The Sword Brothers

by Peter Darman

  ‘From the garrison of Wenden, I believe,’ said Lembit casually.

  ‘How well informed you are,’ replied the bishop. ‘Well, I wish you good fortune on your journey back to Lehola.’

  The bishop turned and left the tent in the company of Volquin and Sir Rudolf. Conrad made to follow when Lembit called him back.

  ‘Conrad Wolff.’

  Conrad turned to face him. They were now alone in the tent.

  ‘I heard about the incident yesterday on the road,’ remarked Lembit in German. ‘It would appear that our destinies are linked in some strange way.’

  ‘I do not know of such things,’ said Conrad.

  ‘And yet,’ continued Lembit, ‘every time I make war upon Livonia you appear as if by magic.’

  ‘Perhaps you should not make war upon Livonia, then.’

  Lembit moved closer until their faces were only inches apart. ‘I owe you a scar, young pup. A man should always pay his debts, don’t you think?’

  ‘I do,’ replied Conrad.

  ‘The next time I come south I will exact payment from you.’

  Conrad smiled. ‘To our next meeting, then.’

  The bishop called his name. ‘Your master calls,’ said Lembit. ‘Go to him, little dog.’

  ‘I will mark you well for those words, pagan.’ Conrad turned and walked from the tent to follow the bishop and his party back to camp.

  The other chiefs were waiting for Lembit as he came from the tent. He beckoned over Kalju whose hard features showed concern.

  ‘Get your people to their hill forts as quickly as possible.’

  ‘You think that what that priest said, about the Lithuanians, was true?’ said Kalju.

  Lembit hunched his shoulders. ‘I have no idea. But it is best to take no chances.

  ‘Have the crusaders and Lithuanians made an alliance?’ asked Edvin.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Lembit replied. ‘They are not of the same faith and Daugerutis has often crossed the Dvina to raid the crusaders’ lands.’

  Lembit’s guards closed around him as he and the other chiefs walked back to their camp.

  ‘Will the peace with the crusaders hold?’ said Alva.

  Lembit smiled. ‘The one thing about these Christian priests is that they put great store in their promises. The peace will hold until I decide to break it. They also dislike lying, which leads me to conclude that there is indeed a Lithuanian army marching towards Novgorod.’

  *****

  But the Lithuanians did not attack Novgorod, the dour city amid swamps and forests that lay two hundred miles north of the Dvina. Instead Grand Duke Daugerutis led his horsemen north towards the rich lands around Pskov, the prosperous city set amid gently rolling hills where ancient villages nestled on hilltops and white-painted churches and monasteries littered the many hay meadows and pasture lands. Though a third of the land south of the city was covered with trees, the great tracts of forest lay to the north where huge expanses of pine, birch and fir blanketed the terrain. The more temperate climate around Pskov and to the south resulted in deciduous trees predominating, among them oak, linden, maple and elm.

  This was a peaceful land bordering the Principality of Gerzika, a kingdom of fellow Russians, ensuring its southern frontier was untroubled by raiders. To the west lay Estonian Ungannia but the rulers of Pskov had always endeavoured to maintain amicable relations with its pagan neighbours, backed up by a large force of Druzhina and a well-trained city militia.

  Domash Tverdislavich sat on his horse and cursed his luck. Pskov had lost a sizeable number of men during the prince’s ill-judged invasion of Ungannia and now he faced a Lithuanian invasion alone. He had sent urgent messages to Novgorod requesting reinforcements but knew that they would never arrive in time. Now he waited with the men of his Druzhina – four hundred horsemen – as villagers flooded past him towards the safety of Pskov.

  Normally a Russian army would deploy for battle in five sections – van, centre, rear and two wings – with the urban militias in the centre of the line with low-grade Voi either side of them. Ahead of the foot soldiers would stand the archers and crossbowmen, while on the wings would be arrayed the horsemen with a reserve in the rear. But Domash had allocated the city militia to the defence of Pskov, its missile troops lining the walls, especially the southern ramparts where the refugees were flooding through the two gates.

