This was an interesting interlude. However, I should mention that as an alternate history enthusiast, seeing people from the real world in a setting that diverged from ours 1100 years ago just kind of bugs me.
Still a good post, however.
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The Lions of Olomouc: a CKIII Ironman AAR (Duchy of Moravia, 867)
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Still a good post, however.
Bohodar's trump cards will indeed become apparent in the coming sections of the chapter.
The oldest to the monastery certainly wasn't my idea. I honestly don't know how that happened.
That's a fair criticism, @jmberry. Honestly, I thought I'd already kind of broken this rule by mentioning the 'Brasilian sci-fi writer' Terry Gilliam back in one of my previous ones, but I'll bear this in mind and refrain from such blatant real-world references with my continuing present-day interludes.
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II.
11 February 1108 – 30 August 1110
The messenger did not dare to countermand or disobey a direct order from his lord and king, but the doubtful expression upon his face told Bohodar that he was wondering if the king had once and for all taken complete leave of his senses. Bohodar was wondering that himself.11 February 1108 – 30 August 1110
‘Go now,’ the king ordered him. ‘Tell Miłosz that his outrages perpetrated upon the Christians of the Polish lands have provoked the wrath of their traditional defenders, and that the God-sent Moravian wrath upon him for these will be swift and sure. We will force him to a defeat, or we will send him with his tail between his legs from Poznaň.’
Bohodar’s declaration of war was so worded that the heathen chieftain to the north could not fail to answer it, or else his honour would be impugned and his rule undermined. The hush that fell around the emergency council spoke for itself. Siloš, Prisnec and Sokol entertained a silent conversation of subtle gestures of displeasure. Had the king lost his mind? What was he thinking, declaring a war over Poznaň in the face of an uprising by over half of his most powerful vassals? The only one who did look pleased by this was Archbishop Ezana Sehul, who approved of any such mission to spread Orthodox Christianity, whether peacefully or by the sword.
Then, the king spoke to the knieža of Užhorod, Siloš Bijelahrvatskić. ‘Go now to Kroměříž. Summon the Brotherhood of the Holy Sepulchre to join us in this new war to protect the Christians of Poznaň.’
Understanding smoothed the furrow from the dwarfish knieža’s brow, and his beard spread as his consternation relaxed. ‘Understood, sire. My efforts shall not be fruitless.’
Indeed, the dawning comprehension utterly switched the moods of all those present in the room. It was all Prisnec and Sokol could do not to breathe audible sighs of relief, at the realisation that the king was not stark raving mad after all. Ezana, on the other hand, towered and fumed.
‘What does your Majesty mean by this?’ the Abyssinian bishop exploded. ‘The Brotherhood of the Holy Sepulchre is consecrated to God! The oath of the Brotherhood is to defend the places where Christ our God preached, was judged, met His Passion, was buried, and was Risen from the dead! These men are set apart to serve God’s purposes—not yours!’
‘So they are,’ Bohodar answered Ezana calmly. ‘And they shall be serving God’s purposes… in keeping the Moravian realm from falling apart.’
‘It is blasphemy,’ Ezana raged, ‘to leverage your status as patron and use the Brotherhood in such a base and self-serving way! The Grandmaster shall know of your manipulations.’
The Archbishop stormed out of the room. Bohodar shrugged. The Grandmaster had his lands at the pleasure and discretion of the King of Moravia—not the Church. Even if he knew of Bohodar’s strategy, or enough of it to be able to guess the rest, he would not go against the orders of his patron. Prisnec, on the other hand, regarded his father with a measure of respect and awe.
‘So the Poznaň war’s a ruse. Gives us a fig-leaf to bring the Brotherhood’s manpower against the rebels,’ Prisnec marvelled, stroking his beard.
‘I wouldn’t put it so bluntly myself,’ the king inclined his head, ‘but essentially correct.’
‘Questions of eternal fate aside,’ Prisnec went on dryly, ‘the Brotherhood on our side, plus the men of Thessaly, just about tares the balance of force. We’ll have about an even number of troops. Now we might stand a chance.’
‘That is the general idea.’
~~~
Even though the forces aligned against the Moravian Crown were about evenly divided between the west and the east—as many Bohemian lords had revolted against him as Nitran and Rusnak ones—Bohodar pursued a strategy of entirely ignoring the Bohemian-led advance from the northwest, and concentrating completely on the forces of Zvonimír and Jaromil in the southeast. The Brotherhood rode out in its entirely from Kroměříž, and joined the Moravian army in its march into the Nitra valley.
Again Prisnec pondered his father’s choice of strategy. The larger bulk of the nobles who had revolted were concentrated in the northeast: Milčané, Horné Sliezsko, Znojmo, Doudleby, Litoměřice and of course Boleslav. And then it struck him that the war against Poznaň served a dual purpose. Not only was it meant to bring the Brotherhood in on the King’s side, but also to keep the rebelling northwest busy with a heathen army upon their marches. The son regarded his father with a newfound sense of awe.
The army clashed twice with the rebels on their southward march: once at Břeclav, and once on a plain in the Váh valley, near Trenčín. The Mojmírovci under knieža Jaromil Mikulčický had mustered their forces admirably and moved them against the king, but the other part of their plan that they had been waiting for—the southward march of Vojvodkyňa Maria of Milčane – had been delayed because of a rearguard action against the heathen. As a result, the Moravians had easily triumphed in both engagements, and quickly captured Nitra from the Mojmírov dynast.
Once Nitra was in Bohodar’s hands, the march eastward was, for the most part, unimpeded. Of course Siloš Bijelahrvatskić had remained loyal, and had opened his lands and treasury to the provision of the Moravian army and the Brotherhood of the Holy Sepulchre. This also meant, however, that those same lands were a ripe target for the rebels. Zvonimír Pavelkov had, indeed, taken Berehovo and was now holding it against the Crown. As he moved to defend his prize, the knieža of Podkarpatská met the king in battle at Zemplín.
The field on the left bank of the Bodrog was dotted with marshlands and fishing ponds, making the battlefield a tricky one. Bohodar and Prisnec, surveying the site before them, understood grimly that this battle would be long, and that there were likely to be many casualties. However, a swarthy Greek messenger in full armour, with an iron-grey beard, arrived from downstream, riding a heavily-armoured horse that looked too big for him. He presented himself before Bohodar and politely addressed him:
‘His Lordship the Doux of Thessaly sends greeting to his old brother-in-arms Kráľ Bohodar, and moreover sends four thousand further troops to aid you in putting down this accursed rebellion, including myself. We stand ready and await your order.’
‘Very good,’ Bohodar nodded. ‘And your name, sir?’
‘Theodoulos,’ answered the greybeard. Bohodar could tell at once that this man was a seasoned veteran and a doughty fighter. Although light of build, woe betide the man who underestimated his taut, wiry frame!
‘Welcome, Theodoulos,’ answered Bohodar. ‘And what composition?’
‘I have brought here three stout cataphracts besides myself,’ Theodoulos answered. ‘As well as a company of menavlatoi who will advance on foot. This is in addition to the usual conscript force.’
Bohodar nodded his understanding and approval. ‘The menavlatoi will fight alongside our zbrojnošov. I am sure they will do so with distinction.’
