Vetseke thought he would be given reinforcements so he could lead a campaign against the Sword Brothers, but instead Mstislav had sent him and his men into the tree-filled wilderness of the far north. It was in those inhospitable regions that Novgorod had established suzerainty over the indigenous tribes, demanding tribute in the form of squirrel pelts. Those pelts made Novgorod, its prince and boyars rich. It was therefore imperative that the tribute was paid regularly and on time. Mstislav sent many soldiers into this vast region that stretched east and northeast of Lake Onego and Lake Beloe to the foothills of the Urals. It was known as
Zavoloch’e
– ‘and beyond the portage’ – and was filled with recalcitrant tribes who often rebelled against Novgorod’s tax collectors. Men like Vetseke not only had to ensure the tax collectors were not murdered as they carried out their duties, they also had to make certain that the pelts reached Novgorod safely. It was arduous, dangerous work that he had had a belly full of.
Brightly dressed boyars talked in groups and priests in flowing robes hurried towards the white-walled St Sophia’s Cathedral. He walked past them and headed towards the timber royal palace, Mstislav’s twin bear symbols on the almond-shaped shields of the guards who stood at the entrance. A steward fidgeted in the entrance, his wispy beard contrasting with the thick facial hair of the two sentries that flanked him.
‘Prince Vetseke,’ said the steward, placing a hand on his chest and bowing his head. ‘Prince Mstislav is expecting you.’
They walked through the large reception area to the closed doors of the throne room.
‘Please wait here, highness,’ the steward said to him as he gingerly opened one of the doors and went inside, silently closing it behind him.
Moments later he reappeared and asked the prince to follow him. The large frame of Mstislav sat brooding on his throne, his huge banner hanging on the wall behind him. The obsequious Archbishop Mitrofan hovered near the prince, a gaudy mitre on his head, his body covered by a magnificent red and gold vestment.
‘Welcome, Vetseke,’ growled Mstislav.
Vetseke halted a few paces from the throne and bowed his head.
‘Lord prince.’
‘Bring
stavlenniy
myod
for my loyal Liv,’ commanded Mstislav.
A servant scurried from the room as Mitrofan smiled at Vetseke.
‘You’ve done well, Vetseke,’ said Mstislav, ‘my scribes inform me that once again you and your men have excelled their quota of pelts.’
The servant returned with a wooden tray holding three large two-handled copper drinking mugs. He held the tray out to Mstislav first, who took a mug, before serving Mitrofan and Vetseke. The latter smiled politely as Mstislav held up his mug to him. He disliked
stavlenniy
myod
, the strong, honey based drink that the Russians loved. But he did not want to upset his host today.
‘Novgorod thanks you, and so do I,’ stated Mstislav before pressing the mug to his lips and gulping down the contents, drips of the beverage falling from the corners of his mouth onto his beard. He gave a satisfied grunt as he emptied the mug and tossed it at the servant, who managed to catch it. Vetseke swallowed a mouthful and placed his mug back on the tray, Mitrofan doing the same after he had drained his mug.
Mstislav belched. ‘So, what can I do for you?’
‘I was speaking with a Wierlander from the village of Narva,’ said Vetseke, ‘it is an old settlement at a crossing point of the Narva River.’
Mstislav was already bored but Mitrofan feigned interest.
‘He told me that the Danes and Sword Brothers fought a great battle at Reval.’
‘I know this already,’ said Mstislav.
‘But did you know, lord,’ continued Vetseke, ‘that the Danish king intends to blockade Livonia with his ships, to stop all trade through Riga and also prevent any more crusaders travelling to that city?’
Mstislav was suddenly interested. ‘If we cannot trade with Riga then my treasury will suffer.’
Vetseke smiled. ‘Novgorod can trade through Reval, lord.’
‘Is this Danish king a friend of Novgorod?’ asked the archbishop.
‘He will be, archbishop,’ replied Vetseke, ‘when he discovers that Novgorod is an enemy of the Bishop of Riga.’
