He reached forward to lift his chalice to his lips.
‘As it should be, lay members can never don the white cowl or tonsure and they are required to remain illiterate. The natural order of things, you see. That is why Dünamünde prospers, Manfred, because the strict order of things is maintained. You will not find a low-born baker’s son raised high here.’
*****
Valdemar held his head in his hands as the messenger relayed the dismal news. His nobles and prelates looked at each other furtively and fidgeted with their hands. The messenger himself had been sent by one of the captains of the two surviving cogs that had docked in Reval’s harbour. The ships had been carrying food and supplies for the Danish garrison. Three vessels had originally set out from the port of Lübeck but they had been attacked by Oeselian longships north of Hiiumaa, the island immediately north of Oesel. Normally armed cogs, especially as part of a flotilla, could fend off longships but the captain of the third Danish vessel had panicked and steered his ship on to rocks, causing it to break up. All those on board were lost. The deaths of lowly sailors and soldiers were insignificant of course but the ship had been carrying a choir made up of young boys who sang in Lübeck’s cathedral. They were being sent to Reval in an attempt to improve the humour of the Danish king, which of late had deteriorated. But now they were dead and he would never hear their angelic voices.
Valdemar raised his head and waved away the messenger, who bowed and scuttled from the throne room. An awkward silence then filled the chamber as Valdemar reclined in his high-backed chair and sighed.
‘God has abandoned me.’
The king’s narrow face had a gaunt look and his shoulder-length hair was showing streaks of grey. The death of his young wife Berengaria the previous year had hit him hard. She had borne him four children and he missed her company greatly. His blockade of Livonia had caused great hardship among his Danish and German merchants, which they never tired of informing him. As a result he had left Denmark to seek refuge at Reval, his fledgling city on the northern coast of Estonia. Many of his German nobles, including his most able commander, Count Henry of Schwerin, had absented themselves to go on crusade in the Holy Land, leaving his army short of soldiers and experienced leaders. And now the young choirboys of Lübeck were dead.
‘You are a valued servant of God, my liege,’ said the Bishop of Roskilde to break the oppressive quiet. ‘How else can your great victory at this place be explained?’
The king looked at him with gratitude in his eyes. ‘Thank you, lord bishop, for reminding me of happier times.’
Valdemar had arrived at Reval at the head of a great crusading army three years before, and had defeated a pagan army a few days after landing. God himself had sent him a banner to show His pleasure that the heathens had been vanquished. That banner, a white cross against a red background, now hung on the wall behind Valdemar’s throne, along with his own standard of three blue lions surrounded by small red hearts on a yellow background. The Bishop of Riga had begged for his help to subdue the Estonians and the Pope himself had granted him the Estonian kingdoms. But Bishop Albert had basely reneged on his promises and the Sword Brothers, the private army of the bishop, had marched against his lieutenants. Worse, the Bishop of Riga had made one of the Sword Brothers the Marshal of Estonia, thus directly insulting him. Valdemar had demanded that this marshal surrender himself so he could face summary justice for his crimes, only to witness the Sword Brothers attacking his own soldiers outside the walls of Reval. So Valdemar had imposed a blockade on Livonia and waited for the Bishop of Riga to crawl on his hands and knees before him to atone for his sins.
‘Livonia is being throttled, uncle. The Bishop of Riga will see the error of his ways soon enough.’
Valdemar gave his nephew a half-smile. Only twenty-two years of age, Albert, Count of Orlamunde and Holstein, possessed the certainty and arrogance of youth. Ever since he had accompanied the king to Reval thoughts of fighting the Sword Brothers and pagans had filled his mind. He had amused himself with raids against local villages but had been ordered to desist by the Governor of Reval: Rolf, Count of Roskilde. Butchering defenceless civilians was a pleasant enough pastime for the king’s nephew but the ill will that it caused produced a surly, rebellious population. As well as a stream of recruits for the Marshal of Estonia.
‘Thus far Bishop Albert has proved himself remarkably resilient,’ said the king, ‘notwithstanding the cessation of trade and crusaders I have imposed upon his crusader kingdom.’
