CHAPTER 17:
ON THE MARCH
“I have some concerns about your plan,” Hermann of Dorpat said as he reined his horse beside Kristaps. The Prince-Bishop wore a heavy cloak, trimmed with white fur; beneath it, Kristaps could see the glint of maille. The familiar outline of a sword disturbed the trailing edge of the cloak.
“So you’ve said,” the First Sword of Fellin replied, returning his gaze to the line of men marching out of Pskov. He wondered if the Prince-Bishop had ever drawn his sword in combat or if the maille had ever felt the bite of a blade.
“Pskov was our foothold in the north. Giving it up is tantamount to fleeing.”
Kristaps let his gaze roam over the city under discussion. He and the Prince-Bishop were observing the movement of the Teutonic army from a hillock less than a mile from the southern gate. Dawn had come less than an hour before, and the tendrils of smoke still rising from the smoldering fires were pale threads against the lightening sky. “Are we fleeing?” he asked the Prince-Bishop. When Hermann shook his head angrily, Kristaps shrugged. “Then why do you come to me and suggest that we are?”
Hermann flushed, and his hands jerked at the reins of his horse. “I have heard that you intend to recall our men from Izborsk and Koporye as well.”
Kristaps nodded. The Prince-Bishop’s consternation suddenly made more sense. Hermann of Dorpat had stood by when he had given the orders to ravage Pskov, and the Prince-Bishop had opened his coffers to provide the necessary coin to entice the mercenaries even to meet with them at the church. He had not said anything when Kristaps had sent word to the quartermasters that the army would march as soon as possible. Only now, when the men were on the move, did the Prince-Bishop have concerns that he needed to voice.
Izborsk and Koporye.
Most of the distain Kristaps had shown for Hermann’s efforts in the north was in regards to the Prince-Bishop’s lack of initiative in the last few years. When the Teutonics had first invaded the Ruthenian lands, they had done so with measureable success, taking and holding both Izborsk and Koporye. Conquering those cities had been victories that reminded Kristaps of Volquin’s strategic method of bringing down an enemy piecemeal. And the occupation of Pskov had been a fierce blow to Novgorod, but the Prince-Bishop had failed to take advantage of the impetus provided by these victories. He had wintered in Pskov, and once his men had stopped moving forward, it had been easy to stay put.
But Rus would not give itself to the Teutonic crusaders simply because Pskov and a few other garrisons had been taken, and Rome wanted all of Novgorod. It was akin to being asked to capture an entire herd of wild horses and bringing only three stallions back.
“What good are garrisons in those cities if we fail to best Nevsky in the field?” he asked the Prince-Bishop.
Hermann scowled at Kristaps, offering no answer to the question posed to him. He jabbed the heels of his boots sharply against his horse’s barrel and left Kristaps to watch the Teutonic army march alone.
The crux of the difference between the two men lay in the unanswered question. Hermann of Dorpat was a cautious man. His brother, Albert, had founded the city of Riga and built a cathedral there, earning the eternal gratitude of Rome. Hermann, who had been given his brother’s title when Albert had died, did not want to live within the shadow of his brother’s accomplishments, but Kristaps did not see how it was possible for Hermann to eclipse Albert. He simply did not have the same fire.
And what of the young Novgorodian prince who had beaten a Swedish army at Neva, the upstart commander who had instantly become a hero of the people after that victory? Would a cautious man like Hermann of Dorpat have any chance against a man like that?
A cautious man would wait for his enemy to give him an opportunity to attack, but there would be no such opportunity. Not unless it was created.
Pskov was a wound, a bleeding injury that the people of Rus could not ignore. The boyars of Novgorod would be frightened and they would call upon Nevsky to protect them. Nevsky wouldn’t ignore them—not when they reached out to him like that—and he would show them, as well as the rest of Rus, that he was their one true champion.
For an instant, staring at the sullen walls of Pskov, he was reminded of the walls of Petraathen, and he clenched his teeth at the intrusive memory. A stray gust of wind buffeted his horse, and the animal shook its head in protest, eager to be moving.
Aye, he thought, tapping his heels lightly against the sides of his horse. He did not care for this land. It reminded him too often of the mountains around Petraathen, of the wild people who were scattered throughout the Carpathians and their pagan myths. It reminded him of Schaulen, and while he was loath to admit such a fear, he longed for the day when the memory of Schaulen did not haunt him.
A second gust of wind buffeted Kristaps, and when he looked over his shoulder at Pskov, he almost fancied that the rising tendrils of smoke were twining about one another, forming the twisted branches of a tree. But when he blinked, the branches were gone, and there was nothing above Pskov but a grey haze of death and despair.
