Lamekins looked up. ‘Explain.’

  ‘People who are malnourished, lord duke, are highly susceptible to disease. In addition, to stay alive during periods of extreme food shortages, commoners are tempted to eat foods that have a detrimental affect on their health. Grains stored in damp huts, for example, can become infested with ergot, which is poisonous when eaten and can sometime be fatal. In the spring there may be many Kurs who are sick and malnourished.’

  ‘The strong will soon recover,’ said Tadas, ‘and the weak will die. It is the way of things.’

  ‘The strong will recover, it is true,’ said the old man, ‘but it will take time and may I remind you that in times of need, for example in an overcrowded village in winter, people will consume the fodder that had been set aside for the animals. This means that the livestock will either starve or, more likely, be slaughtered for food. This in turn means that each village will be deficient in animals to produce milk, which will lead to infants being malnourished.’

  Lamekins held up a hand. ‘I thank you for your diligence. You may go.’

  The old man bowed and retreated from the room, quietly closing the doors behind him.

  ‘Commoners have always perished during the winter,’ said Tadas dismissively, ‘we all know that.’

  Lamekins looked at his fierce commander of medium foot.

  ‘Except this winter is different, Tadas. This winter villages that had made preparations to live through the coldest months were suddenly inundated with extra mouths to feed due to the devastation visited upon western Kurland.’

  ‘Kurland needs time to recover,’ stated Gintaras.

  ‘Kurland needs victories,’ said Tadas. ‘In the spring we can raid Samogitia, Semgallia, even Aukstaitija and empty their villages of food and livestock.’

  Lamekins shook his head. ‘That will not solve the immediate problem. In the spring we will need food to distribute among the villages. Even if our raids were successful it would take weeks, perhaps months, to distribute the grain and livestock that we captured. It would be too late by then.’

  ‘May I suggest an alternative strategy, lord?’ said Torolf.

  All eyes turned towards the Kur diplomat. Lamekins nodded.

  ‘As soon as the ice on the Dvina melts boats of all sizes will be docking at Riga, unloading fish caught in the Baltic and livestock brought from Germany. I’m sure that the city merchants would be more than happy to sell us their food for gold, or amber, of which we have much.’

  Amber, the honey coloured gemstone washed up on the shores of the Baltic and which was also found in the bogs and lakes of Kurland, was known for its healing qualities and ability to ward off evil.

  ‘Why would the Christians be interested in amber?’ queried Lamekins.

  ‘Because, my lord,’ smiled Torolf, ‘they have an insatiable demand for anything that soothes their spirits and relieves the many ailments that afflict them. Besides, I believe that we may have information that will make Riga more than willing to trade with us.’

  Tadas curled his lip at the red-haired politician. He had little affection for a man whom he believed had undue influence in the kingdom. A man who had never tested his courage on the battlefield but instead dealt in intrigue and deception. Gintaras may have looked like an uncouth brute but he had a keener mind than Tadas and employed it now.

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting, Torolf, that the Christians are our enemies. Why would they consider dealing with us?’

  ‘Because we have something they would put a high price on,’ replied Torolf.

  ‘Which is?’ asked Lamekins.

  ‘Our knowledge of the forthcoming attack on Mesoten, great lord. If they knew that the other dukes were planning an attack then they could reinforce their stronghold.’

  Tadas was aghast. ‘Are you seriously suggesting that we betray the other dukes to the Christians?’

  Torolf’s face was a mask of calm. ‘To betray one enemy to another enemy? Absolutely.’

  ‘What do we get out of it?’ asked Valdas.

  Torolf smiled. ‘Time first and foremost, and the opportunity to be spectators to the Christians and other dukes slaughtering each other.’

  Gintaras was sceptical. ‘Will the Christians have forgotten that we raided Riga not so long ago? Or that we humiliated their bishop and his army at the Kandava Hills?’

  Lamekins went back to tracing patterns on the table with his finger.

  ‘Gintaras has a point.’

  ‘Let me go to Riga, lord,’ suggested Torolf, ‘and convince the Christians that it is in their interests to have Kurland as a friend rather than an enemy.’

  Lamekins raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you proposing that we become allies of the Christians?’

  ‘Never,’ hissed Tadas.

