As Dust to the Wind

by Peter Darman

  The interior of the round tent was oppressive as Alexander, his senior officers, Kristjan and Boar stared at the grubby Tracker.

  ‘Did they see you? Asked Kristjan.

  ‘No, lord, I was well hidden.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ sneered Boar.

  Tracker gave him a hateful look. ‘Unlike you I do not tramp around the undergrowth like an oversized bear with stomach ache.’

  ‘Watch your tongue,’ growled Boar.

  ‘Enough,’ said Kristjan warily. ‘How many do the enemy number?’

  ‘Hundreds, thousands,’ replied Tracker. ‘Their boats line the bank of the Neva for a great distance.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Kristjan, ‘you may go.’

  The scout smiled smugly at Boar and left the tent where a sense of doom permeated the heavy air.

  Alexander looked uncertain. ‘We must send word to the city for reinforcements. We will remain to shadow the Swedes.’

  Kristjan saw the beads of sweat on his forehead, his eyes blinking rapidly.

  ‘I would speak to the commander alone,’ he said to the others.

  The Russians looked at Alexander who nodded. They filed out, Boar the last one to leave, as Kristjan sat down on a stool.

  ‘This heat is oppressive. Take the weight off your feet.’

  He poured the young man some water into a wooden cup and passed it to him.

  ‘The Swedes will be moving south soon. We cannot wait for reinforcements, Alexander. We must attack them. Today.’

  The son of his friend gulped down the water. ‘I have six hundred men of my Druzhina, plus your two hundred. Eight hundred men cannot defeat perhaps three or four times their number?’

  Kristjan leaned forward. ‘Why not? The Swedes do not know how few we are. Besides, if we achieve surprise numbers will not count.’

  Alexander poured more water into the cup, rivulets of sweat running down his face.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘You can be sure of this,’ said Kristjan, ‘when the Swedes move they will cover ten miles a day. It is summer. The tracks are dry and firm, the days are long and warm. The rivers and lakes will provide a plentiful water supply and it is only a hundred and twenty miles from Novgorod. In less than two weeks the Swedes could be before the walls of your city.’

  Alexander shot him a look. ‘And yours.’

  ‘Hit them now and hit them hard.’

  ‘And if we fail?’

  ‘Then we fail but at least we will have tried.’

  Alexander gave the order for his men to prepare for battle. It was mid-afternoon but that mattered little. In northern Russia in summer the days were long and the twilight endless when the sun dipped below the horizon for little more than an hour after midnight. The air crackled with excitement as men checked saddlery and then their weapons and armour. Kristjan gathered his men in a semi-circle prior to leaving camp.

  ‘Do not indulge in pillage or destruction. Kill as many as you can. Disregard the enemy’s boats and baggage. If we win you can have the pick of the plunder, that I promise. Above all kill their priests. Novgorod has enough Christians; we do not need any more in this land.’

  Eight hundred riders moved slowly out of camp, those of Alexander’s Druzhina attired in lamellar armour and carrying teardrop-shaped shields bearing Novgorod’s coat of arms. Kristjan’s men carried shields bearing a golden eagle but apart from the shape of the shields there was very little difference between them. The boyars and their sons who rode with Alexander resembled closely the horsemen of Lord Murk, the only difference being that Kristjan’s men were all pagans either recruited in Karelia or exiles from Estonia. Their weapons, armour and horses had been financed by the seemingly inexhaustible wealth accumulated by the former ruler of Ungannia and his wily business partner.

  The day was balmy and sleep inducing and security was lax among the more than four thousand Swedes and their allies who settled down to eat their evening meal in the summer heat. The boats that had brought them across the Baltic were tethered together in a long line stretching into the distance, the calm waters of the Neva gently lapping against their hulls. Men sat on the ground cleaning their armour or on stools rubbing wax into their boots. Others were swimming in the cool waters of the river, to both refresh themselves and escape the infernal mosquitoes that plagued both man and beast in equal measure.

  The first indication that something was awry was when the Swedes’ horses became skittish and began to whinny in alarm. They stopped eating their fodder and tried to break free of the reins securing them to their temporary stables. Some began to rear up in terror when the first javelins lanced through the air to hit the men who had been grooming them.

