by Peter Darman
Every Kur soldier was well protected against the cold and wet, their boots leather and well made and their clothing thick and warm. Every man had also been issued with a cloak to give protection from the sleet that often fell in the autumn in Samogitia.
The meeting place was a nondescript valley in northern Samogitia, a light drizzle adding to the overall gloom making the ground soft for horses, men and wagons. It took the whole morning for the Kur and bishop’s army to make the transition from column to line as it emerged from the rutted forest track it had been travelling on to take up position on the rise of ground just below where the great forest of pine ended. The slope was gentle and at its foot was a small stream that wound its way south. Across the stream, deploying on the opposite rise of ground, was the army of Duke Ykintas. As Conrad sat and watched the Samogitians being marshalled into position by their chiefs it became apparent they were outnumbered. Unless there were more Samogitians hiding in the pine forest stretching into the distance then he reckoned Duke Ykintas had only half as many men as Lamekins and Bishop Nicholas. His horsemen were magnificent, a sea of riders wearing mail and lamellar armour with many colourful banners showing the elk antlers of Samogitia among them. But among the foot soldiers – the vast majority – there were many who had no armour and only a spear for a weapon. Their lines looked ragged as opposed to the compact, ordered formations of his own warriors and those of the Kurs. And the horsemen of the Sword Brothers, Sir Paul and the Duke of Saccalia presented a fearsome spectacle.
Conrad stood with his warlords as the Army of the Wolf took up position to the left of the Kur foot soldiers, Gintaras having wandered over to speak to them. They had fought together at Reval and on Oesel and the grudging respect between them and him had developed into a sort of brotherly familiarity. They clasped forearms and then Gintaras strolled back to his axe men. The mood was very relaxed considering that thousands of armed men were facing each other. Leatherface, who had been inspecting his crossbowmen, approached, a large cloak around his shoulders, its hood drawn over his head.
‘There should be a rule stating that battles should only take place in summer when the ground is dry and the days are long and warm. This wet is no good for my bones.’
‘Perhaps we should have left you with the women and girls,’ said Hillar.
‘Have pity on him,’ remarked Riki, ‘a man of his advanced years feels the cold more than we do.’
‘You’ll be feeling my boot up your arse in a minute,’ replied Leatherface, prompting the others to laugh.
‘We are not here to fight,’ said Conrad, ‘but to ensure that the Samogitians do not intimidate King Lamekins.’
‘Are your eyes playing you up?’ asked Leatherface.
Conrad was taken aback. ‘No.’
Leatherface pointed at the Samogitians. ‘They don’t look very intimidating to me.’
‘Nor me,’ agreed Andres.
‘I think the king has lured us here for other reasons,’ said Hillar.
At that moment the king himself appeared, galloping across the army’s front to great applause and cheers from his Kurs. Conrad bowed his head to him when he and his escort arrived.
‘I request your presence, Master Conrad,’ smiled Lamekins.
‘Of course, majesty.’
Conrad beckoned to the man holding the reins of his horse to bring the beast over. Lamekins saw Leatherface staring at him.
‘I remember you. The jester.’
Hillar, Riki and Andres laughed and slapped the mercenary on the back.
‘I think you are the one who is jesting, lord,’ said Leatherface.
Lamekins was intrigued. ‘In what way?’
‘I heard that those Samogitians were threatening your lands but unless there’s a few thousand hiding in a nearby forest I believe it is the other way round.’
‘That is enough,’ Conrad ordered, pulling himself into his saddle. ‘My apologies, majesty, he speaks out of turn.’
Lamekins wheeled his horse away. ‘A king must safeguard his realm using whatever means are at his disposal, jester.’
The meeting between Ykintas and Lamekins took place at the stream that was no more than two paces in width. Torolf was beside his king and Valdas on the other side. Bishop Nicholas, Grand Master Volquin and Conrad sat on their horses to the left of Torolf. The drizzle turned into a light rain as Lamekins took control of the meeting.
‘Greetings Duke Ykintas, I thank you for accepting my invitation.’
