Castellan (36 page)

He stopped a few paces from the gates and looked at the silver ring on his hand. He thought of Daina and his son Dietmar, both of whom had been wrenched cruelly from him. That dreadful night seemed like only yesterday and though the searing pain that had gripped him in the aftermath of their deaths no longer possessed him, a dull ache still remained. He turned the ring on his finger but became aware of faint footsteps behind him. He swivelled around, hand on the hilt of his sword. He may have been in Treiden but Livonia was not paradise and had its fair share of robbers whose friend was the night.

Bishop Bernhard threw up his hands. ‘My mistake to creep up on Livonia’s finest swordsman.’

Conrad took his hand away from his sword. ‘Hardly that, lord bishop.’

Bernhard was eighty if he was a day yet his frame was still lean and his reflexes sharp. Conrad smiled when he noticed a sword strapped to his waist.

‘You were the best man at the wedding, were you not?’

‘Yes, lord bishop.’

‘There you are, then. The best man is exactly that: the best swordsman that can be found to ensure that a wedding is not interrupted. I think Prince Rameke made a good choice.’

Bernhard looked back at the fort. ‘Many men will have sore heads in the morning. But not you, Conrad, eh.’

‘Drinking myself into a stupor is not for me, lord bishop. And you?’

‘When I was a soldier I liked nothing better than drinking myself into oblivion after a battle. Fighting, drinking, whoring; it was a way of life for a young Bernhard of Lippe. But no longer.’

‘You are respected throughout Livonia for your military record and abstemious nature, lord bishop.’ Conrad looked away to the settlement at the foot of the hill. ‘If only others that hold high positions in the Holy Church in Livonia displayed the same qualities.’

‘You speak of Archbishop Stefan,’ said Bernhard.

‘I do.’

‘I heard about the unfortunate incident at Wenden.’

Conrad looked back at the bishop. ‘Unfortunate, lord bishop? The garrison of Riga should be disbanded; it is nothing more than a plaything of the archdeacon. I have yet to see it fight on the battlefield.’

‘I fear you are right, Conrad,’ agreed Bernhard, ‘but the good people of Riga are very fond of the soldiers that watch over them while they sleep.’

‘When Bishop Albert returns from Germany I hope he will address his nephew’s outrageous behaviour.’

Bernhard took Conrad’s elbow. ‘Walk with me a little further.’

They ambled down the track, the hoots of owls in the nearby forest the only sound in the darkness.

‘The bishop will not be returning to Livonia this year, Conrad. I told the grand master and Rudolf earlier and you might as well hear it as you are Marshal of Estonia.’

‘The bishop is not ill, is he?’ enquired Conrad with concern.

‘No, nothing like that,’ Bernhard reassured him, ‘but King Valdemar has been taken hostage by one of his former vassals, Henry Count of Schwerin.’

‘Master Rudolf’s father,’ said Conrad.

‘Indeed. Anyway the king and his eldest son currently reside in one of the Duke of Saxony’s castles and Danish power has been gravely wounded, some say fatally.’

‘The Count of Schwerin was eager enough to do King Valdemar’s bidding when he was in Livonia,’ said Conrad bitterly, remembering the death of Johann at the Pala.

‘I do not know the reason for the schism between the two,’ remarked Bernhard, ‘but Count Henry has gathered many north German lords to his side and they are determined to resist any attempts by the Danes to subjugate them again.’

‘What does this mean for Livonia, lord bishop?’

‘That Bishop Albert’s task of recruiting crusaders for Livonia has been made harder, as the north German lords are reluctant to leave their lands if there is a chance the Danes might try to rescue their king by force. However, he has managed to recruit two thousand men for service here this year, mostly from Lübeck and the surrounding towns. Commander Nordheim will be taking ship with them soon.’

‘Commander Nordheim will not be leading these soldiers?’ asked Conrad, appalled by the idea.

‘Have no fear, Conrad, I will be leading the troops from Germany.’

‘To where, lord bishop?’

‘Fellin,’ stated Bernhard, ‘we must retake the fort to show this Kristjan that his war against Livonia will lead only to his defeat. And after that Ungannia will be conquered.’

