Conrad’s left arm felt as though it had been immersed in a fire and his right arm was also throbbing. He tried to move but any attempt to remove his arm from under the dead warrior resulted in a searing pain shooting through his shoulder. He shouted out in frustration and wished he had not as six helmeted figures suddenly loomed over him, all wearing leather armour breastplates and armed with blood-smeared axes and swords. He stared up at them through the vision slits of his helmet and prepared to die.
‘Are you hurt,
Susi
?’ shouted one above the din of battle.
Relief coursed through Conrad.
‘Shields, shields,’ the one who had spoken to him shouted.
More warriors grouped round as the man knelt beside him.
‘Get that stinking bastard off my arm,’ shouted Conrad.
The warrior gestured to his comrades who hauled the corpse away. Then one grabbed Conrad’s left hand and tried to pull him to his feet. The brother knight emitted a blood-curdling shriek of pain. The warrior let go and he fell back on the cold, wet ground.
‘Get this helmet off,’ Conrad said through gritted teeth.
His helm was yanked off.
‘My left arm is broken,’ he told them.
As a wall and roof of shields formed around them the warriors assisted him to his feet, his left arm dangling uselessly by his side, the axe strap still wrapped around his wrist. His right forearm was also bleeding.
‘The battle is won,
Susi
,’ grinned the warrior with the sword, who Conrad guessed was a chief judging by his expensive mail armour, age and sword. He then noticed the insignia on his and his men’s shields: a stag.
‘You are Lord Hillar’s men?’
He nodded. ‘Yes,
Susi
. We reached the village from the north and attacked the Ungannians from behind while the Jerwen entered the settlement from the other direction. The fighting will not take long now.’
Conrad, exhausted and in great pain, gave him a thin smile and then his feet gave way under him.
‘Get him some water,’ shouted someone and moments later a water bottle was held to his lips. He drank the cold liquid and managed to stabilise his footing. Then he noticed that there were no sounds of battle, just moans and cries coming from those who had been wounded. He looked up and saw that grey clouds had replaced the blue and he spotted small snowflakes in the air. They took him to the chief’s hall that was soon filled with other wounded men where a healer set his left arm between two splints and bandaged his right.
Darkness soon enveloped the village as parties counted the dead and loaded the bodies on carts for cremation outside the village. The Army of the Wolf brought its ponies into the village and packed them in the barns, those of the Ungannians too. Of the latter nearly three hundred had been killed, the majority falling when Hillar and Andres had led their men into Lumandu. Thankfully both Tonis and Riki still lived, though their men had suffered many dead and wounded following their reckless charge. He was also relieved to see Hans and Anton, both of whose surcoats and chainmail were ripped and had links missing. But they were both unhurt.
‘Where’s the bishop?’ Conrad asked.
‘Administering to the dying,’ replied Anton, ‘and saying mass over the dead before they are cremated.’
‘He is most unhappy that they won’t be buried,’ added Hans, ‘but he demurred when Hillar told him that if he felt so strongly about it then he could dig their graves himself.’
‘Make sure he doesn’t get a chill,’ said Conrad with concern, ‘at his age we can’t be too careful.’
‘He gets annoyed about the constant references to his age, Conrad,’ said Hans. ‘He has a fiery nature.’
Conrad was in great pain but he insisted on holding an impromptu council of war, at which he issued his orders after Riki informed him that there was but a handful of men left guarding Varbola. A fire had been started in the hall, around which the wounded were gathered, the horses having been taken to nearby barns. But there were gaps in the roof and walls and the wind had increased to make the interior cool. Conrad shivered in his cloak.
‘Riki, I must ask you to return to Varbola to demand its surrender. At least you will have Tonis, Andres and Hillar for company.’
He looked at his friends and Leatherface. ‘It is important that there are no Sword Brothers or mercenaries present. The fort’s fall should be to fellow Estonians.’
‘What if the commander rejects our demands?’ said Hillar.
‘Then we will have to storm the fort,’ replied Conrad. He looked at Riki. ‘But I would prefer a bloodless end to our campaign.’
‘There are perhaps a score of men left in the fort,
Susi
,’ said Riki. ‘You wish to offer them safe passage to Ungannia?’
Conrad nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘So we can fight them again when they rejoin Kristjan?’ complained Andres.
Conrad winced as pain shot through his broken arm. ‘That can’t be helped.’
