by Peter Darman
Paul was a curious fellow, a man who seemed totally ill suited to the duties of a squire, and far too old as well. But Sir Richard informed Conrad that throughout Christendom not all squires were young men who naturally progressed on to become knights. Some never became knights, being content to remain a squire.
‘Good man, Paul,’ said Sir Richard, ‘but he doesn’t have a pot to piss in so he could not afford a warhorse, armour and all the other obligations required to be a knight.’
He looked at Conrad’s armour and sword. ‘Not like the Sword Brothers who can lavish their knights with the very best that money can buy.’
‘My sword was a gift,’ said Conrad.
‘And the silver ring on your finger?’ It was the first time that the English knight had noticed the wedding ring on the Sword Brother’s hand.
‘A gift from my wife.’
Sir Richard was surprised. ‘I thought the members of your order are forbidden to marry.’
‘We are,’ replied Conrad bitterly, ‘my wife and child were murdered.’
Sir Richard saw the pain in the young man’s eyes. ‘A fine sword, Conrad.’
They left two days later on a cold November morning. Due to his leg wound Peeter was left in command of Lehola and Fellin. Conrad and Sir Richard shared joint command of the force that numbered over three hundred riders, all mounted on Cuman horses. Sir Richard’s twenty-five expensive warhorses were left behind in their stables, though Conrad doubted whether the horses of the invaders would survive the winter.
‘My farriers informed me that they are hardy beasts,’ said Sir Richard as they skirted the northern end of Lake Vortsjarv on the third day of their journey. ‘Used to living outdoors.’
‘Even in the frozen wastes of Estonia?’ asked Conrad.
‘We are about to find out,’ replied Sir Richard.
Each rider pulled a pony loaded with food and fodder and wore a fur-lined cap or pointed helmet taken from enemy corpses. To unknowing eyes the column of horsemen looked like Cumans, which was precisely what Conrad intended for he considered it highly likely that if Lehola had been under siege then Odenpah would be in similar straits.
Chapter 4
Archdeacon Stefan wrapped the fur-lined cloak around his portly frame. The daytime temperatures were falling rapidly now and next month the Dvina would begin to freeze, not near the city itself but further upstream where seawater did not penetrate. Then again, if the winter was particularly severe ice might trap the many ships and boats that always thronged Riga’s thriving harbour. Despite the cold he enjoyed getting away from the incessant complaints and petitions of the city council, merchants and Livs, especially the latter whom he detested. He found the ordered calm of the bishop’s palace rose garden relaxing and reassuring. The palace was the home of Bishop Albert when he was in residence but for the majority of the time Archdeacon Stefan, nephew of the bishop and governor of Riga, called it home. He was the one who had supervised the expansion and refurbishment of the residence, including the laying out of the rose garden, which was enclosed by a woven hazel fence, and the stone wall that surrounded the buildings, stables and gardens. The palace even had its own small barracks to house a garrison, notwithstanding that Riga’s castle was within walking distance and the city itself was walled. Beyond the walls Riga was now surrounded by a patchwork of villages, fields and pasture but in Stefan’s mind the godless pagans were never far away and that was why he felt it necessary to surround himself with guards.
Two of them stood at the entrance to the garden, dressed in mail and helmets and wearing the cross keys of Riga on their red surcoats. Stefan stood on the narrow stone path and admired the garden, though because winter was approaching it looked slightly bleak and forlorn. Divided into four beds with narrow paths in a cruciform shape, a water fountain, the symbolic fount of life, had been set in its centre. Stefan sighed contentedly; his garden was a place of serenity and peace. He heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Manfred Nordheim approaching.
‘Ah, Manfred, you’re back among us.’
Manfred stopped and bowed his head. ‘Archdeacon.’
Stefan waved him forward. ‘Walk with me.’
They strolled along the path for a few feet, Stefan halting to admire a row of white flowers.
‘Madonna Lilies,’ he said, stooping to cup one of the flowers, ‘the emblem of the Virgin Mary herself. Did you know that the white petals represent her purity and the yellow antlers the glowing light of her soul?’
He looked up to see a blank look on Manfred’s face. He stood up.
