Schism, page 8
part #5 of Crusader Chronicles Series
Hoidja was suddenly beside Kristjan. ‘Saints preserve us, call off your dogs.’
Kristjan placed two fingers in his mouth and blew, the whistle gaining his men’s attention.
‘Stand down,’ he commanded.
The shabbily dressed men who formed Kristjan’s warlords sneered and slowly withdrew from the trio.
‘Boar,’ called Kristjan, ‘take them to the nearest alehouse but try not to cause any trouble.’
Boar was the biggest of the group and Kristjan’s deputy. He pointed an oversized hand at the gates.
‘You heard him.’
‘We ain’t got no money, lord,’ shouted Skinner.
Hoidja’s steward came nervously from the house’s entrance, a boy scurrying after him. Hoidja called down to Boar.
‘If you come up to my office, just you mind, I will issue you with sufficient funds. In the meantime please refrain from molesting my guests.’
‘If you give us enough money we’ll molest some whores,’ grinned Tracker, a miserable creature but an individual who more than lived up to his name.
The steward ushered the guests into the house while the boy took the horses to the stables. Hoidja turned away from the window and returned to his seat. He was far from happy.
‘You should leave your dogs in Karelia, Kristjan. They are a bloodbath waiting to happen.’
Kristjan returned to his chair.
‘My “dogs”, as you call them, control my men who in turn collect pelts, guard them from ‘crows’ and escort them all the way here so you can sell them. They are a bit rough round the edges, I will agree, but without them we would have no business.’
There was a knock at the door and before waiting for an answer the giant frame of Boar was standing before Hoidja. He was even more intimidating close up, his black leather sleeveless tunic, black boots and leggings giving him the appearance of an assassin. His hair and beard were long, his eyes wild. Hoidja took a pouch full of silver from his belt and tossed it at him.
‘Try not to arouse the wrath of the city authorities.’
Boar grinned. ‘My men and I thank you, lord.’
He bowed his head to Hoidja and Kristjan and departed, brushing passed the steward who appeared in the doorway.
Kristjan smiled. If Hoidja was like a father to him then his commanders were his brothers. Boar, his right-hand man, Tracker the scout, Skinner an expert with a blade, Mongrel a skilled archer whose past was a mystery, and Tusk, the most fearless man he had ever met who liked to wrestle and cut out the tusks of walruses, hence his name.
‘The representative from the Peterhof awaits your pleasure, lord.’
‘Excellent,’ smiled Hoidja, ‘see to it he is put at ease before you bring him up. Engage him in conversation for a few moments. I’m sure the experience with Lord Kristjan’s brutes will have unnerved him.’
The steward bowed and hurried from the room.
‘And offer his guards refreshments,’ Hoidja called after him.
‘What is the Peterhof?’ asked Kristjan.
‘The source of our wealth,’ answered Hoidja. ‘Twice each year, in the summer and winter, foreign merchants come to Novgorod to trade with the city’s merchants. They all reside in the Peterhof, which if you had bothered to learn anything about this city you would know is one of Novgorod’s districts.’
Kristjan waved a hand dismissively at him. ‘I have no time for trivia.’
Hoidja wagged a finger sternly at him.
‘The “trivia” to which you refer pays for all this,’ he gestured at the room with his hand, ‘and provides the money to pay your men. Do you know what the residents of the Peterhof trade?’
Kristjan shrugged.
‘They exchange Flemish cloth, salt, wine, beer and metal products for squirrel pelts. But they pay me in silver and do you know why? Because the pelts you collect in Karelia are known for their soft and silky texture. This makes them ideal material for trimmings and linings.
‘The Germans call their mission in the Peterhof the Kontor. It has its own treasury, living quarters for merchants, their assistants and apprentices, offices, stalls, assembly house, warehouses, stables and church, all surrounded by a timber wall. Usually the city merchants go to the Kontor to trade their goods. To come to us is a great honour.’
