In a land torn by crusade and rebellion, honour is earned in blood.
1205. Richard Fitz Simon has fled England after his title was usurped, joining the Livonian Order of Swordbrothers – a German brotherhood of warrior-monks fighting to bring the word of God to the pagan frontier. After slaying the Lithuanian champion at the Battle of Rodenpois, Richard is celebrated by the Order and their Semigallian allies.
Yet his position remains precarious. Jealous rivals question his right to stand among the brotherhood, and his master, Knight-brother Rudolf, is enraged by Richard’s disobedience. When dark secrets from Lübeck resurface, Richard also finds himself at odds with Bishop Albert, head of the Christian mission in Livonia. As he struggles to reconcile faith, duty and identity, he is drawn into a brutal world of suspicion and bloodshed.
Sent on an expedition to build a castle deep in the wilderness, Richard soon sees tensions erupt – and the path he has chosen threatens to destroy everything he has fought to become.
In a land torn by crusade and rebellion, honour is earned in blood.
1205. Richard Fitz Simon has fled England after his title was usurped, joining the Livonian Order of Swordbrothers – a German brotherhood of warrior-monks fighting to bring the word of God to the pagan frontier. After slaying the Lithuanian champion at the Battle of Rodenpois, Richard is celebrated by the Order and their Semigallian allies.
Yet his position remains precarious. Jealous rivals question his right to stand among the brotherhood, and his master, Knight-brother Rudolf, is enraged by Richard’s disobedience. When dark secrets from Lübeck resurface, Richard also finds himself at odds with Bishop Albert, head of the Christian mission in Livonia. As he struggles to reconcile faith, duty and identity, he is drawn into a brutal world of suspicion and bloodshed.
Sent on an expedition to build a castle deep in the wilderness, Richard soon sees tensions erupt – and the path he has chosen threatens to destroy everything he has fought to become.
Gorodische, Novgorod Republic, June 1242
Prince Alexander Yaroslavich Nevsky was angry. He paced around the hall ranting at the dozen or so assembled courtiers and aides who shuffled uncomfortably, staring at the ground in an attempt to evade his ire. At one of the tables the monk Miroslav rebandaged my wounded shoulder, which seared like hot coals, fresh blood coursing down my arm. I clenched my teeth together, watching the prince to distract my mind from the shooting pain.
Indeed, angry did not come close to explaining the rage that consumed the usually amiable prince. His youthful face snarled and spat, and I was glad I could not understand the words that spewed from his mouth. No one dared to interrupt his tirade as he berated all those around him.
‘I have never seen him like this,’ Miroslav whispered. His deft fingers swabbed away the blood that dripped and pooled beneath the bench where I sat.
We were in the main hall of the prince’s palace in Gorodische, with the shutters flung open and the last light of the day throwing shadows across the rough timber walls. Outside, I could hear the hollering of children and the haggling of the stallholders, oblivious to the diatribe from their prince. The aroma of roasting meat drifted in on the breeze, making my stomach growl with hunger. Nearby a dog barked, and a bell tolled slowly from the adjacent church. On the table in front of me, one of the tallow candles crackled and popped, its acrid, sooty smoke curling into the air to hang like a cloud above our heads.
With his fury finally spent, Prince Alexander relented. He called for wine and took a seat on the bench opposite. Our appearance at the veche in Novgorod had not gone well, and no one had taken it worse than the prince. The council had come to no decision, rejecting the prince’s plea for peace with my Order and the Latin Church. It had turned into a riot, and I had been attacked by members of the crowd when Alexander’s personal druzhina had been overwhelmed.
Prince Alexander looked at me, snapping his fingers for Fergus, the surly Irish scribe who was recording my chronicle, to join us, which he did a moment later. Fergus did not like me. This was due to my Norman nobility and the damage my people had done to his land– not that I had anything to do with it, but that didn’t seem to mollify him. Alexander started talking quickly and Fergus tried to keep up with his translation.
‘Prince Alexander wishes to apologise for what happened to you at the veche,’ Fergus translated. ‘It was unforgiveable behaviour from drunken peasants. There will be punishment.’
I nodded. Without a doubt my recovery had been put back, but there was no point crying over spilt beer. The wine arrived and Alexander drank deeply from the jug.
‘The veche can sometimes be rowdy,’ Fergus said, ‘but it does not normally degenerate into such violence.’
‘So you say.’ I winced as Miroslav finished binding my wounded shoulder. ‘It is strange that a prince cannot safeguard the security of prisoners in his care. What kind of ruler does not have control over his own city?’
There was a moment’s hesitation. Fergus looked at me dumbfounded. ‘Surely you do not expect me to ask Prince Alexander that?’
