by Peter Darman
*****
Icicles hung from every roof and tower in Panemunis when Aras arrived at Vsevolod’s capital. He and his men were wrapped in thick cloaks and wore fur-lined caps on their heads but their faces were still chapped and their eyes red following their ride. The cruel hand of winter was slowly tightening its grip over Lithuania and would not relent until the spring. The lakes were frozen solid and ice was enveloping rivers and streams. The evergreens were weighed down with the first snows of the winter and animals were being butchered so their meat could be preserved to provide food throughout the winter. The common folk smoked their meat whereas the rich lords and princes used salt as a preservative. Villagers also engaged in ice fishing on frozen lakes to supplement their food stocks for the Lithuanian winter was long and hard and starvation was a very real possibility for many.
Stable hands led the horses away as Aras ordered his men to go the kitchens to warm their chilled bodies while he sought out the prince. He found him in a reception room behind the main hall in the company of his wife and youngest daughter, the fiery Elze, who had inherited her mother’s temperament. Guards showed the general into the room where a fire crackled in a stone hearth. Like most of the other rooms in the stronghold the banner of the prince hung on one wall: a winged silver griffin on a blue background. Aras smiled to himself. Vsevolod was slowly erasing all traces of the former owner of Panemunis, Grand Duke Daugerutis, making the stronghold and indeed the grand duke’s kingdom, his own.
Vsevolod smiled when Aras entered. ‘Ah, Aras, come in and save me from my wife and daughter. They harangue me from all sides.’
He pointed at a servant standing just inside the door. ‘Bring hot soup for the general.’
Rasa smiled at Aras. Elze also acknowledged him but then turned back to her father, tossing her long red locks as she did so.
‘Why can’t I marry Vasilko? He is the son of a king. Morta married Mindaugas who will be a duke one day so I should marry a prince.’
Vsevolod wagged a finger at her. ‘First of all, Vasilko is not a prince but the son of a prince. And secondly, I decide whom you will marry. Now please leave us so I can discuss matters of greater importance with General Aras.’
Elze stood with her hands on her hips for a moment before turning on her heels and storming from the room, slamming the door behind her.
Rasa grinned but Vsevolod was not amused. ‘You must have words with her,’ he told his wife. ‘She must be reminded of her duty.’
Rasa shrugged. ‘She is disappointed, that is all.’
Vsevolod turned to Aras. ‘Prince Boris of Polotsk has proposed a marriage between Elze and his son, a most ridiculous idea. Boris seeks allies against the Sword Brothers for he knows that his kingdom is next on their list of objectives. I see no merit in lending him support, for that is what he wants, before I complete the conquest of Semgallia.’
Aras reached into his tunic and pulled out a crossbow bolt. He tossed it onto the floor in front of Vsevolod.
‘That might take longer than we first thought.’
Rasa looked at the iron-headed missile. ‘An arrow?’
‘A crossbow bolt, lady,’ Aras corrected her. ‘One of dozens shot at my men during their attempt to capture Mesoten. We were repulsed from the walls.’
Vsevolod’s brow furrowed. ‘That was unfortunate. If Mesoten had fallen then the eastern half of Semgallia would have been ours.’
‘Vincentas has been supplied with either soldiers or weapons by the Bishop of Riga,’ said Aras as a slave brought in a tray holding a bowl of steaming soup.
Vsevolod’s concern deepened. ‘Are you certain?’
Aras took the bowl and blew on the soup. ‘The Semgallians have no crossbows, which means that they were supplied with them. Riga would be my guess.’
He sipped loudly at the soup.
‘The Semgallians are not followers of the Rigan religion,’ said Rasa. ‘Why then should the bishop aid them?’
Aras, his top lip covered in soup, shrugged but Vsevolod nodded his head.
‘It is not the Bishop of Riga, my love, who offers aid. I sense the machinations of Archdeacon Stefan at work here.’
‘Who’s he?’ asked Aras.
‘The nephew of the Bishop of Riga, governor of Riga and the most dangerous man in Livonia.’
‘He is a warrior?’ said Aras.
‘He is a poor excuse for a man with a womanly appearance and a taste for fine living,’ replied Vsevolod.
