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.
There was another cheer from the Semigallians around us. I was too exhausted to feel anything but relief that it was all over. My friends reluctantly went to help collect the dead.
The infirmarer eventually made it over to where I sat in the snow. Brother Burkhardt was as brusque as ever, examining the swelling around my neck with deft fingers before turning his attention to the wound on my leg. ‘It is heavily bruised, but you will live and walk again. Come and see me when we return to the commandery.’
He left as quickly as he had arrived. A little way off my horse whickered. For a moment, I looked at the sky, watching the circling crows and ravens. Some of the birds were already gorging on the bodies further away from the main site of the battle, squawking and flapping over the pickings. A large group of Semigallians, flushed with victory, gathered about fifty paces from me, looking in my direction. Were our erstwhile allies, almost all of them pagans like the Lithuanians we had just defeated, contemplating treachery? They certainly heavily outnumbered our men. If they turned on us suddenly, we would be in real trouble.
My heart jumped when one of the Semigallians gestured at me. Misunderstanding his meaning, I glanced quickly over my shoulder to see who he was pointing at, but there was no one else. My apprehension grew when the group began walking towards where I sat. There must have been nearly a hundred of them and they were all armed with an assortment of axes, spears and javelins. The rest of my comrades were some distance away, stripping the dead of valuables and piling up the corpses. No one even noticed, and they were too far away to help anyway. As the Semigallians came closer, I came to my feet hurriedly and drew my sword, my heart hammering in my chest.
The group stopped in front of me. I gripped my sword in clammy hands, but I swiftly realised the tribesmen were not hostile. They were smiling. My attention was grabbed by a small man wearing a blue felt shirt who began to sing and dance. I watched dumbfounded as he cavorted around whilst his comrades began banging their shields with their weapons and chanting. What in the Devil’s name was the man doing?
‘They are singing a song to honour you,’ Dieter said, suddenly behind me.
‘You understand them?’
‘A little. Remember, I have been here from the beginning.’
‘But why me?’
‘Because you killed the Lithuanian champion.’ Dieter said. ‘They are proclaiming your courage to one of their Gods… Perkūnas. He is the God of thunder, lightning and war.’ Dieter laughed. ‘And, more suitably, the god of oak trees!’
I smiled. The Lithuanian champion had been named Ąžuolas, which aptly meant ‘oak tree’ in their language. The pagans continued their singing and dancing. I watched bemused now rather than uncomfortable, a warm glow flowing through me. It was true… against all odds I had killed the champion and survived.
However, I was aware that the scene was attracting attention. More people were looking over in our direction. I saw Wenno and Sighard, both mounted, talking together and frowning. My adversaries, Wolfgang and Gabriel, paused in their work clearing the bodies, pointing at where I stood.
The crowd of Semigallians parted as Viesthard, their king, pushed his way through. A man behind was carrying something and he tossed it at my feet. When I saw what it was, I recoiled and stepped back instinctively. It was the Lithuanian champion’s head.
King Viesthard laughed and said something I didn’t understand. I had seen the Semigallian king a few weeks earlier in the town hall in Riga, and he didn’t look any different now dressed in his battle-gear. He wore a large bear pelt fastened by a gold circular clasp fashioned to look like a snake. Around his neck was a chunky chain and several armbands of silver adorned his lower arms. Viesthard spoke with the man who had been dancing. With a quick movement, he yanked off the thin leather cord from around his man’s neck and gave me the charm that was attached. It was a tiny silver axe.
‘It is a symbol of their god,’ Dieter said. ‘They honour you.’ He turned as Wenno rode up with Sighard, Berthold and several other knight-brothers.
When I look back on this day, nearly forty years later, it is the irony that strikes me most. I was a member of an Order whose duty and mission was to forcibly convert the pagans of Livonia to Christianity, being praised and lauded by other pagans for my bravery in my first proper battle – for killing the pagan champion. They gave me this token, the tiny axe, which I still have today. It also saved my life later, which my story will tell, but I don’t want to get ahead of myself. Suffice to say, the whole spectacle was a little embarrassing for my comrades, and when Master Wenno turned up it ended quickly. The Semigallians drifted off to continue looting the remaining bodies and Viesthard lost interest, probably more concerned with the spoils to be found.
I just wanted to go home.
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Jon Byrne
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 studied the medieval world for over twenty years, building up a comprehensive personal library and a particular interest in the often-overlooked Northern Crusades.
Soldiers of Christ is Book Two of The Northern Crusader Chronicles, a gritty, historically grounded series focused on realism, moral ambiguity, and the brutal realities of medieval warfare.
Written for readers who value authenticity and atmosphere over romanticised adventure, the novel explores a largely forgotten crusading frontier, culminating in the first of many confrontations in a harsh wilderness of forest and swamp.
Readers who enjoy the historical detail of authors such as Bernard Cornwell, Conn Iggulden, or Ben Kane may find familiar ground here.
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