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The Smederevo Fortness on the Danube, built by Despot
Djuradj Brankovic, father of Jelena as his capital. The Court of the Serbia is here.
Djuradj Brankovic, father of Jelena as his capital. The Court of the Serbia is here.
Currently At The Court of Serbia
Queen Jelena Brankovic, Queen of Serbia and Duchess of Bosnia
Princess Marija Brankovic, Younger Sister of Jelena
His All Holiness Arsenius II, Patriarch of the Serbian Orthodox Church
Jadronka Nikolić, Marshal of the Queen's Army
Ivan Mikhailovitch, Liasion from Russia
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History of Serbia
After this initial blooming of the Serbian state, a period of stasis and retrogression followed. Marked by disintegration and crises it lasted until the end of 12th century. After a struggle for the throne with his brothers, Stefan Nemanja, the founder of the Nemanjic dynasty, rose to power in 1170 and started renewing the Serbian state in the Raska region. Sometimes with the sponsorship of Byzantium, and sometimes opposing it, the veliki zupan (a title equivalent to the rank of prince) Stefan Nemanja expanded his state seizing territories east and south, and newly annexed the littoral and the Zeta region. Along with his governmental efforts, the veliki zupan dedicated much care to the construction of monasteries. His endowments include the Djurdjevi Stupovi Monastery and the Studenica Monastery in the Raska region, and the Hilandar Monastery on Mt. Athos.
Stefan Nemanja was succeeded by his middle son Stefan, whilst his first-born Vukan was given the rule of the Zeta region (present-day Montenegro). Stefan Nemanja's youngest son Rastko became a monk and took the name of Sava, turning all his efforts to spreading religiousness among his people. Since the Curia already had ambitions to spread its influence to the Balkans as well, Stefan used these propitious circumstances to obtain his crown from the Pope thus becoming the first Serbian king in 1217. In Byzantium, his brother Sava managed to secure the autocephalous status for the Serbian Church and became the first Serbian archbishop in 1219. Thus the Serbs acquired both forms of independence: temporal and religious.
The next generation of Serbian rulers - the sons of Stefan Prvovencani - Radoslav, Vladislav and Uros I, marked a period of stagnation of the state structure. All three kings were more or less dependent on some of the neighboring states - Byzantium, Bulgaria or Hungary. The ties with the Hungarians had a decisive role in the fact that Uros I was succeeded by his son Dragutin whose wife was a Hungarian princess. Later on, when Dragutin abdicated in favor of his younger brother Milutin, the Hungarian king Ladislaus IV gave him lands in northeastern Bosnia, the regions of Srem and Macva, and the city of Belgrade, whilst he managed to conquer and annex lands in northeastern Serbia. Thus, all these territories became part of the Serbian state for the first time.
Under the rule of Dragutin's younger brother - King Milutin, Serbia grew stronger in spite of the fact that occasionally it had to fight wars on three different fronts. King Milutin was an apt diplomat much inclined to the use of a customary medieval diplomatic expedients - dynastic marriages. He was married five times, with Hungarian, Bulgarian and Byzantine princesses. He is also famous for building churches, some of which are the brightest examples of Medieval Serbian architecture: the Gracanica Monastery in Kosovo, the Cathedral in Hilandar Monastery on Mt. Athos, the St. Archangel Church in Jerusalem etc. Because of his endowments, King Milutin has been proclaimed a saint, in spite of his tumultuous life. He was succeeded on the throne by his son Stefan, later dubbed Stefan Decanski. Spreading the kingdom to the east by winning the town of Nis and the surrounding counties, and to the south by acquiring territories on Macedonia, Stefan Decanski was worthy of his father and built the Visoki Decani Monastery in Metohija - the most monumental example of Serbian Medieval architecture - that earned him his byname.
Under the rule of Dragutin's younger brother - King Milutin, Serbia grew stronger in spite of the fact that occasionally it had to fight wars on three different fronts. King Milutin was an apt diplomat much inclined to the use of a customary medieval diplomatic expedients - dynastic marriages. He was married five times, with Hungarian, Bulgarian and Byzantine princesses. He is also famous for building churches, some of which are the brightest examples of Medieval Serbian architecture: the Gracanica Monastery in Kosovo, the Cathedral in Hilandar Monastery on Mt. Athos, the St. Archangel Church in Jerusalem etc. Because of his endowments, King Milutin has been proclaimed a saint, in spite of his tumultuous life. He was succeeded on the throne by his son Stefan, later dubbed Stefan Decanski. Spreading the kingdom to the east by winning the town of Nis and the surrounding counties, and to the south by acquiring territories on Macedonia, Stefan Decanski was worthy of his father and built the Visoki Decani Monastery in Metohija - the most monumental example of Serbian Medieval architecture - that earned him his byname.
Medieval Serbia that enjoyed a high political, economic and cultural reputation in Medieval Europe, reached its apex in mid-14th century, during the rule of Tzar Stefan Dusan. This is the period when the Dusanov Zakonik (Dushan's Code) the greatest juridical achievement of Medieval Serbia, unique among the European feudal states of the period. St. Sava's Nomocanon, Dushan's Code, frescoes and the architecture of the medieval monasteries adorning Serbian lands are eternal civilizational monuments of the Serbian people. Tzar Stefan Dusan doubled the size of his kingdom seizing territories to the south, southeast and east at the expense of Byzantium. He was succeeded by his son Uros called the Weak, a term that might also apply to the state of the kingdom slowly sliding into feudal anarchy. This is a period marked by the rise of a new threat: the Ottoman Turk sultanate gradually spreading from Asia to Europe and conquering Byzantium first, and then the other Balkan states.
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Queen Jelena smiled as the courtiers filed into her court. Finally after so many years she had seized control of the Kingdom. Her father, one of the Kings of Serbia, had died without a male heir so naturally the Crown went to her after his death. But to do so, the road was long and hard, because the nobles of Serbia had tried to place themselves on the throne after the invasion of Venice. In the end though the better man for the throne turned out to be a better woman.