‘And what of the Danes in northern Estonia?’ queried Conrad.

‘Consider this, Conrad,’ answered the bishop, ‘the Danes cannot fight a campaign in northern Germany and another in Estonia. We, and specifically you, may benefit from Count Henry’s rebellion.’

‘Me, lord bishop?’

Bernhard chuckled. ‘The Marshal of Estonia should be based in the country’s most important stronghold, I think.’

‘Dorpat?’ proffered Conrad.

‘Reval, Conrad.’

*****

Vsevolod thought that the Battle of Abava was bad enough, and reckoned himself lucky to have escaped with his life. But as Aras and his senior commanders stood before him and Rasa in Panemunis’ main hall he believed that the terror he had experienced that day was nothing compared to the dread that enveloped the chamber as he listened to a report. Mindaugas, now fully recovered from the bout of flu that had possessed his body during the winter, stood with Morta, ashen faced, as the tale of woe was relayed to them by a short, stout Selonian prince with a deep voice. Even Aras, normally unflappable, bit his bottom lip as the man spoke. His boots and leggings were smeared with mud and his cheeks flushed with the exertion of riding for many miles to get to the stronghold. Normally he would have been compelled to tidy up his appearance before being granted an audience with the royal couple, but such was the gravity of the news he carried that protocol had to be cast aside.

‘I have ridden from Mesoten, highness,’ the prince stated.

Vsevolod looked at Rasa. ‘Mesoten? I thought that was a ruin following the crusader campaign against it.’

The man nodded. ‘It is, highness, but your army has taken refuge there following the clash with Duke Arturus.’

‘I have been there,’ said Mindaugas, ‘there is not room on the summit to accommodate two thousand men, let alone their horses and wagons.’

The man looked at Aras, unsure whether to proceed.

‘Continue,’ ordered Aras.

The man swallowed. ‘There are only three hundred men on Mesoten’s summit, highness.’

Vsevolod rose from his throne as Rasa and Morta gasped. ‘Three hundred! Where are the rest?’

‘Dead, highness,’ replied the prince, beads of sweat appearing on his forehead. ‘We had rendezvoused with Duke Viesthard’s warriors and a force of two thousand Samogitians under Prince Skiras, having heard of the approach of an army of Kurs. We took up a very strong position on a piece of rising ground five miles west of Viethard’s stronghold of Tervete, but…’

‘But?’ shouted Vsevolod.

The man was now sweating profusely. ‘But when the Kurs attacked and then fell back in precipitous retreat the Samogitians and Semgallians pursued, highness.’

‘Let me guess,’ said Aras, ‘it was feint to lure you away from the high ground.’

‘Yes, lord,’ replied the prince. ‘The Kurs fell back just far enough to split our army before they turned and attacked. They had hidden a mounted reserve behind a hill that cut our foot soldiers to pieces.’

Vsevolod, stunned, flopped down on his throne. ‘Only three hundred are left out of an army of, what, seven thousand?’

‘Yes, highness, but Duke Viesthard and his Semgallians, what is left of them, fled to Tervete. Most of the Samogitians are dead. Prince Skiras is…’

‘Is what?’ snapped Mindaugas.

‘Also dead, lord,’ answered the prince.

‘Get out,’ Vsevolod growled.

The prince bowed, about faced and rapidly departed from the chamber.

‘What does this mean?’ said a pale-faced Rasa.

‘That Arturus controls most of Semgallia and a large portion of Samogitia if he chooses to strike south.’

‘How can this be?’ said a distraught Mindaugas. He placed an arm around the shoulder of his wife. ‘It is time to show this Arturus the might of Nalsen and Selonia. We must muster every man and send this demon back to hell.’

Morta smiled with pride at her husband’s bravado but Vsevolod buried his head in his hands.

‘It would make more sense to deprive Arturus of the one thing that he seems to acquire with ease,’ suggested Aras.

Vsevolod looked up. ‘Which is?’

‘Victory, highness,’ replied Aras.