Armour was, unfortunately, as much a literal burden in this marshy territory as a blessing. Although the protection it afforded from blade and shaft and arrowhead was not to be dismissed, it also increased the risk of drowning or smothering if even a minor wound caused a fall. Bohodar knew that mistakes on this field would be costly. Even so, he raised his hand and sounded the horn, as the combined Moravians, Brothers of the Holy Sepulchre and Thessalians advanced on the rebelling Carpatho-Rusins.
The Rusins had evidently put aside their differences with the Magyars, because now there were a significant number of the Hungarians facing them across the line of battle. The Thessalian cataphracts, keeping to the higher and drier ground so their horses wouldn’t founder, moved off to the right to engage the Magyar riders at close range, as the footmen slogged forward across the boggy turf.
The battle lasted throughout the day. As evening wore on, it came to be seen quite easily that Bohodar’s fears were realised. The sinking ground made fighting long and plighty between his forces and Pavelkov’s. Not only that, but men from Znojmo had arrived from the north earlier in the day, and reinforced the rebelling Rusin-Magyar lines.
It was getting well toward sundown when, on a hilltop rising beside the marshes to the east on the road to Svätuše, highlighted in the red of the reclining light over the river, an intense skirmish between two riders drew the attention of all watching. A huge Magyar was making pass after pass with his spear at one of the Greek kataphraktoi, and wheeling with his mount with expert precision. But the grey-bearded cataphract was quick with his shield. A sudden thrust—the Greeks all let up a groan as they saw Theodoulos’s spear quiver and shatter against the Magyar’s timber. There went up a shout from the Rusin side.
‘Pál! Pál! Pál! Pál!’
Theodoulos tossed aside the useless splinters of timber and drew his paramirion cavalry sabre, levelling it at the giant Magyar, who gave a grim smile through his thin black beard. Pál levelled his own spear and spurred his horse to a gallop. Theodoulos stood with his horse, his shield loose upon his arm. It appeared almost as though he expected to be run through. Then—
The pass happened, but there was no crunch of steel and wood into the cataphract’s armour. Instead, a long spurt of gore erupted from the side of the giant Magyar’s neck. Pál crumpled in his saddle and toppled into the grass on the hillside—clearly dead.
Theodoulos raised the paramirion, gleaming a sanguine red in the twilight with the Magyar’s blood dripping from its keen edge. Now it was the Greeks’ turn to shout with triumph, and the Magyars’ to groan with dismay.
The triumph of this Greek David over the Magyar Goliath had brought new heart to the Moravians and turned the tide of the battle. It was not long before Pavelkov’s rebels had to beat a hasty retreat eastward. Bohodar pursued, and quickly recaptured Berehovo for Siloš.
The momentum from these battles had shifted the action in this civil war entirely into the Great Moravian East. The Bohemians, Upper Silesians and Milcenians abandoned what sieges they had begun in the northwest and flocked southward in a belated attempt to help Nitra and Podkarpatská in their struggle against the Crown. Maria and Chvalimír had sent their troops southward to Trenčín to close in upon Bohodar’s rear and catch the Moravian army in a pincer.
‘Father, we should use this opportunity to choose our field of battle,’ Prisnec cautioned. ‘I suggest we retreat to Šariš and plan our next engagement… while we have time.’
‘Good thinking, Prisnec,’ Bohodar nodded thoughtfully.
Siloš opened Šariš’s gates to Bohodar’s armies gladly, and they entered the courtyard. Prisnec had no sooner dismounted than he heard a cry of joy and relief from the far end. He turned to see a tall, athletic, swart-skinned woman dressed in russet homespun swoop down upon him. Although she was taller than he was by about two inches, she buried her face in his neck and shoulder and leaned upon him, enveloping him with a passionate fathom and raining down kisses upon him.
‘Oh, Prisnec, my heart… every time you go out, I…’
Bohodar crossed his arms and regarded his son and daughter-in-law with a fond chuckle. ‘You’re a lucky one, chlapec. My wife never came out to meet me like this upon returning from campaign.’
‘Viera,’ Prisnec told her, ‘you should not have come. To be so close to the line of battle—to travel all this way—’
‘Is worth it,’ Viera interrupted him. ‘To see you. To hold you. To know you’re safe, at least for one more day. Oh, my sweet, brilliant, beautiful husband…’
Prisnec made no further argument, but laid a hand on his wife’s beck, and steered her inside toward the guest chambers, where they might enjoy some privacy for the remainder of her visit. Bohodar shook his head and chuckled again when they’d gone out of sight.
‘Ah, to be young again…’
‘Milord,’ Siloš called to him. ‘Come with me. I have information which you need to see.’
The kráľ went in with his new kancelár, and Siloš unfurled a map of his lands for Bohodar to see. He pointed to a region far to the south, south of both Abov and Zemplín. He pointed to a small village on the Magyar march.
‘The Nitrans are planning to attack us from here,’ Siloš told the king. ‘Petrínsko-Pavulínska. Milčané and Doudleby are moving southward to the west of us.’
‘Should we wait until they join up?’ asked Bohodar. ‘Or try to head Maria and Chvalimír off and risk falling into a pincer?’
‘It wouldn’t be much of a pincer,’ Siloš remarked with a grim smile, pointing to a river on the map. ‘Petrínsko-Pavulínska is… you see here… situated on a bend on the left bank of the Tisa: it’s a natural fortification point, even if it is somewhat exposed on the south side. If we get to Jaromil first, we’ll have the river on our side, and the men coming down from the northwest will have to ford it to get to us.’
‘It’s risky,’ Bohodar sighed. He was never one for precipitous action. ‘We’d need to double-time it to keep well enough ahead of the Czechs and Sorbs… but it can be done.’
~~~
Prisnec didn’t exactly appreciate being dragged away from Viera, who had been particularly effusive in her affections with him during their brief time in Šariš. But he knew his duty, and he knew the ultimate aim was for her… as well as for their growing brood: Karolína, Radomír, Spitihnev, and their new Faroese fosterling Alswit Wulfgifusdohtor.
The army marched at speed into the Tisa valley, and came to where the Mojmírovci were laying siege to Petrínsko-Pavulínska on the Magyar march. Theodoulos took the lead position beneath the red-bordered banner of Thessaly. Once in position, the Greek cataphract used the superior manpower of the Moravian army to surround the besiegers and systematically trounce them. He wisely left three avenues of escape—one to the northwest and two to the southwest, all of which the Nitrans and Rusins took. Watching from the right bank of the Tisa, Maria’s forces and Chvalimír’s drew away to the northeast, choosing not to engage the Moravians.
‘Now I think it may be time for us to close the fist,’ Bohodar declared. ‘I’ll take the Moravians and the Brothers of the Holy Sepulchre northeast. Theodoulos—you lead the men of Thessaly around to the southeast. Let’s see if we can’t try and outmanoeuvre the rebels this way.’
That plan worked brilliantly. The Brotherhood of the Holy Sepulchre caught up to Hrabě Chvalimír at Vranov nad Topľou, and delivered them a round thrashing, forcing the men of Doudleby to a total surrender. They took captive Budivoj, one of Chvalimír’s most trusted retainers. In the south, the men of Thessaly delivered a similar defeat to Maria Rychnovská-Žičká’s Sorbs.
The bludgeoning that the men of Moravia and Thessaly delivered to the rebels should have been an end of the fighting. The war was practically over at that point: Nitra had been taken, and the Bohemians, Milcenians and Silesians had all been put to rout. However, that November, Prisnec brought some unwelcome news back to the Moravian camp.
