The Sword Brothers

by Peter Darman

  He was musing over these thoughts when there was a knock at the door to his study.

  ‘Enter.’

  The chief steward of the palace entered and bowed. ‘Chief Aras awaits you in your hall, highness.’

  Vsevolod looked up from his chair. ‘Who?’

  ‘Prince Stecse’s deputy, highness.’

  Vsevolod sighed. Was there no end to these tiresome, dull-witted Lithuanian lords?

  ‘Very well, tell him I will be along shortly.’

  When Vsevolod entered his hall a few minutes later he found a tall man of medium build waiting for him. Unusually, he had a smartly trimmed black beard and his hair was cut short. Most Lithuanians wore their hair and beards long and wild. In fact his overall appearance was neat and tidy, with a thigh-length mail hauberk, short leather boots, brown leggings and green tunic, his helmet held in the crook of his arm. He bowed his head when he saw the prince.

  ‘Chief Aras?’ Vsevolod sat on his high-backed wooden throne. ‘What brings you to Gerzika?’

  ‘To advise you on affairs south of the river, lord.’

  Vsevolod called over his steward and ordered him to fetch wine for him and his guest.

  ‘I have advisers, chief, and they keep me informed of affairs on both sides of the river.’

  Aras nodded. ‘Then you will know of the meeting between the other dukes a week ago in Semgallia.’

  Vsevolod’s face registered alarm.

  Aras continued. ‘I see that you do not. They first seek to divide the territory of Duke Ykintas between them and afterwards they will look east, to the territories of the late grand duke, your father-in-law.’

  The steward returned with a silver tray holding two silver flagons. He offered one to Vsevolod and the other to Aras.

  ‘I know who Daugerutis was,’ said Vsevolod. ‘What is your point?’

  ‘I was appointed by Prince Stecse to keep an eye on his son, Mindaugas, lord. As such, I have a responsibility to ensure that he has a kingdom to inherit when he becomes a man.’

  ‘That is my task,’ said Vsevolod irritably.

  Aras, unconcerned, sipped at his wine. ‘Well, my lord, then I would suggest that you and your army get to Panemunis as quickly as possible to prepare for the assault of the other dukes. The death of the grand duke has whetted their appetite for power and they see an opportunity to crush the Selonians and Nalsen, especially now that Prince Stecse is dead.’

  ‘If I abandon Gerzika,’ said Vsevolod firmly, ‘then I have no doubt that the crusaders will launch an attack against it.’

  ‘They will attack it anyway, my lord. The fact that you did not aid their cause against the grand duke’s invasion of Livonia will have condemned you in their eyes.’

  Vsevolod waved a hand at him. ‘I am a friend of the bishop. I brokered a peace treaty between him and the grand duke.’

  ‘That the grand duke broke. I know that these Christians place great store in forgiveness and charity, but they will not forget that you did not come to their aid in the recent war.’

  Vsevolod glared at Aras. ‘The war was not of my making. I cannot be held responsible for events beyond my control.’

  ‘The point is, lord,’ said Aras, ‘can you fight the crusaders as well as the other dukes south of the river?’

  Vsevolod said nothing but began tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. This well-dressed Lithuanian was impertinent but he was also right: the bishop was probably no longer his friend and the other Lithuanian dukes obviously sensed an opportunity to strengthen themselves at the expense of the grand duke’s people. Gerzika’s army, such as it was, would not be able to withstand a battle against the crusaders, and once the bishop’s men were at his walls the only allies he had would be the Lithuanians across the Dvina. But if civil strife raged south of the river then he would get no help and Gerzika would surely fall. Perhaps it might fall anyway.

  ‘You command the army of the grand duke?’ queried Vsevolod.

  ‘What is left of it, my lord,’ answered Aras.

  ‘And what is left of it?’

  ‘The grand duke took twelve thousand of his own men across the Dvina. I mustered just over four thousand at Panemunis two weeks ago. They are in no state to fight against the other dukes, lord. I need time to rebuild the army.’

  ‘That is not within my power to grant,’ said Vsevolod.

