As Dust to the Wind Read online

  He withdrew and Walter and his opponent both looked at where the stony faced Bishop Hermann sat. He nodded curtly and the duel began. Neither Walter nor his adversary wore helmets, though Walter did wear a mail coif that was pulled off his head. They weaved around each other, shields held out in front of them to not only deflect blows but to use as weapons in their own right if the opportunity arose. Walter moved fast but his opponent, his shield sporting Ungannia’s golden eagle, matched his actions, his blade a silver blur in the sunlight. Walter ducked low and lunged forward to drive his sword point under his opponent’s shield but missed. His adversary slashed right with his sword and only Walter’s reflexes prevented his face being badly gashed.

  Conrad watched the duel and the longer it went on the more his heart sank. Walter’s moves and strikes were measured and calculating but failed to injure his foe, who suddenly unleashed a devastating succession of blows with his blade, the straight-edged weapon cutting diagonally from left and right as he sought to land a mortal blow on Walter’s skull. The castellan caught the blows on his shield that he manoeuvred with aplomb and brushed aside a low horizontal cut made by his foe at the end of the series of strikes. The Russian champion made to lunge forward as if to drive his sword over the rim of his shield but it was a feint, a deft one, but one that prompted Walter to react and as he did so, moving his shield to cover the front of his torso, his adversary ducked low, jabbed his sword forward and whipped it back to cut Walter’s left calf.

  Conrad’s friend staggered and the Russian drove his sword point into his left shoulder, the strike as quick as a lightening bolt. There was a collective groan from the Sword Brothers and Conrad’s warlords as Walter limped backwards, his friends helpless as his opponent sprang forward and once again unleashed a withering series of sword strikes that splintered Walter’s shield and forced him on to his knees. Then, amazingly, the Russian halted, stepped back and let his sword fall to his side.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ asked Leatherface.

  ‘He grants Walter mercy if he will surrender his claim,’ said Sir Richard.

  The Englishman looked at Conrad, despair in his eyes because he knew that Walter the Penitent would never give way on a matter of honour.

  ‘Yield, Walter,’ shouted Conrad, ‘in the name of God, yield.’

  Bishop Hermann glared at Conrad but Odenpah’s master did not care. The only thing he wanted was to save his friend. Ivanna was weeping but Walter was smiling as he drew himself up, smiled at Conrad and walked forward once more. The Russian looked surprised but needed no prompting as he renewed the fight. Walter grimaced as he attacked his foe. His shield was cracked and splintered and blood was showing at his shoulder and on his lower leg. Both men were tired but Walter more so, his movements slower than earlier. The blows were clumsier and louder as blades struck shields, the hide covering the Russian’s being split by Walter’s blade. It was the last blow the Sword Brother struck.

  The Russian, gaining a second wind, ducked and feinted as he attacked Walter, reducing his shield to shreds before using his own to force the Sword Brother’s sword upwards before ramming his blade below Walter’s ribs. Ivanna screamed in anguish as the point was driven into his guts and Conrad clenched his fists as he saw his friend die in front of him. Walter dropped to the ground after the Russian pulled the sword out of his body. Conrad ducked under the rope as the Russian withdrew and Hermann angrily gestured that the princess was to be handed over to the Mayor of Pskov. When Conrad reached his friend he found only a corpse with a lifeless stare. He closed the eyes and his own to pray for a noble and pure knight.

  ‘You were too good for this world, my friend,’ he muttered.

  He looked up to see the guards manhandle Ivanna to where her betrothed was waiting. They left her standing before Domash Tverdislavich who pulled his dagger and used it to slit her throat. She crumpled to the ground, a fountain of blood coming from her exquisite, slender neck.

  ‘It was all for nothing. For nothing.’

  Anger welled up inside him, not towards the man who had killed Walter because he had fought with honour. No, he felt anger and resentment towards Bishop Hermann who had abandoned Walter to an unnecessary death.

  Kristjan slapped his subordinate on the shoulder.

  ‘You did well, Skinner, my congratulations.’

  The sweating Skinner could barely speak.

  ‘That was the hardest fight of my life, lord. He was a worthy opponent.’