Aras finished his soup and tossed the empty bowl to the slave who had brought it to him. ‘Then he will not trouble us.’
‘You could not be more wrong, general,’ said the prince. ‘On a happier note you will be delighted to hear that Coloman has unleashed a war against Duke Kitenis in retaliation for the devastation of his border villages. So you see, not all of your efforts have been wasted.’
Aras bristled at the sleight but remained impassive. Despite having been promoted by the prince to command all the warriors in Nalsen and Selonia he often found the former ruler of Gerzika both patronising and arrogant.
‘So we will fight beside the Aukstaitijans next year?’ asked Aras.
‘We will offer to fight beside them, general,’ said Vsevolod, ‘thereby earning the gratitude of Duke Kitenis. But I see no purpose in expending the lives of our soldiers battling the Russians when others can be relied upon to do that. We must not lose sight of our objective.’
‘Which is, lord?’
‘To make Mindaugas the grand duke of all the Lithuanian peoples,’ said Vsevolod.
He knew that as a Russian the Lithuanians would never accept him as their grand duke; far better to give the impression that he acted solely to further the interests of his son-in-law. He already controlled the kingdoms of the Selonians and Nalsen and in the spring would have the allegiance of the Aukstaitijans. In addition, he had forged an alliance of sorts with Arturus and his Northern Kurs. It was only a matter of time before Semgallia was carved up between him and Arturus and that just left the Southern Kurs and the Samogitians to deal with. The former were already at war with Arturus and once Gedvilas had been defeated Duke Butantas would have the Northern Kurs on his western borders.
‘What of Riga assisting Vincentas?’ pressed Aras.
Vsevolod waved a hand at him dismissively. ‘When the Bishop of Riga returns to Livonia he will lead his crusaders north to complete the subjugation of the Estonians, though in his absence the crusader kingdom has managed to embroil itself in a war with Novgorod. So you see, my dear Aras, the bishop will not be turning his attention to affairs south of the Dvina for a good while yet.’
*****
The aged archivist finished reading the missive and handed it back to Archdeacon Stefan. The prelate smiled and waved the old monk away. He passed the letter to Nordheim.
‘Why can’t these pagans write Latin like civilised people?’
‘Fortune smiles on you, sir,’ said Nordheim as he stood in front of the archdeacon in the richly appointed withdrawing chamber of Riga’s bishop’s palace.
‘I like to think that it is the hand of God at work,’ Manfred. ‘The bishop can now cross the Dvina and wage war against the pagan Lithuanians, thus relieving the not inconsiderable threat against Riga at the same time.’
‘You are certain that the bishop will wish to crusade in Lithuania?’
Stefan smiled slyly. ‘Oh yes. I will do my utmost to convince him. Besides, he will be bringing to Livonia many German knights who wish to slaughter the godless pagans. With the Danes landing in northern Estonia there will be little opportunity for them to wash their swords in heathen blood there, whereas there is an ocean of infidels just across the Dvina waiting to be converted.’
Nordheim raised an eyebrow. ‘Converted?’
‘Or slaughtered, it makes no difference.’
Stefan fell silent for a moment then looked at his subordinate. ‘Do not mention this letter to anyone, especially Grand Master Volquin or any or his boorish castellans.
Duke Vincentas and his request for aid shall remain a secret for now.’
*****
‘In the spring I will crush the Sword Brothers and free my people.’
The warriors cheered and drank more beer as Jaak raise his cup in the air and then downed its contents in one. The chief of the Jerwen was now roaring drunk and as he tried to regain his chair he fell backwards and toppled onto the floor. There was more wild cheering at the spectacle of the chief being unable to get up unaided. Alva gestured angrily to grinning guards standing behind Jaak to help the chief into his seat.
‘More beer!’ he called as the guards planted him in his chair.
A nervous female slave holding a jug of beer glanced at Alva as Jaak frantically beckoned her over. The chief nodded and she began to fill Jaak’s cup. He began fondling her buttocks and then grasped one of her breasts with his other hand.
‘Leave the jug, bitch!’ he roared as the slave placed it on the table and fled his groping with difficulty. He drained his cup and then refilled it, spilling beer over the table as he did so.
He rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘I am Jaak, leader of the Jerwen people and I will have my revenge!’