  The land immediately around the city was mostly arable and had been largely cleared of trees. As such it was ideal country for horsemen, which was unfortunate, as he had learned that the Lithuanian invaders were all mounted. Once they arrived in Novgorodian territory they had systematically set about burning and destroying everything they came across: villages, churches and monasteries. Scouts had brought messages to Pskov telling of all the inhabitants of villages being rounded up, herded into buildings that were then set alight. Nuns were raped and then murdered and monks and priests were hanged from their places of worship. It was apparent that the Lithuanians had come only to kill and destroy.

  Some villagers had fled with their possessions into the woods but had been hunted down and slaughtered. The only safe place of refuge was behind the strong walls of Pskov. The inhabitants of the villages around the city had been evacuated days before and the groups of people now hurrying towards Domash’s stronghold were from those settlements located twenty or thirty miles away. They flooded the great plain south of the city, women clutching infants and holding the hands of wailing children. Men pulled two-wheeled carts on which were loaded food, their few belongings and the elderly, while others armed with spears and axes formed a ragged, nervous rearguard.

  Domash gave the order to advance as civilians rushed passed his men in terror, some bare footed and others wearing bast shoes made from birch bark. His men were the cream of the city’s boyar class: each one encased in steel lamellar armour, helmet, aventail, and armed with sword, shield and lance. But as they trotted forward the far end of the valley suddenly filled with Lithuanian riders. The civilians, hearing the screams of those nearest the pagan invaders, abandoned their carts and belongings and fled towards the city.

  The Lithuanians fought under the chiefs of the princes, their banners showing the ancient symbols of his tribes – Selonian and Nalsen – Daugerutis had brought across the Dvina: the white stork, auroch, wolf and elk. They ran down the fleeing Russians and killed them with their swords, axes and maces, while those who stood and attempted to form a shield wall were showered with spisas and then cut to pieces by horsemen who rode among their disorganised ranks. As they had done during the previous days the Lithuanians set about killing as many as they could.

  Behind him his boyars seethed with anger and despair at the horrible spectacle unfolding before them but Domash did not give the order to charge. Instead he halted his men and ordered them to deploy into two ranks. There were now upwards of a thousand Lithuanians at least on the plain and more were appearing all the time. His charge would have to be well timed for it would probably be the only one before the Druzhina were overwhelmed by sheer weight of numbers.

  Then he spied a great column of horsemen that dwarfed the other groups galloping around and slaying civilians. This force was advancing at speed directly at the city and straight for his men. As it got closer it expanded in width as its riders deployed from column into line, in the middle of which flew a huge red banner showing a black bear on all fours. He turned and ordered his trumpeter to signal the advance. A mighty cheer answered the shrill blast as his horsemen broke into a trot and lowered their lances to move forward to engage the Lithuanians.

  There was no disciplined advance, no effort to maintain order, just a mad rush to get to grips with the Lithuanians. The golden snow leopard of Pskov billowed in the wind behind Domash as he griped his lance and headed for the huge man on a big horse in the middle of the Lithuanian line. He could feel the strain of his horse as the beast hurtled across the grass, its iron shoes kicking up great sods of earth as it pounded the ground. The distance be
tween the two sets of horsemen seemed to vanish in the blink of an eye and then there was a sickening crunch as they collided.

  The big Lithuanian had been shielded by a horde of his men as Domash brought his shield up to deflect a spisa, one of many that were thrown at the Russians, before thrusting his lance through a rider’s mail armour and into his belly. He let go of the haft and drew his sword to hack at the neck of an opponent who passed him on his left side. His horse slowed as he and the other boyars fought desperately to stem the Lithuanian tide. Suddenly hundreds of men were engaged in a desperate mêlée, the clash of weapons resembling the sound of a load of metal cutlery being thrown down stone steps.

  The boyars of Pskov wore blue feathers in their helmets as a means of identification but as the fighting intensified it appeared to Domash that he was an island in a Lithuanian sea. He could see no other Russian as he slashed the arm of a rider wielding a mace before turning to his left to see a Lithuanian raising an axe, about to spit open his helmet. The man screamed and brought the axe down at the instant when Domash’s horse collapsed to the ground.