He screwed up his nose as a sickly sweet aroma entered his nostrils.
‘Why is it that roasting human flesh smells so different from animal meat?’ asked Tonis.
‘The pyres will be burning all night,’ Andres told him. ‘If the wind changes then perhaps the smell will blow towards the fort.’
‘Those inside will know that their comrades will not be returning by now,’ said Conrad. ‘The hours of darkness will increase their fears and uncertainties. Ensure you arrive at the ramparts at dawn.’
They saluted and went back to their men. Conrad called Leatherface back. His face was grey and his shivering had increased.
‘No fighting for you for a few weeks,’ grinned the mercenary.
‘I wanted to thank you for saving my life earlier.’
‘We thought that big brute would get you even after putting a couple of bolts in him. Amazing what blind fury can do. You were lucky we had clear shots after you decided to charge the enemy and create mayhem.’
Conrad grimaced. ‘That was not supposed to happen.’
‘Still, all’s well that ends well.’
‘It will be if tomorrow has a favourable outcome.’
The garrison of Varbola surrendered the fort the next day on a guarantee of safe conduct out of Harrien. Twelve men mounted on ponies rode from the gates west towards Ungannia. That day the Army of the Wolf took possession of Varbola and Conrad, as Marshal of Estonia, appointed Riki as its governor.
‘Somewhere warmer, perhaps.’
It was winter outside and the land was blanketed in snow but the temperature in the palace was even chillier as Domash sat on his throne and brooded. Gleb paced up and down in front of him, trying to cheer his master.
‘Perhaps we could go to Suzdal,’ he suggested, ‘or Kiev even.’
The mayor’s handsome face was a mask of misery. For years he had enjoyed the patronage of Prince Mstislav, using and abusing his position as mayor of Pskov to enrich himself, bed the wives of the city’s boyars and merchants and raid foreign lands with impunity, safe in the knowledge that the ruler of the Kingdom of Novgorod was his friend and master. He had been appointed
posadnik
of Pskov by Mstislav and believed that his rule in the city was permanent. But now the prince was gone, sent on his way by Novgorod’s
veche
following the dismal failure of the campaign against Reval. When a delegation from the city had arrived at the siege lines before Reval with the news that they no longer required Mstislav’s services a mighty rage had possessed the prince. He had threatened to kill the city officials with his own hands and gave orders that his army would immediately march east to exact revenge on the
veche
.
The next day Grand Prince George announced that he was sick and tired of the endless siege and was returning to Suzdal. He offered Mstislav and his family sanctuary in his city, an offer that was accepted when Novgorod’s
Druzhina
refused to obey Mstislav’s orders and promptly left to return with the delegation from the city. In light of these developments Domash, suddenly unsure about his position, had decided to take Pskov’s troops back to their homes. But Gleb and the other
Skomorokhs
ensured the continuing loyalty of what remained of the
Voi
, who were ecstatic that they were going home. And the
Druzhina
were similarly glad to be away from the infernal defence works of Reval. But once back at Pskov Domash knew that it was only a matter of time before orders came from Novgorod demanding his banishment or even his arrest. He had decided to flee before either happened.
‘I think Suzdal is out of the question, Gleb. I have no wish to be the brunt of Mstislav’s fury. And they wouldn’t give you a warm welcome in Kiev. They burn
Skomorokhs
there, I have heard.’
‘So I would get a warm welcome,’ smiled Gleb.
‘You’re well liked here,’ said Domash, ‘you might as well stay. You don’t have to come with me.’
Gleb puffed out his cheeks. ‘Without your protection, lord, I think the priests and merchants would soon have me tied to a stake in the marketplace.’
Domash slumped on his throne. ‘How did it come to this?’
He looked at the guards standing around the walls and wondered if any remained loyal to him. He dismissed the idea. His gloom deepened as he considered his diminishing options. He had just turned forty and had no desire to become a wandering, penniless sword for hire. Perhaps Prince Boris at Polotsk might offer him a temporary home. He looked at Gleb and remembered the deep hostility of Polotsk’s Orthodox priests towards the
Skomorokhs
and discounted the idea. The whole wretched situation was demoralising. A steward entering the chamber brought him back to the present. He stared at the thin, insipid individual and foreboding within him grew with every step he took.