He looked back at Mstislav. ‘We have an opportunity, lord, to strike at Livonia and the Sword Brothers. If Riga is starved of trade and crusaders then the Bishop of Riga will not have the resources to protect Ungannia.’
Mstislav was confused. ‘Ungannia?’
‘With the Bishop of Riga fighting the Danes in the north and the Lithuanians in the south Ungannia will be vulnerable.’
Mstislav was most unhappy. ‘Twice I have tried to conquer Ungannia and twice I have suffered defeat, the last time at great cost to my wife’s family. As she constantly reminds me.’
But Vetseke was determined to press the matter. ‘I understand your concern, lord, but may I suggest that stealth and subterfuge may succeed where armies have failed.’
‘May I suggest you state things plainly,’ said Mstislav.
‘I can take Ungannia,’ Vetseke stated.
‘You have no army,’ replied Mstislav.
‘I have fifty of my own men, lord,’ said Vetseke. ‘If you give me fifty more then I will give you Ungannia.’
Mitrofan chuckled but Mstislav studied the tall Liv who was always immaculately dressed and clean-shaven. He knew his desire was to return to his castle at Kokenhusen and was always agitating for Mstislav to send an army into Livonia. That is why he liked to send the prince into the northern wastes every summer. But if the Danes did blockade Livonia then the Bishop of Riga would have difficulty holding his conquests, and the Sword Brothers would certainly be unable to aid Kalju and his pagan Ungannians.
‘You are pleased with the residence I have given you?’ Mstislav asked Vetseke.
‘It is luxurious, lord,’ said Vetseke.
‘Loyalty is always rewarded, prince.’ Mstislav stood and walked towards the door that led to his private quarters.
‘Your proposal has merit, Prince Vetseke. Come back tomorrow so you can explain the details of your plan. If I like it you will have your men.’
*****
At the beginning of the new year northern Estonia was a white wilderness, a land in the iron grip of deep winter. The rivers, lakes and bogs were frozen solid and even the seashore was fringed with ice. The evergreens were draped in snow while the deciduous trees stood black and barren amid the snow scape. The days were short, the nights long and mind-numbingly cold and the winter landscape of Harrien was quiet and seemingly lifeless. This was particularly so among the small villages, now buried deep in snow, which stood in the open spaces between the mighty forests. The inhabitants were long gone, either having been rounded up or murdered by King Valdemar’s soldiers or fleeing south to seek sanctuary in Saccalia where, rumour had it, the Marshal of Estonia offered freedom from persecution. That was why the sight of smoke was so unusual.
After the battle before Reval Valdemar and Count Henry’s knights had returned to Denmark and Schwerin. However, all the count’s lesser knights had been left behind at the town, partly because the Danish garrison had no horsemen and partly because they were better employed committing atrocities against the Estonians rather than causing trouble in northern Germany. When winter arrived they were used to patrol Harrien and Wierland, usually in the company of a local guide who had been persuaded or coerced to work for the invaders.
The seven riders halted at the spot where the track through the forest ended at the edge of a meadow blanketed with deep snow. Either side of the meadow were more pine trees, and had there been no snow the patrol would have seen a small river that provided the village with water. The huts and barns of the settlement were clustered in the middle of the meadow, their roofs heaped with fresh snow. It was not the first village they had come across since leaving Reval but it was the first time they had seen smoke snaking into the sky. They looked at each other. People were still living in this village.
The commander gave orders to deploy into line, the other four German knights moving either side of him as did the Danish sergeant, the only one who could converse with their Estonian guide. The latter rode on a scrawny pony and pulled two similarly bony beasts loaded with tents and supplies. The sergeant ordered him to stay close as the knights rode through the snow towards the village. They were all wrapped in fur-lined cloaks and wore mail armour, but their dirty, stained surcoats carried no heraldry as befitting their lowly status. In addition, the horses they rode wore no caparisons and were far removed from the mighty warhorses of the count’s noble knights. These men were minor nobility fallen on hard times at best, though most were townsfolk who had managed to acquire a horse, armour and weapons.
