by Peter Darman
The prince sat beside Princess Maria, who as the sister of the late Gerceslav looked suitably mournful. Mstislav, on the other hand, was fuming, his knuckles white as he gripped the arms of his throne when Yaroslav stood before him. To compound his belittlement the prince had assembled in his throne room all the members of the city’s veche, the ancient parliament drawn from Novgorod’s most influential boyar families, to witness Yaroslav’s humiliation. The fawning Archbishop Mitrofan stood by the dais, his priests in their red and gold vestments gathered nearby. They and he were directing unblinking gazes at him as the prince began rapping his fingers on the arms of his throne. Despite the room being filled with upwards of two hundred people if one included the guards that stood like statues around the walls, the tapping was the only sound that was heard. Everyone held their breath as they awaited the prince’s pronouncement.
Mstislav stopped his tapping and drew a deep breath.
‘Where is my standard?’
Yaroslav swallowed. ‘Standard, highness?’
Mstislav remained calm. ‘The standard that was blessed by the archbishop and which was stolen by the Sword Brothers. Where is it?’
Yaroslav felt beads of sweat form on his forehead. ‘I regret to inform your highness that it remains in the illegal possession of the heretics.’
Mstislav leaned forward. ‘And Ungannia?’
‘Ungannia, highness?’
Mstislav leapt from his chair, causing Maria to jump. ‘Yes! Ungannia. I sent you to conquer that kingdom as well as retrieve my standard and I see that your have failed in both.’
The prince’s eyes bulged as he stood and shouted at Yaroslav. ‘Was not twelve thousand Cumans enough to bring a few illiterate pagans to heel? Apparently not. Not only that, but my wife’s brother and his wife have lost their lives due to your incompetence.’
‘I must protest, highness…’
‘Silence!’ bellowed Mstislav. ‘How is it that you failed to take Odenpah or Dorpat, or Wenden and Treiden? It was not Cuman courage that was wanting but your abilities.’
He shot spittle over the floor as he vented his fury on Yaroslav while the boyars stood with mouths open at the blistering attack on young Nevsky.
‘I see now that you are totally unsuitable to command,’ raged the prince. ‘Your ineptitude has led to the deaths of valued members of my family and I should have you executed for your failings.’
There was an angry murmur among the boyars who disliked this unjustified assault upon the son of one of their leaders.
‘Silence!’ shouted the prince.
His cheeks were flushed and his beard covered with phlegm as he walked back to his throne and took his seat.
‘But I am a merciful ruler,’ he said calmly. ‘I therefore banish you from the city of Novgorod, along with your wife. You will go to Pskov where you will serve the mayor of that city. Perhaps he can find a use for you, for I cannot. That is my decision.’
Scribes seated at desks on the other side of the dais recorded the prince’s decision on parchment.
He waved a hand at Yaroslav. ‘Now get out.’
Yaroslav’s father stepped forward. ‘My son has a right to be heard, highness. It is the law.’
Mstislav jumped up again. ‘He has no rights! It is only because I am merciful that he keeps his head. I am the law in Novgorod, something that you all would do well to remember. Guards, clear the room.’
The boyars began talking in angry, if mooted tones, as the guards walked towards them to usher them out of the throne room.
‘You too, Mitrofan,’ ordered the prince whose face looked like thunder as the boyars were ejected from his presence.
‘Crows,’ he sneered.
‘If you will excuse me, lord,’ said Maria, rising from her throne.
He stood and waved over one of his officers. ‘Escort the princess to her private quarters.’
She gave him a faint smile as the soldier bowed his head and paced beside the princess as she walked from the chamber. He had given all the slaves that had been taken in Livonia and Estonia to Khotyan as a gift, and had ensured that the Cumans’ stay at Novgorod had been as short as possible. The last thing he wanted was thousands of his wife’s people terrorising Novgorod. The main doors to the chamber opened and the guards who had administered the ejection of the boyars entered and returned to their posts. Their commander walked to the dais and bowed his head.
‘There is a man outside who requests an audience, highness.’
‘Does he have my banner?’
‘No, highness.’
‘Then I do not wish to see him,’ said Mstislav.
