Schism, page 30
part #5 of Crusader Chronicles Series
Hermann sipped at his wine and placed the chalice on the table.
‘I will ignore the insult to my nephew, grand master, because I know that the Sword Brothers are soldiers rather than diplomats and it is well known that soldiers have a rough disposition and are unused to polite company. The Sword Brothers need to remember that they are servants of the Holy Father in Rome, not kings in their own right. When Baldwin of Alna returns I need to know that your castellans will not oppose him.’
‘We are oath-bound to protect those lands filled with Christian souls, Lord Bishop,’ stated Volquin, ‘and will do so to the best of our ability.’
‘You will receive no assistance from the Bishopric of Dorpat if you fight Baldwin,’ Hermann warned him. ‘A prince-bishop cannot be expected to ally himself with opponents of a vice-legate appointed by the Holy Father himself.’
‘I will not allow Livonia and Estonia be torn apart by war,’ said Conrad. ‘When the vice-legate returns I will surrender myself to his judgement.’
Rudolf laughed. ‘Very noble, Conrad, but your death will not long satisfy the vice-legate’s insatiable hunger for human lives, I fear. He intends to subject Estonia to fire and sword to root out heresy and witchcraft. I for one will not stand by and watch innocents being burned at the stake.’
‘Nor will I,’ said Lukas.
Volquin turned to the bishop. ‘There you have it, lord bishop. Your brother, God rest his soul, established a kingdom of conscience in this land and Baldwin of Alan, who is clearly unhinged, would do well to remember that.’
Hermann sighed. ‘Then I cannot help you, grand master. May God go with you for I fear no one else will.’
*****
The summer turned to autumn and temperatures dropped. There were no more frosts to destroy the crops but the damage had been done. From the Kingdom of Novgorod through Estonia and Livonia and all the way south to the Lithuanian Kingdoms there was nothing to harvest. Conrad’s warlords were diligent in collecting a great many elk hides that were transported to Reval where the detestable Botolf purchased them. In return cogs filled with grain came from the western Baltic to Reval where they were unloaded and carts were despatched to Kassinurme, Odenpah, Leal and Varbola. Conrad hoped that the sparse amount of grain distributed to each village, added to the meat cured by the villagers, plus the cows, pigs, sheep, goats and chickens each settlement possessed, would be enough to see the locals through the winter. But it was a desperate situation, though positively agreeable when compared to the position in Kurland.
The Kurs had always been more interested in seafaring, raiding and war than farming. This was just as well because the soil of Kurland was poorer and less suited to crop farming than the soil in Semgallia to the east. They were also rich in amber, the golden gems washed up on Kurland’s Baltic coast that were much prized by Christian and pagan alike for their healing properties, appearance and ability to ward off evil. But the amber had all gone, traded for grain to feed the people following the great Oeselian raid against the fishing villages which had made many homeless and destitute. And now a fresh calamity had been visited on the Kurs when the frosts destroyed the crops and threatened the entire kingdom with starvation. There was grain to be had in Riga, plenty of it, brought to the city in the great ships plying the route between Livonia and Lübeck. But the price was high and the Kurs had no gold, no amber and no more options.
The boat approaching the shore was not a cog but a riverboat, one of the dozens that sailed up and down the Dvina and along the coast of the Gulf of Riga. Around forty-five feet in length and twelve feet at the beam. It was powered by a combination of oars and a single sail, though the six rowers had shipped their oars because the brisk autumn wind had filled the square sail and propelled the boat through the choppy grey water. The rowers sat on wooden chests, wrapped in cloaks and wearing fur-lined hats. At the stern a man with large calloused hands and a careworn face gripped a side-mounted rudder. He had steered the vessel from Riga’s harbour, across the Dvina and then west towards the gulf, ensuring that he did not stray too far from the shore. As usual the gulf and river were filled with vessels of all sizes.
Grand Master Volquin drew his cloak around him as sea spray showered the boat.
‘It’s getting cooler by the day,’ he said, ‘before we know it the land will be covered in snow.’
‘This winter will be harder than most, grand master,’ said Torolf, screwing up his face as more spray came over the gunwale.
