‘No trouble unless I say so,’ ordered Kalju as Villem drew his sword and stood beside his father, Dorpat’s chief and the other warriors grouping around them.
‘That applies to you four as well,’ Henke hissed to the other Sword Brothers, though Conrad noticed that the older knight was resting his right hand on the pommel of his sword.
The tension in the air increased palpably as the boats containing the mysterious soldiers bumped into the jetty and men sprang from each one. The other boats either rowing back out into the river or their crews scurrying away from them to seek safety behind Kalju and his rapidly forming shield wall. The soldiers disembarking from the boats seemed unconcerned by the hostile welcome they were going to receive as Kalju’s warriors closed ranks and levelled their spears. The Sword Brothers stood to the right of the Ungannians, all now wearing their helmets and hands gripping their sword hilts.
The man leading the riverine interlopers was tall, or at least his pointed helmet made him seem so, his appearance very striking in his blue topcoat, baggy blue trousers, black leather boots and red sword belt. His chin was clean-shaven though his moustache was very long. He spread his arms and smiled as he walked along the jetty towards the Ungannians, who stood rock-like in their ranks. The sailors and fishermen had disappeared into the town along with the harbour workers, merchants and hawkers, leaving dozens of empty boats tied to jetties and others in midstream being frantically rowed from the scene.
The smiling leader stopped, turned and beckoned forward the soldiers holding the flag. He then turned and pointed up at it when the standard was brought to his side.
‘Novgorod, Novgorod. Friend, friend.’
His accent was strange and Conrad at first had difficulty understanding what he was saying. But then the leader grabbed one corner of the standard and unfolded it. Conrad saw two black bears either side of a throne against a red background.
‘Novgorod. Friend, friend,’ the commander kept saying, his men behind him standing with their arms folded.
Henke pushed up his helmet onto his head. ‘What’s he saying?’
‘Novgorod,’ answered Conrad, shoving his own full-face helm up.
The commander kept on smiling as he walked forward with his arms held open towards Kalju standing in the centre of the shield wall.
‘Stand your weapons down,’ the Ungannian leader ordered as the blue-attired commander nodded and embraced Kalju, much to the latter’s consternation. Another soldier stepped forward from the rear of the visitors’ ranks, a man wearing a beautiful red overcoat beneath a short-sleeved mail hauberk and a superb lamellar cuirass. He wore a gilded open-faced helmet with a white plume and a mail aventail.
‘I am Yaroslav, general to Prince Mstislav of Novgorod, and I send the prince’s greetings to you, Lord Kalju. We come in peace and hope our unannounced arrival has not caused any offence.’
Whoever this Yaroslav was he spoke perfect Estonian and his words instantly lessened the air of tension. The Ungannians relaxed as Yaroslav bowed his head at Kalju. The latter nodded back.
‘Who’s this?’ he asked Yaroslav, looking at Gerceslav.
‘This is Lord Gerceslav of the Cuman nation who has travelled from Novgorod, lord,’ answered Yaroslav.
Gerceslav pointed at the banner again. ‘Novgorod.’
‘I’m afraid he does not speak Estonian, lord.’
Henke looked at the conference being conducted out of earshot.
‘You four with me,’ he ordered, ‘and be alert.’
He walked in front of Ungannian warriors who were standing leaning on their shields chatting to each other, Conrad and the others following. Kalju spotted him out of the corner of his eye.
‘This is Brother Henke of the Sword Brothers,’ he said hurriedly to Yaroslav as Henke removed his helmet and stared first at Gerceslav and then at Yaroslav. The former smiled at the mailed knight but Yaroslav had seen the red sword and cross insignia before and looked decidedly uncomfortable as Conrad and the other three halted behind Henke.
Yaroslav smiled weakly at Henke who glared back. ‘Why are your soldiers in Jerwen?’