‘Father,’ Prisnec grimaced. ‘Ill tidings. The Červeny have reneged. Their new knedz, Pavel Daniilovich, pledged support to the rebels—and seven thousand men.’
Bohodar leaned his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands. ‘Seven thousand… Well, there goes our advantage of numbers. With our manpower as exhausted as it is, even with Thessaly and the Brotherhood on our side, we’ll be hard put to overcome the Červeny as well as all of my rebelling vassals.’
‘We need a parley.’
Thankfully, it seemed most of the rebels weren’t as keen as Zvonimír was on continuing the war. After the Brothers delivered yet another blow to the Bohemians at Gemer, they made an ouverture to the Moravian king, offering to surrender themselves in return for clemency. After the Bohemians had quit the field, even the normally-undaunted Zvonimír had to admit that, despite the assistance of his new Červen allies, he would not be able to continue the war.
The Moravian Army returned to Olomouc, towing eight vassals in manacles into the fonsels—Zvonimír Pavelkov at the head of the line, and Heník Abovský at the tail end. The rebellion was crushed.
‘Now all that remains,’ Prisnec remarked dryly, ‘is to deal with Miłosz in Poznaň. A simple matter, no?’
Prisnec had spoken, perhaps, a bit too soon. Viera appeared before him again, her face flush with triumph and pleasure, as she held up for him a newborn baby boy—the fruit of their meeting at Šariš. She had named him Miloboj—fitting indeed, for he had been conceived in love in the midst of war.
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III.
30 August 1110 – 25 March 1111
30 August 1110 – 25 March 1111
‘Bohodar…’
Queen Alitz’s voice was, even in normal times, remarkably soft. But now it was barely above a whisper, and her husband would not have heard it at all had his study not been already in absolute silence.
‘Yes, my dear. What is it?’
‘It’s—it’s about Tomáš…’
Alitz was fidgeting nervously—trembling, even, wringing her hands—and wouldn’t meet his eyes. Normally this wouldn’t have bothered Bohodar, as she was usually quite ill-at-ease around strangers. Just listening to her dutiful attempt to announce the tourney they’d had upon their return had been painful enough—Bohodar had stood up and stepped in to relieve her on that occasion. But surely her own husband was no stranger to her! What on earth had her so agitated with him, and about Tomáš?
‘Yes, Alitz?’ asked Bohodar gently.
‘Tomáš, he… he… well, you see, Tomáš is really…’
Bohodar considered. What was it that had his wife this close to tears in front of him? Had she felt she’d failed their son in some way? Whatever it was, he could tell she was distraught. The king cast his mind back in an effort to help her—to put her more at ease.
‘Is this about… the last feast we had?’ asked Bohodar.
Alitz bit her lip. He could tell her mind was working at a gallop as she considered. It was just long enough to cause Bohodar a bit of vague dread it might be something worse, but then she inclined her head ever so slightly. Bohodar breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Pay it no mind, dear. Tomáš may not be very good around people, but this may well pass. You shouldn’t blame yourself—I’ll take it on myself to make sure he talks to more different kinds of folk. All right?’
Alitz’s eyes were still swimming and her mouth was still quivering, but she gave another brief nod of the head. She stepped a little further into the room. Bohodar went over to his wife and hugged her to him, trying his best to comfort her. She looked at least a little assuaged when she left, though it looked like Tomáš was still weighing heavily on her mind. Bohodar swore to himself to be more active in his youngest son’s education from now on.
Bohodar was still thinking of his wife when he went down to the fonsels, to take care of another bit of business. He descended the staircase and went to the row of barred cells in the castle cellar, until he came to those which at the moment held seven of his rebellious vassals. (Chvalimír of Doudleby had, unfortunately, broken out and returned to his lands.) He stopped at the very end, where Zvonimír Pavelkov and Heník Abovský were held.
Pavelkov glared at the king. But the king turned away from him and instructed the guard:
‘Release him.’
The ‘him’, in this instance, was Heník. The guard turned the key in the lock to Heník’s cell, and let the pudgy, elderly hrabě walk free.
‘Ah. Much obliged, my liege.’
‘I honour my promises.’
At that, Zvonimír leapt to his feet, his face flushed with rage. He looked from Heník, to the king, and then back. He took in a breath through his flaring nose.
‘You bastard. You conniving, double-crossing little rat—! I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you!’ Zvonimír roared. ‘How long have you been on his side?’
Heník stepped up to Zvonimír’s cell and looked him in the eye. With that reptilian smile of his, he answered the rebellious Rusin knieža:
‘I’ve always been on the king’s side, since the very beginning. You were always too big for your boots, Pavelkov. Someone needed to take you down a notch. And who better than a fellow-conspirator?’
‘I should have known! You and your Bohemians, always arriving just a little too late to help! Always delayed on the march, or across a river from us! And you’d been feeding him our location…!’
‘Well,’ Heník allowed with a tilt of his head, ‘not directly, not all the time. Sometimes I’d arrange to get that information to Siloš Bijelahrvatskić. Oh… and bringing in the Brotherhood on the King’s side? That was my idea as well. The King’s too decent a fellow to come up with that on his own, you know.’
Zvonimír’s teeth ground, and his white-knuckled hands gripped the bars of his cell as though imagining them around Heník’s neck, and he barked out: ‘I’ll get even with you for this! Traitor! Traitor!!’
Heník chuckled. ‘Clearly, it takes one to know one.’
And, with Zvonimír’s bile and threats still echoing off the fonsel walls behind him, Heník walked out of the castle cellars a free man. Bohodar walked with him, side-by-side.
‘Ahh,’ Heník sighed as he squinted into the sunlight. ‘It’s good to breathe fresh air again. And it will be better still to be back in Boleslav. All this cloak-and-dagger business is exhausting for an old man like me.’
‘You played your part expertly, Heník,’ Bohodar told him appreciatively. ‘My father trusted you, and I’m glad to see I was right to do the same. But my question is—why? Zvonimír gave you the opportunity to undo all the laws that have been so irksome to you and to your fellow Bohemians. And having brought them all around to Zvonimír’s side, together with the Červens, I wouldn’t have stood a chance! Why did you choose me over him after all?’
Heník chuckled again. ‘It’s true—I’d like as much as the next Bohemian to breathe easier under a lighter yoke. That’s a desire many of your vassals share—nothing against you, my liege. But Zvonimír and those like him don’t see the big picture.’
‘The big picture?’ asked Bohodar.
‘Bohemia is in a precarious position,’ Heník placed his hands behind his back. ‘I want our Czech language and ancient traditions to survive. And it’s true, the king’s law isn’t always our best friend there… but the bigger threat comes from border lords like Pavelkov. Lords who want to expand the marches to the southeast. If the Pavelkovci and the Mojmírovci get their way, Bohemia will be all the sooner subsumed into Moravia, of necessity. In addition… on a personal level, there was your father to consider. I had promised him before his death to support you in your rule.’
‘Which you did… even when rebelling against me.’
‘Especially when rebelling against you.’
~~~
The loose end of Poznaň was more easily dealt with than Bohodar had expected. The Grandmaster of the Brotherhood was all too happy to commit his forces to the task he had, on paper, been called up to perform. He rounded at once upon the Silesian March, and attacked the men of Wałcz at their siege camp around Lehnice.