  Kristjan glanced at Conrad kneeling beside his dead friend.

  ‘One day I will kill you, Sword Brother.’

  Chapter 3

  The incident at Dorpat hardly registered at Riga, the wealthy city filled with Russian merchants who were keen to get a good price for their goods before they could be shipped to Germany, and they in turn could return to their homes with pouches filled with silver. The main concern of the city council that summer was the dire state of the city’s streets, littered as they were with human and animal effluent. The summer heat had resulted in an overpowering stench hanging over the city affecting noble and commoner alike. It was intolerable and so the council was forced to hire labourers to literally shovel dung for two weeks, the refuse being dumped in the Dvina downstream from the city. Riga was also full to bursting and the council had taken the decision to extend its environs northwards to accommodate its rapidly increasing population.

  Normally Magnus Glueck, Duke of Riga, Higher Burgomaster of Riga and reportedly the richest man in the eastern Baltic, conducted his business in the city’s merchant hall. But when it came to dealing with Lord Torolf, ambassador to King Lamekins, he invited the Kur to his palatial home near the Dvina. Servants dressed in the duke’s livery showing a silver griffin on their blue tunics waited on their lord and his guest in his magnificent first-floor hall. Everything about the Duke of Riga pointed to his wealth and status. Before the pair took their seats at the fine oak table they washed their hands. A servant, an ewerer, poured water over their hands, which was collected in a bowl held by another servant, another handing the ambassador and duke towels to dry their hands. Glueck’s chaplain said grace and then the food and drink were served.

  ‘I trust the king is well,’ enquired the duke as his silver chalice was filled with white German wine.

  Torolf raised his chalice. ‘He is, lord.’

  Torolf had learned not to gorge himself on food laid before him during his visits to Glueck’s home. He took a trencher and picked at the dishes placed on the table: brawn with mustard, stewed swan, meat pottage, boiled venison with almond milk and chicken with breadcrumbs. The custom was not to try to eat everything on show, which would be impossible even with a belly as large as the Duke of Riga’s, but to ensure that some food was left so it could be given to the poor.

  ‘I am grateful to the king for his assistance in helping us to finally rid the world of the Oeselian menace,’ smiled the duke.

  Torolf savoured the wine, which was most excellent.

  ‘King Lamekins in turn is grateful to your grace for allowing him to partake in the late campaign. It was most generous.’

  To ensure Lamekins took part in the campaign Bishop Nicholas and the city council had granted the king one-third of Oesel after it had been conquered. The bishop and some of the council had grumbled that the offer had been too generous but Glueck was determined that Oesel should be dealt with once and for all. The Oeselians had once burnt one of his ships and he had born a grudge against them ever since.

  Glueck tipped his chalice at Torolf. ‘It was the least we could do.’

  ‘My king is eager to make the most of his newly won territory and has commanded that I present a request to you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Torolf smiled his ambassador’s smile. ‘That he be allowed to make use of Riga’s shipbuilders.’

  Glueck thought the request most odd. ‘What does the king want with shipbuilders?’

  ‘To build the ships called cogs, your grace. Oesel will provide the buildi
ng materials but Kurland does not have the expertise to build such vessels. My king is eager to try his hand at commerce.’

  ‘Indeed. Well, I am sure we can come to some sort of arrangement, at the right price.’

  Torolf maintained his smile. ‘You are a most generous host, lord.’

  He was indeed, the next course consisting of roast flesh: baby rabbit, heron, partridge, lark, peacock and crane. Again more fare was taken back to the kitchens than was eaten, though Glueck managed to consume a great quantity of food, all washed down with ample quantities of wine.

  ‘I have heard that the Russians invaded the Bishopric of Dorpat,’ remarked Torolf.

  Glueck shrugged. ‘A minor altercation that was resolved quickly. Bishop Hermann is as keen to maintain good relations with Novgorod as we are. After all, he cannot build his new cathedral with prayers alone.’

  The third course consisted of small animals – sparrows and martinets – cooked to perfection. Torolf believed the Duke of Riga ate better than his king and all his nobles. More wine was offered but the ambassador declined. He had business to attend to. But he did pick at the pears, nuts and apples served after all the meats had been taken away.