When he had returned to Riga Volquin had been surprised to receive a request from Lord Torolf to meet him in his lodgings in the city, a small two-storey wooden house near the docks. He was even more surprised when the Kur ambassador revealed that Duke Lamekins himself wanted to meet him. When questioned as to the nature of the meeting Torolf said he did not know, which Volquin thought was a lie, but so intrigued was the grand master that he had readily agreed to the meeting. Torolf offered to remain at Riga to act as a hostage as surety for Volquin’s safe return but the grand master declined. Torolf spoke excellent German and would be useful as an interpreter.
The boat ran aground on the gently sloping sandy beach. Its crew leapt out and hauled the vessel from the water. A line of pines stood beyond the beach, their slender trunks bending in the wind. A group of riders emerged from the trees, all in black and riding black horses. Behind the lead rider was a bannerman holding a flag showing a black seagull on a grey background. Volquin’s hand moved instinctively to his sword hilt. He laughed aloud, realising that the dozen riders and boat’s crew would make short work of him if it came to a fight. Torolf gave him a quizzical look.
The Kur horsemen all wore black leather armour, black tunics and black leggings, their round shields also faced with black leather. Their iron helmets had nasal guards masking their faces. Volquin saw that each man was armed with a sword and axe in addition to the traditional spisa carried by all Lithuanian horsemen. The lead rider, wearing short-sleeved mail armour, slid off his mount as the other horsemen circled the grand master. The Kur took off his helmet to reveal a man in his early thirties with a square jaw, thick black beard and shoulder-length hair. He was taller than Torolf and leaner. He flashed a smile.
‘Welcome to Kurland, Grand Master Volquin, I am Duke Lamekins.’
Volquin was momentarily speechless. He had expected a brute, a killer, to be the leader of the Kurs, such was the fearsome reputation Duke Arturus had established. Lamekins was not what he had expected, not at all. He also did not expect him to be able to speak German. He saw now why Torolf had offered to stay in Riga.
‘You speak German,’ was all that Volquin could blurt out.
Lamekins smiled again. ‘I have a spare horse for you so that we may speak out of the wind, if that is acceptable.’
‘Thank you, lord duke,’ said Volquin, tilting his head to the Kur.
One of his horsemen brought the grand master a magnificent black stallion, Torolf also mounting a black steed. They rode a short distance to a fishing village comprising a few poor huts among the trees, the inhabitants temporarily ejected by their lord to allow him to speak with the head of the Sword Brothers.
The hut was draughty, befitting the status of its owner, but Lamekins seemed unconcerned about the underwhelming venue. He did not apologise to Volquin concerning the lack of niceties but got straight to the point.
‘I am prepared to accept the religion of Riga in exchange for an alliance with the Sword Brothers.’
His German was faltering and spoken with a heavy accent and for a few seconds Volquin did not grasp the full enormity of the words. But then he blinked in surprise and stared at the handsome face of the Kur leader.
‘Why?’ was all he could utter.
‘Why is unimportant,’ said Lamekins, ‘all I am interested in is your answer.’
Volquin looked at Torolf who was studying him intently. There were two Kur guards in the room but they spoke no German and so could not understand what was being said. The wind rattled the aged boards of the hut, filling the room with cool air.
‘The Kur people have not been vanquished by your bishop so it will be an alliance of equals,’ stated Lamekins.
Volquin was very aware of that fact, having taken part in every abortive crusade against the Kurs. Lamekins was bargaining from a position of strength but the question was: why was he bargaining at all? He needed something, though what it was the grand master did not know.
‘An alliance should be concluded with the Bishop’s Palace in Riga,’ said Volquin.
‘We have no interest in dealing with Archdeacon Stefan,’ answered Torolf for his master. ‘Duke Lamekins wishes an alliance with the Sword Brothers only.’
‘An alliance of warriors,’ smiled Lamekins.
‘Be that as it may,’ said Volquin, ‘you will have to be baptised, preferably at Riga Cathedral, to show fealty to the Holy Church. In addition, you will have to allow priests to enter Kurland to preach the word of God and convert your people.’