The Brothers of the Holy Sepulchre drove Miłosz’s men with relish before them, and forced them to beat a retreat back northward. Once Lehnice was again free to breathe, the Brothers quickly rode northward to Poznaň and lay siege to the fastness there. They were clearly intent upon punishing the heathen and wresting that land away from their clutches.
Bohodar, however, had other plans.
Now that the rebellion had been dealt with and Zvonimír, Jaromil and the other conspirators (with the exceptions of the released double-agent Heník and the escaped Chvalimír) were safely behind bars, the Moravian king was eager to demobilise. He began a series of parleys with envoys from Wałcz. Ultimately, they came to an agreement that would allow Miłosz to retain suzerainty over Poznaň and its environs, but which extracted certain concessions for a fairer treatment of Christians in that town. This was largely a face-saving measure for Kráľ Bohodar, though the Christians of Poznaň were indeed grateful for it.
A truce between Bohodar and Miłosz was agreed upon by the end of March, 6619. No territory changed hands, and Wałcz and Moravia returned largely to their uneasy status quo ante.
The other loose end was dealing with Zvonimír’s Hungarian possessions. Although it won him no favour whatsoever with his easternmost vassal, Bohodar nonetheless revoked the vassalship agreements between Zvonimír and several of his retainers, particularly the Árpád-Zaránd brothers, Mojmír and Vratislav—and then released them from all of their obligations to the Moravian crown. Half of Moravia’s Hungarian territories were thus made independent, and Bohodar had little doubt that, if the two brothers were wise, they would swear fealty again to the Hungarian king.
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I was a little worried going into this war, and especially when the rebels allied with the Cherven Cities. Thankfully the strategy of attacking the southeast and declaring war on the Poles to my north at the same time (so's I could bring in a holy order) worked out.
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Did you voluntarily decrease your realm size by freeing Hungarians? Thanks for updating.
Yes: I fully confess to being one of those clean-borders OCD types! Thanks for commenting and continuing to read.
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Book Four Chapter Two
TWO
Blind Doctor, Pilgrim Spy
29 March 1111 – 25 September 1111
Blind Doctor, Pilgrim Spy
29 March 1111 – 25 September 1111
Even though the idea had not originated with him, Bohodar 2. still felt intensely guilty about his self-interested use of the Brothers of the Holy Sepulchre. The first thing this led him to do was to release all of the unlanded prisoners he had captured during the course of the civil war. Upon her release, he had even offered the hand of his cousin and šafár, Sokol, to one of his Rusin lady-prisoners, Efimia Ladimirskaya, who had been in attendance at the Pavelkov court.
Once these prisoners had been released, Bohodar returned to his study, unfurled his map of the Holy Land, and began drawing up the preparations needed for a journey along the Jerusalem Way. Archbishop Ezana, when Bohodar had approached him on the topic, had told him in no uncertain terms that his abuse of the Brotherhood of the Holy Sepulchre called for nothing less on his part than a penitential pilgrimage. The destination that the king chose was… ‘Anṭâkiya. It seemed fitting for the second king Bohodar to follow in the footsteps of his ancestor and namesake. It helped that he was familiar with the town, as well, from the war his father had fought there.
As Bohodar prepared to take his leave, he noticed to his worriment that Alitz was still very much ill-at-ease with him, as though she was expecting him to lash out at her, or grow fangs and claws and savage her. She said her farewells as quickly and as quietly as she could manage. Her baffled husband wondered if it was something he had said or something he had done that had frightened or repulsed her. But the time grew nigh, and he departed from Olomouc together with a long caravan of pilgrims.
Bohodar 2. started out his journey through Hungary, Wallachia and the Eastern Roman Empire peaceably enough. But he wasn’t long on the road before he began to doubt his resolve. All the time before his father had passed, his passage to the throne had been secure. Things were ordered in the universe. However, the revolt had caused him to have some doubts—the sorts of doubts which were amplified when he was alone, travelling incognito, staying up late in his wayhouse rooms and staring at the ceiling from atop a bedding of straw.
Why was he here?
And not just here—on pilgrimage from Olomouc to ‘Anṭâkiya. What grounds did he have for being king at all? His grandfather, despite his singular fault, had kept the peace with his vassals. And his father, although his hospitable and cheery exterior might fool others, had been a shrewd and careful ruler, who knew when to deploy the velvet and when to deploy the iron. Where did Bohodar fit in? And how would he rule?
Bohodar slept fitfully in the wayhouse alongside his fellow-pilgrims, and set out the next morning on the road between Ravno and Niš. He hadn’t gone too far before he saw, making camp on the other side of the clearing they were in, one side of a familiar white-haired head, atop a broad set of shoulders, a bulky torso and a clubfoot, pinning down one corner of his teld. He was still at something of a distance would have recognised that particular profile anywhere.
‘Heník Abovský!’ Bohodar cried out.
True enough, it was the hrabě of Boleslav.
‘My liege,’ Heník answered simply.
‘What in God’s name are you doing here?’ asked Bohodar, grinning.
‘The same thing that you’re doing here, O Kráľ,’ Heník answered calmly, smiling that disconcerting smile of his. ‘I… may have spared Moravia an irksome rebel. But in so doing I suggested to you the very course of action which led you to sin against the Church. I proved a… stumbling-block… to the child of the king whom I served and loved so dearly. And you know what our Lord said about stumbling-blocks.’
‘Our road takes us fairly close to the Middle Sea.’
‘And there are, I’m sure, a number of suitable millstones,’ Heník’s brows raised themselves appreciatively. ‘However, as a matter of preference, I am still hoping that there is another route that doesn’t involve me being cast in with one about my neck.’
Bohodar clapped a hand on Heník’s shoulder. ‘I’d say you’re headed in the right direction, then.’
Heník gave his head a queer little shake. ‘I would like to hope so. At the very least, this way I can keep an eye on my liege during his travels through unfriendly lands.’
‘Well. Whatever the reason, I appreciate having you here.’
‘That is a kindness I fear I do not deserve,’ Heník spoke. ‘But I am grateful for it, all the same.’
For the rest of the journey to ‘Anṭâkiya through the Eastern Roman Empire, Heník Abovský and his liege were inseparable. Bohodar found that he had much to discuss with this vassal of his. Heník may have a disconcerting manner, Bohodar found himself thinking, bit it is indeed rare for a vassal of his talents to be so conscientious a servant of both father and son. Speaking of which, Bohodar had a number of questions about his father Tomáš that he found himself asking his vassal… and Heník obliged him with all manner of tales about the… behind-the-scenes workings at his father’s parties. Bohodar having attended most of them, many of these goings-on he had never been aware of, and he found he had a new appreciation for the way his father had kept the realm together behind the scenes. Evidently all of the feasting and drinking and merriment had served more than one of his father’s purposes.
They passed through the City and made their way across the southern side of Anatolia, arriving eventually at the gleaming city on the Orontes. ‘Anṭâkiya was every bit as Bohodar remembered it, although he had been viewing it from the other side of the wall at first: sun-drenched, balmy and dusty, though along the banks of the Orontes the shade grew thick, lush and tall. Heník walked together with Bohodar along the riverbank, and the two of them discussed the recent rebellion.
‘Playing the double-agent was still a risky move on your part,’ Bohodar mused. ‘How did you know I would end up trusting you and taking your advice?’
