The fifty crossbowmen, all experienced mercenaries, gripped the stocks of their loaded weapons and sweated in the heat. In addition to their thick long-sleeved gambesons they wore a separate mail coif worn over a domed helmet with a large nasal guard. On the front of the gambeson each crossbowman wore a stitched-on emblem of the Sword Brothers. As one they raised their crossbows to their shoulders as a column of riders cantered along the track adjacent to the forest.

  The Kurs were attired entirely in black: black leather back and breast plates, additional shoulder pieces and pteriges – leather strips covering their thighs. Their round wooden shields were faced with leather and their functional helmets were fitted with sizeable nasal guards. Their black tunics, leggings and leather boots added to their fearsome appearance, as did their black horses. Each man was armed with a pair of spisas, sword, dagger and axe. The only thing that was not black was the great light grey banner bearing a black seagull fluttering behind their leader.

  Duke Arturus had left the army as soon as news had reached him that the Oeselians had devastated Kurland’s entire Baltic coast. They had burnt villages, crops and even woodland, starting great forest fires that were still raging. In the space of days the duke had experienced ecstasy at having annihilated the army of Ykintas and Mindaugas and dejection upon hearing that large areas of his homeland had been devastated. He had decided to leave the army with Prince Lamekins and lead a flying column back to Kurland to rally his people.

  He had been immersed in his black thoughts and did not hear the succession of sharp cracks to his left. But he saw the horse in front of him collapse on the ground and felt his own mount swerve violently to avoid the mound of horseflesh. He snapped out of his reverie as more horses and riders collapsed to the ground and the column shuddered to a halt. He drew his sword, pulled his shield across his body and wheeled his horse left to face the trees from where the deadly missiles had come.

  ‘Protect the duke,’ came the cry as his riders grouped around him moments before the crusader horsemen charged from the forest.

  The volley of crossbow bolts had knocked several riders from their saddles and felled more horses but, more importantly, had caused them to pull up in a disorganised manner. Most were stationary as the Sword Brothers cantered from the trees and dug spurs into their mounts to cause the warhorses to gallop forward. With lances levelled they were among the Kurs in less than half a minute, driving the iron points into torsos. A dozen, two dozen and more Kur riders were unhorsed as the knights went to work with their maces, the flanged weapons doing horrific damage as they were swung against faces and helmets. More Kurs toppled from their saddles as the crusaders whittled down the heathens. The Kurs fought back as well as they could but they had taken the full brunt of the enemy charge and were now heavily outnumbered.

  Master Ortwin thrust his sword into the side of a Kur who was fighting one of his brother knights to his right, the point going under the back plate. The man stiffened, shrieked and instinctively turned to see his attacker. As he did so the brother knight he had been battling swung his mace into the Kur’s face. The latter’s nasal guard was caved inwards to break his nose. The brother knight swung his mace again and again to unhorse the man. Ortwin saw the Kur banner hanging limply and spurred his horse towards it. When that banner fell the fight would be over. Victory was within his grasp but then he heard horn calls and through his vision slits saw dozens of black-clad riders galloping towards the mêlée. The second Kur column had arrived.

  Lamekins had trained the army well, insisting columns of horsemen riding alone through terrain should be divided into two or more groups. Lithuania had too many woods and forests where ambushers could hide. By splitting horsemen into groups the chances of an entire column being wiped out were significantly reduced. So it was now as the Kurs deployed into line and enveloped the mêlée, thrusting their spisas at knights as Master Ortwin’s men were suddenly surrounded and outnumbered.

  Ortwin’s men were skewered on lances and knocked from saddles when the Kur reinforcements hit them, occasioning Mesoten’s master to order a withdrawal. The brother knights and sergeants instantly obeyed the trumpet call but the Buxhoeveden knights were more concerned with upholding individual honour and the code of chivalry and continued fighting. As Kurs and knights hacked at each other with swords, axes and maces Master Ortwin halted his depleted horsemen by the edge of the forest.