‘You did not say that the Christians would be accompanying you,’ replied Ykintas tersely.
‘Did I not? Forgive me but I too have accepted the faith of the Bishop of Riga who sits beside me.’
He held out a hand to Nicholas wrapped in a thick woollen cloak. He looked at the prelate.
‘The conversation between us must take place in Lithuanian as Duke Ykintas does not speak German. Ambassador Torolf will act as a translator.’
Ykintas was surrounded by men of his bodyguard but was clearly discomfited by the presence of Volquin and Conrad, recognising their uniforms with no affection. Lamekins introduced the head of the Sword Brothers and Marshal of Estonia.
‘This is Grand Master Volquin, the commander of the Sword Brothers, and with him is Master Conrad, commander of the Army of the Wolf.’
‘What do you want?’ was Ykintas’ only reply.
Lamekins looked hurt. ‘Peace, of course.’
Lamekins studied the duke’s bodyguard.
‘I do not see Prince Mindaugas.’
‘He is not here.’
‘A pity because he should be here to listen to my terms for peace.’
‘Your terms?’ said Ykintas.
‘In the spring Samogitia will deliver to Talsi silver, horses and grain. The amount of each category will be relayed to you by Ambassador Torolf’s servants in due course.’
‘You insult me,’ said Ykintas loudly.
Lamekins also raised his voice. ‘Insult you, duke? For years Samogitia in conjunction with the other Lithuanian kingdoms has waged war against Kurland. Perhaps your memory has erased all knowledge of the invasion of my realm that was defeated at the Abava.’
‘That was years ago,’ replied Ykintas.
‘Nothing is forgotten, nothing is ever forgotten,’ stated Lamekins. ‘If you decline my demands then we can settle things here, today. The choice is yours.’
Bishop Albert, Volquin and Conrad were listening intently but as none of them could understand the Lithuanian tongue they were none the wiser concerning the exchange. Nicholas looked at Torolf.
‘My king pleads with Duke Ykintas that they should fight no more, lord bishop.’
Volquin glanced at Conrad and shrugged. Lamekins was not giving the appearance of a man who was pleading.
‘I am waiting,’ said the king menacingly. ‘The Sword Brothers are straining at the leash to kill pagans, duke.’
In the wet gloom Ykintas stared at the thousands of Kurs and their allies on the hill opposite, all of them well armed and equipped, which was more than could be said of his own army. Perhaps if Mindaugas was with him he might have defied Lamekins. But then he remembered that at the Abava there had been over seventeen thousand Lithuanians and they had still been defeated by the Kurs. Samogitia had bled constantly since then. There was a limit to how much blood a people could shed.
‘You have your peace,’ said Ykintas.
‘The king has persuaded Ykintas not to attack us,’ said Torolf.
‘Praise God,’ uttered a relieved Nicholas.
Conrad watched Ykintas turn his horse and ride back to his men. He sat hunched and forlorn in his saddle giving the impression of a defeated man.
‘We shall have peace,’ beamed Lamekins, speaking in German. ‘I shall order a church to be constructed on this spot, lord bishop, to salute the momentous events that have taken place this day.’
Bishop Nicholas made the sign of the cross at a delighted Lamekins who wheeled his horse around and rode back to his
army. Volquin, Torolf and the bishop followed him as the rain increased in intensity. The Samogitians were already trudging away, heads cast down as they trailed after their duke.
*****
The River Volkhov was a white ribbon snaking through a Novgorod blanketed in snow. Outside the city the river always froze at the beginning of November but it rarely did so in the centre of the city until January. But this year the ice had formed early as the temperatures rapidly dropped and people shivered in their homes. Winters were always hard in Novgorod, a bitterly cold wind from the east pinching the flesh of those who ventured out of doors. But it was not just the wind that was chilling the populace of the city.
Pavel Tverdislavich, wrapped in furs, watched a servant pile wood on the fire.
‘And use your poker so the air can get to it. I want warmth not smoke.’
The servant did as he was told, bowed and left the room, closing the door behind him.
