Army of the Wolf (3 page)

‘Majesty, may I present Bishop Albert of Riga, Bishop Theodoric of Estonia and Abbot Bernhard of Dünamünde?’

The king waved the group forward as the count moved to stand beside the chancellor. Light flooded into the hall from windows set high in the walls on each side and behind the dais. Above the latter hung a great banner displaying Valdemar’s three lions. Now nearly fifty, the king had a narrow face and a long nose that made his visage appear even more slender. Albert noticed that there was no grey in his shoulder-length hair or beard, unlike his own which was now liberally flecked with white. He and the others bowed to Valdemar.

‘We are pleased to meet you bishops, and you Abbot Bernhard, late Lord of Lippe and valiant warrior.’

Bernhard bowed again to the king. ‘You are too kind, majesty.’

The king pointed at the constable who turned and ordered a servant holding a tray of silver goblets to come forward. The boy walked to the dais, bowed his head and proffered the tray to the king, who took one of the vessels. The queen was served next, who likewise accepted a goblet. Another servant appeared with a second tray and proceeded to serve the guests with wine while the first one gave wine to Count Henry and Bishop Peter. The king stood and raised his goblet to Bishop Albert.

‘To victory in Estonia.’

Albert smiled as the others repeated the toast and drank from their goblets. He liked this king. The queen sighed loudly and waved over one of the servants, placing her goblet on the tray before retaking her throne beside the king. Valdemar was rather plain looking notwithstanding his blue silk tunic and yellow surcoat bearing a single blue lion. His wife however, was a raven-haired beauty. Queen Berengaria of Portugal was twenty years younger than the king and had dark-brown eyes, flawless olive skin and full lips. She had the looks to melt the hardest heart and it was ironic that her own heart was as cold as ice. She had been married to the king for four years, during which time she had given birth to two sons and one daughter. This had made the king immensely happy but his people, subjected to increasingly heavy taxes to pay for his foreign wars, did not share Valdemar’s love for his wife. In fact the Danes despised Berengaria, blaming her for the burdens placed upon them. For her part she was only too pleased to reciprocate their animosity. They called her
taeve
– ‘bitch’ – and Bishop Albert was about to find out why.

Valdemar drained his goblet and placed it on the servant’s tray as the others likewise unburdened themselves of their drinking vessels.

‘We are happy to support your crusade against the heathens, bishop,’ the king informed Albert. ‘I have heard much about the triumphs of the Sword Brothers.’

He leaned towards Albert. ‘Tell me, is it true that one cut off the head of this Lembit, the leader of the pagans?’

Albert nodded. ‘Yes, majesty. A brother knight named Conrad Wolff smote him with his own axe.’

Valdemar clapped his hands together. ‘I would have liked to have seen that.’

‘We have heard that the pagans were defeated on St Matthew’s Day,’ said the queen.

‘That is true, majesty,’ smiled Albert.

‘Then why do you seek our help with your crusade against a beaten foe?’

Albert smiled graciously. ‘Though the Estonians are defeated, there are remnants of resistance that still survive and need to be vanquished.’

‘And vanquished they shall be,’ stated Valdemar firmly.

‘You are truly a generous and noble king,’ enthused Theodoric.

‘Generous, certainly,’ sneered the queen.

Count Henry frowned but the king laughed it off.

‘I shall be happy to lend my support to your crusade, Bishop Albert. Count Henry, when can an army be readied to sail to Estonia?’

Henry stepped forward to face the king. ‘I fear that it will take many months to assemble the ships, supplies, horses and men, majesty.’

‘Next year, then,’ said the king. ‘It is the best I can do, it would seem.’

‘God will reward you, majesty,’ smiled Albert.

‘And what reward will the church give my husband?’ asked the queen. ‘For am I right in thinking that without Danish help your crusade will come to a halt?’

‘We do not seek any reward,’ Valdemar reproached her.

‘Of course not,’ said Berengaria, ‘but Count Henry, is it not correct that in war the victor keeps his conquests.’

‘As you say, majesty,’ replied Henry.

