Schism, page 32
part #5 of Crusader Chronicles Series
‘Go inside and help yourself to whatever you can carry,’ he told him, ‘but do not gorge yourselves else you and your family will be sick after weeks of hunger. Go.’
The man’s eyes widened and he began smiling and shaking his head deliriously. He walked forward, stopped and turned.
‘What is your name, high one?’
‘His name is Lord Murk,’ answered Tracker, ‘and he is king of the north.’
Tusk slapped the scout around the ears for his temerity as word spread through the crowd that the granary had been opened. The air was soon filled with excited chatter as dozens surged into the compound and began emptying the grain bins. Word spread to other nearby districts in the city that a deliverer by the name of Lord Murk had answered their prayers. The people descended on the royal granary like a plague of rats to empty it before nightfall.
‘What do we know of him?’
Pavel Tverdislavich looked at each of his colleagues with eager eyes. Well into his seventies the renowned boyar possessed a vigour that belied his age and now the news that one of the royal granaries had been broken into and its contents distributed to the poor had invigorated him further.
‘We know he is a pagan, an Estonian I believe,’ answered the studious Akim Chudin, whose narrow face gave him the appearance of a clerk. ‘He has taken a Karelian for a wife and spends the winters there collecting pelts, which he brings back in the spring. His business partner, a Russian, lives in the eastern quarter of the city.’
‘I suspect the prince will have his head on a spike before the week’s end,’ said Sasha Zavidich.
‘He has a large number of men at his command,’ stated Akim, ‘and rumour has it that more stand ready in Karelia.’
‘We should support this pagan, this Estonian,’ said Pavel loudly, ‘he has done what we should have done weeks ago. But instead we sat like old women and turned a blind eye while the people starved and the prince, so called, openly flaunts his depravity.’
The others shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. They were the Council of Lords and all four of them knew they had failed not only their own consciences and code of honour but also the city they were supposed to watch over.
‘Do we know his name?’ enquired Yaroslav Nevsky, the youngest of the four.
‘What does that matter?’ snapped Pavel.
Akim squirmed. ‘I have heard the people call him Lord Murk, but as I have stated he is a pagan so perhaps we should not be seen to support his actions.’
Pavel rose to his feet and jabbed a finger at him. ‘We are the Council of Lords. For decades our families have acted as guardians of Novgorod. This council has in the past banished princes, executed others and prevented more from seizing power in the city. Novgorod is being punished by God for the unnatural actions of Rostislav.’
Akim stroked his beard. ‘It seems odd that God would use a pagan to send a message, Pavel.’
But Pavel had no time for religious discussion. ‘I say that when Rostislav makes his move against this Lord Murk we should side with the pagan.’
Yaroslav raised an eyebrow. ‘That would be treason against Prince Mikhail, Pavel. He was appointed by this very council to rule the city.’
Pavel retook his seat. ‘Mikhail is not coming back; we all know that. These heathens, these Tartars, are proving a more formidable foe than was first thought. In the meantime this city has become a modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah.’
‘He’s right,’ agreed Sasha, ‘this situation cannot go on.’
‘What does the Thousandman say?’ asked Pavel.
Yaroslav stroked his long nose. ‘Strictly speaking we should convene the veche before taking such an important decision.’
The veche was called when there was the prospect of war or the choice of a prince to rule the city had to be made. But the veche elected the members of the Council of Lords to attend to the day-to-day business of running the city.
‘There is no need,’ sneered Pavel, ‘where we lead others will follow. Besides, as Prince Mikhail has reneged on his oath to rule Novgorod we are within our rights to do it on his behalf.’
‘I would concur with my friend Pavel on that matter,’ said Akim. ‘If I recall correctly around a hundred years ago Prince Uleb was removed because he spent too much time in Kiev, the reason why he did so escapes me. But the point is that his removal set a precedent that we may follow.’
Yaroslav smiled at the studious Akim while Pavel rolled his eyes.
‘The boyars and merchants will not tolerate much more of the rule of Rostislav,’ said Sasha, ‘that much I know.’