"What news is there in my Kingdom?" Queen Jelena asked. The Patriarch of Serbia here in Smederevo on business stepped forward and replied. "Queen Jelena the Kingdom's borders are secure and there is no unrest from the nobles that have given you trouble as of late. However the Turkish Empire seems to be strong and I think they might invade the Balkans again. Our neighbors, the Moldavians, the Bulgarians, the Bosnians, and the Macedonians are all active and may form an alliance with us to fight against the Turk if they invade. However time will tell." After the Patriarch had finished updating the Queen of Serbia on the latest happenings she smiled and nodded. "Thank you your All Holiness for this report. Yes I will try to contact our neighbors and form an alliance so that we will not repeat the mistakes of the past. Never again will this Kingdom be subject to the Turk. Never again will this Kingdom be subject to Venice. Never again will this Kingdom be subject to Hungary. No I will make this Kingdom strong, and independent, and we will have all the lands that belong to us, not the least of which is Bosnia which I am the rightful Duchess of."
Later that night Queen Jelena and her younger sister, Princess Marija, talked to each other after a feast in honor of the Queen's coronation. "My sister, please I beg you do not misunderstand me, but you have gotten the Crown but what have I gotten? I am only a year younger than you, and no less ambitious. Yes you are the older sister and have the right to rule, but our father had only two daughters, and loved us both. I beg you my sister, help me become powerful in my own right. The army of Serbia is strong and there are many who wish to see the Kingdom's borders restored to it. Perhaps, my sister, we can be two Queens, ruling two Kingdoms, with a common goal and purpose?"For a moment Queen Jelena stood silently. Her sister was very bold indeed for daring to ask such a thing. Then she smiled. "My beloved sister, ordinarily I would be quite angry if someone had told me this but I recognize in you the mark of a true Queen, the need to be brave when required, moral strength and willpower, and boldness, the most important mark of royalty. Yes I will help you gain a Kingdom, as soon as I can. But first my sister, we must be married, for having a good husband will bring us many allies..
"What news is there in my Kingdom?" Queen Jelena asked. The Patriarch of Serbia here in Smederevo on business stepped forward and replied. "Queen Jelena the Kingdom's borders are secure and there is no unrest from the nobles that have given you trouble as of late. However the Turkish Empire seems to be strong and I think they might invade the Balkans again. Our neighbors, the Moldavians, the Bulgarians, the Bosnians, and the Macedonians are all active and may form an alliance with us to fight against the Turk if they invade. However time will tell." After the Patriarch had finished updating the Queen of Serbia on the latest happenings she smiled and nodded. "Thank you your All Holiness for this report. Yes I will try to contact our neighbors and form an alliance so that we will not repeat the mistakes of the past. Never again will this Kingdom be subject to the Turk. Never again will this Kingdom be subject to Venice. Never again will this Kingdom be subject to Hungary. No I will make this Kingdom strong, and independent, and we will have all the lands that belong to us, not the least of which is Bosnia which I am the rightful Duchess of."
Later that night Queen Jelena and her younger sister, Princess Marija, talked to each other after a feast in honor of the Queen's coronation. "My sister, please I beg you do not misunderstand me, but you have gotten the Crown but what have I gotten? I am only a year younger than you, and no less ambitious. Yes you are the older sister and have the right to rule, but our father had only two daughters, and loved us both. I beg you my sister, help me become powerful in my own right. The army of Serbia is strong and there are many who wish to see the Kingdom's borders restored to it. Perhaps, my sister, we can be two Queens, ruling two Kingdoms, with a common goal and purpose?"For a moment Queen Jelena stood silently. Her sister was very bold indeed for daring to ask such a thing. Then she smiled. "My beloved sister, ordinarily I would be quite angry if someone had told me this but I recognize in you the mark of a true Queen, the need to be brave when required, moral strength and willpower, and boldness, the most important mark of royalty. Yes I will help you gain a Kingdom, as soon as I can. But first my sister, we must be married, for having a good husband will bring us many allies..
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The Journey to Smederevo from Iasi
The journey payed for by Novgorodskeey silver was more brief than Ostrov would have originally wished for. The weather was too pleasant, the river too calm, the air smelled too sweetly. All in all, life was far more pleasant than Ostrov cared to enjoy. All the same, Ostrov had recieved word from Pskova that he was to journey to Srvye to repair relations there damaged by a previously incompetent diplomat from that land. In his heart, maybe Ostrov looked forward to getting out of Moldavia. Things simply were not the same these days, this trip promised him something new, exciting - yet he was disgusted with himself for wishing such things.
The fortress at Smederevo rose up in the distance and Ostrov's large thick hands clutched the rail of the river cog, steadying himself as he rose up fully to breathe in fully the air. Opening his eyes slowly he looked upon the place and allowed himself the briefest of smiles. When the boat had docked, Ostrov descended with a quick and agile step that seemed strangely out of place for a man of this fifty and some years. Wearing style official uniform recently sent him from home he approached the main gates at the fortress. There, he bowed respectfully to the guards at the gates and pronounced with his clear but diminshed Russian accent, "I've come to seek the hospitality and audience of your sovereign. I, Ivan Mikhailitch Ostrov am here on behalf of the Sovereign of Pskov-Novgorod, Czarina Mina Andreyevna, Grand Princess of Pskov, Novgorod and Tver."
The guards at the gates of Smederevo nod at the Russian visitor. However due to fear of assassins he is not let in immedieately. Instead the leading General of Serbia is sent to recieve the Russian first before he can be let into the Court. The General arrives shortly with several of his people one of which is an interpreter fluent in both Serbian and Russian. The General informed of who the visitor is begins speaking in rapid fire Serbian, which is then quickly translated for the benefit of the Russian. "Greetings and welcome to Smederevo. Sadly due to fear of assassins the Queen cannot directly admit you, but she has sent me, Marshal Jadronka to meet with all visitors of high rank first. I must ask, what business does the Czarina Mina have with the Queen of Serbia?" The General then waited for the Russian's reply to be translated which no doubt will be to his liking, and prepared to usher the Russian in to meet the Queen.
Outside the Gates at Smederevo
Overall Ostrov was impressed by the speed with which his request was acknowledged by the coming of Marshal Jadronka. Nodding his head to the man on greeting he listened to the interpreter with the hint of a smile on his face, picking out similiar words where he could. When the interpreter had finished Ivan offered his hand to Jadronka, "Greetings and a pleasure, such precautions are more than understood. My sovereign has assigned me as her voice and ears in the Balkans. The Danubian region has been a matter of increasing interest to us and with our close relations to the Voivode of Moldavia-Wallachia, the more so. Our culture, our language, even our faiths are closely tied, it is only natural that there should be at least a modest familiarity between our realms."