  ‘Crossbowmen will advance and support the horse,’ he bellowed, riding up and down the treeline bare headed. He galloped to the head of his brother knights and sergeants and held his sword aloft.

  ‘God with us!’

  He spurred his horse forward to re-join the mêlée, his horsemen following and after them fifty crossbowmen who chased after the horses. The meadow was now littered with dead and wounded men and horses, discarded and broken lances and abandoned shields. The crossbowmen stayed in a compact body – their only defence should the Kurs decide to turn on the vulnerable foot soldiers – aimed their crossbows and searched for targets.

  There were many black-clad Kurs to choose from but hitting one was difficult as riders manoeuvred around each other, searching for weak spots in their opponents’ defence. But the crossbowmen were skilled soldiers, mercenaries with many years’ experience of campaigning in Germany and Livonia. Their commander detailed half their number to save their bolts for any enemy horsemen that attacked them; the other half was ordered to knock Kurs from their saddles. They were less than a hundred paces from the edge of the swirling battle, pulling their triggers and adding the sound of cracks to the cacophony of horses whinnying and men shouting and screaming.

  Above these sounds came the deep tone of horn blasts as Arturus ordered his men to break off their combat and rally to his banner. When enough had mustered around him he ordered them to follow him north. The mailed knights, outnumbered and exhausted after a gruelling encounter in the summer heat, let the Kurs go, many having been injured in the fight, their bodies battered, cut and badly bruised. There were more horn calls and then a compact mass of Kur horsemen cantered away. A crossbowman saw a glimpse of a grey banner, pulled his trigger and saw a rider slump in the saddle. Then the Kurs were gone.

  Ortwin spat out a mouthful of blood and looked around in horror at the scene of carnage. Half his knights were either dead or badly wounded and none had escaped unscathed. Warhorses lay dead or terribly wounded from lance wounds. They lay on their sides and cried pitifully, waiting for a merciful end. Other horses were standing away off in the meadow, their owners having been killed. The low groans of thirsty, wounded men permeated the warm air as the crossbowmen went among them, putting those too badly wounded out of their misery and offering water bottles to the rest. There must have been upwards of a hundred bodies lying in the long grass.

  ‘What of the Kur wounded, master?’

  Ortwin turned to see his deputy, his surcoat ripped and his right arm gashed.

  ‘Kill them,’ commanded Ortwin, ‘then give the order to return to Mesoten. I want be away before any more Kurs appear.’

  Occasionally wounded pagans were offered the redemption of baptism and the promise of a new life before they were dispatched to hell. But Ortwin had enough of his own wounded to worry about heathens. The ferocity of the encounter, resulting in heavy losses, had made him fearful about holding Mesoten if the Kurs attacked the fort. He wondered why he had paid heed to that old man. Perhaps he had been bewitched. It was too late now: he had to look to the defence of the only Sword Brother stronghold south of the Dvina. But unbeknown to Master Ortwin he had just won a victory that would have far-reaching repercussions.

  The healers had removed the crossbow bolt from Arturus’ shoulder and had placed yarrow on the wound to staunch the bleeding. They had also given him a comfrey infusion to drink because the iron-tipped missile had also broken the bone. But the bleeding continued and so they had fetched fresh herbs to apply to the wound. The duke had been desperately unlucky, having been wounded in the final stages of the battle with the crusaders, the crossbow bolt finding a gap in his thick leather armour to shatter the bone and penetrate the limb deeply. He had made it back to Talsi with the bolt still in his shoulder and his chances were reckoned above average when the healers examined the wound. But when the bolt had been extracted the bleeding had increased and showed no signs of stopping.

  Arturus’ long face grimaced as pain shot through his body. The healer finished applying a fresh bandage to his wound but saw blood already seeping through the material.

  ‘Fresh yarrow, highness,’ said the healer, ‘collected just after dawn so I’m sure it will work.’

  ‘Like you and the others were sure the other medicine would work,’ sneered Arturus. ‘What difference does it make when your herbs are collected?’

  The healer’s eyes widened with surprise. ‘A great deal, highness. Herbs are always collected before noon because they sleep in the afternoon and their medicinal activity is much lower then.’