  ‘Your grace, just as the Russians have invaded the Bishopric of Dorpat so my king fears that the Samogitians are thinking of invading Kurland.’

  Glueck covered his mouth as he belched. ‘Who?’

  ‘The Samogitians, your grace, a barbarous people that have waged war on my people for generations.’

  Glueck’s face was blank. ‘Surely King Lamekins has an army large enough to deal with any threat?’

  Torolf shook his head gravely. ‘Alas, your grace, the Samogitians are allies of the Aukstaitijans and combined they outnumber the Kurs.’

  Glueck was not really listening but nodded politely as he devoured a roasted sparrow.

  ‘In view of the recent support my king provided during the campaign on Oesel,’ said Torolf, ‘he asks that the Bishop of Riga lends his support to the Kurs during their hour of need.’

  Glueck took a towel embroidered with his coat of arms and dabbed his chin.

  ‘I have no influence with the Bishop of Riga.’

  Torolf smiled. ‘But you have influence with Archdeacon Stefan who in turn is close to the bishop.’

  Glueck screwed up his unsightly face. ‘Neither the bishop nor the archdeacon have any soldiers, ambassador.’

  ‘But you are wrong,’ said Torolf. ‘King Lamekins would appreciate a gesture of support from Riga, such as a detachment of Sword Brothers and the Army of the Wolf that was recently dipping its spears in pagan blood.’

  ‘I can assure you that the archdeacon has nothing to do with the Army of the Wolf, ambassador.’

  Torolf brought his hands together. ‘Naturally, but where the Sword Brothers go the Army of the Wolf follows. Can I inform my king that you will speak to Archdeacon Stefan on the matter?’

  ‘Very well, though Grand Master Volquin is a law unto himself and I cannot guarantee that he will agree to the king’s request.’

  Torolf suddenly looked grave. ‘If Kurland falls then the mouth of the Dvina will be threatened by the Samogitians, your grace, with all the grave consequences that would bring for Riga’s trade.’

  Glueck’s large forehead creased. ‘I will speak to the archdeacon.’

  The opportunity to do so arose when the duke sat down beside Stefan on a blustery, grey day overlooking Riga’s main square near the Bishop’s Palace. The square had once been nothing more than an expanse of dirt turning into a sea of mud whenever it rained, but was now cobblestoned and well drained. On most days it was the site of a flourishing market but at least once a week it was given over to the administration of justice, which the authorities believed had to be witnessed by the people so they were reminded of what would happen to them if they erred. The punishing of the guilty was always a popular spectator sport, for both commoner and noble alike. Magnus Glueck owned a small building fronting the square which had a first-floor balcony where he and his guests could sit, eat and drink while being entertained.

  A servant arranged a blanket to cover Stefan’s knees. He was not getting any younger and had noticed that his joints ached when the winter months arrived. He was in a prickly mood, not least because his limbs had begun to hurt and it was only the beginning of autumn.

  ‘I do not see why I should be Torolf’s errand boy, Magnus.’

  ‘His king is apparently under threat from pagans whose name escapes me,’ said Glueck, peering into the square, ‘but I would ask you to speak to the bishop if only to ensure that the Dvina does not come under threat.’

  ‘Very well,’ snapped Stefan, stretching out his podgy fingers that were aching.

  ‘Where is the bishop, by the way?’

  Stefan rolled his eyes. ‘Visiting his Livonian parishes and spending evenings sleeping in miserable wooden huts.’

  He shuddered. ‘The very idea.’

  ‘He is a godly man,’ said Glueck.

  He is also a sodomite, thought Stefan, which the bishop had confessed to in a dingy office in the palace when he had been but an abbot. It was a remarkable stroke of good fortune that the archdeacon had discovered this because it had allowed him to blackmail Nicholas ever since, his signed confession stored in a secure place should he ever need it. Stefan had made sure that Nicholas became Bishop of Riga, thereby ensuring that his life of ease and privilege continued undisturbed. After assuming the mitre Nicholas had embarked on a mission of hard work and piety that Stefan found frankly ridiculous.