One of the guards behind the Russian nodded. He was an expect at recognizing hidden swords and daggers hidden beneath clothing and there were no places where the Russian could place a weapon on him that he could take out faster than the Serbians could. After the Russian's words were translated and the Russian had stuck out his hand, Marshal Jadronka took his hand and shook it. The Russian could rest assured that he would meet the Queen. "I see, Ivan Mikhailovich. Welcome to Smederovo, and please follow me I will take you to the Court where you may address Queen Jelena personally. She will be glad to see a representative from a fellow Orthodox ruler, especially since ... well I'm sure the Queen will tell you later."
The doors of the Court opened, and Ivan Mikhailovich and the General were admitted by the guards. The Queen looked curiously at her visitor the first foreign one in her reign. Sadly it was one that couldn't help her in her quest but she would court the favor of the Russian anyway. It couldn't hurt. Queen Jelena smiled to the visitor, and a protocol official whispered in the Russian's ear that he may address the Queen now.
The doors of the Court opened, and Ivan Mikhailovich and the General were admitted by the guards. The Queen looked curiously at her visitor the first foreign one in her reign. Sadly it was one that couldn't help her in her quest but she would court the favor of the Russian anyway. It couldn't hurt. Queen Jelena smiled to the visitor, and a protocol official whispered in the Russian's ear that he may address the Queen now.
Smederevo, Before the Queen
Ivan Mikhailovitch and his Moldavian servant, Stefan, entered at the invitation of the marshal. Passing into the court, Ostrov stopped a respectable distance from the Queen and bowed low, Stefan following him in this gesture and remaining a couple paces behind his master. Ostrov returned the Queen's smile with a slight reddening at his cheeks, she was indeed a handsome young woman, fair and with pleasant eyes.
Ivan motioned for Stefan to hand to one of the guards a wrapped bundle and for the bundle to be delivered to the Queen. With a show of his hand Ostrov smiled a bit more and explained, "Consider this a gift from the Kremlin in Pskova, it is a scarf of sable from one of the more fashionable outfitters in Novgorod. Your Highness, the Sovereign whom I represent wishes that a friendly relationship be established between yourselves, much as the one she shares with the Voivode of Moldavia-Wallachia who I might add had a personal hand in serving her own life."
Ostrov paused for effect before continuing, "I also wish to introduce myself, Ivan Mikhailovitch Ostrov as personal liason between your persons. Your highness may consider myself your servant just as much as I am hers, as this is my responsibility to her. I pray we can become more familiar and that if there is anything I may do for your highness, your highness shall not hesitate to call upon me in that service."
Queen Jelena is obviously very pleased when the expensive sable scarf is brought to her. Such beautiful things as this are rarely seen in Serbia especially after the troubles it has had of late. With a beaming smile, she listens to the rest of Ivan Mikhailovich's introduction and when he is done, she replies to him. "Ivan Mikhailovich thank you for your kind words and for the gift that you have brought to me. The famous furs of the north are always popular and in style in Serbia and no less after the civil war we have had. I accept you as liasion in this court and I do hope that relations between Russia and Serbia are prosperious and fruitful, for are we not the two most premier and strong Orthodox lands after the collapse of the Byzantine Empire?" The Queen then rises from her throne, and walks towards the Russian. She knew her guards would be angry with her later, but she knew in her heart now the Russian would cause no harm. She knew how assassinations worked now, having been party to several in her rise to the throne. Why would an employer waste large sums of money on gifts only to lose them later? Then she was before the Russian, her light blue eyes locked on his. This was irresistable to men, she knew, and her obvious appeal had a way of insuring even the most tight lipped man would spill what he knew and say what she wanted. For a moment, the two looked at each other, and she finally smiled. "Ivan Mikhailovich.... please tell me, is your Czarina a devout woman, interested in making Orthodoxy strong? After all if Russia and Serbia are to be friends with such distence between us, then we must share common interests.."
Smederevo, Blue Eyes
"I would believe...", began Mikhailovitch but his words trailed off as Yelena suddenly stood and approached him. Already somewhat unsettled from his comfort by her beaming smile, now he found himself having to struggle to maintain his diplomatic balance. She caught and held his eyes and he was powerless to resist her stare. He wished for a moment to look away as he suddenly felt much smaller in her presence, but did not dare do so. Finally, much to his relief she spoke, but it only aroused in him a more unsettling feeling...
After a moment, now he was hoping he was not being indecent, he bowed before her again and softly touched his lips to her hand, "Your majesty, you honour me. As for the Grand Princess, I can not speak for the inner holds of her soul, but I am sure she is as devout as any woman of her standing should be. She is known officially by the Patriarchate as 'The Blessed' your highness should know and as for her actions, she clearly favours helping the Orthodox world. It was funds from the Kremlin coffers that largely financed the great shift in our church from corrupted Moskva to the great city of Lord Novgorod. Not to mention, the...", Ostrov grinned a bit, "Allegations that she aided and funded Orthodox rebels against the Papists in Lithuania." Regaining his composure again, finding his voice, he met her eyes again though his cheeks only further darkened with their reddish hue.
Queen Jelena's blue eyes sparkle as the Russian is effected by her looks, and by how he graciously kissed her hand like a true noble. She was young, only nineteen and in her prime. The Russian was a little old to be flirting with but she had flirted with older and far uglier men in her rise to power. She had never slept with them but just the impression that she might was enough to make any man bend to her will. And again it had worked, the Russian had revealed more about the Czarina than he had probably intended. "Ivan Mikhailovich, I rest assured then that your Czarina is indeed a woman that Serbia can trust as a friend. Serbia is not as powerful as I wish it would be, but if half the things that you say are true then is still more than I previously aspired to." Queen Jelena spins around with grace, still very much a girl no matter how much she wishes overwise, and sits back on her throne. With a wave, she motions Ivan Mikhailovich to a chair very near the throne, an important seat of honor given to ambassadors who the Queen finds in favor. "Please, sit, Ivan Mikhailovich, I wish for you to tell me a story. You mentioned the Czarina funding Orthodox rebels in Lithuania against Papists, that is a story I would very much like to hear. There are, as you are probably aware lands near Serbia occupied by Papists with many of the faithful living in them.."
