The Sword Brothers (51 page)

Later, when he was
standing guard duty, his cloak wrapped around him and his breath
misting in the icy night air, he encountered Rudolf making his
rounds. In the distance wolves were howling, their mournful cries
causing the infants in camp to cry. But there was no movement among
the trees, though Conrad knew the beasts were studying the camp
from afar.

‘All is well?’
enquired Rudolf. Conrad nodded.

Rudolf stood beside
the young novice.

‘You disagree with the
actions taken in the village?’

Conrad stared into the
blackness of the forest. ‘It is not my place to question the
decision of Master Berthold.’

‘Answer the question,
Conrad. Your attempt at cleverness makes you look foolish.’

‘Last summer,’ said
Conrad, ‘Brother Lukas led a party that rescued Liv womenfolk who
had been captured by the Estonians. Bruno died in that operation.
That was a good day. But now we take women and children ourselves
and in doing so become as base at the pagans. That cannot be
right.’

‘You are correct,
Conrad. It is not right,’ said Rudolf. ‘And yet circumstances force
us to experience the bitter taste of expediency. All you need to
know is that our actions are to safeguard the future of Wenden and
therefore the whole of Livonia.’

‘I do not
understand.’

Rudolf sighed. ‘You
will one day.’

‘What would God
say?’

‘Pagans are
unbelievers,’ replied Rudolf, ‘and can be treated accordingly. Or
so says the Church. Suffice to say that I take no pleasure in what
we have done but I have a duty to my order. I hope God
understands.’

Conrad nodded but
thought that it was wrong to take women and children from their
homes. What would be done with them? He was just a novice and thus
his opinion did not matter. But he thought of his mother and sister
and was uneasy. Then he thought of how he had annoyed Henke and
felt even more uncomfortable.

It took three days to
get back to Wenden. Three days of listening to wailing women,
crying babies and enduring the freezing cold. On the second day it
began to snow and Master Berthold ordered that all the captives
were to be issued with cloaks, which meant that Conrad and his
companions had to give up theirs, as did the brother knights.

Hans, who did not have
an ounce of fat on his body to insulate him from the cold, was most
unhappy. ‘Why are the prisoners being treated so well, what is so
special about them?’

‘I have no idea,’
answered a shivering Conrad.

The sergeants also
surrendered their cloaks, though this did not stop the women crying
or their infants screeching. When they finally saw the welcoming
ramparts of Wenden the whole party was mightily relieved, none more
so than Berthold because not one of the captives had been lost to
the cold. They were housed in the huts used to quarter the
mercenaries, the latter being instructed that they would have to
live in tents until the matter was resolved.

‘I heard that you and
Henke had an altercation,’ remarked Lukas as he stood before the
boys in the snow during their first training session after
returning from the raid. It was still snowing but the flakes were
small and were being blown around by an icy eastern wind.

Conrad did not
understand what ‘altercation’ meant so just stared at Lukas with a
vacant look on his face.

Lukas raised his eyes
to the sky. ‘It means argument.’

‘I would not say that,
Brother Lukas.’

‘I would,’ replied the
brother knight. He pointed his sword at all the boys before him.
‘What have I told you all? The cornerstones of our order are
obedience, poverty and chastity, in that order. As soldiers you
must obey orders.’

He pointed at Conrad.
‘Lucky for you that Henke was in a good mood, otherwise he would
have given you a good hiding for your insubordination.’

‘Is it right to make
war upon women and children, Brother Lukas?’ asked Conrad, who
hoped he had not spoken out of turn.

Lukas looked at the
tall, gangly youth who had come to Wenden a poor orphan but who was
turning into a fine soldier, if he could keep his mouth in check.
He could also see from the expressions on their faces that the
other boys were thinking the same as Conrad.

‘I do not have to
explain anything to you, Conrad, or any of you,’ said Lukas, who
sheathed his sword and folded his arms across his chest. ‘You want
to know what was the purpose of the raid? I will tell you. It was
to capture women and children to sell as slaves.’

Conrad was appalled.
‘Slaves?’