‘My congratulations on your victory over the Kurs, by the way.’
Manfred shrugged away the compliment. ‘It was hardly a victory, more an avoidance of a defeat. Still, Vincentas was pleased enough by the service rendered by our crossbows and instructors. He has invited you to his stronghold of Mesoten to give a feast in your honour.’
A look of horror spread across Stefan’s face. ‘To enter the lion’s den? I think not.’
They walked on, Stefan pointing out the red and white roses the gardeners had planted, the former symbolising martyrdom, the latter purity.
‘The young duke is extremely grateful to you, sir,’ said Manfred, ‘and would welcome closer ties with Riga.’
‘And if I send him more aid will he vanquish the other dukes?’ asked Stefan.
Manfred shook his head. ‘No, sir, not with the resources he has. He is surrounded by enemies, chief among them the Selonians, Nalsen and Northern Kurs, and the Samogitians may add their support to his enemies.’
Stefan rolled his eyes. ‘What curious names these pagans have. If Vincentas would agree to baptism then next year I could send an army of Christian knights to help him crush his enemies.’
‘An army, archdeacon?’ said Manfred in surprise. ‘You will send the garrison of Riga across the Dvina?’
Stefan’s brow beneath his silk fur-lined skullcap creased. ‘Certainly not. The garrison is needed to safeguard the city. I am referring to when the bishop returns to Livonia next spring, bringing with him a crusader army.’
‘Will not the bishop be crusading against the Estonians?’ said Manfred.
‘Events have moved on since you left to assist Duke Vincentas,’ said Stefan. ‘My uncle has successfully petitioned King Valdemar of Denmark to take the cross against the Estonians. Next spring the king will bring an army to crush what remains of pagan resistance in the north, so you see there will be no need for the bishop to lead an army north.’
Manfred was impressed. ‘Valdemar will lead the crusade?’
Stefan nodded. ‘He will so it is now time to turn our attention to Lithuanian affairs, which brings me back to the matter of Duke Vincentas accepting baptism in return for military aid.’
Manfred was unsure. ‘Vincentas is the son of Daugerutis who is reckoned one of the greatest Lithuanian grand dukes. It would be no small thing for him to accept baptism. His princes would be against it, one in particular.’
Stefan looked confused. ‘Princes?’
‘In each Lithuanian kingdom a duke rules like a king, and beneath him are a number of princes. Below them are chiefs and village elders.’
Stefan was bored. ‘How quaint these pagans are. Nevertheless, I need our brave young duke to make an appeal for assistance to the bishop, otherwise he will be reluctant to cross the Dvina and crusade in Lithuania.’
‘Crusading against the Lithuanians will be a lot harder than fighting the Estonians, sir,’ cautioned Manfred. ‘There are more of them and they are better armed.’
Stefan brought his hands together. ‘That may be but if they are fighting each other or crusaders then they are not terrorising Livonia.’
He studied his resourceful deputy. ‘Of course you will not remember the time when the Lithuanians crossed the Dvina and ravaged Livonia.’
Manfred shook his head. ‘I was in Germany at the time, sir.’
Stefan shuddered. ‘How fortunate for you. It was five years ago but s
eems like yesterday. I do not intend the same to happen again.’
‘If I could supply Vincentas with soldiers as well as weapons he might be more amenable to persuasion,’ said Manfred. ‘I don’t suppose I could reinforce him with men drawn from Riga’s garrison.’
‘You suppose right,’ said Stefan. ‘Would you leave me naked in the face of pagan aggression, Manfred? As our Lord was on the day of his passion?’
Manfred had to look away to stop the archdeacon seeing him smile. Riga’s garrison comprised two hundred crossbowmen, the same number of spearmen and fifty horsemen, all of whom did little save man the walls and towers of the city’s castle and walls. In addition, at least over five hundred militiamen could be mustered from the able-bodied men of Riga and the surrounding villages. Nearly a thousand men whose sole purpose appeared to be nothing more than acting as guards for Archdeacon Stefan.
‘Then can I approach the Sword Brothers, sir?’
Stefan blanched. ‘The Sword Brothers?’
‘As they exist for the sole purpose of crusading against the pagans then I assume they would be willing to support your venture in Lithuania, sir.’