‘Call it a vassal’s instinct,’ Heník replied. ‘You don’t get to be my age, and hold lands in the shadow of the Moravian kráľ for as long as I have, without developing a keen knack for observing character, and taking calculated risks as a result. It’s as I told Pavelkov: you’re a decent man. I don’t think it would have occurred to you otherwise to make a feint on Poznaň so you could call in the Brotherhood.’
‘Whereas you have no such scruples?’ asked Bohodar lightly.
‘If I had no such scruples, I wouldn’t be here beside you now, on the Orontes,’ Heník answered him placidly. ‘I’m as God-fearing, I hope, as the next man. It’s simply that one learns to be… flexible. Ask forgiveness rather than permission.’
‘And here we are,’ Bohodar remarked, picking up a flat stone off the bank and flinging it sidewise with his wrist into the river. Eight skips.
‘Indeed. Not bad, sire.’
Bohodar and Heník crossed the bridge to the isle of the Orontes and visited the wrack of the Golden Dome where the Patriarchs of Antioch had preached, and joined in the procession around the isle with prayers to each of the blessed Fathers of the Church. The two of them then also visited the Cave Church of Saint Peter, and the outlying hermitages of the saints of the Syrian Desert.
While in the desert, they met heading from south to north a long procession of robed men bearing icons and chanting Psalms. Some of them were wearing armour, along with the ΦΤ ‘guardians of the Tomb’ digram of the Brothers of the Holy Sepulchre.
‘Greetings, pilgrims!’ one of the Brothers hailed them, not recognising the face of the patron of his own order beneath the turban he wore against the desert sun. ‘Joy and peace unto you both! Surely you have heard the happy news?’
‘Which happy news is this?’ asked Heník.
‘The Emperor once again has sway over the Holy City itself. Jerusalem is back in Christian hands! You wayfarers in the Lord need no longer fear banditry or the depredations of the Saracen.’
Bohodar and Heník raised disbelieving eyebrows toward each other. Reading this, the militant monastic assured them:
‘Doux Alexios, who was given charge as stratēgos over the holy places, met the Basileios himself at the entrance to the Lord’s Holy Tomb, and together there they gave reverence to Christ our God who rose there from the dead! The way from Jaffa inland to Jerusalem is clear and safe for all those who in faith and love draw near!’
‘This is truly wondrous news!’ exclaimed Bohodar. ‘But then, why have you come this far north into Syria? What errand do the Brothers of the Sepulchre have in these parts, which already lie safely in the Emperor’s keeping?’
‘We travel,’ said the Brother, ‘to the coast, and from there to the right-believing city of Pinsk. The righteous widow Barynya Irina Žmudskaya of that city is beset by heathen. Although the woman prays day and night for deliverance, the war does not fare well for her defenders. We ride to her aid.’
Bohodar nodded. ‘Pinsk is indeed not blessed with the best neighbours.’
‘Thanks be to God that we were finally released from the service of the Moravian king,’ the Brother spoke unknowing to the object of his speech. ‘It seems he had brought us in only to quell some internal conflict, and not in any righteous cause. But now our hands are free, to defend the weak and the pious as is truly our calling.’
Said Moravian king simply smiled thoughtfully and told him: ‘May God speed you, then. Fight well and fight with honour, as I know you do. And let the Barynya know that my wretched prayers, sinner that I am, are with her in her present plight.’
The knight bowed. ‘I shall indeed. May I ask who it is that prays for her?’
‘Bohodar.’
The look on the knight’s face went from shock to mirth within the space of seconds. ‘That I shall, O Kráľ, that I shall! And please forgive me, Patron, for having spoken so loosely before you, and of you.’
‘Not at all,’ Bohodar answered him. ‘It is nothing I don’t deserve.’
‘God keep you, King,’ said the knight. ‘I hold nothing against you myself, and His forgiveness is sure, and in overabundance.’
And so the Knights continued along in their procession, while Bohodar and Heník prepared to make their journey home from ‘Anṭâkiya. King and vassal returned to Olomouc, where the two of them found a great towering hulk of a man hunched over his seat at the table in the feasting-hall. The two of them approached the man, who stood. He was at least eight feet in height, and easily dwarfed the king—who himself had never been a particularly tall man to begin with.
‘Speak, man,’ Bohodar spoke to him, unfazed by his height. ‘What is your business?’
The giant turned where he stood and looked down. No—that wasn’t right. He didn’t look. The pupils and irises of his eyes were a milky white. The giant was blind.
‘I had heard,’ the giant rumbled, ‘that you might be in need of a physic. A physic I happen to be, and a fine one at that: finer, certainly, than that Italian hussy Lucrezia who came here ahead of me. I am here at the request of my kinsman to offer my services. My name is Spitihnev. Spitihnev Rychnovský.’
Bohodar looked the eyeless ettin in front of him up and down. His boastful manner of address aside, the man didf appear to be in his right wits, and despite the massiveness of his frame and of his limbs, his hands were clean, fair and well-kept, and appeared to be surprisingly deft. Bohodar could well believe that he knew his business as a leech. And, to tell truth, Bohodar did need a leech, and this man was kin.
‘We’ll give you a chance,’ the Kráľ told Spitihnev Rychnovský. ‘Welcome home.’
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Blind, Giant Physician who is kin; what can go wrong? Thank you for updating
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Heník truly has a knack for being involved in just about every activity. The man will leave a real void in the kingdom.
Looking forward to the giant physician's work. One thing's for certain though - he won't be a skirt chaser for the Rychnovský type! (accidentally matching that in an affair notwithstanding the statement)
Looking forward to the giant physician's work. One thing's for certain though - he won't be a skirt chaser for the Rychnovský type! (accidentally matching that in an affair notwithstanding the statement)
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At least he’s not a Frank
Heh. Well, as it turns out, a lot can go wrong. At least Winfrida knew what she was doing!
True this, true this. Definitely a different mould of doctor.
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Book Four Chapter Three
THREE
Proofs of Infidelity
11 April 1115 – 14 July 1116
Proofs of Infidelity
11 April 1115 – 14 July 1116
‘Off! Get off! Leave him be!’
The slender nine-year-old Anglo-Faroese girl lowered her head like a bull and dashed straight for the knot of older boys who were busy beating and kicking a younger one between them. Alswit Wulfgifusdohtor flung herself headlong into the scrum, making full use of her sharp bony elbows and knuckles, as well as her knees and feet and teeth to tear into the crowd of bullies.
‘Ow! Severanka bitch! Fight fair!’
‘You first,’ Alswit growled as she sank her teeth harder into the boy’s arm. ‘Five on one! Cowards!’
The knot of older boys loosened, and then frayed, leaving Alswit with an iron taste in her mouth, face red and shoulders heaving, standing with her skirts over the object of her defence: Radomír Prisneček. Radomír got up beside the younger girl and dusted himself off. He already had a black eye and was bleeding from a shallow cut on his neck—surely there would be more bruises to follow. He was a little shamefaced to have had to rely on a girl to get out of that scrape… even as formidable a redheaded berserker as Alswit was.
‘You alright, Rado?’ asked Alswit, spitting out a bit of the blood that her teeth had drawn.
‘Yeah, fine,’ Radomír lied.
‘We’ll get you one of these days, prekliate meno,’ the wounded older boy snarled, nursing his bleeding arm. ‘You won’t be able to hide behind your foster-sister’s skirts forever.’
‘Next time I won’t need to,’ Radomír replied sullenly.