The first year of their joint enterprise had produced a tidy profit, the second year had yielded a handsome profit and the subsequent years had increased their fortunes substantially. Hoidja looked at his friend’s worn short-sleeved mail tunic and old cloak.
‘You should buy some new clothes as befitting your position, Kristjan.’
Kristjan leaned back in his chair. ‘I like these clothes. I have no wish to dress like a Russian, no offence.’
‘Novgorod is a city where rich and important boyars have their homes and display their wealth. It rises in the world and we rise with it, my friend.’
Kristjan was glad they were prospering, mainly because it made his friend happy. But he had grown up as the son of a tribal king and had never known a life of deprivation and hardship. As a result he had never concerned himself with wealth and commerce. As a boy his life had been filled with learning the skills of a warrior and as he grew into adulthood those skills had been put to use against the Sword Brothers. Now he used them against wild animals and ‘crows’ in Karelia but he had sworn to have his revenge against the Sword Brothers. He never talked of this with Hoidja because the older man became angry and berated him for living in the past instead of looking to the future. So he stayed silent and dreamt of the day when he would destroy the Sword Brothers. He stood and stretched out his arms.
‘I have no desire to meet with this German. Make sure you examine every piece of silver he gives you, I do not trust them.’
Hoidja gave a slight shake of the head.
‘Before you go there is another matter I want to discuss with you. It concerns the purchase of flax fields outside the city.’
The marshlands around Novgorod combined with the wet, humid weather of summer were ideal conditions for growing the long-stemmed flax the Russians used to make their clothing. And like Pskov to the south the abundance of the flax crop meant bales could be exported to Riga for onward shipment to Germany.
‘I have been thinking of expanding our business interests,’ explained Hoidja, ‘if that meets with your approval.’
Kristjan walked around the desk and laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder.
‘Do whatever you think is right. Just have a care when dealing with Germans. I will assign more men to guard our warehouses and workshops.’
‘This is Novgorod, Kristjan,’ said Hoidja. ‘Our property is perfectly safe.’
‘Nowhere in this world is perfectly safe.’
The son of Kalju looked towards the open window where the sound of church bells was drifting on the wind.
‘What’s that?’
‘A mass being held in Saint Sophia’s Cathedral. Prince Mikhail is leaving the city to ride to his domains in the south, which are threatened by a terrible people.’
‘What people?’ asked Kristjan, mildly interested.
‘Mongols,’ answered Hoidja. ‘They destroyed a huge Russian army a few years ago and now menace the lands far to the south of here. They are a terrible race by all accounts.’
Kristjan touched his torc but said nothing as he nodded to his friend and walked from the room.
Saint Sophia’s Cathedral – the Holy Wisdom of God – was bathed in bright sunshine that accentuated its grandeur and size. The cathedral, now nearly two hundred years old, had been constructed by master builders from Kiev but the building materials – fieldstone and undressed blocks of limestone set in a mortar of crushed brick and lime – were sourced locally. The exterior of the cathedral was an enormous mosaic of huge, coarsely trimmed irregular slabs. Snaking between the slabs was smoothly polished coloured mortar to give the outside of the building a multi-coloured façade. The interior of the five-domed cathedral contained five aisles, three of which ended in altar apses. The walls were decorated with frescoes of saints and prophets and the altar was adorned with mosaics of the saints and icons of the Apostles.
But those paintings paled beside the exquisite icons filling the cathedral. These beautiful and elaborate paintings were, according to the Orthodox religion, ‘windows into the kingdom of God’. With a wooden base and a gold leaf background they depicted Christ, the Virgin Mary, scenes from the Bible and the lives of the Saints. Each one was venerated in its own right, with candles and oil lamps burning before it. They were kissed by worshippers, many of whom prostrated themselves before the elaborate, two-dimensional paintings. But today there was no room in Saint Sophia’s for worshippers to prostrate themselves for the cathedral was packed.
