Ludovicus, High King of Hungary, drew his cloak closer to him. He was already regretting the day he decided to accompany the royal army to this godforsaken land. Moscow was a damp, dismal sprawl of a settlement. The food was awful, save for the alcohol, which was lethal. He would have sooner been in Buda, or taking a day trip to Venice. God knows, he would have rather found himself in Constantinople. But he needed to be present to oversee the progress of the war. There was no way that he could have an accurate view of developments back in Buda. That meant being on the front lines of conflict - or fifty-five miles behind them, in this instance.
"Take no heed of the turbulence at home," he said dismissively, "The Bishop of Rome will not take any measures against us. He is still scrabbling for support for his crusade against the Levant. Since the western kingdoms have not committed themselves save for Spain, he will be eager for the military support of the Crown of Saint Stephen. That is the incentive we will brandish before him to stay his hand from an excommunication."
"As for the war," he continued, "It is Our desire to push on now and achieve a swift victory, rather than continue to stagnate while the Tartars muster their strength."