  The Lithuanian’s animal tripped over it and threw its rider as Domash lay on his back, surprised and mildly stunned. His horse was dead, a spisa sticking out of its chest. He breathed a sigh of relief and got to his feet, retrieving his sword from the ground, and realised that he was surrounded by half a dozen enemy riders, in addition to the one who had been thrown, three of whom were armed with lances. He held his sword at the ready, prepared to take as many as possible with him before he too died.

  The non-stop clashing of blades and squeals and cries of wounded men and horses continued unabated as one Lithuanian charged at him, his lance levelled at his chest. Domash threw himself aside to avoid the metal point and then thrust his sword into the rider’s leg, who yelped and released his lance. He swung around just in time to catch a mace blow on his shield, the metal flanges splitting the leather and wood. Another rider thrust the point of his spisa into his right hamstring. Domash grimaced with pain and went down on one knee. He was finished.

  The Lithuanians were in no hurry now. They knew they had him and grinned at each other at the prospect of giving this Russian a slow death. Domash winced with pained as he hauled himself up. At least he would sell his life dearly.

  ‘Come on, then!’ he shouted at them as behind him he heard a new sound: the banging of drums and the blast of trumpets.

  He heard several thuds and saw two of the Lithuanians pitch forward and fall from their saddles. Another thud and an enemy rider trotted from behind him slumped in the saddle, a crossbow bolt in his back. And then there were cries and suddenly he was surrounded by spearmen with blue plumes in their helmets, thrusting their spears upwards at Lithuanians while behind them crossbowmen shot them down.

  ‘On, on, save the mayor.’

  Domash hobbled backwards as men of the Pskov militia methodically advanced and forced back the Lithuanians, many of the latter’s saddles being emptied by well-aimed quarrels. Domash recognised that voice.

  ‘A ride back to the city, my lord?’

  Domash looked round to see a grinning Gleb sitting beside the driver of a cart.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

  ‘Saving your arse,’ Gleb replied.

  ‘I thought I gave orders for the militia to man the walls.’

  Glad waved a hand at him. ‘There are plenty of men to stand around doing nothing except hold a spear. The militia were needed here.’

  Domash hobbled over the cart, Gleb hauling him onto the bench next to the driver. Behind the cart were a dozen drummers and trumpeters. Ahead the spearmen had halted in a line to allow the fifty crossbowmen to shoot accurately at the rapidly retreating Lithuanians.

  ‘Don’t hit any of our own men,’ called Domash, wincing as pain shot through his wounded leg.

  ‘Don’t worry about them,’ said Gleb standing on the cart behind him. ‘They know what they are doing, unlike you.’

  ‘Just get me back to the city, damn you,’ said Domash.

  Gleb turned and gave the order to the trumpeters to signal withdrawal as the crossbowmen shot another volley at the Lithuanians.

  The appearance of the city militia had saved what was left of the Druzhina, though two hundred of them had been slain in the engagement. As the crossbowmen kept the seething mass of Lithuanians at bay with their accurate shooting, the boyars and their commander limped back to Pskov. Honour and not a few civilians had been saved, but at a price.

  Domash ripped off a length of his shirt and bound his leg as the cart rumbled across the moat and through one of the city’s two southern gates.

  ‘How many managed to get into the city?’ asked Domash.

  ‘More than the city’s food supplies can feed,’ replied Gleb, raising his hand to the soldiers lining the walls above.

  Behind the spearmen and crossbowmen were conducting an expert withdrawal, groups of boyar horsemen trotting over the bridge across the moat as the foot soldiers kept the Lithuanians at bay. Domash looked behind at the riders with damaged shields, dented armour and ripped flesh, their horses sweating and some also wounded.

  ‘Many fines ladies will be weeping tonight.’

  ‘Very poetic,’ remarked Gleb. ‘Perhaps you could write a long poem during the coming siege while you wait for the prince. Where is he, by the way?’

  ‘On his way, God willing.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ mused Gleb as the cart wound its way through a throng of refugees to the mayor’s palace. ‘You will be pleased to know that the priests are wailing and burning incense in their churches, calling upon God to save them. So far he appears to have ignored their appeals.’