The large congregation was made up of Novgorod’s wealthiest and most influential citizens – the leading boyars and merchants who made up the veche. This august body was a council that ruled the city in conjunction with Novgorod’s prince, though the fact that the veche appointed a prince indicated where the true power in the city lay. The prince’s palace was sited within the walls of the Kremlin. The veche met in the Yaroslav Court, a magnificence palace across the Volkhov River from the Kremlin and a constant reminder to the ruling prince that it watched over him.
Though it was summer and the air inside the cathedral was warm and infused with the aroma of incense the members of the veche still wore their cloaks, tunics in the Byzantine style – narrow, wrist-length sleeves and a high-cut neckline – and dalmatics. The sleeves of the dalmatics were always shorter than the tunic underneath to show off both garments. Cloaks were clasped at the right shoulder with gold and silver pins and the garments beneath were a dazzling display of crimson, purple, azure, red and green. Even the boots worn by the veche’s members were brightly coloured, the only uniformity of appearance being the full beards sported by every man in the congregation – a visible sign of manhood among Russians.
The beard of the man who led the service – Archbishop Spyridon – was heavily streaked with grey but his attire was no less grand than the richest member of his congregation. His mitre was decorated with gold and the precious metal was also woven into his red vestments, over which he wore a magnificent red phelonion. This long, wide vestment without sleeves had a hole in the middle for the head. It was made from spectacular damask imported from Constantinople and embroidered with pearls and radiant icons in thread wound with silver and gold. It was coloured scarlet to symbolise the robe the Roman soldiers put on Christ during his trial before Pontius Pilate.
Spyridon’s deep voice beseeched God to safeguard Prince Mikhail during his forthcoming trial in the south against the Mongols, the devil’s servants. The congregation made the same plea with their minds for they had heard of the terrible atrocities committed by the Mongols when they captured a city. As the archbishop spoke his priests swung their incense burners to and fro, producing clouds of smoke that ascended towards the ancient roof. The frankincense and myrrh that burned on the hot charcoal inside the censers filled the cathedral with incense that represented prayer rising up to God like smoke.
The service lasted for three hours and after it was over Mikhail, now purified and blessed, spoke to the high members of the veche outside the bronze-plated doors of the cathedral. The prince’s guards, their teardrop-shaped shields decorated with the arms of Novgorod – two black bears either side of a throne on a red background – looked bored as the congregation filed past him, bowing their heads as they did so.
The four men who stood with the prince were the most powerful men of the veche who made up the body’s Council of Lords.
‘I was surprised that your son was not present for the service, highness.’
Yaroslav Nevsky, scion of one of Novgorod’s most ancient and influential boyar families, was abrupt and to the point.
Mikhail stiffened slightly at the reminder that the man he had chosen to rule in his place had not even bothered to walk the short distance from the palace to Saint Sophia cathedral.
‘He had urgent matters to attend to,’ Mikhail replied curtly.
‘I would urge his attendance at the meeting of the veche this afternoon, highness,’ suggested the man standing beside Yuri.
Approaching eighty, Akim Chudin had seen many princes come and go over the years. His frail body gave the impression of an addled mind but he was both wise and alert and it was an unwise ruler who made an enemy of him.
‘He will be there,’ stated Mikhail. ‘I hope I can rely on your support in my absence.’
‘Of that you can be assured,’ stated Pavel Tverdislavich, the seventy-year-old father of the mayor of Pskov and a man very different from his dissolute son.
Mikhail smiled and marched off back to his palace, his guards forming a phalanx around him.
Sasha Zavidich, the fourth of the group, sighed. ‘I wonder what “urgent business” deprived us of the company of the prince’s son?’
‘It would be better if the son departed and Prince Mikhail remained in Novgorod,’ said Pavel. ‘Nothing good will come of leaving his son to rule in his place.’
‘His son will not be ruling in his place,’ interjected Akim, ‘he will be guided by the Council of Lords and the other members of the veche. Prince Mikhail knows this, which is why he has appointed Yaroslav to be his adviser.’
The old man smiled at Yaroslav Nevsky whose thin face wore a worried expression.
‘Has anyone informed the prince’s son of this?’ asked Sasha.
