Castellan (12 page)

‘Do you see any banners?’ he shouted.

‘Eagle banner, lord,’ came the reply.

Ungannia? Strange, he had received no word from Kalju concerning a delegation. He shrugged. Perhaps it was Kalju himself come to visit his friend Sir Richard. He would have to inform him that he had wasted his journey. He turned and walked back to his hall.

He ordered his steward to tell the kitchen slaves to prepare a feast. The man scurried into the hall’s interior as Peeter stood in front of his men and waited to welcome Kalju. It had been too long since he had seen him.

The riders thundered across the bridge and into the fort, children and animals squealing and running for cover as the sweating ponies were brought to a halt and their riders alighted from their saddles. All were wearing helmets and mail shirts with swords at their hips. Aside from the banner man each one was also armed with a spear that they now thrust into the earth. The round shields that dangled from their saddles carried the golden eagle symbol of Ungannia.

The leader took off his helmet to reveal himself not to be Kalju but a powerfully built young man with long fair hair and blue eyes who walked up to Peeter and nodded.

‘I am Kristjan, son of Kalju and Lord of Ungannia.’

Fellin’s great hall was half empty as Peeter feasted the arrivals that night. Slaves brought great quantities of beer and honey mead for his guests. They served huge portions of roasted boar but Kristjan ate and drank sparingly, as did his men. Peeter’s wolf shields, glad to have some excitement after having missed out on the campaign to Oesel, drank and ate to excess, toasting their Ungannian allies and engaging in drinking bouts with their comrades. Peeter sat at the top table with Kristjan, who kept looking at the tonsured priest sitting at a nearby table chatting to a slave and eating even less than him.

‘Who is that?’ asked the young Ungannian.

‘Father Dietmar, sent by Riga to preach in local villages.’

‘A Christian?’ sneered Kristjan as a slave placed a platter of bloodless white sausages in front of him.

‘We are all Christians here, young lord,’ said Peeter. ‘The world changes and we must change with it. Your own father recognised that when he made an alliance with the Sword Brothers. I trust he and your mother are well.’

Kristjan tore off a small piece of rye bread and nibbled it.

‘Has Saccalia abandoned the gods, Lord Peeter? Do men no longer revere and fear Uku, Jumal, Mielikki and Kuu?’

‘Men are free to follow their conscience,’ answered Peeter as there was a great cheer from his men as one who had drank too much threw up violently.

‘Are men free when they are forced to live under the heel of the Sword Brothers?’ said Kristjan.

‘Why are you here, Kristjan?’ queried Peeter, getting annoyed at the surly young man who had arrived unannounced and was enjoying his hospitality with little courtesy.

‘I want your aid, Lord Peeter,’ said Kristjan. ‘Just as Ungannia is a free kingdom so do I desire Saccalia to join me in rejecting the Christian filth that pollutes our lands.’

Peeter was shocked by these words and thought that the young man was deranged.

‘These are your father’s words?’

Kristjan looked at the older man. ‘My father is dead. Murdered by the Sword Brothers. I ask you again: will you join me?’

Peeter was astounded to hear that Kalju was dead.

‘I had no idea, Kristjan. Please forgive me.’

Kristjan shrugged. ‘You have done nothing wrong, lord. It is the Sword Brothers who are to blame for my parents’ and my sisters’ deaths. I will avenge them. But will you avenge those Saccalians murdered by the Sword Brothers?’

‘That was different, Kristjan, that was war. We have made peace with the Bishop of Riga and Saccalia is free of strife and prospers.’

He placed a hand on the Ungannian’s shoulder and looked at him kindly.

‘There have been no Sword Brothers in Ungannia, Kristjan. Your grief has blinded you to the truth. How did your parents die?’

Kristjan looked at Father Dietmar. ‘The Sword Brothers used Christian magic to kill them, just as it will kill you if you let their wizards practise their black magic here. But you have a chance to throw off the Christian yoke. I have summoned Ungannia’s fighting men to my banner so we can wash our swords in Christian blood.’

