will have joined that expedition. It will be a hard task to persuade men to go to Livonia if they believe that it is merely a case of mopping up the last pagan dregs.’
‘You do not offer much hope, abbot,’ remarked Albert dryly.
‘There is one person who might listen to an appeal for assistance,’ said Bernhard.
‘Who?’ asked Theodoric.
‘The King of Denmark.’
Albert raised an eyebrow. ‘Valdemar?’
‘The Danes have always taken an interest in the Estonians and Oeselians, especially when the pagans attacked their shipping. Before you created Livonia, lord bishop,’ said Bernhard, ‘Danish ships frequently raided Estonia’s shores.’
‘Would Valdemar be amenable to offering his support to the bishop’s crusade?’ asked Theodoric.
‘He has the ships and the soldiers,’ replied Bernhard, ‘and he is an ambitious king.’
‘That much is true,’ remarked Albert.
Valdemar had been on the throne for sixteen years and during that time he had expanded Danish control over northern Germany and southern Norway.
‘An ambitious king is not easily controlled,’ warned Theodoric. ‘What is to stop him annexing parts of Estonia for himself?’
Bernhard shrugged. ‘Nothing. I did not say that requesting Danish aid was the most desirable option, only that at the present time it appears to be the only one.’
Albert waved a finger at them both. ‘His Holiness the Pope has given me authority to direct the crusade in Livonia, and I doubt that Valdemar would dare to oppose the Holy See.’
‘You will have to go to his court, lord bishop,’ said Bernhard. ‘Kings do not take kindly to being ordered around by bishops.’
Albert’s face broke into a smile. ‘A small price to pay for victory over the pagans. We will all go. I shall write to him requesting an audience.’
Albert stayed in Lübeck for the next three weeks while he waited for an answer from the Danish court. During that time he bade farewell to those crusaders who had volunteered for service in Livonia, a mere hundred men under a German nobleman named Henry Borewin. He gave the latter a letter addressed to Grand Master Volquin, the commander of the Sword Brothers, lamenting the inadequate numbers of crusaders travelling to Livonia but hoping to have better news following his audience with King Valdemar.
An envoy arrived from the king along with a ship for conveying the bishop and his party to Denmark. Valdemar sent one of his chief commanders, Henry, Count of Schwerin, to ensure the bishop arrived safely. Schwerin was located around thirty miles southeast of Lübeck and, like the latter, was under Danish control. The count had been allowed to return to his city on condition that he recognised and served Valdemar as his liege lord. Bishop Albert thought the count’s resolute countenance, combined with his height, was familiar even though he had never met him before.
The count said little during the journey north to the island of Zealand where the Danish royal court was located. The bishop stood with Theodoric and Bernhard on the ship’s deck as its sail was furled and two small rowing boats pulled it into Roskilde Fjord’s harbour. The latter was crowded with ships and boats of all sizes, from great cogs to the smaller snekke, a longship designed for carrying soldiers, karv with sixteen pairs of oars, and byrding – a freight carrier designed for sailing along the coast. The royal capital was certainly a flourishing maritime trading centre and was also the location of the royal mint and the site of a great brick cathedral and other churches and monasteries. The city itself was set back from the harbour and was surrounded by an imposing white stone wall.
‘We will stay in the city tonight, lord bishop,’ said Count Henry who had come to stand beside Albert, ‘and in the morning we travel to the king’s residence.’
Albert was surprised. ‘The king does not reside in his capital?’
The count gave him a jaded look. ‘The queen finds the city not to her liking so she and the king live in Dronningholm Castle. It lies twenty miles to the north. We passed it on the way here.’
‘Makes no sense to sail here just to ride back north,’ said Bernhard bluntly.
The count smiled. ‘Many things concerning the king’s wife make little sense.’
Bishop Albert was surprised that the count would talk about the wife of his lord thus, but then remembered that Count Henry had once been a prisoner of Valdemar and perhaps that episode still rankled with him. But he said no more about the queen and when the ship had docked he escorted the two bishops and abbot to the monastery beside the cathedral, a large stone building with thick walls and small windows sited beside the brick cathedral in the centre of the city. There they were greeted by Bishop Peter of Roskilde, a portly man wearing a golden mitre, a gold pectoral cross dangling from a green cord around his neck.