‘Why not? I would be interested to know the answer. I cannot imagine a prince in my own land being treated as such.’
Fergus narrowed his eyes. ‘You forget yourself, I am thinking. Keep in mind that you are only a prisoner now.’
That truth I could not forget, but after what had happened, I was also feeling irascible. And ill-temper often led to impulsive talk.
Prince Alexander said something else, and I could see that he was asking Fergus to translate my words. Considering my predicament, I wondered if I had gone too far. To question a prince, even if he was young enough to be my son, and especially considering his wrath of just a few moments earlier, was perhaps ill-judged. But no matter. It was done. The words could not be unsaid.
Fergus translated as I watched the prince’s face closely. He frowned and scratched his carefully trimmed beard, looking me directly in the eyes. For a moment, my breath caught in my throat, before Alexander threw his head back and roared with laughter. Fergus watched and I sighed with relief. The prince took another long draught of wine before addressing my words.
‘The boyars have always proven difficult,’ Fergus explained, translating again. ‘But the balance of power has changed since the battle on the ice. No longer can they drive us from the city, as they once did before. Prince Alexander will consolidate his position and impose his will. The prince says that whatever happened at the veche changes nothing. He will make them see that the real threat comes from the Tatars, not your people. It is just a matter of time.’
Fergus had told me previously that the people of Novgorod had banished Prince Alexander and his retainers, only to call him back shortly before the battle on the ice, where I had been wounded and captured.
‘Prince Alexander also liked the way you dealt with the first man that attacked you at the veche,’ Fergus continued. ‘The way you kicked his legs out from under him. He says you are tough for an old man.’
I remembered. That was just before another man grabbed my wounded shoulder and I passed out from the agony. ‘Well, if I cannot deal with a drunken peasant then I might as well dig my own grave.’
‘Nevertheless, you have been badly hurt and will probably want to rest.’
He was right. I was tired and my shoulder burned like the devil. It was time to sleep. Miroslav helped me to my feet.
‘You need to rest for a few days,’ Alexander said through Fergus. ‘If you are feeling better tomorrow, he would like to show you around Gorodische. And when you are ready, we can resume your chronicle.’
‘And my ransom?’
‘We have already discussed this,’ Fergus said. ‘You are too wounded to travel far, and Prince Alexander wants the chronicle finished. He says let there be no more talk of ransom.’
I was too tired to argue over it. This issue could be discussed when I was feeling better. Miroslav supported me and led me back to my cell-like room.
* * *
It was still dark when I was woken early the next morning by the drum of heavy rain on the wood-shingle roof and then the arrival of Miroslav, who wanted to change my dressing. The monk worked with his usual diligence, and I winced as he cleaned the wound with wine, vinegar and hot water. When he had rebandaged it, he led me down some wooden stairs to another, almost empty storeroom, with large double doors that opened out into an inner courtyard. Here he helped me wash off the dried blood with the water from a large barrel. Afterwards, I dunked my head, enjoying the touch of crisp coldness on my clammy skin. Outside, in the light of two torches in sconces, I could see the rain splashing in the muddy puddles of the beaten ground. It was easing gradually. I stood in the doorway and sucked in a deep breath of air, smelling woodsmoke and the lingering stench of a nearby privy.
‘I can arrange a bath for you later,’ Miroslav said in his impeccable Latin. He smiled. ‘And perhaps a haircut.’
‘That would be appreciated.’ I had not bathed properly since the battle, and my lank, greasy hair and beard were in dire need of care. But more importantly now, I was ravenous, and Miroslav supported me back up the stairs and into the main hall. In the dim light of the dying coals from the previous evening’s fire, I could see it was empty. ‘No matter,’ Miroslav said. ‘I will organise for something to be brought to you. Then I will have to go and pray.’
A servant appeared, a young boy of no more than eleven, and after a few words from Miroslav he brought me a bowl of kasha, a porridge made from barley and sweetened with honey that seemed to be one of the mainstays of their cooking, along with a wooden beaker of mead. The boy was obviously curious. After delivering the food, he paused near the door, watching me from the gloom, thinking I was unaware of his presence. I paid no further attention to him, eating my meal as Miroslav went to pray. When I had finished the bowl, the quiet was broken as the first of Alexander’s druzhina entered, chattering to themselves and looking surprised to see me sitting alone. They took seats on the benches, some of them looking at me warily. None sat at my table.
