Schism

Schism

Peter Darman

Copyright © 2015 Pete Darman

Published by Peter Darman at Smashwords

All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

Formatted by Jo Harrison

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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Contents

List of principal characters

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Epilogue

List of principal characters

Those marked with an asterisk * are known to history.

Belgian

*Baldwin of Alna: papal legate

Commanders in the Army of the Wolf

Andres: Duke of Jerwen

Hillar: Duke of Rotalia

Riki: Duke of Harrien

Tonis: Count of Fellin

Englishman

Sir Richard Bruffingham: Duke of Saccalia

Estonians

Kristjan: Ungannian, son of Kalju, an exile at Novgorod

Kaja: Saccalian, wife of Prince Rameke

Maarja: Ungannian, sister of Kristjan and resident of Odenpah

Mikk: Ungannian, steward of Odenpah Castle

Germans

Dietrich von Kivel: Duke of Narva

*Hermann: Bishop of Dorpat

Leatherface: commander of the Army of the Wolf’s crossbowmen

Magnus Glueck: Duke of Riga, Higher Burgomaster of Riga and commander of the Livonian Militia

Manfred Nordheim: commander of the garrison of Riga

Stefan: Archdeacon, Governor of Riga

Italians

Falcone: commander of Conrad’s Genoese crossbowmen

*Gregory IX: Pope 1227–41

*William of Modena: papal legate

Lithuanians

Aras: Selonian, general of Prince Vsevolod’s army

Arturus: Duke of Kurland

Erdvilas: son of Duke Viesthard

Kitenis: Duke of Aukstaitija

Kriviu Krivaitis: high priest

*Lamekins: Kur prince, deputy to Duke Arturus

*Mindaugas: son-in-law of Prince Vsevolod

Rasa: wife of Prince Vsevolod

Torolf: ambassador of Duke Arturus

*Viesthard: Duke of Semgallia

*Ykintas: Duke of Samogitia

Livs

Fricis: king of all the Livs

*Rameke: prince and brother-in-law of Conrad Wolff

Oeselians

Bothvar: earl

Kalf: prince, brother of Sigurd

Sigurd: King of Oesel

Stark: prince, brother of Sigurd

Order of Sword Brothers

Anton: deputy of Odenpah Castle

Arnold: Master of Lennewarden Castle

Bertram: Master of Segewold Castle

Conrad Wolff: Master of Odenpah Castle, commander of the Army of the Wolf and Marshal of Estonia

Franz: Master of Narva Castle

Friedhelm: Master of Uexkull Castle

Godfrey: Master of Holm Castle

Griswold: Master of Kokenhusen Castle

Hans: deputy of Odenpah Castle

Henke: brother knight at Wenden Castle

Jacob: Master of Gerzika Castle

Lukas: Master of Reval Castle and Governor of Reval

Mathias: Master of Kremon Castle

Ortwin: Master of Mesoten Castle

*Rudolf: Master of Wenden Castle and deputy commander of the Order of Sword Brothers

Thaddeus: chief engineer at Wenden Castle and Quartermaster General of Livonia

*Volquin: Grand Master of the Order of Sword Brothers

Walter: Master of Dorpat Castle

Russians

Dmitriy Hoidja: business partner of Kristjan

*Vsevolod: former ruler of Gerzika, ruler of Selonia and Nalsen, Lithuania

*Yaroslav Nevsky: Thousandman of Novgorod

Chapter 1

Riga, spring 1229

The Bishop’s Palace was in many ways the heart of the city on the River Dvina, a place where the bishop maintained a strict rule over his household, ensuring that it was ordered and its members led good Christian lives. It was a place where piety and simplicity existed alongside rich trappings for the palace was the physical embodiment of the crusader state of Livonia: its power, wealth and religion. Constructed entirely of stone, its large windows were softened with cushions and fabrics. The great audience chamber had oak panelling around the walls. When the bishop entertained his guests sat on silk-covered seats, ate from silver bowls and drank from silver wine flagons with swan handles.

The audience chamber was a grand affair but the two withdrawing chambers in the palace were more sumptuous, both being comfortable, well-lit rooms with grand stone fireplaces and rich tapestries depicting biblical scenes. Each tapestry was made from wool from England or Spain and incorporated silk from Italy and silver- and gilt-metal-wrapped silk thread from Cyprus. Such materials were ruinously expensive but guests marvelled at their intricacy and they too became powerful symbols of the Bishop of Riga’s wealth. The palace itself was also an indicator of the potency and wealth of the church, employing as it did dozens of individuals to service the prelate’s residency. The steward ran the household, which included a cellarer who was responsible for wine, a chandler who was responsible for candles, a financial clerk to manage the bishop’s considerable finances and treasure, plus butlers, grooms, pages, stable hands and kitchen staff. And because it was an episcopal household there were also monks and priests to maintain its standards and discipline. But there were no women.