  ‘No, my lord, but the transfer of a few hundred of your own soldiers across the river would allow me to transfer some of my own men from garrison duties to offensive operations. To keep the wolf from the door, so to speak.’

  ‘To do so would weaken Gerzika,’ said Vsevolod.

  ‘The land will be covered in snow in three months, lord, and the rivers and lakes will be frozen. The crusaders will not march against you until next year.’

  Vsevolod could not decide whether he disliked or admired this Aras. He was certainly perceptive and what he was suggesting made sense, which was in itself irksome. But he was right about one thing: the other Lithuanian dukes presented the most immediate threat.

  ‘Your name means “eagle”, does it not?’ enquired Vsevolod.

  ‘It does, lord.’

  ‘How apt for someone who keeps a watch on Stecse’s son. I trust he prospers.’

  ‘He thirsts for revenge, lord.’

  ‘Ah, I see. Entirely understandable, I suppose,’ remarked Vsevolod, ‘to seek vengeance against those who killed his father.’

  ‘It is my task to temper his anger with judgement,’ said Aras. ‘One day Mindaugas will lead the Lithuanian people.’

  ‘I will send five hundred men to Panemunis,’ announced Vsevolod, ‘where they will guard my wife and daughters. Now, Chief Aras, tell me about Arturus.’

  Aras was surprised. ‘Arturus? He is the leader of the Northern Kurs who fights Gedvilas of the Southern Kurs, or he did the last time I heard anything about him. He was the one who attacked Riga a few years back.’

  Vsevolod rose. ‘Excellent. Now if you will excuse me I have business to attend to.’

  Aras replaced his flagon back on the tray held by the steward and bowed his head. ‘My lord.’

  Vsevolod raised his hand in acknowledgement and went back to his study. An hour later he summoned his steward and presented him with a sealed letter that he had written. He found the Lithuanian language coarse but it was easy enough to write and so he did not need a translator to write down his words. He gave the steward the letter and ordered him to deliver it himself. The man had served him diligently for many years and he hoped that he would not lose his head during his mission. Still, hard times demanded great sacrifice. Vsevolod frowned when he noticed that his white silk shirt was stained with a spot of ink.

  Three weeks later, after having overseen the transfer of the five hundred men from Gerzika to Panemunis, Vsevolod was seated in the dining hall of his former father-in-law’s stronghold. The days were getting cooler now and a fire constantly burned in the great stone hearth in the centre of the hall. In a month’s time ice would begin to form on the Dvina and the land would be covered with snow. Then he would finally feel confident that the bishop would not march against him, at least for this year.

  Rasa had taken the death of her father particularly badly and had wanted him to unite his army with Aras’ forces and recross the Dvina to continue the war against the bishop. She only calmed down when Aras informed her that the bridge of boats that had enabled the grand duke to cross the river had been destroyed. She cursed the Christians for burning it and he agreed that they were indeed heathens.

  Today she and Vsevolod ate alone in the dining hall, both seated at the end of the top table. Aras had taken Mindaugas and their two daughters, Morta and Elze, on a hunting trip in the forest, the prince having assigned two score of his Russian warriors as bodyguards.

  ‘You need have no fear for their safety,’ Rasa censored him, ‘Aras is quite loyal. He is like me, a Selonian.’

  ‘I know, but it will take me a while to grow accustomed t
o Lithuanian ways.’

  She picked at a slice of mutton. ‘We need to think about Mindaugas.’

  Vsevolod cast aside his lukewarm meat. ‘Do we?’

  ‘The death of my father has led to uncertainty within the kingdom. We must act to secure the succession.’

  Vsevolod tore off a piece of black bread and dipped it in the bowl of juka. It tasted exquisite.

  ‘Your father named me as his successor.’

  Rasa shook her head. ‘You are the guardian of the throne, nothing more.’

  Vsevolod frowned. ‘You are so reassuring, my sweet.’

  ‘My people will never accept a Russian ruling over them. They tolerate you because of your marriage to me but they look to us to give them a Lithuanian duke.’

  Vsevolod dropped his bread into his soup in alarm. ‘You wish to bear another child?’