Another servant appeared, lighting the candles and torches around the chamber as more people arrived, and the hall slowly began to fill. Prince Alexander entered with his wife, the golden-haired Paraskeviya, now called Alexandra, and they took seats at the top table. It was only the second time I had seen her, and they made a handsome pair: the prince in a rich maroon, knee-length tunic and with a silver torc around his neck, while his wife wore brocaded silk with a twisted bracelet on her right wrist, fashioned in a spiral and curved inward into the shape of a petal.
For some reason, seeing them together made me feel old and rueful over a past I’d never had, a past stolen from me. My mind wandered back to Fergus’s earlier words, just before the veche, about never recovering my inheritance and my son not being interested in my story. This was the only reason I wanted the chronicle written– certainly not for my own arrogant vanity, although I had arrogance aplenty.
Why did it still matter so much to me when my uncle Gilbert, and in likelihood Walter as well, were probably dead? My life had taken another direction, and for that I had no regrets– not when I looked back as the fifty-three-year-old man I now was. The Lord teaches us that vengeance should be left to the wrath of God, but I have never been particularly good at following the tenets of the Lord. And, despite the fact I had lost my ancestral home of Cranham forty years before, I wanted vengeance very much. It was long overdue.
My attention was shifted abruptly back to the present when Prince Alexander waved at me from the top table. I came to my feet, aware that all eyes followed me as I hobbled across the hall. Fergus had been summoned as well, and we both stood awkwardly before the prince.
As usual, Alexander spoke to Fergus who then translated his words. ‘Prince Alexander hopes that you are feeling better this morning,’
I bowed my head. My shoulder throbbed, but it was much improved from the screaming pain of the day before.
‘Prince Alexander regrets that unfortunately he has no time to show you around Gorodische today,’ Fergus said. ‘Instead, he would like me to show you. He has to go to Novgorod again on duties that cannot be avoided, and he hopes you can forgive him.’
‘Of course.’ I flashed Fergus my most patronising smile. ‘Nothing would please me more than to spend further time with you.’
The Irishman muttered something under his breath. We left the hall immediately, along with two guards that Prince Alexander detailed to accompany us. ‘Many here lost loved onestoyourarmyanditsbutchery,atthebattleontheiceand beforehand,’ Fergus said scowling at me when we reached the main door and were out of earshot of the others. ‘The guards are here for your own safety.’
Outside, the rain had stopped. We descended the steps that led down from the gallery. Fergus explained reluctantly that Gorodische was older than Novgorod, as well as being the residence of the princes after they had been ejected from the city itself due to the developing republican system of government. It was not so large, consisting of the palace, the neighbouring Church of the Annunciation and a knot of other wooden buildings that hosted the prince’s personal druzhina, the administrative workers who served the prince, and the shops of the artisans that supplied them, all surrounded by a wooden palisade. To be honest, there was not much to see, but we, or rather I, attracted a lot of attention from the local people going about their business. Everywhere we went, people stopped to stare. A group of children followed us as Fergus stepped carefully on the muddy wood boards that paved the road, leading me to the entrance of the church as I caught a whiff of freshly cooked bread from a baker nearby.
‘I do not want to pray.’ I felt my familiar irritation rising. ‘I would view the land beyond and see what freedom looks like.’ I turned away, ignoring Fergus’s objections, and shuffled down a narrow alleyway, taking my escort by surprise and leaving Fergus and the two guards to catch me up. For a moment I thought he was going to grab my arm, but he wasn’t that stupid.
‘You cannot just walk where you please.’ Fergus was red faced with exasperation.
‘Where do you expect me to go?’ I said. ‘It is not as if I can escape.’
We passed a bowyer’s yard, and I saw an old man chipping away at a shaft of wood with a small hand axe. He looked up from his work and saw me, before turning to spit on the ground. Ahead, I could see the wooden stockade, and I headed towards the steps that led up to the walkway and the parapet.
Fergus didn’t object as I stepped around a large puddle and climbed the stairs to the walkway. A soldier at the top turned and scowled, but relaxed when he saw Fergus and the two guards behind me. A brisk wind blew as I gazed out over the Volkhov river that drifted past, sluggish and grey, swollen with the recent rain. Silver-specked clouds dashed across the sky and I enjoyed the wind in my hair. Across the river, was the onion dome of the solid edifice of Saint George’s Cathedral within Yuriev monastery, where I had been tended immediately after the battle on the ice. To the north were the towers and domes of Novgorod behind the verdant green trees. Everything looked peaceful.
The peace was broken by Fergus, who came and stood next to me. ‘You were incredibly lucky last night with Prince Alexander, so you were. What were you thinkin’ provoking him in the mood he was in? I have seen him flog men for less than your insubordinate questioning.’
‘It was a perfectly reasonable thing to ask. I could have been killed at the veche. As it is, my recovery has been delayed. He is supposed to be the ruler of Novgorod.’
