‘Now.’

  Sword in hand he spurred his horse forward, his men following, iron-shod hooves clattering along the log-paved street and on to the bridge’s planks. The nuns and monks hurriedly moved aside as the dozens of black-clad horsemen galloped towards them, the boyar sitting open-mouthed on his horse as his servant ran for his life. The boyar’s mouth was still open as Kristjan and his men thundered past him, Lord Murk’s followers giving him hard stares but letting him live as his sword remained in its scabbard.

  Mongrel and Skinner were already on the walls above the gates, both now stringing arrows in their bows as the riders left the bridge and galloped along the short expanse of road leading to the Kremlin’s gates. The ringing of alarm bells greeted Kristjan as he pulled up his horse and surveyed the inside of the Kremlin, the first time an enemy had ever done so. He saw the magnificent white-walled Saint Sophia’s cathedral and spat at it, observed the large number of small and medium-sized wooden buildings and churches that surrounded it and let his eyes settle on the palace opposite the cathedral. From where soldiers ran to form up in front of the wooden steps leading to the palace’s main entrance. He laughed and kicked his horse towards them. His men followed, screaming blood-curdling war cries as they levelled their spears and charged.

  The garrison of the Kremlin was not large, there was no need to stuff it full of troops because the majority of the soldiery was stationed at the city’s gates and in the watchtowers along its walls. The guards manning the Kremlin’s walls and palace had little to do except pace the ramparts and stand like statues within the palace, nothing more. Until today.

  The line of guards being frantically marshalled into position wore green tunics, blue leggings with gaiters around their lower legs. Each man wore a simple iron helmet and carried an almond-shaped shield sporting a black eagle. Over his tunic he wore a mail cuirass and was armed with a sword and dagger. Their commander had no time to order his men to draw their swords before Kristjan’s men were on them.

  Many leapt from their saddles to wrestle a man to the ground before bludgeoning him with an axe; others threw their spears that went through the wooden shields and skewered arms or torsos. A few riders rode straight through the line of guards and cantered up the steps to fight other guards coming from the palace. Kristjan was on his feet, dodging sword thrusts, feinting left and driving the point of his own blade into his opponent’s left thigh. The Russian shouted in pain, stumbled and had the side of his exposed neck opened by the edge of Kristjan’s sword.

  ‘On, on,’ he called as his men killed the first line of guards, dismounted and followed their leader up the steps.

  More and more guards came from the palace to form a tight phalanx of men, numbering around fifty or more. They inched forward with shields facing Kristjan’s men and then stopped as the Kremlin echoed with the shouts and hurrahs of hundreds. Even Kristjan and his men halted and turned when they heard the ferment, to see the hungry and desperate charge through the Kremlin’s gates. They were a miserable example of humanity, threadbare, skinny and pathetic. Some hobbled so emaciated and weakened had they become during the city’s famine. But many had been fed when Kristjan had broken into the granary and others, hearing stories of Lord Murk, had joined the throng gathered outside his residence, followed him and his men to the river and across the bridge into the fabled Kremlin. A rumour had spread like wildfire that he was going to break into an even bigger granary, one that was capable of feeding the entire city. The army of the starving swarmed into the Kremlin and headed for the palace, mistaking it for a granary.

  Kristjan shouted in triumph. ‘With me.’

  He raced forward as the first of the hungry reached the steps. They carried no weapons, only the hope that their bellies would be filled. Within minutes the phalanx of guards was surrounded and pushed back. Rostislav rushed from the palace with an entourage of young boyars, screaming at his guards to kill Kristjan, his men, in fact anyone he caught sight of. But it was his men who were being killed, butchered by Kristjan’s band of hunters and killers.

  Tusk heaved a Russian above his head, hollered a war cry that was loud enough to raise the dead, released him and at the same time went down on one knee so the man fell on his thick upper leg. The guard’s back broke with a snap and the body rolled off Tusk’s leg and on to the logs. The giant rose, looked at a fresh-faced boyar and beckoned him forward, licking his lips in expectation of taking his young life. The young man fled before him. And then Kristjan was standing in front of Rostislav, his blade covered with blood and eyes full of fire. Rostislav, for all his depravities, did not want for courage and readied himself to fight the scarred, clean-shaven warrior in front of them. But a new sound made both men stop in their tracks; indeed made everyone turn. The trumpet blasts and banging of drums coming from the gates.

