by Peter Darman
He shrugged. ‘Nothing we could not handle.’
Rudolf jumped out of his chair and walked around the flag to face the two brother knights. ‘So we are at war with Novgorod?’
‘Doubt it,’ sniffed Henke. ‘They would not risk a conflict with the Sword Brothers.’
‘Idiot!’ spat Rudolf. He pointed at the banner on the floor. ‘Do you think that the Russians will forget that you butchered some of their men and took their flag? What would you do if the situation was reversed, Henke?’
Henke smiled. ‘It’s not the same, Rudolf.’
Rudolf slowly walked back to his chair. ‘Oh, and why is that?’
‘They are barbarians. They don’t think the same way as we do,’ replied Henke.
Rudolf ran a hand over his crown then looked at Conrad. ‘What about you, what do you have to say for yourself?’
Conrad cast a side-glance at Henke and was going to tell Rudolf how he had provoked the Russians, how he had got Kalju’s son killed and endangered the alliance with Ungannia. But then he realised that Rudolf knew Henke better than him and had probably pieced together the unfortunate sequence of events at Dorpat.
‘The Russians will want their flag back,’ said Conrad flatly.
Henke laughed. ‘Let them come and try to take it.’
‘They will come, Henke,’ said Conrad, ‘of that you can be certain.’
‘And if they do,’ said Rudolf, ‘will the Ungannians be marching with them?’
‘They killed Kalju’s eldest son, master,’ said Conrad. ‘For that reason alone he will not side with the Russians, though whether he is still the friend of the bishop I know not.’
‘What does it matter?’ sneered Henke. ‘When the bishop leads a new crusader army north he will finish the Estonians, and the Russians if they want a fight.’
‘There is no army, Henke,’ replied Rudolf. ‘Around a hundred men landed at Riga in the spring, that is all. So few have volunteered to crusade in Livonia that the bishop has travelled to Denmark to beg its king for aid.
‘The defeat and death of Lembit has convinced Christendom that there is no need to take the cross in Livonia. They think like you, Henke: that the pagans are beaten and will meekly submit to Christian rule.’
‘And so they will,’ replied Henke smugly.
Rudolf sighed. ‘They might have done but if they see a Russian army marching into Livonia they might be emboldened to pick up their weapons once more and join them. I will inform the grand master of this unwelcome development.’
‘You could send the flag back to Novgorod, master,’ suggested Conrad.
‘That would make us look weak,’ said Henke derisively.
‘I am apt to agree with Henke,’ said Rudolf. ‘The Russians will want revenge for the loss of face they have suffered. You are to be congratulated, Henke. It would appear that you have single-handedly undone all the good work of Bishop Theodoric and Bishop Albert, turned Ungannia from ally into foe and provoked the wrath of the Principality of Novgorod.’
He looked at them both. ‘Get out!’
Conrad and Henke saluted and left the chamber. Rudolf stared at the flag on the floor. He should have kept Henke at Wenden instead of thinking that he could be trusted with leading a diplomatic mission. He blamed himself for the unhappy incident that had occurred. The first thing he would do would be to increase the number and extent of the patrols around Wenden to ensure that the garrison and settlement to the north of its walls did not suffer a surprise attack by Russian raiders. He rubbed the scars on his neck. He knew all about Russian raids and the damage they could do. The second thing he would do was alert the office of the grand master at Riga of this latest development. He would have the Russian flag placed in safekeeping in one of the offices.
*****
The boyars, priests and senior commanders shuffled nervously on their feet and avoided the prince’s eyes as Yaroslav stood before Mstislav and relayed to him the dire events that had taken place at Dorpat. He may have been a member of the Nevsky family, one of Novgorod’s most influential clans, but he was feeling decidedly uneasy, notwithstanding that until a short while ago he had been married to the prince’s daughter. The atmosphere in the hall was dropping by the second as Yaroslav told the prince of Gerceslav’s arrival at Pskov, the welcome he had received from the mayor and the latter’s suggestion that he take his Cuman warriors west to patrol Pskov’s borders. Mstislav sat in his chair as still as a rock, unblinking, as Yaroslav then told him about the Cuman’s visit to Dorpat and the incident at the river.