  Torolf held up his hands. ‘All I am suggesting is that there is an opportunity to manipulate factions to our advantage and we should take advantage of that opportunity.’

  Tadas flicked a dismissive hand at him and Valdas shook his head but Lamekins was not so quick to reject the ambassador’s proposal. He knew that Torolf was a skilled negotiator and a great asset to Kurland. Not as great as its army, of course, but Arturus had trusted him implicitly. He would do likewise.

  ‘You will go to Riga before the snows melt and inform the Christians that the other Lithuanian dukes are planning to wipe out their garrison at Mesoten. In return you will obtain a pledge from Riga that they will not mount any offensive operations against Kurland in the coming year. If the Christians agree then you are authorised to purchase the supplies we need from their merchants.’

  Tadas sighed loudly.

  ‘You have something to say, Tadas?’ enquired Lamekins.

  ‘If we reveal to the Christians that Mesoten is to be attacked there is nothing to stop them using the information to their advantage and giving us nothing in return.’

  ‘He is right, lord,’ concurred Valdas.

  ‘It is my task to ensure that the Christians return the favour,’ replied Torolf.

  ‘With weasel words?’ sneered Tadas.

  ‘As you say, Tadas,’ laughed Torolf. ‘You forget that the Christians are also in a weakened state, having lost their bishop, which has curtailed the supply of crusaders to Livonia. They will be grateful of our assistance, I think.’

  ‘Stress that we are negotiating from a position of strength, Torolf,’ ordered Lamekins.

  ‘I will not disappoint you, my lord.’

  *****

  It was a month after the Christians had celebrated the birth of Christ when Riga sent word that Archdeacon Stefan would agree to meet Ambassador Torolf and a further two weeks before the Kur crossed the Dvina to the city. The river was a ribbon of ice, frozen solid and whipped by a continuous eastern wind stinging the eyes and faces of all who ventured near it. Despite the cessation of river traffic until the ice melted there was a brisk trade ferrying passengers across the river, conducted by fishermen whose boats were laid up for the winter. They used lightweight toboggans called ‘butes’ to traverse the ice, their passengers paying a small fee to be pulled across the river. For the most part those making the journey were the men who garrisoned the small timber forts that went from the southern bank of the Dvina to the Sword Brother fort of Mesoten. They had originally been crusading lesser knights from Germany and had stayed on in the crusader kingdom because Bishop Albert had given them each land. Admittedly that land was in Semgallia, which was infested with pagans, but land was still land. All they had to do was rid northern Semgallia of pagans and they would be free to become lords in their own right. Those that lived.

  Until Semgallia was free of pagans they lived in the timber forts built at one-mile intervals from the river all the way to Mesoten, which was commanded by Master Ortwin. Originally there had been two hundred lesser knights to garrison the forts but incessant conflict had whittled down their numbers to one hundred and twenty.

  The fishermen turned ferrymen were greatly surprised when a red-haired Torolf, his frame and head wrapped in furs, presented himself at the river for passage across the ice-bound waterway. Accompanying him, as agreed with Riga, were a dozen Kur axe men. They too were well protected against the cold, their mitten-covered hands holding the fearsome two-handed broadaxes that were the stuff of legend. Waiting for them on the opposite side of the river was Manfred Nordheim and a detachment of the garrison of Riga. A horse had been provided for Ambassador Torolf for the short journey to the city and thence to the Bishop’s Palace.

  At the palace itself a nervous, fidgety Archdeacon Stefan snapped at a novice to heap more wood on the fire that was already raging in the hearth. Despite the wood panelling around the walls, rugs on the floor and the fire the archdeacon was shivering, though Volquin seated next to him suspected it was caused by fear rather than the cold.

  ‘Perhaps we should move the venue to one of the withdrawing chambers, archdeacon,’ suggested Volquin.

  Stefan’s eyes bulged in alarm. ‘Are you mad? To confine ourselves to a small chamber with Kurs; we could all be murdered before the guards could respond.’

  Volquin rolled his eyes and looked around the audience chamber, its walls lined with twenty soldiers, each one armed with a short spear, sword and dagger, wearing mail armour, iron helmet and carrying a shield. The latter were all painted red and bore the crossed keys symbol of Riga, as did the men’s red surcoats. It was all quite ridiculous.