Peeter shook his head. ‘The old ways will not return, Kristjan. Ungannia is free only because it has the protection of the Sword Brothers. In your heart you must know this.’

Kristjan smiled and placed his hand on top of the old man’s.

‘I knew that would be your answer.’

He held Peeter’s gaze as he pushed the point of the dagger into his armpit before whipping it back and thrusting it into the neck of the wolf shield sitting on his other side.

‘Now!’ he bellowed.

Inebriated Saccalians smiled dumbly as their guests pulled concealed daggers and began a stabbing frenzy. Some Saccalians were slumped at their tables, unconscious from drink, when their throats were slit; others died with confused looks on their faces. A handful tried to resist but were pounced on and had their faces and torsos reduced to bloody pulps. And suddenly it was over.

‘Get your weapons,’ ordered Kristjan as Peeter slumped in his chair, unable to move as blood pumped from his armpit. As slaves screamed and then fell silent as they too were killed, the Ungannians opened the doors to the hall and attacked the two guards standing outside. They then retrieved their swords, spears and shields that had been stacked on long benches either side of the doors. For it was common custom that guests did not take weapons into a host’s hall.

‘Secure the rest of the fort,’ commanded Kristjan as he strapped on his sword belt. His commander saluted and exited the hall with half a dozen warriors. Of the paltry garrison only a handful still lived and they were in the watchtowers. They would be speedily dealt with.

‘Kill the wives and children of these wretches,’ ordered Kristjan to another of his men. Another four warriors left the hall. He knew the slaves presented no threat and would already be cowering in some corner, praying to whatever gods they worshipped that their worthless lives would be spared. The other warriors dispersed to stand guard at the entrance to the hall and the doorway that led to the kitchens. Kristjan looked around at the blood-splattered corpses and smiled. His smile disappeared when he heard frantic whispering behind him and turned to see Father Dietmar on his knees clutching in his hands the wooden cross he wore around his neck. His eyes were closed as he recited prayers in a language Kristjan did not understand. He drew his sword, walked over to the priest and smashed the weapon’s hilt hard against the side of the priest’s face. Dietmar let out a squeal and crumbled to the floor, unconscious.

‘Heathen.’

Kristjan sheathed his sword and went back to the top table where the fatally wounded Peeter sat slumped in his chair. One side of his tunic was stained red and his life was slowly leaving him. Kristjan retook his seat and stared at the scene of mayhem in front of him.

‘They called my father “the rock” and that was what he was. They say that he was fearless in battle and a giant among men. But when he died he was a festering, diseased husk that barely resembled a person, let alone a man. And it was the same with my mother and sisters, whom I watched decay in front of my eyes.’

He looked at Peeter.

‘But do you know the worse thing? It was being helpless, like you are now. Being unable to do anything even though your mind is screaming at you to act. Well, I am going to act.

‘I have been told that the greatest gift a Christian can have is to die in the manner that his god, this Christ, met his end. Out of respect for your rank and reputation I grant you this wish. It is the least I can do.’

Kristjan strolled from the hall into the fort’s compound, passed the bodies of the women and children his men had butchered, to one of the watchtowers. Before he ascended the ladder to the top of the wall he ordered the gates to be opened. He walked to a tower with a shingle roof as the night was suddenly filled with bright dots that flooded from the forest to the east of the fort. He smiled to himself as the dots became larger and suddenly the area beyond the moat was filled with dozens of warriors carrying torches. His men in the towers began banging their shields against the ancient oak timbers as the warriors outside the fort ran up to the bridge and raised their shields and weapons when they saw their lord standing on the battlements. They then began shouting his name.

‘Kristjan, Kristjan,’ and he smiled to himself once more.