The sprawling palace grounds contained a small barracks housing soldiers seconded from the city garrison, stables, chapel, servants’ quarters, blacksmith’s forge, armoury, storerooms and kennels for guard dogs, all surrounded by a high, stout stone wall. Inside the walls it was a male domain, the exception being the occasional female laundress who lived outside the palace when not attending to her duties. The absence of women reflected a desire to avoid any hint of impropriety. Priests were meant to be celibate and the best way to ensure that was to avoid all contact with the opposite sex.

The Bishop’s Palace was a magnificent residence but there was no longer a bishop to head it. Bishop Albert had died in January and had been buried with great pomp in the city’s cathedral. He had never recovered from the paralysis that had possessed his body in the aftermath of the abortive winter crusade against the Oeselians. His loss was much lamented throughout Livonia and Estonia. As soon as the winter snow and ice had melted Archdeacon Stefan, who had assumed the duties of bishop on a temporary basis, had sent letters to the Curia and the Buxhoeveden family alerting them to the demise of a lion of Christendom. It took two months for a reply to come from the Buxhoeveden family, which was ill received by the archdeacon when it arrived.

On a bright May morning, in one of the palace's withdrawing chambers, he was sitting tonsured, clean-shaven and attired entirely in silk robes. He had a letter in his hand that he tossed on the floor.

‘That’s all the thanks I get for giving my life to this miserable land. A cursory note to inform me that my dear family have selected another to be Bishop of Riga.’

Manfred Nordheim, former pirate, thief and smuggler but now commander of the city garrison, said nothing as his master fumed. He merely smiled sympathetically and remained at attention. He had learnt long ago his master’s whims and moods and knew that Stefan wanted to vent his spleen rather than engage in conversation. The prelate raised his portly body from the chair and walked over to the table holding a silver wine jug, upon which was carved the cross keys symbol of the city.

‘Wine?’

‘Thank you, sir,’ smiled Nordheim, his red surcoat also bearing the city’s coat of arms.

‘Ingratitude, Manfred,’ spat Stefan, ‘that’s what it is, pure and simple.’

He poured himself some wine, filled another silver chalice and handed it to Nordheim.

‘And do you know who is to be the new bishop?’

‘No, sir,’ answered Nordheim.

‘Some toady canon of Bremen Cathedral by the name of Albert Suebeer, no doubt selected because he was suggested by the Archbishop of Bremen, a powerful prelate that my family is allied to. It reeks of nepotism and corruption.’

Nordheim kept a straight face. The archdeacon had been appointed to his position only because he had been the nephew of Bishop Albert and he had used his position to accumulate great power and wealth. Stefan was Riga’s governor and Nordheim’s superior and as such had control over the two hundred and fifty soldiers of the garrison, not to mention the city’s militia. Still, a new bishop might clip the archdeacon’s wings, which meant that Nordheim’s own position and power might come under threat.

‘I should be Bishop of Riga,’ spat Stefan.

‘Yes, sir,’ agreed Nordheim. ‘What of your other uncle, sir, Bishop Hermann?’

Stefan waved a ring-adorned hand at him.

‘What of him? My dear Uncle Hermann is concerned only with aggrandising himself at Dorpat. It is no secret that he wishes his bishopric to be grander and wealthier than Riga. He has no time for the less fortunate members of his family, such as myself. Like a beggar I have been cast out into the wilderness.’

He threw up his hands. ‘What is to become of me?’

‘What of the Curia, sir?’ enquired Nordheim.

Stefan slumped back in his chair. ‘I have received no letter from Rome as yet but have no doubt that His Holiness the Pope will endorse my family’s decision. He might be the Holy Father but he will have no desire to alienate Saxony’s most powerful clan.’

‘Perhaps the new bishop will be a gracious and accommodating individual, sir,’ suggested Nordheim hopefully.

Stefan was not persuaded. ‘There is no guarantee that he will not bring with him his own archdeacon, Manfred. And then what?’

The archdeacon was quickly sinking into depression, and no wonder. During the many years Bishop Albert had been the de facto ruler of Livonia Stefan had been granted great licence, not least because the bishop was often away in Germany raising crusaders or, when he returned, leading them on crusade against the pagans. The result was that Stefan was left to rule Riga untroubled by anyone. As long as the city and Livonia were prospering Bishop Albert was content to leave the day-to-day running of the kingdom to his nephew. It was an arrangement much to the archdeacon’s liking.

‘Anyway, sir,’ said Nordheim, ‘you will be pleased to know that nothing untoward has occurred in the city or Livonia in the past week, and that the garrison is up to strength and awaits your inspection.’

But Stefan was not listening, instead rubbing a podgy finger around the rim of his chalice as he pondered the coming months.

‘Sir?’

