Master of Mayhem

by Peter Darman

  ‘I shall be glad to,’ smiled Stefan. ‘You will also be interested to know that the Holy Father is sending a legate to Livonia to bring the Sword Brothers to heel.’

  Glueck smiled. This meeting was getting more agreeable by the minute. Stefan finished his wine and held out the chalice for the servant to fill.

  ‘You will not know it, Magnus, but for years the Sword Brothers have been exceeding their authority and abusing the good nature of Bishop Albert. They think they rule in Livonia whereas in fact they exist only to further the interests of the Holy Church.’

  ‘I saw their arrogance for myself while on crusade,’ said Glueck. ‘In a council of war they were condescending and hostile.’

  He rubbed his flabby chin. ‘I remember one in particular, one Master Conrad.’

  Stefan rolled his eyes. ‘Do not talk to me of Conrad Wolff.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Conrad Wolff, the lowborn son of a baker whose wicked nature has resulted in him being elevated to Master Conrad and Marshal of Estonia,’ said Stefan with venom. ‘I am hopeful that the Pope’s legate will put an end to such nonsense.’

  ‘How did such a lowly person attain such a position?’ asked Glueck, pointing at his empty chalice that needed refilling.

  ‘He is a notorious sycophant,’ spat Stefan, ‘who uses every opportunity to ingratiate himself with my uncle. He also weaved his witchcraft on the late Bishop Bernhard, addled in mind and body that he was, may God grant him rest, resulting in him promoting the interests of the baker’s son. This led him to believe that he was above the law. He and his accomplices in the Sword Brothers have insulted my commander, killed members of the garrison and consorted with pagans.’

  He dabbed a cloth on his delicate forehead. ‘It is too much to bear, Magnus. But I pray that the legate will see the baker’s son and the Sword Brothers for what they are.’

  ‘Which is?’ probed Glueck.

  ‘Heretics,’ said Stefan.

  ‘That is a serious charge, Stefan. It will take more than your garrison to suppress the Sword Brothers and the army of pagans that your baker’s son has gathered around him. I saw it in Lithuania. It is well armed.’

  Stefan was hopeful that in time the Livonian Militia would be strong enough to emasculate the Sword Brothers but he kept that to himself.

  ‘The papal legate will begin the process of bringing the Sword Brothers to heel, my friend, of that I have no doubt.’

  Stefan finished his chalice and held it out to be refilled. The servant peered nervously into the now empty jug, unsure what to do. Glueck glared at him but the servant just smiled dumbly in return.

  ‘Get it refilled, imbecile,’ ordered Glueck.

  The servant scuttled away as Stefan chuckled. ‘Regarding your fears concerning these malicious rumours circulating in the city, Magnus. Rest assured that I shall order every priest in Livonia to preach from the pulpit that the spreading of such gossip is a sin, which will be severely punished in the ecclesiastical courts. I will nip this in the bud, my friend, have no fear.’

  It was a very happy Magnus Glueck that escorted an inebriated Archdeacon Stefan back to his coach an hour and three bottles of wine later. Glueck assured the archdeacon that he would not only make good the losses of the Livonian Militia but would also make plans to double its size. Stefan was most pleased by this and told Glueck in turn that he had plans to increase the size of the city garrison, particularly its mounted arm.

  Their drunken conversations may have entered the realm of fantasy but they represented the two most powerful institutions in Livonia: the city council and the Holy Church. The council represented the commercial interests of a city flourishing on the back of the trade between Novgorod and northern Europe, and also the expanding exploitation of Livonia now it had been fully pacified. As the city grew so did the number of mercers, fullers, skinners, girdlers, pinners, drapers, dyers, tailors and cordwainers increase. The huge number of fishing vessels that worked not only off the coast but also along the Dvina meant that the fishermen and fishmongers had a powerful voice on the council, as did the burgomaster who spoke for the joiners who did not use nails – and wood workers who used nails, as well as the coopers. But if Riga was flexing its commercial muscles it was still immature compared to the power of the Holy Church.

