The Mongoliad: Book One

CHAPTER 30: PILGRIMS’ PROGRESS

No place could be less like Jerusalem than the one they were riding into now. Yet as they entered the gates of the priory on the top of the hill in Kiev, Raphael could not help thinking of the day a dozen years earlier when he had ridden into Jerusalem a few lengths behind Frederick II, the Holy Roman Emperor and author of the Sixth Crusade. For Jerusalem too had thrown open her gates without a fight. The martial orders of Christendom—the Teutonic Knights, the Templars, the Hospitallers, and the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae—had all sent contingents. Buffing their armor, grooming their horses, and unfurling their most glorious banners, they strove to outshine one another in the eyes of the locals—Muslims, Jews, and Christians—who had lined Frederick’s route from St. Stephen’s Gate to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

The Shield-Brethren, who styled themselves after the Spartans, tended to come off quite poorly in such displays, and so had probably made little impression upon the crowd. Which was acceptable—preferable, even—to Raphael and the dozen brothers who had ridden alongside him under the Order’s red rose banner. Less attention from the common folk of Zion gave them more leisure to observe the city and the rival orders of Christian knights who were now reoccupying the place after four decades’ absence.

The Knights Hospitallers, for one, who had ridden into Jerusalem at the right hand of Frederick II in their black surcoats adorned with silver crosses. After paying their respects at the Holy Sepulchre, they reoccupied the Hospital of St. John, which, in its original conception, had been a hostel for pilgrims who had traveled from the West to visit the tomb of Our Lord. Its martial proprietors had since learned that succoring pilgrims was a complicated business that extended beyond merely giving them food and shelter. For what good were those amenities if they could not travel safely on the roads?

It was impossible for Raphael not to think of that day as he entered the Shield-Maidens’ nunnery-cum-fortress and saw the sick and the lame distributed about its courtyard on straw pallets. They were being tended to by the good sisters in their white wimples. These nuns had learned the same lesson as the Crusaders at the Hospital of St. John: protecting the meek required a judicious combination of bandages, simples, and sympathy on the one hand, and brute armed force on the other.

The Shield-Maidens were amply qualified to supply the latter. These were the descendants of Norsewomen who had drawn inspiration from tales of Valkyries and the skjalddis. Like all the other Varangians who had migrated down the great rivers of Rus, they had gradually become one with the local population, adopting their Slavic language and their Greek alphabet. But Raphael could plainly see ancient links to his Order in many details of their arms and armor, their movements, and their discipline.

Since they had so much in common, and since Vera and Illarion could both translate freely between Latin and Ruthenian, conversation flowed easily once they had been formally welcomed, introductions had been made, and they’d been given a tour of the little fortress. Eventually they found themselves seated around a great old table in the keep, quaffing mead and eating coarse black bread dipped in honey.

“This country has fallen under a great mortality, as you have seen plainly enough,” Vera explained, reading the astonishment in their faces when the food was brought out. “But bees live, flowers grow, and farmers till their fields, and we are able to sustain ourselves on what they bring us. In exchange, we tend to their sick and offer them some meager protection.”

“By what miracle,” Illarion asked, “did you escape destruction at the hands of the Mongols?”

“You are almost too shrewd in the way you phrase your question,” Vera retorted, giving him a sharp look that made Raphael glad he’d not been on its receiving end.

She was a big-boned woman who in some more fortunate country might have ended up as a strapping, plump milkmaid, blundering about a dairy with heavy buckets yoked to her broad shoulders. Austerity had made her lean and revealed cheekbones that owed more to the steppes than the fjords. A similar tale was told by the color of her eyes and of her hair, which hung just above her shoulders when she swept it back from her head—just the right length to fit under an arming cap but not get tangled between the steel links of an aventail.

“I am not trying to be shrewd,” Illarion said, “only to—”

“The wretched people of Kiev, living below in the ruins, are inclined to view it as a miracle, and we see no advantage in telling them otherwise,” Vera said, cutting him off. “As you rightly ken, we could not have withstood the Mongols, even had we all fought to the death. Instead we fought them enough to slow their advance and to become an irritant. They had already taken Kiev, and when their strategy is calling them on at a gallop over the sea of grass, it is not their practice to spend months staying in one place to root out every last pocket of resistance. This place looks like a church; they don’t like to destroy churches. It is defended by women; in maintaining a long siege, they saw little honor and less glory—as well as danger that they might suffer mockery and humiliation if they were unable to defeat us quickly.”

“And so they passed you by,” Illarion said, nodding.

Strength was returning to Raphael’s body as he ate the bread and honey, and close on its heels came the sorts of feelings that had long been suppressed by cold, dirt, hardship, and the company of men. He began to look at Vera in the timeless manner of men looking at women and saw that smallpox had left a trail of shallow craters in the hollows of her cheeks and extending down the sides of her neck, without really disfiguring her. And it had spared the eyes. Seeming to feel his gaze on her, she turned her head quite deliberately and looked him straight in the eye. It was not a demure look, of course. He’d not have expected any such thing from a Shield-Maiden. Neither was she telling him to drop dead. She was just letting him know that if he looked at her, she would look back. He did the only polite thing, which was to avert his gaze and concede the point with a smile.