‘Let me march south with an army to impose your will on the bishop, uncle.’
Valdemar looked at his swarthy nephew and laughed, the first time he had done so in a while.
‘Count Henry tried that and found the Sword Brothers tenacious opponents. Besides, I will not raise my sword against the Bishop of Riga, who after all is a prince of the Holy Church.’
‘Most wise, majesty,’ agreed Bishop Peder.
The king cast the bishop a conniving glance. ‘Besides, two hundred Danish ships are more than enough to strangle Livonia and bring Bishop Albert to me.’
‘Let me at least march south against Wenden, my liege,’ pleaded Albert. ‘That is where the damnable Conrad Wolff is stationed.’
‘Wenden is a fortress, Count Albert.’
It was the first time that the governor of Reval had spoken. Ten years older than the king’s nephew, Rolf, Count of Roskilde, was an intelligent, serious individual who had set about learning as much as possible about the Estonians, their language, culture and military capabilities. He had also made it his business to find out as much as possible about the Sword Brothers, especially the garrison at Wenden.
‘A strong outer perimeter wall and a stone castle on a hill,’ continued Rolf, ‘with a sizeable, experienced garrison that possesses mangonels and trebuchets. To take such a stronghold would require a large army and a prolonged siege.’
‘This Conrad Wolff cannot be allowed to escape my uncle’s justice,’ Albert shot back.
Rolf stroked his strong jaw. ‘This errant Sword Brother must be brought to justice as you say, count, but at this present juncture he should not be the main topic of our discussion.’
Valdemar was confused. ‘Oh? Then who should be, Rolf?’
‘Those who have recently murdered your subjects, my liege,’ replied Rolf. ‘The Oeselians.’
Valdemar’s ears pricked up at this. He had no appetite for fighting a lengthy war against the Sword Brothers but a sortie against the nearby island of Oesel was a much more attractive proposition.
‘You are thinking of a reprisal raid, Rolf?’
The governor nodded. ‘Yes, my liege. Burn a few settlements and bring back slaves to Reval to be sold to the Russians.’
Rolf looked at the bishop.
‘If the church has no objection.’
Bishop Peder brought his hands together. ‘The lives and souls of unbaptised pagans are of no concern to the Holy Church, my lord, as they face certain defeat in this world and damnation in the hereafter. You have my blessing to punish these pirates.’
‘Were it not for these pirates, these Oeselians,’ said Albert, ‘the Baltic would be a Danish lake.’
He walked to stand before Valdemar.
‘It is but a short step, uncle, for a raid to turn into a more long-term endeavour.’
Valdemar used both his hands to wave his nephew back, but he was interested in what he had to say.
‘What endeavour?’
Albert stood to attention. Rolf thought he looked quite ridiculous but was alarmed by the words that came out of the young man’s mouth.
‘I propose a campaign of conquest against these Oeselians, uncle. The soldiers of Orlamunde and Holstein are eager to prove their loyalty, my liege. What better way than to finally eradicate the threat of these pagan pirates?’
Rolf was not impressed. ‘I would advise caution, majesty.’
But Valdemar was warming to his nephew’s proposal.
‘Caution, Count Rolf? Does Denmark fear the Oeselians?’
Count Albert’s narrow face wore a smirk as the governor chose his words carefully.
‘Oesel is a large island, majesty, containing as it does many settlements. To subjugate such an area would require a sizeable army, and at present I would suggest that Reval does not have the number of soldiers required for such an ambitious project.’
There was a sharp intake of breath from the bishop as Count Albert’s eyes widened in surprise. Rolf had been chosen by Valdemar to be Reval’s governor because of his bravery, intelligence and calm nature. But those qualities now worked against him as he stated what he believed to be the blindingly obvious, which was interpreted by Valdemar as a slight on his military prowess.
The king sprang from his throne to stand before the governor.
‘In a war against heathens, Count Rolf, it is not numbers but Christian conviction that decides battles. Was not my own victory at Reval three years ago proof of this?’
Rolf was now seriously worried. ‘Indeed, majesty, but then the army was all in one place whereas now it is required not only to hold Reval and the former pagan stronghold of Varbola, but also numerous outlying forts in Harrien and Wierland. I fear that the size of the army that will march to Oesel may be deficient in numbers.’