  The church was the largest landowner in Livonia, its monasteries producing crops, fruit and wool on an annual basis. However, far more revenue came from the tithe: a tax all Christians were required to pay that equalled a tenth of their income. No one defaulted on the tithe for to do so would result in an eternity in purgatory. There was still a large number of Livs who were pagans but they were also required to pay the tithe, at a higher rate, an inducement to convert to Christianity. The tithe sustained priests, church buildings and provided alms for the poor. The reality was that the village priests were Cistercians who lived a life of poverty in wooden huts they converted into churches so the majority of the tithe went to Riga, to build Bishop Albert’s cathedral and to maintain the bishop’s palace.

  The city council may have managed all aspects of justice in and around Riga but the church had its own set of laws – canon law – and its own ecclesiastical courts to administer them. Church courts dealt with crimes pertaining to adultery, blasphemy, slander, heresy, money lending and gambling, and Archdeacon Stefan was determined to stamp out the rumours circulating about his friend. So he ordered Manfred Nordheim to use his men to round up those spreading gossip about the Livonian Militia. In no time at all he had collected a group of ruffians, gossips and other unsavoury types who were shackled and marshalled to stand in front of the bishop’s nephew in the Archdeacon’s Court.

  The court was a single-storey stone building with a timber roof a short distance from the bishop’s palace. It contained benches where members of the public could see justice being meted out by court judges. In front of the high-backed chairs for the red-robed judges were tables where the registrar of the court and his clerks sat, making a record of all the court’s proceedings. Normally Stefan had little interest in the workings of the court, delegating his responsibilities to his chosen judges who deliberated on the infractions of canon law. The court dealt with a steady procession of cases, the vast majority of which resulted in defendants being fined. This was extremely pleasing for the archdeacon because according to canon law he was entitled to keep the revenue from the fines imposed in his court. This made him very wealthy and very unpopular in equal measure.

  For the purpose of sentencing the rumour-mongers Stefan decided to sit in judgement personally, taking Nordheim and a score of his men with him. Stefan took his place in the centre high-backed chair after prayers had been said. Crossbowmen took up position either side of the archdeacon as the prosecutor read out the charges against the men. He did so in Latin, which meant that neither the accused nor the spectators who filled the far end of the court knew what he was talking about. After he had finished he bowed his head to Stefan and sat down, the only sounds being the scribbling of the clerks’ quills on goatskin parchment. Stefan waved Nordheim forward.

  Near him a young monk held a pomander of herbs to ward off harmful vapours, for Stefan disliked being so close to the lower orders. Nordheim saluted his lord.

  ‘What have you done to the accused, Manfred, the smell emanating from them is really quite impermissible?’

  Nordheim looked confused. ‘I have not done anything to them, sir, aside from clapping them in irons.’

  Stefan held a silk cloth to his nose. ‘You mean that is their normal aroma?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘The Lord preserve us from the common people. Very well, let us proceed.’

  He stood and grimaced at the accused. The guards used the blunt ends of their short spears to still any conversations among the spectators so the archdeacon could be heard. His voice was slightly high pitched and quivering.

  ‘Livonia is God’s kingdom, created in His image to serve His purpose. Bishop Albert is God’s re
presentative on earth in these parts, implementing the Lord’s divine work to bring the word of the Holy Church to the pagans and apostates. Imagine, then, the hurt experienced by his excellency the bishop when word reached him that his glorious crusade in Lithuania was the topic of derision and ridicule among the populace of Riga.’

  Stefan pointed at the accused. ‘You have all been convicted of heresy and shall be punished accordingly.’

  He made to continue but one of the accused, a swarthy man with an imperious air, had the temerity to answer back to the archdeacon.

  ‘Heresy? We have no knowledge of what we are accused of. One moment we were drinking in an inn and the next we were arrested by soldiers of the garrison and…’

  He stopped talking when Nordheim smashed the pommel of his dagger into his face, breaking his nose and knocking him to the floor.

  ‘Have some respect for your betters.’