‘That is right, young
Conrad. Slaves. We will sell them to the Russians who will
transport them south to the slave markets of Byzantium where there
is a thriving market for white-skinned women and infants.’

‘Why?’ said Hans.

‘For money, of
course,’ replied Lukas. ‘Money to pay the mercenaries who defend
this castle and the wages of the workers who are building it.
Unless you think that everyone at Wenden is working for
nothing.’

In truth Conrad had
paid no thought to who paid for the mercenaries, the civilian
workers or for the materials that arrived by riverboat having been
shipped from Germany. He just thought. Just thought what?

Lukas unfolded his
arms. ‘The uniforms you wear, the weapons you wield and the horses
you ride all have to be paid for.’ He looked at Conrad. ‘Remember
that, Conrad Wolff, the next time you wish to give a sermon to a
knight of the Sword Brothers.’

The prisoners remained
at Wenden for a week, and then a group of bearded men wrapped in
overcoats, fur-lined cloaks and high boots arrived and clapped them
in irons. After inspecting the captives and stripping some of the
women naked they paid Master Berthold gold and took them away,
packed onto sleds pulled by ponies. Even though they were brutes
they took great care to ensure that the Estonians were covered from
head to foot in furs to prevent them freezing to death on their
journey. Conrad stopped practising with Hans and turned to watch
the long column of sleds depart Wenden, catching site of the young
woman he had first seen in her hut in the Estonian village they had
raided. She was clutching her two young children to her chest and
wore a look of utter misery. In that moment he could have wept for
her and for the life that she would be condemned to. Her face
stayed in his minds for days afterwards.

*****

Domash Tverdislavich
dismissed the soldier in the lamellar armour and pointed helmet.
The ruler of Novgorod, Prince Mstislav, had sent him to inform
Domash that the prince himself would be arriving at his palace that
very afternoon. Novgorod had been founded nearly four hundreds
years ago as an outpost of the great kingdom of Kiev Rus, but was
now a powerful, self-ruling city in northern Russia. Located on the
River Volkhov, it was surrounded mostly by swamps, which largely
prohibited agriculture. But Novgorod was rich, its fur trade the
most lucrative among all the Russian principalities. Its goods were
shipped to the Gulf of Finland, overland to the Dvina and thence to
the Baltic, and even south as far as Kiev and Byzantium. Its
kremlin – castle – was built of stone and its magnificent Cathedral
of St Sophia was one of the wonders of the world.

Domash’s family had
always been members of Novgorod’s
veche
– parliament –
comprised of the city’s boyar families who appointed a
knez
,
or prince, to rule them. For twenty years that man had been Prince
Mstislav. Now nearly sixty years old, he usually stayed in Novgorod
surrounded by his aristocrats, bishops and scholars, for Novgorod
was a centre of literacy and printing as well as a place of iron
processing, woodworking, tanning and jewellery production. But now
he was about to arrive at Pskov.

Domash tapped the arm
of his chair. Gleb chuckled.

‘Why would the prince
travel a hundred and twenty miles through the snow to see you? You
must have committed a major transgression.’

Domash frowned at the
white-haired man leaning against the wall beside his throne.
Technically he was the
posadnik
– mayor – of Pskov, sent by
the prince to rule the city that was the ‘younger brother’ of
Novgorod. However, Domash ruled Pskov like a prince, rarely
deferring to the city on the Volkhov.

‘Be quiet,’ he
snapped.

‘Still, you have had a
reasonably long reign,’ continued Gleb, ‘it is no shame to be taken
back to Novgorod in chains for your crimes.’

Domash glowered at
him. ‘Crimes?’

Gleb left the wall and
began pacing up and down in front of the mayor, counting with his
fingers as he listed Domash’s wrongdoings.

‘Let’s see. Seducing
most of the daughters of Pskov’s boyars. Raiding adjacent
territories without permission. Ignoring the proclamations of the
church, though I will grant you that is only a minor offence.
Stealing from church lands. Dealing in slaves. Need I go on?’

Domash waved a hand at
him. ‘No, you need not. I don’t know why I tolerate you.’

Gleb walked back to
the wall and picked up his
gusli
, his multi-stringed
instrument. ‘Oh, I think you do.’