The travellers were fed well that night and the next morning rode north on splendid horses provided by the bishop’s private stables: well-groomed palfreys with smooth gaits and fitted with plush saddlery. Bishop Peter himself joined the party, riding on a magnificent bl
ack stallion that had been groomed so much that its coat shimmered in the spring sunshine. He was not only the Bishop of Roskilde but was also the king’s chancellor, responsible for Valdemar’s external affairs. Count Henry’s soldiers, horsemen wearing surcoats emblazoned with his coat of arms – a yellow griffin on a blue background – and attired in mail, provided the escort, the count himself riding with the two bishops and Abbot Bernhard. The latter’s presence intrigued the count, who was well acquainted with the military career of the Bernhard von Lippe, the former warrior who now wore a simple white woollen mantle and tunic.
‘You do not wear your sword, lord,’ said Count Henry.
‘My time as a soldier is over,’ replied the abbot. ‘And my title now is “abbot”.’
‘Do you not miss the sound of trumpets and the clash of steel, abbot?’ probed the count.
Bernhard sighed. ‘They are with me always, count. They fill my dreams every night. There is no escape from the horrors one has committed, count.’
Count Henry looked at him. ‘Not even for a man of God?’
‘Not even for a man of God.’
Though they were surrounded by an armed guard there was little need for soldiers as they rode north along a track snaking across a lush green landscape. Zealand, like the rest of Denmark, was blessed with a mild climate, fertile soil and evenly distributed rainfall. The landscape was dotted with timber-framed buildings with walls of wattle-and-daub and roofs of trussed rafters. Cattle grazed on the abundant grassland. Farmers walked behind ploughs hitched to oxen to grow the grain that fed their families and was given as tithes to either the local lord or to the church. The herds of cattle produced milk, butter and cheese in abundance, which meant that the population grew, the church and nobility prospered and Denmark’s kings had men and money to fight their wars.
Bishop Albert pulled up his horse and rested his hands on his saddle’s pommel. He studied the verdant terrain of Zealand. Count Henry rode his horse to his side.
‘Is your horse lame, lord bishop?’
‘One day Livonia will look like this,’ he mused.
‘That day is some way off yet, brother,’ said Theodoric.
‘But we have made a start, a good start,’ replied Albert.
Count Henry looked around. ‘I have heard bishop, that Livonia is all forests and lakes where the pagans walk around naked covered in mud.’
Bernhard laughed. ‘You should not always believe what you hear, count. It is true that there is an abundance of forests, rivers and lakes, but the area around Riga is beginning to resemble what you see before you: flat land filled with fields and farms.’
‘And Estonia is more open and rolling than you would think, count,’ added Theodoric. ‘It is a fine country.’
‘Filled with savages,’ said the count.
‘Filled with those who have yet to receive the wisdom of God’s word,’ Bishop Albert corrected him, urging his horse forward to recommence their journey.
‘How many farms does your lord bishop control?’ Bernhard asked Peter.
‘The Bishop of Roskilde has the revenues of two and a half thousand farms to maintain him in his position,’ answered Count Henry.
‘The office of chancellor is expensive to support,’ said Bishop Peter without irony.
‘I fear Livonia is far behind when it comes to wealth,’ remarked Bernhard.
‘But we have the Dvina’s trade,’ said Bishop Albert.
‘And the Gauja’s,’ added Theodoric.
Albert turned to Count Henry. ‘My brother bishop recently spent some time among the Russians brokering a peace treaty that has opened up a new trade route through Livonia.’
Count Henry was surprised. ‘You deal with schismatics?’
‘We hope to bring the followers of the Byzantine church back into the fold,’ said Bishop Albert, ‘but that must wait until Estonia has been subdued.’
‘Pray God that day will be soon,’ said Bishop Peter solemnly.
Three hours after they had left the prosperous confines of Roskilde the bishop’s party reached the grandiose Dronningholm Castle. Built entirely of brick and surrounded by a wide, deep moat, it was enclosed by a great stone wall and sited on a strip of land between Roskilde Fjord and Lake Arreso. The drawbridge that spanned the moat gave access to an impressive gatehouse through which the party rode. From every tower flew the standard of King Valdemar: three blue lions surrounded by small red hearts on a yellow background. In the cobbled courtyard their horses were taken from them and taken to the stables. The constable of the castle, a thin man who appeared to have the weight of the world on his shoulders, bowed his head to the churchmen and Count Henry and asked them to accompany him into the keep. The latter stood on the opposite side of the courtyard to the gatehouse and contained the main hall where the king and queen received their guests. The count dismissed his soldiers who took their horses to the stables adjacent to the gatehouse.