‘Give me command of the army,’ said Count Albert, ‘my men alone can conquer the island.’
Now it was Rolf’s turn to smirk. The king’s nephew had brought less than three hundred men with him; barely enough to mount a raid let alone a full-scale invasion. But Valdemar was not thinking of numbers, only revenge and glory.
‘How many soldiers can be mustered to invade Oesel, Rolf?’ queried the king.
Rolf scratched his head. ‘A rough estimation would be around two thousand, majesty.’
Count Albert spread his arms. ‘Surely more than enough to crush a few miserable pagans?’
‘I am apt to agree with my nephew,’ said the king.
‘And you would have your holy banner, majesty,’ added Bishop Peder, ‘the sacred standard that is the bringer of victory.’
Valdemar looked up at the banner hanging beside his own, a simple white cross on a red background. But for Valdemar it had holy powers. He was taken back to three years before when he had been locked in deadly combat with a pagan brute as the sky was filled with thunder and lightning and rain lashed the land. He had thought himself a dead man but, out of nowhere, a banner had flown into the face of his assailant and he had killed his foe. As the pagan lay dead in the mud Valdemar saw his body covered with the cloth bearing a white cross against a red background. And from that day he had taken that device to be not only his personnel standard but also the flag of all Denmark. God had given him this standard. How could an army that carried it be defeated in battle, much less by pagans?
‘I will march to Oesel,’ he stated, looking at his nephew, ‘and you will be coming with me.’
Count Albert could barely contain his delight. ‘Yes, uncle.’
Valdemar pointed at the governor. ‘You will stay here at Reval, Rolf, to ensure that the Russians do not take advantage of our absence. With Riga closed to their merchants as a result of my blockade I have no doubt that the Prince of Novgorod covets this place.’
‘Reval’s defences are strong, majesty,’ Rolf assured him.
That was certainly true. The governor had spent many months constructing towers along the perimeter wall that surrounded the town, as well as strengthening the fort that stood atop Toompea Hill just outside the settlement. It was true that the walls, towers and fort were all of wooden construction, but it would take an army of many thousands to besiege Reval, let alone storm it.
‘What of Wenden and the Sword Brothers, uncle?’ asked Albert.
Valdemar shrugged. ‘What of them?’
‘After we have conquered Oesel will we be marching against Wenden to arrest this Conrad Wolff?’
Rolf shook his head. The arrogant certainty of the king’s nephew was breath-taking. How little he knew of the Sword Brothers.
Valdemar rose and walked towards the doors of the chamber, the counts and bishop bowing their heads as he passed.
‘Do not concern yourself with the Sword Brothers, nephew. I have heard that the pox ravages Livonia. In a few more weeks the Bishop of Riga will have surrendered Conrad Wolff to me in person when the citizens of Riga, those that have survived the pestilence, are starving and the Lithuanians and Russians are banging at their gates.’
*****
‘My lads haven’t been paid in six months, master, and to say they are far from amused is putting it mildly.’
Leatherface stood beside the oak desk where Wenden’s brother knights were seated and stared at Master Rudolf with unblinking eyes. The aged mercenary had always been free with his tongue, erring towards sedition, but his promotion to command all of Wenden’s mercenaries had increased his rebellious nature.
Leatherface looked down at his battered, dirty gambeson. ‘I mean look at me. Someone might mistake me for a beggar such is the state of my apparel.’
Rudolf Kassel, Master of Wenden Castle and deputy commander of the Order of Sword Brothers, sighed and raised his brown eyes to the ceiling. The weekly meeting of the brother knights in the master’s hall at Wenden was usually a straightforward affair, with brother knights airing grievances, offering recommendations and giving an account of their responsibilities. But of late they had become fractious affairs, largely due to the Danish blockade on Livonia that had resulted in a cessation of the transportation of goods, mostly food, timber and hides, to Riga down the Gauja. This in turn had led to the castle’s income drying up, which meant no money to pay for the one hundred and twenty mercenaries that the master employed as part of the garrison.