Kaja held out her hands to the flames of the fire. Wreathed in a thick wolf skin cloak, her blonde hair tumbling over the light grey fur, she did not look up as the horsemen halted a short distance from her. She looked at Riki sitting opposite the fire on a pile of firewood and smiled. He too was wrapped in a cloak and had a fur-lined cap on his head. They had started the fire in the middle of the village, outside the headman’s hut, the warmth it was generating thawing the hard-frozen ground around it.
‘What do we have here, then?’ asked one of the horsemen.
Kaja turned and looked up at him, her blue eyes sparkling in the cruel winter sunshine.
‘Just two people trying to keep warm,’ she replied in his native German.
The other riders, having entered the village from other directions to ensure they were not walking into a trap, now halted their mounts to form a circle around Kaja and Riki.
‘You speak our language,’ said the commander. ‘So, what’s a pretty thing like you doing in this God-forsaken wasteland?’
‘This is our homeland,’ she replied.
‘What about him,’ said another of the horsemen, pointing his lance at Riki, ‘has someone cut out his tongue?’
The others laughed as Riki stared into the flames.
‘He finds your language vulgar,’ said Kaja.
The laughing stopped as the commander dismounted. Like the other Germans he wore an open-faced helmet over his tattered mail coif and carried a heater shield. He rested his lance against his horse and walked towards Kaja to tower over her.
‘We will teach you some manners before we take you back to Reval. You will be our maid servant and will find laying on your back much more agreeable than shivering out here in the wilderness.’
Kaja smiled sweetly at him. ‘I cannot go with you. I serve
Susi
.’
The commander looked mockingly at her. ‘Who?’
‘The lord of this land,’ she replied.
The other Germans began laughing again.
‘She’s deranged,’ said one. ‘Let’s rape her and kill her.’
‘We’ll rape the deaf boy as well,’ said another as the rest laughed raucously.
‘My lord would not like that,’ said Kaja loudly.
The commander, still smiling, leaned closer to her.
‘He’s not here, pretty little girl.’
Kaja wore a sultry smile as she waved a hand at him to move his face closer. He did so, the rancid smell of his unwashed body entering her nostrils.
‘He’s behind you,’ she whispered.
The commander immediately straightened and spun round, drawing his sword when he saw the helmeted Sword Brother. Conrad had been in one of the huts when the patrol had appeared and had watched their every movement as they rode up to Riki and Kaja. The latter now plunged a dagger with a thin blade into the hamstring of the German commander, the point going through the woollen trousers that covered the rear of his legs. He yelped like a hurt puppy as Conrad ran forward.
The Danish sergeant behind Kaja made ready to plunge his lance point into her but his back was struck first, by a crossbow bolt shot by leather face. He groaned, arched his back and fell from the saddle.
Hans and Anton came running from a hut as Kaja threw off her cloak and ran towards Conrad as Riki also tossed aside his cloak to reveal a sword that he plunged into the breast of the horse to his left. The beast collapsed to the ground as Anton ran over to its now prostrate rider and delivered a plethora of blows with his mace against the man’s helmet. The knight who had been behind Riki died when Tonis hurled a spear into his chest as he turned in the saddle, the leaf-shaped blade carving through the mail and going between two ribs to enter his heart.
One knight threw his lance aside and drew his sword as Hans approached him, sword in hand. But the brother knight avoided his strike as he dodged right and slashed at the hamstring of his horse. The beast squealed in pain and crashed to the ground, smashing its rider’s left leg. Hans grasped his sword hilt with both hands and drove the point through the man’s neck, then did the same to the injured horse, silencing both of them.
The last remaining knight dug his spurs into his horse and attempted to flee the village. But he managed to travel only a few paces before leather face brought him down with a bolt, though his horse did managed to escape. Andres had knocked the Estonian scout to the ground and now manhandled him towards the fire where Conrad was facing the patrol’s commander.