by Peter Darman
‘Torolf is here?’ Rudolf was surprised. ‘Get up, get up.’
‘A few miles to the south, lord,’ replied the Kur.
‘Does he lead an army?’ asked Conrad mischievously.
The Kur looked at the tall soldier standing a few feet from him and was surprised to see that he wore the uniform of the Sword Brothers, an order that no longer existed.
‘An army, sir?’
‘Be quiet, Conrad,’ said Rudolf. ‘By all means ride back to your master and tell him I shall be delighted to meet with him.’
Rudolf ordered a full guard of honour to greet the Kur ambassador who arrived two hours later in the company of a score of mailed knights wearing full-face helms with black surcoats bearing the symbol of a silver seagull. They would not have looked out of place among Christendom’s finest knights so excellent was their accoutrements and steeds. The six other horsemen wore leather armour and guarded the ambassador’s carts. The brother knights, sergeants and crossbowmen snapped to attention when their signalmen blew their trumpets, Torolf all smiles and thanks as he was assisted down from his docile mare. He clasped his hands together before Rudolf.
‘Master Rudolf, you do me great honour. Thank you for agreeing to meet me at such short notice. I hope I have not disturbed you unduly.’
‘Of course not, ambassador. Allow me to show you to your quarters. You must be tired.’
Torolf’s smile did not fade. ‘I am always tired these days, Master Rudolf. Old age besieges my body night and day.’
He walked with Rudolf to the master’s hall where he would be lodged, stable hands taking the Kur horses as sergeants showed their masters to the great dormitory on the western side of the courtyard where they would be quartered. Torolf’s jaw dropped when he spotted Conrad at the end of the line of brother knights.
‘Master Conrad?’
‘None other,’ smiled Conrad. ‘It is good to see you again, ambassador.’
For once Torolf was lost for words.
‘The last time I saw you, death was upon you and yet here you are, seemingly reborn. My king will be heartened to learn that not only did you live but prospered.’
‘I owe my life to King Lamekins,’ said Conrad, ‘a debt I fear I will never be able to repay.’
Torolf remembered his duty, his smile returned and he engaged Rudolf in small talk as the two strolled towards the master’s hall. But he kept looking behind at the walking miracle that was Conrad Wolff.
That evening Rudolf provided a banquet in honour of the Kur where Torolf explained the reason for his visit.
‘My king owns property on Oesel and was aggrieved to discover that a rebellion had broken out in those areas controlled by the Rigan church.’
‘Though not in the Kur areas?’ asked Rudolf.
‘King Lamekins maintains an adequate garrison on the island to prevent such an occurrence.’
‘I can imagine.’
Torolf sipped at his cup of wine. He ate sparingly, just enough to be polite and not cause offence, and he never allowed himself to get drunk in public. He was the consummate politician.
‘After discussions with Bishop Nicholas it has been agreed that my king will crush the rebellion on Oesel, thus allowing you to concentrate on the campaign against Pskov.’
Rudolf nearly choked on his wine. ‘You are very well informed, ambassador.’
‘Allies and friends should take an interest in those things that are of a mutual interest and concern to them, Master Rudolf.
‘I am here to tell you that my king will also guarantee the safety of the Dvina should you wish to deplete your garrisons along the Dvina.’
‘Why would I wish to do that?’
‘To augment your forces, of course. With no crusaders coming from Germany and Danish power not being what it was, it makes sense to utilise those troops that are available to you.’
‘What is your king getting out of it?’ asked Rudolf harshly.
‘A soldier’s question,’ remarked Torolf. ‘Riga will be compensating King Lamekins for quashing the rebellion on Oesel and safeguarding the Dvina until your campaign reaches its successful conclusion.’
Conrad seated on the other side of Torolf raised his cup.
‘To King Lamekins whose soldiery qualities pale beside his business acumen.’
