by Peter Darman
‘My lord, duke. You will forgive me if I cannot entertain you as befitting your rank.’ He pointed at the smouldering ruin of the hill fort. ‘The Bishop of Riga’s siege engines destroyed my hall.’
Butantas was known for being aloof and cunning but now he only had sympathy for the Semgallian leader as he looked at the blackened remains of Mesoten.
‘I am sorry,’ was all he could say.
Viesthard was surprised. ‘Sorry, lord duke? Why should you be sorry? I have nothing but gratitude for the warriors of Samogitia and their leader who came to my aid. It is I who should be sorry for your warriors who fell in vain to save this place.’
‘It is my regret that I did not join you at the Dvina,’ said Butantas, ‘when the crusaders crossed the river. Perhaps together we could have turned them back before they despoiled your land.’
Viesthard looked at the young man beside the duke who had a wiry frame and narrow face like Butantas.
‘This is my son, Prince Ykintas,’ said the duke.
The younger man bowed his head to Viesthard. ‘An honour to meet you, sir.’
Viesthard dug a heel into the bridge. ‘The crusaders built this bridge. They did not destroy or dismantle it, which leads me to believe that they intend to return.’
‘You should destroy it, sir,’ suggested Ykintas.
Viesthard shook his head. ‘It is a good bridge, young prince, though it might be swept away when the river floods in the spring.’
Now it was summer the level of the Lielupe had dropped and the meadows either side of it were dry. The days were long and warm, which perplexed Viesthard.
‘I give thanks to Perkunas that the Bishop of Riga has taken his army back across the Dvina.’
‘You will rebuild Mesoten?’ asked Butantas.
‘I have neither the men nor the time to do so,’ said Viesthard glumly. ‘To the west I have to fend off the Northern Kurs and to the east there are the armies of Prince Vsevolod. I may have to abandon eastern Semgallia otherwise I fear my forces will be stretched too thinly.’
‘Lithuanians should not make war upon one another,’ said Ykintas bitterly.
‘Men will always make war upon one another, young prince,’ stated Viesthard, ‘if they smell weakness or an opportunity to increase their own wealth and power. Arturus and Vsevolod believe they can divide Semgallia between themselves. No doubt the more so now that the crusaders have laid waste a great portion of the kingdom.’
‘Samogitia will stand by its ally Semgallia,’ announced Butantas. ‘Gedvilas fights the Northern Kurs as well as you, my lord, and I will leave soldiers with you to support your fight with Vsevolod.’
Viesthard was sceptical that the Southern Kurs would be able to offer much resistance to their northern neighbours but he was grateful for Samogitian support. He extended a hand to Butantas.
‘I am in your debt.’
Butantas gripped Viesthard’s forearm. ‘You owe me nothing, lord.’
They both turned when they saw two riders galloping hard towards the bridge, one of whom had a horn to his lips and was frantically blowing it. The commander of the soldiers guarding the bridge ordered his signaller to sound the alarm and seconds later he added the sound of his own horn to that of the horseman’s. The guards ran to the eastern end of the bridge and formed a line of shields and spears as the two riders pulled up their horses before them. As the one with the horn continued to blow his instrument the other began excitedly gesticulating with his arms at the commander.
‘If you will forgive me,’ Viesthard said to Butantas before rushing over to the commotion.
‘Stop sounding that wretched horn,’ he bellowed. He pointed at the other rider. ‘And you, compose yourself.’
The riders, both sweating profusely and their horses likewise agitated, bowed their heads.
Viesthard calmly pushed his way through the guards and looked at them.
‘I assume you have something to report?’
‘Horsemen approaching from the east, highness,’ said the one possessed of flapping arms.
‘Hundreds,’ added the other.
On the western side of the bridge Semgallian horsemen were forming into ranks and foot soldiers were deploying into position to repulse a crossing of the river, for in stretches either side of the bridge the Lielupe was shallow enough for horsemen to cross.
‘How far away?’ asked Viesthard calmly.
‘Less than two miles, lord.’
‘Did you identify them?’ enquired Viesthard further.