Yaroslav turned away from the council to stare out of the window, across the Volkhov to the where the Kremlin was sited, resembling a coiled green and brown serpent resting in the centre of the city. The council met in a well-appointed room on the first storey of the Yaroslav Court, the sprawling economic heart of the city where the veche met and merchants had their offices and warehouses. Rostislav had no time for Novgorod’s republican system, ignoring the wishes and opinions of the veche and Council of Lords and ruling like a tyrant. The members of the veche had at first tolerated his boorish behaviour out of respect for his father and the vague hope that his attitude would improve. It did not.
A knock at the door brought Yaroslav back to the present. A servant entered, bowed his head and handed a note to Pavel Tverdislavich. The old man read it and laughed.
‘The drama begins. Rostislav himself demands the presence of the Thousandman in the Kremlin immediately to deal with an insurrection in the city.’
Yaroslav stood. ‘Then I had better not keep him waiting.’
‘You need to lure the little bastard out of the Kremlin, Yaroslav,’ said Pavel, ‘otherwise it will take months to prise him out.’
‘It will not take that long,’ said Yaroslav as he took his leave of his comrades.
It was just a walk from the Yaroslav Court across the bridge spanning the Volkhov to the Kremlin, the great citadel housing the palace. Banners showing the black eagle of Chernigov fluttered from the gates and the palace’s towers, the coat of arms of Novgorod – two black bears either side of a throne against a red background – nowhere to be seen. There were guards everywhere, at the gates, entrances to the palace and along the corridor that led to the throne room where Yaroslav found Rostislav pacing like an angry bear. The sultry Ola sat on the throne next to her brother’s, eyeing the Thousandman suspiciously as he tipped his head to Rostislav and ignored her.
‘Have you heard,’ squealed the prince, ‘have you heard what has happened?’
‘I assume you are referring to the incident at the granary,’ replied Yaroslav.
Rostislav stopped, his eyes bulging in anger, his cheeks flushed. ‘Incident? It is rebellion. My soldiers have been murdered and my grain, my grain, stolen. As the Thousandman you are responsible for maintaining order within the city. You will arrest this villain who has committed these outrages.’
‘I think you will find that according to the city ordinances,’ said Yaroslav, ‘the Thousandman is responsible for mustering Novgorod’s soldiers and leading them on campaign.’
Rostislav stopped and stared at him, his sister curling her lip at the impudence of his words.
‘I gave you an order and expect you to obey, Yaroslav Nevsky. A refusal to carry out my command will result in banishment for you and your family.’
Yaroslav bit his tongue. He had been banished before and had no desire to repeat the experience.
‘You will also kill all those who stole grain from my granary and burn down their homes,’ spat Rostislav. ‘The flames will serve to remind the rest of the city the penalty for insurrection.’
‘I would advise against starting any fires,’ said Yaroslav, ‘the dwellings of the common folk are tightly packed and a fire could easily spread to other parts of the city.’
‘If it spreads, it spreads,’ said Ola, smiling seductively at her brother. ‘We have no thoughts for the common folk.’
The prince’s hangers-on, rich young boyars from Chernigov and a few from Novgorod, sniggered. Usually the Kremlin would be packed with priests but Archbishop Spyridon disapproved of the close relationship between Rostislav and Ola and had been banished from court. Rostislav went back to his throne.
‘You will bring me this robber and murderer so I can make an example of him, Yaroslav Nevsky. I will be watching from the ramparts of the Kremlin for the flames that will signal my orders have been obeyed. Do not disappoint me.’
Yaroslav looked at the prince, his sister and the pompous expressions on the faces of their entourage and anger welled up inside him. Anger not only directed at the arrogant son of Mikhail but also at himself. He and the other members of the council were supposed to be sage men, scions of ancient and noble families. And yet here he was being treated no better than a dog.
He walked briskly from the palace towards the Kremlin’s gates, the atmosphere inside the citadel oppressive. He kept his eyes down to avoid the disdainful stares of the prince’s soldiers.
‘Lord Nevsky.’