Yaroslav Nevsky was the youngest of the group at two years shy of forty. By popular choice the veche had appointed him Tysiatskii, the ‘Thousandman’, the commander of Novgorod’s military resources and the most important man after the prince himself. Everyone liked the courteous and noble Yaroslav Nevsky, which is why Mikhail had asked him to be his son’s adviser in his absence. Everyone also respected Prince Mikhail but everyone knew that he had a great weakness: an inability to see any wrong in his son Rostislav.
She had moaned when he had used his tongue to pleasure her but now she squealed when he penetrated her, thrusting energetically with his hips to send the woman he loved into ecstasy. He growled when she dug her fingernails into his back, drawing blood as spasms of elation convulsed her. Rostislav thrust deeper into her body, his heart pounding in his chest as he reduced the beauty beneath him to a quivering wreck. He shoved hard and in response her back arched, her eyes closed and breathless moans came from her mouth.
He bit her neck and breasts, taking her nipples in his mouth as their bodies became covered in sweat. All notions of time and place disappeared as their wet, entwined bodies thrashed around on the bed in an effort to wring every last sensation from the experience before the inevitable climax came.
Ola was first to reach the pinnacle of sexual fulfilment, her lithe body convulsing as an incontrollable wave of pure joy shot from her loins to engulf her every fibre. She wanted to scream but such was her breathlessness that a succession of low grunts came from her mouth as Rostislav filled her with his seed. He grunted like a demented pig as he rammed his manhood into her like a frenzied warrior stabbing an opponent in battle. Empty, he collapsed on top of her and then rolled off to lie beside her, both of them panting as they gasped for air.
For the first few minutes neither could speak so drained were they. But after their heart rates had subsided Ola rose naked from the bed and walked over to a water jug on the table. She poured herself a cup and gulped it down before taking the jug over to the bed.
‘Drink, lover?’
Rostislav, his manhood now shrivelled and useless, nodded whereupon she emptied the jug over him, laughing as she did so. He jumped from the bed, anger in his eyes. She laughed again and his anger disappeared. He raced round the bed and scooped her up in his arms, kissing her on the lips.
‘I will have you again for that,’ he promised.
She pressed her body into his.
‘Does the princeling have the energy?’
He smiled and kissed her full lips. ‘Always.’
She pulled away and picked up her dress from the floor, the one that he had ripped off her earlier. She frowned when she saw that the long rubakhe was torn.
‘You will have to buy me a new one.’
He pulled on his leggings and grinned. ‘When I am prince you will have what you desire, flame of my loins.’
There was a banging on the door.
‘What?’ shouted Rostislav angrily.
‘His highness Prince Mikhail requests your presence in the throne room, lord,’ came the reply.
Rostislav pulled on his boots. ‘Duty calls.’
He put on his tunic, strapped on his sword belt and took Ola in his arms. He stroked her black hair still wet from their lovemaking. He smiled, kissed her on the lips and walked from his bedchamber.
He found his father pacing in the palace’s voluminous throne room, a great red banner showing the insignia of Novgorod hanging on the wall behind the two wooden thrones on the dais. The prince stopped when his son strolled into the chamber.
‘Why weren’t you in church?’ growled the prince. ‘You absence was noted.’
‘Important matters pertaining to the garrison, father,’ smiled Rostislav. ‘We must look to the city’s defences if these heathens, these Mongols, approach Novgorod.’
‘I go to Chernigov to prevent such a thing,’ said his father, ‘but in my place you must be more mindful of the city’s customs and traditions. In particular you must heed the voice of the veche.’
Rostislav smiled. ‘Of course, father.’
‘This afternoon we will go to the veche where you will be officially instated as the temporary prince of the city in my absence.’
At that moment a beaming, glowing Ola swept into the throne room, her black hair having been brushed to give it a vivid lustre. The prince smiled as she went up to him and planted a kiss on his cheek.
‘How’s my favourite daughter?’
She smiled at him. ‘Oh, father, I am your only daughter.’
