Interlude One
@filcat - You are far too kind! I'm glad you appreciate the verbal flourishes in my writing, though I'm afraid sometimes they might turn readers off. And yes, I also hope things turn out well for Mechthild and Bohodar, though for that we need to stay tuned...
@Henry v. Keiper - Yes, indeed. The surviving children do end up in quite a few places, not all of them good. The 'lion of Olomouc', though, refers to the coat-of-arms that CK3 gave the Rychnovský dynasty, which is a gold lion on a sable field.
I'm going to try something a little bit different here, for the next 'chapter', which I hope doesn't give away too much of what's in store next, but which I hope does add a little bit of flavour to the in-game world I'm building...
INTERLUDE I.
Two Moravias
16 September, 2019
Živana Biľaková brushed a strand of red hair away from her glasses and quickened her step, adjusting the strap of her bookbag next to her. The copy of Early Moravia: 512-982 AD which she carried in it was weighing heavily on her as she hurried to the class it was meant for. The great bronze bell had already rung for first Monday period, and she was late for History 510 – Slavic Late Antiquity. Moving across the campus quad of Univerzita svatého Michaela Archanděla in Olomouc with a brisk step, Živana found the white stucco building she was looking for and pushed open the heavy oaken door. She didn’t quite run toward Lecture Hall 7, but she was certainly at a power walk when she entered the classroom.
Professor Edvard Grebeníček, the dean of medieval studies at Michaela Archanděla for the last thirty years, checked his step as Živana came briskly in through his door and, a bit shamefaced, took her seat with her other classmates. Late students were nothing new to him, and he continued writing on the whiteboard as usual. Živana looked at what he had written. In green dry-erase marker, Grebeníček had written this at the top, dividing the board in two between them:
Bohodar Rychnovský | Bratromila Mojmírová
Under Bohodar Rychnovský, Berkyov had written the following:
And under Bratromila Mojmírová:
Grebeníček turned where he stood. A thin, bespectacled old man with wire-rimmed glasses and a thick, bushy moustache, wearing a tweed suit, he looked almost like a caricature of a university academic, though he did have a wry and often ribald sense of humour. Holding up the green dry-erase marker, Grebeníček made a sweeping gesture like a conductor and said:
‘Two Moravias! One centred in Olomouc, the other in Velehrad – what is now Uherské Hradiště. You see here the two personalities which guided both sides of Moravia after the death of Saint Rastislav. Now, from the reading you did: why do we care about these two people? Why do they matter for us now, living in modern Moravia?’
There was a shuffling and glancing among the reticent students in their seats. Živana watched and waited for her classmates to come up with the answer, but when none did, she raised her own hand.
‘Yes, Miss Biľaková?’
Živana cleared her throat. ‘They represent the Western-facing and the Eastern-facing sides of Moravia?’
Grebeníček grinned broadly, his eyes glinting. ‘Well, I’m glad someone read the textbook passage for today, though it would help if she also came on time for class. Please, though – elaborate. In what ways do they represent West and East?’
Živana blushed a little at the rebuke, which she knew was meant lightheartedly. But she continued: ‘Bohodar inclined politically toward Constantinople. He kept the Byzantine rite in the churches. We have records that he commemorated first Saint Photios and then Ignatios II. But most of his writings were in German, not Slavonic. As for Bratromila, she was surrounded by pro-Papal priests and pro-Karling advisors for most of her early life. She had no choice but to face west, politically. But because most of her writings are in Slavonic, we can assume that she was a bit reticent.’
‘Excellent analysis,’ Grebeníček gave his tardy student a salute of acknowledgement. ‘Now, can someone else tell me: why these contradictory tendencies in these two people? Why—’ here Grebeníček rapped the whiteboard at the relevant bullet point, ‘—did Rychnovský choose to write in German, if he so favoured Constantinople and the Byzantine rite?’
Here one of the other girls in the class, Cecilia Bedyrová, raised her hand. ‘Wasn’t it because of his wife, Matylda Štíhradsková? Weren’t they madly in love with each other?’
There were a couple of suppressed giggles in the class, and an impish look came over Grebeníček’s moustachioed face as he answered her question.
‘Hmm. Many historians would dismiss that interpretation as mere sentimentalism, but there is some merit to it, I think. We do have that touching poem of his in your textbook – “Wir jetzt im grünen Tiefthal bleiben” – with its floral and riparian imagery being allusive to their intimacy. And the fact that this love poem was preserved rather than disposed of speaks to how Matylda received it. But – if we really want to talk about Rychnovský men and their “moments”… we have Eustach Staviteľ and his French wife, who got up to the kind of naughty bedroom antics which made bishops thunder. For a marriage that was tender, affectionate, prolific and politically-effective, there’s Bohodar III and Czenzi Árpád. And then of course there was the epic romance of Kaloján and his cousin Bohumila. So if that sort of thing interests you, sign up for my High Mediæval course!’