Stefan waved a finger at him. ‘For one thing I do not wish to involve the Sword Brothers in Riga’s affairs, and for another they are currently embroiled in a war with the Russians.’
‘The Russians?’
‘Some dispute with a pagan leader that escalated into open warfare,’ said Stefan smugly. ‘Proof that the Sword Brothers should be kept well away from diplomacy and negotiating treaties at all times. Grand Master Volquin is at this moment in the north of Livonia trying desperately to save the pagan stronghold of Treiden from the Russian invaders. Dotard.’
Manfred thought it most odd that the archdeacon was so hostile towards the Sword Brothers, especially as ostensibly they shared the same aim of converting all the pagans of Livonia and Estonia into Christians. But whereas the Sword Brothers preferred to carry out their objectives by the sword the archdeacon favoured more underhand measures. He also resented the fact that the warrior monks displayed total obedience to the Bishop of Riga but not so towards his nephew.
‘But the brethren will accompany the bishop if he crusades in Lithuania next spring, sir,’ said Manfred.
The archdeacon gave him a sly glance. ‘Naturally. But Duke Vincentas will owe allegiance to me and not the Sword Brothers when the bishop crosses the river to give him aid. Grand Master Volquin’s castellans exceed their authority. Did you know that they agreed a treaty with some illiterate chief named Kalju?’
Manfred shrugged. ‘I had heard, sir.’
Stefan’s eyebrows squeezed together in anger. ‘The impertinence. The Sword Brothers should concentrate on killing pagans instead of meddling in church affairs.’
He composed himself. ‘Inform Duke Vincentas that I will send him a hundred crossbowmen to reinforce his army. Send one of your men to Germany to recruit them. I will authorise the release of funds from the treasury.’
‘What about Treiden?’ queried Manfred.
‘What about it?’
‘Do you wish me to march north with some of the garrison to reinforce Grand Master Volquin?’
‘Certainly not,’ replied Stefan. ‘The garrison of Riga has better things to do than chase around after a band of raiders.’
*****
The band of raiders had little success at Treiden. After laying waste the villages and fields around the great timber hill fort, Gerceslav and his Cumans established a desultory siege that comprised nothing more than shooting arrows at the walls and towers, until ordered to cease after their ammunition supplies began to run low. They slept in the wooden-framed tents that ringed the stronghold. Gerceslav was emboldened by the fact that the Liv defenders did not have crossbows like the garrison of Wenden possessed, and thought that Treiden would fall easily. But then his camp was raided by parties of Sword Brothers sent from the nearby castles of Segewold and Kremon and these parties did have crossbowmen. The brethren sallied from the forest, killed many men with their bolts and then melted back into the trees. Enraged, Gerceslav despatched parties of horsemen to give chase but these in turn were ambushed in the forest and the survivors returned empty handed. After two weeks and having lost over four hundred men to raids, the Cuman leader gave the order to abandon the siege and ride back to Pskov.
They moved slowly, weighed down by hundreds of women and children captured during the approach to Treiden.
‘You should cut them loose,’ Yaroslav told Gerceslav as they rode at the head of the great column of horsemen and slaves that was making its way north into Saccalia through a sodden land.
‘I have failed to retrieve the prince’s banner,’ snapped the Cuman, ‘the least I can do is present him with slaves to assuage his temper.’
It was raining again and the heads of both horses and men were cast down in the face of a northerly wind, which did nothing to brighten the Cuman’s mood.
‘I will give the hill forts in Saccalia and Ungannia to the prince as well,’ said Gerceslav, water dripping off his pointed helmet, ‘together with the heads of the soldiers of those garrisons.’
How little this horseman of the plains knew of siege warfare, thought Yaroslav, who had learnt to keep his thoughts to himself in the company of this quick-tempered fool.
But the next day scouts returned to the army with news that the besiegers of Lehola had been destroyed and those at Fellin scattered, many having ridden east into Ungannia. This caused Gerceslav to fly into a rage that Yaroslav had to witness, berating his unfortunate deputies as they stood before him in his large tent as the wind lashed the felt exterior.