After the five of them had cleared off, Radomír turned to Alswit and grumbled: ‘Look, I really didn’t need your help. I can handle Samo and his gang; you didn’t need to interfere!’
‘Well, that’s gratitude for you,’ Alswit pursed her lips and put her balled fists on her hips. ‘Maybe I should have let ‘em crack a few ribs for you, then?’
Radomír rolled his eyes. Alswit could be a pest, but it was true that if she hadn’t happened along he’d have gotten whipped a lot worse. ‘Oh, fine. Alright. Thanks, Alswit.’
‘Don’t mention it. You’re mine, Radomír,’ Alswit told him, jutting out a confident chin, ‘whether you know it yet or not. I’m not about to let my future groom get bloodied up if I can help it. I’m always going to stick up for you.’
Alswit—his wife? Now there was a scary thought. True, it wasn’t unheard-of for fosterlings to be betrothed to each other, but this was the first Radomír had heard of the news. Still, even though she was a girl, she had saved him from a worse thrashing from Samo. That was something, anyway. Maybe Alswit wasn’t such a pest after all.
‘I hear there’ll be a feast soon,’ Alswit mentioned. ‘Even Zvonimír Pavelkov’s been invited.’
‘Grandfather’s got to try to mend bridges,’ Radomír answered her sensibly. ‘And Pavelkov did pay handsomely for his release… grinding his teeth all the while.’
‘Right,’ Alswit muttered darkly. ‘But if it were up to me, I wouldn’t trust Pavelkov again so soon. He’s up to something.’
~~~
‘Where is that daughter of ours?’ asked Bohodar. ‘We’re almost ready to receive the guests.’
‘I… I don’t know, milord…’ Alitz Mihajlian whispered.
Queen Alitz looked more and more miserable by the day, and it wasn’t just the strain of appearing at the feast. The poor woman had gotten noticeably thinner, and she couldn’t even look him in the eye anymore. Bohodar still didn’t know what to make of it, still ached for her, and still wished he could do something to alleviate her suffering. But he still had no inkling of the source of her pain.
‘It’s not your fault, dear,’ Bohodar assured his wife gently. ‘Alžbeta Maria’s been late getting up every morning since she’s come back from Cerniw. Sometimes I wish I knew what went on in her head…’
‘I’m—I’m sorry, milord… forgive me, I…’
Alitz covered her mouth and fled the room, leaving her bewildered husband behind. Bohodar stood there for a few moments before he went to the feasting hall to see to the preparations. Food and wine were laid out in the accustomed excess, and everything otherwise seemed to be in order. Bohodar’s son-in-law Meriasek mab Ricat would be arriving soon, as would the other guests. Naturally Heník Abovský was there. Prisnec and Viera arrived as well, with their little ones in tow: Karolína, Radomír, the fosterling Alswit Wulfgifusdohtor, Spitihnev, Brother Miloboj, and their youngest, baby Jaroslav. They were followed by Vojvodkyňa Ladina Rychnovská-Nisa (of which branch of the family she was the foundress).
‘Where is Pavelkov?’ Bohodar muttered to Prisnec. ‘He’s been staying here this past month; he must be in the castle somewhere. Help me find him, would you?’
Prisnec nodded obediently. Indeed, not only he, but also his children, joined in the search. And ultimately, unfortunately, it was Spitihnev who found him in the cellars.
‘I found Pavelkov!’ Spitihnev crowed. ‘He’s together with auntie Alžbeta! And they’re kissing naked!’
Bohodar heard it. Prisnec heard it. And worst of all, Meriasek mab Ricat, Alžbeta Maria’s Cornish husband, heard it. The Kráľ beheld the blanching of his face, the darkening of his Celtic brows and the storm of righteous rage that began to loom there. Alžbeta Maria hurried out of the cellar in a barely-decent fashion, and once she appeared, her husband grabbed her by the wrist and hauled her away. The feast that Bohodar had planned was ruined by the knowledge of his daughter’s infidelity, which had been so viciously uncovered by that little Ham of his son’s getting, Spitihnev. Meriasek had his fists clenched throughout the whole week he was there. Bohodar couldn’t rightly blame him.
But what disconcerted Bohodar the most was the smirk that Zvonimír Pavelkov had given him as he’d emerged from the cellar, refastening his belt with a vicious cinch. There was no mistaking it. This seduction—and deliberate exposure—of his daughter was his revenge for having thwarted his plans for further conquest southward.
Alitz stuck the feast out with an effort that Bohodar knew and appreciated. But as the guests all left, Meriasek barely said a single civil word in parting, and he had Alžbeta Maria hauled out to her carriage not as a wife, but as a prisoner. Not four months later, in September, the worst news reached Bohodar from Cerniw. His adulterous daughter, for her crimes against her husband, had been drowned in the Loe. Zvonimír’s revenge against him had come at the ultimate cost.
~~~
‘Why’d you have to do that?’ Prisnec had scolded his middle son. ‘Shout out your aunt Alžbeta’s shame to the whole world? Now it’s cost her her life.’
‘It’s her own fault,’ Spitihnev answered sullenly. ‘She should have taken better care not to get caught.’
Prisnec gave his son a baleful look, but did not know otherwise how to answer.
Radomír also had difficulty forgiving his younger brother. Frustrated with the shortcomings of his family, and upset that Alswit had been proven right about Zvonimír, he had thrown himself into his studies and paid attention to nothing else. He found he was most intrigued by mechanical contrivances—wheels, pulleys, levers and gears. He wanted to delve into the way things ticked, and became particularly interested in how to construct a horologe.
The king’s youngest son Tomáš, on the other hand, took another approach to cheering his father. He somehow prevailed upon the Kráľ to take him to the Hradisko Monastery northeast of Olomouc to go sledding for the whole day, one day in early January. This did take the king’s mind off of things… at least, for a while.
Tomáš was, after all, turning out to be quite the fine young man, despite having his mother’s rather withdrawn nature. Having taken eagerly to his tutelage under his father and elder brother, Tomáš had mastered the Taktikon, the Strategikon and the works of Syrianus Magister, and was easily equal to his father in terms of organisation and command. Naturally, the Brotherhood of the Holy Sepulchre were interested in taking him on as an oblate. However…
‘Milord Kráľ,’ Jaromil Mikulčický took Bohodar aside as he left the council chambers.
‘Yes, Jaromil?’
‘There is… one item I thought best not to mention in front of the others, for your ears alone.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘It concerns your lady wife, milord. Queen Alitz. And also the younger Tomáš.’
‘Well?’
Jaromil hesitated, but then he found his voice. ‘Well, milord… do you remember when Tomáš was born, and he was of a rather… runty shape? We all assumed that it must have been because he was born premature. But I have some information here,’ Jaromil handed a tightly-bound scroll of parchments to Bohodar, ‘that would indicate that Tomáš was not born prematurely at all.’
‘Do you know what you’re saying?’
‘Unfortunately, milord, I know it all too well. When Tomáš would have been conceived, Queen Alitz was staying as a guest at the manor of Hrabě Svetozár, in Sabolč. If the information is correct, there is no way that Tomáš can be your natural-born son.’
The raw wave of angry denial and perturbation that washed over Bohodar threatened to overwhelm him. Was this how Meriasek had felt toward Bohodar’s unfaithful daughter? Was this the same rage that had ended her life? Bohodar grabbed Jaromil by the front of his cotte and dragged him close.