‘I saw a banner with a silver beast on a blue background,’ said the signaller.
Viesthard sighed and lowered his head.
‘The emblem of Prince Vsevolod,’ said Duke Butantas who had followed Viesthard.
The Duke of Semgallia cast Ykintas an ironic smile. ‘You see, young prince, how quickly scavengers gather when they smell blood.’
Ykintas drew his sword. ‘I will fight here beside you, lord.’
Viesthard laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘I am thankful for your offer but I am of a mind to destroy this bridge to deny the enemy an easy passage across the river.’
‘They are here, highness,’ announced the scout who proceeded to gesticulate wildly again with his arm, this time in the direction from where he had come.
Viesthard turned and saw a great multitude of horsemen flooding the eastern end of the grassland that abutted the river. The sun glinted off lamellar armour, helmets and the points of spisas, while at the head of the riders were two great banners, one red, the other blue.
Viesthard pointed at the scouts. ‘Two miles away? What are they riding, winged horses?’
He looked behind at the warriors lining the riverbank, his horsemen deployed on their flanks, and then back at the enemy.
‘I would suggest that you and your son return to your men, my lord,’ he said to Butantas. ‘No point in all of us dying here.’
He pointed at the scouts. ‘You two get back across the river. And tell the commander of the crossbowmen to get his soldiers here fast.’
They walked their horses through the guards and trotted across the bridge. More warriors, men wearing mail armour and helmets, leather thongs round their lower leggings, came trotting across the bridge to form a thick shield wall in front of the two dukes.
‘They are advancing,’ said the commander.
Butantas forgot about withdrawing as he stood beside Viesthard and observed a small group of riders leaving the main enemy body that was now around six hundred paces away. The horsemen broke into a gallop until they had covered half the distance between them and the bridge and then slowed to a canter and then a trot.
‘Do they believe that so few can break us?’ hissed Viesthard. ‘Is Vsevolod’s opinion of us so low?’ He drew his sword ‘Prepare to repulse horsemen.’
But the horsemen slowed again, to a walk, as they neared the bridge and then stopped altogether a hundred paces from the bridge. Two took off their helmets and nudged their horses forward, both of them raising their right arms as they did so.
‘What trickery is this?’ said Ykintas.
Fifty paces away one of the riders, a man wearing rich lamellar armour and sporting a neatly trimmed black beard, called to the Semgallians.
‘We come in peace.’
Viesthard looked in confusion at Butantas.
‘I am General Aras,’ continued the horsemen, ‘and seek an audience with Duke Viesthard.’
The two riders had now halted some thirty paces from the shield wall while they waited for an answer. Next to Aras sat a serious-looking younger man with a long face and a wilder beard than his older companion. But he too wore rich armour and carried a gilded helmet. Viesthard, sword still in hand, pushed through his men to stand before Aras.
‘I am Viesthard, state your business.’
Aras looked at the line of whetted spear points pointed at him and the row of determined men holding them.
‘Perhaps we could put away our weapons before we sp
eak.’
Viesthard slid his sword back into its scabbard. ‘There. So speak.’
Aras, slightly discomfited by the aggressive, albeit understandable, demeanour of the Semgallians, managed a forced smile.
‘Very well, lord duke. I am here on behalf of Prince Vsevolod, ruler of the Selonian and Nalsen peoples and guardian of the Kriviu Krivaitis who has declared a holy war against the Christian invaders of Lithuania.’
He held out a hand to Mindaugas. ‘This is Prince Mindaugas, son of Prince Stecse and heir to Prince Vsevolod, who is eager to draw his sword against the Bishop of Riga.’
Viesthard folded his arms and regarded Mindaugas. ‘So, you are Stecse’s son.’
Mindaugas bowed his head at Viesthard. ‘Yes, lord duke.’
Viesthard’s cool disposition thawed a little. ‘I knew your father. He was a fine man and a great warlord. The last time I saw you it was seven years ago, at the camp on the other side of the river. Do you remember, Duke Butantas?’
