Book 1 of the Northern Crusader Chronicles
Historical Adventure
Date Published: 11-28-2024
Publisher: The Book Guild
1242. Wounded and captured after the Battle on the Ice, English knight
Richard Fitz Simon becomes the unlikely guest of Prince Alexander Nevsky of
Novgorod. Curious about his prisoner, Alexander commands his scholar to record
Richard’s tale.
Richard’s story begins in 1203, when betrayal shatters his path to
knighthood and drives him from England to the merchant city of Lübeck.
There, entangled in an illicit affair and the cutthroat salt trade, he finds
only temporary refuge. Fleeing once again, he joins the Livonian Brothers of
the Sword—a militant order sworn to spread Christendom across the pagan
Baltic.
Amid the cold austerity of Riga’s commandery and the looming threat of
enemy tribes, Richard must battle not just for survival, but for meaning in a
life shaped by violence, doubt, and fractured loyalties. When a pagan army
threatens to overrun their outpost, he faces a final reckoning—one that
will test his faith, his honor, and the limits of his courage.
PROLOGUE
Yuriev Monastery, Novgorod Republic, April-May 1242
We were already in
disarray when the arrow slammed into my shoulder, punching through my mail coat
and nearly felling me from my horse. Our charge across the ice had been
peppered with missiles fired with deadly accuracy, and the freezing air was
raucous with the screams of dying men and thrashing animals. I could still see
the eyes of the mounted archer who had loosed the arrow widen in triumph. His
face I would never forget. Was he a Mongol? For some reason it mattered to me.
I had never fought these fierce people from the steppe but their reputation and
ferocity were well known. I was not even aware they had been part of the Novgorodian
army. Whether this had affected the outcome of the battle, only God in all his
wisdom knew. We had been so confident. Overconfident. Our defeat had been
absolute.
I
woke in a room with whitewashed walls. An old, bearded man, his craggy face not
unkind, loomed over me, his fingers gentle as he probed my wound and changed my
dressing. Nevertheless, despite his care, searing flames coursed through me
with every touch of his parchment-dry fingers. When the burning finally
subsided, I blinked my eyes open. Through tears, I saw a small picture on the
opposite wall of a man with a halo around his head spearing a serpent. It must
have been Saint George killing the dragon. The halo made him look more like an
angel. The bearded man mumbled to himself in a soft voice as he worked, however
the language was unfamiliar. It sounded Slavic, probably Russian. That could
only mean I was a prisoner.
With
any movement, shafts of fire shot through my body, an agony so great I thought
I would pass out again. By Christ Almighty and all His Holy Saints, I just wanted
it to stop. But, of course, it didn’t. It was unrelenting. Perhaps when I was
younger, I would have borne it better. Who knows? At my venerable age, death
should come as a welcome relief and I almost felt ready to succumb to it – to
give up my fight and drift into the hallowed afterlife. Almost, but not quite.
I was not yet ready to die. There was still too much to be done. There was
still my vengeance to be had. A vengeance that stretched back to my youth.
The
room was cool, but at times I felt like a sizzling pig roasting on a spit. The
old man put strips of damp cloth on my face, but it hardly helped. Only blessed
unconsciousness relieved me of it. My body fought a desperate battle to
survive.
It
is strange that, despite everything, the gift of life is most precious when it is
about to be taken away.
*
But survive I did. In the
weeks following the battle, the fever gradually released its grip and I could
feel my strength slowly returning. I was still as feeble as a child, but my
bearded nurse nodded his head and smiled encouragement as he spooned a watery cabbage
soup through my cracked lips. Perhaps I would live after all.
Now,
at least, I could sit up in bed, but any other movement still sent stabbing
bolts of pain through my chest. I was too weak to get up, and one time the
effort broke the healing scabs on my wound, causing me to sink back into the
pit of sweat my cot had become. It was clear to me now that the bearded man was
a monk, a monk of the heretical Greek Church, and I was in the infirmary of a
monastery. Nevertheless, my skin crawled and itched with lice, my hair was
filthy and unkempt, and there was nothing I could do about it. Outside, the
bells of a church clang the times for prayer. Never in my life had I felt so
helpless, unable to piss or shit without help from the bearded monk and one of
his helpers, a pale-faced youth of no more than seventeen or eighteen winters.