Princess Marija looked in shock as her sister recklessly flirted with the Russian. As the Queen sat back on her throne and then invited the Russian to sit in the place of honor, she watched uneasily as a cup of wine was brought to the Russian. Finally, after a few moments, Queen Jelena asked the Russian to tell a story about Lithuania. Standing before either could say another word, Princess Marija curtseyed to the Queen and to the Russian. "Your Majesty and Your Grace, before you begin with your story, may I tell a story of my own?" Surprised, Queen Jelena could only nod, and Princess Marija quickly launched into the story of:
The Artist, the Knight, and the Maid.
Not so long ago, In one of the more desolate isolated portion of Kosovo, there once lived three people. The first, the hero of my short, sad story, is a minor artist, schooled in the Italian style, literate in both the language of his homeland and of the educated Italians. The Artist, although very intelligent and educated far beyond that of most of his friends and countrymen, is a sad man indeed. The Artist is not a handsome man by any means, his face marked by pox when he was a young man, scarred by fire when he was a babe, and his arms, as supple and full of talent though his fingers are, are mottled and scarred by several deep wounds brought about by a duel. Our poor Artist, on top of this, is very poor (for who can read or appreciate art in Kosovo?), scraping by where he can, unable to travel to the Queen's court or to Italy, must exists only on the odd writing that his local lord requires, or perhaps by selling a small statuette, or even more rarely, an icon to a rather more wealthy peasant or a provincial Church. Our Artist has a friend, a landed knight, who had an ancestor that settled here shortly after the battle of Kosovo, considered wealthy beyond all measure, at least in the knight and the artist's circle of friends. Our Knight, a haughty, arrogant man, nevertheless is fond of our Artist, for the Artist's discourses on history and literature pleases him, and when times are especially rough for his friend, manages to slip him a small pittance, enough to buy bread on - "To strengthen the mind, one must weaken the body," the Knight would proclaim, at least beyond the earshot of the Artist. And, finally, and certainly not the least, was the Maid, the beloved girlfriend of the Knight. The Maid, a beautiful blonde, full of life and energy, was smitten by the handsome Knight, and their love for one another was untempered by the fact that he was Orthodox and she the daughter of a Catholic Bosnian lord. Undaunted, our Knight desired her as his wife so badly that he would consider anything to have her hand, including his own conversion.
One day, as the Knight and the Maid secretly met in a grove, the Maid began to pout and withdraw from the Knight. Concerned, he asked, "My love, my precious love, whatever could possibly be the matter? Please, tell me what troubles you, for I shall go to any length to right whatever wrongs you." The Maid smiled sweetly at the Knight, for she, full of a woman's wiles, knew exactly how to get what she wanted. Batting her eyelashes at her lover, she replied, "Oh, my love, my precious love, I was just thinking how beautiful books and poetry are. Why, my father, a charitable man, full of love for me, his only daughter, hired a tutor for both myself and my brother, and taught us both the art of letters. I just had a stray thought, my love, of how it would please me if there were a book written in my name, or at least a poem or two. But, oh, I fear it will never be done, for there isn't a man in all Kosovo who could write a book." The Knight was crestfallen at her words. He could read and write, but he hadn't the eloquence to write a book, much less a few simple poems. The Knight despaired for some minutes, and then brightened. "Oh, my love, my precious love, I, a humble man, cannot write a book worthy of your name. But, my beloved, I just happen to know a man, as eloquent as Cicero himself, educated in the Italian style, who is worthy of writing a book to celebrate your name. Since I cannot reach down and bring Cicero up from the lake of fire myself, then would it please you, my love, to reach across Kosovo and bring an Italian master from a tower of rock?" At this, the Maid smiled broadly, for she knew that the Knight would indeed find an educated man to write for him.
The very next day, the Knight paid a visit to the Artist, old friends for many years, but the Knight's demeanor had changed. The Knight, a proud man despite all his protests to the contrary, was now jealous of his friend for being eloquent and educated. As the Knight, who, under normal circumstances would graciously ask his commoner friend to write for him, and pay him a considerable advance beside, now demanded that the artist write a book for his beloved by Christmas, "So that she might finally find eternal favor with me," and rudely tossed but a single small silver coin on the artist's table. Saddened at his friend's transformation to a generous lord to a greedy tyrant, but even more saddened at the empty belly that the artist had, agreed to write for the Knight, and have the book done by Christ's Mass, besides. Satisfied, the Knight promised more money when the manuscript was complete, and walked out of the artist's hut, to enjoy the love that the Knight was blessed with, and the Artist was perhaps forever cursed to do without. Shrugging, the Artist, already thinking about the rich foods that he will have for Christ's Mass, put pen to paper, and began to write.
Furiously, the Artist slashed pen across paper, as a soldier slashes sword against armor. For days, the Artist poured heart and soul into the manuscript, writing a romance, in the French style, of the most incredible artistry and grace, that even Boccaccio and Dante themselves would be impressed by the poor Kosovar. The Artist, imagining that he was writing the book for his own love, and not for his friend's, finally fell in love with the woman he was writing to. Hoping that the Maid, whom he had never met, would understand the hidden allegory in his story that the Knight would not, the Artist hid his own hidden declaration of love within the Knight's open declaration of love. Finally, the last grains in his household now occupying not his pantry, but his stomach, the last stroke of the pen was finished, and the ink began to dry on the paper for the last time. The Artist, his task completed, then sent for the Knight to come immediately, for the manuscript was full, and his belly empty.
The Knight, cursing what he called the "slow progress of that damned fool writer," sat in the Artist's house and read the story. By God, this was the most amazing book he had ever read, probably the best ever to be written, and it was written for his lover! But, like a cloud obscuring the sun that broke through for a brief moment, his jealously quickly obscured the wonder that he had felt. It was written for his lover by someone who wasn't her lover, and he hated it. Storming back to the artist, the Knight called the book one of the most excretable scribblings he had ever read, a disgrace to the Italians who had taught the Artist, and a complete waste of ink, threw down several coins nearly without value on the floor, and stormed out to his castle, where, of course, he intended on giving the manuscript to his lover, just as he intended. The Artist, however, was stricken by his friend's behavior. The book's critique, he didn't care so much about, for he was used to his work being called sub-par by the intellectuals he had correspondence with. But the betrayal of the man he had thought his best friend was simply too much. Gathering the coins off the floor, the Artist discovered that the Knight had, by accident, thrown a piece of lace down as well, a small token from the Maid. Gathering the small portion of fabric, and quickly drowning it in tears, the Artist retired to his small, uncomfortable bed, and wept over the fabric of the Maid, a flood of bitter memories of a failed life going with the flood of hot, salty tears.
