The Sword Brothers (117 page)

They walked between
groups of drunken, raucous guests, their shirts dirty and smeared
with mead.

‘When the priests have
gone get rid of the interlopers,’ sneered Vsevolod.

‘I thought you said
they were welcome.’

‘That was for the
benefit of that decrepit senile idiot with the white beard,’ said
Vsevolod, angrily shoving aside a reveller.

‘That old man holds
great sway among the people,’ said Aras.

‘Which is precisely
why I said to him what I did.’

They walked through
the hall to the more private chambers located at its rear, the
prince’s Russian guards keeping any unwelcome guests out of this
area. Aras led Vsevolod to a small room furnished with chairs and a
table where the prince usually received visitors. The two guards
outside the room brought their spears to their bodies as one and
opened the door to allow them to enter.

Torolf was standing
admiring a row of boar heads mounted on one wall. He turned and
looked surprised at the two individuals standing before him. Aras
realised that the ambassador must have thought they were servants
or some sort of travelling entertainers with their simple attire
and strange headwear.

‘I am General Aras,’
he said, extending an arm towards Vsevolod. ‘And this is Prince
Vsevolod, Lord of the Selonian and Nalsen people and son-in-law to
the late Grand Duke Daugerutis.’

Vsevolod was suddenly
aware of his attire. Mortified, he snatched at the straw wreath on
his head and flung it on the table.

‘Wine,’ he called to
the guards outside. ‘Bring wine and refreshments for our guest.’ He
looked apologetically at Torolf.

‘Please be
seated.’

But Torolf bowed his
head solemnly and handed Vsevolod a rolled parchment that had a red
wax seal bearing the emblem of a seagull.

‘I am Lord Torolf,
appointed by Duke Arturus to be his ambassador and I thank you for
your invitation to your kingdom.’

Vsevolod took the
document and raised an eyebrow. Arturus had been tardy to say the
least in replying to his requests for a meeting. He had wanted
negotiations to start months ago but at least this was a start. He
broke the seal and read the document that he was pleased to
discover was in Russian. It confirmed Torolf’s status and ended
with Arturus’ words that he hoped their future cooperation would be
mutually beneficial.

‘You must forgive our
appearance, ambassador,’ said Vsevolod, taking his seat behind the
desk as Torolf sat down opposite with Aras next to him, ‘we have
been engaged in my daughter’s wedding.’

Torolf, in stark
contrast, wore a rich green tunic and red cloak that was fastened
at the front by a huge gold brooch.

‘To Mindaugas, son of
the late Prince Stecse. Yes, I heard,’ smiled Torolf, ‘my
congratulations.’

Slaves brought wine,
meats, rye bread and fruit to the office, Torolf eating and
drinking sparingly.

‘My duke wonders why
you solicit his aid,’ remarked the ambassador, nibbling a
grape.

‘Lithuania is
afflicted by civil strife,’ replied Vsevolod. ‘I would bring that
strife to an end.’

‘By subduing the other
dukes,’ said Torolf. ‘My lord has no interest in being slave to a
grand duke.’

Aras smiled. He
remembered that Daugerutis had managed, more or less, to bribe,
threaten and browbeat the other dukes to his will, all except the
Northern Kurs. A fierce, warlike people, they went their own way
and tended to kill first and ask questions later. But Arturus was
not just a bloodthirsty brute. He realised that there was always a
demand for hardy warriors and was not averse to offering the
services of his warriors. At a price.

‘I seek not to be a
grand duke but to preserve my kingdom,’ replied Vsevolod.

‘You wish to hire
warriors?’

‘We have enough
soldiers,’ interrupted Aras, who had taken a dislike to this
smooth-talking courtier.

Vsevolod frowned at
his general but Torolf remained impassive.

‘What I propose,’ said
Vsevolod, ‘is the division of Semgallia. The son of Ykintas, Duke
Vincentas, struggles to hold his father’s kingdom against my
assaults in the east and the Samogitians in the south. If Duke
Arturus was to invade Semgallia from the west then Vincentas would
be toppled from power easily.’

Torolf remained
impassive.

‘Unless the duke has
his hands full with the Southern Kurs.’

Aras smiled as
Torolf’s mask slipped ever so slightly.

