by Peter Darman
‘We do not seek any reward,’ Valdemar reproached her.
‘Of course not,’ said Berengaria, ‘but Count Henry, is it not correct that in war the victor keeps his conquests.’
‘As you say, majesty,’ replied Henry.
Theodoric looked annoyed. ‘His Holiness the Pope has bequeathed Estonia to the servants of the Holy Church, majesty.’
Berengaria shot him a hateful look. ‘Has he, bishop? The chancellor informed me before you arrived that you are the Bishop of Estonia.’
Theodoric smiled at her. ‘That is correct, majesty.’
The queen curled her lip. ‘But how do you intend to assume your bishopric without the assistance of Danish soldiers?’
She looked at Count Henry. ‘Perhaps we should send our German subjects to subdue the pagans.’
The count seethed but retained his composure.
‘I am always ready to serve you, majesty,’ he said.
‘Of course you are,’ stated Valdemar. ‘We all are. It’s settled, then. Next year I shall sail with a great fleet to crush the pagans and establish the Holy Church in Estonia.’
But the queen had not finished with the topic of the crusade in Livonia and after the meeting, when the king’s guests had been settled in their quarters, Berengaria poured honeyed words into Valdemar’s ears.
‘You really should not speak to princes of the church in such a way, my dear.’
She closed the door to their bedroom and began kissing his ear.
‘But you should not let the church take advantage of you, great king.’
She progressed from his ear to kissing his neck, and then went down on her knees before him.
‘It is a great honour to go on crusade,’ he said, his voice quivering as she unbuckled his sword belt and eased down his breeches.
‘I know,’ she replied, gently kissing the tops of his legs, ‘but you should be rewarded for your service.’
He gasped as she pulled down his cotton undergarments and began licking his thighs.
‘Besides, the pope has given Estonia to the church.’
‘Write to him, my love. He will listen to a great king such as you.’
They were the last words she spoke before her lips and tongue pleasured him in a most wondrous way.
*****
‘What does he want me to do with them?’
Domash Tverdislavich was far from happy. Ever since his defeat before Odenpah he had been in Prince Mstislav’s disfavour, and had only kept his head and position as mayor of Pskov because he had sent Bishop Theodoric of the Roman Church to Novgorod to negotiate a trade treaty with the prince. It was lucky for Domash that the merchants of northern Europe craved the pelts of the grey-white squirrel that was only found in northern Russia to supply to clothing manufacturers throughout Germany and beyond. Novgorod already supplied the fur – musk, marten, sable and ermine – to Byzantium, but the demand for squirrel, black fox and white wolf pelts in Europe meant another, highly lucrative trade route could be opened to the west. Novgorod’s furs already travelled along the Dvina but Bishop Theodoric had proposed a new, shorter route down the River Gauja. Both rivers were controlled by the Sword Brothers and in return for peace and Mstislav’s promise not to seize Ungannia, a trade agreement had been ratified between Livonia and Novgorod.
Yaroslav Nevsky stood in the hall of the mayor’s palace with his helmet in the crook of his arm and looked vacant. One of Mstislav’s most able commanders, he had recently been the prince’s son-in-law until he had divorced his wife because she was barren. The prince understood but for the sake of family honour had temporarily banished Yaroslav from Novgorod until his daughter’s rage and grief had subsided. He had sent him south to reinforce the garrison of Pskov, along with two hundred Cuman warriors.
‘The prince said that you might have use of them,’ said Yaroslav at length.
Domash liked Yaroslav. The pair had taken part in the abortive winter campaign against Odenpah, but the last thing he need in his city were two hundred Cuman warriors.
‘The garrison is quite adequate without two hundred barbarians to bolster it,’ said Domash. ‘I will send them back to Novgorod.’
Yaroslav shifted uncomfortably on his feet. ‘May I say something?’
Domash sat back in his chair. ‘If you must.’
‘The prince did not want the Cumans at Novgorod.’
‘I bet he didn’t,’ said Gleb who was lounging in a chair near to where Domash sat.
‘Thank you, Gleb,’ snapped Domash, ‘when I want your opinion I will ask for it.’
