Conrad was cheered by Rudolf’s answers. Wenden’s castellan tugged his elbow.
‘Let us walk.’
He watched a party of mounted sergeants riding past, kettle helmets glinting in the sun.
‘The bishop takes the army back to Riga to celebrate our victory but the grand master has ordered that some of the order’s soldiers should remain in Estonia. He wants them to join with your men to test the Danish defences around Reval.’
Conrad was surprised. ‘We are at war with the Danes, master?’
‘No, but while the Danes are preoccupied in northern Germany the grand master is of the opinion that the Sword Brothers should let them know that Estonia does not belong to them.’
Conrad was tempted to ask about Rudolf’s father, Count Henry, but then remembered that the count had been responsible for Johann’s death and thought better off it.
‘Word is,’ continued Rudolf, ‘that the Danes are raising an army to crush the German lords who have sided with my father.’
‘Your father risks much by his actions,’ said Conrad. ‘Valdemar does not seem the forgiving type.’
Rudolf laughed. ‘If my father is defeated on the battlefield then he will die with a sword in his hand, of that I am certain.’
‘And if he wins, master?’
‘Then power in the Baltic will change forever and Reval’s position will become most precarious. Let us pray that happens.’
Conrad would pray for a German victory against the Danes but also for the death of Count Henry at the moment of victory.
‘One more thing,’ said Rudolf, ‘this is Sword Brother business. Bishop Albert has enough to occupy him and does not need to know. And that goes for his brother, too.’
‘Yes, master.’
‘You don’t have to call me “master” any more, Conrad. We are of equal rank now.’
‘Yes, master.’
Rudolf shook his head and walked away. In the distance black smoke began to rise into the sky as another funeral pyre was lit.
In the days following Conrad returned to Odenpah with a message from Bishop Albert assuring Maarja that though the Sword Brothers would have to take possession of Odenpah, he would personally make provision for her future wellbeing and comfort. To this end he vowed to sponsor a leper hospital a short distance from Odenpah, complete with a generous allocation of land for farming and livestock. He and his brother Hermann ordered the release of funds from Riga’s treasury to build the stone hospital, with a small manor house to accommodate Maarja and her servants. Wicked tongues said that this generosity was not only to display the wealth and piety of the two bishops, but also to act as penance for the outrages they had allowed at Dorpat.
Whatever the reason in the years following the leper house at Odenpah was seen not as a centre of sinful penitents but as a refuge for the godly, those who endured Christ-like suffering and purgatory on earth but who were guaranteed a place in heaven. This was in no small measure due to Maarja herself, who’s gentle and forgiving nature elicited sympathy and pious concern throughout the whole of Ungannia. It was said that Bishop Hermann visited her regularly to seek her forgiveness and advice.
*****
Maarja had always thought that September was the loveliest month. Summer in Ungannia was beautiful, the air warm but also scented heavily with the aroma of pine, birch and fir after the frequent rains fell. In the early mornings the bog fields were often covered with light grey mists, which when she was a young girl she had believed were filled with tiny fairies that danced over the surface of the water. But now the deciduous trees were beginning to lose their leaves and as they did so the forests were splashed with autumn reds and golds. The short, refreshing summer showers were giving way to constant drizzle and the temperature was falling, the sky often overcast and forbidding. But Maarja loved this time of year because the days were often still and cool and filled with mist and she imagined that the unseen fairies living within it came to the very walls of Odenpah, and perhaps even inside.
She smiled and continued her digging. She enjoyed spending her days kneeling on a cushion and turning over the soft soil of her flowerbeds in the inner compound. She was seeding a new bed of cornflowers with her trowel, her mittens covering the ugly scars on her hands. The cornflower grew in abundance in the wild, of course, but she liked to cultivate it within the fort’s walls, along with snapdragons, miniature roses and lilies. She was becoming quite an accomplished gardener, or so her servants told her. They were very kind.