‘You will be pleased to know, lord,’ said Yaroslav, ‘that Gerceslav was unhurt and managed to retire from Dorpat with minimum losses.’
Mstislav did not answer, which caused Yaroslav’s heart to beat faster and bead his forehead with sweat. There was not a sound in the hall of Novgorod’s great palace, just absolute silence as though everyone was frozen in time. The big frame of the prince sat immobile in his high-backed chair and beside him his wife Princess Maria observed Yaroslav with her piercing blue eyes. Like Gerceslav she was a Cuman, the daughter of Khotyan, the great Cuman warlord whose warriors had once terrorised the Novgorodians until Mstislav had astutely asked for his daughter’s hand in marriage. At last the hard, chiselled face of Mstislav looked up.
‘Where is my banner?’
Yaroslav attempted a half-smile. ‘Highness?’
Mstislav leaned back in his chair. ‘Gerceslav sent one of his own people, a courier, to Novgorod the day after the incident as you call it with a message. It said that soldiers in mail had taken his banner.’
Yaroslav swallowed. ‘It is true, highness, that in the skirmish the Ungannians did capture Gerceslav’s banner. Most regrettable.’
‘My banner!’ shouted Mstislav, causing everyone in the hall to jump.
The prince vaulted from his chair, despite his sixty-five years of age. He stood before Yaroslav, veins bulging in his neck.
‘That banner was consecrated in Saint Sophia’s Cathedral. It is a holy icon.’
He spun round and looked at the priests gathered to the right of his throne, his eyes examining the assembled bishops. They fixed on one among them, a tall man wearing a rich red and gold vestment called a phelonion, an elaborately embroidered mitre on his head.
‘Archbishop Mitrofan,’ growled the prince, ‘is it not so that the banner that you yourself blessed is holy?’
Mitrofan stepped forward and bowed his head. ‘It is as you say, highness.’
‘And in your learned opinion, archbishop,’ said Mstislav, ‘is the loss of a religious icon considered a sin?’
Mitrofan nodded gravely. ‘A great sin, highness.’
The prince looked back at Yaroslav. ‘You said the Ungannians took my banner?’
‘Kalju, the Ungannian leader, was present when it was seized, highness,’ replied Yaroslav.
Mstislav jabbed a finger in his chest. ‘But the report from Gerceslav said that there were soldiers in mail wearing the insignia of the Sword Brothers with the Ungannians.’
Yaroslav swallowed once again. ‘A small number, highness, it is true.’
Mstislav returned to his throne, standing before it. ‘The servants of the Bishop of Rome, that apostate who preaches a false religion, have stolen my banner, killed the soldiers of my father-in-law and insulted the Principality of Novgorod. This they have done despite the peace treaty brokered between myself and the Bishop of Riga a short while ago.’ He raised his arms. ‘I even entertained one of the bishop’s fellow prelates, Bishop Theodoric, in this very palace.’ He let his arms drop to his sides. ‘And now the servants of Rome have showed their true intentions.’
The hall was filled with murmurs of agreement.
Mstislav turned his attention to Mitrofan once more. ‘Archbishop, would not God want me to recapture the holy icon that has been stolen by the heretics of Rome?’
‘He would, highness.’
Mstislav half-smiled. The Orthodox Church was not a centralised org
anisation headed by a pontiff, unlike the Church of Rome. In the Orthodox religion the unity of the church was manifested in the sacraments. There was no pope to head the church; only Christ ruled the Orthodox religion. Happily for rulers such as Mstislav, this lack of centralisation meant that bishops and archbishops could be manipulated and intimidated to support their rule and decisions. It was so now.
Mstislav sat on his throne. ‘Archbishop, you are certain that God wishes me to avenge the outrage committed against his holy icon?’
‘I am certain, highness,’ replied Mitrofan.
‘Very well,’ said the prince. ‘I will wage a holy war to retrieve that which has been stolen from the Holy Church. Yaroslav, where is Gerceslav now?’
‘At Pskov with his men, highness.’
‘Licking his wounds, no doubt,’ said Mstislav. ‘You will ride back to Pskov and there await the arrival of reinforcements. Then you will march back to Ungannia and retrieve my banner.’
