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The Lions of Olomouc: a CKIII Ironman AAR (Duchy of Moravia, 867)
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Chapter Thirty
THIRTY
Dying Wish
22 January 910 – 30 March 910
Dying Wish
22 January 910 – 30 March 910
‘He’s beautiful,’ Bohodar said as he took the little boy in his arms.
‘Mm,’ Winfrida made a doubtful noise. ‘There’s no physical deformity in him that I can see. He’s quite healthy for a newborn, as well as being keen and observant. However, you should be warned that some of the illnesses that accompany close-kin pairings can manifest themselves later in life.’
‘He shall be christened Pravoslav,’ Bohodar spoke certainly, cradling his grandson and great-grandson close to him and tickling his nose. The baby made a pleased gurgle: the few strands of hair that emerged from his still-unformed scalp were dark sable – he would have his mother’s colouring. And yet there was also something of Boško’s fair Saxon complexion in his skin.
‘His mother won’t take kindly to that,’ Winfrida remarked tartly. ‘She wanted to name him “Bohodar”.’
‘Well,’ Bohodar said, ‘I am the head of the house, and I won’t have him named for me, or for Boško. May he be a credit to the True Faith!’
Winfrida’s eyes darted to the side. ‘If you’re going to take him up to meet his great-grandmother, it had better be soon. The boy needs to eat. Blažena may have the natural gifts for it, but I still cannot understand why she sees fit to do that unseemly servant-work herself.’
Bohodar was too elated with the prodigious scion of the Rychnovských resting in his arms to be put out by Winfrida’s bad temper. He dismissed her and took Pravoslav up to Mechthild’s rooms to meet her.
Bohodar stepped into the room. The cool white light reflecting from the January snow outside notwithstanding, there was a warm brazier with hot coals beside Mechthild’s bed, and the room smelled of smoke and of the various dried herbs that hung around the chamber to keep the air fresh. Mechthild looked over to him as he entered, and favoured him with a tired smile. Her legs had given out completely, and the confinement she had dreaded had come to her sooner than expected. She met it, not happily, but with resignation.
‘Oh…!’ she breathed as she saw the bundle of swaddling that Bohodar was carrying, and the smile quickened to warmth as she received it from him. The infant boy made no fuss about being passed around, but met every adult who beamed down at him with the same amiable curiosity. ‘He’s an angel! You’re sure you want to name him Pravoslav? Ask me: I think Michal or Gabriel would be better.’
‘Nope. Pravoslav it is.’
‘Very well, milord. It isn’t every woman who is so favoured with the chance to hold her own great-grandchild in her arms,’ Mechthild beamed. ‘It is something to be thankful for.’
There was something in her voice, a final resignation that sent a shiver through her husband.
‘Mechthild, don’t—’
‘Bohodar,’ Mechthild stopped him, ‘it’s fine. A mare’s legs are her life, and once those give way, she’s not much longer for this world. God has been kind to me: sixty-seven is a good age for a life, and I’m glad I could spend it with you, êwagatu.’ She reached over a hand and stroked her husband’s cheek with it, trying to impart whatever she could of the peace she found to him.
Nothing made Bohodar feel old the way that did. He caught her hand and held it firmly, as if doing so could give her the strength to stand again, to live a year, even a month longer.
‘Do you remember that poem you sent me, when we were first married?’
‘All too well,’ Bohodar admitted. ‘The grammar was horrible.’
Mechthild chuckled. ‘I’m from Stuttgart, not Paris. I can forgive a misplaced verb and a misspelling or two. But you did bring me a true smile, my wildflower. Many more than one. And you did let me drink my fill of you, my own fresh spring. And how many of those who live past ninety can say the same?’
Pravoslav began to make chuffing sounds. Soon it would be time to take him back down to his mother.
‘Bohodar,’ Mechthild told him, laying her hand on his arm. ‘Promise me: when I die, let me be buried together with you—in the same grave. In the life of the world to come, whatever my final doom may be, I want the first thing I see upon awakening to be your face.’
‘Don’t talk like that, Mechthild, please,’ Bohodar begged her. ‘But as for my promise—you have it and always have had it.’
