‘Leave the jug, bitch!’ he roared as the slave placed it on the table and fled his groping with difficulty. He drained his cup and then refilled it, spilling beer over the table as he did so.
He rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘I am Jaak, leader of the Jerwen people and I will have my revenge!’
The crowd roared their approval again as the Jerwen chief emptied his cup once more and then collapsed on the floor. The warriors cheered and jeered as the chief attempted to get up before collapsing again and falling into a drunken sleep.
Alva stood and pointed to the guards standing behind the top table.
‘Take him to his quarters.’
Four guards hoisted Jaak up and carried him from Varbola’s great hall. Outside the land was covered with snow and ice but inside the Harrien stronghold the air was warm and smoky, filled with dozens of voices and the aroma of beer, leather, sweat and the warmth produced by a raging fire. The reason for the feast was the arrival of Edvin, the chief of the Wierlanders and a hundred of his warriors, his banner bearing a boar hanging beside the lynx flag of Alva, the ‘elf warrior’ who led the Harrien people. Also hanging on the wall behind the top table where the chiefs sat was the Jerwen standard: a great bear. But the bear was now a pale shadow of what it had been.
Edvin watched the guards taking the unconscious Jaak away.
‘I did not realise things had deteriorated so.’
The laughter died as Jaak left the hall and the warriors went back to drinking and eating, the din of their chatter filling the hall.
‘I should throw him out,’ said Alva, taking a gulp of his beer, ‘but where would he go?’
Edvin looked into his cup but said nothing. What was there to say? At the battle of Wolf Rock Jaak’s thousand warriors had suffered hardly any casualties and he had successfully withdrawn them north in the aftermath of Lembit’s defeat. He had at first hoped that Alva and Edvin would support him in his efforts to hold his own kingdom in the face of crusader aggression. But they had suffered losses at Wolf Rock and the Sword Brothers and crusaders pursued the Estonians ruthlessly in the battle’s aftermath, striking north and snapping at their heels. Saccalia and Jerwen had fallen to the Christians and Jaak lost half his army as some fell fighting the crusaders but most deserted, believing the cause of their leader hopeless and preferring to die in the company of their families and neighbours rather than face a life in exile. The crusaders did not pursue the Estonians into Harrien or Wierland and so Jaak and his men spent their first winter in exile at Varbola. In the spring he berated Alva and Edvin for their lack of activity, pleading with them to march south to retake Jerwen and Saccalia, but they both knew that they were not strong enough to fight the Sword Brothers and so they remained in their kingdoms and Jaak descended into a drunken state.
‘He drinks most days,’ continued Alva, ‘some days more heavily than others.’
Edvin looked at the tables packed with bearded warriors. ‘How many men does he lead?’
‘Perhaps three hundred.’
Edvin was shocked. ‘That few?’
Alva picked at the meat pie on the wooden platter before him. ‘When the Russians invaded Jerwen this summer he sent some of his men south to fight them off. None returned. The rest occupy one of the hill forts on my southern border, dreaming of a day when they will return to their homeland. Poor fools.’
‘At least the crusaders did not launch another war this year,’ said Edvin.
‘Yes, strange that,’ replied Alva, finishing off the pie and licking his fingers. ‘Perhaps the Bishop of Riga is dead and the crusaders have lost heart. I have heard no reports of him in Livonia.’
Edvin’s round face broke into a smile. ‘If so then perhaps next year Jaak might get his wish and we can march south to retake Jerwen.’
Alva was unconvinced. ‘Perhaps. Or perhaps the bishop is not dead and will land with another army of men of iron to torment us.’
The men of iron were the mailed crusader knights on their great warhorses whose charge on the battlefield was irresistible. They were feared and hated throughout Estonia, though the Sword Brothers with their stone castles, white-clad knights and horses and their crossbowmen were hated more.
Alva looked at Edvin. ‘We are the last, my friend.’
‘The last?’