  ‘Thank you, Manfred,’ said Stefan. ‘You will all have your tongues bored to remind you that idle gossip is a sin and that to criticise those who participate in Bishop Albert’s crusades is blasphemy, for to criticise those who are embarked upon God’s work is to criticise God Himself. Take them away.’

  The guards began herding the shocked prisoners from the hall, cracking a few skulls in the process.

  Stefan retook his chair. ‘Manfred.’

  Nordheim slipped his dagger back into its sheath. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘See to it that the one who interrupted me is hanged and his body displayed in a gibbet at the city gates. An example needs to be made of such base fellows.’

  Nordheim smiled. ‘Of course.’

  ‘No, wait,’ said Stefan. ‘Do not bother hanging him, just put him in a gibbet. He should have time to reflect on his rudeness before he dies.’

  The quiet of the hall once it had been emptied was far more agreeable to the archdeacon, who removed himself soon after to walk back to the bishop’s palace a short distance away. His guards ensured that no commoners got close to him as he ambled along the stone path leading from the court to the safety and haven of the walled palace. But his journey was interrupted when an agitated officer ran up to him and saluted with speed. He recognised the slightly glum-looking individual.

  ‘Apologies, archdeacon, but we have to get you inside the palace as quickly as possible.’

  Stefan was unused to being rushed and frowned. ‘Explain yourself.’

  At that moment the alarm bell in the palace grounds began to ring and Stefan suddenly became concerned. The bell was only rung when the palace and its occupants were in danger.

  ‘The docks are under attack, archdeacon,’ answered Gunter.

  Stefan’s eyes bulged with alarm and he broke into a semblance of a brisk walk as terror overwhelmed him. By the time he had reached the sanctuary of the palace and the gates had been shut behind him he had become a quivering wreck. Gunter thought his demeanour was most inappropriate for such a high-ranking official of the city.

  Chapter 5

  German settlers, priests and traders had occupied the site that would become Riga for forty years, but it was only when Bishop Albert had arrived in what would become Livonia that substantial building works had commenced. It had been twenty-four years since the first stone wall had surrounded the settlement, which had been demolished and then rebuilt to encompass what would become the city of Riga. The wall was now thick and high with towers along its extent and gates at the four points of the compass. The southern gates gave access to the docks, which ran from west to east along the River Dvina.

  The original quay had been a crude earth and timber affair that was soon replaced by a stone structure as Riga’s importance as a crusader destination and trading centre grew. Extending from the stone quay were wooden jetties of varying lengths where the many ships and boats that docked at the port were berthed. As it was summer the docks were crammed with riverboats, Russian merchant vessels, mighty cogs from Lübeck and a plethora of different-sized fishing boats. The scene presented a magnificent example of the economic power of the city of Riga, which reaped a rich reward in tolls exacted on every vessel that docked at the port, even those that brought crusaders to fight the pagans.

  Many of those crusaders were now south of the Dvina – five hundred yards wide at Riga – manning the fortified positions that ran from the river inland all the way to what would become the great Sword Brother stronghold of Mesoten. Now that Prince Vsevolod was an ally of the Bishop of Riga and the northern half of Semgallia had been pacified the threat of attack was far from the minds of the citizens of Riga, whose merchants were growing fat and rich off the proceeds of the never-ending trade that the city attracted.

  ‘Row, boys,’ shouted Arturus, ‘a few more minutes and you can stretch your legs among the fine citizens of Riga.’

  Behind him the men seated on chests groaned as their thick arms pulled at the oars to power the riverboat through the calm blue water. The vessel was packed with soldiers standing in the centre of the boat. Like the thirty other riverboats that were following Arturus’ vessel it was wide in the middle and pointed at each end. Around forty-five feet in length, twelve feet at the beam and low in the water, it could move fast when fully oared. Ten men were pulling at oars and another ten stood ready to launch themselves from the vessel when it reached the harbour. Arturus stood at the prow and another man held the side-mounted rudder at the rear. The single sail was furled and out of the way: it would not be needed today.

