They reduced two more villages to ashes before journeying north to the tribal lands of the Nalsen, a people united by blood ties with Aras’ own people, the Selonians. Fifty men had made the trip from the great wooden hill fort of Panemunis weeks earlier and forty-four now marched through the stronghold’s gates. All were a little lean and hungry but Aras thought it a successful mission, all in all, as did the man who had dreamed up the idea during the previous winter: Prince Vsevolod of Gerzika.
Vsevolod was a Russian who had once ruled the Principality of Gerzika, located on the northern bank of the River Dvina. His wife was Rasa, the daughter of Grand Duke Daugerutis, the Lithuanian who had united most of the tribes of his people and who had led them in a great war against the Bishop of Riga and the Sword Brothers. But Daugerutis had lost that war and also his life, and the Sword Brothers had captured Gerzika and forced Vsevolod into exile. Now he sat in the stronghold of his dead father-in-law, plotting to reclaim his former home, though first he had to safeguard his deceased father-in-law’s lands.
Aras dismissed his men who immediately went to the kitchens to fill their bellies with anything that was cooking. Aras saluted to Vsevolod and the eighteen-year-old man standing by his side. On the other side of the Russian prince was his wife, the formidable red-haired Rasa, who flashed him a smile. Like him she was Selonian and shared his desire to preserve the late grand duke’s territories.
Russian guards in mail and helmets ringed the spacious courtyard – Vsevolod like to surround himself with his countrymen – and above the great feasting hall that fronted the dirt square flew the banner of Daugerutis: a black bear on all fours against a red background. Beside it fluttered Gerzika’s standard, a winged silver griffin on a blue background.
‘Greetings, general’ said Vsevolod, smiling at Aras. ‘You appear to have lost weight.’
‘Aukstaitijan hospitality is not what it was, lord,’ he replied. He bowed his head to Rasa. ‘Lady.’
‘It is good to see you safely home, general,’ she said.
‘Let us talk,’ said Vsevolod, turning on his heels to enter the hall.
Rasa and the young man followed, the guards whose shields sported the emblem of Gerzika snapping to attention as they did so. There were more guards at the entrance to the great dining hall but Vsevolod led them to a smaller room behind it where slaves brought black rye bread and piping hot slices of boar meat and chicken breasts. Vsevolod and Rasa waved away the food offered them but accepted cups of honey mead while the young man drank only
gira
, a non-alcoholic drink made from rye bread.
Vsevolod dismissed the slaves and ordered the door to be closed. From experience he knew that even the meekest slave gossiped and information could spread from one kingdom to another quicker than an eagle’s flight. He looked at Aras, whose name meant ‘eagle’ in Lithuanian.
‘So, general, how did you find Aukstaitija?’
Aras took a great gulp of his drink. ‘Full of lakes and rivers. If I had stayed any longer I would have grown webbed feet. But your kinsmen, that is the Russians, lord, will have got the message and will soon be making war against Duke Kitenis.’
Vsevolod nodded approvingly. ‘Excellent.’
He noticed the young man staring sullenly at his cup. ‘You have something to say Mindaugas?’
The son of Prince Stecse looked up at his father-in-law. ‘It is not honourable to attack an enemy while wearing the insignia of another kingdom.’
Rasa raised her eyebrows at Vsevolod and Aras looked at Mindaugas sympathetically. The prince thought for a moment before answering.
‘You are right; it is not honourable. Unfortunately, my son, honour is an expensive commodity and one that I cannot afford at the moment. General Aras’ actions will hopefully embroil Duke Kitenis in a war with Galicia-Volhynia, which will prevent the duke making trouble on our southern borders or, even worse, forging an alliance with the Semgallians. In this way we can draw Kitenis into our own camp and make him an ally instead of an enemy.’
Mindaugas was confused. ‘How can creating a war between him and the Russians make the duke our ally?’
‘By helping him in his hour of need,’ replied Vsevolod. ‘Galicia-Volhynia is not strong enough to conquer Aukstaitija. Similarly, Duke Kitenis does not have the resources to defeat the Russian kingdom alone. But if we aid the duke then Coloman will be forced to cede land to Kitenis in return for peace. Kitenis will be in our debt, our southern borders will be secure and we can turn our attention to reducing Semgallia.’
It all went over Mindaugas’ head but he said no more on the matter, especially when Vsevolod reminded him that he was doing it all to safeguard his future. That was not strictly true as the prince’s ultimate aim was to reclaim his lost principality on the other side of the Dvina. But Mindaugas was married to his daughter, Morta, so it could be argued that even his most selfish actions were to the former’s advantage, albeit indirectly.
‘And what of the Semgallians, lord?’ queried Aras.
