Episode IX: Tver Ever And Tver Ever Farewell, Cassius
The 1460s were a dark time in Eastern Europe. The Golden Horde rampaged through the Christian kingdoms, limitless in number and boundless in savagery. One kingdom alone stood firm against the tide of the heathen: the Kingdom of Tver, and their mighty leader, King Aleksandr II Rurikovich.
Even this mighty warrior, though, was subdued. He was already acknowledged as the greatest king in Tver’s history, having presided over years of expansion and enhanced wealth. His reign, however, had coincided with the rise of the implacable Tartars. The undisputed Prince of Russia, the other kingdoms either overrun or enslaved by the Horde, he knew that, were nothing to change, it would only be a matter of time before the last free Principality was ground to dust beneath the Tartars’ boots.
The king sat at his desk wearing, as was his custom, a maroon cape draped around his shoulders. Further clothing, he believed, was for girly westerners. And western girls. And while his aversion to clothing had forced him to accept defeat at the hands of the Horde’s Khan, his nudity had effectively saved the kingdom by allowing the Tartars to have their superficial victory, saving thousands of Tverian lives and the ruination of the Principality’s cities and economy.
He turned to his chief advisor.
‘Dobczyński?’
The Polish soldier gave him a grave look.
‘Sir?’
‘Tell me, old friend. Ees et thet time agen?’
‘Yes, sir. I’m afraid it is.’
‘The Horde rampage through Lithuania, sir – and I mean Lithuania itself, not their Belarussian or Ukrainian territories. At the current rate, they’ll be in Vienna within twenty years.’
‘Their numbers?’
‘They’ve done it, sir. They now have over a hundred thousand men under arms, to our fourteen.’
Aleksandr Rurikovich shook his head gravely. ‘End they will etteck egen within weeks.’
‘Yes, sir. We can raise more regiments, sir, but it won’t be enough.’
The king nodded. ‘I feared thet thees would heppen. Well. No dream cen lest forever.’
‘No, sir. But perhaps they will go away quickly, sir. The last time they gave up within days.’
‘I do not theenk so, Dobczyński. They are hungry for bettle, for death. Why, I do not know, but they long for it. Well. We must geeve it to them.’
‘I will ready the army, sir.’
The Tverian army assembled on the western border: the Hordes would approach from this direction, through Polotsk and Smoleńsk – both territories that Aleksandr had hoped to acquire should the Horde collapse. But collapse, it had not.
The armies were split into two halves, in the hope that the Horde would be focused on the Poles and Lithuanians, allowing the Tverian army to quickly occupy some territory and force a peace – even to take the city of Smoleńsk.
The risk, however, was not to pay off. Seeing their Lithuanian opponents on the run, the Tartars turned their attention to the last free kingdom of Russia. Legions of horsemen swarmed towards the border. In Vyazma, Dobczyński’s troops were swiftly engaged by a huge force of enemy cavalry backed up by thousands of foot.
The king’ his army based in Rzhev, moved south to assist his friend. The flanking manoeuvre, and the sight of the feared Aleksandr himself in all his glory (and we mean, all of it) forced the Tartars to give ground. However, fresh troops poured in to the breach, and with all of Tver’s soldiers concentrated in one place, the wily Khan saw an opportunity to smash the Principality’s resistance with one swift stroke.
Surrounded, Aleksandr had little choice but to order Dobczyński to retreat. The multi-pronged enemy attack, though, scattered their forces, allowing the Tartars to attack their retreating troops piecemeal.
Aleksandr retreated to Tver itself. Dobczyński joined him as they marshalled what few soldiers they had left at the gates of the capital. Their attempts to mount a resistance had proved useless, and now the Tartars closed in on Tver.
‘What now, sir?’
‘Take Ekaterina and my son, Dobczyński. Ride north, around the Horde’s territories. Take them to Kraków. Return when this war is over.’
‘When will you come, sir?’
Aleksandr’s look told Dobczyński all that the Polish bodyguard needed to know.
‘It is I that they seek, Dobczyński. This war, this attack. I have resisted them for so long, this is personal. They wish me dead.’
‘Then come with us, sir!’
‘No, Dobczyński, do you not see! This is only way I can save my city, my country, my people. The Khan seeks my death. If I die, then they will retreat, leave us alone for five years, enough time to rebuild, to plan. We cannot triumph through force of erms!’
The king handed a scroll to Dobczyński. Being clad, as usual, in a long maroon cape and a hat with a tall cockfeather (which, all knew, compensated for nothing and, in fact, paled in comparison to that which it might be compared in all categories except that of colour), and nothing else, Dobczyński hoped that the scroll had been stored beneath the hat.
‘Open this when you reach Kraków. It is the address, and details of the one man that can save this country. Look efter my son, and Ekaterina. They will not understand. Aleksandr will want to fight, but he cannot. He must live. And I must go.’
There was a pause. Then Dobczyński nodded, and took the scroll from his old friend.
‘I obey out of love, Aleks. Not duty.’
‘I know, Bron. Were there enether way, I would take it. My enemies have forced me to the precipice – but there is no need for you to join me there. But I would ask one more thing.’
‘Anything.’
‘Give me your sword. You have another and...I will have need of it, I think.’
Smiling, Dobczyński drew his sword, and handed it to his sovereign, the way he had on the day he had sworn his allegiance.
‘I will see you again, Aleks. One way or another.’
‘Thet you will. When we meet agen, Bronisław, why. We shall smile. But unteel then, these parting was well-made.’
The two men embraced. A brief kiss, a last brief nod. Then Dobczyński ran into the city, heading for the palace, to take the Prince and Queen to safety. An hour later, they left, riding north-west to avoid the Tartar armies. Aleksandr Rurikovich was long gone.
The histories of the enxt few months are full of speculation and myth. What is known is that Aleksandr led the Golden Horde into Tver’s northern territories at the head of a small army of volunteers, taking them away from the Tverian heartland.
He fought a war of retreat and harassment, goading the legions of Tartars further into the inhospitable northern wastes, giving them no time to lay siege to his territories.
Seeing the chaos that engulfed Tver, the Knyaz of Novgorod saw an opportunity to retake his nation’s lands. However, the infuriated Archbishop of Riga railed against the Knyaz’s treachery, and sent his armies to attack the opportunistic Novgorodians.
The Horde tightened their grip on Tver’s southern territories, but the Queen, Prince and King were able to reach the safety of Poland, and the protection of her king.
As for the king himself, none know for certain. He was last seen entering the fortifications of Archangelsk, having dismissed the last of his ragged band of volunteers, ten thousand Tartars closing in on the city. Some say that he simply disappeared, and that the Tartars never found him. Some say that he cut down a regiment of the heathens single-handedly, crushed the enemy general’s head between his thighs, and then ascended to the heavens in a glorious shaft of light. None will ever know for certain. All that is known is that Aleksandr II Rurikovich, King of Tver, Grand Prince of Russia, had ascended into the realm of legend, forever.
Whatever happened to the Prince of Tver, the Tartars retreated once more, to further ravage the eastern borders of Christendom.
Receiving the news, Dobczyński walked into the presence chamber in Kraków that had been gifted by King August Jagiellon for the use of young Prince Alexander and Queen Ekaterina. The young, dark-haired man looked at his father’s retainer. Dobczyński nodded sadly. Then, he knelt on one knee before Aleksandr.
‘God Save the King. Long live Aleksandr the Third.’