‘Uh? Thank you, Manfred, but I have no enthusiasm for inspecting your men. Perhaps next week.’

He waved a hand lazily at the commander of the garrison who saluted smartly and left the chamber. Stefan sighed and closed his eyes. What had he done to deserve this? He opened his eyes when there was a knock at the door.

‘What?’

A servant nervously entered the chamber and bowed his head.

‘Novice Aldo is here, archdeacon.’

One of Stefan’s eyebrows rose to register his interest. There were no women in the episcopal household but there was always a plentiful supply of boys. They were sent by the abbot of Dünamünde Monastery to receive tuition in the bishop’s household, though the ‘tuition’ of the most attractive novices was the preserve of the archdeacon. Aldo was one such novice, a boy no more than fifteen whose skin was like marble and whose eyes were blue pools of enticement. He was ushered into the chamber and the door closed behind him. Aldo, his hair tonsured, dressed in a simple white habit, stared at the floor as he waited for the archdeacon to make his approach.

‘Alas, Aldo, not even your perfect flesh can lift me from the gloom that envelops me at this juncture.’

Aldo said nothing as the eyes of the archdeacon journeyed over the young man’s body, finally resting on a large bruise on the boy’s neck. He stood and walked over to him, tracing a finger over the bruise. Aldo was shaking. Stefan said nothing at first, merely smiling and offering him a chalice of wine. He had little interest in seducing the boy, such was his dejection at receiving the letter from Germany, but he was aroused in a different way by the bruising on the boy’s neck. It was a diversion at least. So he plied him with wine to loosen Aldo’s tongue so the sorry tale could be told.

The responsible party was Abbot Nicholas, the man in charge of Dünamünde who it appeared had an appetite for young male flesh. Stefan was disgusted and appalled, seeing no hypocrisy in his reaction to the violation of the young novice. He himself was above all discreet and in any case never inflicted violence on those he took a special interest in. Aldo was sent to the novices’ quarters in the palace and a courier despatched to Dünamünde with a demand that Abbot Nicholas attend the archdeacon immediately. That night Stefan questioned Aldo closely into the early hours.

The next day Manfred Nordheim found his master in a much happier mood. The change was remarkable. While he waited the arrival of Abbot Nicholas he explained to the commander the gift that God had granted him. He ordered Nordheim to increase the number of guards in and around the palace and stressed the importance of maintaining a martial demeanour in the presence of Nicholas. The abbot arrived in the afternoon, his carriage having taken an age to traverse the rutted track between Riga and Dünamünde.

Stefan kept him waiting in one of the withdrawing chambers, choosing to meet him in a dimly lit room near the kitchens in the early evening. The room was small, musty and illuminated by a few candles that created a sombre atmosphere. The archdeacon sat behind a desk that was deliberately too large for the room to make the interior cramped and oppressive. Manfred Nordheim stood behind the churchman, his mail coif over his head to increase his military bearing. The corridor outside the room was lined with Nordheim’s guards when Abbot Nicholas was shown into the archdeacon’s presence.

Stefan pointed to a stool on the other side of the desk. ‘Please be seated, abbot.’

It was cool in the room but Nicholas was already sweating. He had noticed the guards, the presence of the archdeacon’s enforcer Nordheim and the lack of manners on the part of Stefan himself. He feared the worst and was right to do so. The abbot had always been a lean individual but in recent years his frame had looked decidedly emaciated, which was accentuated by his oblong-shaped face and large ears. He was still relatively young but his thinning hair and pale, unhealthy skin made him look old. He seemed to visibly age before the archdeacon’s eyes as Stefan pushed a piece of parchment across the table towards him.

‘I wish I could say that this meeting concerned agreeable matters, Nicholas, but alas it does not.’

The abbot gulped. ‘Archdeacon?’

Stefan pointed at the parchment. ‘This is a document signed by one of your own novices, a boy named Aldo that you have performed unnatural acts on, and forced to commit obscene acts on you. These are very serious accusations, Nicholas, which I now have the unpleasant task of investigating.’

The abbot, his eyes widening in horror and alarm, shook his head.

‘It, it is a lie, archdeacon.’

‘If it is then why did novice Aldo risk his immortal soul by putting his mark on this document, which is a very detailed list of the perversions you and he have enjoyed together?’

Nicholas glanced at the imposing figure of Nordheim who was staring at the abbot with unconcealed revulsion. The abbot began biting his lip and his breathing became heavy. The archdeacon let his mind run riot before speaking slowly and purposefully.

‘Manfred, please enlighten me. What is the punishment for sodomy?’

‘To be burnt at the stake,’ growled Nordheim, ‘but not before the condemned is flayed and has his privy member cut off.’

A whimper came from the abbot’s lips.

‘To say nothing of the condemned man’s soul burning in hell for all eternity,’ added Stefan.