The Maid, just as expected, was struck by the story. She read page after page, unable to put the book down, even to eat or attend the most private functions of the body. Her sharp mind immediately was able to pick out the hidden allegories that the Artist had written into the story, and gasped at the concealed declaration of love. Swooning at the thought of the man of her dreams, whom she had never even met, having the boldness to write of his love to her in a book written for a man who had the power of life and death over him, she then endeavoured to find out just who the Knight had asked to write for her. The Knight, as soon as the Maid began to talk of nothing but the Artist, and where he was, soon turned as inconsolable as the Artist, and unknown to the Maid, crawled into his bed, where he wept over a portrait of the Maid, a flood of but a few unhappy memories of a life going with the flood of hot, salty tears.
A servant divulged the location of the Artist's hovel, and the Maid quickly set out for it, hidden in the mountains, just as the Knight had said. After a hard day's ride, she jumped off the saddle, untroubled by the fatigue of riding, and burst in the door, only to be greeted by the dead, lifeless, starved body of the Artist, clutching the lace in his hand. The Maid, the love of her life dead before she could even meet him, herself fell inconsolable. Crawling beside the body of the man she loved, she grabbed a rag beside the bed, and wept over it, a flood of unhappy thoughts of a life never to be going with the flood of hot, salty tears. And the undiscovered book, the greatest ever written, eventually crumbled to dust, along with the bodies of the Artist, the Knight, and the Maid.
The story finished, the entire court then looked to Princess Marija for the moral to the story. With another curtsey, the Princess then explained the meaning of the story. "Your Majesty, I may be bold in saying this, but the Maid is the Czarina of Russia, the Artist is poor Ivan Mikhailovich, and you, my beloved sister, are the Knight. Please, my sister, you could have so very much, if you only change your ambition. Instead of writing, you could farm to earn your coin, and farm well enough to eat enough food for ten men. But, you insist in plotting where it would not be wise, just as the Artist insists in writing where it would not be wise. Your plans would appear excellent to the Czarina, and she would grow to love them, so much so that it would ruin her, just like it ruined the Maid. Likewise, you would be ruined, and poor Ivan Mikhailovich also would find himself ruined, caught in the middle of two loves. But, perhaps I presume too much after all, your Majesty." With a final curtsey, Princess Marija walked to her room in silence, a shocked court staring after her. After several stunned moments, Queen Jelena coughed a bit, clearly unable as to what she should say and turns back to the Russian. "Erm.. your turn for a story then, Ivan Mikhailovich?"
The Artist, the Knight, and the Maid.
Not so long ago, In one of the more desolate isolated portion of Kosovo, there once lived three people. The first, the hero of my short, sad story, is a minor artist, schooled in the Italian style, literate in both the language of his homeland and of the educated Italians. The Artist, although very intelligent and educated far beyond that of most of his friends and countrymen, is a sad man indeed. The Artist is not a handsome man by any means, his face marked by pox when he was a young man, scarred by fire when he was a babe, and his arms, as supple and full of talent though his fingers are, are mottled and scarred by several deep wounds brought about by a duel. Our poor Artist, on top of this, is very poor (for who can read or appreciate art in Kosovo?), scraping by where he can, unable to travel to the Queen's court or to Italy, must exists only on the odd writing that his local lord requires, or perhaps by selling a small statuette, or even more rarely, an icon to a rather more wealthy peasant or a provincial Church. Our Artist has a friend, a landed knight, who had an ancestor that settled here shortly after the battle of Kosovo, considered wealthy beyond all measure, at least in the knight and the artist's circle of friends. Our Knight, a haughty, arrogant man, nevertheless is fond of our Artist, for the Artist's discourses on history and literature pleases him, and when times are especially rough for his friend, manages to slip him a small pittance, enough to buy bread on - "To strengthen the mind, one must weaken the body," the Knight would proclaim, at least beyond the earshot of the Artist. And, finally, and certainly not the least, was the Maid, the beloved girlfriend of the Knight. The Maid, a beautiful blonde, full of life and energy, was smitten by the handsome Knight, and their love for one another was untempered by the fact that he was Orthodox and she the daughter of a Catholic Bosnian lord. Undaunted, our Knight desired her as his wife so badly that he would consider anything to have her hand, including his own conversion.
One day, as the Knight and the Maid secretly met in a grove, the Maid began to pout and withdraw from the Knight. Concerned, he asked, "My love, my precious love, whatever could possibly be the matter? Please, tell me what troubles you, for I shall go to any length to right whatever wrongs you." The Maid smiled sweetly at the Knight, for she, full of a woman's wiles, knew exactly how to get what she wanted. Batting her eyelashes at her lover, she replied, "Oh, my love, my precious love, I was just thinking how beautiful books and poetry are. Why, my father, a charitable man, full of love for me, his only daughter, hired a tutor for both myself and my brother, and taught us both the art of letters. I just had a stray thought, my love, of how it would please me if there were a book written in my name, or at least a poem or two. But, oh, I fear it will never be done, for there isn't a man in all Kosovo who could write a book." The Knight was crestfallen at her words. He could read and write, but he hadn't the eloquence to write a book, much less a few simple poems. The Knight despaired for some minutes, and then brightened. "Oh, my love, my precious love, I, a humble man, cannot write a book worthy of your name. But, my beloved, I just happen to know a man, as eloquent as Cicero himself, educated in the Italian style, who is worthy of writing a book to celebrate your name. Since I cannot reach down and bring Cicero up from the lake of fire myself, then would it please you, my love, to reach across Kosovo and bring an Italian master from a tower of rock?" At this, the Maid smiled broadly, for she knew that the Knight would indeed find an educated man to write for him.
The very next day, the Knight paid a visit to the Artist, old friends for many years, but the Knight's demeanor had changed. The Knight, a proud man despite all his protests to the contrary, was now jealous of his friend for being eloquent and educated. As the Knight, who, under normal circumstances would graciously ask his commoner friend to write for him, and pay him a considerable advance beside, now demanded that the artist write a book for his beloved by Christmas, "So that she might finally find eternal favor with me," and rudely tossed but a single small silver coin on the artist's table. Saddened at his friend's transformation to a generous lord to a greedy tyrant, but even more saddened at the empty belly that the artist had, agreed to write for the Knight, and have the book done by Christ's Mass, besides. Satisfied, the Knight promised more money when the manuscript was complete, and walked out of the artist's hut, to enjoy the love that the Knight was blessed with, and the Artist was perhaps forever cursed to do without. Shrugging, the Artist, already thinking about the rich foods that he will have for Christ's Mass, put pen to paper, and began to write.