The crowd roared their approval again as the Jerwen chief emptied his cup once more and then collapsed on the floor. The warriors cheered and jeered as the chief attempted to get up before collapsing again and falling into a drunken sleep.
Alva stood and pointed to the guards standing behind the top table.
‘Take him to his quarters.’
Four guards hoisted Jaak up and carried him from Varbola’s great hall. Outside the land was covered with snow and ice but inside the Harrien stronghold the air was warm and smoky, filled with dozens of voices and the aroma of beer, leather, sweat and the warmth produced by a raging fire. The reason for the feast was the arrival of Edvin, the chief of the Wierlanders and a hundred of his warriors, his banner bearing a boar hanging beside the lynx flag of Alva, the ‘elf warrior’ who led the Harrien people. Also hanging on the wall behind the top table where the chiefs sat was the Jerwen standard: a great bear. But the bear was now a pale shadow of what it had been.
Edvin watched the guards taking the unconscious Jaak away.
‘I did not realise things had deteriorated so.’
The laughter died as Jaak left the hall and the warriors went back to drinking and eating, the din of their chatter filling the hall.
‘I should throw him out,’ said Alva, taking a gulp of his beer, ‘but where would he go?’
Edvin looked into his cup but said nothing. What was there to say? At the battle of Wolf Rock Jaak’s thousand warriors had suffered hardly any casualties and he had successfully withdrawn them north in the aftermath of Lembit’s defeat. He had at first hoped that Alva and Edvin would support him in his efforts to hold his own kingdom in the face of crusader aggression. But they had suffered losses at Wolf Rock and the Sword Brothers and crusaders pursued the Estonians ruthlessly in the battle’s aftermath, striking north and snapping at their heels. Saccalia and Jerwen had fallen to the Christians and Jaak lost half his army as some fell fighting the crusaders but most deserted, believing the cause of their leader hopeless and preferring to die in the company of their families and neighbours rather than face a life in exile. The crusaders did not pursue the Estonians into Harrien or Wierland and so Jaak and his men spent their first winter in exile at Varbola. In the spring he berated Alva and Edvin for their lack of activity, pleading with them to march south to retake Jerwen and Saccalia, but they both knew that they were not strong enough to fight the Sword Brothers and so they remained in their kingdoms and Jaak descended into a drunken state.
‘He drinks most days,’ continued Alva, ‘some days more heavily than others.’
Edvin looked at the tables packed with bearded warriors. ‘How many men does he lead?’
‘Perhaps three hundred.’
Edvin was shocked. ‘That few?’
Alva picked at the meat pie on the wooden platter before him. ‘When the Russians invaded Jerwen this summer he sent some of his men south to fight them off. None returned. The rest occupy one of the hill forts on my southern border, dreaming of a day when they will return to their homeland. Poor fools.’
‘At least the crusaders did not launch another war this year,’ said Edvin.
‘Yes, strange that,’ replied Alva, finishing off the pie and licking his fingers. ‘Perhaps the Bishop of Riga is dead and the crusaders have lost heart. I have heard no reports of him in Livonia.’
Edvin’s round face broke into a smile. ‘If so then perhaps next year Jaak might get his wish and we can march south to retake Jerwen.’
Alva was unconvinced. ‘Perhaps. Or perhaps the bishop is not dead and will land with another army of men of iron to torment us.’
The men of iron were the mailed crusader knights on their great warhorses whose charge on the battlefield was irresistible. They were feared and hated throughout Estonia, though the Sword Brothers with their stone castles, white-clad knights and horses and their crossbowmen were hated more.
Alva looked at Edvin. ‘We are the last, my friend.’
‘The last?’
Alva waved over a slave girl holding a jug and pointed at his empty cup. ‘The last of the free Estonian kingdoms. Lembit and Nigul are dead and their kingdoms occupied by enemies, Kalju abandoned us and now tries to fend off the Sword Brothers in the west and the Russians in east, and Jaak is a broken man whose kingdom is the plaything of thieves and bandits. Only Harrien and Wierland remain strong and free.’
Edvin raised his cup. ‘Long may they remain so.’
Alva smiled and likewise raised his now full cup. But in his heart he feared that come the spring his and Edvin’s kingdoms would face a new crusader army in the south.