  Arturus tried to laugh but this caused his body to move, which in turn provoked a sharp, intense pain in his shoulder.

  ‘Herbs must be treated with the utmost care and tenderness,’ continued the healer earnestly. ‘The plants are collected in baskets, placed in single layers and then left to dry in clean, dry and airy attics.’

  ‘Get me some wine,’ ordered Arturus.

  ‘I would advise against alcoholic beverages, highness,’ warned the healer.

  ‘And I would advise against telling me what to do,’ snarled Arturus, ‘unless you want your head to be dried in an airy attic.’

  The healer blustered and mumbled something under his breath but filled a cup with wine and gave it to the duke. The sweating leader of the Kurs, propped up in his bed with pillows, took it and raised it to his lips using his uninjured arm.

  ‘Get out,’ he ordered.

  The healer bowed and scuttled from the room. He had also banished his wife from his presence since she had done nothing but sob since he had returned to Talsi. He awaited the return of Lamekins with the rest of the army, which would at least put an end to the sea of glum faces and annoying wailing of women he had encountered following his return to his capital. Talsi and other towns were beginning to fill with people who had fled from the Oeselians and the devastation they had wrought. He sighed and took another sip of wine. The door to his bedchamber opened and another healer entered.

  ‘If you have come to abuse my body with more useless potions then you can leave now.’

  The healer, a twisted old man with a large nose, shuffled towards him.

  ‘Potions, lord? I bring something far more agreeable.’

  Without asking permission he snatched the cup from Arturus’ hand, emptied the contents into a bowl beside the bed and proceeded to refill it from a battered old flask hanging from a strap over his shoulder. He offered it to Arturus.

  ‘You will find this far more edifying, lord.’

  Arturus, momentarily stunned that a total stranger had dared to act in such an ill-mannered way in his very bedchamber, sat and stared with venom at the old wretch. But then he remembered that healers were a law unto themselves whom he tolerated because, unlike priests, they did have skills that were useful. Their knowledge was passed down from father to son and was entirely oral: nothing was written down to preserve the secrets they were taught. Healers were also all men, though matters pertaining to childbirth were left to midwives. It was an arrangement that had existed throughout Lithuania since time immemorial.

  Arturus sniffed at the drink and took a sip. It was the most delicious thing he had tasted in an age. He took a gulp and felt a pleasant, warm feeling spread from his gullet to his stomach and then throughout his body. It reached his shoulder and the pain that had been his constant companion since that barbarian crossbowman had shot him disappeared. He smiled and emptied the cup.

  ‘What is this?’

  The decrepit old healer, his tunic tatty and dirty, his leggings frayed, smiled faintly.

  ‘An ancient concoction, lord, the ingredients of which escape me.’

  Arturus held out his cup for it to be refilled.

  ‘If you do not know the ingredients then how do you create it?’ asked Arturus.

  The healer brought his hands together. ‘Most perceptive, lord, but then your mind was always keen. How else would you have forged the Kurs, a people looked down upon by the other Lithuanian tribes, into the terrifying force they are today?’

  He poured more liquid into Arturus’ cup whose demeanour, now his body was no longer tortured by pain, had returned to his normal intimidating manner. He emptied the cup.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Who do you think I am, lord?’

  ‘A crooked old man with an arrogant manner.’

  The healer waved a bony finger at him and tut-tutted.

  ‘Impoliteness has always been your downfall, Duke Arturus.’

  The duke tried to call out for the guards outside his bedchamber but his mouth would not move. His arm dropped to his side and the healer took the cup from his hand. Arturus felt no pain; indeed, his mind and body were serenely calm. But he could not move a muscle.

  The healer looked at him. ‘Curious sensation, is it not?’

  He shook his head. ‘Such a waste. You have done great things, Arturus, and the Kurs are now feared and respected throughout Lithuania and north of the Dvina. We gave you a great gift in Lamekins that you allowed to blossom and for that you have our gratitude.