Vsevolod’s brow furrowed. ‘I am still waiting for the Kurs to launch their assault. Arturus is proving surprisingly tardy in his aggression.’
‘You think he will honour his side of the agreement?’ said Aras.
Vsevolod shrugged. ‘Perhaps not. Then again, I have no intention of honouring mine.’
Rasa laughed but Mindaugas looked mortified. Aras saw his discomfort.
‘Young Mindaugas does not share your view of politics, lord.’
‘Don’t call me that,’ snapped Mindaugas.
‘No offence meant,’ said Aras, stuffing a chunk of rye bread into his mouth.
‘You have much to learn, Mindaugas,’ said Vsevolod. ‘You think we have an inexhaustible supply of soldiers to battle the Semgallians, the Aukstaitijans, to say nothing of the Sword Brothers? You remember them, Mindaugas? The Christian soldiers who killed my father-in-law and your father? They would like nothing more than to cross the Dvina and make the Lithuanian people bow their heads to their pope. We are surrounded by enemies and I must take decisions, some unpalatable, to preserve this kingdom.’
Aras nodded. ‘The longer the Lithuanian kingdoms are divided and at each other’s throats the more likely the Sword Brother will be tempted to cross the Dvina.’
Vsevolod jabbed a finger at Mindaugas. ‘Exactly. So I see no compulsion to support Arturus, a man who thinks he is a king and goes his own way, in his war against the Semgallians.’
‘If he makes war upon them,’ said Aras glumly.
‘Cannot we make allies of the Semgallians?’ queried Mindaugas.
‘Vincentas blamed my father, the grand duke, for the death of his own father at Wenden,’ said Rasa.
‘He will never sit down with me to discuss peace,’ confirmed Vsevolod, ‘that is why he must de destroyed and Semgallia divided between the Northern Kurs and ourselves. Or at least that was the plan.’
‘And what of the Samogitia, my husband?’ asked Rasa.
The aloof and cunning Duke Butantas, who thus far had made no intimation of what Lithuanian faction he favoured, ruled Samogitia.
Vsevolod picked at a piece of rye bread. ‘Butantas bides his time and waits to see which side prevails. His inactivity works to our advantage as long as we do not suffer a reverse.’
He looked at Mindaugas. ‘So you see young prince, I have no time for notions such as honour in my decisions.’
‘Perhaps Arturus waits for us to make the first move against the Semgallians, lord,’ said Aras.
‘Then he will have a long wait,’ replied Vsevolod.
The days were still warm but the autumn nights were crisp and cool, the leaves turning pink and brown as they fell from the trees. The ripened crops were still in the fields, waiting to be harvested, though the first frosts had already appeared and geese and skylarks had begun their migratory flights to warmer climes. This part of western Semgallia comprised fertile lowlands watered by numerous lakes and rivers and was dotted with dozens of villages. Many of the male inhabitants of those villages now stood nervously in the shield wall, waiting for the enemy to arrive. They huddled together, the round wooden shields of the front rank overlapping to give the impression of an unbreakable wall. The morning was dull and cool; the air filled with mizzle that drifted down from the low-lying clouds above.
The position of the Semgallian army was a good one, its right, ‘unshielded flank anchored on a wide, deep stream and its left resting against a thick wood of linden trees. White-robed pagan priests called
Kriviai
were going among the warriors to bless their weapons, calling upon Perkunas, the god of war, to infuse them with courage and reassure them that if they fell in battle their souls would enjoy everlasting bliss in the afterlife.
Manfred Nordheim scratched his nose, lifted his backside off his saddle and broke wind. ‘Apologies duke, I had something for breakfast that didn’t agree with me.’
The one-time smuggler, pirate and mercenary and now the commander of the garrison of Riga sat next to Duke Vincentas, the leader of the Semgallian people, who smiled nervously at Manfred.
The latter jerked a finger at the shield wall in front of them. ‘You should get them to make a bit of noise. Always helps just before a battle. Stops men brooding.’
He spoke in the native tongue for his many travels and adventures throughout the Baltic had given him an understanding of the different languages of the region, though he had to admit that he found the pagans and their log homes and coarse living irksome.
‘They are not brooding,’ hissed Prince Viesthard on the other side of Vincentas, ‘they are praying so that the gods will smile on them.’
Manfred belched, earning him a glare from Viesthard. The soldier from Riga was unconcerned. ‘I saw much the same in Germany when I was a soldier. Prayers didn’t stop men being mangled and butchered once the fighting started.’
The duke had brought nearly four hundred men to this place, most of them farmers from the surrounding villages. He had also mustered fifty of his own men from his stronghold of Mesoten, some thirty miles to the east, all horsemen equipped with helmets, lamellar armour, mail aventails, oblong shields and leather boots. Each horseman carried two
spisas
– long spears – in addition to a sword and either an axe or a mace. They were positioned behind where the duke was sitting on his horse to the rear of the shield wall.