The man halted and bowed to Domash. ‘A delegation from Novgorod has arrived, highness. The commander is in the hall and requests an audience.’
Domash’s mouth went dry and a knot tightened in his stomach. Gleb looked at him with alarm. The
veche
had moved fast, too fast. They were caught like rats in a trap. Gleb stared at him. The steward stared at him and he stared back.
‘Are you available to see him, highness?’
‘What? Yes, I suppose I am. Show him in.’
The steward bowed smartly, turned and walked briskly to the doors.
‘Well,’ reflected Domash, ‘at least we won’t have to worry about where we are going to flee to, Gleb.’
The
Skomorokh
scuttled over to stand beside his lord. Domash smiled grimly. He had to admit that for all his derogatory comments Gleb was loyal; the only one who was in the entire city. It was immeasurably sad. His sadness turned to mild annoyance when he saw the figure of Yaroslav Nevsky enter the chamber, his burnished helmet tucked under his right arm. His thin face wore a serious expression as he marched towards the dais. Domash thought that sending the man whom he had previously given sanctuary to after his banishment from Novgorod to arrest him was particularly cruel of the
veche
.
Yaroslav halted and bowed. ‘Greetings, lord, I hope you are well.’
‘Until now,’ replied Domash.
‘I am here as a representative of Novgorod’s
veche
, lord,’ continued Yaroslav. ‘To clarify your position regarding the city’s new rulers.’
Domash’s ears pricked up. ‘My position?’
‘The
veche
desires your pledge of loyalty, lord, as Mayor of Pskov.’
Domash sat up. ‘My first loyalty has always been to the Principality of Novgorod, Yaroslav. If the
veche
is happy with me to continue as
posadnik
of this city then I will endeavour to do so to the best of my abilities.’
Yaroslav grinned broadly. ‘They are very happy for you to remain so, lord.’
The mood in the chamber changed instantly to relief and gratitude. Domash stood and offered his hand to Yaroslav.
‘I trust you and your family have settled in well at Novgorod.’
‘They have, lord.’
Domash placed an arm around his shoulders. ‘Good. Tonight we will celebrate the dawn of Novgorod’s new era. An era of peace and prosperity, I hope.’
‘God willing, lord.’
Domash was all smiles as he watched Yaroslav leave the chamber. After the doors had been closed a feeling of utter relief swept over him and he flopped back down in his high-backed throne.
‘You must be the luckiest bastard alive,’ remarked Gleb.
*****
‘Now that the spring has arrived, lord, perhaps you should take time to visit your sister?’
Kristjan sat back in his chair and examined Indrek, the man who had been his father’s right-hand man for as long as he could remember. His beard was now heavily laced with grey and his hair was thinning but he still retained his powerful physique and commanding air. He knew he was a brave and fearless warrior but wondered if age was starting to whittle away at his courage.
‘I have no time,’ hissed Taara’s chosen one.
‘She would appreciate seeing a member of her family,’ said Indrek, undeterred. ‘I know she gets lonely.’
Kristjan sprang from his chair. ‘Lonely? If I don’t devote all my time to military affairs then she will soon have plenty of company. Except that they will all be wearing white tunics and mail armour. If she wants to have the Sword Brothers for company then by all means I will go and sit with her while Ungannia burns.’
Indrek said nothing but feared his homeland would soon be burning anyway. The previous summer and autumn had been a peaceful and bountiful time. War had stayed away from Ungannia and the harvest had been good. But now the winter snows had melted he knew that the Sword Brothers would be venting their fury on the kingdom.
Kristjan began pacing, occasionally touching the silver torc around his neck.
‘It is little wonder that the gods are angry with Estonia. I take Fellin with ease only for the imbeciles that I left to garrison it to give it up without I fight. I capture Varbola, the strongest fort in all Estonia, without raising a sword and the garrison manages to get itself slaughtered outside its walls by the Sword Brothers. I am surrounded by idiots.’
He looked at Vetseke standing beside Indrek. ‘Excepting you, prince, you have remained a steadfast ally throughout my time of trial.’
The great hall of the fort atop Toome Hill had been cleared of petitioners, guards and servants, its thick oak doors shut to allow Kristjan some peace. He found the day-to-day business of dealing with merchants, traders, craftsmen, commoners and mystics tedious to say the least. Whereas Indrek made time for the inhabitants of Dorpat, lending a kindly ear to their grievances, Kristjan thought their lives miserable and their words unworthy of his semi-divine ears.