  ‘Are you wearing your sword?’ bleated the archdeacon, passing the solid gold pectoral cross hanging from his neck from hand to hand.

  Volquin bit his lip to stop himself from laughing.

  ‘I sharpened it this very morning, archdeacon.’

  A novice carrying a tray of empty silver wine flagons tripped, dropping the drinking vessels on the floor and alarming Stefan, who jumped. Volquin hoped he would not soil his vestments in fear before the Kurs arrived, or after for that matter. When he had been informed that the new duke of the Kurs, Lamekins, wished to send his ambassador to Riga to discuss matters of mutual benefit to Livonia and Kurland Volquin had pressed Stefan to accept. Partly because his order was stretched thinly and he did not desire a full-blown war with the Kurs during the coming year, but also because he was intrigued by the Kurs, not least because they had shown themselves to be among the finest soldiers in the Baltic. Self-interest and curiosity was a powerful combination.

  ‘Idiot,’ Stefan barked at the novice. He waved forward the palace steward, an old monk who had been resident in his post for years.

  ‘You will be serving wine?’

  ‘The very best, archdeacon.’

  Stefan’s podgy face twisted into a frown. ‘Do not serve the best, it will be wasted on pagans.’

  The steward bowed his head and withdrew. Stefan called him back.

  ‘On second thoughts serve the best wine but in small cups. If I have to endure this meeting then I might as well be as comfortable as possible.’

  He looked at Volquin. ‘I hope I don’t live to regret your convincing me to organise this meeting, grand master.’

  Volquin was already regretting it. ‘It will be beneficial to Livonia, archdeacon, of that I am certain.’

  Before the archdeacon could demur Gunter, the dour-faced deputy commander of the city garrison, entered the chamber to announce that the Kurs had arrived. From outside came the sound of trumpets – a colour party to welcome Ambassador Torolf. Volquin’s idea. The grand master stood but Stefan remained seated.

  ‘It might be politic to receive our guests standing, archdeacon.’

  ‘What? I, I suppose.’

  He lifted his bulk from the cushioned-stuffed chair half a minute before Manfred Nordheim entered the chamber and stood to attention.

  ‘Lord Torolf,’ he announced, ‘ambassador to Duke Lamekins, Ruler of Kurland.’

  Torolf was all smiles when he entered, bowing to Archdeacon Stefan and then to Volquin.

  ‘Greetings, archdeacon,’ he beamed, ‘and to you Grand Master Volquin. It is a great honour to meet the Governor of Riga and the nephew of the late, great Bishop Albert.’

  His German was impeccable and his words and fawning put Stefan immediately at ease, notwithstanding the dozen bearded brutes in hide armour that filed into the chamber behind Torolf.

  ‘Wine, wine for our guest,’ ordered Stefan who smiled at Torolf and retook his seat. He extended an arm to indicate the ambassador should do the same, Torolf smiling and sitting on the plush cushions placed on the chair. His burly escort stood behind him and watched Manfred Nordheim walk round the table to stand behind Stefan.

  ‘Such formality,’ smiled the archdeacon, ‘bring benches for the ambassador’s soldiers, and refreshments as well. They must be famished and frozen.’

  Torolf brought his hands together.

  ‘I have heard of Riga’s generosity and hospitality and now witness it with my own eyes. My duke was right to approach you, Archdeacon Stefan, you who are known throughout Lithuania for your fortitude and courage.’

  Stefan visibly grew in stature as Torolf’s flattery embraced him. A novice placed small silver cups in front of him and the ambassador. He glared at the steward a few paces from the polished oak table they sat at.

  ‘What’s this?’

  The steward, confused, took a step forward. ‘Archdeacon?’

  ‘Is this how we treat honoured guests, with cups that resemble thimbles? Bring larger vessels fitting for such a momentous occasion.’

  Nordheim stared ahead, unblinking, and Volquin emitted a sigh. The steward barked orders at now nervous novices who rushed from the chamber. When they returned they brought silver-gilt wine flagons engraved with the keys insignia of Riga and adorned with swan-head handles. Stefan smiled as Torolf sipped at the wine from Italian vineyards, his eyes lighting up as the sweet liquid teased his taste buds. Volquin doubted the Kur had ever tasted such a drink.