  ‘I wish for Mindaugas to marry Morta.’

  ‘He is thirteen and she is fourteen,’ said Vsevolod. ‘They are too young.’

  ‘They like each other and can be married next year,’ replied Rasa. ‘I have spoken to the Kriviu Krivaitis and he will give his blessing to the union.’

  ‘Have you ever wondered why he lives in a grove, my sweet?’ enquired her husband innocently. ‘You know he is completely mad, though not that insane if he has managed to surround himself with a host of virgins willing to do his every bidding.’

  Rasa looked around the room in alarm. She cared nothing for the serving slaves but didn’t want the guards to spread rumours of her husband’s blasphemy.

  ‘Choose your words carefully,’ she hissed, ‘you are not in Gerzika now.’

  The doors of the hall opened and a muddy courier entered. Around his neck was a leather tubular carrying case. Two guards crossed their spears to bar his entry but Vsevolod waved him through. The man was wearing the silver griffin symbol of Gerzika on the front of his blue tunic.

  Vsevolod rubbed his hands together. ‘If this is what I think it is, my sweet, we may be back in Gerzika sooner rather than later.’

  The courier took a letter from his carrying case and bowed his head as he handed it to the prince. Vsevolod’s smile started to disappear when he saw the cross keys symbol of Riga on the seal. He broke it and read the contents, his mood darkening as he read the fawning words of Archdeacon Stefan. When he finished he tossed the parchment on the table and came to two immediate conclusions: the archdeacon was no longer his friend and he would be staying in Lithuania longer than he had hoped.

  ‘The news is not good, I gather,’ said Rasa, looking at her husband’s face.

  ‘The bishop wants his gold back.’

  Rasa was confused. ‘What gold?’

  ‘The gold that was paid to your father, my sweet, for the return of the Liv slaves he took during his raid against the Novgorodians. The gold that he used to entice the other dukes to join his campaign earlier this year. The bishop views said campaign as a breach of the terms of the peace treaty that was signed between him and your father.’

  ‘Ignore them,’ said Rasa contemptuously.

  Vsevolod smiled. ‘The crusaders are nothing if not diligent when it comes to negotiations. They have thought of that.’

  He picked up the letter and read aloud some of its contents.

  ‘Failure to deliver the aforementioned quantity of gold to Riga before the Dvina freezes over will result in the bishop seeking alternative reparations from the Principality of Gerzika, equivalent to the amount in gold that is currently owed to the Holy Kingdom of Livonia.’

  ‘Meaning what?’ said Rasa.

  ‘Meaning, my sweet, that if I do not pay the bishop his gold he will attack my city.’

  *****

  The missionaries were sweating heavily, though due to the raging fire that burned behind them or the prospect of being harmed was uncertain. They had trekked through the empty land north of Wenden that marked the frontier between Christian Livonia and pagan Estonia before coming to one of the villages near the hill fort of Fellin. There they had begun to preach to the villagers, showing them the wooden crosses that hung around their necks and calling on them to accept the Christian faith and be baptised. They were met by a variety of blank and hostile stares as none of the villagers understood German, though they recognised the crosses that they had previously seen on the shields and banners of the crusaders that had ravaged their land two years before. As Abbot Hylas and his monks prayed and preached word was sent to Fellin and a party of wolf shields arrived on ponies to seize them.

  Their wrists were bound and they were dragged off to Lehola to face the judgement of Lembit. They now stood before him in his hall, their habits having been taken from them and thrown into the fire. Wolf shields stood around the walls and Rusticus stood beside his lord in his war gear, though Lembit himself wore only a plain shirt and leggings, his sword hanging at his hip. The only sound in the hall was the crackling of the huge fire.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked them in German.

  ‘A pagan who must hear the word of the one true god,’ said Hylas, looking down defiantly at Lembit.

  ‘And you are?’ said Lembit.

  ‘Abbot Hylas of the Cistercian Order.’

  ‘What are Cistercians?’

  ‘A religious order that spreads the word of God.’

  ‘I am Lembit, leader of the Estonian tribes,’ he spread his arms, ‘and this is my hall. It stands on my land, as does the village you invaded. The last time Christians came to my land they kidnapped women and children. Was that your intention, Abbot Hylas?’