‘Explain yourself,’ demanded Vsevolod.

Aras, now more relaxed, began pacing the chamber.

‘Duke Arturus and his deputy Lamekins have proved adept battlefield commanders to put it mildly. It is time to see if they are as accomplished at siege warfare. Fortify the hill forts on the border and let the Kurs try to reduce them without siege engines.’

Vsevolod stroked his beard. ‘It would be better if Arturus spent his time reducing strongholds not in Selonia or Nalsen. Go and tell that idiot who brought news of our latest defeat that he is to return to Mesoten and hold it until we organise a relief force.’

‘I will lead the relief force,’ offered Mindaugas.

Vsevolod looked at Aras and smiled slyly. They were thinking the same.

‘There will be no relief force,’ said the former. ‘If Arturus is amusing himself at Mesoten then we have more time to organise our defences.’

‘You would sacrifice three hundred of our men for nothing?’ said Mindaugas incredulously.

Vsevolod spun to look at his son-in-law. ‘I would sacrifice three thousand if it kept the Kurs out of our lands. The crops still have to be gathered in and if they are not then the people will starve in the winter. Better Semgallia is ravaged than Selonia or Nalsen. See to it, General Aras.’

Aras saluted and pointed at the other commanders in the chamber to follow him. After the doors to the hall had been closed Vsevolod rested his chin in his hands.

‘I have greatly underestimated Duke Arturus. I will not make the same mistake again.’

‘It is dishonourable to abandon Duke Viesthard,’ snapped Mindaugas.

‘If you are to become a great warlord, Mindaugas,’ said Vsevolod calmly, ‘you must realise not only that honour is an expensive commodity but also that allies readily desert each other in favour of their own interests. You think Duke Viesthard would not do the same if the roles were reversed?’

‘I would like to think not,’ said Mindaugas firmly.

‘Your faith in human nature is most touching,’ replied Vsevolod, ‘but until all men think like you we must keep our wits sharp.’

*****

The land around Pskov was bathed in glorious sunshine that summer, which ripened the crops in the fertile agricultural lands ringing the city. Set amid rolling hills and blessed by a moderate climate, Pskov may have been the so-called ‘younger brother’ of Novgorod but it was fast becoming its economic rival. The long humid days of early summer were ideal for growing the long-stemmed flax used to make clothing, bedding, fishing nets, ropes and candle wicks. So abundant was the crop that thousands of bales of flax were exported to Livonia every year, in the years that the crusader state and Novgorod were not at war, that is.

To the north of the city were great forests of fir, birch and pine and also stretches of ash, linden, maple, elm and oak. It was no coincidence that timber was also a major industry in Pskov. The forests were also filled with animals that provided the city’s furriers with an unending supply of bear, sable, marten, wolf, fox and squirrel hides. The villagers of the ancient hilltop settlements supplemented their income from farming with hunting and trapping, the city’s tax collectors gathering a rich tribute in crops and pelts for the city’s mayor, or
posadnik
, who was appointed by the prince of Novgorod. Domash Tverdislavich had held the post for many years and had used it to his personal advantage as well as that of Novgorod. He ruled Pskov like it was his own personal kingdom and was usually of a jovial disposition. But today his handsome face wore a scowl.

Ordered by Mstislav to muster an army and lead it to a rendezvous point on the northern shore of Lake Peipus, he knew that once more the prince was taking Pskov and Novgorod to war. There was a time when he led raiding parties far into the west, to the Dvina and even across the river to plunder Lithuanian villages. He had even burned the wooden fort of the Sword Brothers at Holm, before taking many of the Livs who lived in the nearby village as slaves. They were good days and the sight of his banner struck terror into the Livs and Estonians alike. The victories were easy and achieved with little cost. But then more and more Sword Brothers came and built castles of stone to guard their new crusader state. And after them came crusaders and the fighting became hard, costly and far from enjoyable. Of late Pskov had lost many sons to the Sword Brothers and Novgorod even more. The merchants and boyars of those two ancient cities wanted peace and prosperity, not war and destitution. He thought he must be getting old because he was of the same opinion.