“So we were not extirpated,” Vera concluded, gesturing at the bread and honey, “and so we have continued to survive. But of communication with the rest of Christendom there has been almost none. Rumors only of great battles, won by the Mongols. What news from your Order? Does Petraathen still stand? Or are you wandering strays, like these others?”

These others. She was talking about the Livonian Knights.

Raphael’s mind went back again to Jerusalem. A formation of Teutonic Knights had entered the city just behind the much smaller Shield-Brethren contingent. They were a younger order, but they had fared better in recent decades, being based out of Acre—a city still under Christian dominance—rather than Jerusalem, which had fallen to Saladin forty-two years earlier. They had put on a better show in the parade, making a much stronger impression on the locals than the Shield-Brethren. Their presence in the Holy Land had dwindled soon thereafter as they had moved north to pursue crusades along the eastern border of Europe, where Christianized kingdoms abutted pagan-held lands.

A few years ago, the Teutonic Knights had assimilated the remnants of another crusading order—the Livonian Brothers of the Sword. The Livonians had been scattered by a pagan army, their grandmaster and most of their knights slain. The surviving Livonians had accepted the authority of the Teutonic Knights’ grandmaster and discarded their traditional heraldry—a red cross and sword—for the black cross of the Teutonics.

“These strays…” Percival said, leaning forward to grab another slice of the thick bread. “It was our understanding that the Livonian Order was no more. Had we known…”

“You would have ridden to rescue us?”

“Of course not.” Percival shook his head, deftly avoiding the trap that lay before him. “We would have sent word.”

“If they had been more adroit, we might have let them in the gates and ended up wishing that such a warning had reached us,” Vera countered. “As it was, word of their arrogance and vainglory preceded them by several days, and so we knew what to expect. When Kristaps, their leader, presented himself at our doorstep, he spoke true to form. He offered to relieve us of the burden of defending this place and proposed to supply us with duties more befitting the weaker sex.”

“I’m sure that went over well,” Raphael snorted. Illarion, Roger, and even Percival were barely hiding their amusement.

“From the tone in which he tendered the offer,” Vera said, and here she was unable to prevent the corners of her mouth from twitching back, “it was clear he considered the terms to be astoundingly generous. He stood there awaiting our thanks and our admiration. He received neither. When he returned, he spoke less politely, enabling us to see his true nature, as if this were not already obvious.”

“Would he be the fellow with the arrow in his eye socket?” Raphael asked hopefully.

Vera shook her head. “That would be pleasing,” she said. “That fellow was a knight of lesser rank who made a nuisance of himself.” She took a bite of bread and chewed it as the statement sunk in.

She shifted in her chair, facing toward Percival, whom she had identified as the group’s leader. “You have shown courtesy,” she said, “in expressing brotherly curiosity about our situation. I have not returned it in kind. What brings you all here, and in such a condition? Pardon my frankness, but it’s obvious that you have traveled hard for a long time.”

Any of them might have answered. Raphael bated because he did not wish to blurt out the truth. Feronantus might later take the Shield-Maidens into his confidence, but it was not for any lesser member of their company to do so. Raphael had seen enough of Vera by now to feel quite certain that, if they simply told her that their errand was none of her business, she would accept it with no pouting or ill feelings.

He was searching for a polite way to say just that when Percival spoke: “It is a quest.”

Around the table, Percival’s companions were dumb-struck, wondering whether he had spoken sincerely or was making up a lie on the spur of the moment. But supposing that Percival were even capable of telling a lie, he would probably do a miserable job of it. Nothing but sincerity was visible in his face. Vera spent several moments gazing into that face. Raphael, watching her, thought he saw a slight softening, a lowering of the defenses, in her eyes.

“Can you be more specific as to what it is you are questing for?” she finally asked.

“No,” Percival responded immediately, “for I do not know.”

“Who sent you on this quest? It would have been polite for them to have given you better instructions before sending you such a great distance.”

“I hesitate to say it was God, for this would be blasphemous arrogance,” Percival said, “but I do believe that some angel or saint passed over me some weeks ago and shone his or her light into my soul and imbued me with a purpose. The nature of that purpose is not yet clear. But I believe that it has drawn me to this place. For what reason I cannot imagine.”

Roger was staring at Percival with a mixture of derision and affection that could only stem from long friendship.

Illarion met Raphael’s eye briefly, then turned to Vera and asked a question in Ruthenian.

Vera responded in kind; then she said, in Latin, “The hill below us is riddled with caves and catacombs where holy men have lived since Christians first came up this way preaching their Gospel. Any number of saints’ bones and artifacts are salted about the place. Of course, it is rumored that buried treasure is also to be found there. Whether the Livonians are here for relics or for treasure is impossible to say—I suspect the latter. But if some holy spirit has sent you to this place in pursuance of a quest, Brother Percival, then I would guess that its object is to be found beneath us.”