‘He says he is a prince, highness.’
Mstislav became mildly interested. ‘Prince? Of where?’
‘Kokenhusen, highness.’
Mstislav frowned. ‘That is under the control of the Sword Brothers. Is this man some sort of madman, a vagrant who masquerades as royalty?’
‘He is dressed like a noble, highness,’ replied the officer.
Mstislav was becoming bored. ‘What does he want?’
‘I do not know, highness.’
The prince sighed. ‘Very well, show him in. But if he proves to be of no use to me then I will have him flogged.’
The officer nodded. ‘Yes, highness.’
‘And you.’
The officer remained impassive as he bowed his head and left the chamber, returning seconds later with a man in tow. Tall, clean shaven with black shoulder-length hair, he wore a green cloak around his shoulders and had a sword in a rich red scabbard at his hip. Two guards armed with short spears left their posts to stand beside the visitor. The tall man wore leather boots, brown leggings and mail armour over his green tunic. He bowed his head to Mstislav.
‘I am Prince Vetseke, former ruler of Kokenhusen, and I offer my sword to the ruler of Novgorod.’
*****
When spring came and the snows melted Conrad and his fellow brother knights returned to Wenden. They had left the great castle in the company of Tonis and a score of crossbowmen. When they stood in front of Lehola’s great hall on a fresh morning to bid farewell to Sir Richard one hundred and sixty riders waited for them in the outer compound, along with an additional hundred and fifty ponies loaded with tents, food and other supplies. Peeter stood with Sir Richard and squire Paul as the noble offered Conrad his hand.
‘Well, young knight,’ he said. ‘You came here with little hope and return a conqueror.’
‘You exaggerate, lord,’ said Conrad, slightly embarrassed.
But Sir Richard was having none of it. ‘Nonsense. You have exceeded all expectations and I am certain Master Rudolf will be delighted.’
He shook the hands of Anton, Hans and Johann.
‘You have the documents?’ he asked Anton.
The brother knight tapped a saddlebag on his pony. ‘All safe, lord.’
He stepped back and nodded approvingly. ‘Tell Master Rudolf that I await his instructions. When he marches north with the bishop I will muster as many men as I can and join him at a time and place that he deems fit. With God’s help we will be making camp on the shore of the Gulf of the Finns this summer.’
Conrad shook the hands of the stoic Paul and Peeter, whose injuries had fully healed over the winter.
‘It was a pleasure fighting by your side, Susi,’ said the old man.
Conrad smiled. ‘And you, sir.’
The four Sword Brothers hoisted themselves into the saddle, raised their hands to the three standing in front of the hall and walked their mounts out of the inner courtyard. Waiting for them in the outer compound were leather face and his mercenaries, Andres and his thirty Jerwen, Hillar’s score of Rotalians, forty Saccalians, mostly teenage boys who had taken part in the relief of Lehola in the previous autumn and had decided to remain with Conrad, and Tonis and fifty wolf shields. The Saccalian had asked Peeter that he be allowed to stay with Conrad, believing him to be the reincarnation of the ancient wolf guardian of the forest in h
uman form. Peeter had in turn asked Sir Richard who had readily given his permission.
‘They think you are a lucky talisman, Conrad,’ the English noble had told him. ‘And soldiers fight better when they believe luck is on their side.’
‘Surely as Christ’s servants we should not approve of such superstitious beliefs,’ Conrad replied.
Sir Richard laughed. ‘Show me a soldier who is not superstitious and I will show you a liar. Even the most pious knight has his rituals and lucky talismans that he wears in battle. These people believe you to be sent by their gods and you should indulge their beliefs.’
Conrad had been troubled. ‘But it is heresy, surely?’
Sir Richard had smiled wryly. ‘We are all heretics in some way, Conrad.’
And so Tonis sat on his pony and nodded at Conrad as the brother knight rode past him towards the fort’s main gates, his wolf shields and other Saccalians drawn up behind him. He gestured to four of his men who trotted in front of the four Sword Brothers and galloped from the fort. They would act as scouts and guides for the winter snow and ice had melted and the land was flooded as meadows and forests filled with water and tracks through the newly created wetlands were few.