The boyars, all dressed in rich dalmatics, leather belts and embroidered boots, a collection of crimson, purple and azure, looked at each other in alarm. They had all benefited greatly from the new trade route along the Gauja and viewed a war as a threat to that prosperity. After half a minute one of their number stepped forward, an overweight man with a full beard dressed in a red dalmatic over a silk tunic. He cleared his throat and bowed at Mstislav.
‘Highness, a war with Livonia would interrupt trade and would damage Novgorod.’
Mstislav waved a hand at him. ‘Damage your profits, more like.’
The boyar laughed nervously. ‘It is customary, highness, for the veche to decide, or at least advise, on matters of foreign policy.’
The veche was Novgorod’s ancient parliament made up of representatives of the city’s richest and most influential families. As such it acted as a restraining force on the princes who were appointed by it to rule the city. But Mstislav was no puppet of the veche. He may have been appointed by it but it was he who had appointed the pliable Archbishop Mitrofan to his position.
‘You are right, Arkady,’ replied the prince, ‘but the veche does not decide on matters pertaining to holy war, is that not correct, archbishop?’
Mitrofan glanced sheepishly at the boyars and then at Mstislav. ‘That is correct, highness.’
But Arkady was not to be intimidated. ‘Great prince, surely if you sent a demand to the Bishop of Riga for your banner back then the matter could be resolved amicably.’
Mstislav jumped up. ‘Amicably? Am I a lamb who must beg my enemies for my own property back? You should beware, Arkady, lest the Bishop of Riga comes looking for your property also, and all the possessions of the boyars of Novgorod.’
He held Arkady’s gaze as he slowly retook his seat before slamming his fist down on its thick oak arm. ‘No!’
Arkady bowed and retreated back to his fellow lords, looking at them resignedly. The prince gripped both arms of his throne.
‘Yaroslav will go to Pskov, and in all his cathedrals, churches and monasteries, Archbishop Mitrofan will instruct his priests to proclaim holy war against the servants of Rome.’
‘Such a war will be expensive, highness,’ said Yuri, father of the unfortunate Yaroslav who still stood sweating in front of the prince.
A knowing smile crept over Mstislav’s face. ‘The war will cost Novgorod and its subjects nothing.’
There were gasps of confusion and the boyars looked at each other. Even Mstislav’s commanders were taken aback. Everyone knew that wars and campaigns were costly affairs in terms of supplying troops with weapons, armour, horses and supplies, to say nothing of the price that was always paid in blood.
The prince pointed at Yaroslav. ‘You were responsible for Gerceslav and his men so you will right the wrongs that have been committed against him and me. You will go to Pskov and there await the arrival of soldiers sent by my father-in-law.’
Arkady looked at Yuri. ‘Lord Khotyan?’
Mstislav reached over to place his hand on the arm of his young wife. ‘That is correct. The Ungannians and heretics of Rome managed to defeat two hundred Cumans. Let’s see how they deal with twenty thousand.’
‘Lord Khotyan will lead them himself, highness?’ asked Yuri.
‘My father-in-law has better things to do with his time than support Novgorod,’ replied the prince. ‘But he is not averse to sending aid to his son when requested to do so, is that not so, love of my life?’
Maria dazzled him with a smile. ‘It is so, lord.’
Mstislav rose from his throne and led his wife by the hand towards the private quarters of Novgorod’s kremlin. The boyars, commanders and priests bowed their heads.
‘Archbishop Mitrofan,’ said Mstislav, ‘you will issue your proclamation this very day. My congratulations, Yaroslav, you managed to keep your head. You will leave for Pskov straight away.’
Yaroslav breathed a sigh of relief after the royal couple had departed and the tension in the hall evaporated as soon as Mstislav and his wife disappeared. The former son-in-law of the prince went over to his father as the boyars began filing out of the hall.
‘The prince was remarkably restrained,’ remarked Yuri, ‘all things considered. But thousands of Cumans rampaging through the lands to the west will be ruinous to trade.’
‘Luckily the route to Constantinople will remain unaffected,’ said Yaroslav.