She nodded at the food on the table. “Once you complete this repast, I would be happy to show you the way.”

Istvan’s horse reared, pawing the air with its hooves.

More of the Livonians drew their weapons, and the sound of steel against steel was like the ringing of bells. Cnán wanted to put her hands over her ears, as if blocking out the sound would forestall what was about to happen next.

Feronantus made no motion toward his sword. “Your quarry is getting away,” he said in the hollow emptiness that followed the drawing of swords. His statement elicited confusion among both ranks until Kristaps blinked and turned his head to look up the slope of the hill.

The ragmen and their cart had reached the gate of the monastery. As they all watched, the portal creaked open enough for the two filthy men to drag their burden through, and then it rattled shut.

“How little you truly know, Feronantus,” Kristaps laughed.

“I know that, even outnumbering us thrice over, you are not sure that you can defeat us in combat,” Feronantus said quietly. “I know that my knight could put a single arrow through two of your men right now because they don’t know enough to not stand in a row. I know that some of the men on your left flank are terrified of what is going to happen when the knight behind me draws that enormous sword of his. And I know that at least one of your number is going to faint when I say that not only does this man”—he inclined his head toward Istvan—“eat human flesh, but so does his horse…”

Kristaps twitched—only slightly—when two of his men fell to the ground. The Livonian tried to hide his loss of composure with a mighty sneer, but to Cnán, his expression looked more pained than fierce. “You and your…degenerate barbarians…are not worth dirtying my steel,” he snarled.

“Nor you mine,” Feronantus answered. “Run along, Kristaps.”

“Next time—”

“Next time, you will be dead before you finish your threat,” Feronantus barked, driving Kristaps to silence with the veritable thunder of his voice.

The Livonian snapped his mouth shut, and his lips stretched across his teeth in a grimace. With a jerk of his head, he gave his men the signal to retreat. They milled about, uncertain if they should turn and flee or simply back slowly from the mounted Shield-Brethren. The two men who had fallen were left behind momentarily until Kristaps gestured angrily that they should be collected. Once the Livonians were all moving—the dazed pair being dragged by their arms—they appeared to remember how to conduct themselves and formed a more orderly procession up the slope.

Kristaps lingered, glowering at Feronantus, but when Yasper could no longer hold his amusement in check and let loose a great peal of laughter, the Livonian hurled a final curse at the company and stormed away.

Rædwulf lowered his bow and joined Yasper and Eleázar in boisterous and polyphonic revelry. Istvan stood in his stirrups and mocked the retreating knights loudly, shouting at them as if they were a herd of frightened sheep.

Feronantus did not join in the persiflage of the fleeing Livonians. He watched the retreating knights with a calm intensity, as if there were clues to some mystery that could be gleaned from their departure.

“Who are they?” Cnán asked. Now that the threat of violence was passed, all that remained was a lingering apprehension. How could they expect to undo the might of the Mongolian Horde if the Shield-Brethren’s old enemies were sprouting from the earth wherever they traveled?

“The Livonian Brothers of the Sword,” Feronantus answered softly. “Though they have not worn that sigil for more than five years. Most of their number were killed in a battle—at a place called Schaulen. A battle that could have been avoided. The pitiful few who survived were taken in by the Teutonic Knights, where they adopted a different livery.”

“Were you there?” Cnán asked, surprised by her own curiosity.

Feronantus gave her no answer.

“I know him,” Eleázar said, joining their vigil. “Years ago I was witness to the aftermath of his butchery.” He leaned over and spat noisily. “What are they doing here? The Livonians tried once before to conquer the northern lands and failed. And they had many more men than now.”

“I do not know,” Feronantus replied. “This bunch, though they dress like the Brothers of the Sword, have not worn the red long…”

The two senseless Livonians had been revived, and the armed party had managed to form a unit as they snaked up the narrow path. When they reached the gate, they stumbled to a clumsy halt, as if they were not quite sure what came next. Faintly Cnán heard Kristaps’s voice, and while he was too distant for her to understand the individual words, it sounded as if he were announcing his presence and not presenting a challenge to those who resided within the walls.

In response to his cry, the gate shuddered and then opened. Keeping their formation, the Livonians proceeded, disappearing through the gate, which promptly closed once more behind them.

“I…I thought they were chasing those men,” Cnán said, trying to make sense of what she had seen.

“Apparently not,” Yasper offered, scratching his chin.

“Cnán…” Feronantus turned to her. “You are the softest of foot amongst us, as well as the lightest. You and Finn.” He nodded toward the buildings at the peak of the hill. “Set your eyes upon the interior of that wall and tell us what the Livonians are doing.

“I was the one who suggested they were chasing those beggars, and in doing so, I betrayed our ignorance as to the Livonians’ true mission. As much as Kristaps desired to engage us, he had a more urgent matter to contend with. A holy mission, he claimed, and I fear he was not speaking lightly.” He waved his hand. “Quickly. We must discern what they are about.”