Castellan (33 page)
Rudolf immediately gave the order to withdraw. The sergeants who were Wenden’s signallers always stayed close to the master and his deputy, blew their instruments to command the horsemen to retire. Conrad and his friends wheeled their horses about and dug their spurs into their flanks. The beasts grunted in complaint but waded through the water again and exited the Sedde on its southern side as the Estonian mob entered the water. The riders galloped back to where Rameke stood with his men.
*****
‘You see how they run, prince,’ said Kristjan to Vetseke. ‘The Sword Brothers are not gods, they are men like us.’
Vetseke was pleased to see the Sword Brothers withdraw and heard the cheers of the horsemen arrayed behind him. But he was sceptical that Kristjan’s plan would work and worried that even if it did, the unity of his army would be irrevocably fractured. Recruits from Wierland, Harrien and Jerwen had flocked to his banner and he had distributed the weapons and armour he had brought from Dorpat. But Kristjan saw the warriors from the other kingdoms as inferior to his own Ungannians. To him they were men who were expendable in battle. And it was so now as the Wierlanders charged from the forest into the Sedde to pursue the retreating Sword Brothers. Kristjan had used the Harrien as bait for his trap and they had suffered heavily, first being shot at by crossbowmen before being ridden down by horsemen. Vetseke doubted if more than a third were left alive. Still, if the Wierlanders defeated the Sword Brothers then Kristjan’s fame would spread throughout the whole of Estonia.
One of his deputies rode forward as the last Wierlanders left the river.
‘Beg pardon, lord, but do you wish to commit your Ungannians?’
Kristjan spun in the saddle. ‘Certainly not. I will need fresh men to hunt down the remnants of the enemy army.’
Kristjan smiled at Vetseke. ‘And Prince Vetseke’s horsemen will ride to the gates of Wenden to demand its surrender.’
Vetseke smiled politely in reply as Kristjan waved his subordinate away. And on the other side of the river the Wierlander assault crashed into a wall of flesh and iron.
*****
‘Dismount, dismount.’
A helmetless Master Rudolf slid off his horse, mace in hand, and stood beside Walter holding Wenden’s banner. Brother knights and sergeants dismounted to rally to their masters. In front of them the crossbowmen began shooting at the charging warriors. These, initially gripped by the euphoria of victory, literally ran into a swarm of crossbow bolts that felled at least fifty. Because they were widely spaced the Wierlanders’ charge was not interrupted as men dodged falling figures in front of them to get to grips with the Livs. But fifteen seconds after the first volley of bolts another one hundred and twenty missiles flew into their ranks, to be followed fifteen seconds later by a third volley.
Conrad stood with Hans and Anton behind the crossbowmen as they went about their work with quiet efficiency, loading, shooting and reloading their weapons as the Estonians ran towards them. By the time the first enemy warriors reached the Liv line at least two hundred of their comrades had been felled by missiles.
There was a succession of cracks as axes and swords struck shields to signal the beginning of the mêlée. The crossbowmen, their task done, immediately fell back and the Sword Brothers raced to support Rameke’s men. A few were hit by thrown spears but the majority rushed forward before the Estonians hit them to give themselves some momentum rather than waiting to be struck by charging warriors.
Conrad kept his shield tight to his body as he swung his axe forward over the right shoulder of the Liv in front of him to strike the helmet of the man he was fighting. He missed but the blade sliced down onto his shoulder, severing the chain mail and biting into the material beneath. He withdrew the axe and swung it again at the same spot, this time drawing blood. But then a spear glanced off the side of his helm, sparking ringing in his ears. He was disorientated as the Liv in front hacked down the warrior he had been attacking and stepped forward. He tried to follow but tripped over the body and his legs buckled beneath him. Hans hauled him to his feet.
‘Are you hurt?’ his friend shouted.
Conrad shook his head as the ringing subsided. The vision slits of the helm gave him limited visibility and he did not see the spear that was suddenly thrust at him and lodged itself in his shield. He saw the metal point protruding through its inner side, just above his left forearm and immediately hacked down his axe on the shaft, splintering it. He threw his shield away, drew his sword and transferred the axe to his left hand. The warrior who had just lost his spear, who was wearing some sort of pointed helmet like the Russians favoured, pulled his hand axe from his belt but dropped it when Anton caved in his helmet with his mace.
And then the enemy was gone.
