Närpiö, Suomi/Ulvila, Suomi
July - August, 1192
July - August, 1192
Marja sat on her horse staring at the wide river before her, feeling the breeze from the Baltic. The sun was peaking over the horizon, coating the crossing in a golden sheen. And obscuring the vision of our archers, no doubt.
She was flanked by two dozen men, her own personal guard, with Giedrius on her left in command. On her right Aapo sat, carrying her banner with stiff-backed dignity. She had extended him the honor after his stalwart words the night before.
Marja would not be defeatist in front of her men, but she was worried. She had seen with her own eyes what boys made up her levies. How many of them would be dead before the day was out? How many injured, doomed either to die from infection or from the neglect that this world extended to cripples? Why do men talk of the glory of war? All I can imagine is suffering and hardship. It was one more crime to heap on Turo’s head, she decided. She would not have sought this war, had he not forced her hand.
Her small company was a tiny island of trained men on the army’s left. The bulk of the men here were her husband’s, from the vast and thinly populated duchy of Vasterbotten. She could see men in Sámi caps inspecting their blades, while others called out ribald jokes in Swedish. Men were laughing, but a hair too loud. They would not let themselves be afraid in front of their brothers, but they worried nonetheless.
Ulinninks and his Swedes would attempt to secure the river crossing first. He had made no bones about the dangers involved, but he claimed that there were no men better prepared than his own. Opposition from Turo’s army would be fierce, but they were so much fewer that the numbers favored Marja’s men. In addition, she had a new weapon at her disposal, one once unknown to the Suomi.
In the years since the northern crusade, her father had begun to raise new companies of heavy horse. They were styled after the knights of Christendom. A few, Poles anointed in the Christian fashion, really were knights. Regardless of their gods, they were all minor nobles, trained for mounted combat from their earliest days and just now raised to manhood. Their charge could shatter a shieldwall, or so the story went.
She had thought to send them over the river first, but Ulinninks convinced her otherwise. The river crossing would rob her horse of their most valuable asset: mobility. So instead the horse had left camp hours ago, in the dark of night, to a second river crossing miles away that her scouts had discovered. While Ulinninks’ heavy infantry fought with the enemy from the front, the cavalry would attack from the side.
Or so the plan went. Marja did not think it would be quite so easy as that. They were on Mielus’ lands, and so if she knew of that second crossing, he must as well. That old familiar itch came back to her. There is something here that I’m not considering.
“Your majesty?” Giedrius indicated the position of the sun, and she nodded.
“Call the advance,” she commanded in a loud voice. A trumpet sounded out, three long blasts; and all along the line, she could hear others playing the same mournful song. The battle had begun.
In the distance, she could see Ulinninks and his heavy infantry starting the river crossing. One man lost his footing on the treacherous riverbed and fell beneath the water’s surface. She did not see him right himself, weighed down as he was from the armor. Just like that, the first man had died in the war against Turo. But not the last.
On the other side of the river, the Karelians had formed a shield wall. They were flanked by regiments of archers on either side, firing directly at her advance. At this range, they could scarcely miss. She leaned over to Giedrius: “We need to disrupt those archers.” He nodded, and called for their own archers to step forward.
NOTCH! A dozen of her Swedes fell to Karelian arrows, just while she was watching. DRAW! A squire was flailing around, gasping for air, a yew shaft jutting through his throat. LOOSE! The dawn reversed for just a second, and then arrows were falling on the far side. The Karelian infantry raised their shields, but the enemy archers were not so lucky.
Then there were cries of alarm from the other side, and she saw that her heavy horse had made it back. Thank the gods, Turo had not been careful. A regiment of archers broke at the sight of the destriers, throwing down their bows and fleeing into the woods. The shieldwall dissolved into confusion as well, as some men spun to face the horsemen while others worried about her infantry. Ulinninks roared in enthusiasm, and she could see her armored infantry practically running through the river to join the fray.
