by Peter Darman
‘The Holy Father wishes to create you Archbishop of Novgorod, Hermann,’ said William, smiling at a novice pouring wine into a silver chalice, ‘as a reward for creating this fine bishopric and in recognition of your talents.’
Hermann fingered his gold pectoral cross. ‘The Holy Father is most generous. He will provide soldiers for such a venture?’
William also toyed with the gold cross hanging around his neck. It was larger and thicker than the bishop’s, much to Hermann’s annoyance. Or perhaps the black silk cassock of the cardinal made it appear so.
‘Soldiers are already on their way,’ answered William. ‘Duke Birger Jarl will lead a joint force of Swedes, Norwegians and Finns from the Gulf of the Finns while you and the Danes can strike directly east from Estonia.’
Hermann sipped at his wine. ‘I will not be subordinate to King Valdemar, it would be an insult to my late brother.’
‘Valdemar is old, Hermann, and is in no state to lead an expedition. No, the Danes will be commanded by one of his sons and will be entirely under your leadership.’
‘You have been busy, William,’ said Hermann admiringly.
‘The Teutonic Order, combined with the Danes and your own Army of the Wolf, will prove too strong for Novgorod,’ stated William, ‘the more so now that the whole rotten Russian edifice is being demolished by these Mongols. God has abandoned the Russians and their heretical Orthodox religion, Hermann. Only the Holy Church of Rome can defeat these barbarians from the east.’
Hermann said nothing but stared into his chalice.
‘You disagree, Hermann?’
The bishop looked up. ‘If I commanded the Army of the Wolf then I would wholeheartedly embrace your proposal, but alas following the loss of northern Estonia to the Danes its commanders have become recalcitrant to put it mildly.’
‘They will refuse to take part in a crusade sanctioned by the Pope?’ asked William.
‘I have to tell you, William,’ said the bishop with a heavy heart, ‘that they will refuse, and the presence of the Danes on the crusade will only further add to their sense of grievance.’
‘Perhaps Riga can provide soldiers to bolster the expedition.’
Hermann smirked. ‘Forgive me but it is common knowledge that the Livonian Militia is a laughing stock. I would rather not have any soldiers at all than take them east. I would prefer Italian or German levies.’
William gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘Alas the Holy Father’s problems with the emperor show no sign of abating. He will be reluctant to weaken the forces of the Papal States. Perhaps your family might be willing to lend you assistance.’
‘The machinations of the Holy Roman Emperor have not only destabilised Italy, William,’ said the bishop, ‘they are also having an effect on the politics of Saxony. In the foreseeable future therefore I see no prospect of my family sending me any assistance. Perhaps with the soldiers of the Teutonic Order, the Danes and Dorpat’s militia I might have enough men to take Pskov, but no more than that.’
‘And if the Swedes were victorious?’
Hermann finished his wine. ‘If the Swedes defeat the Novgorodians then I might, I stress might, be able to take Novgorod, which lies a hundred and fifty miles east of where we sit.’
‘Perhaps I could speak to the commanders of the Army of the Wolf, Hermann,’ suggested William.
‘Be my guest,’ came the terse reply.
They sank into silence, both realising that the Pope’s crusade was an exercise that appeared beyond the resources to hand.
‘I will order special prayers to be said throughout Estonia,’ said Hermann, ‘for it is after all the true religion that we are fighting for.’
He did not know it but his prayers were about to be answered. There was a knock at the door.
‘What?’ snapped the bishop.
The door opened and Lukas entered. He bowed his head to the cardinal. ‘Your eminence.’
‘What is it, Lukas?’ demanded Hermann.
‘There is a man outside who desires an audience.’
Hermann rolled his eyes. ‘I told you that I would be receiving no one today. Is your mind addled that you have forgotten so quickly?’
‘You will want to see this man, excellency.’
‘You intrigue us, Master Lukas,’ said the cardinal.
‘Who is it?’ demanded the bishop.
‘The Marshal of Estonia, excellency.’