There was another smattering of laughter. But Grebeníček raised a hand for silence, and when he got it, he went on:
‘There is another reason that your textbook gives for this West-facing tendency in an otherwise pious Orthodox Christian. Bohodar Rychnovský was sincerely interested in other cultures. He was versant in Arabic and Greek as well as German. Despite his being a clear partizan of Cyril and Methodius – and by extension Photios of Constantinople – he wasn’t a zealot. He kept a Frankish scholar as his household physician, and he forged dynastic alliances with English as well as Greek and Serbian nobles. But what about Bratromila? Can anyone tell me why she might have baulked at writing in French or Latin?’
Živana considered for a while before she raised her hand again.
‘Yes, Miss Biľaková.’
Živana hesitated slightly. ‘I’m not sure, Professor, but… didn’t she kind of resent a lot of her retinue? I mean, they virtually had full control over her life since she was a child…’
Professor Grebeníček grinned and gave a tap on his nose. ‘Very astute, Živana. Yes. She did.’
The class fell into a hush as Grebeníček’s voice fell to a theatrical stage-whisper.
‘Bratromila – the last regnant monarch of the house of Mojmír – was a desperately unhappy woman. You are right, Živana; she had very little control over her own life. Surrounded by advisors with their own agendas, she strained and rebelled against them every way she knew how from a very young age. This is something to bear in mind when we examine aspects of her later life. Mediæval Moravian and Greek historians reviled her in the strongest and most polemical terms. In particular, in his Essence of History, the twelfth-century chronicler Athanasios Kegenes infamously called her a “painted Jezebel”, a “faithless, pox-riddled harlot” and a “black-hearted witch, whose only loyalty was to Lucifer”. But – speaking personally as well as professionally – I think she deserves a greater degree of sympathy and understanding, for precisely the reasons Biľaková gave us.’
He raised his voice again to its normal tone.
‘The thing is, if we want to understand the two Moravias – the Moravia with its capital at Velehrad and the Moravia with its capital at Olomouc – we need to first understand this complicated relationship between Bratromila and her most influential vassal, Bohodar Rychnovský...’
@Henry v. Keiper - Yes, indeed. The surviving children do end up in quite a few places, not all of them good. The 'lion of Olomouc', though, refers to the coat-of-arms that CK3 gave the Rychnovský dynasty, which is a gold lion on a sable field.
I'm going to try something a little bit different here, for the next 'chapter', which I hope doesn't give away too much of what's in store next, but which I hope does add a little bit of flavour to the in-game world I'm building...
INTERLUDE I.
Two Moravias
16 September, 2019
Živana Biľaková brushed a strand of red hair away from her glasses and quickened her step, adjusting the strap of her bookbag next to her. The copy of Early Moravia: 512-982 AD which she carried in it was weighing heavily on her as she hurried to the class it was meant for. The great bronze bell had already rung for first Monday period, and she was late for History 510 – Slavic Late Antiquity. Moving across the campus quad of Univerzita svatého Michaela Archanděla in Olomouc with a brisk step, Živana found the white stucco building she was looking for and pushed open the heavy oaken door. She didn’t quite run toward Lecture Hall 7, but she was certainly at a power walk when she entered the classroom.
Professor Edvard Grebeníček, the dean of medieval studies at Michaela Archanděla for the last thirty years, checked his step as Živana came briskly in through his door and, a bit shamefaced, took her seat with her other classmates. Late students were nothing new to him, and he continued writing on the whiteboard as usual. Živana looked at what he had written. In green dry-erase marker, Grebeníček had written this at the top, dividing the board in two between them:
Bohodar Rychnovský | Bratromila Mojmírová
Under Bohodar Rychnovský, Berkyov had written the following:
- Olomouc
- Mission of Ss. Cyril and Methodius
- Pro-Constantinople, Slavonic Liturgy
- Extant writings in OHG – why?
And under Bratromila Mojmírová:
- Velehrad
- German priests
- Links with Carolingians
- Extant writings in Slavonic – Latin script
Grebeníček turned where he stood. A thin, bespectacled old man with wire-rimmed glasses and a thick, bushy moustache, wearing a tweed suit, he looked almost like a caricature of a university academic, though he did have a wry and often ribald sense of humour. Holding up the green dry-erase marker, Grebeníček made a sweeping gesture like a conductor and said:
‘Two Moravias! One centred in Olomouc, the other in Velehrad – what is now Uherské Hradiště. You see here the two personalities which guided both sides of Moravia after the death of Saint Rastislav. Now, from the reading you did: why do we care about these two people? Why do they matter for us now, living in modern Moravia?’