Conrad saw the worried look on Kalju’s face and sensed the atmosphere change again, to one of threat and impending violence. When Kalju had requested his presence at Odenpah he had been delighted, but less so when Master Rudolf informed him that the leader of the expedition would be Henke. The latter was many things – loyal subordinate, consummate soldier and brother knight – but he was no diplomat. As the scene unfolded with a predictability that Conrad could have foretold, the young brother knight thought that Wenden’s deputy, Brother Walter, would have been a better choice to lead the mission to Odenpah. But the die had been cast and the next few minutes would provide the spark to light a fire that would engulf Livonia and Estonia.
‘Jerwen belongs to the Sword Brothers,’ snarled Henke, stepping forward so his face was inches from Yaroslav’s.
‘We are not here to provoke a war,’ said Yaroslav, trying to be reasonable.
Gerceslav slapped Henke on the shoulder. ‘Friend.’
Henke did not look at the Cuman as he pushed him away and held Yaroslav’s stare. An angry murmur came from the Cuman ranks as one of Gerceslav’s men stepped forward to shove Henke away, but the latter instantly pulled the dagger that hung on his right hip from its sheath with his left hand and in a flash had severed the man’s windpipe. Blood spurted out of the wound as the man toppled forward. Henke jumped back, slammed his helmet on his head and held his shield before him. Conrad, Hans, Johann and Anton likewise put on their helms and drew their swords as the enraged Cumans surged forward.
Gerceslav led their charge, drawing his sword and lunging at Henke. But the Sword Brother leapt aside and avoided his blow with ease, ramming his own sword into the standard bearer’s guts before he fell back to stand with the other Brother Knights. Yaroslav was shouting at the Cumans in Russian to fall back to the boats but the blood of the steppe people was up and they ran forward to battle the Ungannians. A dozen of the latter were cut down before Kalju’s men had time to reform their shield wall, Kalju and Villem fending off assailants before their men closed around them and beat off the Cumans with their spears.
A Cuman with a curved sword came at Conrad but the Sword Brother had already anticipated his move. He had spent eight years in Livonia, first as a novice at Wenden and then as a brother knight, and in that time he had been tutored in military skills by Brother Lukas, reckoned one of the greatest instructors in all Livonia. He and the other novices had received training day in, day out, regardless of the weather, until they could wield a variety of weapons in their sleep.
‘You are like blocks of marble,’ Lukas had once told them on a rain-lashed morning at Wenden. ‘My job is to chisel and sculpt you until you are the finished, polished article.’
Conrad ducked the curved blade, stepped back and also avoided the Cuman’s backswing that was intended to disembowel him. This brightly dressed peacock knew how to use a sword, that much was certain, but Conrad could match him and more. The brother knight let the Cuman attack him again but this time he blocked his opponent’s blade with his shield, crouched low and jabbed his sword forward, the point stabbing into the man’s left thigh before he whipped it back. The Cuman winced in pain and was momentarily disconcerted, and a moment was all that Conrad needed. He lunged forward, combining his shield and bodyweight to smash into the Cuman and render his sword arm useless as he drove the point of his sword into the man’s throat. He continued to push until he had driven it out through the back of his neck. The Cuman gurgled, blood sheeted on the blade and Conrad’s mail mitten and he passed from this life.
Yaroslav had to physically drag an enraged Gerceslav back to the nearest boat, the Russian ordering the two archers in the vessel to give cover to their comrades as they retreated. Henke had killed two more Cumans before their leader finally acceded to Yaroslav’s frantic requests and bellowed to his men to fall back to the boats. Kalju’s warriors, twenty of whom had now been cut down, gave a great cheer and ran forward, two instantly falling to Cuman arrows.
‘Reform, reform!’ shouted Kalju as more arrows shot by the archers in the second boat hissed through the air. Henke caught one on his shield as Conrad and the other Sword Brothers brought up their shields and crouched low to make themselves smaller targets. The small, recurve Cuman bows were deadly accurate and they found three more Ungannian chests before the two boats were pushed away from the jetty into the river and oars splashed in the water to row them to the far bank. Kalju’s men jeered and whistled as they went, raising their shields and weapons in mockery as the Cumans rowed away. But their leader was livid.