Tonis, Andres and Hillar rode with the four Sword Brothers as befitting their status as commanders, while leather face was content to ride with his crossbowmen just behind the commanders. The day was bright and the air fresh as the column journeyed south, leaves beginning to appear on deciduous trees and lichens and fungi springing up on the ground not under water. But after the empty, blue skies of winter it was good to see white clouds above and hear the sound of corncrakes, snipes, ospreys and black grouse once again. Kaja also rode with Conrad’s group, like the men wearing a helmet and a shield dangling from her saddle. Despite his initial misgivings he had grown fond of the girl, not least because like him she was an orphan cast alone into the cruel world and it was his task to protect her. He comforted himself with knowing that when they returned to Wenden Ilona would be able to find work for her, perhaps teaching her some of her healing arts, the knowledge of which was traditionally denied to Estonian women.
‘We will be marching north in the coming weeks, Hillar,’ said Conrad, ‘and will free your people from Oeselian tyranny.’
‘I hope so, Susi,’ replied the Rotalian.
‘And after that the bishop will take Harrien and Wierland,’ added Anton, ‘and there will be peace in Estonia.’
‘What will the Sword Brothers do then?’ asked Tonis.
‘Grow fat and old living off the land,’ answered Hans.
‘Will you make war upon the Russians, Susi,’ asked Kaja, ‘and avenge the many among my people they killed?’
‘And mine,’ said Andres.
‘It is not for me to say,’ said Conrad. ‘It will be for the bishop to decide.’
‘I have heard stories that the bishop is a great warlord,’ said Kaja, ‘who has killed many enemies in battle.’
Conrad laughed. ‘He does not carry a sword and has never fought in battle.’
Kaja was confused. ‘He is a sorcerer, then?’
Conrad shook his head.
‘Then how does he defeat his enemies?’
‘He persuades many great warriors to leave their homes over the sea to fight for him here, in this land,’ Johann told her.
‘He takes their sons and wives as hostages?’ she asked.
‘Of course not,’ replied Conrad. ‘He asks them politely if they will fight for him and they usually say yes.’
‘He must be a sorcerer,’ Kaja insisted. ‘How else would he be able to deceive men if not by magic?’
‘How indeed?’ agreed Conrad.
It took ten days to reach Wenden, the column threading through forests of pine, along narrow tracks across peatland and across meadows that were only partially flooded. Everyone was in good spirits as the days grew longer and the temperatures rose, though it was still cool at night. But there were no enemies to worry about and every day leather face and his men rode into the trees to hunt elk and boar, invariably returning with kills slung on the backs of draught ponies. And so in the evenings everyone gathered round great campfires over which meat sizzled and spat. Inevitably Kaja sat with the brother knights as they devoured ample quantities of meat, Hans embarking on a mission to discover if he could eat half an elk carcass in one sitting. Kaja fussed around them, tended the fire and cut pieces of meat from the carcasses that cooked on the spit, and for a while the four young men forgot about obedience and poverty as they assumed the roles of returning heroes and great warlords. The Saccalian youths even polished their armour and helmets and dismantled their tents and Conrad wished that the journey to Wenden could last forever.
But it came to an end on an overcast afternoon when the stone towers of the castle came into view at long last. There was a southerly wind and they heard the alarm bell being rung in the north tower when the column was a quarter of a mile from the northern ramparts. Conrad called a halt while he and the other brother knights rode to the gates in the outer perimeter.
‘Make sure you don’t get shot,’ leather face called to them. ‘My boys always hit what they aim at.’
‘He has a point,’ said a concerned Johann.
Conrad dismissed his fears. ‘I would have thought our uniforms will convince the garrison that we are friends rather than foes.’
Sure enough as they cantered along the eastern side of the castle the alarm bell fell silent and before they reached the gates a party of mounted sergeants led by Master Rudolf and Brother Walter greeted them. The commander and deputy of Wenden were bare headed and carried no shields or lances, just swords at their hips.
Rudolf brought his horse to a halt. ‘So, the wanderers return. I see that you all still have your limbs so I take it that the mission was successful.’
