As Dust to the Wind

by Peter Darman

  ‘Among them was a man who came to Livonia when he was a penniless boy, who by his integrity and bravery alone rose to high command.’

  He saw the sadness in their eyes and smiled.

  ‘I have proof that our collective prayers have been answered, my lords, for I have been privileged to have witnessed a miracle and now I give you the same gift.

  ‘Come forward lord marshal.’

  Conrad had at first been reluctant to play along with Rudolf’s plan, viewing it as pure theatre. But Wenden’s master convinced him by telling him that it was a way of meeting his warlords all at the same time rather than one by one, thereby avoiding the accusation that he favoured one over the other. It was a weak argument but such was Rudolf’s enthusiasm that Conrad went along with his ruse. So the doors to the main chamber in the hall opened and Conrad stepped into the alcohol-infused room reeking of roasted meat. To stunned silence.

  ‘Have I changed so much that you do not recognise me?’

  Jaws dropped, cups slipped from men’s hands and Hillar rubbed his eyes in disbelief.

  Rudolf stepped forward, took Conrad’s right arm and raised it aloft.

  ‘I give you Master Conrad, Marshal of Estonia, returned from the dead.’

  That was the cue for pandemonium. Hillar stepped on the table, jumped down and rushed over to Conrad to lock him in an iron embrace. The others joined him, Andres with tears in his eyes, Riki grinning from ear to ear, Tonis shouting to the rafters, Sir Richard trying and failing to maintain a dignified demeanour and Paul repeating over and over again. ‘Bugger me, bugger me.’

  The rest of the evening was a blur. There were endless questions and more toasts. There were pledges not to let Conrad leave, threats against the Lithuanians and joy, sheer joy that Susi had returned to them. Grown men wept unashamedly and the garrison smiled when they heard a great racket coming from the master’s hall. One sound drowning out the rest, that of dagger hilts being smashed on table tops in unison accompanied by a loud chant.

  ‘Susi, Susi, Susi.’

  Conrad woke to loud snores, the commanders of the Army of the Wolf having collapsed into slumber seemingly only minutes before. He rubbed his eyes and threaded a path through the sleeping men. The air outside the hall was fresh and pure. He was unshaved and unwashed but he felt a sudden yearning and walked briskly to the gatehouse, or as quickly as he could after drinking and eating too much.

  ‘The chapel is the other way.’

  The deep voice of Father Otto stopped him in his tracks.

  Conrad turned. ‘Urgent business calls me away, father.’

  Otto folded his arms. ‘More urgent than thanking God for your deliverance from the pagans?’

  ‘Believe me, father, I have thanked Him every day for my safe return.’

  Otto looked at the master’s hall. ‘I suppose the inside looks like the aftermath of a Babylonian drinking bout.’

  ‘It was a fine evening,’ conceded Conrad. ‘And now I really must be away, father.’

  He walked across the cobbles, through the gates, across the drawbridge spanning the deep, dry moat and down the track. It was a beautiful summer’s day, the land green and lush and the garrison prospering. He went to the walled cemetery where his wife and child were buried. He stood before their grave, as ever well tended, the headstone clean and free of moss and the grass cut short. Flowers had been laid at the foot of the stone. He knelt, bowed his head, closed his eyes and prayed. Wenden was a stone fortress dedicated to war but inside the wall surrounding its cemetery was peace and calm, as if all the troubles of the world were forbidden from entering.

  He heard rustling behind him. He stood and saw a dishevelled gardener using a brush a few paces away. It was warm but he had a hood drawn over his head. The cloak covering his body was tatty and torn. He ceased his labours when he saw Conrad staring at him, leaning on his brush. He had the appearance of great age, his shape crooked and frail.

  ‘Serene place is it not?’

  ‘You have worked here long?’ asked Conrad.

  ‘I work in many places, Master Conrad, but I must confess I have a fondness for this place.’

  ‘Odd word to use for a cemetery, “fondness” I mean.’

  The old man cackled. ‘Death is all around us, Master Conrad, but some cheat it, for a while. You miss them greatly, do you not?’

  Conrad looked at the resting place of Daina and Dietmar. ‘Greatly. It has always been my wish to be buried with them.’