Mechthild handed Pravoslav back to Bohodar, and let her hand linger on his arm as long as possible before letting him go back downstairs to Blažena’s maternal sequester. Bohodar, holding within his hands the newest sprout and the dearest hope of his family line, nevertheless lingered upon the thoughts of his wife’s mortality, and his own. Lighting his candle tonight before his iconostasis, he would spend longer in prayer for her sake.
‘It won’t happen, I’m telling you,’ Bohodar could hear a voice through the door.
‘But what if it does?’ came Blažena’s in response. ‘I didn’t for one moment believe that old man’s ramblings at first, but after one daughter born with a deformed foot, and another with a deformed spine, I can’t help but worry…’
‘There is nothing wrong with our son,’ Boško answered her. ‘You heard Winfrida – there are no visible deformities upon him.’
‘But Leopold said that his chest would be affected, and that he would have to fight for every breath,’ Blažena murmured.
‘He also called me king, which as you said was nigh upon treason. Could you see ever Father betraying Bratromila? Or me?’
There was a pause, but Bohodar could easily imagine a fondly-sceptical smirk from Blažena and a subtle shake of her head. ‘Boško. I might doubt the whole world, but you, my dearest—never.’
Bohodar chose that lull in the serious conversation to enter the room with Pravoslav in arm. He wasn’t yet so hungry as to be crying, but the lordling in miniature was already hiccoughing with a slight degree of irritation at the delay. Bohodar handed him back to Blažena, who took him gratefully.
‘How is mamka?’ she asked with concern.
Bohodar shook his head and sighed. ‘Well, she’s comfortable, and she didn’t seem to be in pain. But she’s convinced she will need to call for Father Radoslav soon.’
‘God forefend,’ Boško crossed himself.
Bohodar shook his head. ‘You two take care of your brood – leave the worrying over mamka to me. Pravoslav is healthy and happy, and that is what matters.’
Blažena raised one thin, straight black eyebrow at her father and then exchanged a look with Boško across the room, as if to say ‘can you believe it?’, but she made no other objection. Bohodar left the two of them alone together to continue their discussion, turning a deaf ear.
~~~
Despite his and Světoslava’s very best efforts at taking care of her with various soups and herbal remedies, Mechthild dwindled and slipped away from him before his eyes, until the black day came the following month when she no longer breathed. Father Radoslav had already come and said his prayers over her, and gave her the Gifts one final time, but to the end Bohodar kept hoping against hope that she would recover. He did not leave her graveside for a full week afterwards, and he ordered that it be dug double wide for when his own day came to enter it. When he finally did stand and move from there, he threw himself into a project for clearing new grazelands for cattle and sheep.
~~~
In Velehrad, around the same time, Bratromila found herself truly alone.
Mstislav Pohanský had died earlier that year as well. Her husband, ensconced in his Italian villa, exchanged correspondence with her as seldom as possible, only when he had to. Her vassals reviled her. Even her own children kept their distance from her, which was particularly heartbreaking. And the servants of the Velehrad enclosure might obey her orders, but what fellowship could she possibly have with them? They were closed books to her. Practically the only one who had come to visit anymore was Bohodar Rychnovský, and even he had grown increasingly distant of late.
In this unnatural silence and seclusion, Bratromila brooded.
In the absence of any written record other than accounts of the event itself, historians struggled to piece together the exact reasons why she took the action that she did. Did she hold it against her dead father for having foisted an impossible burden upon her from infancy? Did she come to resent menfolk in general for belittling her from youth? Was she angry at the world, at God? And why, of all people, did she single Bohodar out – the one who had been closest to her and who had stood at her side even in the midst of her disgrace?
Later psychoanalysts would point out that it was completely understandable that she would make Bohodar the target of her ire. He was a man, and could therefore be made the target of her general frustrations with men. Specifically, as an older man and as a representative of the ‘old guard’ in general, he stood in readily for a dead father she could no longer avenge herself upon. And, more to the point, being close to her, it was all the easier for her to hurt him where it could hurt most.
‘Bystrík!’ Bratromila shouted. ‘Bystrík!’