He held up the parchment. ‘This condemns you, Nicholas. You and Aldo who at this very moment is confined within the walls of this palace.’

The abbot looked with pleading eyes at the archdeacon. ‘I am a weak man, archdeacon.’

‘That won’t save you,’ hissed Nordheim.

Stefan held up a hand to his subordinate. ‘Manfred, please, can’t you see that Abbot Nicholas is in torment. Have you no pity?’

‘Not much.’

Stefan leaned forward. ‘Soldiers, such base fellows. What do to, Nicholas, what to do?’

‘I will leave my position and retreat to a hermitage should you grant me mercy,’ said the abbot softly.

‘So you admit the charges listed on this parchment?’ queried Stefan.

Nicholas nodded.

‘What was that?’ shot Stefan.

‘I do, archdeacon,’ muttered the abbot.

Stefan closed his eyes and shook his head slowly.

‘This is a sorry affair, Nicholas. I cannot allow you to retreat to a hermitage. By rights I should convene a formal trial so you can be judged by the officials of the Holy Church, with all the terrible consequences that would surely follow.’

The abbot, overcome with fear, covered his face with his hands, his gaunt frame quaking with terror as he sobbed. Nordheim took a step forward to escort the miscreant to a storeroom but Stefan stayed him with a raised finger. The archdeacon rose from his chair, walked around the table and laid a hand on the abbot’s shoulder.

‘I do not desire that, Nicholas.’

The abbot looked up, his eyes moist with tears.

‘What I desire is for the church in Livonia to be strong and thriving,’ continued the archdeacon, ‘not debased and reduced to a laughing stock, especially now my uncle sits with the angels in heaven. I am sure you desire that also.’

‘With all my heart, archdeacon,’ said the abbot.

Stefan returned to his chair. ‘Nicholas, you are the abbot of Dünamünde Monastery, a place of religious importance second only to Riga in Livonia. As archdeacon I have the authority, albeit temporary, to suggest to the Holy Father in Rome the name of the man who should be the next Bishop of Riga.

‘I do not desire the post myself.’

Nordheim raised an eyebrow but maintained his stony stare.

‘I had already penned a letter to the Holy Father suggesting in the strongest terms that you should be the next Bishop of Riga.’

The abbot nearly toppled from his stool. ‘Me?’

Stefan nodded gravely. ‘That is correct, Nicholas, you. So you can imagine my immense disappointment when the novice Aldo revealed to me the matter we have just been discussing.’

The abbot’s head dropped. ‘Yes, archdeacon.’

Stefan brought his hands together. ‘Still, we are both men of the world who have the interests of Livonia at heart. If you promise to restrain your base instincts and heed my advice then I think we can keep the matter of novice Aldo among ourselves. What say you, Nicholas? Will you accept this great challenge and aspire to the mitre my uncle wore with honour for somany years?’

The abbot, still not quite believing what he was hearing, blinked several times and looked at a smirking archdeacon and a disgusted Manfred Nordheim.

‘If, if you think I am worthy of such a position, archdeacon.’

Stefan smiled. ‘I would not have mentioned it to you had I thought you unworthy, Nicholas. Stay here tonight and return to Dünamünde tomorrow and announce to the brothers there that you are moving to the Bishop’s Palace to answer a great calling.’

The abbot’s face showed a mixture of delight and relief as Stefan once again stood and held out an arm towards the door.

‘Go now, Nicholas, and partake of the palace’s hospitality. My steward will attend to your needs.’

Stefan held out his hand for the abbot to kiss his ring. A grateful Nicholas took the archdeacon's pink hand and kissed the bishop’s ring.

‘Your excellency.’

When he had left and closed the door behind him Nordheim turned to the archdeacon.

‘Would you care to explain to me what just happened, sir? I am confused and, I have to say, disappointed.’

Stefan picked up the parchment and smiled. ‘Disappointed, Manfred? Why?’

‘You had him, sir. The document you hold in your hand is his death warrant.’

Stefan shook his head. ‘You have been spending too much time with your soldiers, Manfred. Why should I want the death of Abbot Nicholas?’

‘Because he is a sodomite,’ stated Nordheim.

Stefan chuckled. ‘If the church was to burn every sodomite in its ranks the number of its priests and monks would soon be sorely depleted. You may desire to torture and burn our dear abbot but I wish to make him useful. He is very popular among the Livonian brethren.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Nordheim dryly.

‘That being the case,’ continued Stefan, ‘I shall have no problem convincing the Livonian church to support his elevation to the position of Bishop of Riga. And I can also count on the support of the city council in this matter.’

‘The Sword Brothers will not support you, sir.’

Stefan waved a dismissive hand at him. ‘They are irrelevant in this matter. If the church here supports Abbot Nicholas then the Holy Father will listen.’

‘What of your family’s candidate, sir?’