Henke removed his helmet, looked around at Conrad and the other three and grinned evilly.
‘Not a bad day’s work, boys.’
He stepped forward and picked up the banner of Novgorod that had been left behind. He threw it at Hans.
‘Something for Rudolf to hang in the master’s hall at Wenden.’
Hans removed his helmet and looked at Conrad and then at the bodies littering the ground.
‘I have a feeling that Rudolf would not approve of our actions here.’
Conrad nodded, shoving his helmet up on his head. ‘I agree, my friend.’ He took the cloth he always had tucked on his sword belt and wiped the blood from the blade before sliding it back into its scabbard.
Henke spun round. ‘What was that?’
Hans hesitated to speak his mind but Conrad was not so reticent and was about to say that he had been foolish to provoke the fight when Kalju grabbed his surcoat.
‘You are to leave Ungannia immediately, all of you.’
Conrad thought Henke was going to strike the Estonian leader but managed to tame his anger.
‘They have invaded Jerwen, which is Sword Brother territory, and that makes them enemies.’
‘Ungannia is not occupied by the Russians and I desire no quarrel with them,’ fumed Kalju, his cheeks red with rage. Villem had come to his father’s side, his countenance severe as he tried to intimidate the fearsome Henke, without success.
Henke curled his lip at Kalju. ‘Trust me, a good mauling achieves more than words ever could. They will not bother you or your kingdom after having been given a bloody nose. They know that there are many more Sword Brothers waiting for them if they step out of line.’
‘More’s the pity,’ remarked Kalju.
Gerceslav snatched the bow from the archer and jumped onto the riverbank. He nocked an arrow in the bowstring, focused on the target and controlled his breathing, which was a major feat in his agitated state. He raised the bow, pulled back the bowstring and then released it, the arrow arching into the air.
‘This is my kingdom not the Sword Brothers’,’ snapped Kalju. ‘You and your men will leave Dorpat today. You have abused my hospitality and might have embroiled Ungannia in a war.’
Conrad saw Villem collapse and heard Kalju scream ‘shields, shields’, and then saw more arrows thudding into the Ungannians. A group of Kalju’s men ran forward and erected a shield wall around him and his son as Henke ran back to the other brother knights.
‘Fall back, the bastards are shooting at us from the other side of the river.’
He slung the banner over his shoulder as he raised his shield, placed his helmet on his head and then ran back into the settlement.
That afternoon Villem died of his wounds and Kalju sent the local chief to repeat his order that Henke and his men were to leave Ungannia at once. He would not see the brother knight and even refused an audience with Conrad so angry and grief-stricken was he. Henke shrugged and led his men from Dorpat two hours before sundown, heading west towards Wenden. He carried the captured Russian banner in a saddlebag and was unconcerned that Kalju had lost his son and Livonia may have lost an ally. In any case Ungannia would eventually be conquered by the Sword Brothers so what did it matter? To him one pagan was much like any other. They all looked the same, thought the same and fought the same. If he had to kill Ungannians then so be it. As long as he had someone to kill he was happy. The coming months would ensure that Henke was in a state of constant euphoria.
Rudolf stared at the Russian flag laid out on the floor before him. Two black bears either side of a throne on a red background. He leaned back in his chair and stroked his beard, purposely ignoring Henke and Conrad standing to attention on the other side of the flag. The master’s hall of Wenden Castle had initially been a wooden structure when the castle had first been established on the site of a Liv hill fort, but that had been ten years ago and now the building was made of stone and contained offices, bedrooms, the master’s private room adjacent to his bedroom and the spacious reception chamber where he was currently sitting beneath a great banner of the Sword Brothers.