Dressed in a bright blue tunic and light brown leggings, Gleb waved an arm at his master and grinned at Yaroslav. No one knew where Gleb came from but he was a Skomorokh, a mystic that the common people believed to be descended from the ancient pagan priests long before the birth of the Orthodox Church. As such he was revered and feared in equal measure. The priests of the church hated him but because of his great influence among the barely Christian common folk, Domash kept him as a sort of lucky, if impertinent, mascot.
‘I’ll warrant Mstislav sometimes regrets marrying a Cuman princess when his relatives arrive at the gates of his city,’ remarked Gleb, ignoring Domash’s order to be silent. He smiled at the mayor. ‘Still, they’re your problem now.’
‘Make sure they are kept outside the city,’ he ordered Yaroslav. ‘I don’t want them getting drunk and causing trouble.’
‘They have brought their families with them,’ said Yaroslav.
Domash shook his head. ‘It gets worse.’
‘Their commander is outside lord,’ continued Yaroslav. ‘He wishes to pay his respects.’
‘Cuman and respect, two words that do not readily go together,’ remarked Gleb.
‘Shut up!’ commanded Domash.
‘The commander’s wife is with him,’ said Yaroslav apologetically.
‘Ha!’ Gleb could barely control his glee. ‘Some foul old hag from the steppes no doubt, whose ugliness surpasses the old nag she rides. You know what they say about Cuman women, don’t you?’
Domash was ignoring him but Yaroslav looked at the mystic in confusion.
‘That all women have a right to be ugly,’ roared Gleb, ‘but Cuman females abuse the privilege.’
He then broke into a fit of laughter as Yaroslav looked at Domash and then back at Gleb.
Domash sighed. ‘Cumans. Very well, let us get the ordeal over with.’
He waved Yaroslav away so he could go and fetch Pskov’s unwanted visitors. Gleb surrendered to his fit of giggles as Yaroslav walked to the twin oak doors that had been shut behind him and which were now opened by guards standing beside them.
Like the Skomorokhs no one knew where the Cumans came from only that they appeared from the east many years ago, a great nomadic tribe that plundered every city it came across. Their warriors shot short bows and rode hardy horses and they transported their young and old in wagons that they circled at night to provide protection. Their women also rode in the saddle and reportedly fought beside their men in battle, giving rise to the legend that they looked like their menfolk. Prince Mstislav had realised that the only way to curb their plundering tendencies was to marry into them and so he had taken a Cuman bride, who to be fair was not unattractive. But the ruler had also striven to ensure that his Cuman relatives were kept at arm’s length because they were unpredictable and dangerous. Only sixteen years before a Cuman horde had sacked the great city of Kiev itself, and now Domash had two hundred of them outside his city walls.
The doors to the hall opened, two individuals entered and Domash forgot all thoughts of being rid of his guests. Yaroslav escorted the two Cumans to the far end of the hall where Domash sat. On the wall behind him hung the great banner of Pskov: a golden snow leopard on a blue background. The Cuman leader wore a calf-length blue topcoat over which he sported a fine lamellar armour cuirass. His baggy trousers were also blue and his leather boots were black. He carried a pointed helmet in the crook of his
arm, his long fair hair falling about his shoulders, and as was the custom among his people his chin was shaved and his moustache long.
Domash hardly paid any attention to him but instead fixed his eyes on the beauty walking beside him. Like her husband she had long hair, though hers was blonde and longer. She wore a calf-length yellow topcoat that was slit at the waist, tight-fitting blue trousers that matched the colour of her eyes and light brown boots. She was perhaps in her early twenties and Domash thought her the most enchanting beauty he had seen in many years.
He stood up as they approached, Yaroslav extending an arm to the Cuman couple when all three had halted.
‘Mayor Domash, may I introduce Lord Gerceslav and his wife Afanasy.’
The Cumans bowed their heads as Domash stepped forward, took the wife’s hand and kissed it.
‘You are most welcome to the city of Pskov.’
Gleb stopped laughing. ‘They are?’
Gerceslav smiled. ‘My people have heard of the exploits of the famed Domash Tverdislavich and from one raider to another, I salute you.’
Domash smiled back, though at his wife. ‘You honour me.’