Her brother’s men might have routed right then, if Mielus had not charged forward with his own horse in a desperate rearguard action. Even then, it was all he could do to stand between her horse and the infantry. His decision permitted the Karelian shieldwall to reform, but by then her own men were on the other shore, pushing forward. There was perhaps three feet of dry ground behind them, but it was enough.
“He’s going to lose,” one of her guards said excitedly. “The traitor’s going to lose.”
“We are not winning until we’ve won,” Giedrius cautioned. Marja agreed with him. There was still much that could happen.
The front line resembled a shallow bowl, it seemed to her. More and more of her own men were crossing, giving their strength to the men in front of them. Besides them, Mielus was engaged in a fierce melee with a Polish knight, the air ringing with the song of steel. He had given ground half a dozen times.
Behind her, she could hear new trumpets blare. Marja spun around, but could see nothing–not at first. Had Elzbieta’s Masurians come to join them? She would have chided her cousin for leaving Ulvila so exposed, but right now the thought of reinforcements made her heart leap.
But no. She began to make out banners in the distance, all red and gold. That was not the Masurian arms, that was… Östergötland. Harald. What in the name of all the gods was Harald Sigurdrsson doing here? Nothing about this made any sense.
And just like that, there he was. Giedrius was saying something to her now, but she could scarcely hear him. She could only watch in mute horror. Her horse reared and began to run. Giedrius had slapped her horse on the flank, she realized belatedly. Besides her, Aapo was screaming in her ear. “Your majesty,” he said over the sound of slaughter and death, “we must away. We cannot stand against foes on either side of us.” She nodded, hollowly.
She chanced a glance back once more, and saw Giedrius and Harald exchange fierce blows. Harald was younger, though, and his longsword carried a longer reach. Giedrius is going to die, she thought numbly. Harald is going to kill him. Her witty friend.
Dear Harald, who now wore the red cross on white of a crusading knight. Who was wielding a two-handed longsword in a fearsome arc. It was smeared in blood, she realized. Suomi blood. Her people’s blood.
*****
News of the slaughter at Närpiö sent the city of Ulvila into a panic. Thousands had died. The traitor prince had made a secret alliance with a Christian duke of Sweden, and many believed that he meant to get baptized and defy the gods themselves. Marja was missing, presumed dead, along with half the Suomi nobility. But most terrifying of all, Turo was coming here, to Ulvila. A man as cruel as Turo must surely mean to put the city to the sword.
Elzbieta was an old woman, and she had seen much. She knew that reports of a defeat were often confused, and hysterical. However, the official reports were scarcely more encouraging. Only three thousand men had managed to escape from Närpiö, less than one man in two. Turo had indeed benefitted from the support of one Harald Sigurdrsson, whom Marja had cultivated as a friend–or so she had believed.
She had not heard from Pavel. She had sent him out months ago on his usual assignment: the removal of obstacles. He had become so reliable in the last fifteen years that she no longer needed to specify precisely how a man was to be killed or when. In theory, then, he might still be lying in wait to strike at Turo. In her heart, she knew otherwise. Pavel was likely dead, another corpse that she intended to lay at Turo’s feet.
However, all hope was not lost. The royalists had retreated to Västerbotten, where soon the frigid weather of the Sámi lands would be their shield. They might hold out there for six months at least, long enough to make new alliances and launch the campaign anew in the spring. If Marja was dead, then surely Turo would have paraded her body around for all to see. The fact that he had not meant that there was still a chance.
One morning, Ulvila awoke to discover a forest of banners and tents outside its walls, Karelia and Oulu chief among them. Duke Ruslan of Novgorod had apparently also been swayed to the rebel cause, an alarming sign. To make matters worse, a merchant ship discovered to its horror that the enemy had scuttled a hulk in the Kokemäenjoki river, blocking access to and from the sea. The city was now under siege, for the first time since the founding of Suomi.