Furiously, the Artist slashed pen across paper, as a soldier slashes sword against armor. For days, the Artist poured heart and soul into the manuscript, writing a romance, in the French style, of the most incredible artistry and grace, that even Boccaccio and Dante themselves would be impressed by the poor Kosovar. The Artist, imagining that he was writing the book for his own love, and not for his friend's, finally fell in love with the woman he was writing to. Hoping that the Maid, whom he had never met, would understand the hidden allegory in his story that the Knight would not, the Artist hid his own hidden declaration of love within the Knight's open declaration of love. Finally, the last grains in his household now occupying not his pantry, but his stomach, the last stroke of the pen was finished, and the ink began to dry on the paper for the last time. The Artist, his task completed, then sent for the Knight to come immediately, for the manuscript was full, and his belly empty.
The Knight, cursing what he called the "slow progress of that damned fool writer," sat in the Artist's house and read the story. By God, this was the most amazing book he had ever read, probably the best ever to be written, and it was written for his lover! But, like a cloud obscuring the sun that broke through for a brief moment, his jealously quickly obscured the wonder that he had felt. It was written for his lover by someone who wasn't her lover, and he hated it. Storming back to the artist, the Knight called the book one of the most excretable scribblings he had ever read, a disgrace to the Italians who had taught the Artist, and a complete waste of ink, threw down several coins nearly without value on the floor, and stormed out to his castle, where, of course, he intended on giving the manuscript to his lover, just as he intended. The Artist, however, was stricken by his friend's behavior. The book's critique, he didn't care so much about, for he was used to his work being called sub-par by the intellectuals he had correspondence with. But the betrayal of the man he had thought his best friend was simply too much. Gathering the coins off the floor, the Artist discovered that the Knight had, by accident, thrown a piece of lace down as well, a small token from the Maid. Gathering the small portion of fabric, and quickly drowning it in tears, the Artist retired to his small, uncomfortable bed, and wept over the fabric of the Maid, a flood of bitter memories of a failed life going with the flood of hot, salty tears.
The Maid, just as expected, was struck by the story. She read page after page, unable to put the book down, even to eat or attend the most private functions of the body. Her sharp mind immediately was able to pick out the hidden allegories that the Artist had written into the story, and gasped at the concealed declaration of love. Swooning at the thought of the man of her dreams, whom she had never even met, having the boldness to write of his love to her in a book written for a man who had the power of life and death over him, she then endeavoured to find out just who the Knight had asked to write for her. The Knight, as soon as the Maid began to talk of nothing but the Artist, and where he was, soon turned as inconsolable as the Artist, and unknown to the Maid, crawled into his bed, where he wept over a portrait of the Maid, a flood of but a few unhappy memories of a life going with the flood of hot, salty tears.
A servant divulged the location of the Artist's hovel, and the Maid quickly set out for it, hidden in the mountains, just as the Knight had said. After a hard day's ride, she jumped off the saddle, untroubled by the fatigue of riding, and burst in the door, only to be greeted by the dead, lifeless, starved body of the Artist, clutching the lace in his hand. The Maid, the love of her life dead before she could even meet him, herself fell inconsolable. Crawling beside the body of the man she loved, she grabbed a rag beside the bed, and wept over it, a flood of unhappy thoughts of a life never to be going with the flood of hot, salty tears. And the undiscovered book, the greatest ever written, eventually crumbled to dust, along with the bodies of the Artist, the Knight, and the Maid.
The story finished, the entire court then looked to Princess Marija for the moral to the story. With another curtsey, the Princess then explained the meaning of the story. "Your Majesty, I may be bold in saying this, but the Maid is the Czarina of Russia, the Artist is poor Ivan Mikhailovich, and you, my beloved sister, are the Knight. Please, my sister, you could have so very much, if you only change your ambition. Instead of writing, you could farm to earn your coin, and farm well enough to eat enough food for ten men. But, you insist in plotting where it would not be wise, just as the Artist insists in writing where it would not be wise. Your plans would appear excellent to the Czarina, and she would grow to love them, so much so that it would ruin her, just like it ruined the Maid. Likewise, you would be ruined, and poor Ivan Mikhailovich also would find himself ruined, caught in the middle of two loves. But, perhaps I presume too much after all, your Majesty." With a final curtsey, Princess Marija walked to her room in silence, a shocked court staring after her. After several stunned moments, Queen Jelena coughed a bit, clearly unable as to what she should say and turns back to the Russian. "Erm.. your turn for a story then, Ivan Mikhailovich?"
Letters bearing the seal of the Patriarchate of Constantinople arrive at churches throughout Serbia…
His All Holiness Gennadius II, Archbishop of Constantinople, New Rome, and Ecumenical Patriarch, in the name of God, of the Apostles, and of all the saints, decrees:
That a synod of Christian holy men shall take place in Constantinople in the summer of 1454.
That all relevant bishops and priests of the realm of Serbia appear at the Hagia Sophia to discuss the future and current state of the one true faith.
His All Holiness Gennadius II, Archbishop of Constantinople, New Rome, and Ecumenical Patriarch, in the name of God, of the Apostles, and of all the saints, decrees:
That a synod of Christian holy men shall take place in Constantinople in the summer of 1454.
That all relevant bishops and priests of the realm of Serbia appear at the Hagia Sophia to discuss the future and current state of the one true faith.
Smederevo, Stories and Favours
Ostrov appreciated immediately that this young monarch was not simply fair to the eyes but was also of a capable mind. Indeed she was already beginning to remind him of Mina herself so many years ago. The aging diplomat, wooden crucifix hanging about his broad beast took the offered chair and turned to face the young Queen. It was then that the Queen's sister, Mariya began with her sudden tale. Mikhailovitch listened with genuine interest, all the while thinking to himself what the true purpose of this story could really be.