Muttering a curse at the wind and the land alike, Kristaps turned his back to Pskov and rode after the Prince-Bishop. At Schaulen, he had been forced to run. In Kiev, he had been forced to run. Years ago, at Petraathen, he had run. I will run no more, he warned the demons that lurked in the dark corners of his heart. This time, it is you who will run from me.
Their route was north and east of Pskov, a circuitous route to Novgorod, but one that allowed time for Nevsky to marshal a response to what he had done in Pskov. They also needed to gather the garrisons from Izborsk and Koporye, and one of the final messages Kristaps had received in Pskov before departing had mentioned the arrival of the boats belonging to the sons of Valdemaar. Danish marauders—long-standing villains in the eyes of the Ruthenians, but such enmity meant only that they were the perfect allies. His request for their assistance had been met with equal parts suspicion and wonder, more so when he had made it clear he cared little for any plunder the Danes might acquire during their campaign. Help me break Novgorod, he had written. I care naught for the rest.
It was not his land, and when it was conquered, he would not be the one who would have to administer it. That was the dreadful responsibility of someone like Hermann, who, for clearly prideful reasons, wanted that yoke. The more the people were traumatized, beaten into a state of ready submission, the more readily they would cling to whatever order was given to them. He found such obsequiousness somewhat ironic. It was not as if their own boyars were any kinder as rulers. Kings and princes spent their entire reigns waging provincial wars over such slights as the theft of daughters or fish or furs. While in Pskov, he had learned that the Veche of Novgorod sent out an army every year against the heathen nomads who roamed the northern mountains, brutalizing them until they gave up their yearly tribute of furs. His Teutonic army was just another oppressor.
The few villages they passed were already abandoned, the people fleeing for Novgorod, and he did not allow the army to tarry. They had a decent supply train, and there was no plunder worth taking in these ramshackle villages. It wasn’t that he felt pity for these desperate people; he simply had no interest in the distraction that would be caused by allowing the men time to pillage the empty homes. Let them think we are merciful, he had said with a laugh.
Mid-afternoon, his scouts spotted a column of smoke among the trees and Kristaps took a company of knights to investigate. Hermann insisted on accompanying them, and while Kristaps could think of several reasons why he should have stayed with the main column, he said nothing as the Prince-Bishop and a small contingent of his bodyguard joined his riders.
Nor did he say anything when they discovered the village overrun by a party of yellow-haired marauders, who were systematically looting and burning each building. The sudden presence of the mounted knights created a stir, but the Danish invaders did not appear overly concerned. A trio of blood-spattered men approached the Teutonic company.
Hermann positioned himself in the center of the front line of knights. “Who are you?” he demanded. “What are you doing?”
Kristaps thought the answer to the second question was fairly obvious.
“Who are you?” the middle of the three Danes replied, equally nonplussed about the second question.
“Hermann of Dorpat, the Prince-Bishop of Riga, and you are…you are…” Hermann sputtered angrily, trying to find words to express his confusion and outrage.
“They are Danes,” Kristaps said, nudging his horse toward the front of the company. “And they were invited.”
“Aye,” the Dane replied with a wide grin. “That we were.”
“What?” Hermann exploded.
“I invited them,” Kristaps said. “Are the sons of Valdemaar among you?” he asked the Danes.
“Valdemaar is king no longer,” the Dane said. “Our brother, Eric Ploughpenny, is now king in Denmark.”
“My condolences to the sons of Valdemaar,” Kristaps said, “and my congratulations to the Ploughpenny family.”
One of the other two Danes spat on the ground and was rudely elbowed by the spokesman. “You are the one who called for us?” he said to Kristaps. “I would have your name.”
“I am Kristaps, the First Sword of Fellin. Once I was Volquin’s Dragon,” Kristaps said.
The Dane nodded. “I have heard of you.” He hooked a thumb at the spitter. “This is Thorvald, and that one is Illugi. I am Svend.”
Kristaps leaned on the horn of his saddle. “How many of you are there, Svend?”
“One thousand fighting men,” Svend replied proudly.
Kristaps glanced over at Hermann, who was staring angrily at him. “And have you met much resistance during your march?” he asked.
Svend laughed and gestured at the wreckage of the village behind him. “This? This is but an idle afternoon’s work. Barely worth descending from a horse for.”
“They’re fleeing for Novgorod,” Illugi offered.
Kristaps nodded. “The Veche has put out the call for the militia then, and the families have fled for the safety of the city walls. Novgorod is building its army, though it will be filled with farmers and fur-traders. They will not be equipped to fight men such as you and me.”
“Who is?” Svend laughed. “Come,” he said, waving Kristaps forward. “We have raided their winter stores. There is some mead still. I would have you meet my lord. He will, I am certain, be eager to discuss the storming of Novgorod.”