‘And if this information is incorrect, Mikulčický…’
‘I know that it will mean my head,’ Jaromil replied calmly. ‘I would not bring it to you if I were not sure.’
‘We shall see. You are dismissed.’ Bohodar bodily flung Jaromil away from him—who bowed with as much dignity as he could muster, and left the king to his rage and to his pain.
How could it be? Alitz? His Alitz? In some other man’s bed?
When Bohodar unfurled the documents that Jaromil had given him, he did not want to believe it—any of it. And yet, here it all was. The midwife who had attended Alitz had never detected any irregularities in her pregnancy that might signal a premature birth, and had affixed her oath to that effect. The same with Alitz’s maids. And then the one which truly tore at Bohodar’s guts—a discreet inquiry among some of Svetozár’s Magyar servants, two of whom swore they saw the Hrabě approach the queen’s chambers at night, and gain admittance on one occasion.
‘It… can’t be true…’
Bohodar felt sick—sick at stomach and sick at heart. After so many of his vassals had betrayed him openly, that was what he had come to expect. But this—! A betrayal, in secret, by a woman whom he had never treated with anything but honour and kindness! And the truth hidden from him for so long!
It was several days before Bohodar approached Alitz. Again she flinched as he appeared before her.
‘Alitz…’ Bohodar began. His voice was merely a rasp.
Upon seeing his grave countenance and hearing his unwontedly harsh voice, Alitz flushed from her neck to the roots of her hair. She balled one fist and brought it to her mouth, biting down upon it hard. Now it was clear to Bohodar that it was not fear of him, but shame, which had been eating at her for years. Tears began to well in her eyes and she lost control over her breathing as she braced herself for what she knew must come.
‘Is it true? Is Tomáš the hrabě of Sabolč’s son by blood?’
Alitz quivered, tears spilling freely now. With a look of utter misery and self-loathing, she nodded.
‘… Why?’
Alitz’s answer, when it came, was so soft that he could barely hear it.
‘He… he was… pestering me. Insistent. He wore me down: appealed to my pity, to my sense of gratitude…’
‘And… what? You just gave in to him?’
Alitz flung herself on the floor in front of him, sobbing wretchedly. ‘Bohodar—! I’m sorry—! I know that nothing I can say now can make it right! I can’t tell you how much I hate myself. I’ve soiled myself! I’ve shamed you! Yes, Tomáš is his son—! And—I tried, I tried—so many times, I tried—to tell you myself—but as well as being unfaithful, I’m a coward. I could never find the courage to face you—!’
The raw anger and rage and affront in Bohodar gave way to something else as he saw his wife bawling abjectly at his feet. Calling to mind the several times Alitz had tried to talk to him before, he now understood the precipice she had been preparing to leap from, but could never bring herself to do it. And he wondered whether, if he had lain with another woman, would he be so eager to bring that knowledge to his wife?
And he began to pity Alitz. But there was one more thing he had to ask.
‘Does Tomáš know?’
‘No…’ Alitz gasped. ‘He doesn’t know. I never told him. I have no—no right to ask this of you, but… don’t tell him. Please. I beg you.’
Bohodar said nothing. He wasn’t sure himself what to do, or what could be done. It still hurt him deeply that his wife had, even if only once, favoured Svetozár over him, and forgot the vows she had sworn to him. And it hurt him still more that he had to find out about it from, of all men, Jaromil Mikulčický. In the end, without either pardon or blame, without either words of comfort or words of recrimination, he left his wife to lie weeping on the floor.
In the coming weeks, Bohodar began more and more to feel exhausted—drained. Even the things which had given him joy now seemed vain and hollow, and even thinking of the business of running a kingdom seemed to overwhelm him. Even if it was not just the knowledge that Tomáš was not his trueborn son, nor the burning, gnawing thoughts of Alitz and Svetozár, nor the fact that Alitz had hidden the truth from him all this time, nor the death of his daughter from the same weakness as her mother… his life had grown dull, and seemingly drained of all meaning.
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What happens when the names match the deeds? - Æthelswith happens.
Moreover, you once said;
No, you were far too modest in that self-assessment.
This will with high probability end up as another embarrassment for self, second time after the own scandal about lion rampant or; but
Is the first incorrect meant to be correct in that sentence?
[*] And who knows, Bir de kimbilir,
the one you love may stop loving you. sevdiğin kadın seni sevmez olur.
Don't say it's no big thing: Ufak iş deme:
feels as the greenest branch snapping, yemyeşil bir dal kırılmış gibi gelir,
to the one inside. içerdeki adama.
[*] Some Advice to Those Who Will Serve Time in Prison - Hapiste Yatacak Olana Bazı Öğütler, by Nazım Hikmet Ran (May 1949). Unofficial translation.
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[Apologies for the consecutive double-post]
Probably will not be available to login in the next couple of days, hence the early celebration for the first anniversary:
[*]
[*] Map of Moravia by Abraham Ortelius, from Theatrum Orbis Terrarum (~1608), based on the map by Pavel Fabricius (1573); retrieved from Folger Shakespeare Library LUNA Digital Image Collection; also detailed in Maps of Czech Lands in the Period 1518–1720 from the Map Collection of Charles University in Prague, M. Čábelka, M. Potuckova, T. Bayer, 2010
Probably will not be available to login in the next couple of days, hence the early celebration for the first anniversary:
[*] Map of Moravia by Abraham Ortelius, from Theatrum Orbis Terrarum (~1608), based on the map by Pavel Fabricius (1573); retrieved from Folger Shakespeare Library LUNA Digital Image Collection; also detailed in Maps of Czech Lands in the Period 1518–1720 from the Map Collection of Charles University in Prague, M. Čábelka, M. Potuckova, T. Bayer, 2010
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Even kings have personal problems. A mother's sins sends her son to an holy order. What will you bring us next? Thank you
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Book Four Chapter Four
Thank you, @filcat, for the TLoC anniversary wishes, and also for your corrections! (You were very much correct in your reading, and I have gone back and corrected the error.)
Alswit is indeed a formidable one! And yes, for Bohodar it does seem that the greenest bough has snapped.
Thanks for commenting! Yes, bored daughter-in-law syndrome is an unfortunate aspect of CK3's gameplay--unless the betrothal you make for your heir is with a highly compatible spouse. (And sometimes even then.)
FOUR
Turkish Delight
20 February 1117 – 29 May 1121
Bohodar brooded. He was not one normally given to brooding, but as his mood darkened, so too did his will. Alžbeta Maria having been led astray by Zvonimír Pavelkov, then ruthlessly exposed to shame and mockery by her unrepentant nephew Spitihnev, and finally being drowned as an adulteress by her husband Meriasek in a fit of jealous rage, had rankled the king in more ways than one. And finally learning of Alitz’s infidelity and his own cuckoldry from a Mojmírov… it was far more than he could take.
He briefly considered avenging himself upon Meriasek mab Ricat, but every plan he concocted in that direction proved to be far-fetched, costly and unfeasible. Cerniw was a far-off place, and there were no reliable agents to be found among the Cornish willing to assist in assuaging the rage of a grieving father.