‘I should be on foot in the first rank,’ said Vincentas, a hint of despair in his voice.
‘Your place is here,’ growled Viesthard.
The prince had served the duke’s father, Ykintas, until the latter had been killed at Wenden five years before and now he served his son. And the one thing that he was determined to prevent was the duke’s death in this field in western Semgallia. This kingdom had been beset by foes on all sides since the death of Grand Duke Daugerutis, most of all from the latter’s son-in-law, the slithery Prince Vsevolod. Vincentas was a decent enough duke, diligent, thoughtful and brave, but he was no Ykintas. The ‘Iron Wolf’ had not earned his nickname for nothing and had kept Semgallia strong and free.
‘Don’t worry, duke,’ said Manfred, ‘the enemy will be shot to pieces before they can break your line of farmers.’
Viesthard had difficulty controlling his anger. He stared ahead, silent and stony faced while the barbarian from Riga spoke disrespectfully to his lord. At first he had not understood why the governor of Riga, a man who carried the strange title of archdeacon, had written to Vincentas offering him friendship and aid. He had tried to convince the duke not to travel to Riga, to no avail. But worse was to follow when Vincentas returned and informed him that the governor was prepared to support him against the other dukes. Viesthard had implored him not to accept the hand of friendship from those who had crushed the Livs and Estonians. But the duke was young, impressionable and above all desperate, and had accepted Riga’s offer.
The Semgallian battle line was thin and poorly manned, save for the centre where a hundred of Viesthard’s best men were grouped. They were protected by helmets, mail tunics and large, rectangular shields and were armed with swords and axes. Either side of them stood the farmers, most of whom had no armour save a simple iron helmet. Only the headmen of each village had a mail shirt and perhaps a sword, though the great majority carried only a spear and long knife for weapons. Viesthard would have liked more men to stiffen the ranks but he needed to garrison the hill forts to the south to keep watch on the Samogitians. Likewise Vincentas needed warriors to keep watch on his eastern border in case Vsevolod launched an assault. For these reasons he disliked Nordheim even more for having to rely on his crossbowmen.
Across the stream stood a hundred men armed with the finest crossbows money could buy, all supplied by the governor of Riga, as were half a dozen men in gambesons standing with them who had spent the last few months training the duke’s men in their use. In the linden trees beyond the left wing of the army were another hundred Semgallian crossbowmen, likewise armed with Christian weapons and commanded by Christian soldiers. The governor of Riga had been very generous in supplying weapons, ammunition and instructors and Viesthard knew that such largesse carried a price.
The early morning quiet was suddenly disturbed when a low rumble was heard coming from the west. The ears of Manfred’s horse pricked up and he patted its neck to soothe him. He had heard the sound made by an approaching army often enough.
‘Looks like the Kurs have decided to join us,’ he remarked.
The priests gave their final blessings and raised their arms and heads to the heavens to call upon Perkunas to give the army victory before scurrying back behind the shield wall for safety. It was customary for each side to respect the neutrality and sacredness of the
Kriviai
, even on the battlefield. But the approaching enemy were the Northern Kurs and they respected no one.
They appeared fifteen minutes later, a seething mass of grey and black at the western end of the plain, skirting a great forest of oak before halting to form into line.
‘I hope your men do not run, prince,’ remarked Manfred discourteously.
Viesthard kept his temper in check. ‘Semgallians do not run, Christian.’
Manfred smiled politely but he could tell that the mood of the men in the shield wall less than fifty paces from where he sat on his horse had changed perceptibly. They had already been slightly agitated but now a sense of alarm permeated the air. He could smell it and if he could then so could the Kurs who were now moving again.
They sent riders first: a score or more men on sturdy ponies who galloped forward to reconnoitre the ground and evaluate their opponents. They halted around two hundred paces from the Semgallian front ranks, men in conical helmets, knee-length mail shirts, aventails and large oblong shields sporting a black seagull design – the insignia of Duke Arturus. They rode up and down in front of Vincentas’ men but made no aggressive moves. They rode over to the stream to observe the hundred warriors standing in a line with their instructors, then turned and galloped back to the main body of the Kur army.
‘So far so good,’ said Manfred nonchalantly.
Viesthard drew his sword. ‘With your permission lord.’
Vincentas, his face a mask of grim determination, nodded. Viesthard dismounted and walked to the centre of the shield wall. He began pacing up and down behind the ranks, shouting at the warriors in front of him.
‘Have courage, warriors of Semgallia. Your duke is here and Perkunas watches down on you all. Remember your wives and children. Semgallia!’