The kremlin’s palace was normally occupied by the prince of the city, but as Mikhail had long since left Novgorod and his dissolute son Rostislav had been forcibly evicted, the building had stood empty save for meetings of the Council of Lords. Today was such a meeting, the council being the mouthpiece of the veche, the body of boyars and merchants that appointed princes and dispelled with their services if they failed to uphold Novgorod’s interests. Those chosen to sit on the Council of Lords were invariably drawn from the city’s ancient boyar families, the sons and grandsons of men who had shed blood in Novgorod’s service.
‘The city will not see Mikhail again,’ stated Pavel glumly. ‘It is time to look to our own interests.’
Akim Chudin stoked his beard. Old, though not as old as Pavel, he nodded in agreement.
‘He sits in Kiev’s palace a thousand miles from Novgorod. His latest missive was dripping with gloom.’
Sasha Zavidich shook his head. ‘The Mongols?’
Akim nodded. ‘Those who have felt their wrath call them the “Devil’s horsemen”. They are by all accounts fearsome.’
‘A thousand miles is a long way even for a man on horseback,’ said Pavel, ‘and I am sure that our forces can defeat them should they decide to come near our borders. What say you, Thousandman?’
Yaroslav Nevsky, the fourth and youngest member of the council, smiled reassuringly.
‘I’m certain that with the addition of the forces from Pskov we can secure our borders.’
‘Many among the veche are fearful that these Mongols will disrupt trade with the southern cities,’ said Sasha. ‘That being the case they are eager that the trade routes to Dorpat and Riga are not imperilled.’
‘He’s talking about you, Yaroslav, in case you had not noticed,’ remarked Pavel.
Yaroslav blushed. ‘If I have offended the veche I can only offer my apologies.’
‘You have offended no one,’ said Pavel, ‘unlike my son who should have kept his princess happy.’
He jabbed a finger at Yaroslav. ‘But you should have stopped him slitting her throat in front of the Catholics. Most unseemly. If he wanted to kill her he should have taken her back to Pskov and burnt her at the stake.’
Yaroslav shuddered. ‘It was a bad business. But Domash is my son’s godfather and I felt honour bound to support him.’
Pavel chuckled. ‘I doubt my son cares about honour, arrogant little bastard. I should have drowned him at birth. However, his mother is fond of him and he has done a reasonable job of being mayor of Pskov. But after the episode in the summer I think we should replace him.’
‘I would advise against that,’ said Yaroslav.
‘On what grounds?’ asked the bookish Akim.
‘He is by all accounts a popular mayor,’ replied Yaroslav, ‘and keeps a Skomorokh by his side, which ensures he retains the support of the people.’
Sasha groaned. ‘The saints preserve us. It is improper that the Mayor of Pskov should have as his principal adviser a Skomorokh.’
‘The mayor should also be reminded that Pskov is subordinate to Novgorod,’ stated Akim, ‘and has no authority to provoke a conflict with the Bishop of Dorpat. A conflict that we do not want.’
Despite the fire now raging Pavel was still cold and pulled his fur-lined cloak more tightly around him.
‘And that goes for Lord Murk, Yaroslav. You made a mistake taking him to Dorpat. He enjoyed himself too much and Novgorod does not want to be drawn into his private disputes.’
‘Where is he now?’ enquired Sasha.
‘In Karelia,’ replied Yaroslav who felt like a chastised child.
‘Keep him on a tight leash, Yaroslav,’ commanded Pavel, ‘or he will be exiled from the city.’
‘I will do as you request,’ said Yaroslav, ‘but I am mindful that if we have war with the Mongols then Novgorod will be glad that men like Kristjan are on its side.’
‘Is he still a pagan?’ asked Akim.
‘He is,’ answered Yaroslav softly.
Akim shook his head. ‘Extraordinary.’
‘He’s a fearless little bastard and I like him for that,’ said Pavel. ‘But if he provokes a war with the Catholics then our grain supply will be cut off, which means the city will starve in winter, which will include his business partner. Speaking of which, I think he should be made a member of the veche. What’s his name?’
‘Dmitry Hoidja,’ said Yaroslav.