  A new army had entered the Kremlin.

  The starving throng had been a pitiful sight but these horsemen were wondrous to behold, the spring sun glinting off their whetted spear points and gleaming armour. These were the cream of the city’s Druzhina and were uniformed accordingly. On their heads they wore pointed helmets with integral nasal guards called shishaks, with chainmail attached to the bottom edge of the helmet hanging down to the shoulders and back and wrapped under the chin to protect the neck and throat in an arrangement called barmitsa. To protect the torso each man wore a lamellar armour cuirass of rectangular iron plates linked together first horizontally and then vertically. Their shields, almond shaped protecting each horsemen from the chin to the knee, were covered with hide, bound with iron around the edge and painted red.

  Yaroslav Nevksy rode his horse up the palace steps and interposed himself between Kristjan and Rostislav.

  ‘Put your swords away,’ he commanded.

  Relief swept over Rostislav’s face. ‘Lord Nevksy, your arrival is most timely.’ He pointed at Kristjan. ‘Arrest him and his deluded followers.’

  An angry murmur came from the ranks of the hungry mass and Kristjan’s men closed around their leader. Yaroslav’s horsemen levelled their lances.

  ‘Hold,’ commanded the Thousandman. The air crackled with tension as he dismounted.

  ‘Blasphemer!’

  The deep voice of Archbishop Spyridon shot through the air as he walked forward at the head of a knot of his priests, some carrying a few of the icons of Novgorod: the Virgin Mary, the Adoration of the Cross, Saint Nicholas and the Annunciation. The archbishop pointed a finger at Mikhail’s son.

  ‘It is you who should be arrested, you who are an affront to all that is good and holy. You who have turned this holy city into a latter-day Sodom.’

  Kristjan and his men stared, bemused, as this old man in a skirt berated the leader of the city.

  Rostislav paced towards the archbishop, fury on his face, but stopped dead when Yaroslav whipped his sword from its scabbard and pressed the point against his throat.

  ‘The Council of Lords has decided that you and your sister..’

  ‘Sister?’ interrupted Spyridon. ‘Harlot, more like.’

  ‘You and your sister will leave this city,’ said Yaroslav forcefully. ‘I am assuming command of the Kremlin. You and your followers have one day to depart Novgorod.’

  ‘And go where?’ asked Rostislav pathetically.

  ‘To hell where you belong,’ spat Spyridon.

  Rostislav backed away from the sword point and looked at Kristjan.

  ‘What about him? He broke into a royal granary and has assaulted the Kremlin.’

  ‘The Council of Lords will deal with Lord Murk,’ replied Yaroslav sternly. ‘Guards!’

  Half his horsemen dismounted, some securing the doors to the palace, others beginning the disarming of its guards and the rest forming an escort around Rostislav.

  ‘My men will ensure that you are not harmed, Prince Rostislav, and also that you and your sister do not tarry in the palace.’

  He nodded to his deputy who manhandled a protesting Rostislav away.

  ‘Make way, make way.’

  Kristjan turned to see an old man in even older armour, his hair and beard snow white, pushing his way through his and Yaroslav’s men. He caught sight of Rostislav being bundled away.

  ‘You will let him live?’

  Yaroslav sheathed his sword. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Pity.’

  Pavel Tverdislavich turned to the archbishop and bowed his head.

  ‘Your eminence.’

  He next looked at Kristjan.

  ‘Is this him?’

  Yaroslav nodded.

  ‘Do you know what you have done?’ Pavel asked Kristjan sternly. ‘You have stolen food from a royal granary, incited an armed insurrection against the appointed ruler of Novgorod and brought about his expulsion from the city. And what are you? A pagan.

  ‘I salute you.’

  Pavel threw back his head and roared with laughter. Kristjan’s men did the same and the crowd of the hungry began to cheer, though at what they did not know. Kristjan relaxed and even cracked a smile.

  Pavel looked at his bloody sword. ‘Are you going to run me through or put it away?’

  Kristjan wiped the blade on his tunic sleeve and slid it back in its scabbard. Pavel put an arm around his shoulders and walked Kristjan away from the disapproving stares of Spyridon and his priests. Boar gave the order for his men to put away their weapons.