Henke nodded to the standard on the wall behind Rudolf. ‘You can hang it beneath our own standard. It’s from Novgorod, apparently.’
Rudolf looked at his friend, one-time mercenary and now a brother knight of the order, and sighed. ‘I take it this trophy was not voluntarily surrendered to you?’
Conrad exhaled loudly, clearly desperate to say something but holding his tongue in the presence of the master.
‘You have something to say, Conrad?’ enquired Rudolf.
‘No, master,’ said Conrad. ‘I’m sure Brother Henke will provide you with all the pertinent details.’
Henke rubbed his nose. ‘Nothing to tell, really. We ran into some trouble at some pagan shithole, I forget the name.’
‘Dorpat,’ said Conrad.
‘Yes, that’s it,’ continued Henke. ‘Anyway, these Russians tried to invade the place, we gave them a bloody nose and they left their flag behind.’
He shrugged. ‘Nothing we could not handle.’
Rudolf jumped out of his chair and walked around the flag to face the two brother knights. ‘So we are at war with Novgorod?’
‘Doubt it,’ sniffed Henke. ‘They would not risk a conflict with the Sword Brothers.’
‘Idiot!’ spat Rudolf. He pointed at the banner on the floor. ‘Do you think that the Russians will forget that you butchered some of their men and took their flag? What would you do if the situation was reversed, Henke?’
Henke smiled. ‘It’s not the same, Rudolf.’
Rudolf slowly walked back to his chair. ‘Oh, and why is that?’
‘They are barbarians. They don’t think the same way as we do,’ replied Henke.
Rudolf ran a hand over his crown then looked at Conrad. ‘What about you, what do you have to say for yourself?’
Conrad cast a side-glance at Henke and was going to tell Rudolf how he had provoked the Russians, how he had got Kalju’s son killed and endangered the alliance with Ungannia. But then he realised that Rudolf knew Henke better than him and had probably pieced together the unfortunate sequence of events at Dorpat.
‘The Russians will want their flag back,’ said Conrad flatly.
Henke laughed. ‘Let them come and try to take it.’
‘They will come, Henke,’ said Conrad, ‘of that you can be certain.’
‘And if they do,’ said Rudolf, ‘will the Ungannians be marching with them?’
‘They killed Kalju’s eldest son, master,’ said Conrad. ‘For that reason alone he will not side with the Russians, though whether he is still the friend of the bishop I know not.’
‘What does it matter?’ sneered Henke. ‘When the bishop leads a new crusader army north he will finish the Estonians, and the Russians if they want a fight.’
‘There is no army, Henke,’ replied Rudolf. ‘Around a hundred men landed at Riga in the spring, that is all. So few have volunteered to crusade in Livonia that the bishop has travelled to Denmark to beg its king for aid.
‘The defeat and death of Lembit has convinced Christendom that there is no need to take the cross in Livonia. They think like you, Henke: that the pagans are beaten and will meekly submit to Christian rule.’
‘And so they will,’ replied Henke smugly.
Rudolf sighed. ‘They might have done but if they see a Russian army marching into Livonia they might be emboldened to pick up their weapons once more and join them. I will inform the grand master of this unwelcome development.’
‘You could send the flag back to Novgorod, master,’ suggested Conrad.
‘That would make us look weak,’ said Henke derisively.
‘I am apt to agree with Henke,’ said Rudolf. ‘The Russians will want revenge for the loss of face they have suffered. You are to be congratulated, Henke. It would appear that you have single-handedly undone all the good work of Bishop Theodoric and Bishop Albert, turned Ungannia from ally into foe and provoked the wrath of the Principality of Novgorod.’
He looked at them both. ‘Get out!’