Leather face came trotting up on his pony and smiled at the master.
‘Young Brother Conrad has become something of a hero, Rudolf,’ said the mercenary. ‘He is the commander of an army now.’
Rudolf looked to where the Estonians sat on their ponies. ‘So I see. Sir Richard is well?’
‘He is, master,’ confirmed Conrad.
Rudolf looked at leather face. ‘And I see that our oldest mercenary is alive and well.’
Leather face winked. ‘You know me, Rudolf, I always come back.’
‘It gladdens my heart to see you all well,’ said Walter earnestly. ‘I prayed for you all while you were absent.’
‘Even me?’ grinned leather face.
Walter smiled. ‘Even you.’
‘So,’ interrupted Rudolf, ‘Sir Richard was relieved and Lehola is safe?’
‘Saccalia is secure, master,’ said Conrad proudly.
‘As is Ungannia,’ added leather face.
Rudolf was surprised. ‘Ungannia?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said leather face. ‘After he relieved Lehola and raided the enemy’s camp near a lake Conrad marched us all into Ungannia to make sure Kalju and his family were safe.’
‘Did he indeed,’ said Rudolf.
Conrad blushed and looked at Anton, pointing at his saddlebag.
‘It is all in my report, master,’ said Conrad hurriedly.
Rudolf was surprised. ‘Report? Have you learned to read and write in addition to being a general, Conrad?’
Anton fumbled with his saddlebag before puling out a leather tube and holding it out to Rudolf.
‘I wrote the report, master,’ he said.
‘It was Sir Richard’s idea,’ added Conrad.
Rudolf read the report that afternoon after ordering that Conrad’s ‘army’ make camp on the large meadow immediately south of the castle’s outer perimeter. Later that evening he ordered Conrad to his office in his hall. The parchments were on his desk as the brother knight stood before the master, who pointed to an oak chair behind him.
‘Be seated, Conrad.’
Conrad was nervous as he sat down but Rudolf was relaxed. ‘You a
nd your companions have done well. In fact, better than I could have hoped for. In the morning I will write to Riga to inform Grand Master Volquin of your success. He will be delighted.’
He reached for a stoneware jug. ‘Beer?’
Conrad nodded and Rudolf filled his own cup and then a second, pushing it towards him.
‘Soon the bishop will be arriving at Riga with an army of crusaders,’ said Rudolf. ‘Then we can begin the final campaign against the Estonians. Only Harrien and Wierland still defy us and they will not be able to stand in our way. Ungannia will stand with us?’
Conrad toyed with his cup. ‘Kalju is still angry with the Sword Brothers, master.’
Rudolf shrugged. ‘He will come round, eventually.’
‘This year will be a good one, Conrad. Grand Master Volquin will assemble the might of our order and together with those who accompany the bishop we will extinguish Estonian resistance. The Sword Brothers will rule from the Dvina to the Gulf of the Finns and then we can remake this land as first envisaged by the bishop.’
He raised his cup. ‘To victory.’
Conrad smiled and raised his vessel. ‘To victory.’
*****
‘Semgallia?’
Grand Master Volquin looked at Bishop Albert with amazement. The audience chamber of the bishop’s palace was filled with lords, Livs, churchmen and the castellans of the Sword Brothers. The bishop sat with Archdeacon Stefan and Abbot Bernhard at the top table that faced the twin doors to the chamber, Riga’s banner of the cross keys on the wall behind him. Guards in red surcoats bearing the same insignia on their fronts stood around the oak-panelled walls while servants in red livery ferried wine to the assembled dignitaries.
At another table positioned at right angles to where the bishop was seated, on his left, sat the lords who had offered their services to the prelate and had brought their knights and retainers to battle the heathen. Chief among them was the rather dour Albert, Duke of Saxony and Count of Anhalt, who had filled many cogs with his knights, squires, foot soldiers and servants. His lieutenants filled the table to his right, while on his left sat Rudolph of Stotel and his captains, a castellan who had the patronage of the Archbishop of Bremen, who in turn was a vassal of King Valdemar of Denmark. Together these two nobles had brought three thousand fighting men to Livonia.