Aras was momentarily shocked that the leader of the Samogitians was standing beside Viesthard. Vsevolod had assured him that Butantas was a duplicitous individual who would wait to see what fate befell Semgallia before making his move. Butantas was obviously more calculating that Vsevolod gave him credit for. Before he could say anything Mindaugas had dismounted and went down on one knee with his head bowed before the row of now bemused spearmen.
‘Duke Viesthard, though we have come too late to assist you against the barbarians, know that I, Mindaugas, son of Stecse, do hereby pledge my allegiance to you and to the defence of Semgallia, unworthy though I may be.’
Aras was shocked and alarmed while Butantas was surprised and a little taken aback. But Viesthard seemed touched by the gesture. He tapped the commander of the guards on the arm.
‘Take your men back across the river. And give the order to the rest to stand down.’
The man saluted and barked an order at his men, who rested their spears on their shoulders, about-faced and marched back to the western riverbank. Viesthard stifled a grin as he walked forward and laid his hands on Mindaugas’ shoulders.
‘Please get up.’
Butantas and his son came forward as Mindaugas rose to his feet. He turned to Aras.
‘Please get off your horse, general.’
Relieved that Mindaugas had not been skewered by a spear, Aras saluted and dismounted as ordered.
‘Your father was a great warrior,’ Butantas said to Mindaugas.
‘So,’ Viesthard said to Mindaugas, ‘I see you have brought many soldiers with you.’
‘A thousand horse and five thousand foot following, lord duke,’ Mindaugas replied with pride.
‘Unfortunately you are too late,’ said Viesthard. ‘The crusaders are already back in Livonia.’
‘Cowards,’ spat Mindaugas.
Viesthard spotted the look of relief on Aras’ face. ‘Most convenient for you, general, is it not?’
‘We will follow them,’ declared Mindaugas. ‘I bring six thousand soldiers that can be added to the forces of Samogitia and Semgallia.’
Mindaugas’ eyes blazed with enthusiasm. ‘We will raze Riga to the ground in retaliation for the outrages committed here.’
‘I am Ykintas, son of Duke Butantas,’ said Ykintas, extending his right arm to Mindaugas, ‘and I will accompany you across the Dvina.’
Mindaugas clasped his forearm as the two young men looked determinably at each other.
‘To Riga,’ said Mindaugas.
‘To Riga,’ echoed Ykintas.
Viesthard clapped his hands together and laughed loudly. ‘I remember a time when I thought that the world was a simple place. When all I had to do was draw my sword as a way of solving problems.’
‘You are not going anywhere,’ Butantas growled to his son. ‘Put your sword away.’
Viesthard walked to stand between the young men and placed his arms around their shoulders as Ykintas slid his sword into its scabbard.
‘Much as I would like to take you up on your kind offer, I still have an army of Northern Kurs on my western border. If we all took ourselves across the Dvina I am sure Duke Arturus would use the opportunity to lay waste our lands.’
‘It is as Duke Viesthard says,’ said Butantas.
‘Lithuanians should not make war upon each other,’ said Mindaugas glumly.
Viesthard looked at Aras. ‘Indeed not.’
He looked back at Ykintas and Mindaugas. You two young stags could be brothers.’
‘We can stay as long as you require, lord duke,’ stated Aras, trying to appear helpful.
‘Does that include assisting me against Arturus, general?’ enquired Viesthard mischievously.
Aras’ brow furrowed. ‘Well, as Prince Mindaugas stated, lord duke, Lithuanians should not make war upon one another.’
‘You should tell that to Prince Vsevolod,’ replied the duke.
‘Let us put all our previous differences and disagreements behind us, lord,’ implored Mindaugas, ‘and pledge ourselves to the common fight against the heathen Bishop of Riga and his detestable Sword Brothers.’
He drew his sword and held it up to Duke Viesthard, gripping it just below the cross-guard.
‘The common fight.’
Seconds later Ykintas also drew his sword and held it aloft. ‘The common fight.’
Butantas and Viesthard looked at each other before the latter pulled his sword from its scabbard for a second time. Butantas did likewise and pledged his allegiance to battling the common enemy.
‘General,’ snapped Mindaugas.