Maarja stood and stretched her back. She looked into the grey sky and saw through her veil a pair of grouse flying overhead. How she envied the birds that could go where they wanted, free to travel to far-off lands. She became aware of a presence behind her and turned to see her brother standing a few paces away, a hard expression on his once handsome face, now disfigured by a red-raw wound, his blue eyes full of hatred.
‘Hello, Kristjan.’
‘Sister.’
His voice was harsh, unfeeling. He was still tall and powerful but he looked tired, his hair bedraggled and his clothes dirty.
‘I have come for father’s gold,’ he said.
Maarja sighed. ‘No kind words for your sister, Kristjan? Has your heart hardened so much that you have no thoughts for your family.’
‘If my heart has become stone as you say,’ he replied, ‘it is because our enemies have made it so.’
She walked forward with outstretched arms to embrace him but he recoiled from her show of affection.
‘I am here for the gold, Maarja, nothing else. Ungannia is full of enemies and I cannot delay.’
She let her arms drop to her side. Kristjan had always been headstrong and aggressive but now he appeared wholly consumed by bitterness, indifferent to her fate and that of his people.
‘Your people need you, Kristjan.’
‘My people?’ he shouted, causing her to jump. ‘My so-called people have deserted and betrayed me. They have proved themselves unworthy of my leadership and that is why the gods have abandoned them. They failed at Reval, Varbola and Dorpat. Do not speak to me of the Ungannians.’
He started walking up and down, waving his arms in the air, one hand on the hilt of the sword at his hip and the other continually touching the torc around his neck.
‘You think I passed the test of Taara to waste my time on those who are unworthy? You are wrong.’
She waited for his anger to subside before she spoke to him.
‘Will you at least take refreshment with me, brother?’
He nodded, his cheeks still flushed, his mouth twisted into a sneer. They walked to the great hall, its wooden doors carved with images of the golden eagle, for hundreds of years the proud symbol of Ungannia, now a reminder of a lost age. The old steward, a man who had been at Odenpah when Kristjan had been a babe in his mother’s arms, ordered servants to fetch food and honey mead. Kristjan did not sit in his father’s chair as he snatched the cup from the nervous servant girl and once again began pacing.
‘I will go east, to Novgorod. They have their own men of iron, thousands of them, with which to crush the Sword Brothers. With the gold I can raise my own soldiers, an army of mailed horsemen to retake this land from the barbarians.’
Maarja lifted her veil to drink her mead. A look of disgust spread across Kristjan’s face.
‘Does my appearance revolt you, brother? That is all I have known since I was struck down by the pestilence: fear and loathing. How ironic, then, that those whom you call enemies should show me tenderness, kindness and respect.’
Kristjan threw his cup to the floor. ‘Who? Tell me.’
Maarja sipped at her cup and placed it on the table, replacing the veil over her disfigured face.
‘I have been visited by the Sword Brother who once came to defend this place, Kristjan. Surely you remember Conrad Wolff? He is a great man now but such is his humility that he tried to take my hands in his and kiss them as a sign of respect.’
‘I have sworn to kill Conrad Wolff. He is the one who killed our parents.’
‘How blind are you, Kristjan?’ said Maarja. ‘Do you not see that it is your foolishness, your arrogance that has led you to the dire situation you find yourself in? You made war on the Sword Brothers because of your vanity, and lost. And you also lost the lives of many of our people. And for what?’
But he would hear no more and stormed from the hall. He immediately went to a storeroom to acquire a spade before walking to the area immediately behind the hall. Maarja collected two guards and followed him, the sky darkening overhead, small spits of rain blowing in the wind. The area behind the hall was the site of chicken coops, pigsties and goat pens, a patch of mud and dung usually visited only by those who tended the animals. There was no treasury at Odenpah but Kristjan knew that his father had secreted a horde of gold behind his hall and he now frantically dug at the earth in one of the sties, the pigs squealing and grunting in alarm as he did so. Maarja and the guards looked on as the sky darkened, the spit turning into large raindrops, Kristjan slowly becoming splattered with mud and filth. He hit something solid and called to the guards to help him. They looked at Maarja who gave her assent.