He waved forward the chief steward. ‘Prepare quarters for our guests. They must be tired by their journey. Your people have all they need, Lord Gerceslav?’
‘Yes, thank you. We are camped just south of the city.’
Domash, whose eyes had settled on the outline of the wife’s breasts, brought his hands together. ‘Most excellent.’
After they had left Domash ordered the doors closed, the guards dismissed and began pacing up and down, Gleb observing him as he did so.
‘You must leave her alone,’ the mystic told him.
Domash stopped pacing and looked at him with an innocent expression. ‘I do not know what you mean.’
‘Yes you do. Confine yourself to whores and the wives of young boyars you can intimidate and threaten. If you toy with this Cuman no good will come of it.’
Domash flicked a hand at him. ‘What does a Skomorokh know of women and desire?’
‘Enough to know that both can be the source of much trouble. I saw the lust in your eyes but I tell you that if you pursue her it will lead to bloodshed.’
Domash laughed. ‘You think that I cannot deal with two hundred Cumans?’
Gleb stood and walked towards the doors. ‘I did not say that the Cumans would instigate the bloodshed, but I tell you now that if you seduce that woman you will come to regret it.’
But a dog cannot change its habits and though Domash was the scion of a powerful Novgorodian family he was sadly lacking in manners and common sense. He had spent years raiding the pagan lands to the west, burning and raping with impunity, even to the shores of the Baltic itself. His reputation and exploits had earned him the rule of Pskov but as his power had increased so had his arrogance. He let Gleb lecture him because the Skomorokh was useful in maintaining the allegiance of the population of the city and the surrounding countryside, but he rarely listened to advice. It was so now as he feasted his guests, accompanied them on tours of the city defences and took Gerceslav hunting. And it was all for one purpose: to separate husband and wife.
Domash flattered Gerceslav and won his trust. He told the Cuman commander of the Sword Brothers and their treachery at Odenpah, how the heretics had used sorcery to win the support of Kalju and the Ungannians and how the soldiers of the Bishop of Riga now threatened his city from their base in Ungannia. And as Domash hung his head and muttered that he worried about the safety of his people in the face of such danger, the Cuman offered to take his men west to safeguard against an attack by the bishop’s soldiers. Domash readily accepted his offer and said that Yaroslav and five hundred of Pskov’s horsemen would accompany him as reinforcements. It was now summer and the Bishop of Riga would soon be leading a crusader army to complete the conquest of Estonia. The combined Cuman-Russian force would act as a deterrent to prevent the crusaders raiding Russian territory. And Afanasy would stay in Pskov for her own safety.
Yaroslav was confused. ‘I do not understand, lord.’
He was walking with Domash from the mayor’s palace in the Dovmont area of the city, Pskov’s administrative heart, to the Kremlin, or Krom as the locals called it, meaning ‘the edge of the cape’. Guards snapped to attention as they passed through the gates that gave access to it.
‘It is quite simple,’ said Domash irritably. ‘The boyars and their wives want the Cumans away from the city and frankly so do I. Take them north and then into Jerwen to let the Bishop of Riga know that the Principality of Novgorod is not to be toyed with.’
Yaroslav was even more confused. ‘Jerwen?’
Domash stopped and faced him. ‘Since the defeat and death of Lembit the crusaders raid Jerwen and further north but have not occupied it. Therefore I see no reason why we cannot seize some territory to the west and north of Lake Peipus. Take some banners and make a lot of noise but do not provoke the crusaders.
‘In any case, now Russian merchants are taking their goods across the lake into Ungannia we should have our soldiers nearby to offer protection.’
‘Protection from whom, lord?’
Domash rolled his eyes. ‘Just accompany our Cuman friends and pitch your camp north of the River Emajogi.’
‘For how long?’ asked Yaroslav.
Domash thought for a moment. How long would it take to seduce the delightful Afanasy after she had been separated from her boorish oaf of a husband?
‘Three months should suffice.’
‘Hardly seems worth it,’ thought Yaroslav.
Domash smiled maliciously. ‘Oh, it will be worth it.’