  These javelins were called sulitsas and had a light, thin shaft around five feet in length. Each Russian rider carried four in a small quiver called a dzhid attached to the belt on the horseman’s left side. They made no sound as they were hurled through the air, a dull thud and a groan ending their flight signalling that a man had been hit. Alexander’s men did not scream war cries as they came from the trees, steering their horses through the camp and hurling sulitsas at men too startled to respond. The first few minutes of the fight were unnervingly quiet as the Druzhina went about their business with ruthless efficiency. Then the camp erupted in noise.

  Drums and trumpets sounded as the Swedes rallied, small groups forming around their leaders to fight off the attackers. Alexander’s men had charged in a single, long line and so it was difficult for the Swedes to form into large units. Kristjan’s men also charged in a single mounted line, arrows cutting down men wearing only vests and leggings, some bare chested. Mongrel’s archers were armed with Mongol recurve bows. Novgorod’s encounter with Khulgen may have been unfortunate for the city but it was a gift from the gods for Mongrel, who managed to barter some of the strange-looking Mongol bows. He had seen them in action and had marvelled at their compact shape and lethality, whilst dodging the arrows shot from them. The recurve bow was in essence a simple device. Constructed of layers of birch, flattened horn and sinew bound together with fish glue, the horn added snapping power to the wood of the frame. Carried in a leather case as opposed to slung over the shoulder, the bow could be accessed speedily to loose arrows from the saddle.

  Mongrel shot a man sprinting from a tent, killed another picking up a shield and axe and put another arrow through the eye socket of a priest trying to rally his flock. The air was filled with hisses as his men nocked arrows, shot them and pulled others from their quivers. Each of his men carried three quivers each holding thirty arrows with wide metal blades for arrowheads.

  Alexander, his sword bloody, his arm aching from slashing at enemy soldiers, pulled up his horse when he saw a body of horsemen wearing mail with blue surcoats heading towards him. The ground was littered with dead and dying and his eyes smarted from the smoke produced from a hundred burning tents, wagons and boats. Men of his Druzhina gathered round him as the Swedes came closer, battling individual Russian horsemen as they did so. Men on foot carrying spears, shield and axes, most unarmoured, rallied to their nobles and soon several hundred Swedes were threatening to launch a mass counterattack against the raiders.

  ‘We must leave, highness,’ pleaded one of Alexander’s officers.

  He was about to give the order to a signaller to sound retreat when Kristjan appeared at his side, grinning maniacally before kicking his horse forward to join his men. In the vanguard of the pagan’s men were Mongrel and his horse archers who were shooting like fury as they cantered towards the Swedes.

  Alexander raised his sword. ‘In the name of Saint Sophia.’

  He spurred his horse after Kristjan’s men, his Druzhina following, in a wild charge against a force that greatly outnumbered them. But the arrows of Mongrel’s archers hit those leading the Swedes. The blue and yellow banners went down, horses collapsed on the ground and riders slumped in saddles, arrows in them. And then Kristjan was among them, slashing and hacking with his sword. Beside hi
m Boar duelled with a helmeted noble while Tusk split helmets and skulls with his axe.

  The Swedes, seeing their leaders cut down in front of them, faltered and then ran for their lives when Alexander and his men joined the mêlée. No one followed them as they sprinted towards the river and the sanctuary of their boats. Some vessels were already being pushed away from the riverbank, men desperately trying to clamber aboard. A boat listed heavily and sank into the water as dozens of hands pulled on the gunwale; the crew of another used axes and clubs to stop more getting on board but their vessel suffering the same fate. The sails on others were unfurled to speed the escape from the slaughter on the shore.

  Alexander tore off his shisak, held it aloft and gave a shout of triumph. His men did the same, laughing and cheering him and Kristjan as dazed Swedes, oblivious to the enemy on horseback nearby, wandered towards the river. The riders watched them go, seized by fits of laughter at their bedraggled, bloody appearance. A man with half his face missing staggered to the water’s edge and collapsed on the muddy bank, another holding his badly wounded stomach coughed up blood as he walked into the river and waded towards a boat rowing away, only to disappear below the blue surface. The Swedes’ hope of carving out an empire in northern Russia vanished with him.