There was a shuffling and glancing among the reticent students in their seats. Živana watched and waited for her classmates to come up with the answer, but when none did, she raised her own hand.
‘Yes, Miss Biľaková?’
Živana cleared her throat. ‘They represent the Western-facing and the Eastern-facing sides of Moravia?’
Grebeníček grinned broadly, his eyes glinting. ‘Well, I’m glad someone read the textbook passage for today, though it would help if she also came on time for class. Please, though – elaborate. In what ways do they represent West and East?’
Živana blushed a little at the rebuke, which she knew was meant lightheartedly. But she continued: ‘Bohodar inclined politically toward Constantinople. He kept the Byzantine rite in the churches. We have records that he commemorated first Saint Photios and then Ignatios II. But most of his writings were in German, not Slavonic. As for Bratromila, she was surrounded by pro-Papal priests and pro-Karling advisors for most of her early life. She had no choice but to face west, politically. But because most of her writings are in Slavonic, we can assume that she was a bit reticent.’
‘Excellent analysis,’ Grebeníček gave his tardy student a salute of acknowledgement. ‘Now, can someone else tell me: why these contradictory tendencies in these two people? Why—’ here Grebeníček rapped the whiteboard at the relevant bullet point, ‘—did Rychnovský choose to write in German, if he so favoured Constantinople and the Byzantine rite?’
Here one of the other girls in the class, Cecilia Bedyrová, raised her hand. ‘Wasn’t it because of his wife, Matylda Štíhradsková? Weren’t they madly in love with each other?’
There were a couple of suppressed giggles in the class, and an impish look came over Grebeníček’s moustachioed face as he answered her question.
‘Hmm. Many historians would dismiss that interpretation as mere sentimentalism, but there is some merit to it, I think. We do have that touching poem of his in your textbook – “Wir jetzt im grünen Tiefthal bleiben” – with its floral and riparian imagery being allusive to their intimacy. And the fact that this love poem was preserved rather than disposed of speaks to how Matylda received it. But – if we really want to talk about Rychnovský men and their “moments”… we have Eustach Staviteľ and his French wife, who got up to the kind of naughty bedroom antics which made bishops thunder. For a marriage that was tender, affectionate, prolific and politically-effective, there’s Bohodar III and Czenzi Árpád. And then of course there was the epic romance of Kaloján and his cousin Bohumila. So if that sort of thing interests you, sign up for my High Mediæval course!’
There was another smattering of laughter. But Grebeníček raised a hand for silence, and when he got it, he went on:
‘There is another reason that your textbook gives for this West-facing tendency in an otherwise pious Orthodox Christian. Bohodar Rychnovský was sincerely interested in other cultures. He was versant in Arabic and Greek as well as German. Despite his being a clear partizan of Cyril and Methodius – and by extension Photios of Constantinople – he wasn’t a zealot. He kept a Frankish scholar as his household physician, and he forged dynastic alliances with English as well as Greek and Serbian nobles. But what about Bratromila? Can anyone tell me why she might have baulked at writing in French or Latin?’
Živana considered for a while before she raised her hand again.
‘Yes, Miss Biľaková.’
Živana hesitated slightly. ‘I’m not sure, Professor, but… didn’t she kind of resent a lot of her retinue? I mean, they virtually had full control over her life since she was a child…’
Professor Grebeníček grinned and gave a tap on his nose. ‘Very astute, Živana. Yes. She did.’
The class fell into a hush as Grebeníček’s voice fell to a theatrical stage-whisper.
‘Bratromila – the last regnant monarch of the house of Mojmír – was a desperately unhappy woman. You are right, Živana; she had very little control over her own life. Surrounded by advisors with their own agendas, she strained and rebelled against them every way she knew how from a very young age. This is something to bear in mind when we examine aspects of her later life. Mediæval Moravian and Greek historians reviled her in the strongest and most polemical terms. In particular, in his Essence of History, the twelfth-century chronicler Athanasios Kegenes infamously called her a “painted Jezebel”, a “faithless, pox-riddled harlot” and a “black-hearted witch, whose only loyalty was to Lucifer”. But – speaking personally as well as professionally – I think she deserves a greater degree of sympathy and understanding, for precisely the reasons Biľaková gave us.’
He raised his voice again to its normal tone.
‘The thing is, if we want to understand the two Moravias – the Moravia with its capital at Velehrad and the Moravia with its capital at Olomouc – we need to first understand this complicated relationship between Bratromila and her most influential vassal, Bohodar Rychnovský...’
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