  Beads of sweat formed on Hylas’ forehead as the fire roasted his and the others’ backs, but he still stood defiant.

  ‘I am here with my brothers to lead them to God.’

  ‘So you are a kidnapper,’ said Lembit, ‘for you seek to steal their souls and sell them to your god. We have our own gods. We do not need your god; we do not want your god.’

  Hylas sneered at Lembit. ‘Your gods are false. There is only one god.’

  Lembit sighed. ‘I see.’

  ‘What are you going to do with them?’ said Rusticus, bored by the whole thing.

  ‘Send them back to the bishop, of course,’ answered Lembit.

  The next day he sent riders to the other chiefs informing them that the truce with the Christians was over and that they should strengthen their strongholds and prepare for war next spring. Judgement was passed on Abbot Hylas and his monks that afternoon.

  The first monk, the youngest, had tears streaming down his face as two wolf shields dragged him from the fort’s gates to stand before Lembit, the leering Rusticus slashing the air with his sword behind him. The ramparts of the stronghold were filled with soldiers and their families, all of them curious to see the fate of these madmen who had come unarmed into their lord’s lands, and who were now marched out of Lehola’s gates. The monk, his skin white and pale, looked imploringly at the abbot, his teeth chattering with fear. The abbot, like his monks stripped to the waist, tried to maintain his air of authority but was distraught at the prospect of what was about to happen.

  ‘Have courage, my son,’ he called to the monk.

  Lembit looked at Hylas. ‘You can save him, you can save all of them as well as yourself.’

  Hylas looked at him, relief mixed with suspicion at this calculating, long-haired barbarian who spoke so softly.

  Lembit smiled. ‘It is true. All you have to do is kneel before me, place your hand on your heart and swear allegiance to Uku.’

  Hylas was perplexed and began looking round. ‘Uku? Who is Uku?’

  Lembit grabbed Hylas’ hair and twisted the thin strands in his hand. The abbot winced in pain as the Estonian forced his face upwards.

  ‘The Supreme God, the creator who blessed us with life. Bow and declare your allegiance to Him and I will let you go free.’

  He released the abbot’s hair and looked back at the shaking monk, pointing at Hylas.

  ‘Your fate, boy, lies in his hands.’


  He walked over to Rusticus who was holding his sword in readiness.

  ‘Why the delay?’

  Lembit shook his head. ‘I have promised them their lives if the old man kneels and swears allegiance to Uku.’

  Rusticus was appalled. ‘You cannot let them go, lord.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It will look bad.’

  ‘Will it?’ said Lembit. ‘Look at them, Rusticus, an old man and his three deluded followers. Have you no pity in your heart?’

  ‘But you promised,’ muttered Rusticus forlornly.

  ‘I did promise,’ said Lembit, ‘to send them back to the bishop and I always keep my promises.’

  ‘But if they swear allegiance to Uku,’ protested Rusticus, ‘then I will not be able to execute them.’ He pointed his sword at the people standing in silence on the ramparts. ‘They will be disappointed, lord.’

  ‘You mean you will be disappointed. Well, console yourself with knowing that you can kill some prisoners later if the old man agrees to my terms.’

  He walked back to Hylas as Rusticus muttered under his breath.

  ‘Well, abbot,’ said Lembit, ‘what shall it be, life or death?’

  ‘I do not fear death,’ answered Hylas firmly, ‘and will never abandon my god.’

  Lembit nodded to the two wolf shields who shoved the young monk down on his knees in front of Hylas.

  ‘Time to see if your sword is sharp, Rusticus,’ said Lembit.

  His deputy grinned with relish. He took a few steps forward, gripping the hilt of his sword with both hands, and then swung the blade at the monk’s head, severing it in one blow. The ramparts erupted in cheers as the head rolled to the feet of Abbot Hylas, its eyes and mouth wide. The abbot nearly swooned but managed to stay on his feet. Lembit gestured to a wolf shield standing behind the priest who kicked at the back of his knees, sending him sprawling on the ground.