  Because the merchants and clerics of Riga were such forward-thinking individuals they were prone to ignore the past, especially when it concerned pagan Livonia and the lands around it. That was an age of savages and witchcraft, which had been consigned to history. Which was most regrettable for had the authorities in Riga paid more attention to the Kurs they would have known that they were a maritime people as well as workers of the land. The long coastline of Kurland was dotted with fishing villages, from where Kur boats sailed into the Baltic to catch herring and sprat. Their shallow-draft vessels were not as large as Oeselian longships but they were hardy and could travel for long distances under oar and sail power along the coast and up rivers. The garrison at Mesoten looked west for the Kur army but Arturus used the mouth of the Dvina to strike back at the Bishop of Riga.

  He licked his lips as his vessels neared the city’s harbour containing a mass of boats moored gunwale to gunwale, the jetties crammed with sailors, port officials, cargoes being unloaded and dock workers. He smiled at Ringaudas beside him.

  ‘Have you ever been to Riga, Ringaudas?’

  ‘No, lord,’ answered the Selonian.

  ‘Me neither.’

  Arturus turned to the men standing behind him. ‘Ready!’

  Except for Ringaudas’ men the Kurs were all heavy foot: men armed with two-handed broadaxes, swords and daggers, round shields strapped to their backs and helmets protecting their heads. The Selonians had no swords, only hand axes and daggers, but they did not expect to be at a disadvantage in the coming fight.

  The riverboats headed for the smaller vessels in the harbour, leaving the large, tall cogs alone. Arturus had given his men simple orders: kill as many as possible. There were so many vessels moored to jetties and on the river that at first the approach of the Kurs was not detected. But as the thirty-one boats filled with warriors headed towards the docks a great alarm arose on those jetties nearest to them.

  Arturus drew his sword and gripped his shield as the rowers shipped their oars and the boat drifted adjacent to one of a similar size and shape. Two bearded Russian sailors, barefooted and dressed in dirty grey tunics and torn beige leggings, stood open mouthed as Kurs leapt on to their vessel. The crescent-shaped blades on the broadaxes could easily pierce a helmet or mail armour but these men wore no protection so when they were struck the iron axe heads all but decapitated one and split the ribcage of the other.

  Arturus with Ringaudas beside him stepped on to the jetty and began thrusting and hacking his sword at all and sundry.
A tall sailor with muscular arms grabbed a fishhook and tried to stab the Kur leader but Arturus brushed the point away with his shield and jabbed his sword forward into the man’s groin. The sailor screamed, dropped the fishhook and collapsed on the wooden boards. Arturus stepped over him to bring down his sword on a port official clutching a sheaf of documents. The blade’s edge cut deeply into the man’s shoulder, causing him to stagger and then collapse to his knees. He discarded the documents and clutched at the gaping wound with a hand, looking over his bleeding shoulder with eyes filled with terror. Arturus passed him as a Kur took a mighty swing with his axe and severed his head in one strike.

  Dozens of warriors were now pouring on to the jetties, in front of them a press of frightened, fleeing individuals. The Kurs swung their axes like farmers scything wheat, each blow striking a head, torso or legs. Above the din of terrified shouts and pleas arose a new sound – high-pitched screams when axe heads hit flesh and bone. Some threw themselves off the jetties in a desperate attempt to flee the Kur horror that was engulfing them, breaking bones as they either missed the water and smashed into a boat, or hit their heads on gunwales and entered the water unconscious, there to drown.

  Ringaudas was enjoying himself. He was pleased that Arturus had accepted him and his men into his service and delighted to be able to exact vengeance on the hated Christians. The main problem he had was trying to reach the fleeing mob in front of him as he kept abreast of Arturus. He was about to crush the skull of a young docker when the lad shouted in alarm and launched himself from the jetty, landing heavily on the deck of a fishing vessel. He picked himself up, limped a few feet and then flung himself into the water. Arturus and the warriors suddenly slowed, confusing Ringaudas. But then the Selonian grinned when he saw that the fleeing of individuals ahead had also stopped. Everyone had headed for the city gates, which meant that there was a great press of panicking men and boys trying to get into the city. Arturus licked his lips again, his warriors gripped their axes and then rushed forward to administer more carnage.