Likewise, he had explored possible avenues for destroying or humiliating Pavelkov. It would be impossible for him to have Pavelkov killed… once he was out of Bohodar’s grasp in Olomouc, he was too well-protected. The local Carpatho-Russians were far more loyal to Pavelkov than to his overlord. The only other avenue he could think of was to give Zvonimír a taste of his own medicine by seducing his wife Verchoslava—who by now was thoroughly disgusted with her faithless, philandering husband and thus… ripe for the picking. Two things stopped Bohodar from pursuing this course of action. Firstly: Verchoslava was family—a Rychnovská by blood and Bohodar’s own niece. Secondly: however badly Alitz had wronged him, and however wantonly she had betrayed his trust and befouled their bed, he would not bring himself to stoop to her level. No more would he touch her… either to caress her or to inflict suffering upon her.
However… Spitihnev, the heartless and ungrateful little wretch, was well within reach, unprotected, and alienated even from his own close family. Naturally, Prisnec would never be party to any plot to kill his own son, and God forbid he should ever catch wind of it. But there were plenty of others in court who would gleefully join in such a plan.
Bohodar was reviewing his notes and his contacts in this scheme. Even now, he was aware of how this plan would place a shadow over his family and endanger his very soul, and he understood perfectly well that murdering his grandson would bring him no peace—but he found he couldn’t even bring himself to care about that now. His pain at the wrongs he had suffered had darkened and festered there.
Hearing a heavy pair of footsteps in the hall outside his study, the Kráľ folded up the paper, slid it into an artfully-designed hidden compartment in the drawer of his desk, and hid it out of sight there. He rearranged his desk so as to appear to be poring over a map of Hungary when his grandson Radomír entered.
‘Dedo,’ Radomír approached the king.
‘Yes, Rado?’ Bohodar’s voice was listless—as it had been for two years now.
Radomír considered carefully. He didn’t want to make what he had to say sound artificial… like he was trying too hard to cheer his grandfather up. But at the same time, that was his entire purpose here. It seemed like the life had gone out of his grandfather’s eyes ever since Uncle Tomáš had gone off to the Brothers of the Holy Sepulchre.
‘I just wanted to let you know… I appreciate everything you’ve done for me these past years. You truly do have my growth in Christ and my salvation at heart. And I know Father feels the same way I do.’
Bohodar turned and gave his grandson a thin smile. Radomír too was well on his way to becoming quite the fine young man, even if his interests were more civil in orientation than Tomáš’s. Some nobles might think little Rado’s knack for designing projects in earth, clay, glass, metal and wood to be unbecoming of his high birth, but Bohodar had done his best to encourage them. Talents were no good buried.
Bohodar laid a hand on his grandson’s shoulder. ‘You’ll do well, Rado. You’ll do well.’
‘Thanks to you, dedo.’
The Kráľ still felt like he’d let the whole of his family down. There had been unfaithful husbands in the Rychnovský line before, but never an unfaithful wife before his. He should have been encouraged by Radomír’s words of support to him—and what was worse, he knew he should have been encouraged. But he found himself helpless to take any heart from that encouragement. He changed the subject.
‘What do you think of Alswit, Radomír?’
Radomír’s eyes lit up at the mention of his foster-sister. ‘I like her a great deal, dedo. Alswit’s always had my back. I know the family’s plans for the two of us, and I have no objections.’
‘I do rather wonder what sort of person her mother was,’ Bohodar mused. ‘Prisnec’s told me she was English, and a slave. But she must have been a warm-hearted and modest woman. Alswit’s grown up into quite the upstanding young lady.’
‘She has indeed,’ Radomír agreed with a nod.
‘Then, if you have no objection, Rado—I’ll arrange the two of you. I’m sure that her remaining kinfolk in the Faroes won’t mind too much, but I’ll ask their blessing just in case.’
‘There’s no rush, grandfather,’ Radomír approached Bohodar gratefully and kissed him on the forehead before departing. ‘The two of us aren’t going anywhere.’
Once Radomír had gone, Bohodar sighed, retrieved the document from its secret compartment inside the drawer of his desk, and studied it again. The plan was sound, and all of the actors were in place. The visiting Turkish merchant in town who sold lokum from his seasonal stand had been contacted through a third party, and the appropriate purchase had been made during a local fair, for which the resourceful Efimia Ladomirskaya had managed to cover the funds.
In addition, a local apteka had been contacted, and she had provided him with a certain fine crystalline distillation of foxglove without taste or odor. Bohodar examined the packet she had sent. The fine, deadly white powder could be added to the confectioner’s sugar coating the lokum without anyone being the wiser. Bohodar would have the packet sent to the appropriate person in the kitchens. Bohodar knew that no plan was entirely foolproof, but this one was as close as any king might reasonably get.
~~~
‘Make it—make it stop spinning—’ the king’s grandson Spitihnev Rychnovský gasped as he doubled over and heaved a dry retch. Miloboj, who was watching helplessly as his brother’s eyes dilated practically to pure black, ran screaming from the room.
‘Uncle! Uncle! Come quick! There’s something wrong with Spiko!’
The older Spitihnev—the blind giant of a doctor, that is—fumbled over to where Miloboj was hollering from, and then went with him led by the hand to where Spiko lay.
‘Make it… stop…’
The younger Spitihnev said nothing more as the older Spitihnev began handling him, feeling for breath and for a pulse. At last, the blind physic asked Miloboj to bring him some holy water, the Psalter and some burned pulses. The physic read the Psalms over the lad, sprinkled him with the holy water and tried to shove the pulses down his throat, but nothing was to any avail. Spiko’s heartbeat became arrhythmic, and then ceased altogether.
‘What happened, boy?’ asked the leech.
‘N—nothing,’ Miloboj sobbed. ‘He was just… eating those Turkish candies…’
‘Fetch a dog,’ the leech ordered Miloboj. ‘At once.’
A stray dog was brought, and the doctor Spitihnev force-fed one of the lokum to the animal. At once the animal began retching and foaming at the mouth. Not fifteen minutes later it was every bit as dead as Miloboj’s brother was.
‘Poison,’ Spitihnev the doctor spoke grimly. ‘Fetch the Turkish confectioner here at once.’
The merchant who had sold the lokum was brought in, but he was unable to make any answer as to how this particular shipment of his was poisoned. All of his other wares were tested the same way that Spiko’s had been on the dog; none of them were found to be poisonous, and no evidence of any poison was found on him. Then all of the servants who handled the purchased lokum were questioned—but none of them had an answer as to how the poison got there. A trial by ordeal was placed before the merchant, but the Turk was able to withstand the pain of the boiling water upon his hands without flinching even as he maintained his innocence. In the end, the magistrate of Olomouc had no choice but to set him at liberty.
That Spitihnev Prisneček had been poisoned there was no doubt at all. But how the poison had been administered, or who had administered it, remained completely unsolved. Even so, the prevailing custom among the Rychnovských ever afterward, was to serve only unsugared fruits and sweets to guests and visiting family.
~~~
The sudden, mysterious and ominous death of Spitihnev Prisneček Rychnovský cast a dark pall over Prisnec’s and Viera’s family. But months went by, and then years, with no forrader made on the investigation into his death. Radomír and Alswit were married upon Alswit’s coming-of-age, and upon receiving the blessing from Alswit’s half-brother Erik. Radomír and Alswit turned out to be a comfortable and cosy young couple, already being fast friends and well on their way toward being much more than that.
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Radomir cuts an impressive figure (stat-wise, I am unfamiliar with traits). The murder seems to be a mythic story explaining the non-usage of sugar in fruits and candies. Where is Radomir in the succession line? Thank you
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