Aras reluctantly drew his sword and likewise held it up to complete the circle of new allies. This would take some explaining to Vsevolod, he thought.
And so it was that on a bridge built by the Bishop of Riga an alliance was forged that would have great ramifications for the future of Lithuania, Livonia and the Sword Brothers.
*****
Swedish ships had always visited Oesel, Finland and Estonia, first as Viking raiders and settlers and then as traders and crusaders when Sweden’s kings became Christians. It had been over sixty years since King Eric had led a fleet of crusaders east to convert the Finns and since then Swedish ships and missionaries had criss-crossed the Baltic to transport goods and the word of God to the pagans. The Swedes had shown little interest in Estonia until Valdemar had won his victory at Lyndanise. The news of this great triumph had spread far and wide, including to the court of King John of Sweden. John had come to the throne at the age of fifteen and now, five years later, he led a fleet to stake his own claim in Estonia before it was divided up between the Danes and Sword Brothers.
His longships and merchant vessels carried over five hundred knights, crossbowmen and levy foot soldiers. They crossed the Baltic, hugged the northern coast of Oesel before heading south to sail into the shallow waters of Matsalu Bay on Rotalia’s coastline. The ships were beached amid the reed beds and then the king led his army inland a short distance. His guides had informed him that there was a small hill fort less than five miles south of the bay that would provide an ideal base for his glorious crusade in Estonia. He therefore marched his army to the fort located at a place named Leal and stormed it. Admittedly the garrison had numbered only twenty men but it was a victory nevertheless, and while his priests sprinkled the pagan timbers with holy water those defenders who had survived the attack were burnt at the stake for daring to defy a Christian king. Had John taken the time to interrogate the long-haired heathens before he had them incinerated he would have discovered that they were not Estonians, but Oeselians.
The king gave orders that the fort was to be strengthened and in the days afterwards amused himself with raiding and burning the numerous small fishing villages that hugged the nearby coastline. He also indulged his passion for hunting, finding the mostly flat inshore pastures and surrounding forests rich in deer, elk and wild boar. After two weeks a message arrived from Sweden notifying him that a rebellion had broken out in the cou
ntry, a small group of disgruntled nobles taking advantage of his absence to raise the banner of insurrection. Alarmed and enraged in equal measure, the young king took ship and a hundred of his most trusted men back to Sweden, giving orders that the army was to remain in and around Leal until he returned to lead it.
‘They remain at Leal, content to hunt and fill their fat bellies with what they have killed.’
Sigurd retook his seat next to his father who had asked him to give the assembled earls and freemen gathered in the king’s hall a summary of recent events in Rotalia. Slaves served honey mead to the dozens of fair-haired warriors seated in the hall, which was filled with the aroma of sweat as the summer sun roasted the land.
The king’s hall was in the centre of Kuressaare, a huge wooden building with a steeply pitched roof that was supported by two interior rows of massive oak pillars. The unusually high ceiling allowed smoke to rise and escape through ports at each end of the roof. Not that there were any fires burning on the stones in the centre of the floor today. The tiered side benches on either side of the hall, where people sat and slept at assigned places, were crammed with Olaf’s most important subjects. And their combined body heat made the atmosphere most uncomfortable. Olaf, beads of sweat on his forehead, rose and stood in the centre of the hall.
‘Estonia is like a rotting carcass that is being picked over by scavengers. If the Danes, Swedes and Sword Brothers wish to fight over its bones then I see no reason to interrupt them. However, I cannot allow these Swedes to think that they can murder Oeselian warriors without consequences.’
The men seated began banging their feet in acclaim, as did Olaf’s two youngest sons, Stark and Kalf. Olaf raised his arms to still the noise.
‘We will destroy the Swedes at Leal and then I will evacuate our warriors from Rotalia.’
This announcement was greeted by murmurs of agreement. The Oeselians had occupied Rotalia in the aftermath of Lembit’s defeat and death at the hands of the Sword Brothers, when Estonian power had been broken. And only because Rotalia could be used as a launching point for an assault upon Oesel. But now Olaf saw no reason for his warriors to become embroiled in a conflict between the crusaders, a view shared by the majority of his people.