‘Now we come to it, Manfred. I shall write to the Holy Father stating that I have no wish to become Bishop of Riga, as I believe that the Buxhoeveden family has had a stranglehold over Livonia and Estonia for too long. This will hopefully block my dear family’s candidate, especially if the Livonian church is behind the election of Abbot Nicholas.’

Stefan picked up the parchment and looked at Nordheim. ‘And Abbot Nicholas will not forget the debt he owes to me, Manfred.’

‘You risk alienating your family, sir,’ warned Nordheim.

‘They cast me aside,’ snapped Stefan. ‘Besides, they still have a bishop in these parts, albeit at Dorpat rather than at Riga. In any case they will not contest the choice of the Holy Father in Rome, not if he is acting on behalf of the Livonian church.’

Nordheim had to admit his master had been very thoughtful in the whole matter, though he was concerned about one overlooked item.

‘What of the boy, sir?’

‘Boy?’

‘The novice who was violated by the abbot,’ said Nordheim, ‘he may be the source of gossip that you would not welcome.’

The archdeacon pondered the matter for a moment.

‘Get rid of him. He has served his purpose. Make it discreet, though.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Such a beautiful body,’ mused Stefan whimsically.

‘Sir?’

‘Nothing. Attend to Aldo immediately.’

No one saw the novice again. Archdeacon Stefan informed Abbot Nicholas that he believed the boy had run away from the Bishop’s Palace and fled into Livonia’s interior, where he had most likely been killed by pagans. He also informed the abbot that he had commissioned special prayers in the city’s cathedral for Aldo’s safe return.

*****

For a year Arturus had been playing a game of cat-and-mouse with Duke Ykintas and his ally Prince Mindaugas. The two had led their army into southern Kurland with their banners flying, accompanied by the Kriviu Krivaitis, the spiritual leader of the Lithuanian people, and his white-robed priests who proclaimed a holy crusade against the infidel and corrupter Duke Arturus. But Ykintas and Mindaugas learned that enthusiasm and religious fervour was no match for discipline and training, and so Prince Lamekins rudely handled them. Falling back to southern Samogitia at the beginning of winter, Arturus joined Lamekins the following spring and pursued their enemies. Buoyed by the hope that Duke Arturus might finally be defeated, Duke Kitenis of Aukstaitija sent two thousand soldiers to Medvegalis to stiffen the cause of Duke Ykintas. The duke, encouraged by Mindaugas, sallied forth from his stronghold at the head of an army to once again invade Kurland.

But many of his best men had fallen the previous summer and so Ykintas led an army that contained few seasoned warriors but many raw recruits, plus the two thousand men sent by Kitenis. Many of those who had followed Mindaugas and the Kriviu Krivaitis from Selonia had also fallen to Kur spears, but no matter. Ykintas and Mindaugas still rallied thousands to their banners, their cause given the blessing of the high priest who walked alongside the warriors whose shields carried the symbols of the black boar, the black axe and the iron wolf.

The duke and prince rode in the midst of their bodyguards, all seasoned soldiers in mail armour riding great steeds and armed with swords, axes and maces. Every rider also carried two spisas, the long spears that could be thrown like javelins as well as being used as lances in close combat. But the majority of the army was foot soldiers, a minority of which had mail or leather armour, the rest wearing long tunics and leggings and perhaps a helmet for head protection, though many wore leather caps only. Each man was equipped with a shield and spear and a few had axes tucked into their belts, but many had only wooden clubs and knives as secondary weapons.

Samogitia, normally wet, lush and overcast, was beautiful that summer, its hills, meadows and ridges verdant and its forests overflowing with bees, elk, bears, squirrels and wild boar. Many of the winding streams had run dry but the army was able to use the plethora of lakes dotting the landscape as watering holes. And it was just north of one such deep lake, in rolling terrain sprinkled with birch copses, that the army’s scouts ran into the Kurs. They reported back to Ykintas and Mindaugas that there were less than a thousand of Duke Arturus’ men, mostly foot soldiers. After consulting with the Kriviu Krivaitis they ordered the army to deploy for battle. The chance to destroy an inferior number of Kurs seemed too good to be true.

It was.

The Kur army had been divided into several widely spaced columns, each of which quickly concentrated when news reached Duke Arturus that the enemy had been located. Ykintas led his horsemen against their mounted opponents who turned tail and fled, the Samogitians eagerly following. The foot soldiers under the command of Prince Mindaugas, escorted and encouraged by the Kriviu Krivaitis and his priests, advanced against the black ranks of the Kurs. Who suddenly charged forward.