‘I should have your heads for bringing me this news,’ he bellowed at them.
This Cuman seemed to have a penchant for beheading people, mused Yaroslav as he sat on the cushions arranged on the carpets that had been placed on the floor.
‘It is not their fault,’ said Afanasy opposite Yaroslav, ‘they were not the ones who showed cowardice in the face of the enemy.’
Gerceslav stopped pacing and faced his wife. ‘They have brought shame upon me. I am surrounded by idiots.’
‘You still have many men at your command, my husband,’ said his wife.
‘Men?’ sneered Gerceslav, ‘more like lambs.’ He waved a hand at his commanders. ‘Get out.’
They bowed and exited the tent’s flap. The wind continued to batter the camp, occasionally bringing a shower of rain that added to the general misery that had enveloped the Cuman host. Yaroslav drew his fur-lined cloak around him. The great expedition into Estonia was turning into a disaster and Gerceslav was right to fear the wrath of Prince Mstislav, especially when they returned to Novgorod without the wretched banner that he had given the Cuman. The latter had now returned to pacing up and down and muttering to himself. Yaroslav had no great affection for the barbarian but he realised that he would be tainted by the Cuman’s failure and he was already in low favour with the prince on account of him divorcing Mstislav’s daughter. He therefore offered Gerceslav a way out of his predicament.
‘My lord,’ he said, ‘there is still a way to eradicate the ill-fortune that we have suffered.’
Gerceslav stopped pacing and focused his eyes on Yaroslav. ‘How?’
‘Ungannia,’ replied the Russian. ‘Prince Mstislav has always coveted the Estonian kingdom and tried to seize it two years ago. He has no love for Kalju, the Ungannian leader, and would forget about his lost banner if you rode through the streets of Novgorod with Kalju’s head on the end of a spear.’
Gerceslav stroked his long moustache as the cotton covers that hung on the inside of the tent ruffled slightly as a gust of wind assaulted the exterior.
‘I left men to surround Odenpah and Dorpat but not enough to storm them.’
‘But with the host you lead Odenpah will fall easily,’ Yaroslav assured him.
Gerceslav sat down beside his wife and placed his head on her lap. Afanasy began to caress his temples. It was unus
ual for Gerceslav to display such a relaxed attitude in company for Cuman warlords were sticklers when it came to observing customs. Their cavernous tents were constructed from a framework of poles radiating from a central smoke-hole ring, lashed to the top of a circular latticework wall. The whole enterprise was covered in felt. The warlords resided in the western side, the male side. It was where a Cuman sat, stored his saddle, bow and his other weapons. The women always sat in the eastern side of the tent and the entrance always faced south. But now Gerceslav closed his eyes and enjoyed his wife’s loving touch.
Far from finding the tender scene heart warming Yaroslav was embarrassed.
‘How far are we from Odenpah?’ said Gerceslav at last, his eyes still closed.
‘Five days’ ride if we abandon the prisoners,’ replied Yaroslav. ‘If not, ten days.’
‘I will not abandon my spoils,’ said Gerceslav. ‘Besides, the Ungannians are not going anywhere. But in the morning I will give the order to march to Odenpah.’
He opened his eyes and looked at Yaroslav. ‘Where you failed I shall succeed.’
Yaroslav smiled politely. He was extremely dubious that the Cuman would have more success at Odenpah than at Wenden or Treiden but at least the army would be heading in the right direction: northeast and then east to pass the southern shore of Lake Vortsjarv. With winter approaching the last thing he desired was quartering his men in Ungannia. He was also slightly concerned about the composition and whereabouts of the force that had relieved Lehola but comforted himself with the thought that at least the Cumans had scouts reconnoitring the army’s route. At least Odenpah was nearer to Pskov than Treiden.
‘Perhaps we could call your son Odenpah,’ said Afanasy innocently.
Gerceslav, who was still being massaged by his wife, smiled but said nothing.
‘Shall we tell Lord Yaroslav, my husband?’ said Afanasy.
Gerceslav smiled again, opened his eyes and looked at Yaroslav.
‘My wife is with child,’ he informed the Russian.
‘My congratulations to you both,’ said Yaroslav, ‘I pray that it is a boy.’