Alva waved over a slave girl holding a jug and pointed at his empty cup. ‘The last of the free Estonian kingdoms. Lembit and Nigul are dead and their kingdoms occupied by enemies, Kalju abandoned us and now tries to fend off the Sword Brothers in the west and the Russians in east, and Jaak is a broken man whose kingdom is the plaything of thieves and bandits. Only Harrien and Wierland remain strong and free.’
Edvin raised his cup. ‘Long may they remain so.’
Alva smiled and likewise raised his now full cup. But in his heart he feared that come the spring his and Edvin’s kingdoms would face a new crusader army in the south.
‘What of the Russians?’ he asked Edvin.
‘Novgorod wishes to conquer Ungannia,’ replied the blonde-haired chief, ‘and is currently embroiled in a war with the Sword Brothers. My eastern border is quiet.’
He looked at Alva. ‘Do you hear anything from Kalju?’
The ‘elf warrior’ shook his head. ‘Nothing. He is like flint: hard and uncompromising.’
‘With Lembit dead I have often wondered if he would consider a new alliance with us.’
‘He has new friends in the Sword Brothers,’ said Alva dismissively. ‘He would not be welcome at Varbola.’
The noise in the hall grew louder as the warriors got more inebriated but at the top table Alva and Edvin sank into silence as they both considered the uncertain future of their kingdoms.
*****
Conrad and his companions spent the winter quartered in Lehola with Sir Richard and his men. He at first found it difficult to be in the stronghold from where Lembit had planned his schemes and treachery. And everywhere there were carved wolf heads above doors and on pillars in the great hall, which he disliked. He also found his new-found fame among the Jerwen, Saccalians and Rotalians irksome, especially when the men and women of these kingdoms insisted on calling him ‘Susi’ and made him even more annoyed.
‘You should indulge it,’ Sir Richard told him as they walked through the great stronghold on a bitter January morning after attending prayers in one of the larger huts that had been converted into a church.
The defeat and retreat of the Cumans and Russians had meant that many Saccalians had been able to return to their homes in the villages that had not been destroyed by the invaders. But the fort was still packed with families that had no homes, warriors from Jerwen and Rotalia, Saccalian wolf shields and the Christian knights and squires of the garrison.
‘Loyalty is a precious commodity, Conrad,’ continued Sir Richard, ‘you have men in this fort who would lay down their lives for you and that should be cherished, for it is rare.’
‘Greetings,
Susi
.’
They turned to see Kaja a few feet away, no longer wearing a helmet and carrying a shield but wrapped in a thick felt cape and a fur hat. Her blue eyes sparkled in the morning sun.
‘And women, it seems,’ observed Sir Richard.
‘How are you, Kaja?’ said Conrad.
She walked over and smiled at Sir Richard and Conrad. ‘I am well,
Susi
, thank you.’
‘Where is your village, girl?’ asked Sir Richard.
‘Two day’s walk from Lehola, lord,’ she answered. ‘But it was destroyed in the summer when the invaders came.’
‘You are welcome to stay here,’ the noble told her.
She smiled. ‘Thank you, lord, but I will be going with
Susi
when he leaves this place.’
Conrad looked at her. ‘What?’
‘You are my family now,
Susi
. Many of us here feel the same.’
Sir Richard nodded. ‘It is how I said, Conrad. You should feel privileged that people who follow a different religion should pledge their loyalty to you.’
They had continued walking through the compound where children played in the mud outside the huts, slaves mucked out stables and warriors stood sentry in the fort’s towers.
‘You should keep a record of your activities for Master Rudolf,’ said Sir Richard as Kaja walked behind them.
Conrad looked over his shoulder and spoke softly so she would not hear. ‘I cannot write, lord.’
‘What about the others?’ enquired Sir Richard.
‘Only Anton, who came from a wealthy family, can read and write.’
‘Then get him to record your activities. They will make good reading. And in the spring you will have an army to take back to Wenden and a record of how it came about.’
‘The army of
Susi
,’ beamed Kaja.