Her story ended, Mariya made her point clear before leaving. A curious expression on his face, his previous misery on his journey here now long since forgotten, Ivan turned his eyes upon Yelena again. Lost in thought, he was silent a moment but then upon her request, he pursed his lips a moment before beginning his own story, "The events your majesty speaks of are nearly a decade passed. The now Patriarch of the Russian Church, His All-Holiness Sergius Romanivitch was then Metropolitan of Kiev and the Lithuanians were embroiled in a great war with the Mongols after threatening our friends in Moldavia. Naturally, there were many in Pskov-Novgorod outraged with this imperial war of the Lithuanian King, for the Catholic Lithuanian minoirty that was being fought with Russian, with Orthodox blood. It was a senseless war - like so many in which much was lost, but neither side gained anything. The faithful of Lithuania needed a champion, to end their suffering and slaughter."
Pausing here, Ostrov shifted in his honoured chair and took a moment to study Yelena's face a moment before continuing, "Revolts, organized, equiped, funded erupted throughout Lithuania. The Lithuanian King, Vytatuas immediately suspected the Grand Princess as the prime source of resources with which the rebels were sacking his cities, disrupting his supplies and defeating his soldiers. Kiev itself had a miniature war fought in its streets between Lithuanian supporters and the Orthodox population looking for freedom from oppression. The freedom fighters won and immediately the Metropolitan, Romanivitch fled southward to Constantinople to garner more support for the movement. However in his absence the Lithuanians treacherously made peace with the Mongols whom they had so cried about as being holy enemies and set about systematically attacking their own upset populace. The revolution soon ended, the Duchy of Pommern intervened on the side of the Lithuanians and without further outside support, the exhausted Orthodox populace had no ability to conduct a full-scale war. However in the end they were able to secure certain freedoms and assurances from the King, all was not lost, not in Lithuania anyway…"
His throat getting dry, Ostrov stopped a moment to also make sure he still had the attention of his audience, "King Vytautas was still hungry for blood however, and now he used his suspicions as justification for a war against our people. The war was a terrible one, and lasted for nearly three years with frightful losses on both sides. The climax was the battle outside of Pskova itself in which both King Vytautas and his heir were slain on the battlefield before the gates of our beautiful city, yet in the end the war hardened Lithuanians far outnumbered us and Pskova had to be surrendered so that our army was not totally annihlated. The Grand Princess was captured and they were to bring her to Vilnius. Many valiant men fell that day, my only child, my son among them." His eyes obviously tearing, Mikhailovitch looked down, composing himself a moment before going on, "The Lithuanians could never solidify their position however, resistance was everywhere and many strong points such as the fortress of Izaborska never fell to their armies, it was not long before our lands were liberated from their control once more. Not to mention the heroic story of the rescue of the Grand Princess from her Lithuanian captors. Pskov-Novgorod recovered, flourished and prospered, Lithuania has still not recovered. Her throne sits vacant and the country is ruled by men of different power bases throughout, stability has still not changed - all for the bloodlust of one despot." Wiping his cheek with a thick finger, Ostrov looked over at the Queen, "I do not do the story justice your highness for I am neither a historian or a poet… "
Queen Jelena looks away sadly from Ivan Mikhailovich after he relates the story of the death of his only son. Certainly, she knew the pain of loss due to war, her grandfather and father having been murdered by usurpers. She could say nothing.. nothing out loud, anyway, but her eyes spoke a thousand volumes. As soon as he had finished his story, her blue eyes, still those of an innocent child, even for her age and experience, slowly shifted back to Ivan Mikhailovich, the blue of her eyes dimmed by clear tears. "Ivan Mikhailovich ... excuse me a moment," Queen Jelena dabs away the corners of her eyes, and resists the temptation that she felt to cry. "I am truly sorry about your son. I'm sure that.. he.. gave his life honorably, as a man should. My father.." Jelena goes silent for a moment, collects her thoughts, and continues, this time more composed. "My father also died honorably. Your story, though, Ivan Mikhailovich.. inspires me, and gives me hope. Your son and my father, both brave Christian men I am sure, both felled by schismatics loyal to the Patriarch of Rome.. but neither gave their lives in vain. Lithuania is weak, broken as you said by their foolish attack on Russia, and Venice is weak, broken by their foolish attack on Serbia. And now Russia and Serbia, because of their sacrifice and the sacrifices of a thousand other families are now able to stand against both Muslim and schismatic.." Realizing that she was rambling, Jelena turned her head away again. How foolish and weak of her, she thought. She can't even respond to a simple story without her emotions taking control over her. Was she even worthy to rule? Was her sister right.... would she ruin herself and Serbia? Standing up suddenly, she gulped, and looked at Ivan Mikhailovich. "Excuse me, please.. I have.. ah.. an attack of indigestion. Please.. make yourself comfortable.."
Queen Jelena fled to her bedroom. Empty. Not a man or a woman in it. Running to her bed, she collapsed on it, and buried her head in the pillow. Hot, salty tears began to soak the pillow.. like in the story her sister just told, she realized. Oh.. God.. what if it were true?
Finally, the tears, the troubled memories, the personal demons were all exhausted, along with her energy. The hours flew by like seconds. Finally, sunlight broke through the windows, and a new day dawned. Waking slowly, fitfully, still dressed in the clothes of last night, her maid was rapping on the door. "Milady? Milady?" The concerned voice greeted her. After the knocking and the pleading grew louder, Queen Jelena finally grunted, "Yes.. yes, I'm awake. I'm awake. I'm ali..-" ....Am I really alive?
Queen Jelena fled to her bedroom. Empty. Not a man or a woman in it. Running to her bed, she collapsed on it, and buried her head in the pillow. Hot, salty tears began to soak the pillow.. like in the story her sister just told, she realized. Oh.. God.. what if it were true?
Finally, the tears, the troubled memories, the personal demons were all exhausted, along with her energy. The hours flew by like seconds. Finally, sunlight broke through the windows, and a new day dawned. Waking slowly, fitfully, still dressed in the clothes of last night, her maid was rapping on the door. "Milady? Milady?" The concerned voice greeted her. After the knocking and the pleading grew louder, Queen Jelena finally grunted, "Yes.. yes, I'm awake. I'm awake. I'm ali..-" ....Am I really alive?
Smederevo, Court
To say that Mikhailovitch had thought his story would have such an effect, or much of an effect upon the Queen at all would be a falsity. Indeed as he wiped away his own tears, he found it difficult to control his emotion at the obvious effect it had had upon his audience. Torn between court protocol and human empathy he simply failed to act. He would have liked to have touched her hand, to speak in more personal tones, but he knew that such things could and would by some be seen by some in the highest offense.