Conrad looked around and saw panting and exhausted Livs reforming into a ragged line. He saw Rameke, battered and bleeding but still alive, walking up and down the line, shouting encouragement to his men. Hans and Anton, their surcoats spotted with blood, were by his side as the crossbowmen came forward again to shoot at what was left of the enemy. There was a tidemark of dead and dying where the two sides had collided and a meadow littered with enemy dead that stretched back to the river where the crossbowmen had reaped their grim harvest. He heard Master Rudolf’s commanding voice.
‘Sword Brothers will advance to the river.’
The white-clothed brother knights and sergeants walked through the Livs with the crossbowmen immediately behind them. The garrisons of Wenden, Segewold and Kremon rallied to their banners and advanced in three groups towards the Sedde, each group covered by Leatherface’s men.
Conrad’s mouth was dry, he was sweating profusely but he was mercifully unharmed. He had no idea how many casualties the order had suffered but he had seen only one or two white shapes on the ground. The crossbowmen searched for targets but there were none, only dead bodies pierced by their quarrels. When they reached the riverbank he saw fleeting figures among the trees and then nothing. The horsemen grouped around the eagle banner had also gone. Kristjan had fled.
*****
The young Ungannian had refused all pleadings by Vetseke to commit his own men to the attack, despite promising that he would also lead his horsemen in support. Instead Kristjan stated that his army needed more training before it could conquer Livonia and ordered a withdrawal. The fact that he had lost many men did not concern him. In anything it confirmed the opinion he held towards the other Estonian tribes.
‘Do you know why, alone of all the Estonian kingdoms, only Ungannia has been able to remain free and unconquered?’ he asked Vetseke as they rode north.
‘No, Kristjan.’
‘Because the average Ungannian is superior to a Wierlander, Harrien, Jerwen, Saccalian or Rotalian. It is not coincidence that Taara has given me the task of fighting the foes of Estonia because the leaders of the other tribes have proved themselves unequal to the task.’
Vetseke said nothing as he debated with himself whether he should abandon Kristjan and lead his men back to Novgorod. But then he remembered that he had left some in Fellin to stiffen the garrison.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked tersely.
‘To Lehola, of course,’ replied Kristjan. ‘It has defied me for too long. I will give the Wierlanders, Harrien and Jerwen a chance to redeem themselves.’
But the attack on Lehola failed and Kristjan lost another one hundred dead before returning to Dorpat to celebrate the mid-summer festival of Ligo.
Novgorod’s merchants grew rich from the trade in grey squirrel pelts, which were transported to either Riga or Reval and then across the sea to Lübeck. It was true that others made a decent profit by trading the pelts of sable, black foxes, polar foxes, marten and white wolves with Constantinople, where the slave markets also did a brisk trade in young Estonian and Liv women and boys with fair skins and blue eyes. But it was the lush, grey-white northern squirrel fur that was in the highest demand and which made those Novgorodians who traded in it very wealthy. And while trade was good the merchants and boyars of the city were content enough. But the Danish blockade on Livonia had severed one of the arteries of commerce and King Valdemar’s reverse on Oesel and subsequent imprisonment in Germany had effectively closed all commerce through Reval. The port was now besieged by a motley collection of Estonians and Oeselians, which had resulted in the merchants and boyars becoming fractious.
The interruption in trade not only affected Novgorod’s nobles and merchants; it also impinged on royal finances. The city treasury found that tax revenues dropped dramatically, which meant Mstislav had difficulty maintaining his household. And to add to his problems Archbishop Mitrofan began bending his ear about the dismal state of church finances. Novgorod had grown wealthy on commerce but now business was in a dire state and the matter had to be addressed.
The prince hated the
veche
, the city council that appointed and dismissed administrators, was empowered to declare war and peace, levy taxes, adopt laws and approve treaties. It was also empowered to hire and dismiss princes and had once approached Mstislav to be the city’s ruler, though he knew it was because he was married to a Cuman princess and could thus prevent her people raiding Novgorod’s territory. From the beginning, therefore, it was an uneasy relationship between a
veche
dominated by clans of boyars and wealthy merchants and the prince. Mstislav thought the
veche
irksome at best and a nest of traitors at worst. He also believed that a prince asserted his power through war whereas the
veche
believed that conflict interfered with trade and was to be resorted to only as a last resort.
But Mstislav was no fool and recognised that the
veche
, the members of which believed themselves to be the guardians of law and justice, could be manipulated by employing the right language and arguments. He also knew that it was better to meet with members of the
veche
’s Council of Lords, a sort of inner circle, rather than the whole assembly. The
veche
met in the ancient city hall near the bridge that spanned the Volkhov River. In earlier times the council could be convened by anyone who rang the great
veche
bell that hung above the hall, whereupon different factions would come to blows on the bridge spanning the river to resolve differences. Today, though, only the six members of the Council of Lords were requested at the kremlin.