‘It is only a matter
of time before Duke Gedvilas submits to my lord,’ replied Torolf
icily.

Vsevolod leaned
forward. ‘I seek an alliance with Duke Arturus so that we may
divide up the Lithuanian lands between us. While this land is
divided the crusaders north of the Dvina laugh at us and make their
preparations to cross the river to expand their empire. Like your
lord I too do not wish to be a slave.’

Torolf sipped at his
wine. ‘You wish for the Northern Kurs to fight the Semgallians but
what will you do for us?’

‘A fair question,’
replied Vsevolod. ‘What I am proposing is a combined attack, my
forces from the east, those of Duke Arturus from the west. Faced
with such overwhelming force the Semgallians will collapse. After
which I pledge warriors to aid your fight against the Southern
Kurs.’

‘You must understand
that I have no authority to agree to your proposals,’ said Torolf.
‘I must report back to my lord.’

‘But in theory you
believe that the plan has merit,’ probed Vsevolod.

Torolf took another
sip of his drink. ‘Any military cooperation will require proper
planning and coordination, otherwise Vincentas will be able to
march his forces east and west at will to stave off our
assaults.’

‘I promise that there
will be full cooperation between us,’ said Aras.

Torolf looked at the
general. ‘As I said I make no promises. However, I will report
favourably back to my lord concerning what we have discussed. It
would appear that our interests are the same regarding the future
of Semgallia.’

‘You must be tired
after your journey,’ said Vsevolod. ‘General Aras will escort you
to your quarters. I hope you will stay with us a while and enjoy
our hospitality.’

It was a start and
that was all that he wanted. One day he would recross the Dvina and
take back his home from the accursed Bishop of Riga and the Sword
Brothers. But for now he had to bide his time and apply his efforts
to more pressing problems, which included subjugating the other
Lithuanian tribes.

*****

It was the end of May
before Bishop Albert returned from Germany. The twenty ships
bringing crusaders and supplies docked at the great harbour at
Riga, the sails of two of the cogs bearing the insignia of the
Sword Brothers and carrying much-needed weapons and armour for the
order’s soldiers, though not enough to satisfy all their needs. The
harbour itself was now protected by watchtowers, which were sited
on the end of all the jetties. On the top platform of each tower
was mounted either a stone-throwing mangonel or a ballista. The
latter was a machine resembling a giant crossbow that could hurl
iron-headed bolts over great distances. As the Oeselians had found
to their cost, the defences of Riga and its harbour were now very
strong. Under the careful nurturing of Archdeacon Stefan the
garrison had increased to four hundred men, a small army in itself,
in addition to the town militia that could muster five hundred men
variously equipped and trained.

The harbour and
streets leading from it to the bishop’s palace were lined with
soldiers of the garrison when the bishop stepped ashore from his
ship, to be welcomed by Archdeacon Stefan, Grand Master Volquin,
the castellans of the order, Caupo, Sir Helmold and Sir Richard. A
fanfare of trumpets welcomed home the founder of the town; Albert
was dressed in white robes and a white and gold mitre. A tall,
fair-haired nobleman wearing a surcoat emblazoned with a white
horse’s head helped him from the gangplank. Onlookers gasped when
they saw the knight, looks of horror momentarily on their faces
before they composed themselves and clapped politely. For Count
Albert von Lauenburg was horribly disfigured.

Now in his
mid-thirties, the count was a Saxon who controlled the mighty
fortress of Lauenburg, a stronghold on the River Elbe. He had
fought many battles against the Danes and other German nobles,
receiving severe wounds at the city of Stade two years before.
Heralds spread the news of Count Albert’s bravery and heroic deeds
but did not relate that in the fighting his helmet had been knocked
off his head during close-quarters combat. In the ensuring struggle
half his nose was hacked off, the top of his right ear was severed
and an enemy axe had slashed his face, leaving a deep scar that ran
from just above his right eyebrow to his lower left jaw. It was
fortunate that he was already married because it was thought that
no woman would countenance a match with such a deformed individual,
even accounting for his great wealth and power.