Conrad and Henke saluted and left the chamber. Rudolf stared at the flag on the floor. He should have kept Henke at Wenden instead of thinking that he could be trusted with leading a diplomatic mission. He blamed himself for the unhappy incident that had occurred. The first thing he would do would be to increase the number and extent of the patrols around Wenden to ensure that the garrison and settlement to the north of its walls did not suffer a surprise attack by Russian raiders. He rubbed the scars on his neck. He knew all about Russian raids and the damage they could do. The second thing he would do was alert the office of the grand master at Riga of this latest development. He would have the Russian flag placed in safekeeping in one of the offices.
*****
The boyars, priests and senior commanders shuffled nervously on their feet and avoided the prince’s eyes as Yaroslav stood before Mstislav and relayed to him the dire events that had taken place at Dorpat. He may have been a member of the Nevsky family, one of Novgorod’s most influential clans, but he was feeling decidedly uneasy, notwithstanding that until a short while ago he had been married to the prince’s daughter. The atmosphere in the hall was dropping by the second as Yaroslav told the prince of Gerceslav’s arrival at Pskov, the welcome he had received from the mayor and the latter’s suggestion that he take his Cuman warriors west to patrol Pskov’s borders. Mstislav sat in his chair as still as a rock, unblinking, as Yaroslav then told him about the Cuman’s visit to Dorpat and the incident at the river.
‘You will be pleased to know, lord,’ said Yaroslav, ‘that Gerceslav was unhurt and managed to retire from Dorpat with minimum losses.’
Mstislav did not answer, which caused Yaroslav’s heart to beat faster and bead his forehead with sweat. There was not a sound in the hall of Novgorod’s great palace, just absolute silence as though everyone was frozen in time. The big frame of the prince sat immobile in his high-backed chair and beside him his wife Princess Maria observed Yaroslav with her piercing blue eyes. Like Gerceslav she was a Cuman, the daughter of Khotyan, the great Cuman warlord whose warriors had once terrorised the Novgorodians until Mstislav had astutely asked for his daughter’s hand in marriage. At last the hard, chiselled face of Mstislav looked up.
‘Where is my banner?’
Yaroslav attempted a half-smile. ‘Highness?’
Mstislav leaned back in his chair. ‘Gerceslav sent one of his own people, a courier, to Novgorod the day after the incident as you call it with a message. It said that soldiers in mail had taken his banner.’
Yaroslav swallowed. ‘It is true, highness, that in the skirmish the Ungannians did capture Gerceslav’s banner. Most regrettable.’
‘My banner!’ shouted Mstislav, causing everyone in the hall to jump.
The prince vaulted from his chair, despite his sixty-five years of age. He stood before Yaroslav, veins bulging in his neck.
‘That banner was consecrated in Saint Sophia’s Cathedral. It is a holy icon.’
He spun round and looked at the priests gathered to the right of his throne, his eyes examining the assembled bishops. They fixed on one among them, a tall man wearing a rich red and gold vestment called a
phelonion
, an elaborately embroidered mitre on his head.
‘Archbishop Mitrofan,’ growled the prince, ‘is it not so that the banner that you yourself blessed is holy?’
Mitrofan stepped forward and bowed his head. ‘It is as you say, highness.’
‘And in your learned opinion, archbishop,’ said Mstislav, ‘is the loss of a religious icon considered a sin?’
Mitrofan nodded gravely. ‘A great sin, highness.’
The prince looked back at Yaroslav. ‘You said the Ungannians took my banner?’
‘Kalju, the Ungannian leader, was present when it was seized, highness,’ replied Yaroslav.
Mstislav jabbed a finger in his chest. ‘But the report from Gerceslav said that there were soldiers in mail wearing the insignia of the Sword Brothers with the Ungannians.’
Yaroslav swallowed once again. ‘A small number, highness, it is true.’
Mstislav returned to his throne, standing before it. ‘The servants of the Bishop of Rome, that apostate who preaches a false religion, have stolen my banner, killed the soldiers of my father-in-law and insulted the Principality of Novgorod. This they have done despite the peace treaty brokered between myself and the Bishop of Riga a short while ago.’ He raised his arms. ‘I even entertained one of the bishop’s fellow prelates, Bishop Theodoric, in this very palace.’ He let his arms drop to his sides. ‘And now the servants of Rome have showed their true intentions.’