So he simply listened to her in silence and in reverance for her display of emotion which he hoped was clear in his eyes was more than thankfully recieved. This young woman was reminding him more and more of Mina, not that he knew the Grand Princess well, maybe it would be better to say she reminded him more of the stylized accounts of the Grand Princess he had heard for so long in his distant post, from the Grand Princess' niece as well. Then suddenly Yelena stood, excused herself and Ostrov felt more lost than he had been since he had come here. She had gone, and only a few moments had passed, her voice, the words 'Make yourself comfortable' floating about his head. He looked at those about him for clues, maybe an advisor would tell him what his arrangements would be... Puzzled he stood and waited for directions or accomodation...
The rest of the court was as shocked as Ivan Mikhailovich at the Queen's behavior. Apparently, for all the time they'd spent with her as she ruled the Kingdom of Serbia, they'd failed to notice she was, at heart, still just a girl with human emotions, emotions she couldn't quite express often because of who she was. As the court stood dumbfounded, Ivan Mikhailovich began to look around, confused as to what he should do next. After a few more embarrassed moments, Marshal Nikolić, the man who had escorted Mikhailovich into the court, coughed, and took Mikhailovich aside. The interpreter who had translated all thus far went with them, and again translated for Nikolić. "Ah.. you will excuse her, your honor. Indigestion can strike at the worst times. Come, I'll have one of the servants show you to a villa we have arranged for you. We'll send a runner to you in the morning, after she feels better."
As the courtiers and Mikhailovich gradually depart, back to their own houses for the night, Marshal Nikolić sat in silence, and pondered the strange behavior of the Queen. Yes, she was still young, but he, for all the time spent in the service of her and her father, had never seen her lose her nerves like that. Well, I suppose it was inevitable, after the way the Venetians butchered her father.. involuntarily, Nikolić shuddered. He had seen the body after the Venetians were finished with it, and to this day, the bile rose in his stomach whenever he thought about it.. he could only imagine what it was like, for Jelena and Marija to look at the mangled body of their father. Again, Nikolić shuddered, because the stories of what had happened to their mother then came to his mind. Just as involuntarily as the shudder, the arm flew to the mouth, and another mouthfull of hard liquor burned his throat. He tried desperately to dissolve the memories from his mind, all the death, pain, torture he had seen. War was one thing. He had seen plenty of men die on the battlefield. But..
"My lords, a good morning to you," Queen Jelena nodded in greeting to the courtiers already filing into the court. She had awoken late, and already, whispers of last nights events were filtering through the elite of the Serbian nobility. Adding to the worry was Princess Marija. She hadn't showed up yet this morning either. Apparently, as the rumors had it, she was still languishing in bed, still undressed from sleep. But, that didn't matter now. Business had to be conducted. "Feeling better, your Majesty?" Patriarch Arsenius inquired. Still in Smederevo, at least for a few more days until he departed for Constantinople for the Synod called by the Patriarch there, he was of course worried about the health of the Queen. "Yes.. I think so. It must have.. ah, been those mushrooms served last night. I'm fine." The court couldn't help but noticing that her face was just a little paler than usual, her eyes still slightly puffy from the tears. She took no notice of it. What she did notice was the arrival of Ivan Mikhailovich, summoned by runner, as her faithful Marshal had promised, as soon as she awoke. "Ah, good morning, Ivan Mikhailovich! I do hope you've slept well, and have been fed by my servants. I ordered only the best for you." After just a moment, Queen Jelena continues. "Ivan Mikhailovich.. your story last night, as you probably guessed, affected me greatly. Since my dear sister and you have started a trend of stories, then perhaps you'd like to hear a story of mine?" The look on Queen Jelena's face announced this story would be no ordinary story, but instead, a story that would ask the question Jelena wanted to ask, or answer the question that Czarina Mina had about the Balkans..
As the courtiers and Mikhailovich gradually depart, back to their own houses for the night, Marshal Nikolić sat in silence, and pondered the strange behavior of the Queen. Yes, she was still young, but he, for all the time spent in the service of her and her father, had never seen her lose her nerves like that. Well, I suppose it was inevitable, after the way the Venetians butchered her father.. involuntarily, Nikolić shuddered. He had seen the body after the Venetians were finished with it, and to this day, the bile rose in his stomach whenever he thought about it.. he could only imagine what it was like, for Jelena and Marija to look at the mangled body of their father. Again, Nikolić shuddered, because the stories of what had happened to their mother then came to his mind. Just as involuntarily as the shudder, the arm flew to the mouth, and another mouthfull of hard liquor burned his throat. He tried desperately to dissolve the memories from his mind, all the death, pain, torture he had seen. War was one thing. He had seen plenty of men die on the battlefield. But..
"My lords, a good morning to you," Queen Jelena nodded in greeting to the courtiers already filing into the court. She had awoken late, and already, whispers of last nights events were filtering through the elite of the Serbian nobility. Adding to the worry was Princess Marija. She hadn't showed up yet this morning either. Apparently, as the rumors had it, she was still languishing in bed, still undressed from sleep. But, that didn't matter now. Business had to be conducted. "Feeling better, your Majesty?" Patriarch Arsenius inquired. Still in Smederevo, at least for a few more days until he departed for Constantinople for the Synod called by the Patriarch there, he was of course worried about the health of the Queen. "Yes.. I think so. It must have.. ah, been those mushrooms served last night. I'm fine." The court couldn't help but noticing that her face was just a little paler than usual, her eyes still slightly puffy from the tears. She took no notice of it. What she did notice was the arrival of Ivan Mikhailovich, summoned by runner, as her faithful Marshal had promised, as soon as she awoke. "Ah, good morning, Ivan Mikhailovich! I do hope you've slept well, and have been fed by my servants. I ordered only the best for you." After just a moment, Queen Jelena continues. "Ivan Mikhailovich.. your story last night, as you probably guessed, affected me greatly. Since my dear sister and you have started a trend of stories, then perhaps you'd like to hear a story of mine?" The look on Queen Jelena's face announced this story would be no ordinary story, but instead, a story that would ask the question Jelena wanted to ask, or answer the question that Czarina Mina had about the Balkans..
- Status