  Alexander ordered the Swedish banners to be collected before they left the burning camp, the boats of the enemy disappearing on the western horizon.

  ‘Will they return?’ he asked as Kristjan’s men went among the dead looking for anything of value.

  ‘Not this year,’ said Kristjan. ‘You have won your first victory. Your father will be proud.’

  ‘If he lives.’

  ‘He’ll live. Victory is the best medicine known to man.’

  The Druzhina’s casualties were inconsequential – a dozen dead and upwards of fifty wounded. The enemy dead numbered over a thousand so total had been the surprise of the Russian attack. Alexander insisted on riding back to Novgorod post haste to present the captured banners to Archbishop Spyridon himself as proof that God was on the side of Novgorod. Kristjan kept a straight face as the young boyar fell to his knees in front of him and thanked the Almighty for giving him such a great victory, and asking God to protect Kristjan and lead him to the light.

  ‘What light is that, lord?’ asked Skinner as he and the others took a more leisurely route back to Novgorod.

  ‘The light that the Christian god sends when someone falls on their knees and grovels before it,’ replied Kristjan. He spat from the saddle. ‘Old wives’ tales to frighten young children.’

  ‘Young Alexander certainly believes in his god,’ continued Skinner, ‘before he left he told me that he is going to dedicate a new church in Novgorod.’

  ‘Soon there will be more churches in the city than houses,’ said Mongrel.

  ‘Ask yourselves this,’ said Kristjan. ‘If the Christian god is so powerful why did he need us to tip the scales of the recent battle in Novgorod’s favour?’

  He looked at their blank faces.

  ‘He is a weak god, that is why.’

  They rode on in silence, not daring to suggest an obvious truth: that the Sword Brothers had defeated the pagan Livonians and Estonians, including Kristjan’s Ungannians. But then they cared little for gods or politics, content to follow a man like Kristjan who guaranteed a full belly and plenty of killing for any that followed him.

  The people of Novgorod were ecstatic upon hearing the news of the victory over the Swedes. Relief mixed with joy produced an outburst of emotion not seen for decades. Spyridon and his priests told their congregations that the victory was proof that God had not abandoned the city or its people and that only by dedicating their lives to the Almighty and following His laws would Novgorod eventually triumph over the Mongols.

  The captured banners were put on display in Saint Sophia’s Cathedral and the veche insisted that Alexander attend its session so he could be officially created prince of the city. It was a great honour and Alexander was rightly proud to be accorded this title at such a young age. The Yaroslav Court was packed with boyars and merchants, at their head the delighted faces of the Council of Lords, minus Yaroslav Nevsky who was still confined to his bed.

  Archbishop Spyridon stood to one side with a coterie of priests, his deep-set eyes observing the ranks of bearded men in rich apparel before him. They broke into instantaneous applause when Alexander made his way through them to stand with the Council of Lords. Pavel had to be helped to his feet before he could raise the arm of young Nevsky.

  ‘I give you Prince Alexander, saviour of the city.’

  Rapturous applause followed, spreading to the outside of the hall where hundreds of common folk had gathered near the dense clusters of wooden buildings surrounding the palace. Spyridon nodded approvingly as Alexander accepted the acclaim of the veche, spotting Kristjan at the side of the fresco-decorated hall. He beckoned him over and embraced him. Pavel shook the pagan’s hand as polite applause greeted Lord Murk’s appearance. Many members of the veche still remembered Kristjan and his men breaking into the granaries when Rostislav was in charge of the city. They had no liking for the tyrant son of Prince Mikhail but viewed the assault on private property with horror, believing it set a dangerous precedent.

  ‘You have no place here,’ spat Archbishop Spyridon, ‘this is a meeting of godly men, not pagans.’

  ‘It is always a pleasure to see you, archbishop,’ sneered Kristjan to gasps from the audience.

  ‘You mock this august assembly?’

  ‘No, archbishop, just you.’

  More gasps. Pavel waved a chastising finger at him.

  ‘You blaspheme,’ Spyridon accused Kristjan. ‘Your presence here is an affront to Saint Sophia, the heavenly patron of Novgorod.’