Domash sneered as the
white-haired oaf began plucking at the strings of his instrument.
But the truth was that Gleb was worth his weight in gold. He was a
Skomorokh
, one of the ancient strolling performers who
entertained people with songs, comic plays, tricks and dances. No
one knew the precise details of their origins but the people
believed them to be the last custodians of Russia’s pagan past, a
link to a bygone age of gods, forest fairies and river monsters.
The Orthodox Church hated them, giving them the disparaging name
‘devil servants’, but the truth was that the
Skomorokhs
had
enormous influence among a populace that still clung to hundreds of
years of superstition and mysticism.

‘No one is
indispensible,’ said Domash, menace in his voice.

The truth was, though,
that his rule in Pskov was made much smoother by having Gleb at his
side. Most
Skomorokhs
travelled from town to town, but some
rich boyars asked them to live in their households, as Domash had
done with Gleb. He remembered the day of his arrival: a stormy,
rain-swept evening when a drenched Gleb turned up at the gates of
his palace, requesting entrance. The guards had let him in without
asking any questions for they believed him to be a servant of
Perun, chief of the ancient pagan gods who ruled the world from his
citadel atop the World Tree. They saw his rich blue tunic, his
gusli
and his white hair and were convinced that Perun had
sent him. Everyone knew that the god had silver hair and a golden
moustache. What’s more, the name Gleb means ‘heir of god’. Perun
was also the God of Thunder, Lightning and War and Gleb’s arrival
on such a stormy night was an omen that could not be ignored. For
his part Domash saw his arrival as a golden opportunity to
strengthen his authority.

Gleb began singing as
he played his instrument. ‘The prince is going to take you away,
take you away, take you away.’

‘I should have your
head for your insolence.’

Gleb stopped playing.
‘Talking of which, don’t forget you have an execution to witness
today.’

Domash looked confused
then waved forward one of his advisers, a middle-aged man with a
thick beard and fur hat.

‘There is an execution
this afternoon?’ he asked.

‘Yes, highness.’

‘What crime has the
condemned committed?’

The adviser looked
embarrassed. ‘Sodomy, highness.’

Domash screwed up his
face. ‘Disgusting.’

A cluster of priests
standing near the throne began nodding in agreement, which was
noticed by Gleb.

‘They should execute
all the sodomites in the clergy. I have been told that it is rife
among the priests and monks.’

There were loud gasps
from the clergymen as Gleb began playing his
gusli
once
more, singing very loudly as he did so.

‘The priests are all
sodomites, the priests are all sodomites.’

The guards standing
around the walls were trying hard not to laugh but Domash saw
nothing amusing in his disrespect. He rose from his throne.

‘Silence! Gleb, you
are dismissed.’

Gleb smiled mockingly
at the priests, bowed to Domash and skipped from the room. How the
clergy would have loved to consign him to the fire but they knew
that he had the protection of the mayor and was loved by the
people. This made his blasphemy even harder to bear. The fertile
agricultural land that surrounded Pskov was dotted with tiny
churches spreading the word of God, but sometimes they appeared as
Christian islands in a pagan sea.

Domash dismissed the
clergymen and advisers and then went to collect Gleb before making
his way with an armed guard to the city square where executions
took place. He always liked to be seen in public with Gleb so the
people would be reminded that he had an adviser sent to him by the
gods. It was all nonsense, of course, but the people were simple
minded and easily fooled. Though they could take to violence with
alarming rapidity if roused.

The roofs of the
wooden buildings were covered in snow and the day was freezing as
they made their way from the palace to the city square. The main
thoroughfares in the city had wood-paved streets to prevent them
turning into seas of mud and slush during the winter months, and
Domash and his retinue now walked on them as people began to gather
around and follow him. He had a score of spearmen with him but he
always became nervous when the lower orders of the city, with their
pockmarked faces, filthy clothes and obnoxious body odour, got too
close.

Gleb was in his
element, shaking hands, smiling at women and kissing babies held up
to him by their mothers. Some tried to touch the cloak of Domash,
which sent a shiver down his spine.