In the morning he sent men to the surrounding villages to kill any Christian priests and to announce that Kristjan had come to liberate them from the wicked foreign religion and the Sword Brothers. Carpenters from the closest settlement were brought to Fellin and ordered to build two crosses made of oak that were planted by the side of the lake to the south of the fort, but not until Peeter and Father Dietmar were nailed and lashed to them. Kristjan stood at the foot of the cross that Peeter was fixed to and watched the old man pass from this life. Because of his knife wound he expired after an hour on the cross. It took Father Dietmar longer to die and Kristjan thought his screaming and thrashing around when he was first nailed to the wood was most undignified. But after a while his only sounds were low moans and pathetic cries and after two days he made no noise at all.

The bodies were left to rot as a warning to those who might be tempted to practise black magic.

*****

The now depleted army that had saved Valdemar on Oesel and won Rotalia for the Sword Brothers was in high spirits as it continued its journey back to Wenden. It was traveling among the forests, lakes and meadows of Saccalia, a column of horses, ponies and mules slowly making its way home. The spring days were getting longer and though the sun showed itself, most days the constant breeze kept the temperature pleasant for men wearing mail and leather armour. Soon the army would reach the River Pala, not far from Lehola, where it would bid farewell to Sir Richard and his knights and levies.

‘I’m looking forward to seeing Lehola again,’ reflected the English lord. ‘It is a strange thing to have found peace in a land far from my own country.’

‘You will have to forgive the duke,’ said Squire Paul, ‘he has been at the wine and his tongue rambles.’

‘You are lucky you still have yours,’ remarked Sir Richard. ‘I should have cut it out years ago.’

Their bickering was endless but Conrad thought that they had great admiration for each other, notwithstanding the difference in status between them.

‘England is very different from Livonia and Estonia, your grace?’ enquired Conrad.

Once again he was riding in the company of the army’s commanders, Rudolf informing him it was only proper that as leader of the Army of the Wolf and now restored to his position as Marshal of Estonia he should ride with him, the other two masters and Sir Richard. Kaja, who had taken it upon herself to be a sort of personal standard bearer for Conrad, rode behind him carrying the banner that Rudolf had given him. Walter carried Wenden’s banner and the flags of Mathias and Bertram were carried behind the two masters, though Sir Richard still had no standard. They rode in the vanguard of the army, a score of Sir Richard’s lesser knights providing a thin outer screen and beyond them Saccalian scouts to guard against the army being attacked by an Oeselian war band or outlaws.

‘Different?’ said Squire Paul, answering for his lord. ‘It’s exactly the same. Always raining, winters that send the cold to burrow into your bones – and endless forests.’

‘For once my insolent squire speaks the truth,’ agreed Sir Richard. ‘But here life is less complicated.’

‘We make a new land here, your grace,’ said Walter solemnly, ‘a godlier place.’

‘Or god forsaken, depending on your point of view,’ mused Paul.

‘And you, Conrad,’ said Sir Richard, ‘what will you and your army do now that the Danes have ceded Estonia?’

‘That will be for the bishop to decide,’ answered Rudolf.

‘If he still lives,’ remarked Henke behind Walter.

‘The way you keep going on, Henke,’ said Rudolf, ‘anyone would think that you want the bishop to die.’

‘I’ve seen what the pox can do to a city, that’s all,’ Henke replied. ‘For all we know every citizen of Riga could be dead, which means that you are King of Livonia, Rudolf.’

‘
Master
Rudolf to you,’ Rudolf scolded him.

‘We should have killed that arrogant bastard Valdemar,’ stated Henke loudly.

‘He is a king anointed by God,’ said Walter, appalled that Henke should suggest murdering a sovereign.

‘We serve the King of kings,’ replied Henke, ‘or so Otto is always telling us. So I think that beats a measly king.’

Rudolf laughed and the other two masters smiled.

‘I do not think it works like that, Brother Henke,’ said Master Bertram.

‘Have it your own way,’ said Henke. ‘But Valdemar won’t forget the insults the Sword Brothers have dealt him and he will be back next year with a large army to seek retribution.’

‘In that I think you may be right, Brother Henke,’ said Master Mathias.

‘I did not insult him,’ insisted Rudolf, ‘I rescued him.’