‘But what happened to you was not Prince Alexander’s fault,’ Fergus said. ‘You are lucky that he likes you. I cannot understand it myself.’
‘Perhaps he values men that speak honestly without flattery and honeyed words. It seems to me he is surrounded by nothing but lackeys.’
Fergus flushed and looked uncomfortable. ‘You know nothing about the prince’s court or the people who surround him. Nevertheless, you would be wise to tread more carefully. Next time he might not be so forgiving.’
‘I cannot be what I am not. I am a warrior with pride.’
‘You are a fool. It was your so-called pride that upset a large section of the crowd. If you had spoken with less of the pride you keep talking about, perhaps they would not have become so inflamed.’
I turned and glared at him, causing him to take a step back as though I would strike him. ‘You might be willing to crawl and grovel like a lowly lickspittle, but I am not. Your conversation bores me, Irishman, as does your company. Why not return to your books and scrolls. If you ask me, that is all you are good for.’
Fergus cursed and stormed away, clattering back down the mud-slicked stairs as the two guards looked at each other in surprise. I watched him go, marvelling at how easy it was to anger him. But as he reached the last step, he slipped and fell face down into the big puddle at the bottom, covering himself completely in the mire.
Of course, I howled with laughter, finding it hard to stop, my amusement taken up instantly by the children that had followed us. Fergus scrambled back to his feet mustering what little dignity he still possessed, and he threw me a look of such venom, his face a mask of fury. He stalked off back towards the palace, the shrieks of merriment ringing in his ears. Even the two guards that were to escort me back were sniggering, although to be fair to them they tried not to make it too obvious.
Eventually, I calmed down as one of the guards indicated it was time to return to my cell in the palace. I wondered what the argument would mean for our collaboration, which had been prickly and difficult enough to start with. I would find out the next day.
Soldiers of Christ is the second suspense-filled novel in author Jon Byrne’s riveting historical fiction series, The Northern Crusaders Chronicles, about a betrayed and dispossessed English lord, Richard Fitz Simon, and his adventures as a knight-brother with the Livonian Brothers of the Sword, fighting in the Baltic Crusades. Severely wounded and captured in a disastrously failed battle against the Russian Prince Alexander Nevsky, he is allowed to pen his memoirs as a memento to be sent to his son, a child begotten during his youth in Lübeck. As his extraordinary tale is revealed, it captures the interest and imagination of the young prince, who eventually draws the recovering Richard into his negotiations for peace between his county and the crusaders from the Latin Church.
The story unfolds in dual timelines: during Richard’s current situation as a prisoner in the summer of 1242 and his earlier life while a sergeant-brother in the Order of the Swordbrothers in Riga, Livonia, from 1205 through 1209. The author’s depictions of medieval life are fascinating, creating vivid, immersive impressions of brutally harsh times. The living conditions, for not only the brothers but the entire populace, are stark, with food, shelter, and safety always at the minimum. The daily routine of life in the Order is rigid, relieved only by the chance to wage war. Well-choreographed battle scenes put readers smack in the middle of the chaos, brutality, death, and destruction.
The imprisoned Richard, looking back and dictating his words to the disgruntled Irish scribe, Fergus, is an old man at 53, while he is only 16 and a survivor of his first battle against the pagans when his narrative picks up. While nominally viewed as a boy by the Order, he is still expected to work, fight, and potentially die like the older men. Richard is relentlessly persecuted by his master, Rudolf, and Wolfgang, a fellow sergeant-brother, throughout his service, and he plans and retaliates whenever possible, with the help of sympathetic companions. He is often in trouble with the Order’s command as a result of his temper and his reactions to the constant provocations. Although they are a religious order of fighting knights, the Swordbrothers are often accurately described as no better than a band of brigands. Their mission to convert the pagan populations of faraway lands as part of the Northern Crusades in the Baltics is questionable, especially when viewed through a modern lens. There is a lot of death and destruction wreaked in the name of Christ.
To aid in readers’ enjoyment, the author has provided a comprehensive list of characters appearing or mentioned in the book, many of whom are actual historical figures. Chapters are grouped into parts and anchored in time and place by the associated dates and settings of the ensuing events. While this is the second book in the series, the author provides a very good recap of the story to date, so new readers will still enjoy and understand this compelling page-turner. However, the previous novel, Sword Brethren, was a 5-star read for me, and also a riveting tale of family, betrayal, and resilience, and not to be missed by readers who enjoy compelling sagas of action-filled historical fiction.
I recommend SOLDIERS OF CHRIST to readers of historical fiction, especially those interested in the relatively ignored Northern Crusades.