They both stood, stunned, as Lukas disappeared and reappeared with Conrad by his side, a remarkably healthy looking Conrad wearing the insignia of the Sword Brothers. It was as if he had been transported from an earlier time. They both stared at him in disbelief.
‘Conrad,’ muttered the bishop.
He bowed his head, first to the cardinal and afterwards to the bishop.
‘Our prayers have been answered,’ exclaimed the cardinal, beaming. ‘For how else can this miracle be explained?’
‘Miracle indeed,’ said the bishop.
For the next few hours Conrad was treated like royalty as the man tipped to be a future Pope and Bishop Hermann fussed over him. They insisted he tell them his tale and sat with astonished faces as he recalled his time in Samogitia, his rescue by the Kurs and journey back to Livonia where he was cared for by Rameke and Kaja. He was circumspect when it came to the precise details concerning his miraculous recovery but so amazed were they that no probing questions came. They in turn informed him about the forthcoming crusade against Novgorod and asked if he would lobby his warlords to take part.
‘I cannot do that, excellency,’ he told the bishop.
‘And why not?’
‘They are Christian dukes and men of power in their own right. I cannot in all conscience start giving them orders having been away for so long.’
‘But you will accompany Bishop Hermann on the forthcoming crusade?’ probed the cardinal.
‘If he will have me, your eminence.’
‘What good is a general without an army?’ complained the bishop.
But William of Modena would have no more talk of the crusade or Novgorod, instead asking Conrad his opinion of Dorpat.
‘It has changed a lot since the last time I saw it, your eminence.’
When Conrad had taken his leave of them both Hermann had slipped into a dark mood, made worse by the extinguishing of the glimmer of hope accompanying Conrad’s appearance.
‘I do not think you need worry about sufficiency of soldiers for your crusade, Hermann,’ said the cardinal.
‘He will not command his warlords. Confinement does not appear to have softened Master Conrad’s stubborn nature.’
William chuckled to him. ‘He does not have to command them, Hermann. If he goes on crusade they will follow him, of that you can be certain. As he himself said they are men of conscience and in all conscience they will not abandon their friend. He is the glue that binds them all together.’
*****
Yaroslav said little during the journey to the Mongol camp. The land was a white wilderness, the evergreens groaning under the weight of snow on their branches. The lakes and rivers were frozen solid, making the journey easier as the column of riders skirted great snowdrifts and hills to travel over frozen waterways. Each day the sky was a vivid blue and men squinted in the bright sunlight, reinforced by the pure white of the terrain. They pulled thick fur-lined cloaks around them as a cruel wind blew from the east to bow the heads of men and horses alike. The land appeared devoid of life as if the very threat of the Mongols had emptied this part of Novgorod’s territory.
On the second day Tracker returned to the column with news. He usually absented himself form the main body, always scouting for the best tracks and routes ahead and noting any places that could be useful hiding places in the event of a calamity. He reported directly to Kristjan.
‘We have company, lord.’
Yaroslav raised a hand to halt the column and scanned the rolling, tree-filled terrain.
‘I see nothing.’
; ‘They are there, highness,’ Tracker reassured him.
‘Who?’ demanded Kristjan.
‘Mongols, two of them, perhaps more. I did not stop to find out if there were any more.’
Boar chuckled. ‘You can always rely on Tracker to provide only half the story.’
Yaroslav ordered his Russian subordinate to pass the word that the enemy was near. He nudged his horse forward.
‘Ride ahead to ensure we do not run into an ambush,’ Kristjan told Tracker.
The scout turned his horse and trotted forward.
‘Have you given any thought to what you will say to the Mongols?’ asked Kristjan. ‘If you can understand them, that is.’
‘I do not propose to threaten them if that is what you mean,’ answered Yaroslav. ‘I will be conciliatory and hope they respond in kind.’
Tracker returned after less than an hour, accompanied by four riders in the distance. He pulled up his horse in front of Kristjan.
‘You see, lord. Mongols.’