The horsemen left the next morning, the banners of Pskov, Novgorod and a host of garishly coloured flags and pennants fluttering among the Cuman ranks. The latter wore metal masks moulded to look like a face; their bows carried in hide cases fixed to their saddles. Behind the column lumbered the wagons carrying their tents, children and wives, though not all of the latter. Domash could not prevent himself from grinning as he stood above one of Pskov’s gates and watched them go. He never gave a thought to what would happen when the Cumans returned and Gerceslav discovered that his wife had been unfaithful. He shrugged. A warlord did not concern himself with the aftermath of his raids.
*****
While the mayor of Pskov was busying himself with satisfying his base instincts, Kalju was informed by his chief at Dorpat that a large group of Russian horsemen had suddenly appeared north of the Emajogi River. He alerted Henke and the Sword Brother gave the order to strike camp to march with Kalju to accompany the Ungannian leader as he rode north with his eldest son Villem, and a hundred warriors. Henke sent a sergeant to Wenden to report to Master Rudolf that Russians were in Jerwen and that he was going to see them for himself. It was only twenty miles form Odenpah to Dorpat and so the journey could be completed in less than a day.
‘What does it matter if the Russians are in Jerwen?’ asked Hans, chewing on a small pie that Eha had given him before they had set out.
‘Because Jerwen belongs to the Sword Brothers,’ replied Henke. ‘Its warriors fought with Lembit on St Matthew’s Day and now the kingdom belongs to us. The Russians must have heard that the bishop isn’t coming to Riga this year.’
‘To what end?’ asked Conrad.
‘To take advantage of our weakness, no doubt,’ answered Henke. ‘You all know that only a few crusaders landed at Riga this spring. Too few to conquer the rest of Estonia.’
‘The Russians desire all of Estonia,’ remarked Kalju, his powerful frame making the grey pony he was riding on appear small and puny.
‘Did the Russians try to conquer your kingdom before we came, lord?’ asked Conrad.
Kalju spat on the ground. ‘They raided our lands to take slaves, cattle and to rape and pillage, but they were not interested in conquest. They viewed Estonia as their hunting ground.’
‘Don’t you worry, sir,’ said Henke, ‘we’ll make sure that they do
n’t set foot in your kingdom again.’
Conrad looked at his three friends and the ten sergeants to the rear of the column leading ponies loaded with supplies. Even with the Ungannians he wondered how so few men could halt the Russian if they intended to fight.
They sweated in their mail armour as they made their way north through woods of spruce and pine and across meadows filled with bilberries, wild strawberries, mushrooms, cornflower and blueberries. They marched through villages filled with laughing, rosy cheeked children who had the blue eyes and fair hair of their race. They in turn waved at Kalju and his warriors and laughed and stared at the Christian warriors in their white surcoats bearing a red cross and sword insignia. Conrad noticed that some of their parents ushered their children away when they spotted the Sword Brothers. It was not only the Russians who raided Estonia and he wondered how many of these people had lost sons or fathers to the swords of his order.
On the journey Kalju had told the Sword Brothers that Dorpat was over seven hundred years old, and two hundred years previously had actually been under Russian control during the reign of a king named Yaroslav the Wise.
‘Well if these Russians are wise they will clear off home,’ was Henke’s only comment after the history lesson.
Half a mile from Dorpat the column was greeted by the local chief and a dozen of his warriors, all mounted on chestnut ponies. The chief was a ruddy faced individual with a bushy beard who jumped from his saddle when he spotted Kalju, as did his men. Kalju dismounted and embraced him warmly, slapping him on the back and sharing a joke with him before they both regained their saddles.
They first rode into the sprawling settlement itself so the people would know that their lord was among them. They stopped their daily routines and cheered him and his son as he dismounted and walked among them. Kalju ordered the majority of his men to report to the local chief whose home was the timber fort sited on a hill, a thousand paces south of the river, while he and half a dozen of his men walked to the docks. Henke ordered the sergeants to take themselves, the supplies and the horses of the brother knights to the fort after he had dismounted and ordered Conrad and his companions to do likewise. Conrad slung his shield on his back and carried his helmet in the crook of his arm. It was now very warm and he had no desire to roast his head while they ambled around Dorpat.