I
still did not know how long I had lain there, but one morning I received a
visitor. Or, more accurately, two visitors. I had been dozing when the door banged
open without warning and the bearded monk led in two men. The first was tall,
at least my height, and I am taller than most, but younger – young enough to be
my son. He had the athletic build of a warrior, and his angled face was framed
by a shortly trimmed beard and sandy-brown, shoulder-length hair, plastered
across his head with sweat as if he had just taken off a hat or helmet. He wore
a red cloak edged with fur worn over his left shoulder, fastened with a gold
clasp fashioned in the shape of the three-barred Greek cross on the right
shoulder, and a blue brocade surcoat over a long-sleeved white shirt. On his
feet were high, leather riding boots of obvious quality, although they were
spattered with mud. When he looked me in the eyes, I felt the power behind his
gaze despite his youth. There was a harshness there, a cynical coldness strange
in someone so young. He said something to the other man, who was older, of
slight build, with long auburn hair tied back from the nape of his neck. This
man was no warrior. He looked more like a scholar, and his chestnut-coloured,
homespun tunic, although of good quality cotton, clearly denoted his lower
rank. It was this man who spoke to me in Latin.
‘Prince
Alexander Yaroslavich Nevsky of Novgorod the Great, welcomes you to Yuriev
Monastery and hopes you are recovering from your wounds.’
His
words slapped me in the face. Alexander Yaroslavich had commanded the Russian
army in the battle on the ice where we had been defeated, as well as being
victorious against the Swedish army two years earlier on the Neva River. My
surprise must have been obvious because the young prince, Alexander, smiled at
my reaction, speaking again quickly before waiting for his words to be
translated.
‘You
are one of six German knights captured in the battle,’ the interpreter
continued, ‘but you were the most badly wounded. Prince Alexander says that
under Brother Dimitri’s care and with God’s grace, you have made a vast
improvement. But it is doubtful that at your age you shall ever be able to take
up arms against his people again.’
‘How
long have I lain here?’ I said in Latin. As a warrior monk of the Livonian
Order, my Latin was respectable, though not as good as my Low German, or Norman
French – the language of my birth.
‘The
battle by Lake Chudskoe was over a month ago. You were carried here in a wain.’
A
month already. I struggled to rise but the bearded monk who had tended me all
this time, whom Prince Alexander had named as Brother Dimitri, came forward to
restrain me. I collapsed back in a wave of dizziness. While I lay there
panting, my weakness open to all, the three men spoke quickly to each other.
‘What
are you saying?’
They
looked at me and Alexander motioned for the interpreter to translate again.
‘Brother
Dimitri had to remove the arrow that was still lodged in your left shoulder
when you were brought here. He says some links of mail also had to be extracted
from the wound before the arrow could be pushed through and pulled out with
forceps. You were close to death and had lost much blood. Luckily, no organs or
bones had been damaged…’
‘Then
how could I have been in this bed for over a month? I have seen many arrow
wounds in my time… I should have recovered by now.’
The
interpreter glanced towards Dimitri before answering. ‘As recommended by renowned
physicians, Dimitri inserted a strip of bacon to help drain the pus and then
dressed the wound with compresses. But nonetheless, the wound went bad. You
have been fighting this poison for the last weeks.’
‘And
what happens now?’
The
two of them turned to Alexander who said something in his language.
‘Prince
Alexander has not yet decided. You will be treated until you have recovered
fully, then probably be ransomed back to your Order. But there is one thing…’
‘What
is that?’
‘Brother
Dimitri thinks you are not German, despite wearing the insignia of a Teutonic
knight. When you were delirious, you spoke in another language, a language
unknown to him despite his learned status. Prince Alexander is interested to
know from where you originally hail?’
I
closed my eyes for a moment. I must have been babbling in Norman French. It had
been so very long since I had seen my homeland. ‘I am a Norman, from a country
far to the west of here. A country called England.’