‘My duke realises this,’ replied Torolf, ‘but Kurland will not be invaded by crusader armies and will, in the event it is attacked by the other Lithuanian dukes, have the right to call upon the Sword Brothers for assistance.’
‘That will not be a problem,’ agreed Volquin, who liked the idea of the undefeated Kurs fighting beside his order.
Lamekins nodded to Torolf.
‘There are two conditions that must be met before my duke will agree to go to Riga,’ stated the ambassador.
‘Which are?’ said Volquin.
‘Riga will supply us with grain to feed the people and the Sword Brothers will pledge to assist Duke Lamekins in his war against the Oeselians.’
Volquin smiled. So that was the reason the Kurs had been forced to seek his friendship: they were starving. The Oeselian raid must have hurt them more than anyone realised.
‘The frosts destroyed your crops as well?’ enquired Volquin.
‘They lie rotting and stinking in the fields,’ hissed Lamekins.
‘It is a trying time for everyone,’ agreed the grand master.
‘But not for Riga and its friends,’ said Torolf, ‘I have seen the ships full of grain arriving at the city.’
Volquin extended his hand to Lamekins. The guards, before seemingly listless and bored, drew their sword in an instant when they saw the grand master’s arm shoot forward. Lamekins angrily waved them away.
‘I accept your offer of an alliance, Duke, on behalf of the Sword Brothers and the Holy Church.’
Lamekins took his hand. ‘When will you be able to begin deliveries of grain to Kurland?’
It was obvious that the Kurs were desperate.
‘As soon as arrangements can be made for your baptism, lord duke,’ smiled Volquin.
‘Ambassador Torolf will return to the city with you to arrange it,’ said Lamekins. ‘Our business is concluded.’
He escorted Volquin and Torolf back to the beach but said no more to the grand master as the head of the Sword Brothers was assisted back in the boat and the crew pushed it out into the cold, grey water. The wind had abated somewhat, which necessitated the crew using their oars to propel the vessel the short distance to Riga. On the horizon Volquin caught sight of a group of six cogs sailing together. They and smaller boats always travelled in groups for protection against Oeselian longships, though since the treaty brokered between King Sigurd and Master Conrad there had been no attacks on Christian shipping.
‘The treaty,’ Volquin said out loud.
Torolf, wrapped in a cloak, his head bowed, looked up.
‘Grand master?’
‘Nothing,’ said Volquin hurriedly, ‘just thinking out loud.’
Currently the Oeselians were allies of Livonia, albeit temporary ones, but that would change if the Sword Brothers sided with the Kurs against them. Still, if Lamekins accepted baptism he would become a Christian lord and so the Sword Brothers would be oath-bound to support him in any case. The Oeselians might be allies but they were still pagans and so their allegiance was of secondary importance. In any case ultimately they too would have to accept baptism and the rule of the Holy Church of Rome, either that or face subjugation and eradication.
‘The Kurs?’
Archdeacon Stefan shifted uneasily in his chair in the withdrawing chamber as a pale-faced, gaunt novice heaped more wood on the fire and adjusted the blanket around the churchman’s knees.
‘And you are certain that it is not a ruse?’ queried Magnus Glueck, a magnificent woollen tunic covering his corpulent frame.
Volquin smiled as another novice poured warm mead into his cup.
‘Quite certain, your grace. We are on the verge of an historic moment, one that I felt you both should share in.’
Stefan waved away the novices after his cup had also been topped up.
‘May I remind you, grand master, that I was almost killed by the Kurs when they raided Riga?’
He shivered at the thought. ‘That day is seared into my memory.’
Volquin tried hard not to scoff at the ridiculous man.
‘That was when Duke Arturus was the leader of the Kurs, archdeacon. Now they have a new duke called Lamekins and he is a man to be trusted, I think.’
Stefan nearly choked on his mead. ‘Trusted? Would you trust a rat not to raid your grain store in winter or a bat not to take lodging in your eaves when the land is covered in snow? These Kurs are pagans, grand master, not God-fearing followers of the Holy Church. I say we should subdue them by the sword.’
This time Volquin did not hold back his scornful laughter.