‘Is he of noble birth?’ asked Sasha.
Yaroslav cleared his throat. ‘Not exactly.’
‘Then what, exactly?’ probed Pavel.
‘He was a fisherman, I believe,’ said Yaroslav.
Akim gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘This is highly irregular.’
‘I agree,’ said Pavel, ‘but Lord Murk provided a useful service to the city and he may do so again. But,’ he gave Yaroslav an iron stare, ‘both he and you will stay out of Bishop Hermann’s territory. Is that understood?’
‘It is, replied Yaroslav.
‘Bring more firewood,’ shouted Pavel, ‘my feet are blocks of ice.’
*****
With the year waning the land was blanketed with snow and ice. The rivers and lakes froze, the deciduous trees stood black and stark and the branches of evergreens were weighed down by snow. Hungry ravens cawed incessantly and wolves howled at night. For the garrison of Odenpah the short days were filled with much activity. Ramparts had to be swept of snow and ice, logs were laid in the inner and outer courtyards to prevent them from becoming great patches of mud when it thawed, and patrols were increased. This was not so much to guard against Russian incursions, though parties of horsemen were sent towards Lake Pskov to guard against such an occurrence, as to reassure those villages around the fort that help was at hand should they need it. They did not of course, the inhabitants and their forefathers having lived through Estonian winters for generations, but Conrad liked to show his face to them, as much for his benefit as theirs. He took immense pride in the fact that once formerly abandoned villages had now been re-occupied and were thriving. He thought it his greatest achievement.
Training and patrolling; the eternal pastimes of a garrison. No matter what the weather or month Werner put the novices through their paces, teaching them how to use a waster properly, how to couch a lance on horseback and how to fight in formation. Leatherface and Falcone, the dishevelled German and the handsome, immaculate Italian, showed them how to shoot a crossbow. When he was at the fort Conrad liked to stand and watch their training sessions, reminiscing about when he and his friends had been novices at Wenden. Today was such a day, Werner shouting at the boys who were in matched pairs, facing each other with wasters and shields.
‘Not too tight to your bodies, the shield can be a weapon in its own right. And keep moving.’
The morning had been icy and bright but a cold breeze had blown in grey clouds and it had begun to snow. Conrad had been standing holding some parchments in his hand, at the door to his grandly titled Master’s Hall, which was nothing more than a wooden hut with a thatched roof next
to the great hall. He had been reading them in the sunlight to the accompaniment of Werner’s instructions. His hut was invariably dingy in winter, even when lit by candles, and he preferred to read in the winter sunlight when possible. The fall of snowflakes had prompted him to roll up the parchments before taking them inside.
‘The duties of a garrison commander, Conrad?’
He smiled when he saw Maarja approach, a great fur-lined cloak around her shoulders, its hood drawn over her head. She was looking at the rolled parchments. Conrad held them up.
‘These? No, lady, these are of a more personal nature.’
She halted before him. ‘My apologies, I did not mean to pry.’
He opened the door. ‘Please come in, it will be snowing heavily soon.’
The temperature had risen slightly, indicating a heavy snowfall was imminent.
‘Be mindful of your feet,’ shouted Werner as the boards covering the courtyard became slippery with the falling snow.
The interior of the hut was indeed dark, the shutters designed to let in light being firmly closed. It was very cold so Conrad lit the fire in the stone hearth in the centre of the floor. Maarja sat in one of the chairs by his small desk. When the flames had lit the tinder he too sat down. He placed the rolled parchments on the table.
‘This is a letter I wrote to my sister on the eve of what I thought was my last day on earth. It was kindly returned to me. I read it from time to time.’
‘When was the last time you saw her?’
Conrad’s mind took him back to a day in Lübeck, to St John’s Convent, which was the last he had seen of her.
‘Twenty-four years ago.’
‘What was she like?’ she asked.
It was like yesterday and he could still see her innocent grey eyes as he said goodbye.
‘She had blonde curly hair and had inherited my father’s build though my mother’s nature. She was always cheerful and made friends easily.’