With their help he pulled the small chest from the glutinous mud, the rain now sheeting down to drench everyone. Kristjan hauled the chest out of the sty and smashed the lock with his spade. There was a clap of thunder and a flash of lightning followed by a howl of triumph as Kristjan lifted the lid and extracted a large leather pouch, inside of which was a collection of small gold ingots. He fell to his knees and stared at the pieces of precious metal, pushed them back into the pouch and rose to his feet.
‘Tell Conrad Wolff that I will return to kill him,’ he ordered Maarja, his wet hair matted to his skull, rain coursing down his face.
‘Hate will eat away at you, Kristjan,’ his sister told him, ‘until you are an empty husk. It is not what our parents would have wanted for you.’
He smiled and then laughed maniacally, throwing back his head as he did so, while overhead the sky shook with the sound of thunder.
‘And their deaths is not what I wanted but it happened. Stay here, Maarja, and become a pet of the Sword Brothers if you wish. I will leave and fight to make Ungannia free once more.’
He left her standing in the mud and rain, took a pony from the stables and rode from the fort. She never saw her brother again.
*****
When General Aras arrived at Riga his first thoughts were how the port and city had grown. The harbour, now greatly expanded, was filled with vessels of all shapes and sizes. There were the great cogs that brought crusaders and their horses from Germany and shipped goods back to the markets of Lübeck and Denmark. Along the wooden jetties were moored dozens of riverboats, their Russian crews unloading the grey squirrel pelts that made Novgorod rich. Fishing vessels unloaded baskets of freshly caught Baltic herring and sprat for sale in the markets, the sea filled with a seemingly inexhaustible supply of these fish. As he and his guards shoved their way through the noisy press of sailors, merchants, dock workers and officials he could see that Riga was thriving.
He had arrived with a dozen of Prince Vsevolod’s personal bodyguard, which in itself was an indication of the importance the prince attached to his mission. The men’s expensive lamellar armour, blue tunics and leather boots made a good impression, as did the silver griffins on their shields. He knew how the Christians loved their heraldry and also how they despised the native inhabitants of the lands both north and south of the Dvina. As soon as his vessel had docked a port official, a thin man with a twitch, had stood on the jetty demanding to know the crew’s business, if they were selling any goods and how long they intended to stay. He then presented the captain with a bill for docking fees. When Aras, who fortunately spoke German, informed him that he was an envoy from Prince Vsevolod on urgent business and had to see Archdeacon Stefan, he looked concerned and hurried away. He returned an hour later with Manfred Nordheim, the commander of Riga’s garrison, who said that he would personally escort Aras to the bishop’s palace, though his men would have to remain on the boat. The captain of the Russian guards was unhappy but Nordheim assured Aras that he was perfectly safe.
‘This is a Christian city, general, not a pagan settlement. We do not kill envoys.’
Aras ignored the slight and agreed to accompany the commander to the Bishop’s Palace. Nordheim was in a talkative mood, informing him that Bishop Albert had won a great victory in Estonia.
‘The last pagan stronghold has fallen and now the Catholic Church rules all the lands from the Dvina to the Gulf of the Finns.’
Aras thought this was excellent news. If the Bishop of Riga had no distractions in Estonia then he would look more favourably on crossing the Dvina. Whether this would serve his lord’s long-term interests was another matter.
‘And the Russians,’ enquired Aras, ‘do they still make war upon Riga?’
‘Look around you, general,’ said Nordheim, gesturing with his right arm towards the heaving docks. ‘There are many Russian merchants and vessels here. Novgorod desires peace so it can sell its goods to the good people of Germany.’
Aras had also seen boats with their hulls painted with the symbol of Polotsk – large ships sailing the waters of the Dvina – an indication that Prince Boris also had amicable relations with Riga.