The elderly, silver-haired knight Bystrík Břeclavský came before her: the one she called when she needed something done that was not entirely aboveboard. As with all menfolk who came before her, his face was carefully guarded and impassive. It was infuriating to behold, and drove her resolve forward for what had to be done now.
‘Yes, my Queen?’
‘Assemble a detail,’ she told him, handing him a handwritten, sealed missive. ‘Have them meet outside the episcopal cemetery here. Have them bring spades. And have them follow the enclosed instructions to the letter.’
‘At once, my Queen.’
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As a new life enters the world, an old one departs. May Mechthild rest in peace.
...or not? I didn't think Bratromila would dig her grave quite that literally, but it seems she really did.
...or not? I didn't think Bratromila would dig her grave quite that literally, but it seems she really did.
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Chapter Thirty-One
@alscon - It's not her own grave she's digging. Well, maybe in a figurative sense, it is. But...
‘Say that to me once more. Slowly.’
The emissary gulped and quailed.
‘F—for his having shown treasonable cowardice, for having forsaken his comrades in battle, for his having caused the Battle of Glogówek to be lost and, subsequently, the Silesian lands to the Crown, and for his having defied the will of God and betrayed his Queen, by official decree, Radomír Rychnovský’s remains have b—been exhumed from the episcopal cemetery and buried without ceremony at an unmarked roadside. A—also: his name will be stricken henceforth from all commemorations for the honoured dead, in damnatio memoriæ.’
‘Treasonable cowardice?’ Bohodar spoke softly, but it was clear that he was at considerable pains to hide his anger and hurt. ‘And was her Majesty at the Battle of Glogówek? Did she see him fall herself?’
‘I—I am not at liberty to discuss the matter, s—sire. I am only delivering a m—message.’
Bohodar considered for one long, hard moment, and then waved his hand. The emissary wasted no time, but made a hurried bow and fled the hall. Bohodar ran a hand over his face.
At first, when he had not heard Radomír’s name spoken aloud in the moleben in Velehrad this past August, the absence had grated on his ear, but he had thought it merely an oversight. Now he understood it as having been calculated. Bratromila had, for whatever reason, decided to strike at him where it hurt the most – by having his Radko, his only son, exhumed from his grave, damned to all memory, and buried shamefully by night in a ditch on the side of the road, like the worst of all felons.
It took Bohodar a long time to come to grips with the depth of Bratromila’s calculated, and public, slight of his son. It wasn’t aimed solely at Radomír, either. By extension, Bratromila had also decided to blame him for the loss of Silesia, and also thus for treason. He had little time to act, if he was going to act.
‘Bring Bratislav Pohanský before me,’ Bohodar ordered. ‘This will not stand.’
Bohodar spent the evening before the march began in solemn prayer. He knew already that Bratromila would call down upon his head not only the forces of Velehrad and Nitra, but also those of the husband she had betrayed (who would not lift a finger for her, but for her lands assuredly), and those of the King of the East France and the Lady of Lotharingia, who were kin to her by that marriage. In his own corner were Drahoslav of Balaton and the son of the late Patriarch-Emeritus Photios, who was by now a komēs in his own right. Bohodar kept an image, roughly hewn in wood, of Photios near his iconostasis, and he silently asked for the late Patriarch’s aid in the battles to come. He would need all the help he could get. And he offered up another prayer for his poor son, in whatever lonely ditch his remains rested now, who did not deserve the infamy heaped on him by the unworthy queen he had died for.
The zbrojnošov gathered in the courtyard in the January cold, and made ready to march together with the gathered levies from the surrounding countryside. This time, they would not be marching far. Bratromila’s forces had gathered merely two days’ march to the south of them, and they would be waiting there together with the East Franks and the Lotharingians. Not for the last time, Bohodar lifted his head up toward the pearly clouds above him and offered up a prayer for deliverance. He had little hope of surviving this war, but for his son’s honour and for the sake of his own last promise to Mechthild, he would gladly die in their defence.
As they neared Kostelany, Bohodar’s scouts came back to him bewildered and confused. The muster from Velehrad had not shown up at all, nor did they show any indication that they were ever there, on the march between Přerov and Brno. On the other hand, the East Franks had been there en masse, two thousand strong or more, and they were busy laying siege to Přerov itself.