They carried on, the Mongols shadowing the column as a sense of foreboding enveloped the Russians and Kristjan’s men. When they entered a densely forested valley the enemy disappeared but they were never far away and reappeared again on the crest of a hill when the trees ended. It was an hour before midday, the wind having abated, the sun still brilliant in the sky, when Yaroslav again halted the column. Ahead, on the edge of a wood of birch, stood a phalanx of riders. The first thing that caught the eye was not the men themselves but their horses, which were short and stocky, certainly shorter than those ridden by the men of Novgorod. But if their beasts were open to ridicule the Mongols themselves were not. How different they looked from the Russians and Karelians with their flat faces, black, narrow eyes and snub noses.
On their heads they wore helmets with a top part of iron, leather over the neck and ears. Covering their torsos was leather lamellar armour waterproofed with black pitch. Thick felt boots finished off their winter clothing. Their horses were also protected by leather armour. Each man carried a lance, sword, axe and a bow slotted into a leather a case on his left side, with a full quiver slung over his shoulder.
On the flanks of these heavily armoured lancers were light horsemen wrapped in fur coats carrying two recurve bows and a small round shield. They looked ridiculous but no Russian was laughing. They remembered what the little men on their nags had done to them in battle.
The two sides stared at each other for what seemed like an age before a rider from the Mongol ranks walked his horse forward. He too was wrapped in furs but his features were not Mongol. He raised a hand.
‘My name is Ferapont,’ he said in Russian, ‘and I am the representative of the Lord Khulgen whose soldiers stand before you.’
‘You are not Mongol,’ said Yaroslav, stating the obvious.
Ferapont smiled. ‘No, Lord Nevsky, but as my lord speaks no Russian he felt that it would expedite matters if one who did was present during the negotiations.’
‘How thoughtful,’ said Kristjan.
‘My lord requests your presence as well, Lord Murk,’ said Ferapont.
He turned and waved forward half a dozen men, all unarmed but wearing fine leather armour with red leggings, felt boots and thick fur cloaks.
‘These men are Lord Khulgen’s senior officers. They will be the hostages and surety for your return, gentlemen.’
The Mongol camp was substantial, comprising many yurts covered with lime-washed felt. Huge fires burned among them, windbreaks providing shelter from the bitter easterly. Horses and camels chewed on fodder in temporary stables constructed of wicker and felt. Ferapont said nothing as he led Kristjan and Yaroslav to a large yurt in the centre of the camp, guards taking their horses as the Russian led them inside.
Khulgen was every inch the warrior. He had hard features, a thin moustache and merciless black eyes. He regarded his two visitors like a hawk views a field mouse. He wore a magnificent suit of burnished metal lamellar armour incorporating shoulder and thigh protection. His sword was in its scabbard and in his right hand Khulgen carried a mace, a sign of his authority. Two soldiers came forward and pointed at Yaroslav and Kristjan’s swords.
‘You are humbly requested to surrender your weapons, lords,’ smiled Ferapont.
Kristjan folded his arms defiantly across his chest but Yaroslav sighed wearily and unbuckled his sword belt, telling Kristjan to do the same. The semblance of a smirk appeared on Khulgen’s face.
‘They will be returned to you after the meeting,’ Ferapont reassured them.
Khulgen clicked his fingers. The guards carried forward two leather cases.
‘Lord Khulgen has a present for you, Lord Nevsky.’
The guards removed the box lids. Khulgen reached into one and pulled out its contents. Yaroslav grimaced when he saw the severed head of a man.
‘Behold Rostislav, son of Prince Mikhail,’ said Ferapont, ‘and an enemy of yours, I believe.’
Khulgen, watching Yaroslav intently, reached into the second box and pulled out another head, this one with long hair.
‘And his sister Ola,’ said Ferapont, ‘who I believe insulted you many times when she ruled with her brother in Novgorod.’
Kristjan laughed but Yaroslav was far from amused. It was a veiled threat and one that offended him.
‘What do you want from Novgorod?’ he demanded.
Ferapont standing beside his master brought his hands together.
‘Novgorod will pay silver on an annual basis as tribute to Batu Khan, who has been assigned the conquest of the Christian lands by the great khan himself. In return for this tribute the people and buildings of Novgorod will remain unmolested.’