‘Beware the queen,’ the count whispered to Bishop Albert, ‘she has a sharp tongue and is not afraid to use it.’
Guards in yellow and blue livery stood sentry at the entrance to the main hall, around its wall and behind the dais where the monarchs sat on their high-backed thrones. From the walls hung the standards and banners captured by Valdemar and his father during their wars of conquests, though diplomatically the flag of Schwerin was not among them. The three bishops and abbot halted at the entrance as Henry and Bishop Peter approached the thrones. The count’s face was a mask of iron indifference as he strode to the dais, halted and bowed his head to Valdemar and then to the queen. Bishop Peter also bowed his head and then took up a position on the right side of the king, next to the dais.
‘Majesty, may I present Bishop Albert of Riga, Bishop Theodoric of Estonia and Abbot Bernhard of Dünamünde?’
The king waved the group forward as the count moved to stand beside the chancellor. Light flooded into the hall from windows set high in the walls on each side and behind the dais. Above the latter hung a great banner displaying Valdemar’s three lions. Now nearly fifty, the king had a narrow face and a long nose that made his visage appear even more slender. Albert noticed that there was no grey in his shoulder-length hair or beard, unlike his own which was now liberally flecked with white. He and the others bowed to Valdemar.
‘We are pleased to meet you bishops, and you Abbot Bernhard, late Lord of Lippe and valiant warrior.’
Bernhard bowed again to the king. ‘You are too kind, majesty.’
The king pointed at the constable who turned and ordered a servant holding a tray of silver goblets to come forward. The boy walked to the dais, bowed his head and proffered the tray to the king, who took one of the vessels. The queen was served next, who likewise accepted a goblet. Another servant appeared with a second tray and proceeded to serve the guests with wine while the first one gave wine to Count Henry and Bishop Peter. The king stood and raised his goblet to Bishop Albert.
‘To victory in Estonia.’
Albert smiled as the others repeated the toast and drank from their goblets. He liked this king. The queen sighed loudly and waved over one of the servants, placing her goblet on the tray before retaking her throne beside the king. Valdemar was rather plain looking notwithstanding his blue silk tunic and yellow surcoat bearing a single blue lion. His wife however, was a raven-haired beauty. Queen Berengaria of Portugal was twenty years younger than the king and had dark-brown eyes, flawless olive skin and full lips. She had the looks to melt the hardest heart and it was ironic that her own heart was as cold as ice. She had been married to the king for four years, during which time she had given birth to two sons and one daughter. This had made the king immensely happy but his people, subjected to increasingly heavy taxes to pay for his foreign wars, did not share Valdemar’s love for his wife. In fact the Danes despised Berengaria, blaming her for the burdens placed upon them. For her part she was only too pleased to reciprocate their animosity. They called her taeve – ‘bitch’ – and Bishop Albert was abo
ut to find out why.
Valdemar drained his goblet and placed it on the servant’s tray as the others likewise unburdened themselves of their drinking vessels.
‘We are happy to support your crusade against the heathens, bishop,’ the king informed Albert. ‘I have heard much about the triumphs of the Sword Brothers.’
He leaned towards Albert. ‘Tell me, is it true that one cut off the head of this Lembit, the leader of the pagans?’
Albert nodded. ‘Yes, majesty. A brother knight named Conrad Wolff smote him with his own axe.’
Valdemar clapped his hands together. ‘I would have liked to have seen that.’
‘We have heard that the pagans were defeated on St Matthew’s Day,’ said the queen.
‘That is true, majesty,’ smiled Albert.
‘Then why do you seek our help with your crusade against a beaten foe?’
Albert smiled graciously. ‘Though the Estonians are defeated, there are remnants of resistance that still survive and need to be vanquished.’
‘And vanquished they shall be,’ stated Valdemar firmly.
‘You are truly a generous and noble king,’ enthused Theodoric.
‘Generous, certainly,’ sneered the queen.
Count Henry frowned but the king laughed it off.
‘I shall be happy to lend my support to your crusade, Bishop Albert. Count Henry, when can an army be readied to sail to Estonia?’
Henry stepped forward to face the king. ‘I fear that it will take many months to assemble the ships, supplies, horses and men, majesty.’
‘Next year, then,’ said the king. ‘It is the best I can do, it would seem.’
‘God will reward you, majesty,’ smiled Albert.
‘And what reward will the church give my husband?’ asked the queen. ‘For am I right in thinking that without Danish help your crusade will come to a halt?’