However, while the city had quailed before the arrival of Turo, once he was there at the gates demanding to be let in, they responded with sisu, the stubborn defiance that the Suomi were so famous for. When she had been through the market the day before, she had seen very little sign of distress. Somebody had erected a painted kraken, the sigil of the war god Tursas, and the commons were touching it for luck. One merchant said apologetically that stocks would be low “until the bastard kicks it,” but aside from that, nobody spoke of the war outside the city walls.
After a few days of desultory arrow fire and the slow construction of siege engines, a breathless page arrived at Elzbieta’s solar to inform her that the rebels were seeking to parley with her at the gates of dawn on the eastern side of the city. She considered the notion for a minute and then replied that she would be there within the hour.
Elzbieta was still getting dressed when Agafana arrived with the castellan, Foma of Pinsk. “They say that you mean to treat with Turo,” the tietäjä said cautiously.
“I do.” As she spoke, she inspected herself in a silver mirror, trying to decide if her hair should be up or down for the parlay.
The tietäjä looked helplessly at the castellan, who said bluntly, “This is surely a trap. The man has no honor.”
“I know it’s a trap,” she said. She decided that she should leave her hair down, and eschew excess ornamentation. It would be best to convey that she understood the seriousness of the situation.
“Then why…”
She silenced Foma with a look. “See to the city’s defense while I’m gone, yes? Do not give that man an inch.”
The weathered old Russian blinked, and then nodded. “As you say, your grace.”
On her way to the gates of dawn, Elzbieta touched the kraken of Tursas. She had been a Christian her entire life, and yet in this moment it seemed to her that Suomi needed all the help it could get.
On the other side of the gates, she was met with two Karelian spearmen, along with a scruffy looking guard with a crossbow. She gave the men a crooked smile and showed them her empty hands. “Don’t worry, gentlemen, I’m unarmed.” When the crossbowman could only snarl, she laughed out loud. There was a begrudging quality to their escort after that.
In the gloom of Turo’s command tent, she took the opportunity to size up the enemy. Turo had not aged well, she was gratified to see. The arrogant young prince had grown into a fleshy man with deep frown lines and a cluster of broken veins on his nose and cheeks. The reports that he had taken to drink were not exaggerated, she could see. Even in ermine and silk, he resembled a dockyard tough more than a king.
Beside him, Mielus was hovering like an anxious mother watching her son take his first steps. She could imagine the tension between them: Mielus wanting to manage Turo, and Turo lashing out when he was managed. Duke Ruslan was making a show of inspecting a large map on the commander’s table, but it was not hard to see the irritation in his eyes. Only Kauri, hiding behind that wrought mask of his, was able to hide his feelings.
There was something else too. Turo the younger, the son and ostensible heir, was not here. Why not? Was there a rift between the boy and his father? The intelligence she had received suggested as much. Of course, there was the matter of Turo’s most recent marriage… No doubt Turo’s new bride would like to see her own child on the throne, should that happen. There is a lot of tension in this room, and only some of it has to do with me.
“I understand congratulations are in order,” she said amiably. “For your recent nuptials, I mean. Lady Tyyne must be beside herself.”
“I couldn’t be happier,” said the would-be king sullenly.
“And no doubt you are as well, your grace?” Elzbieta directed her gaze to Mielus, who was regarding her now with a half-smile. “Tell me, has Turo hit your daughter yet? Or do you think he’s waiting until after the coronation?”
Turo flushed when she said that, but Mielus would not be baited. “I have no concern for the usurper’s lies. His majesty has my utmost regard.” He almost sounded as if he meant it.
“My heart rejoices to hear it,” she said with a smile. “Was it a church wedding? Since you seem so collegial with the Christians, I thought I’d ask.”
“You of all people…” Ruslan began. He was glowering at her now.
“Me of all people what?” She had not let her smile waver. “I always respected the religious divisions of this kingdom. But your cause seems beholden to Christian steel.”
“Enough of this!” Turo snapped. “You will surrender the city to me. If you do so now, the garrison will be permitted to leave unharmed. You alone would remain, as hostage to your son’s good behavior.”
Elzbieta snorted. It was no more than she had expected. “I have a counter-proposal.”