*****
Spring was always beautiful in Lithuania. The plethora of groves green and lush and meadows filled with snowdrops and buttercups. The level of the Dvina was high and the current fast, though not as rapid as when the ice that had covered the waterway in winter melted. The crew of the riverboat tossed ropes to those waiting on the stout wooden jetty. They initially struggled to secure them to oak mooring posts, but once they had done so, the rowers shipped oars as those on the jetty heaved on the ropes to pull the boat alongside. As one the line of trumpeters raised their instruments to their lips and blew a fanfare. The honour guards snapped their spears to their bodies as Princess Rasa stepped from the vessel. Around her neck she wore an eye-catching silver necklace, from which hung amber stones on silver chains – a gift from King Lamekins.
He had sent Ringaudas to Selonia to escort the princess along the Dvina to Kurland, though giving strict instructions that he was not to divulge to her that her late husband had abandoned him and his comrades when the Kurs had been at war with Vsevolod. He wanted nothing to spoil the visit of the princess. They had corresponded frequently and found, much to their mutual surprise, that they enjoyed each other’s words.
They journeyed together in a four-wheeled cart to Talsi where the king had arranged a parade of his army, minus those troops sent to Oesel to crush the revolt there. Lamekins took the princess’ arm as he led her along the front rank of his soldiers: the fierce axe men that had done so much slaughter among the Selonians and Nalsen in years gone by; the medium foot with their iron-rimmed oblong shields; the crossbowmen in their gambesons; and the horsemen, a mixture of men in leather armour and those, a minority, in mail armour attired like Christian knights. Rasa smiled when she saw her father’s banner flying alongside the seagull on the ramparts of the king’s stronghold.
Gintaras had been sent to Oesel, leaving the bored Tadas and Valdas to act as courtiers. They did their best to appear interested in the princess but absented themselves from proceedings when the chance arose. Ringaudas, though, attended Rasa like a doting sibling, answering her queries and speaking to her in her native tongue. There followed days of touring Kurland, Lamekins careful not to go too far south near the border with Samogitia to avoid any awkward questions concerning the princess’ son-in-law. The days were pleasant and Rasa thought Lamekins charming, thoughtful and doting, qualities she warmed to greatly.
‘You did not invite me here to inspect soldiers, I think.’
Rasa’s brown eyes sparkled. She smiled at the king as he poured wine into a silver chalice.
‘Cannot a king have a pleasant diversion once in a while?’ he smiled, putting down the wine jug and sitting on the couch next to her.
He had dismissed the servants so they were alone in the snug room between their respective private quarters.
She wore a coy expression. ‘And is it a pleasant experience?’
He leaned closer to her. ‘Most pleasant.’
‘And your intentions, sir?’
He gave a nervous laugh. ‘To get to know the daughter of Grand Duke Daugerutis better, if she will permit me.’
She took a sip of wine. ‘She will.’
He moved closer, their eyes meeting, and planted a gentle kiss on her full lips. The moment was exquisite.
‘In truth,’ he told her,’ I would like to have someone to share in my good fortune, for surely rewards are nothing if they cannot be shared.’
‘Are there no Kur noblewomen whom the king wishes to seek the hand of?’ she teased.
He thought for a moment. ‘Many. But none that can hold a candle to the ruler of Selonia and Nalsen. None that have her spirit, strength and mystery.’
&nbs
p; She was flattered but was no longer a starry eyed young girl.
‘There are many who would oppose such a union, lord king, not least my sons-in-law.’
‘But they would not risk war, lady, which makes their disapproval mere words. Mere words’
She looked away. ‘I would not wish to lose contact with my daughters.’
‘Nor would I expect you to do so. I would take no measures to cause friction among your family. Or insist that you abandon your beliefs.’
That pleased her. ‘You are too kind.’
He had never been called kind before. He liked it.
‘Promise me that you will give the idea serious consideration, Rasa, that is all I ask.’
She placed her cup on the table beside her and took his face in her hands.
‘It will be uppermost in my thoughts.’
She kissed him and felt emotions stir within her that she had not experienced in an age.