The Nevsky family supplied musk, marten, ermine and sable to the rich citizens of Constantinople. It was a lucrative business and one that fortunately avoided the Dvina and Gauja, the goods being transported south via Pskov to the River Dnieper and thence to the Black Sea to Constantinople.
‘The prince’s thirst for vengeance may have unforeseen consequences,’ said Yuri as he walked with his son from the hall. ‘The Bishop of Riga will not sit idly by while his kingdom is ravaged. The boyars of Novgorod do not desire a war with Livonia.’
‘Unfortunately, father, they already have one.’
Yuri sighed. ‘And all over a piece of cloth.’
Yaroslav smiled at him. ‘A religious icon, father.’
‘If it was so precious why did he give it to that barbarian Gerceslav to lose? It seems to me that Mstislav uses its loss as a pretext so he can have his war.’
‘To what end, father?’
‘To the end that all princes desire: glory and enduring fame. The prince has seen the Bishop of Riga defeat the Livs and Estonians and expand his kingdom and so Mstislav wishes to likewise expand Novgorod’s borders. He could write to the bishop requesting his banner back but great warlords do not write letters, they don their armour and march off to war to achieve their aims. It’s all very predictable and very depressing.’
He shook his head and looked at his son. ‘How is that new wife of yours?’
‘Young and beautiful,’ beamed Yaroslav.
‘Will you be taking her to Pskov?’
Yaroslav looked alarmed. ‘So she can be the object of desire of the mayor? I think not.’
Yuri sighed again. ‘Domash Tverdislavich has not changed, then?’
‘He is the reason that wretched banner was lost.’
‘Oh?’
‘Domash took a liking to Gerceslav’s wife and wanted him out of the city so he could pay her his undivided attention.’
Yuri stopped and laid a hand on his son’s arm. ‘Does the prince know this?’
Yaroslav shrugged. ‘If he found out he would have Domash executed, but if Gerceslav found out he would try to kill the mayor, which in turn might provoke a war between Novgorod and Khotyan. What would you rather have father, twenty thousand Cumans ravaging Estonia and Livonia or watering their horses in Novgorod’s rivers and lakes?’
His father rubbed his chin. ‘All so very depressing.’
Khotyan was more than happy to assist his son-in-law, not least because a great raid into Estonia and Livonia promised a rich haul of slaves. He promised twenty thousand men but in the event could only muster fifteen thousand, but they w
ere more than enough. It took a month to gather his forces, Khotyan giving command of the force to Gerceslav and instructing him to lay waste the enemy’s lands. He did not bother to mention anything about a piece of Russian cloth. The promise of plunder and slaves was motivation enough.
Cuman warfare was very much a family affair, with families forming clans and clans forming hordes. It was a horde of thousands of men, women and horses that moved north in the autumn, each warrior leading up to twelve horses to allow him to cover up to a hundred miles a day if necessary. They fed their horses on the move, filling nosebags with fodder so the animals could eat while still moving. When one got tired the rider transferred to another mount. When they halted they pitched felt tents and sat down to eat cheeses, meat and milk. Yaroslav arrived at Pskov just before they arrived, and the day after his arrival stood with Domash, his senior officers and Gleb on Pskov’s southern ramparts as the ground to the south of the city heaved with thousands of tents, tens of thousands of steppe horses and a host of campfires. It was as if a sorcerer had created a great army out of thin air.
‘Make sure the gates are closed at all times,’ Domash said to one of his officers, ‘I don’t want them inside the city. I dread to think what pestilences they have brought with them.’
He looked at Yaroslav. ‘When will they be leaving?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘You go with them?’ said Domash.
Yaroslav nodded.
‘You have my sympathies.’
Yaroslav noticed that Domash did not look him directly in the eye, no doubt uncomfortable that he had taken the blame for something that was the mayor’s fault. For his part Yaroslav said nothing about the wife of Gerceslav who was now with her husband in the Cuman camp.
‘A wise precaution, keeping the gates closed,’ said Gleb mischievously to Domash, ‘especially if Gerceslav discovers that you have been mauling his wife.’
‘Hold your tongue,’ snapped Domash.
‘Have I touched a nerve?’ remarked Gleb innocently.
Domash spun round to face the Skomorokh. ‘Keep your nose out of things that do not concern you.’