The Samogitians, Selonians and Aukstaitijans fought in war bands led by their chiefs and princes, small groups of warriors from the same village that clustered around their headman. But the Kurs fought as part of an army, not a collection of small bands. Arturus’s men – medium foot soldiers wearing helmets, mail armour and carrying oblong wooden shields with steel rims – advanced in a great wedge that struck the centre of Mindaugas’ ragged line between four and five ranks deep. Each Kur was armed with a stabbing spear and a javelin and just before the tip of the wedge struck the prince’s men a hail of javelins flew through the air. The result was instantaneous: the warriors in the Kurs’ path, those that had not been killed by javelins, gave way and began to fall back. The Kur signallers blew their horns, the men levelled their spears and hurled themselves forward to split Mindaugas’ men in two.

‘Stand, stand.’

Mindaugas rode up and down the line in a futile effort to rally his men; his bodyguard clustered around him as the Kurs slowly and methodically prised apart the faltering shield wall in front of them.

‘Highness,’ called his deputy, ‘on the hill.’

Mindaugas turned to see soldiers cresting the hill on the right, whetted spear points glinting in the sun, row upon row of Kur spearmen marching in unison, banners showing a black seagull on a grey background fluttering among their ranks. Their boots on the soft grass made no sound as they approached the foot soldiers of Duke Ykintas like a giant slithering serpent to strike a fatal blow against his now severely beleaguered men.

‘We must flee, highness,’ said his deputy with desperation in his voice.

‘No!’ thundered Mindaugas. ‘Face right, face right.’

As the Kurs halted to dress their ranks the prince frantically ordered his chiefs to form a shield wall to face the new Kur threat. To the front the Kurs that had smashed through his centre had wheeled left to grind into the Samogitians and Selonians on the left of the split line. This meant those warriors on the right had time to reorder themselves. But they had been badly shaken by the ease with which the Kurs had sliced their line in two.

‘Perkunas is with you, do not fear my brave children.’

Mindaugas heard the booming voice of the Kriviu Krivaitis and saw the white-robed figure striding among the warriors, haranguing some and encouraging others. His presence and that of his priests had an immediate calming effect on the ranks, which now steadied themselves, locked shields and levelled their spears. Just as Kur horsemen appeared behind them.

The Kur spearmen were in no hurry as Mindaugas and his men were forced to shrink their line further in order to mount an all-round defence. Once again aided by the Kriviu Krivaitis and his priests the warriors formed a square quickly and with little panic. The Kurs that had shattered their shield wall were herding Mindaugas’ other warriors further away, slaughtering many in the process. Duke Ykintas and his horsemen had been lured away, half the Samogitian and Selonian foot soldiers were being cut to pieces and Mindaugas was alone and surrounded. He dismounted and ordered his bodyguard to do the same. He would fight and die beside his men. The horses were gathered in the centre of the square as the high priest walked up and down behind the tightly packed ranks of warriors.

‘The gods are with you, my children. Perkunas, the Heavenly Smith, stands with you.’

‘Arrows.’

Mindaugas heard the warning and rushed over to the Kriviu Krivaitis as thin black shafts filled the sky. The warriors raised their shields and crouched low as missiles fell among them, not a deluge but enough to wound and kill several of the horses. Mindaugas grabbed the high priest and pulled him down to the ground, raising his shield above both of them as an arrow thudded into the leather and wood.

‘Apologies,’ the prince mumbled.

The high priest had no time to reply because the earth began to shake as the Kur horsemen mounted their charge. They approached the square at a canter, not a gallop, which gave them time to throw their spisas before wheeling left and withdrawing out of arrow range. Not that Mindaugas had any archers. The thin javelins shot through the air to land among the stationary warriors. Some struck shields, others landed on the soft ground but more hit bodies. Yelps and screams coursed around the square as men were impaled by spisas, the thin points shattering ribs as they pierced torsos, dead men collapsing to the ground.

The horsemen, having expended their javelins, withdrew to reveal Kur foot soldiers facing all four sides of the square. Mindaugas pushed his way through his men to take his place in the front rank, men smiling grimly when they saw the lean, tall prince in their midst. At that moment the Kurs attacked. They hollered their war cries and raced forward to close the short distance between them and their prey. There was a loud crunching sound as they thrust their spears over and around their thick shields at Mindaugas’ warriors, the square buckling under the ferocity of the assault.

There was little room in the shield wall and certainly no opportunity to retreat as those behind the front ranks placed their shields against the men in front to buttress the defence. Mindaugas brought down his shield to force the Kur spear towards the earth and then jabbed his weapon forward towards the face of its owner, the man’s momentum bringing his right eye socket into contact with the sword point. He impaled himself on the blade that went through his eye and brain to pierce the rear of his helmet. Mindaugas held him in place for a few seconds before snatching the blade back to slice the exposed shoulder of a Kur to his right who had opened the belly of the Selonian next to the prince. The steel cut through the chainmail and bit into the flesh underneath. The Kur grunted in pain, dropped his spear and received an axe blow to his face from a man in the second rank of the shield wall.