Mstislav met them not in the imposing throne room but a more intimate setting: a small office beside the main hall. The middle-aged, bearded individuals were shown into the room where soft chairs had been placed in a circle. Mstislav stood as they entered and welcomed each in turn, only taking his seat when they had all sat. Servants brought trays of silver cups filled with
stavlenniy myod
, the strong, honey based alcoholic beverage favoured by the Russians.
Mstislav was dressed in a woollen outer garment called a
svita
made of expensive Byzantine material that extended down to his knees. As was the custom neither he nor his guests wore any weapons inside the palace.
‘Thank you for coming,’ said Mstislav.
The head of the Council of Lords, Yuri Nevsky, tilted his head politely.
‘We are honoured to be here, highness.’
‘Tell me, Yuri,’ said the prince, ‘how is your grandson, Alexander I believe his name is?’
Yuri nearly choked on his drink. His son had been banished to Pskov before his grandson had been born. The exile still rankled with the Nevsky clan, one of Novgorod’s most ancient and powerful boyar families.
‘He is well, highness, I believe,’ replied Yuri, ‘not that I have had much opportunity to see him of late.’
Mstislav nodded thoughtfully. ‘I would like to see young Alexander. Ask your son to bring his family back to the city. He and they have been away too long.’
Yuri smiled. ‘Thank you, highness, you are most generous.’
Mstislav sipped his drink. ‘Excellent, family is important. That’s settled, then.’
He smiled at the other members of the council who smiled back. To an observer it could have been a gathering of old friends, though Mstislav had up until now treated the members of the
veche
as dangerous dogs. It was most strange. Eventually, Mikhail Vsevolodovich, a close friend of Yuri Nevsky and the
veche
’s appointed
tysiatskii
, the ‘thousandman’ or military commander, broke the silence.
‘Forgive me, highness, but might we know the reason you summoned us here?’
Mstislav looked confused. ‘Mm? Oh, yes. Forgive me, it was such a pleasant meeting I had clean forgot. In truth the interruption in trade troubles me greatly. Novgorod is a centre of commerce and without commerce it cannot thrive.’
‘We are all troubled by events in the west, highness,’ remarked a boyar with a steel-grey beard.
Mstislav placed his cup on the table and spread his hands.
‘What to do, what to do?’
He brought his hands together. ‘For years now our merchants have had to pay taxes to the apostates in Riga for the privilege of transporting their goods to markets overseas. And when the servants of the corrupt Pope of Rome fall out who suffers? We do.’
‘It is most regrettable,’ agreed one of the boyars.
‘And more than regrettable it is expensive,’ added Gregori, friend of Yuri.
Mstislav nodded his agreement. ‘To which end I propose taking measures to ensure that Novgorod’s trade is not interrupted by the petty disputes of the crusaders. I intend to capture Reval.’
The boyars looked at him in disbelief.
‘I realise that the prospect of conflict fills many members of the
veche
with dread,’ continued Mstislav, ‘but we must take action to secure our western border.’
‘How does seizing Reval add to the security of Novgorod, highness?’ queried Yuri.
‘I will tell you,’ replied Mstislav. ‘Not only will it provide a secure port from which Novgorod’s goods can be shipped to northern Germany without having to pay taxes to the Bishop of Riga. It will also remove the threat of Estonian bandits raiding Novgorod’s territory. Chaos rules west of Lake Peipus and the longer it continues the danger increases of armies of bandits flourishing where no law exists.’
‘Such a move would provoke a war with the Danes,’ warned Mikhail.
Mstislav shook his head. ‘Danish power is broken, my friend. Their king was humiliated on Oesel last year and had to crawl back to his homeland, his army destroyed.’
‘If, and I stress if,’ said Yuri slowly, ‘the
veche
was to support your venture, highness, and Reval was seized, Novgorod is not a seafaring power. We have no ships to transport our goods across the Baltic.’
‘That’s true,’ said one of the boyars, the rest nodding their heads.
‘Ships would come to Reval,’ Mstislav reassured them, ‘just as they go to Riga.’
‘And what about the Oeselians?’ asked Mikhail. ‘They would prey on those ships like wolves among a flock of sheep.’
‘Not if we had a treaty with Olaf,’ replied Mstislav.
‘A treaty, with pagans?’ said an appalled Gregori.
‘Why not?’ replied Mstislav. ‘Olaf may be an old pirate but he is no fool. His ships may be the scourges of the Baltic but Oesel is not a thousand miles away. Just as the Sword Brothers invaded the island last year so could we land soldiers on Oesel if Olaf proves uncooperative.’