He stopped and looked up to see Archbishop Spyridon before him, the churchman’s face more gaunt than usual. Yaroslav wondered if he had deprived himself of food to share the privations of his flock.
‘Been visiting the little imp himself?’
Yaroslav nodded. ‘It is a great honour to be summoned to the palace by such a great prince, your eminence.’
Spyridon cracked the semblance of a smile. ‘I’m sure King Herod himself would blush to be compared to Rostislav, such is the prince’s degradation. Walk with me.’
Yaroslav told him about the prince’s orders to arrest Lord Murk and burn the homes of those who had taken grain. For his part Spyridon reported on his banishment from court but not the Kremlin, which housed Saint Sophia’s Cathedral, the Orthodox Church’s centre of power in Novgorod.
‘Herod avoids me,’ said Spyridon with satisfaction, ‘as does his harlot.’
He deep-set eyes held Yaroslav’s gaze. ‘My priests have informed me that this Lord Murk has become a hero of the people, one who has delivered them from their torment, albeit temporarily.’
‘The Council of Lords wishes to use him, your eminence.’
Spyridon raised an eyebrow. ‘To what end?’
‘To remove Rostislav and his followers from Novgorod.’
‘You can inform the council that the church would regard such a task as holy work. I bid you good day, your lordship.’
Spyridon paced away towards the cathedral.
Yaroslav returned to his mansion in the city and rode alone to the residence of Dmitriy Hoidja. It was not hard to find, the compound surrounded by a throng of grateful people all eager to catch sight of Lord Murk. They cleared a path for the Thousandman as he dismounted in front of the closed gates and shouted up at the scruffy looking guard above them that he represented the Council of Lords and had business with Lord Murk. The guard turned and shouted down into the courtyard. Moments later one of the gates opened and Boar walked from within.
‘State your business.’
Yaroslav bristled at the curt words. ‘I am Lord Nevsky, here to see Lord Murk on important business.’
He noticed the fine sword hanging from the belt of the powerfully built man before him. He too looked scruffy but his eyes were sharp as he examined the Thousandman.
‘Come with me.’
Inside the compound Yaroslav noted the large number of men, all well-armed and formidable in bearing, and the warehouses, stables and storerooms around the mansion. One thing was certain: whoever this Lord Murk was he possessed great wealth.
Boar showed him into the mansion, along a corridor leading to a large chamber in the centre of the building. Light flooded in through open shutters in the roof to reveal a space that was spartan in its furnishings. There was a top table with other trestle tables stacked against one wall along with seating benches. A figure walked forward, a middle-aged man with a kindly face and weary eyes.
‘Welcome, Lord Nevsky, you honour us with your presence. I am Dmitriy Hoidja. Please take the weight off your feet and share refreshments with us.’
He held out his hand towards a chair at the table. Yaroslav got no welcome from the other individual in the chamber, a tall, well-built man in his mid-twenties who regarded him with cold eyes.
‘Forgive me, lord, this is Kristjan, my friend and business partner. Kristjan, this is Lord Yaroslav Nevsky, the city’s Thousandman.’
Kristjan had no idea what the title meant, prompting Hoidja to frown.
‘You must forgive my friend, lord, he spends more time away from the city than in it.’
‘In Karelia, I hear,’ said Yaroslav, taking his seat and being offered beer by a female servant.
Hoidja also took refreshment but Kristjan refused any drink.
‘Sit down, Kristjan,’ commanded Hoidja. ‘The Thousandman is the military commander in the city.’
Yaroslav was intrigued by the fierce-looking Kristjan. Normally a clean-shaven face was a sign of immaturity, effeminacy even, but no one would dare accuse this Kristjan of such vices.
‘I and my colleagues have heard much about Lord Murk,’ said Yaroslav, nodding at Kristjan, ‘and unfortunately so has Prince Rostislav.’
Hoidja choked on his beer. ‘Prince Rostislav?’
Yaroslav put down his finely crafted copper cup and looked at Kristjan. ‘Your exploits at the granary has angered the prince, Lord Murk. He sent me to arrest you and take you to the Kremlin.’