  He turned away from the grave. Why was he telling all this to a stranger?

  ‘Your name, sir?’

  ‘You will have your wish, Master Conrad, that is why you were brought back to these parts.’

  ‘As you seem to know much about me,’ said Conrad, ‘it is only proper that I at least have your name.’

  ‘Enoonami,’ came the reply.

  ‘Strange name.’ Conrad stared back at the grave but then realised he was being played with. He turned but the man had disappeared; only the brush remained.

  ‘I am no one,’ was what he had been told.

  Conrad was truly happy during those heady days after he arrived at Wenden. He spent time with Ilona, hunting with his warlords and conversing with Rudolf. It was during one such discussion on Wenden’s tallest tower that the castellan probed Conrad concerning his intentions.

  ‘You should visit Odenpah. You are after all its master, or was.’

  ‘Jaan is dead?’ asked Conrad in alarm.

  ‘No, and he was made Odenpah’s master after it was judged that you were long dead. But the garrison was very much your creation and you should let those you recruited and trained know that you still live. And Bishop Hermann for that matter.’

  Conrad viewed the lush green landscape surrounding the castle, his eyes resting on the town nestling at the foot of the escarpment below. A wooden wall and watchtowers enclosed the settlement, beyond which were fields where crops were ripening.

  ‘When I first came here there was not even a village and now I see a town. The world changes.’

  ‘Some things stay the same,’ said Rudolf. ‘William of Modena is heading for Dorpat agitating for a war against the Russians. A new crusade, Conrad.’

  Conrad sighed. ‘Let us hope that it is better planned than the last one I took part in.’

  ‘You have returned more idealistic, perhaps,’ grinned Rudolf, ‘but I think you will be disappointed.’

  ‘I was also disappointed that my commander of crossbowmen did not accompany my warlords. Did he fall in battle?’

  ‘Fall in battle?’ laughed Rudolf. ‘He retired with a tidy sum and now runs an inn in Dorpat, the wily old fox.’

  ‘Then I will visit him there.’

  Before he left there was an argument among his commanders regarding where he should reside. Tonis wanted him to live at Fellin while Sir Paul was insistent that he should reside at Lehola as it was bigger.

  ‘If size is the determining factor,’ said Riki, ‘then Varbola is the largest stronghold in all Estonia so Susi should live there.’

  ‘Leal may be smaller,’ stated Hillar, ‘but it is closer to the sea and the air is far healthier. Susi will recuperate there much quicker.’

  ‘He don’t need to recuperate,’ said Paul, ‘I’ve never seen him looking fitter and stronger. Odd that.’

  His appearance did not resemble a man who had spent three years in captivity, during which he had suffered hard usage. Even the stump of his missing little finger looked smooth and well healed. But they had raised an important question. Where was his home? He was no longer Odenpah’s master but he knew where to find a welcome.

  ‘I shall visit Lady Maarja,’ he told them.

  When they said goodbye to him on a fine summer’s day twenty miles south of Fellin his commanders were genuinely sombre.

  ‘You are forbidden to leave Estonia,’ Hillar told him.

  ‘Yes, your grace,’ said Conrad.

  He embraced each of them in turn and bade them farewell, spu
rring his horse to the east, to Odenpah. The tracks were bone dry so he was there in three hours, the great timber fort standing proudly in front of the great meadow where shepherds watched over their flocks of sheep. A great banner hung above the gates in the outer compound showing a black cross on a white background. He pulled up his horse and scanned the scene. He saw sentries on the walls and carts on the track leading to the fort. To his left he saw a stone building, causing him to smile. So Lady Maarja’s new home had been completed at long last. Bishop Hermann had fulfilled his promise.

  He spurred his horse forward towards what was titled a leper house. He trotted up to the stone wall surrounding the hall where Lady Maarja lived, the access to which was via a single wooden gate. He was surprised to discover the dry moat surrounding the residence and even more surprised when he saw a figure limping towards him from the open gate. He slid off his horse as the man, now old and grey, walked up to him.

  ‘The Lady Maarja is not receiving guests today, friend.’

  It was Mikk, the old steward of Odenpah who had stayed by the side of his mistress through thick and thin.