  ‘But you slaughtered our priests and treated our religion with disrespect, setting yourself up as a demigod among your own people. You are not a god; you are human. There are some among us who believe your soul should be cast into the underworld where it can be tormented for all eternity. But there are others, such as Perkunas, who wish you to feast at their right hand. You are indeed fortunate to have such powerful allies. Go now, Duke Arturus, they are waiting for you.’

  The old man with a hooked nose gently closed the eyes of Duke Arturus and folded his arms across his chest.

  Lamekins and the army arrived at Talsi two hours after Duke Arturus had died, the prince and the senior princes of the army paying their respects before the body was dressed in the duke’s armour and made ready for cremation. A huge funeral pyre was prepared on the slope in front of Talsi’s hill fort. The inhabitants of the town at the bottom of the hill, the thousands of Kur soldiers and the hundreds of refugees that had fled from the east stood in silence as the flames consumed the body of their duke, the man who had united the Kur people. There were few tears because Arturus had been feared rather than loved but sage minds among the crowd probably reflected on their own future now that the fearsome Duke Arturus had departed the world. Fortunately the man who had forged the army into such a fearsome weapon was still alive, though his own future was uncertain now that his lord and patron was dead.

  After the funeral the army’s commanders met in the fort’s great hall where they were joined by Torolf, formerly Arturus’ spymaster and ambassador who was also technically without a post. The agreed procedure was for the princes from every Kur district to assemble at Talsi to elect a new duke, an army general and his senior commanders. Such a meeting would take days to organise and its results weeks to implement, though the presence of the army meant that the vast majority of the princes were already in situ. As a result the whole business could be settled in a matter of days.

  ‘Bugger that,’ said Tadas, the commander of the medium foot, throwing a chicken bone on the floor. ‘Everyone knows who should be duke so let us decide among ourselves and get it over with. The army is with you, Duke Lamekins.’

  Lamekins looked uncomfortable but the others rapped their knuckles on the table to signal their support of Tadas’ proposal. Like him they were dressed in black, sported black beards and wore their hair long. Only Torolf with his red hair and beard presented a different appearance.

  ‘Common practice is for all the kingdom’s princes to have a say in who should become duke,’ stated Torolf.

  Tadas jerked a thumb towards the hall’s closed doors. ‘They are camped all around this fort, go and ask them who they want as duke, Torolf. They will say the same as me.’

  Valdas, the small, wiry commander of the Kur horsemen, nodded. ‘It is true, Torolf, my men desire Prince Lamekins to be duke.’

  ‘And what does Prince Lamekins himself think?’ asked Gintaras, the quietly spoken giant who commanded the axe men.

  All eyes turned towards Lamekins, the normally gregarious, adventurous general who had never been defeated in battle. His handsome features wore a frown as the burden of expectation weighed down on him.

  ‘I am in agreement with Ambassador Torolf.’

  Tadas threw up his arms then smashed a fist on the table. ‘I propose Prince Lamekins as the new Duke of Kurland.’

  Valdas grinned. ‘I second the proposal.

  ‘I am with my brother commanders,’ growled Gintaras.

  ‘Perhaps as an interim measure we might elect Prince Lamekins on a provisional basis,’ suggested Torolf, ‘subject to the appointment being ratified by a majority of princes at the earliest opportunity.’

  ‘What does that mean, “ratified”?’ asked Tadas.

  ‘To make official,’ answered Lamekins.

  ‘Well, Torolf,’ said Tadas, ‘we have no time for talking. Enemies have burned half of Kurland, killed our duke and threaten an invasion from the west.’

  ‘Decisions must be taken now,’ agreed Valdas, ‘even though the ashes of our fallen lord are still warm.’

  Once more all eyes turned to their new duke. Torolf nodded at Lamekins.

  ‘Very well,’ said the new duke. ‘First of all we need to think about the harvest. Men will have to return to their villages to gather in the crops, the more so now that the Oeselians have destroyed many villages along our Baltic coast. This will mean that the army’s numbers will be depleted and thus makes any offensive operations impossible.