  ‘I think it would be best if you and your men withdraw from the Kremlin,’ said Pavel, ‘the archbishop gets upset if pagans get too close to his cathedral.’

  ‘What about them?’ asked Kristjan, tilting his head at the throng of the hungry.

  Pavel stopped and scratched his beard. Then a mischievous glint appeared in his eye.

  ‘Your Eminence,’ he called, ‘just as Our Lord fed the five thousand with a few loaves and fishes perhaps you and your priests could open the palace granary and extend the hand of compassion to your flock.’

  The words were instantly picked up by the crowd beginning to shuffle forward to thank the archbishop and his priests, who were soon surrounded by a sea of expectant faces.

  ‘That should keep him quiet for a while,’ said Pavel. ‘So, how did a godless pagan become a wealthy citizen of Novgorod?’

  Kristjan liked the old man for his forthright nature, a rarity among Christians, and told him his story as the hungry remained in the Kremlin to be fed by the church and Boar took the men back to Hoidja’s mansion. Yaroslav remained in the Kremlin to overseer the removal of Prince Rostislav and his supporters. The next day Kristjan was summoned to a meeting of the Council of Lords where he was offered membership of the veche on condition that he be baptised into the Orthodox faith. He refused. Kristjan had no interest in the city’s church or its politics but the people of Novgorod had a new hero. For its part the Council of Lords was grateful that Lord Murk had done its dirty work for them.

  *****

  The Lateran Palace cloister was a place of meditation and silence. In the centre of the small garden stood an ancient well and near it, laid in the well-tended grass, was a porphyry slab that had come from the Holy Land and was the surface on which Roman soldiers had cast lots for Christ’s robes during his crucifixion. The surrounding stonework had been recently completed and had taken the great sculptor Pietro Vasseletto fifteen years to finish. It was worth the wait. Graceful double twisted columns of inlaid marble and delicate arches surrounded the garden, with stone reliefs in the triangular spaces between them. Above the arches were jewel-like mosaics incorporating white and green marble and porphyry. Stone lions and sphinxes decorated the entrance to the garden, which today had only one occupant.

  Pope Gregory sat on the stone bench with his eyes closed, appreciating the quiet and aroma of the freshly watered grass. He opened them when he sensed a presence. William of Modena bowed his head.

  ‘Forgive me, Holy Father, for disturbing you.’

  Gregory extended his right hand. William went down on one knee and kissed the gold ring on the Pope’s finger. The Ring of the Fisherman, so called because the Pope was the successor to Saint Peter, who was a fisherman by trade, was always gold and a new one was cast for each new pontiff. The old one was ceremoniously crushed upon his death before a group of cardinals.

  ‘Sit with me, William.’

  The cardinal sat on the stone bench and looked around at the arches and mosaics.

  ‘This cloister is a fitting addition to the Lateran, Holy Father.’

  Gregory grunted. ‘You have been acquainted with the situation in Livonia?’

  ‘Yes, Holy Father, a most regrettable state of affairs.’

  ‘I have sent Baldwin of Alna to the south to recruit an army with which he may establish justice in that land. The north German lords are too fond of the Sword Brothers, I think, to be vigorous participants in a war against them.’

  William was troubled. ‘The Papacy makes war upon the Sword Brothers?’

  ‘According to Baldwin the Sword Brothers will support the Marshal of Estonia, one of their own. The merchants of Riga are more interested in trading with the apostate Russians and the natives, though they be baptised into the Holy Church, are not to be trusted, so he tells me.’

  William shook his head. ‘I do not wish to contradict the wishes of the Holy See…’

  ‘Speak freely, William,’ the Pope told him. ‘We are all equal in the eyes of God. You are my principal diplomat, your advice is most welcome.’

  ‘I cannot believe the Marshal of Estonia is a heretic, Holy Father. During my time in Estonia I spent much time talking with him and his lords. I found a brave and pious man, not the individual alluded to in the correspondence of Archdeacon Stefan.’

  Gregory smiled. ‘Ah, yes, Archdeacon Stefan, the speck of dust in my eye.’

  ‘Holy Father?’

  ‘What would be your estimation of the Governor of Riga?’ asked Gregory. ‘Please do not answer as a diplomat.’