The
interpreter flinched as if he’d just smelt a latrine. After a moment’s
hesitation, he translated my words and fixed me with eyes suddenly hostile. Was
it my imagination or had something cold entered the room?
He
translated Alexander’s reply. ‘Prince Alexander knows of your land,’ he said.
‘He is most interested to know why you would travel so far to make war on his
people.’
I
looked the interpreter directly in the eye. There was no mistaking his enmity –
enmity that had not been there before. ‘And what do you think?’ I said,
addressing my question to the scholarly interpreter.
‘I
think it is normal for the bastard Norman English to take lands that do not
belong to them.’
He
had spoken in French, although his accent was strange. ‘And what is an Irishman
doing working as a translator for the Prince of Novgorod?’
He
looked uncomfortable at my question and I saw Prince Alexander watching our
exchange with amusement. Dimitri was oblivious to the hostility in the room,
nodding his head and smiling. Alexander said something in his language to the Irishman.
‘Prince
Alexander desires to know your name?’
‘My
name is Richard,’ I said. ‘Richard Fitz Simon. And what is your name, Irishman?’
The
interpreter looked to Alexander, wanting to avoid the question. But despite the
Russian prince’s lack of knowledge of our language, he seemed to know what we
were talking about. The man was intelligent, but then again, he had defeated
our army. Our proud Christian army. Alexander said something and the Irishman turned
back to me. ‘My name is Fergus,’ he said reluctantly.
Alexander
said something more while I waited patiently for a translation.
‘My
lord is intrigued by your story,’ Fergus said. ‘He comes often to Yuriev to pay
respects to his brother Theodor and the other Novgorodian princes who are
buried here. He shall come and see you again. You have aroused his curiosity
and he is interested in your story. It seems we are all destined to meet again.’
And
with that they left, leaving me to my thoughts and pain.
*
Three
days later, they allowed me up for the first time. I was supported by Grigori,
the pale-faced youth who had assisted me before, and, of course, Brother
Dimitri. Our progress was slow, passing through a dark passage lit by an oil
lamp ensconced in the wall that reeked of fish oil, exiting through a door into
sunlight. I blinked in discomfort, unused to the brightness after the gloom of
the infirmary. We hobbled past a small herb garden built alongside a squat
wooden building that formed one of the walls of the monastery. The monastery itself
was enormous, with an expanse of grass stretching to a colossal, barn-like
church topped by three silver domes. As big as any cathedral I had ever seen,
it looked more like a fortress, with tall narrow windows and white flaking
paint that fluttered in the breeze. It must have stood over a hundred feet
high. Of course, I had seen Greek churches in Dorpat in Estonia and Pskov but
this was, without doubt, the largest.
A sharp pain stabbed at my shoulder and we stopped at
a low wall where I could sit for a while. It was a balmy day and the sun on my
face felt good. A kitten, one of the many cats that wandered freely around,
came and rubbed itself against my leg, purring happily. I studied the huge
building. Despite it being a heretical church, I would have liked to have gone
inside, but Dimitri made it clear by a shake of his head that this was not
possible. As if this was not clear enough, Grigori spoke in faltering Latin.
‘No allowed… monks pray now… now you must indoors.’ He picked me up again,
supporting my good shoulder, and we returned the way we had come, back into the
wooden building and the gloominess of the infirmary.
Prince Alexander visited again the next day. I was
sitting up in bed, daydreaming of the past, when the door opened and the tall
nobleman and his Irish interpreter entered. This time, both men pulled up
stools and sat on either side of my bed. Fergus was carrying a letter, its seal
of a horseman with a raised sword in his right hand still unbroken. There was
no sign of Brother Dimitri.
‘Prince Alexander is pleased to see you are
recovering,’ Fergus said in a neutral voice.
‘As am I,’ I replied. ‘Last time you were here you
told me some of my brethren knights had also been captured. It would please me
to see my old comrades again.’
Fergus translated my words and Alexander shook his
head.
‘This will not be possible,’ the Irishman translated.
‘They have already been ransomed back to your Order. You are the only German…’
he coughed to cover his mistake, knowing I was as much German as he was, ‘still
confined here.’