  ‘You should watch your words, Gleb,’ warned Domash. ‘The church has great power in the city.’

  ‘Though not among the citizenry, I think,’ smiled Gleb. ‘It is amazing how crises bring out the old ways in people. If food runs low we could always eat some priests, though they are so scrawny that they would not make much of a meal.’

  Domash tightened the ligature on his leg. ‘It might come to that if the Lithuanians besiege us and prevent the prince from relieving the city.’

  *****

  Grand Duke Daugerutis established his headquarters in an abandoned white-walled church ten miles south of Pskov. His own and the horses of his senior commanders were tethered in the nave while he and they sat at a small table where the altar had been situated. The walls were covered in religious paintings and there was a domed roof just before the sanctuary. His army filled the surrounding countryside, using wood from the village huts that had surrounded the church to make fires. All the cows, pigs and goats had been abandoned by the villagers when they fled to Pskov and now the Lithuanians feasted on their meat as they availed themselves of Russian hospitality.

  ‘We leave in the morning,’ announced the grand duke, the juices from a piece of roasted pork dripping onto his beard.

  ‘We will not assault Pskov?’ said Stecse in surprise, a soldier offering him more meat from a platter.

  Daugerutis shook his head. ‘It’s surrounded on three sides by water and on its landward side there are strong walls and a deep moat. It would be madness to attempt an assault.’

  ‘A siege then?’ asked another of his commanders.

  ‘Sieges take a long time,’ answered the grand duke. ‘Autumn will soon be here and I have no doubt that Mstislav is on his way.’

  He beckoned over the soldier with the platter. ‘Besides, I have no desire to occupy Pskov. What would I do with a Russian city over a hundred miles from my own kingdom?’

  ‘Burn it to the ground’ suggested Stecse. The others laughed.

  ‘We have done enough burning,’ said the grand duke. He looked at the son of Stecse sitting beside his father. The boy sat in silence, occasionally looking at the fearsome warrior chiefs around the table.

  ‘Well, young Mindaugas,’ said the grand duke, throwing a bone to the floor, ‘how do you like your first campaign
.’

  ‘It is very loud, lord.’

  Daugerutis gave a great belly laugh. ‘Ha! A good answer. Your ears will get accustomed to the screams of men having their guts ripped out, have no fear.’

  But Mindaugas was not thinking about the battle. He and his father had arrived on the field late in that day, when the Pskov militia was covering the retreat of the boyars back to the city. He was referring to the roaring of the flames when the Lithuanians had fired villages and incinerated people inside churches. He had found it fascinating, particularly watching people’s death throes when they changed from terrified, writhing individuals who begged for life to still corpses with glazed, unblinking eyes and frozen expressions. Fascinating.

  ‘To burn our way to the gates of Pskov is triumph enough,’ said the grand duke contentedly. He looked at the hardened faces around him. ‘You have all fought well and obeyed my orders to kill and burn. As a reward I give you permission to take as many slaves and livestock as you wish on the return journey.’

  They looked at each other in confusion. Stecse articulated their thoughts.

  ‘Those Russians who did not fall under our swords are either in Pskov or hiding in the neighbouring forests, lord.’

  ‘And we killed all their livestock on the way here,’ said another.

  The serving soldier brought another platter heaped with sizzling meat, the grand duke taking a large slice and shoving it into his mouth.

  ‘I came here to lay waste a large part of Novgorodian territory, which I have done. Now I authorise you to plunder Livonia to fill your halls with slaves to serve you at your tables and keep your beds warm.’

  ‘Livonia, lord?’ queried Stecse.

  The grand duke smiled slyly. ‘The crusaders were weak to allow me to cross the Dvina. Now they will learn the price of their weakness as I empty Caupo’s villages of their children and womenfolk. Next year I will cross the Dvina and make war upon the bishop. This I pledge.’

  They all cheered and thanked the grand duke for his generosity. To return from campaign with a great haul of booty was to win prestige among the Lithuanian people, and slaves were the greatest prizes of all.