  ‘Not even for me, Mikk?’

  The old man stopped and squinted at the mailed man before him. His face registered confusion when he saw the insignia of the Sword Brothers on Conrad’s surcoat and astonishment when he realised the identity of its wearer.

  ‘Master Conrad?’

  Conrad bowed his head. ‘The very same. How is the Lady Maarja?’

  He thought he saw a tear in Mikk’s eye as the old man hobbled forward to shake his hand.

  ‘She is well, master, and will be delighted to see you. I never thought to see you again. We were told you had been killed in Lithuania.’

  Conrad spread his arms. ‘As you see, reports of my demise were greatly exaggerated.’

  The ‘leper hospital’ itself was a pristine hall with a thatched roof and a small chapel beside it at right angles. The scent of herbs reached Conrad’s nostrils as he led his horse through the gate, Mikk limping beside him. The first thing he saw was the plaque above the entrance to the hall, upon which were carved the words Domus Dei – House of God. He saw a wooden storeroom beside the wall enclosing the precinct and smiled when he spotted a figure in black kneeling at a flowerbed.

  ‘If you wait here, Master Conrad, I will announce your presence.’

  Two figures came from the hall, old soldiers wearing mail armour carrying shields bearing the golden eagle of Ungannia. Their shoulder-length hair was thinning and grey and their steps were short. They were the warriors who had remained with Maarja in the dark days when Kalju had died of the pox. They stopped and stared at him, looking at each other in disbelief before rushing over.

  ‘Are you a ghost?’ asked one.

  ‘Not as far as I know,’ replied Conrad.

  ‘We heard you were dead,’ said the other.

  This was the first thing Lady Maarja said to him before she embraced him and held him close for a long time. He held her slight frame in his arms and thanked God for giving him the chance to see this great lady once more. Later she talked with him long into the night, telling him how she had fallen into despair when news reached her of the defeat of the Sword Brothers and his reported death. Only with the support and love of the brother knights and sergeants of Odenpah, together with the prayers and kind words of Bishop Hermann, did she manage to carry on.

  Conrad looked around at the neat and tidy hall. ‘He kept his promise. I’m glad.’

  ‘He will be pleased to see you, Conrad.’

  ‘And I him.’

  ‘You have come back to take up your command?’

  ‘Alas, lady, I have no command, though I daresay the bishop can find a use for me.’

  He told Master Jaan the same the next day after he had been mobbed by Odenpah’s garrison and its civilians. Horton hosted a thanksgiving ceremony in the chapel and Jaan ordered a feast for the evening, sending Arri to fetch Lady Maarja the short distance from her home.

  ‘What do you hear of the Russians?’ Conrad asked him the next day when he accompanied the garrison’s commander on an inspection of the walls.

  ‘They do much trade in Dorpat but apart from that they give us no trouble.’

  ‘And Kristjan?’

  Jaan stopped and rested his hands on the fort’s old timbers.

  ‘We have heard nothing of him. The Lady Maarja writes often and I have the letters taken to Dorpat, to the offices of the merchants of Novgorod. But no reply comes, leading me to assume he has died.’

  ‘I thought that once, Jaan, and look what happened. But perhaps you are right.’

  He left Odenpah with a heavy heart. He was tempted to stay in the company of Lady Maarja and the boys he had recruited who had become fine men and soldiers. But he knew his destiny lay away from the fort, whatever it might be. Odenpah was his past, that he knew. He left the fort in the company of Werner, now in his fifties but his mind still as sharp as a sword blade. They rode to Dorpat to search out an old friend.

  ‘Falcone and his Italians left in the spring after the great defeat south of the Dvina,’ Werner told him as they trotted north. ‘There was no money to pay them. Indeed the order had problems paying all its remaining mercenaries. Many garrisons were woefully depleted, master. It is better now we are part of the Teutonic Order.’

  ‘What is your opinion of this new order?’

  ‘Very little has changed, master, aside from the fact that only German nobles can become brother knights. But because they are fighting pagans in Prussia Master Rudolf and the other former Sword Brothers are left to their own devices.’

  ‘And the Danes?’

  ‘They administer Reval and the surrounding lands but do not trouble us, master. They are our allies now.’