‘And now that I am in recovery,’ I said, unsurprised
at the news. ‘When will I be released?’
‘You are far from a recovery,’ Fergus translated.
‘Prince Alexander believes releasing you too early could jeopardise all the
good work done by Brother Dimitri. You are unfit to travel and, in the
meantime, must remain a guest of Novgorod the Great. He also believes you are
of a higher rank than the other captured knights and therefore worthy of a
more… fitting payment.’
Without knowing the identities of the others captured,
I had no idea of the truth of this. However, it was credible; I was one of the
highest-ranked knights in the Livonian Order.
‘And of course,’ Fergus said, smiling maliciously.
‘You are no longer a young man.’
That was true enough; I was fifty-three at my last
count, an old man. And at that moment, I felt every year.
An idea came to me, although in truth I had been
considering it for a while – I’d had nothing else to do. If I was to be
confined to my bed or as a prisoner I might as well use the time. ‘As I am to
be kept here longer,’ I said to Fergus in French, ‘then I would like to have
the chance to write to my son… an account of my life perhaps, so he understands
his background and heritage.’
I waited patiently as Fergus relayed this. To my
surprise, Alexander clapped his hands together and beamed at me, speaking
quickly to the Irishman who then slowly translated his answer.
‘Prince Alexander finds your idea of merit,’ Fergus
said. ‘But only on the condition that whatever is written can be translated
into Russian.’ His face crumpled as he understood the implication of what he
had said. He would be tasked with the duty himself. ‘It is normal among the Rus
for written records to be made. Even as we sit here, in this very monastery, scribes
are writing up a chronicle of the history of Novgorod.’
I regarded Alexander, who was grinning in enthusiasm.
All the power and harshness of his face had disappeared and he looked young,
very young. This only made me feel older and more irritable. But at least I
would have the chance to write my memoirs for my son, to let him know his
responsibilities and inform him of his birthright, in order for him to seek the
vengeance I might not be able to achieve.
‘Prince Alexander is interested to learn how a warrior
monk can have a son,’ Fergus went on. ‘Did you not swear a vow of chastity
before joining your Order?’
I sighed and turned away. Of course, I had, but life
was never easy. The Devil finds ways to lead even the most pious from the path
of purity. And being pious had never been one of my strengths. ‘I have no wish
to talk of such matters now. If the Lord Prince wants to know, then he will
have to read what is transcribed.’
The Irishman translated my words and for a moment I
thought I had angered his master. It is no easy thing to defy a prince – even
if he was the enemy. But the shadow that flashed over Alexander’s face was
replaced with a smile. He spoke quickly to Fergus, who appeared to question
what had been said, dropping his head and nodding. I waited, interested for the
translation.
‘The Lord Prince Alexander says you are still too weak
to undertake this chore alone. He desires that I,’ Fergus’s voice had fallen so
low I thought he would gag over the words, ‘come here daily from the city to
act as your scribe and write your words. I am then to translate them later into
Russian for the Lord Prince.’
I looked at him and laughed, enjoying his predicament.
I have never liked the Irish. It seemed this dour, unenthusiastic helper and I
were going to spend much more time in each other’s company. I did not realise
then how fruitful that task would ultimately prove.
But where to begin? My
early recollections were so distant they felt like they belonged to someone
else. I glanced at the letter, cradled on Fergus’s lap, and a memory came back
to me, of another letter, so many years ago. A letter that had changed my life.
That would be as good a place to begin as any.
We
started the chronicle the next day.
About the Author
Jon Byrne, originally from London, now lives with his German family by a
lake in Bavaria with stunning views of the Alps. As well as writing, he works
as a translator for a local IT company and occasionally as a lumberjack. He
has always been fascinated by history and has studied the Medieval world for
over twenty years, building up a comprehensive library of books. Sword
Brethren (formerly Brothers of the Sword) made it to the shortlist of the
Yeovil Literary Prize 2022 and the longlist of the prestigious Grindstone
International Novel Prize 2022. It is the first book in The Northern Crusader
Chronicles.
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