‘Ignore them,’ Bohodar had told his troops. ‘Our business is with Bratromila. Keep marching southward until we reach Velehrad.’
They reached Velehrad and saw in the snow only the footprints and hoofprints and cartwheel-tracks leading off westward from Rastislav’s city, as though in flight! But there was no mixture, no evidence of hurry, no indication of panic in their movement. Wherever they had gone, it was clear that their action had been deliberate.
‘Stay alert,’ Bohodar had told Bratislav. ‘It might be a trap.’
But even as they took up their positions around Velehrad against the garrison, and even as they stood on alert in their camps, Bohodar’s scouts saw neither hide nor hair of the Queen’s troops. Indeed, the greater foe was the ague that had begun to set in among Bohodar’s troops on account of the cold weather and the insufficient firewood. But to all appearances, Bratromila had decamped and marched, quite orderly and deliberately, in the direction of Ivančice. The men of Olomouc had stood around Velehrad for several weeks when one of the scouts came riding back through the snow in great haste. The youngster flung himself down at Bohodar’s feet, his cap tumbling off to reveal a messy sheaf of blond hair.
‘My lord, the Queen’s troops have engaged the Dread Masque of Balaton.’
‘Drahoslav is here?’ Bohodar couldn’t help but break into a grin. It was just like Drahoslav to turn a disfiguring injury sustained in illness into a point of pride and a cognomen. ‘Well, and how does he fare?’
‘Uncertain to say, milord. The two forces were about equally matched when they began to pitch; that’s when I rode back to report.’
‘Rise. You did well.’ Bohodar clapped the young man on the shoulder. He then barked out the orders to break camp and move west to join the battle. A thumb on the scale now was just what was needed.
The muster of Olomouc followed Bohodar’s orders and set off in formation westward. None of them could have known it, but as they passed through the crossroads between Zlechov and Boršice, they trod right by the same ditch – its frost-hard turned earth now buried under snow – where the severed remains of Bohodar’s son had been unceremoniously deposited. That had been the readiest site for the Queen’s deed of infamous sacrilege, well out of the eyes of men.
Bohodar’s army marched tirelessly west, until they reached Křenovice a short ways east of Brno. It was then that they beheld in the midst of the dark-boughed winter wood, another armed force marching with equal purpose eastward. Already Bohodar could see their vanes: red and white. But was it the red and white of Balaton, or the red and white of the Mojmírovci? Bohodar held up one gloved hand, calling his army to halt. The Olomouc men fell still, and the only sounds to be heard in the chill were the crisp, crunching echoes of horse hooves and the boots of men in the snow, and the creaking of wooden wagon wheels over frosted ground. But was it the Queen raising her vanes in victory, or Drahoslav?
In truth, Bohodar beheld the metallic glimmer of Drahoslav’s masque, leading his men high and arrogant from horseback, before he saw the welcome yellow lion sprawled out upon his victorious banner, flapping in the cold wind. Bohodar let out a hoarse friendly hail, and was answered by a cocksure wave from the same young rider, who came over to him. Another rider broke free from his formation, and Bohodar saw that this one, riding slowly to keep pace, was towing behind him a prisoner.
Though the sight should have gladdened Bohodar, his heart wrenched with a sickening pang of pity. The blonde hair and the round-cheeked profile beneath her mailed cowl was unmistakeable to a man who had known her since she was an infant. Hilda might have said it was the workings of wyrd: having disgraced the remains of her first husband in such a way, to be dragged pinion behind a horse like a common convict was only poetic justice. But Bohodar could not find it in him to rejoice at his opponent’s downfall, however much wrong she had done.
‘Hail, dedko!’ Drahoslav shouted. The unsightly mask could not dampen one bit this man’s swaggering bravado, could it? ‘I brought a present for you!’
‘So I see,’ Bohodar nodded to him. ‘Hail, Queen. I hope you have not been treated ill.’