‘It is a pity, prince,’ continued Kristjan, ‘that your Russian friends could not have supported me more at Reval. Another week and the port would have fallen.’
Vetseke stifled a laugh. ‘It was unfortunate I agree, lord.’
‘The answer is plain enough,’ continued Kristjan, ‘you will go to Novgorod and request more Russian troops for our fight against the Sword Brothers. Only this time they will be under my command.’
‘There is a new government in Novgorod, lord,’ cautioned Vetseke. ‘One that might not be so predisposed to sending its soldiers into the west.’
Kristjan waved a dismissive hand at him. ‘Tell Novgorod that if they send me aid then it will share in my victory over the Sword Brothers.’
Indrek’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘Might it be better to seek an accommodation with the Bishop of Riga, lord?’
Kristjan retook his seat. ‘Better for whom, Indrek?’
‘For your kingdom and its people, lord.’
‘The gods are watching over Ungannia, Indrek,’ replied Kristjan. ‘It is not coincidence that of all the Estonian kingdoms only Ungannia is free from foreign occupation, either that or is a ravaged husk.’
He touched the torc to emphasise his link to the gods. ‘This year I intend to defeat the Sword Brothers once and for all, to shatter the myth of their invincibility.’
‘It is a dangerous strategy, lord,’ warned Indrek.
‘Dangerous for the Sword Brothers, I agree,’ said Kristjan. ‘Now I have a headache and you both may leave.’
Indrek and Vetseke bowed their heads and walked from the chamber, leaving Kristjan to brood alone. Indrek said nothing to the Liv prince as they strolled from the hall into the fort’s compound. It had been raining but now the sky was filled with white clouds and the air smelt cool and fresh.
‘Well, prince, at least you have a reason to leave now.’
Vetseke, his green cloak spotless and his hair well groomed, turned to face the older man.
‘What do you mean?’
Indrek gave him a wry smile. ‘You must know that in the summer the Sword Brothers will be marching straight here to settle affairs with Kristjan. It would be a foolish man who willingly runs back into a burning building that he has just escaped from.’
‘For years I have been a landless prince condemned to a wanderer’s life. There comes a time, Lord Indrek, when a man grows tired of such an existence and desires an end to it all.’
*****
Riga was a city transformed. The spectre of the pox had long been banished, the burial pits and endless processions to inter the dead having been replaced by bustling markets and a thriving populace. The end of the pestilence had resulted in the lifting of the quarantine so once again the city became a destination for those in Livonia who wished to sell and buy goods. In addition, the end of the Danish blockade had meant that once again the Dvina became a thoroughfare for trade. Many ships and boats filled the city’s docks, bringing crusaders from Germany and fur, flax, timber, tar and hides from Novgorod, Polotsk and the Lithuanian kingdoms, though the latter were still embroiled in a civil war that showed no signs of ending and which adversely affected their trade. The jetties were crammed with single-masted riverboats bearing names written in Cyrillic, while moored at the longer quays were the great cogs that had brought Bishop Albert and his crusader army from Lübeck. Officials went among the rows of vessels methodically making note of their names and cargoes, the latter incurring port charges according to their value. The city treasury, emptied during the pestilence and blockade, was gradually being refilled as the lifeblood of trade began to flow again.
Away from the heaving docks and streets packed with Livs, Rigans, Russians and newly arrived German soldiers, the Bishop’s Palace was a haven of peace and order. Gardeners tended to immaculate rose beds and guards in the red livery of the garrison stood sentry at the gates and around the stone palace itself. Inside white-robed priests and red-uniformed servants, mostly fresh-faced teenage boys on the specific orders of the archdeacon himself, moved silently along its corridors and among its well-appointed rooms. Each of which was provided with rich tapestries and furniture imported from Europe, the larger ones with sumptuous fireplaces, well lit with dozens of beeswax candles. The bedrooms, reserved for the bishop, archdeacon and high-ranking guests, were all equipped with great beds. They had a heavy wooden frame and springs made of interlaced strips of leather overlaid with a feather mattress, sheets, quilts and pillows. Each bed was curtained, with linen hangings that were pulled back in the daytime. They were closed at night to provide privacy. The palace was always tightly guarded, of course, but the archdeacon insisted that one of the young servants always slept in his chamber for additional security.