  Stefan drank some wine and put down his flagon. ‘To business. How can we be of assistance?’

  ‘Archdeacon, grand master,’ began Torolf, ‘I will not insult your intelligence by pretending that Livonia and Kurland have been friends and allies.’

  ‘That’s putting it mildly,’ mused Volquin.

  ‘But with the death of Duke Arturus Kurland’s new leader, Duke Lamekins,’ continued Torolf, ‘believes that the time is right for more mutually agreeable relations between our peoples. In light of past conflicts he realises there is an issue of trust, which is why he has sent me with information he hopes will convince you of his sincerity in his desire for peace.’

  Volquin’s eyes narrowed. ‘What news?’

  ‘Concerning an assault against the Sword Brother garrison at Mesoten in the spring,’ replied Torolf.

  ‘The Lord protect us,’ said Stefan, who took a large gulp of wine.

  ‘The fort will be assaulted by a combined force of Semgallians, Samogitians, Aukstaitijans, Selonians and Nalsen,’ reported Torolf. ‘Duke Lamekins was invited to take part but declined.’

  Stefan regained his compose. ‘Ambassador, I find it difficult to believe that Prince Vsevolod would participate in such a venture.’

  Torolf sipped at his drink. ‘Excellent wine. You are right, excellency, Prince Vsevolod has no interest in making war on the Sword Brothers, especially as he has recently signed a treaty with Riga. However, he has agreed to let Prince Mindaugas recruit warriors among his kingdom for the attack on Mesoten.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Stefan.

  ‘Prince Mindaugas is the son-in-law of Prince Vsevolod,’ answered Torolf, ‘being married to the prince’s daughter Morta. Something of a hothead, he left the prince to fight beside Duke Ykintas, the leader of the Samogitian people.’

  ‘You are remarkably well informed about the intentions of the other dukes,’ said Volquin. ‘I thought the Kurs were the enemy of the other Lithuanian kingdoms.’

  ‘We are,’ agreed Torolf, ‘but in their desire to expel the Sword Brothers from Semgallia, Ykintas and Mindaugas had to secure peace with Kurland so they could direct what is left of their army against Master Ortwin. I trust he thrives.’

  Volquin could only admire this strange, red-haired man who spoke his language and had an unnerving knowledge of apparently everything.

  ‘Duke Viesthard,’ continued Torolf, ‘is in a weakened state, as is Ykintas and Mindaugas. And yet the fact that Duke Kitenis…’

  ‘Who?’ asked Stefan again.

  Torolf smiled, he was enjoying himself. ‘The leader of the Aukstaitijans, excellency, a man we worsted a few years ago but a leader still capable of summoning many thousands to his banner.

  ‘Where was I? Oh, yes. Well, if he joins with the others and Mindaugas recruits well in Selonia and Nalsen then Master Ortwin will be in a most unenviable position.’

  ‘That was an understatement,’ thought Volquin.

  ‘However,’ continued Torolf, ‘the fact that Duke Lamekins has provided you with this information will allow the Sword Brothers to reinforce its garrison and repel any assault against Mesoten.’

  ‘And what does the duke want in return?’ queried Stefan.

  ‘A one-year cessation of hostilities between Riga and Kurland and a promise from you that Kur merchants are allowed to trade in Riga’s markets unmolested.’

  ‘If the attack on Mesoten takes place,’ said Volquin.

  ‘You can be sure that it will,’ stated Torolf.

  ‘If,’ stressed Volquin, ‘the attack takes place, does Duke Lamekins guarantee no Kur warriors will participate.’

  ‘Duke Lamekins has no interest in the affairs of the other dukes,’ confirmed Torolf, ‘and nor does he have any desire to send his warriors north of the Dvina.’

  ‘We are grateful for that,’ said Stefan, remembering the terror that had seized him when the Kurs had raided Riga’s docks. ‘As the Governor of Riga and the acting head of the Holy Church in Livonia, I hereby grant the merchants of Kurland freedom to trade in Riga and its environs. Furthermore, you can inform Duke Lamekins that Riga is happy to agree to a temporary cessation of hostilities between Livonia and Kurland.’

  ‘Though any aggression will make any such agreement invalid,’ Volquin hastened to add.