Theodoric looked annoyed. ‘His Holiness the Pope has bequeathed Estonia to the servants of the Holy Church, majesty.’

Berengaria shot him a hateful look. ‘Has he, bishop? The chancellor informed me before you arrived that you are the Bishop of Estonia.’

Theodoric smiled at her. ‘That is correct, majesty.’

The queen curled her lip. ‘But how do you intend to assume your bishopric without the assistance of Danish soldiers?’

She looked at Count Henry. ‘Perhaps we should send our German subjects to subdue the pagans.’

The count seethed but retained his composure.

‘I am always ready to serve you, majesty,’ he said.

‘Of course you are,’ stated Valdemar. ‘We all are. It’s settled, then. Next year I shall sail with a great fleet to crush the pagans and establish the Holy Church in Estonia.’

But the queen had not finished with the topic of the crusade in Livonia and after the meeting, when the king’s guests had been settled in their quarters, Berengaria poured honeyed words into Valdemar’s ears.

‘You really should not speak to princes of the church in such a way, my dear.’

She closed the door to their bedroom and began kissing his ear.

‘But you should not let the church take advantage of you, great king.’

She progressed from his ear to kissing his neck, and then went down on her knees before him.

‘It is a great honour to go on crusade,’ he said, his voice quivering as she unbuckled his sword belt and eased down his breeches.

‘I know,’ she replied, gently kissing the tops of his legs, ‘but you should be rewarded for your service.’

He gasped as she pulled down his cotton undergarments and began licking his thighs.

‘Besides, the pope has given Estonia to the church.’

‘Write to him, my love. He will listen to a great king such as you.’

They were the last words she spoke before her lips and tongue pleasured him in a most wondrous way.

*****

‘What does he want me to do with them?’

Domash Tverdislavich was far from happy. Ever since his defeat before Odenpah he had been in Prince Mstislav’s disfavour, and had only kept his head and position as mayor of Pskov because he had sent Bishop Theodoric of the Roman Church to Novgorod to negotiate a trade treaty with the prince. It was lucky for Domash that the merchants of northern Europe craved the pelts of the grey-white squirrel that was only found in northern Russia to supply to clothing manufacturers throughout Germany and beyond. Novgorod already supplied the fur – musk, marten, sable and ermine – to Byzantium, but the demand for squirrel, black fox and white wolf pelts in Europe meant another, highly lucrative trade route could be opened to the west. Novgorod’s furs already travelled along the Dvina but Bishop Theodoric had proposed a new, shorter route down the River Gauja. Both rivers were controlled by the Sword Brothers and in return for peace and Mstislav’s promise not to seize Ungannia, a trade agreement had been ratified between Livonia and Novgorod.

Yaroslav Nevsky stood in the hall of the mayor’s palace with his helmet in the crook of his arm and looked vacant. One of Mstislav’s most able commanders, he had recently been the prince’s son-in-law until he had divorced his wife because she was barren. The prince understood but for the sake of family honour had temporarily banished Yaroslav from Novgorod until his daughter’s rage and grief had subsided. He had sent him south to reinforce the garrison of Pskov, along with two hundred Cuman warriors.

‘The prince said that you might have use of them,’ said Yaroslav at length.

Domash liked Yaroslav. The pair had taken part in the abortive winter campaign against Odenpah, but the last thing he need in his city were two hundred Cuman warriors.

‘The garrison is quite adequate without two hundred barbarians to bolster it,’ said Domash. ‘I will send them back to Novgorod.’

Yaroslav shifted uncomfortably on his feet. ‘May I say something?’

Domash sat back in his chair. ‘If you must.’

‘The prince did not want the Cumans at Novgorod.’

‘I bet he didn’t,’ said Gleb who was lounging in a chair near to where Domash sat.

‘Thank you, Gleb,’ snapped Domash, ‘when I want your opinion I will ask for it.’