Displaying a courage born of desperation Mindaugas’ men fought with a feral ferocity, knowing that they had nowhere to go and so decided to sell their lives dearly. And all the while the priests of the Kriviu Krivaitis implored them to slay the black-uniformed defilers and infidels. Spears flew through the air as the initial Kur advance stalled and the mêlée became a grim hacking contest, the edges of the square choked with dead and dying men impeding movement.

But the Kurs were better armed and protected and there were more of them, many more. They continued to assault all four sides of the square, taking a steady toll of the defenders as they did so. Their wounded were hauled away to the rear and fresh replacements took their place. But there were no reserves for Mindaugas’ men to call on.

Sweat ran into the prince’s eyes as he thrust his battered shield at an enemy warrior who tripped on a dead body and toppled backwards. As he fell he exposed his chest so Mindaugas leapt forward and thrust his sword down into the man’s torso. The point went through the chain mail, into his chest and pierced his heart. Mindaugas roared in triumph but did not see the spear hurtling through the air towards him. He spied it at the last second and knew he was dead, only for a shield to miraculously appear in front of him to catch the missile. Even so the spear still had enough power to punch through the leather-faced wood. The prince’s deputy threw the shield to the ground as he grabbed Mindaugas’ mail to haul him roughly back into the shield wall as more Kurs closed in on him. The prince raised his bloody sword in thanks.

‘We must move, highness. We cannot remain here and live.’

Mindaugas looked into the sky. It was only just past noon. Multiple horn blasts turned his attention back to the enemy and he was delighted to see the Kurs shuffling back. They had fought them to a standstill. Cheers came from behind him and ecstatic men banged their spears on their shields and threw insults at the Kurs, calling them women and cowards.

But the Kurs were only getting started.

Their spearmen withdrew and took the opportunity to slake their thirsts in the summer heat, drinking greedily from water bottles as the horsemen were despatched to the nearest lake to refill them. The Selonians and Samogitians also emptied their water bottles. But they had no opportunity to refill them and as they used up their last reserves the Kur spearmen parted to allow Arturus’ axe men to deploy against the square.

‘Ready!’ shouted Mindaugas as the enemy brutes calmly manoeuvred into position.

Weary, bruised and bloody bodies once more gripped spear hafts and hand axes as they prepared to once again defend the shrinking square.

‘We must leave now, highness,’ pleaded his deputy.

Mindaugas, panting, his mail ripped, stared at the Kur axe men. They were big men wielding two-handed broadaxes capable of cleaving a man in two. Each man wore a helmet with a thick nasal guard and on his body a suit of sleeveless, knee-length thick hide armour. Everything these men wore was designed to maximise the effectiveness of their broadaxes. Their round shields were strapped to their backs to facilitate the easy swinging of their axes. And every man used his axe left handed so when it was swung the axe head would be coming in on the side most of their opponents carried their spears and swords, not their shields. To stop the axe they would be forced to pivot right to catch the axe head on their shields, thus keeping on the defensive. Or the curved axe head might shatter the shield and hand holding it, or its user might change the direction of the attack to slash low beneath the shield and slice open his opponent’s thighs.

Mindaugas glanced left and right and saw weary, apprehensive faces and a ragged line. He assumed it was the same on all four sides of the square. The priests were no longer shouting encouragement as an ominous silence descended over the battlefield. He saw a forest about half a mile away, its trees beginning on the gentle slope of a hill and disappearing into the distance. He pointed to it.

‘Get the priests on the horses that are still alive and order the chiefs to lead their men to the forest immediately. Go.’

The man saluted and pushed his way through the ranks behind. Mindaugas heard him yelling to the other commanders to rally to him and prayed to the gods that they would have time to mount his desperate gamble.

‘Pick up the javelins,’ he shouted to those around him.

He prised a spear from the body of one of his men and sheathed his sword.

‘As many as you can carry,’ he commanded.

Opposite the drummers of the axe men began banging their instruments, a steady, threatening rumble that was intended to put fear into enemy hearts. It worked because Mindaugas became aware of the thumping in his chest as he gripped the javelin and prepared to lead the charge.

When it was launched the Kurs were taken by surprise as several hundred men and a score or less of white figures on horseback stumbled over dead bodies piled on top of each other. At first they were momentarily stunned and did not move as Mindaugas and those around him hurled their javelins at the black ranks in front of them and raced at the Kurs. Mindaugas had hoped that his men would retain a wedge formation as they tried to reach the forest but any semblance of order quickly disappeared as one thought occupied men’s minds: get to the trees.

Mindaugas stabbed and hacked front, left and right with his sword as hundreds of men struck the Kur axe men.