  ‘He will be back in the city in two days. I will speak to him then,’ promised Stefan. ‘Perhaps he might like to accompany Grand Master Volquin and his knights south of the river. He seems to like the rustic life.’

  ‘Torolf also wants our friend the Marshal of Estonia and his army of heathens to accompany the grand master.’

  Stefan took a bowl of warm soup from a servant.

  ‘Perhaps they will all perish in the godless lands, please God.’

  Glueck smiled. ‘You are incorrigible, Stefan. What do we have here?’

  The large crowd cheered as a pale-faced man sitting on an ass was led into the square. He looked around with pleading eyes as people pelted him with anything to hand: dung, stones and food. Manfred Nordheim standing on the balcony with the Duke of Riga and Archdeacon Stefan gestured angrily at the commander of the guards below, who shouted at his men escorting the condemned to use their spear shafts to keep the more bloodthirsty among the throng under control.

  ‘A sodomite, your grace.’

  Glueck stared with fascination as the young man was pulled from the ass and manhandled up the steps to the wooden platform on which masked executioners stood. The smell of burning coals reached Stefan’s nostrils. He smiled. A priest, whom some might have thought was there to give solace and courage to the condemned, began berating him as he was stripped naked. His voice echoed around the square as the crowd was filled with ‘shush’ as people strained to hear his words.

  ‘The vice of sodomy is of unparalleled enormity. It departs from the natural passion and desire, planted into nature by God, according to which the male has a passionate desire for the female.’

  Raucous cheers came from the crowd. The priest waited for the din to subside. The prisoner, naked and shaking, began to weep.

  ‘Sodomy craves what is entirely contrary to nature,’ continued the priest. ‘Whence comes this perversion? Without a doubt it comes from the devil. After a man has once turned aside from the fear of God, the devil puts such great pressure upon his nature that he extinguishes the fire of natural desire and stirs up another, which is contrary to nature.’

  He pointed at the condemned. ‘Sodomite!’

  Two executioners grabbed the prisoner’s arms while a third drew a fish knife with a thin blade and grabbed his genitals. There was a sickening high-pitched scream as the condemned was castrated and his severed testicles were thrown into the nearest burning brazier. The fle
sh hissed and sizzled as blood poured from the wound down the prisoner’s legs.

  ‘The seed of the devil’s servant dies with him,’ screamed the priest, raising his arms and his eyes to the heavens.

  The punishment for sodomy was to be burnt at the stake but Stefan as governor of the city had forbidden any burning. As he was attending the execution and partaking of the Duke of Riga’s generous hospitality he did not want his meal spoiled by the aroma of roasting human flesh. However, to appease the bloodlust of the crowd he had consulted with Nordheim about showing them something different.

  The semi-conscious prisoner was dragged to a barrel on the platform and thrown over it so his buttocks were pointing upwards.

  ‘Let that part of the body where he allowed himself to be known in sodomitical practice be punished.’

  As the prisoner was held firmly in place by two of the executioners a third took a red-hot poker from a brazier and began inserting it in the prisoner’s rectum. He was suddenly very conscious as unimaginable pain swept through his body. His screams and cries were met with laughter and derision from the crowd. Even Nordheim winced as the poker was pushed deeper into the man’s body. The screams subsided as shock and loss of blood sapped the man’s strength, though he was still alive when his hair was grabbed to lift his head so he could see the sword that would decapitate him. Water was thrown over him as life began to leave him so his eyes opened one last time as the chief executioner severed his head with a single blow.

  ‘You won’t forget to speak to the bishop, Stefan,’ Glueck reminded the archdeacon.

  *****

  Grand Master Volquin described it as a ‘show of force’ to support King Lamekins in the letter he sent to Conrad and for his part the Marshal of Estonia was glad of the opportunity to be as far away from Bishop Hermann as possible. He ordered his warlords to gather at Odenpah prior to the march south to the Dvina. The harvest had been collected and all that remained was ploughing to sow the winter crops of wheat and rye. Estonia was prospering, its people were healthy and increasing in numbers and Conrad’s warlords were in good spirits, especially Hillar.