‘We have tried that, your uncle Bishop Albert leading two crusades against the Kurs.’
He shot a glance at Glueck. ‘You may remember the clashes at the Iecava and Kandava Hills, your grace.’
The Duke of Riga’s eyes narrowed as the grand master reminded him of how the Livonian Militia had been cut to pieces by the Kurs, much to the derision of the Sword Brothers. He himself had nearly been killed at the Iecava where he had lost his sword and warhorse.
‘Sword Brother, crusader lord and Rigan alike were humbled on those occasions,’ continued Volquin, ‘and as a soldier I have to tell you both that it will take much blood and time to subdue the Kurs forcefully.’
A smirk spread across the archdeacon’s face. ‘If the Kurs are so invincible, grand master, why did they throw themselves at your feet?’
Glueck raised an eyebrow. ‘Stefan has a point, grand master.’
Volquin sipped at his mead.
‘Why? Because they are starving, that’s why, or at least the Kur people are. That is why Lamekins is demanding grain from Germany as part of his agreement to receive baptism.’
‘Is he indeed?’ said an outraged Stefan. ‘Pagans do not dictate to us, Grand Master. I think you will find that it is the other way round.’
Volquin wondered what the penalty would be if he was to slap the archdeacon across his fat face. A flogging, certainly, and in public, no doubt. A rebuke from the Holy Father, also, and perhaps being stripped of his position. He resisted the great temptation.
Volquin fixed the archdeacon with a hard stare. ‘I have given my word that not only will we accept Duke Lamekins’ offer but will also send his people grain. We will do this, archdeacon, because at a stroke a very dangerous enemy will become a valued friend, which means that Riga and the River Dvina will no longer be under threat from the Kurs. This in turn means that you will no longer have to face the prospect of being murdered in your bed by a group of bloodthirsty Kurs.’
The words shot from Volquin’s mouth like crossbow bolts and after the tirade was over Stefan looked suitably chastised. The Duke of Riga wore a troubled look.
‘You promised the Kurs grain without consulting the city burgomasters, Grand Master? Some would say that was presumptuous to say the least.’
Volquin was in no mood for playing games.
‘You and the other members of the city council are doing a brisk business in sales of grain to the Kingdom of Novgorod, I believe?’
‘What of it?’
‘I merely mention it, your grace, because I seem to remember Baldwin of Alna bringing a message from the Holy Father that all trade was to cease with the apostate Russians.’
Glueck’s plump cheeks reddened and he made a couple of grunting sounds resembling a pig.
‘Without trade Riga and Livonia will wither and die,’ his voice was defensive and his usual pompous arrogance was absent. ‘The current situation allows us to exploit the difficulties of the apostate Russians to our advantage. Increased profits means the church collects more money in tithes and the kingdom prospers.’
‘Along with the city council,’ said Volquin dryly. ‘I do not judge you or the other merchants of the city, your grace, all I request is that as Higher Burgomaster you expedite the speedy shipment of grain to the Kurs to facilitate the conversion of Duke Lamekins.’
‘Why would he do that?’ snapped Stefan.
Volquin finished his drink. ‘Why, Archdeacon? Because if the Kurs do not receive aid their duke will most likely be forced to take desperate measures to safeguard his people, which means he may bring his army over the Dvina to lay siege to Riga. He knows, after all, that the city granaries are full to bursting. Who will protect the city, archdeacon? The garrison, the Livonian Militia?’
Stefan’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘Surely the Sword Brothers…’
‘The Sword Brothers will be defending their castles,’ smiled Volquin, ‘and will have no troops to spare to send to Riga.
‘Well, your grace, archdeacon, I thank you for your time. I must return to my office to compose a letter to Duke Lamekins who asked me to keep him abreast of developments. Can I say that Riga will be furnishing his people with grain?’
‘You can,’ said Glueck quietly.
Volquin bowed his head to the Duke of Riga. ‘Your generosity will be rewarded ten-fold, your grace.’
After he had left Stefan spat venom at Volquin and the Sword Brothers, threatening to have them excommunicated, banished and thrown in prison. It resembled the tantrum of a small child. After he had vented his spleen he looked at Glueck.