Rasa went back to Panemunis, Gintaras defeated the rebels on Oesel and a love-struck Lamekins went to his southern border in the company of a thousand horsemen. He sent a courier to Medvegalis requesting a meeting with Duke Ykintas. The duke brought many Kriviai to the appointed location where the Samogitians paid their annual tribute to the Kurs. He was angry and looked ill when he jumped from his horse to confront the Kur king. A dozen men stood behind each ruler with hands on the hilts of their swords, white-robed pagan priests throwing rowan on the ground to avert evil and Christian priests making the sign of the cross opposite the pagans.
‘The tribute is not due until the autumn,’ stated Ykintas abruptly.
‘I know that, duke. I am not here to make demands but rather to discover if relations between our two kingdoms can be improved.’
‘That is easy enough. Cancel the tribute that Samogitia is forced to pay.’
‘Very well,’ replied Lamekins. ‘It is cancelled.’
Ykintas blinked, thinking his ears were deceiving him. Then his eyes narrowed as he sensed a trick.
‘What game is this?’
‘No game, duke. I merely require a favour from you in return, in addition to your pledge that you will launch no more wars of aggression against Kurland.’
Spits of rain began to fall from a grey sky. Not for nothing was Lithuania so green and lush in spring – it rained almost every day.
‘What favour?’ hissed Ykintas.
‘You are acquainted with the Princess Rasa?’ said Lamekins cheerfully.
‘Yes.’
‘The princess wishes to marry again having served the appropriate length of time mourning Prince Vsevolod.’
‘What is that to me?’
‘The princess feels that her choice of husband might create discord between her and her sons-in-law. I need to know that you will not raise any protest against her choice.’
Ykintas shrugged. ‘Why should I care whom she marries.’
‘Because the cancellation of Samogitia’s tribute depends upon it.’
Ykintas’ eyes widened in stunned disbelief. ‘You?’
Lamekins met his incredulity with cold eyes. ‘You must decide here and now duke whether you will be Kurland’s friend or its perpetual enemy.’
Ykintas did not hesitate. Such a trivial matter as Princess Rasa’s future pitted against the wellbeing of his people warranted only one answer.
‘Samogitia rejoices that the mother of its duchess has found happiness.’
The spits of rain increased and there was a rumble of thunder overhead to signal the approach of a downpour. Lamekins turned and walked back to his horse. He gained his saddle and was handed his reins by a soldier holding his mount.
‘Give my regards to your wife, duke.’
The spits turned to rain as another clap of thunder shook the sky. Ykintas stood and watched the Kur horsemen trot out of sight, he and his men getting soaked as the heavens opened. He had perhaps won Samogitia’s greatest victory without even drawing his sword.
*****
Domash Tverdislavich had never been a kind man. His membership of a powerful Novgorod family had allowed him to indulge his passion for raiding, looting and seducing the wives of men of lesser status. As posadnik of Pskov he had generally abused his position to accumulate wealth and power, aided by a stroke of luck when Gleb had become his personal adviser and lucky talisman. Domash had curbed the Orthodox Church in its desire to root out paganism from Pskov and the surrounding countryside, while Gleb’s presence ensured the common people of the city and countryside stayed loyal to Domash. The mayor was thus distraught when the old Skomorokh became ill and took to his bed. He summoned healers from far and wide but the mystic sent them away. Before they left they told Domash the same. Gleb was not in any pain, his body was simply nearing the end of its life.
A large crowd gathered outside the palace each day once word spread that the Skomorokh was ill, mostly commoners from the poorer parts of the city and villagers from the countryside. They were berated and damned by black-robed Orthodox priests who stood at the fringes of the crowd, ensuring they kept close to Domash’s guards in case the crowd turned ugly and lynched them. But mostly they were mournful, their cries and groans filling the air.
Gleb opened his eyes. ‘What’s that?’
Domash sat beside his bed, looked up at the open shutters.
‘A crowd of well-wishers. They are praying for you.’
Gleb raised an eyebrow. ‘That racket could raise the dead. Send them away.’
‘I will order them to be quiet but will not send the away,’ said Domash. ‘Many have come a long way to show you their support.’
Gleb, his breathing shallow, turned his head to look at him.