They shouted ‘Semgallia’ and began cheering, the best warriors in the centre more heartily than the farmers either side of them. And then they stopped as the Kurs gave a great shout and began moving forward. They did so in three large formations, each numbering over a hundred men, while behind them the two hundred horsemen walked their mounts forward. Once the foot soldiers had reduced the Semgallian front ranks to a mess of mangled flesh and shattered bones the horsemen would charge to scatter any enemy soldiers still standing. Then the Kurs would march on to Viesthard’s stronghold, Tervete hill fort, and storm it. After that they would burn all the villages in western Semgallia.
The Kurs made no sound as they marched forward, rank upon rank of men in black tunics over which they wore thick sleeveless, knee-length hide armour. In the front rank were the men whose task was to literally hack their way through an enemy. Their shields were slung on their backs so they could wield the two-handed axes they carried more easily. The blade of this weapon was as much as a foot across, with a five-foot helve. It was held with a left-handed grip to strike a foe’s unshielded right side and was capable of cleaving a man in two. They also carried swords and daggers on their belts but the weapon of choice for these burly brutes was the two-handed axe that now rested on their shoulders as they walked forward.
Behind them were men armed with smaller one-handed axes who also wore swords and daggers, and in the rear were a thin line of archers. They would release their bowstrings moments before the front rank charged so the enemy would be forced to hide behind their shields just before the big axes went to work. In the centre of their line hanging limply in the damp air was a great banner sporting a black seagull.
There was absolute silence now as the Semgallian farmers gripped their spear shafts and stared with dry mouths at the black assassins that were approaching. Manfred knew that if the Kurs reached the shield wall they would cut it to pieces with ease, especially the wings where farmers fouled their leggings as the feared and hated warriors of Duke Arturus closed to within three hundred paces. And then the air was filled with dozens of cracks as the crossbowmen began shooting.
The most proficient crossbowman could shoot up to four bolts a minute but these Semgallians were relatively fresh to the art of handling a crossbow. Their instructors had therefore concentrated on teaching them to shoot accurately and consistently. They thus managed a maximum of only two shots a minute, but it was enough to bring the Kurs to a halt. Two hundred men shooting two bolts a minute each meant that they had loosed four hundred bolts in the first minute and they continued shooting at a steady rate from the linden trees and from across the ditch. Encouraged by the instructors who walked up and down the line behind them, each man methodically aimed and shot his weapon and then hooked the metal claw attached to the front of his leather belt over the centre of the bowstring. He then placed his right foot in the metal stirrup fitted to the fore-end of the stock and straightened his leg to push the crossbow downwards. The bowstring, hooked to the claw, was forcibly drawn along the stock of the crossbow until it slipped over the catch of the lock, ready to shoot another bolt.
In ninety seconds the crossbowmen had loosed six hundred bolts and had stopped the Kur attack in its tracks. Where there had been silence among the black ranks there were now groans and screams as iron-tipped bolts went through leather and wood to pierce flesh. The crossbowmen continued with their steady volleys, instructors shouting furiously at their men to keep their nerve and resist the temptation to increase their rate of shooting.
There was a succession of horn blasts among the Kurs and all three groups of foot soldiers suddenly about-turned and briskly withdrew out of the range of the crossbowmen. Wild cheering erupted among Vincentas’ men, especially the farmers, as the Kurs retreated. The Semgallians had expected a grim close-quarters battle against the dreaded Kurs and few believed that they would prevail in such a contest. But now they had seen the hated warriors of Duke Arturus stopped and forced to retreat. Vincentas drew his sword but Manfred reached over and grabbed his arm.
‘I would not do that, sir.’
Vincentas yanked his arm free. ‘Now is the time to finish these Kurs.’
He looked behind him and raised his sword.
‘You will snatch defeat from the jaws of victory if you charge after them,’ shouted Manfred. ‘Look!’
He was pointing ahead to where a body of Kur horsemen was cantering towards the linden trees where half the crossbowmen were positioned. Their comrades on the other side of the stream had stopped shooting now that the Kur warriors had retreated, but those in the trees shot a devastating volley that scythed down the front rank of the horsemen when the latter were around two hundred paces from them. Horses collapsed to the ground and others shrieked in pain, rearing up and throwing their riders as bolts hit them. A few riders reached the treeline and hurled their spears into the thick undergrowth where the crossbowmen were lurking. But their instructors had withdrawn them deeper into the wood and so the missiles fell harmlessly among the foliage. Then there was another series of thwacks as a fresh volley of bolts was launched and those horsemen at the edge of the trees were knocked from their saddles. The others were recalled by a series of sharp horn blasts and galloped out of range of the crossbows. The Semgallians gave another cheer as the Kurs withdrew west, covered by a screen of riders.