Around him his men flung themselves at the Kurs, knowing that if they failed to break through they would not survive. They were exhilarated when the Kur line was breached and their prince led the way towards the sanctuary of the trees. But the enemy was already redeploying in response to the bold breakout attempt and soon Mindaugas and his men were being pursued by groups of horsemen, spearmen and axe men. The riders were among them first, hacking down with their swords at what was now a group of disorganised fleeing men. Some of the Selonian chiefs urged their men to stop and face their tormentors but they were quickly overwhelmed and killed by Kurs. By the time Mindaugas and the vanguard reached the pines over half his men had been killed.

At the treeline Mindaugas turned and ordered what remained of his bodyguard to form a defensive line as the priests on horseback rode into the forest. Behind them came dozens of fleeing warriors, many now without weapons and shields, having dumped them to lighten their load to reach safety. But close behind came the Kurs who flooded into the forest to pursue them as Mindaugas’ makeshift defence line disintegrated and the battle turned into a grim hunt.

In front of him hundreds of Kurs were approaching the trees, either side of him more Kurs, led by their horsemen, were flooding into the forest, and behind him the high priest was suddenly unhorsed as a burly Kur swinging his axe killed the mare he was riding.

‘Save the Kriviu Krivaitis,’ commanded Mindaugas, turning and racing towards the Kur who was raising his axe above the prostrate high priest pinned beneath the dead animal.

The prince’s deputy hurled a captured spisa that slammed into the Kur’s hide armour, the iron head burying itself in his shoulder, forcing him to drop his axe. Mindaugas rammed his sword into the Kur’s throat, blood sheeting over the blade.

‘Help him up,’ the prince shouted to his men as the high priest tried in vain to free himself from under the horse.

He and his deputy grabbed the priest’s robes as the others used spear shafts to lever the great lump of dead flesh upwards to enable them to pull him free.

‘My thanks,’ said the high priest.

‘We must move quickly, holy one,’ urged Mindaugas as more Kurs came into the forest.

They fled quickly, slipping on moss and clattering into trees as the enemy searched for men to kill. The white robes of the Kriviu Krivaitis made him a conspicuous target and soon the group was forced to halt when surrounded by a dozen or more enemy warriors. Mindaugas pushed the high priest behind him as a leering Kur threaded the long haft of his axe expertly through his hands before hoisting it above his head. Mindaugas brought up his shield to deflect the overhead attack but the Kur instantly changed the direction of the axe’s attack to make a slashing stroke. The crescent-shaped blade was a blur as it cut across Mindaugas’ belly, the prince at the last second noting the change of attack and stepping back, but not before the chain mail covering his belly was sliced open. Mindaugas saw his opportunity and stabbed his sword forward at the now vulnerable Kur’s left side, but the axe man had lightning reflexes for such a large individual, feinted left and used the haft as a staff to brush the blade aside. Mindaugas pulled back his blade for a second attempt but the Kur suddenly froze, grimaced and collapsed as the prince’s deputy rammed his sword into his side.

‘Move, highness,’ he called as the Kur crumpled to the ground.

Mindaugas pushed the high priest towards the forest’s interior as his dwindling bodyguard fought off the Kurs, two of them killing the last one with their swords.

The forest echoed with shouts and shrieks as the Kurs methodically hunted down groups of Mindaugas’ men, isolating small groups before butchering them. The prince and his men shielded the Kriviu Krivaitis as they made their escape. A spear flew through the air to strike one of the bodyguards, inflicting a crippling wound. They left him. An arrow slammed into a tree near Mindaugas, another hitting one of his men in the shoulder. The man grunted in pain and fell to the ground. The prince lifted him to his feet but two more arrows struck him in the back. He looked at Mindaugas with an anguished expression and then his eyes showed no life at all.

On they went, now reduced to three individuals. Mindaugas’ deputy led the way as they stumbled further into the forest, the sounds of slaughter receding as they plunged deeper into the trees. The prince covered the high priest’s back as they skirted a thicket of bushes and an axe suddenly lopped off his deputy’s head. The Kur was probably lost because he was alone. Mindaugas sprang at him, ramming his shield forward to prevent him moving his axe. He pinned the man against a tree but struggled to hold him there. He put all his weight behind the shield in an effort to prevent the Kur from moving but, like all Arturus’ axe men, he was a big, muscular brute and the prince found himself being pushed back. He drove his sword beneath his shield and into the Kur’s guts, twisting the blade as it pierced the hide armour and sliced through the man’s belly and into his lungs. He suddenly spat blood from his mouth, showering Mindaugas’ face before expiring.

Then there were two – Mindaugas and the Kriviu Krivaitis – and a seemingly endless forest. They carried on, too weak to run now, unsure if they were going in the right direction but aware that the forest was now silent.

After two hours of creeping from tree to tree, not knowing if a Kur was going to spring out from behind a trunk, Mindaugas suggested that they stop and rest. They did so in a small hollow surrounded by ancient pines. He had lost his helmet and shield, his mail