The reason that the
bishop had been delayed on his journey back to Riga was that he had
been involved in delicate relations with King Valdemar of Denmark,
who controlled large areas of northern Germany, including the city
of Lübeck. When Count Albert declared his intention to go on
crusade in Livonia, Valdemar baulked at the idea of the Saxon lord
marching a hundred knights, two hundred lesser knights, a hundred
squires, a hundred crossbowmen and a hundred spearmen through his
lands. Only the personal guarantee of the bishop that the Saxons
would not plunder during their journey convinced the king to agree
to the count’s passage. He did, however, assign five hundred
soldiers to act as an escort and insisted that the crusaders embark
immediately once they reached Lübeck rather than loiter in the
city.

The fleet that brought
Count Albert to Riga also contained other knights who were either
attracted to the crusade in Livonia or who had fallen on hard times
and thought the prospect of being fed and housed by Bishop Albert
for a year much more attractive than starvation. This category
numbered fifty men.

Men of substance who
expressed an interest in becoming brother knights of the order
numbered twenty, while the bishop had collected a further fifty
from Lübeck who would be inducted as sergeants, both groups being
subject to the usual probationary period. Finally there were the
waifs and strays and young criminals that the bishop had managed to
save from the gallows: sixty boys who would be trained to be
sergeants, some perhaps even attaining the coveted position of
brother knight.

Every year the bishop
had recruited mercenaries for the Sword Brothers, or at least the
Cistercian Order throughout northern Germany had let it be known
that salvation and regular pay awaited mercenaries prepared to
serve in Livonia. This year was no different and accompanying the
bishop were one hundred and fifty dogs of war for Grand Master
Volquin.

The route from the
harbour to the bishop’s palace was thronged with Riga’s citizens,
all eager to acclaim the man who had single-handedly turned a
collection of Liv villages into a prosperous, thriving port. The
population had expanded to such an extent that dwellings had been
built beyond the city walls, a new, wooden wall being erected to
protect them. Indeed, such was the demand for timber for
construction that several of Caupo’s chiefs had become wealthy
providing the town’s carpenters and builders with wood.

While walking in the
company of Volquin and the other masters of the order, Rudolf
spotted Rameke among the chiefs with Caupo. He left the brethren
and ambled over to the Livs, who now seemed strangers in their own
land amid so many German Christians.

‘Rameke,’ he called,
having difficulty hearing his own voice amid the tumult.

Rameke turned and
recognised Rudolf. He smiled and they clasped forearms. He was
still in his early twenties but he had a world-weary look that made
him look ten years older.

‘The new master of
Wenden. It is good to see you.’

‘And you,’ said Rudolf
as they followed the procession towards the palace. ‘Wenden misses
its chief.’

‘Wenden’s chief died,’
he said bitterly, ‘as should I.’

‘You are a fool to
think any blame attaches to you.’

Rameke shrugged. ‘I am
more useful being with my king than at Wenden.’

‘Your place is at
Wenden, Rameke, with your people and your friends. Conrad misses
you; we all miss you.’

There was pain in
Rameke’s eyes. ‘How is Conrad?’

‘Well, though he would
like to see his brother-in-law, I think.’

Rameke looked around
at the procession of knights and Sword Brothers. ‘This year Lembit
will not escape.’

Rudolf nodded. ‘His
star wanes. The bishop will bring him to account this year, of that
I have no doubt.’

‘And I will be there
to bring it about.’

None wore armour the
next day when the bishop convened a war council in the audience
chamber of his palace. It was a hot June day and the temperature
inside the room was already warm when the meeting convened. The
Sword Brothers wore their gowns and the lords surcoats over their
tunics. Sir Helmold and Sir Richard chatted politely to Count
Albert, doing their utmost not to stare at his disfigured face.

Servants brought wine
as the guests were shown to their places at the four long trestle
tables arranged in a square. The top table was earmarked for the
bishop, the one opposite to Caupo and his chiefs. Volquin and his
masters sat to the right of the bishop’s table and the crusader
lords to the left. The bishop and Stefan appeared shortly
afterwards, everyone standing at they took their places and
commanded that heads be bowed for prayers. When they again sat
Rudolf noticed that Stefan had put on weight. He filled out his
princely robes, his fingers looked bloated and a second chin was
appearing under his jaw. But his eyes were alert as ever and they
darted left and right as he surveyed the assembly of potential
friends and foes.