‘What would be the size of the force required to take Reval?’ asked Yuri.
‘Novgorod and Pskov between them would need to furnish ten thousand soldiers,’ stated Mstislav. ‘In addition, it may fortify you to know that my cousin, Grand Prince George of Suzdal, has agreed to provide an additional ten thousand men should I march against Reval.’
Yuri smiled politely. Mstislav had clearly given the venture a lot of thought. He had no love for the prince but what he said about Reval was true. If Novgorod and Pskov could ship their goods through the port, which had been enlarged and strengthened by the Danes, then not only would profits increase but, more importantly, commerce would no longer be subjected to the vagaries of Riga’s politics. Reval was certainly closer and if an agreement could be reached with the Oeselians then trade with north Germany would certainly flourish.
‘We would have to consult with other members of the
veche
, highness,’ announced Yuri.
‘Naturally,’ said Mstislav. ‘But may I ask what will be the advice of the Council of Lords?’
The boyars looked at each other before Yuri spoke.
‘That your highness’ proposal has merit.’
Afterwards the boyars walked from the kremlin, their personal guards escorting them back to their mansions in the city.
‘I am glad that you will soon be reunited with your son, Yuri,’ said Mikhail.
‘That was a surprise, I agree,’ replied Yuri.
‘As was his idea to attack Reval,’ offered Gregori behind them.
‘It has merit,’ said the boyar with the steel grey beard. ‘Riga has proved itself unreliable. If we have our own port, and an agreement with the Oeselians, then trade will not only be secured, it will increase markedly.’
‘Mstislav has embroiled us in wars before, Vasily,’ warned Yuri, ‘that proved not to Novgorod’s advantage.’
‘Reval is a prize worth fighting for, Yuri,’ replied Vasily, ‘especially now that Danish power is weak. We might not have another chance.’
At the city hall two days later the
veche
agreed to support the venture against Reval, the deciding factor being the guarantee of aid from Grand Prince George and Mstislav’s pledge that Suzdal would not share in the profits once Reval had become a Novgorodian port.
*****
During his more than twenty years of ruling over his people the thing that Olaf took the greatest pleasure in was not the raiding, pillaging and slaughtering of his foes, though these were pleasant enough activities. No, the thing that brought him great joy was visiting the longhouses of his earls, the farms of his freemen and the shops and smiths of his villagers. It was a source of great pride that the blessed island of Oesel, surrounded by a warm sea, a land of kind summers and light breezes, was free from the never-ending warfare that plagued the mainland. In his youth there was incessant strife between the Estonian tribes, between the Estonians and Livs and between the Russians and Estonians and Livs. Now in his sixties, the mainland was the plaything of Danes, Russians and crusaders. The gods had cursed the land across the sea but they had blessed Oesel. His people had been delighted when the Danish king had been surrounded and defeated, even if the Sword Brothers had managed to spirit him away from certain death. They had walked from Kuressaare and the surrounding villages to marvel at the many Danish corpses that had been stripped and laid out on the ground for their viewing, before being consigned to great pyres. It was said that such was the booty taken from dead Danes that every man on the island had a coat of mail and a sword with which to go to war. His people were delighted and in high spirits but Olaf had been saddened.
He knew that Sigurd was thoughtful and cunning, possessed of a keen, enquiring mind unlike Stark and Kalf, who were brave and hot-headed like their dead brother Eric. He had trusted Sigurd when his eldest son had recommended allowing the Danes to land on Oesel where they could be surrounded and destroyed. And though the Danes had left many dead on the island and their king reduced to a laughing stock, he regretted the fact that for the first time a foreign invader had landed on Oesel. He feared it was a foretaste of things to come.
Olaf’s hair and beard were now completely white and thinning, though his eyes were still clear and alert and his squat frame did not have an ounce of fat on it. Unlike his father Sigurd kept his face clean-shaven but he had the blonde hair and blue eyes of the majority of his people. They had spent the morning with a friend of his father, a barrel-chested old brawler who had taken them boar hunting. Olaf had been in his element, reminiscing about the old days in between skewering squealing boar, but now he rode at the head of his bodyguard in silence, the only sound the jangling of the ponies’ bits and the occasional eagle taking flight from a nearby branch. They were riding by the side of a forest of oak and juniper on the way back to Kuressaare.
‘It was good to see Klun again, father,’ said Sigurd in an attempt to break the silence that was becoming oppressive.
Olaf snapped out of his daydream. ‘Yes, good man Klun. The sort of man you want beside you in a shield wall.’