‘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.