  *****

  They swarmed around what was left of the Russian army like flies on rotting flesh, shooting arrows at the hapless foot soldiers who had no answer to their devilry. The battle had started well enough, hundreds of the finest horsemen from Novgorod, Pskov, Rostov, Suzdal and Polotsk charging at the brown mass of warriors opposing them. The banners of the Russian principalities, the two black bears of Novgorod, the golden snow leopard of Pskov, the ship of Polotsk, the golden lion of Suzdal and the white stag of Rostov, fluttered proudly among the horsemen covered in lamellar armour, with helmets and carrying lances, axes and swords. The Orthodox priests blessed the host and raised their hands to the heavens when the massed ranks of the Druzhina charged the ragged brown line made up of contemptible little horses.

  It was fine country for horsemen – gently rolling and open – and the foot soldiers cheered when the Druzhina thundered passed them. They cheered some more when the enemy turned tail and ran. For days the common soldiery had been glum at the prospect of facing the Mongols but their trepidation disappeared when they saw them run. These were the feared horsemen that had taken city after city and destroyed armies with ease. But now the God-fearing nobles of northern Russia had put them to flight. The Mongols fled, pursued by the Druzhina. But as the dust clouds dissipated the remaining sections of the Russian army realised with horror that not all the Mongols had fled. Had they been privy to the easterners’ battle tactics they would have known that feigned flight was a common tactic.

  The remaining Mongols – horse archers – then set about whittling down the enemy. The horsemen darted in to deliver withering volleys of arrows that took a fearful toll on the densely packed ranks of foot soldiers. The priests and non-combatants sought shelter within the spear-fringed blocks of Voi but it was a false sanctuary because there was no defence against the Mongol arrows that fell like rain in a thunderstorm.

  ‘We must leave, lord.’

  Boar grabbed Kristjan’s arm and pointed behind. The two hundred men who made up Lord Murk’s contingent, deployed on the far right of the army, had thus far been left mercifully unmolested by the Mongols shooting the Russian battle line to pieces. But now Mongols were behind them, approaching at leisure.


  Mongrel had also seen them and was marshalling his score of archers to face them.

  ‘This army is beaten,’ said Boar harshly, ‘if we stay we die with it.’

  Kristjan was unusually hesitant. Because he was a pagan he had been forbidden to charge with the Druzhina, among which were his friend Yaroslav Nevsky and his sons. It was a deliberate slight by Prince Vladimir of Suzdal, egged on by the priests that were part of his entourage. Now those priests were being butchered and their prince was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Lord!’ shouted Boar.

  Mongrel led his men forward in a line. They shot a volley of arrows arching into the sky but the Mongol horsemen retreated out of range. The arrows slammed harmlessly into the ground and then the Mongols spurred their horses forward, halted and discharged their own volley. Mongrel ordered his men to retire but one was hit and fell to the ground. His comrades grabbed him and he hobbled back to relative safety. The Mongols continued to move forward.

  ‘What will Yaroslav think of me?’ he said.

  ‘He’s probably dead,’ replied Boar, ‘him and the rest of the horsemen.’

  Kristjan knew he was right. He heard the cries and screams of the Voi as they were killed where they stood, Mongols having penetrated their line and were now slaughtering isolated pockets of Russians. It was time to flee or die.

  ‘We go,’ said Kristjan. ‘Tracker, what path would you take?’

  Ashen faced and nervous, Tracker was living his nightmare: surrounded by a bloodthirsty enemy. He was desperate to get away and pointed to the east.

  ‘Our best hope is to seek the sanctuary of the nearest forest.’

  ‘That would take us away from the direction we came from,’ said Tusk.

  Tracker’s mind was racing. ‘Seek the nearest safe place, stay there until the Tartars have killed everyone and then get back by taking a wide detour.’

  Tusk sniffed in contempt but Kristjan trusted his scout’s main preoccupation, which was to save his own skin. So he led his men east, leaving the rest of the army to its fate. The Mongols followed the galloping horsemen before desisting and letting them escape. They were only two hundred. Why give chase when thousands of men with no means of escape could be butchered with ease? The Mongols were practical as well as ruthless.