by Peter Darman
Rudolf asked Walter to accompany him to the master’s hall as the Cumans and Russians continued to assail the defences. But after an hour of this fruitless activity Gerceslav pulled back his horsemen to the north of the castle, burning the settler’s village as he did so. Lukas gave strict instructions that there was to be no shooting at an enemy who clearly had no appetite to assault a stake-filled ditch, steep earth rampart and thick timber walls. And so Conrad and Hans watched as the Cumans made a lot of noise and shot the occasional arrow against the walls and then disappeared altogether. As far as Conrad could tell as he peered through a loophole none of the Russians had approached the walls, and he could not see the banner of Pskov anywhere among the enemy horsemen.
So Yaroslav and Gerceslav left Wenden after burning its village and slaughtering all the livestock they could find. Rudolf hoped the raiders were returning back to Mstislav’s land but they had not yet finished with Livonia.
*****
Aras rubbed his neatly trimmed beard and smiled contentedly. The wooden huts in the village were all burning and terrified women and children were running in all directions. His men had killed most of the menfolk who had attempted to resist their attack but he had been more interested in wreaking destruction than slaughter or capturing slaves.
‘Recall your men,’ he ordered his subordinate standing next to him.
The officer turned to a signaller behind them who raised the horn to his lips and gave two short blasts that pierced the air filled with the screams and wails of women and children. Within half a minute groups of warriors wearing conical helmets with nasal guards, dark grey leggings, black tunics and leather boots appeared among the burning buildings and made their way towards Aras. They were armed with single-hand axes, spears and swords, all of them carrying round shields bearing the symbol of a black axe.
‘Make sure you leave a few of those shields behind,’ shouted Aras, who rubbed his hands with satisfaction.
It was the third village they had burned in a week. All of them in the domain of the Russian kingdom of Galicia-Volhynia under the rule of the weak leader Coloman. His realm bordered the Lithuanian kingdom of Aukstaitija ruled by Duke Kitenis whose symbol was a black axe. Coloman would soon know that the duke’s warriors were raiding his lands and would launch retaliatory raids.
‘We left shields at the other villages that were raided, lord,’ said his deputy.
Aras smiled. ‘Better to leave too many than not enough so Coloman will get the message.’
The warriors filed past Aras and clustered behind him, keeping watch for any enemy warriors that might appear. Huts and barns were collapsing now as the flames consumed them, the villagers either fleeing to the nearby woods or down the dirt track that led to the next settlement.
It was still early, the sun low in the eastern sky. They had attacked just before dawn, making much noise on their approach so the villagers would be fully aware that they were under attack. The intention was to burn the settlement and spread terror, killing only when forced to do so. The more that lived the quicker news would spread that Duke Kitenis had declared war upon Galicia-Volhynia.
Aras stayed with the rearguard as his men made their way back to where they had concealed their boats under trees lining the riverbank. He looked at the burning village and then at the great plumes of white smoke that were lancing into the sky.
‘Pick your feet up,’ he barked to the men.
The nearest Russian garrison would soon be sending soldiers to investigate the source of the smoke and he wanted to be well away when they arrived. Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of his warriors pinioning a woman on the ground. The man had discarded his shield and spear and was busy pulling up the woman’s robes so he could rape her. She was resisting violently but her resistance was markedly reduced when he punched her hard in the face.
‘Idiot,’ hissed Aras.
‘Do you want me to deal with him, lord?’ enquired his deputy.
Aras shook his head. ‘I will take care of it. Get the men back to the boats quickly. This smoke will be seen for miles.’
Aras marched over to where the warrior had an iron grip around the woman’s neck as he exposed her naked thighs with his other hand. He was chuckling maliciously as Aras struck him hard with the back of his hand, causing him to tumble off the woman onto the ground. He glared at Aras before the latter’s sword was plunged into his chest. His expression changed from hate to confusion, and then to despair as life left him and he collapsed, gurgling sounds coming from his mouth before he expired. Aras sheathed his weapon and grabbed the woman’s arm, roughly hoisting her to her feet.
‘Go, tell your people that the soldiers of Duke Kitenis did this to your village.’
She stared wide-eyed in terror, trembling as her eyes darted from Aras to the dead warrior at his feet. She probably spoke no Lithuanian so his words were wasted.
He released her arm. ‘Kitenis,’ he said again before pointing to the track that led from the village.
‘Go!’ he bellowed, drawing his sword again.
She screamed and then fled, tripping over the dead warrior to tumble to the ground. She sprang up and ran as though a demon was snapping at her heels.
Aras smiled. ‘Excellent.’
They retraced their steps back to the boats, running through the pine trees covering three-quarters of the border between Aukstaitija and Galicia-Volhynia. They heard the tapping of woodpeckers and caught sight of black storks, ospreys and lesser-spotted eagles - but no Russian soldiers. The latter would be searching for horse tracks but Aras and his men had arrived by riverboat. The domain of Duke Kitenis may have been hilly and covered with pine, spruce, oak, lime and beech trees but it was also dotted with rivers and lakes. Aras had paid a handsome price to a guide who knew the waterways of Aukstaitija and the lakes that were connected by rivers and streams.
They reached the boats without incident and pushed off into midstream, each vessel having half a dozen oarsmen and loaded with spare weapons and supplies. They would row for an hour until they arrived at the large lake, in the middle of which was a tree covered island they had used for their base. The men had grumbled when Aras had given the order that they were to light no cooking fires but he could not risk them being discovered. They were far from home and were here to burn villages. And not only did they have to avoid Russian patrols they also had to stay hidden from the Aukstaitijans. So his men chewed on cured meat and ate berries and ignored the lake full of bream, roach, perch and tench.
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 lik
e 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.
Chapter 3
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.
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.