Kristjan burst out laughing, jumped up and strode towards the door. Hoidja wore a horrified look while Yaroslav was bemused.
‘I would speak to you before you flee the city,’ he called after Kristjan.
‘Flee? If this prince wants to have words with me I will spare him the inconvenience of having to send someone to fetch me. I will go to the Kremlin. Boar!’
He left the chamber, Hoidja with his head in his hands and Yaroslav amazed by Kristjan’s words. He jumped up and raced from the room, following Kristjan down the corridor and into the courtyard.
‘Gather the men,’ Kristjan told his deputy.
Boar walked away, shouting orders to the men grooming horses or sharpening weapons that their lord had need of them. Within seconds dozens of men were saddling horses and strapping on sword belts and taking spears from racks.
‘Lord Murk,’ called Yaroslav, ‘I would advise against this.’
Kristjan turned on him. ‘Why? You think I fear this Rostislav?’
‘I think you fear no one, that is your problem.’
A stable hand rushed over with Kristjan’s horse. Yaroslav snatched the reins from the boy.
‘I came to tell you, Lord Murk, the Council of Lords stands with you.’
Kristjan shoved his left foot into the stirrup and hauled himself into the saddle. He took the reins from Yaroslav.
‘Then you are welcome to join me. Open the gates!’
A servant ran up to Kristjan and handed him his shield, a round affair in the pagan style. Three feet in diameter it was fashioned from lime wood and in its centre was a domed iron boss protecting the hand holding the wooden handgrip. It was rimmed with rawhide and faced with leather to make it resistant to weapon strikes. And on the leather was painted a golden eagle, the symbol of pagan Ungannia. The shields of the other riders carried the same emblem as they trotted from the compound behind their lord.
Lord Nevsky galloped from the mansion back to the Yaroslav Court to rally as many of the guards and horsemen as he could find. His own retainers were across the river in the western half of the city. This was not how things should be done, not at all, but the crazed Kristjan had forced his hand. The madman himself rode west at the head of his men, a great crowd following, unsure where Lord Murk was going but hoping that he was going to break into another granary. That was the rumour and it soon resulted in hundreds walking and hobbling in the wake of the horsemen. At the great bridge over the Volkhov Kristjan stopped and observed the Kremlin. He had told his men to halt before they reached the bridge so as to remain hidden and not to arouse suspicion. He had only Boar for company as he nudged his horse on to the bridge’s wooden planks. He saw the open gates of the Kremlin with individuals and small groups of men and women wandering in and out of the citadel. He could see no soldiers on the walls but why should there be? The Kremlin was in the centre of the city, the safest and most secure part of Novgorod.
‘Tell Skinner and Mongrel to kill the guards at the gates to secure the entrance,’ said Kristjan
Boar turned his horse and walked it back to where the rest of the men remained on their mounts in the street, a throng of people, mostly men, behind them, waiting in silence. What for they did not know. Skinner and Mongrel, their weapons hid under their cloaks, nodded to Kristjan and walked on to the bridge. It was called the Great Bridge and had replaced the old one only two years before, being fashioned from thick pines allowing four riders to ride across side by side with ease. It employed a gorodnia type of support whereby timber cribs were filled with stones and earth to make the bridge’s foundation rigid and stable. Beneath the bridge the Volkhov was in spate: high and fast flowing.
Kristjan drew his sword as Skinner and Mongrel ambled across the bridge towards the Kremlin’s gates. The bored guards were using their spears as supports, their shields leaning against the timber wall behind them. The day was quiet and pleasant. Absolutely nothing was occurring.
There was little traffic on the bridge, a few black-robed monks deep in conversation with each other, a richly dressed boyar haranguing from his horse a hapless servant on foot, and a group of nuns making their way towards the Kremlin. No one took any notice of the two men wrapped in large cloaks who walked briskly across the bridge, stopped at the gates and began conversing with the guards. Kristjan caught sight of the sun glinting off a blade, saw the guards collapse and turned to his men.