‘I will have to confer with the veche,’ replied Yaroslav.
Ferapont whispered into Khulgen’s ear. The Mongol warlord said something back to the Russian.
‘The decision whether Novgorod will have war or peace must be made here, today, Lord Nevsky,’ said the Russian.
His smile returned. ‘Be assured that if you pay tribute there will be no occupation of Novgorod, only a yearly visit from my lord’s tax collectors. Novgorod is rich. What is another tax to such a great and prosperous city?’
‘I agree,’ said Yaroslav quietly.
Ferapont told his lord of Yaroslav’s decision. Khulgen smiled triumphantly but then relayed something more to his translator.
‘As a sign of Novgorod’s good faith the city will surrender hostages to my Lord Khulgen.’
‘Hostages?’ said Yaroslav.
‘The second sons of the members of the Council of Lords and the senior members of the veche.’
‘Impossible,’ said Yaroslav angrily.
‘I will submit myself in the place of Andrey,’ said Kristjan.
‘Alas, Lord Murk,’ answered Ferapont, ‘you are a pagan and as such are held in low esteem by the boyars and churchmen of the city.’
Khulgen saw the distress on Yaroslav’s face. He babbled something to the translator.
‘My lord says that to become part of his entourage is a great honour. Your son and those with him will be treated like lords and will learn Mongol ways.’
‘As long as Novgorod pays tribute,’ said Yaroslav bitterly.
He visibly aged on the return journey to Novgorod, the Mongols following the Russian horsemen as they retraced their steps over a wind-lashed white landscape. The presence of Khulgen and his lancers and bowmen was like having a pack of hungry ravens circling overhead. How Yaroslav would have liked to turn and fight these foreign invaders, to turn the snow red with their blood. Kristjan was all for it but to what end? A temporary victory before a Mongol swarm retaliated by reducing Novgorod and everyone in it to ashes. They had him over a barrel and both he and they knew it. So the two parties travelled back to the city where the news that the Mongols would not sack Novgorod was met with rapturous cheers and the peel of the city’s church bells.
The second sons were given over to the Mongols after the agreement had been rati
fied by the veche. There were many unhappy faces among those gathered in the Yaroslav Court near Saint Nicholas Cathedral, across the river from the Kremlin. But no objections were raised against the agreement and so on an overcast morning, snow falling from leaden skies, the exchange took place. To his credit young Andrey was a model of stoicism as he said goodbye to his brother and father and entered Mongol captivity. He and the other young men from the city had faces as white as snow but did not look back as they were led away by a hundred Mongol horsemen commanded by Lord Khulgen.
Afterwards Yaroslav was wracked with guilt and self-recrimination. He became downcast and neglected his health, with the result that he developed a cough that refused to go away. Despite visits from physicians he could not sleep for coughing and he became weak and exhausted. It was made worse because Yaroslav himself believed the illness was a punishment from God for abandoning his son to the barbarians. As Yaroslav Nevsky hovered between life and death Novgorod had no Thousandman to face a new threat from the west.
Chapter 8
Kristjan slapped his neck to flatten a mosquito. The air was humid and oppressive, made worse by Tracker’s news. The scout had returned to the forest camp moments before to report on the enemy. It was not good news. A large Swedish army had landed at the mouth of the River Neva, the wide, deep waterway flowing west from Lake Ladoga to the Gulf of the Finns. Fishermen who lived in villages on the shores of the gulf had sent messages to Novgorod appealing for help before fleeing with their families into the dense pine and spruce forests covering this part of the city’s domain. Yaroslav Nevsky was still gravely ill so the veche had charged his son Alexander to deal with the threat. For the twenty-year-old it was a daunting prospect but at least he had Lord Murk by his side. Fifteen years older than the Russian he was now the richest and most influential boyar in Novgorod, though he would strike anyone who gave him that title. His network of hunters and pelt collectors in Karelia was vast and in the northern wilderness he was called kuningas – king – by the locals.