  ‘Speaking candidly,’ said William, ‘I found him to have a mischievous nature, erring towards deviousness. He has become a powerful man in his own right, not only because of his position as deputy to the Bishopric of Riga but also because he is Governor of Riga and a close associate of the Higher Burgomaster of that city. Not to mention his membership of the Buxhoeveden family.’

  Gregory nodded his head gently. ‘And that is the dilemma we are faced with, William. The Papacy cannot afford to alienate Saxony’s most powerful family, especially with the emperor being the volatile individual he is.’

  Emperor Frederick had been excommunicated by Gregory twice, the first time for failing to uphold his promise to crusade in the Holy Land, the second time for going on crusade after being excommunicated and therefore being unfit to represent the Holy Church on crusade. But Frederick was young and powerful, having lands in southern Italy, Sicily and Germany and so he went to the Holy Land anyway. He negotiated with the Saracens with some success, being crowned King of Jerusalem and retuning home a hero to many, a villain to some. So incensed had Gregory been with the emperor’s behaviour that he had ordered an army to be raised to invade Frederick’s southern Italian lands. But the emperor speedily defeated it and put its leaders on trial. The war had come to an end with William of Modena brokering a peace treaty between the Pope and the emperor, a peace that had thus far held.

  ‘The Buxhoeveden family can make much mischief in northern Germany if provoked,’ continued Gregory, ‘and I have no desire to fight a war against them and the emperor at the same time should Frederick decide that the Holy See has been weak in its dealings with the Sword Brothers.’

  He looked at William. ‘You see how I am dragged into the machinations of Christendom’s kings and powerful dynasties.’

  ‘Is Baldwin of Alna the right man to command an army against the Sword Brothers, Holy Father? They are not the Cathars, who were in open rebellion against the Holy Church.’

  Gregory gave him a knowing look. ‘You are right in that the Sword Brothers are not in rebellion but of late the military orders have forgotten that they are servants of the Holy Church. The Templars and Hospitallers in the Holy Land and the Teutonic Knights in Prussia have all shown an alarming tendency to ignore the wishes of Rome. If the Sword Brothers are chastised it will remind the others that they are warriors of Christ and not lords in their own right.

  ‘As for Baldwin, he has a German, the Duke of Narva, to raise and command his soldiers. You know of him?’

  ‘I know him,’ replied William. ‘I met him at Reval when that place was still under Danish jurisdiction.’

  ‘Which is useful if Baldwin prevails,’ interjected Gregory, ‘because if the Sword Brothers are defeated then Reval can be returned to King Valdemar of Denmark, its rightful owner.’

  ‘And if Baldwin loses, Holy Father?’

  ‘It is all in God’s hands now, William. It is He who will decide whether Baldwin or the Sword Brothers prevail.’

  Chapter 10

  Seven years of dedication, sacrifice, courage and hard graft had brought them to this point. Conrad could barely contain his smile as he walked up and down the assembled novices in Odenpah’s inner stronghold. They had been teenage boys when they had come to him. Now they were men and not just any men. Just as a sculptor takes a piece of marble and chisels the thing of beauty he sees within it so had he, Hans and Sergeant Werner turned the young novices into soldiers, soon to become brother knights and sergeants.

  Bishop Hermann had kept his promise that he would create Odenpah’s garrison, notwithstanding that the recruits were all Estonians rather than nobles, the sons of nobles or townsmen from Germany. The bishop had come to Odenpah to undertake the role of a lowly chaplain in the induction ceremony. But he was not alone. The creation of a dozen brother knights and forty sergeants at one ceremony was a thing unheard of among the Sword Brothers, the more so because all of them were former pagan Estonians. So Grand Master Volquin had also come to the fort to witness it, accompanied by Master Rudolf. From Dorpat came Master Walter with the bishop and from Lehola Sir Richard, Duke of Saccalia. Sir Paul was also invited and he and his former lord enjoyed a heart-warming reunion, while outside the walls of Odenpah were pitched the pavilions of Hillar, Riki and Andres. It was as well that the fort was large because every stable and hut was needed to accommodate the many that had flocked to Odenpah to witness the ceremony. They came also to support the Marshal of Estonia who had been the victim of a terrible injustice, from which God or the gods, whatever one’s beliefs, had mercifully delivered him.