The hall was filled with murmurs of agreement.
Mstislav turned his attention to Mitrofan once more. ‘Archbishop, would not God want me to recapture the holy icon that has been stolen by the heretics of Rome?’
‘He would, highness.’
Mstislav half-smiled. The Orthodox Church was not a centralised organisation headed by a pontiff, unlike the Church of Rome. In the Orthodox religion the unity of the church was manifested in the sacraments. There was no pope to head the church; only Christ ruled the Orthodox religion. Happily for rulers such as Mstislav, this lack of centralisation meant that bishops and archbishops could be manipulated and intimidated to support their rule and decisions. It was so now.
Mstislav sat on his throne. ‘Archbishop, you are certain that God wishes me to avenge the outrage committed against his holy icon?’
‘I am certain, highness,’ replied Mitrofan.
‘Very well,’ said the prince. ‘I will wage a holy war to retrieve that which has been stolen from the Holy Church. Yaroslav, where is Gerceslav now?’
‘At Pskov with his men, highness.’
‘Licking his wounds, no doubt,’ said Mstislav. ‘You will ride back to Pskov and there await the arrival of reinforcements. Then you will march back to Ungannia and retrieve my banner.’
The boyars, all dressed in rich dalmatics, leather belts and embroidered boots, a collection of crimson, purple and azure, looked at each other in alarm. They had all benefited greatly from the new trade route along the Gauja and viewed a war as a threat to that prosperity. After half a minute one of their number stepped forward, an overweight man with a full beard dressed in a red dalmatic over a silk tunic. He cleared his throat and bowed at Mstislav.
‘Highness, a war with Livonia would interrupt trade and would damage Novgorod.’
Mstislav waved a hand at him. ‘Damage your profits, more like.’
The boyar laughed nervously. ‘It is customary, highness, for the
veche
to decide, or at least advise, on matters of foreign policy.’
The
veche
was Novgorod’s ancient parliament made up of representatives of the city’s richest and most influential families. As such it acted as a restraining force on the princes who were appointed by it to rule the city. But Mstislav was no puppet of the
veche
. He may have been appointed by it but it was he who had appointed the pliable Archbishop Mitrofan to his position.
‘You are right, Arkady,’ replied the prince, ‘but the
veche
does not decide on matters pertaining to holy war, is that not correct, archbishop?’
Mitrofan glanced sheepishly at the boyars and then at Mstislav. ‘That is correct, highness.’
But Arkady was not to be intimidated. ‘Great prince, surely if you sent a demand to the Bishop of Riga for your banner back then the matter could be resolved amicably.’
Mstislav jumped up. ‘Amicably? Am I a lamb who must beg my enemies for my own property back? You should beware, Arkady, lest the Bishop of Riga comes looking for your property also, and all the possessions of the boyars of Novgorod.’
He held Arkady’s gaze as he slowly retook his seat before slamming his fist down on its thick oak arm. ‘No!’
Arkady bowed and retreated back to his fellow lords, looking at them resignedly. The prince gripped both arms of his throne.
‘Yaroslav will go to Pskov, and in all his cathedrals, churches and monasteries, Archbishop Mitrofan will instruct his priests to proclaim holy war against the servants of Rome.’
‘Such a war will be expensive, highness,’ said Yuri, father of the unfortunate Yaroslav who still stood sweating in front of the prince.
A knowing smile crept over Mstislav’s face. ‘The war will cost Novgorod and its subjects nothing.’
There were gasps of confusion and the boyars looked at each other. Even Mstislav’s commanders were taken aback. Everyone knew that wars and campaigns were costly affairs in terms of supplying troops with weapons, armour, horses and supplies, to say nothing of the price that was always paid in blood.