Dressed in a bright blue tunic and light brown leggings, Gleb waved an arm at his master and grinned at Yaroslav. No one knew where Gleb came from but he was a
Skomorokh
, a mystic that the common people believed to be descended from the ancient pagan priests long before the birth of the Orthodox Church. As such he was revered and feared in equal measure. The priests of the church hated him but because of his great influence among the barely Christian common folk, Domash kept him as a sort of lucky, if impertinent, mascot.

‘I’ll warrant Mstislav sometimes regrets marrying a Cuman princess when his relatives arrive at the gates of his city,’ remarked Gleb, ignoring Domash’s order to be silent. He smiled at the mayor. ‘Still, they’re your problem now.’

‘Make sure they are kept outside the city,’ he ordered Yaroslav. ‘I don’t want them getting drunk and causing trouble.’

‘They have brought their families with them,’ said Yaroslav.

Domash shook his head. ‘It gets worse.’

‘Their commander is outside lord,’ continued Yaroslav. ‘He wishes to pay his respects.’

‘Cuman and respect, two words that do not readily go together,’ remarked Gleb.

‘Shut up!’ commanded Domash.

‘The commander’s wife is with him,’ said Yaroslav apologetically.

‘Ha!’ Gleb could barely control his glee. ‘Some foul old hag from the steppes no doubt, whose ugliness surpasses the old nag she rides. You know what they say about Cuman women, don’t you?’

Domash was ignoring him but Yaroslav looked at the mystic in confusion.

‘That all women have a right to be ugly,’ roared Gleb, ‘but Cuman females abuse the privilege.’

He then broke into a fit of laughter as Yaroslav looked at Domash and then back at Gleb.

Domash sighed. ‘Cumans. Very well, let us get the ordeal over with.’

He waved Yaroslav away so he could go and fetch Pskov’s unwanted visitors. Gleb surrendered to his fit of giggles as Yaroslav walked to the twin oak doors that had been shut behind him and which were now opened by guards standing beside them.

Like the
Skomorokhs
no one knew where the Cumans came from only that they appeared from the east many years ago, a great nomadic tribe that plundered every city it came across. Their warriors shot short bows and rode hardy horses and they transported their young and old in wagons that they circled at night to provide protection. Their women also rode in the saddle and reportedly fought beside their men in battle, giving rise to the legend that they looked like their menfolk. Prince Mstislav had realised that the only way to curb their plundering tendencies was to marry into them and so he had taken a Cuman bride, who to be fair was not unattractive. But the ruler had also striven to ensure that his Cuman relatives were kept at arm’s length because they were unpredictable and dangerous. Only sixteen years before a Cuman horde had sacked the great city of Kiev itself, and now Domash had two hundred of them outside his city walls.

The doors to the hall opened, two individuals entered and Domash forgot all thoughts of being rid of his guests. Yaroslav escorted the two Cumans to the far end of the hall where Domash sat. On the wall behind him hung the great banner of Pskov: a golden snow leopard on a blue background. The Cuman leader wore a calf-length blue topcoat over which he sported a fine lamellar armour cuirass. His baggy trousers were also blue and his leather boots were black. He carried a pointed helmet in the crook of his arm, his long fair hair falling about his shoulders, and as was the custom among his people his chin was shaved and his moustache long.

Domash hardly paid any attention to him but instead fixed his eyes on the beauty walking beside him. Like her husband she had long hair, though hers was blonde and longer. She wore a calf-length yellow topcoat that was slit at the waist, tight-fitting blue trousers that matched the colour of her eyes and light brown boots. She was perhaps in her early twenties and Domash thought her the most enchanting beauty he had seen in many years.

He stood up as they approached, Yaroslav extending an arm to the Cuman couple when all three had halted.

‘Mayor Domash, may I introduce Lord Gerceslav and his wife Afanasy.’

The Cumans bowed their heads as Domash stepped forward, took the wife’s hand and kissed it.

‘You are most welcome to the city of Pskov.’

Gleb stopped laughing. ‘They are?’

Gerceslav smiled. ‘My people have heard of the exploits of the famed Domash Tverdislavich and from one raider to another, I salute you.’