‘You are in an unusually charitable mood.’
In truth Domash had mellowed of late, not only because he was feeling his age but because he knew that if Gleb died his power would wane. He had made many enemies among the city’s clergy, boyars and merchants over the years but the support he had from the common people, combined with a sizeable garrison at his back and his ruthlessness, had kept his enemies at bay. He did not fear his opponents but he did feel the cold wind of change blowing through Pskov.
‘You must leave the city,’ said Gleb faintly. ‘There is a storm coming.’
‘We have weathered storms before, my old friend.’
Gleb closed his eyes. ‘Not like this one. One who was dead and whom the gods renewed with life comes. Go to Novgorod, you will be safe there.’
Domash did not reply but just sat and realised as he stared at the old Skomorokh that Gleb was his only friend in the entire world. He also realised that it was for that reason that he did not want the old man to die and leave him alone. The wailing and moaning outside grew louder.
‘Guard!’
The door to the bedchamber opened and a mailed sentry entered.
‘Lord?’
‘Tell the commander of the watch to go outside and order that rabble to be quiet otherwise I will have them cleared from the palace grounds.’
The soldier saluted and left.
Gleb tut-tutted. ‘Don’t let the black crows have my body. Burn it so I may climb the world tree and sit by the side of Perun. And make sure you burn my gusli as well. It has been my companion for longer than I care to remember and I wish to take it with me.’
Domash was going to insist that Gleb would recover from his current ailment but the old man suddenly exhaled loudly and breathed no more. Seconds before he had life but now his spirit had departed. Domash leaned across and gently closed his eyes. He felt strangely emotional and grew angry with Gleb.
‘I said you would get better. How dare you disobey me. How dare you!’
He held his head in his hands. He felt sick to his stomach. It was deathly quiet. The crowd outside was now silent, the room was silent and his life was empty.
Gleb’s body and his gusli were burnt on a giant pyre outside the city walls. Thousands gathered to pay their respects while in the city the bells of the Church of the Hol
y Trinity rang out to celebrate the passing of a notorious pagan and troublemaker. As he watched the hungry flames devour the body of his adviser Domash sent a party of horsemen into the city to demand the bells be stopped and with orders to cut off the right ear of every bell ringer. Gleb would have liked that.
*****
Gleb had been right about the storm but it was not one of thunder, rain and hail; rather it was one of mail, horseflesh and steel. Bishop Hermann had sanctioned Rudolf’s plan to strike at Pskov and the commander of the Teutonic Knights assembled nearly six thousand men to strike at Novgorod’s ‘younger brother’. The snows had melted and now the land was green and none more so than the area around Pskov, set amid fertile agricultural land. It was also fine country for marching armies across: gently rolling hills with the majority of the forests of fir, pine and birch positioned to the north of the city, though in the rest of the region there was a fair scattering of ash, linden, maple, elm and oak. But to the west and south there were great expanses of meadows and ground given over to pasture around the many ancient villages set on undulating hills.
Rudolf struck first against the small town of Izborsk, a craft centre of wooden one-story houses and a miserable timber fort on the same limestone ridge as the town. It was only twenty miles west of Pskov but such was the surprise of the garrison commander when the crusader army appeared before his walls that he surrendered immediately. Rather that then see his command and the town reduced to splinters and ash when the crusader siege engines began their deadly work. The small garrison was allowed to leave for Pskov, Rudolf certain that the attack on and capture of Izborsk would bring a prompt response from the city’s mayor.
He was right.
Ten thousand men accompanied Domash Tverdislavich out of Pskov, marching alongside them dozens of Orthodox priests carrying icons of Vsevolod Mstislavich, a prince who had ruled the city a hundred years before. They also carried icons of Christ, John the Baptist and the Nativity. Side-by-side with them were horsemen carrying banners showing the coat of arms of the city – a golden snow leopard on a blue background. It had taken over a week to assemble the army, heralds from the city riding to every village to summon those capable of bearing arms, while in the city itself the militia, the peshti, were also mustered.