  Alexander wore an anguished expression, torn between wanting to speak up for his friend yet nervous about crossing the city’s spiritual leader. But the young prince did not lack conviction and stood by his father’s friend.

  ‘Lord Murk is here on my invitation, your eminence, in recognition of his contribution to the defeat of the Swedes.’

  He turned to the men of the veche. ‘I ask that the veche recognises his bravery just as it has recognised my service.’

  ‘Impossible,’ spat Spyridon. ‘It was God that gave you victory over the Swedes, not the pagan Lord Murk.’

  Spyridon smiled kindly at Alexander before turning to face the assembly.

  ‘It was not a pagan that aided you, lord prince, but God Himself, the arbiter of defeat and victory. It says something for the high regard the Lord holds you in that He gave you victory despite your mixing with heathens.’

  Kristjan had reached the end of his tether. He knew that many in the hall despised him and the feeling was mutual. He had much love and respect for the Nevsky family but he would not tolerate being insulted by overweight, idle merchants, pampered boyars and haughty churchmen in women’s clothing.

  ‘If Novgorod thinks it can do without me then I am more than happy to leave this city,’ he bellowed, stomping angrily from the chamber.

  Cries of ‘good riddance’ and ‘heretic’ followed him outside where he received a warm welcome from the commoners who had gathered near the palace. They parted to give him a corridor to the stables, cheering and smiling at him as his anger abated in the warmth of their reception.

  ‘God bless you, lord,’ said many.

  Kristjan rolled his eyes. There was no helping these people.

  At Hoidja’s mansion his anger returned. He paced up and down in the company of his partner, Hella and Boar, who was helping himself to beer.

  ‘Ingratitude,’ spat Kristjan, ‘if there’s one thing I cannot abide it is ingratitude.’

  Hoidja inadvertently poured fuel on the fire.

  ‘What did you expect, Kristjan? This city is the centre of the Orthodox Church in northern Russia. You think they would reward a pagan for fighting on its behalf?’

  ‘They were more than willing to smile at me when I
rode out to fight the Mongols,’ Kristjan shot back, ‘and were mightily relieved when I rode again to broker peace with them.’

  ‘Only because you are friends with Yaroslav,’ said Hoidja.

  Hella was confused. ‘You and Hoidja are wealthy, my love. What reward could the city give you that you do not have already.’

  Kristjan stopped, genuinely hurt. ‘As I said, a bit of gratitude would not have gone amiss.’

  ‘Quite right, lord,’ agreed Boar. ‘So we will be going to Karelia this winter?’

  ‘We will,’ confirmed Kristjan. ‘Let’s see how the city fares without us.’

  *****

  It was a warm summer but the atmosphere inside Riga’s Bishop’s Palace was cool to say the least. The news of the defeat of the Swedes at the Neva had sent shockwaves through Livonia and Estonia, so much so that Bishop Hermann himself had travelled to Riga to confer with his brother bishop of Riga. It was one of the few times that the two prince-bishops had been in the same room. One proud and a member of a powerful German family, the other pious, softy spoken, far removed from his famous predecessor. Nevertheless, by dint of circumstances Nicholas was a powerful man, both in terms of the resources of his bishopric and the number of soldiers he could muster. Magnus Glueck had been the commander of the Livonian Militia but after his death none of Riga’s other burgomasters wanted to assume his former command and so the militia was placed under the control of the Bishop of Riga. He already commanded the city garrison, which meant he could put a thousand men into the field should he wish to do so.

  He sat next to Bishop Hermann on the dais in the palace’s audience chamber listening to an account of the Battle of the Neva being retold by the newly made Landmeister, or Provincial Commander, of Livonia. Andreas von Felben had been a Sword Brother, a brother knight who was still in his mid-twenties when he was given a command that technically placed him above Master Rudolf. The former deputy commander of the Sword Brothers could have been greatly offended that a young brother knight had leapfrogged him but Andreas had fought in many campaigns when Volquin had led the Sword Brothers. In addition, the new Landmeister was greatly embarrassed that he had been promoted solely because he was related to Arnestus du Vulven, the Teutonic Knights’ marshal in Acre. The Teutonic Order may have been a godly organisation but it was a stickler when it came to maintaining social hierarchy.