Turo began to object, but she ignored him. Instead, she addressed her words to the assembled nobles. “Her majesty the queen is willing to retain you in your traditional rights and titles, and forgive this little adventure–provided that you hand over Turo by nightfall.”
“We stand in service to our king,” Mielus said–quickly? To prevent the other dukes from speaking? She could not be sure.
“I haven’t finished,” she began, now speaking more sharply. “You all know my reputation. You know what I can do, to you and yours, if you persist in this folly. Even now, I have agents among the Vepsi tribes, offering gold marks for every Karelian head. Shall I call them off, Kauri? And Ruslan, that bright young son of yours–he does love to swim in the Dnieper, does he not? ‘Twould be a shame if rogues came upon him there. Mielus, I have a veritable army of killers ready for your line.” Duke Ruslan was pale now, and Kauri’s hand had developed a notable tremble. Only Mielus looked unimpressed. “Your graces, I ask you to consider: what is this traitor worth to you? He has no lands, no incomes, no armies. He is a faithless dog, and what he did to Ulavi he would just as easily do to any man of you.”
Turo was purple with rage, but Mielus only laughed. “You’re bluffing.”
She cocked her head. “If you think so, you’re welcome to find out.”
The duke gave a signal, and a servant came up to him with a large bulky item in a linen sack. “You see,” he said to her in a voice filled with menace, “you’re not the only one who enjoys theatrics.” He upended the bag, and a head fell onto the packed earth. Elzbieta knew who it was before she even looked at it. Oh, my dear Pavel. Look what they’ve done to you, my boy.
“There was a curious incident in Oulu a few weeks back,” Mielus was saying. “The royal cupbearer choked to death, right there in the midst of all of us. The children were quite distraught, as you might imagine. And would you know, the tietäjä could not find an obstruction in the lad’s throat? Very curious.
“Of course, I had to investigate. And in investigating, I found this helpful fellow. He gave us a great many names once put to the question–he seemed to know your operations well.”
“He lied. Do you think me fool enough to put so much stock in one single agent?” Elzbieta’s words were bold, but her tone was hollow and unconvincing. This was a blow indeed, one that she could not see how to overcome.
Mielus laughed, but Turo, who had been fuming, suddenly took a threatening step forward. “A dog, am I? And what sort of unnatural creature are you?”
“A faithless fratricidal dog, I said,” she said, giving him a hard stare. Turo took another step forward, attempting to loom over her as his father had oft done to him. It was the best chance that Elzbieta would have.
Secreting the blade up her sleeve had been easy, as these things go. The challenge had been devising a method so she might retrieve it quickly, before anybody could react. She had practiced that for days, ever since news of Marja’s loss had come to them. Now she shook her right wrist just so, and the blade fell into her palm. She stabbed without looking, as quickly as she could, expecting it to slide into Turo’s soft underbelly. It would be a long and painful death, which was just how she wanted it.
She would not survive the parlay, of course. But she had known that all along. Jesu, wherever I am to go, may my beloved be there also. It is the only mercy I require.
Only her blade did not hit soft flesh, but cartilage and bone, and then it was wrenched from her hand. Turo had shifted in some animal instinct of self-preservation. For a mad second, she could not discern what had gone wrong. Then Turo raised his left hand, with her blade, dripping with blood, extending obscenely from his palm.
There was a second, but just a second, when all looked upon this sight with the same stunned horror. Then everything happened at once. The prince howled in pain and outrage, while the two spearmen who had escorted her in now grabbed her arms to hold her. Mielus and Ruslan were both calling out commands, but in the commotion neither could be understood.
As the dukes attempted to restore order, only Elzbieta could see Turo wrest the crossbow away from its owner and raise it with his good hand to point directly at her head. This final action silenced the nobles at last. Only Mielus had the temerity to speak then, and only tentatively. “Your majesty, perhaps we might discu–”
She would never learn what he meant to say. There was a twang from the string, and she knew no more.
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