‘What of the Russians?’ he asked Edvin.
‘Novgorod wishes to conquer Ungannia,’ replied the blonde-haired chief, ‘and is currently embroiled in a war with the Sword Brothers. My eastern border is quiet.’
He looked at Alva. ‘Do you hear anything from Kalju?’
The ‘elf warrior’ shook his head. ‘Nothing. He is like flint: hard and uncompromising.’
‘With Lembit dead I have often wondered if he would consider a new alliance with us.’
‘He has new friends in the Sword Brothers,’ said Alva dismissively. ‘He would not be welcome at Varbola.’
The noise in the hall grew louder as the warriors got more inebriated but at the top table Alva and Edvin sank into silence as they both considered the uncertain future of their kingdoms.
*****
Conrad and his companions spent the winter quartered in Lehola with Sir Richard and his men. He at first found it difficult to be in the stronghold from where Lembit had planned his schemes and treachery. And everywhere there were carved wolf heads above doors and on pillars in the great hall, which he disliked. He also found his new-found fame among the Jerwen, Saccalians and Rotalians irksome, especially when the men and women of these kingdoms insisted on calling him ‘Susi’ and made him even more annoyed.
‘You should indulge it,’ Sir Richard told him as they walked through the great stronghold on a bitter January morning after attending prayers in one of the larger huts that had been converted into a church.
The defeat and retreat of the Cumans and Russians had meant that many Saccalians had been able to return to their homes in the villages that had not been destroyed by the invaders. But the fort was still packed with families that had no homes, warriors from Jerwen and Rotalia, Saccalian wolf shields and the Christian knights and squires of the garrison.
‘Loyalty is a precious commodity, Conrad,’ continued Sir Richard, ‘you have men in this fort who would lay down their lives for you and that should be cherished, for it is rare.’
‘Greetings, Susi.’
They turned to see Kaja a few feet away, no longer wearing a helmet and carrying a shield but wrapped in a thick felt cape and a fur hat. Her blue eyes spa
rkled in the morning sun.
‘And women, it seems,’ observed Sir Richard.
‘How are you, Kaja?’ said Conrad.
She walked over and smiled at Sir Richard and Conrad. ‘I am well, Susi, thank you.’
‘Where is your village, girl?’ asked Sir Richard.
‘Two day’s walk from Lehola, lord,’ she answered. ‘But it was destroyed in the summer when the invaders came.’
‘You are welcome to stay here,’ the noble told her.
She smiled. ‘Thank you, lord, but I will be going with Susi when he leaves this place.’
Conrad looked at her. ‘What?’
‘You are my family now, Susi. Many of us here feel the same.’
Sir Richard nodded. ‘It is how I said, Conrad. You should feel privileged that people who follow a different religion should pledge their loyalty to you.’
They had continued walking through the compound where children played in the mud outside the huts, slaves mucked out stables and warriors stood sentry in the fort’s towers.
‘You should keep a record of your activities for Master Rudolf,’ said Sir Richard as Kaja walked behind them.
Conrad looked over his shoulder and spoke softly so she would not hear. ‘I cannot write, lord.’
‘What about the others?’ enquired Sir Richard.
‘Only Anton, who came from a wealthy family, can read and write.’
‘Then get him to record your activities. They will make good reading. And in the spring you will have an army to take back to Wenden and a record of how it came about.’
‘The army of Susi,’ beamed Kaja.
‘The Army of the Wolf, yes,’ agreed Sir Richard.
*****
The winter gripping Livonia and Estonia was long and hard and as the new year dawned and temperatures continued to drop people wrapped themselves in furs as they tried to keep warm. But the temperature outside was positively mild compared to the icy atmosphere in the palace of Prince Mstislav of Novgorod when Yaroslav Nevsky returned to the city. Like every Novgorodian he was well acquainted with the prince’s temper and ruthlessness. He therefore sent couriers ahead of the army to inform him of the sad news that Gerceslav and his wife had died during the expedition into Ungannia. He had hoped that the prince’s rage that would inevitably follow the reception of this news would burn itself out before he arrived back in the city, much like a violent storm blows itself out. But in this he had greatly miscalculated.