‘The Army of the Wolf, yes,’ agreed Sir Richard.
*****
The winter gripping Livonia and Estonia was long and hard and as the new year dawned and temperatures continued to drop people wrapped themselves in furs as they tried to keep warm. But the temperature outside was positively mild compared to the icy atmosphere in the palace of Prince Mstislav of Novgorod when Yaroslav Nevsky returned to the city. Like every Novgorodian he was well acquainted with the prince’s temper and ruthlessness. He therefore sent couriers ahead of the army to inform him of the sad news that Gerceslav and his wife had died during the expedition into Ungannia. He had hoped that the prince’s rage that would inevitably follow the reception of this news would burn itself out before he arrived back in the city, much like a violent storm blows itself out. But in this he had greatly miscalculated.
The prince sat beside Princess Maria, who as the sister of the late Gerceslav looked suitably mournful. Mstislav, on the other hand, was fuming, his knuckles white as he gripped the arms of his throne when Yaroslav stood before him. To compound his belittlement the prince had assembled in his throne room all the members of the city’s
veche
, the ancient parliament drawn from Novgorod’s most influential boyar families, to witness Yaroslav’s humiliation. The fawning Archbishop Mitrofan stood by the dais, his priests in their red and gold vestments gathered nearby. They and he were directing unblinking gazes at him as the prince began rapping his fingers on the arms of his throne. Despite the room being filled with upwards of two hundred people if one included the guards that stood like statues around the walls, the tapping was the only sound that was heard. Everyone held their breath as they awaited the prince’s pronouncement.
Mstislav stopped his tapping and drew a deep breath.
‘Where is my standard?’
Yaroslav swallowed. ‘Standard, highness?’
Mstislav remained calm. ‘The standard that was blessed by the archbishop and which was stolen by the Sword Brothers. Where is it?’
Yaroslav felt beads of sweat form on his forehead. ‘I regret to inform your highness that it remains in the illegal possession of the heretics.’
Mstislav leaned forward. ‘And Ungannia?’
‘Ungannia, highness?’
Mstislav leapt from his chair, causing Maria to jump. ‘Yes! Ungannia. I sent you to conquer that kingdom as well as retrieve my standard and I see that your have failed in both.’
The prince’s eyes bulged as he stood and shouted at Yaroslav. ‘Was not twelve thousand Cumans enough to bring a few illiterate pagans to heel? Apparently not. Not only that, but my wife’s brother and his wife have lost their lives due to your incompetence.’
‘I must protest, highness…’
‘Silence!’ bellowed Mstislav. ‘How is it that you failed to take Odenpah or Dorpat, or Wenden and Treiden? It was not Cuman courage that was wanting but your abilities.’
He shot spittle over the floor as he vented his fury on Yaroslav while the boyars stood with mouths open at the blistering attack on young Nevsky.
‘I see now that you are totally unsuitable to command,’ raged the prince. ‘Your ineptitude has led to the deaths of valued members of my family and I should have you executed for your failings.’
There was an angry murmur among the boyars who disliked this unjustified assault upon the son of one of their leaders.
‘Silence!’ shouted the prince.
His cheeks were flushed and his beard covered with phlegm as he walked back to his throne and took his seat.
‘But I am a merciful ruler,’ he said calmly. ‘I therefore banish you from the city of Novgorod, along with your wife. You will go to Pskov where you will serve the mayor of that city. Perhaps he can find a use for you, for I cannot. That is my decision.’
Scribes seated at desks on the other side of the dais recorded the prince’s decision on parchment.
He waved a hand at Yaroslav. ‘Now get out.’
Yaroslav’s father stepped forward. ‘My son has a right to be heard, highness. It is the law.’
Mstislav jumped up again. ‘He has no rights! It is only because I am merciful that he keeps his head. I am the law in Novgorod, something that you all would do well to remember. Guards, clear the room.’
The boyars began talking in angry, if mooted tones, as the guards walked towards them to usher them out of the throne room.