‘Spare me your false pieties, Bohodar,’ Bratromila sneered. ‘I should have known it from the start: like son, like father. I never should have trusted you again, but should have clapped you in irons when you opposed my laws.’
‘Is that what this is about?’ Bohodar grieved. ‘Was it well done to wait thirty years, just to dig my poor son’s body out of the ground and cast him out of the churchyard, out of God’s grace, all to sate a schoolgirl grudge? Was it worth it? See what it brought you!’
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ Bratromila snarled. ‘You could never understand me.’
‘What you have to understand now,’ Bohodar answered her, ‘is that I will serve you no longer. I will continue in my remembrance of your father. But over Olomouc and over the Czech lands – you, my lady, will never have suzerainty again. Now… tell me: where is Radko? Where have you buried my son?’
Bratromila merely spat at Bohodar.
Bohodar wiped the offending matter from his cheek, and told Drahoslav: ‘Treat her gently. Bring her back to Velehrad with honour. But also let her know that I no longer see fit to recognise her as the rightful mistress of that town.’
‘With pleasure, Gramps!’ Drahoslav cocked his head to the other rider and to Bratromila. ‘Come on, you. You heard what the old man said – gentle with the lady, now!’
Bohodar was left behind to grieve. He had won the war. But he had lost his wife to old age. He had lost his son to his queen’s grudge, and did not even know now where his bones lay. And he had lost his best friend to a darkness of the spirit which – it was true – he could not understand. Drahoslav could make the most of his victory: he was young, and had a full life ahead of him. Bohodar’s time was waning, and he felt the weight of the years upon his back and shoulders.
‘Come,’ he said wearily. ‘Let’s return home.’
THIRTY-ONE
Bohodar’s Last War
29 September 910 – 27 January 911
Bohodar’s Last War
29 September 910 – 27 January 911
‘Say that to me once more. Slowly.’
The emissary gulped and quailed.
‘F—for his having shown treasonable cowardice, for having forsaken his comrades in battle, for his having caused the Battle of Glogówek to be lost and, subsequently, the Silesian lands to the Crown, and for his having defied the will of God and betrayed his Queen, by official decree, Radomír Rychnovský’s remains have b—been exhumed from the episcopal cemetery and buried without ceremony at an unmarked roadside. A—also: his name will be stricken henceforth from all commemorations for the honoured dead, in damnatio memoriæ.’
‘Treasonable cowardice?’ Bohodar spoke softly, but it was clear that he was at considerable pains to hide his anger and hurt. ‘And was her Majesty at the Battle of Glogówek? Did she see him fall herself?’
‘I—I am not at liberty to discuss the matter, s—sire. I am only delivering a m—message.’
Bohodar considered for one long, hard moment, and then waved his hand. The emissary wasted no time, but made a hurried bow and fled the hall. Bohodar ran a hand over his face.
At first, when he had not heard Radomír’s name spoken aloud in the moleben in Velehrad this past August, the absence had grated on his ear, but he had thought it merely an oversight. Now he understood it as having been calculated. Bratromila had, for whatever reason, decided to strike at him where it hurt the most – by having his Radko, his only son, exhumed from his grave, damned to all memory, and buried shamefully by night in a ditch on the side of the road, like the worst of all felons.
It took Bohodar a long time to come to grips with the depth of Bratromila’s calculated, and public, slight of his son. It wasn’t aimed solely at Radomír, either. By extension, Bratromila had also decided to blame him for the loss of Silesia, and also thus for treason. He had little time to act, if he was going to act.
‘Bring Bratislav Pohanský before me,’ Bohodar ordered. ‘This will not stand.’
~~~
Bohodar spent the evening before the march began in solemn prayer. He knew already that Bratromila would call down upon his head not only the forces of Velehrad and Nitra, but also those of the husband she had betrayed (who would not lift a finger for her, but for her lands assuredly), and those of the King of the East France and the Lady of Lotharingia, who were kin to her by that marriage. In his own corner were Drahoslav of Balaton and the son of the late Patriarch-Emeritus Photios, who was by now a komēs in his own right. Bohodar kept an image, roughly hewn in wood, of Photios near his iconostasis, and he silently asked for the late Patriarch’s aid in the battles to come. He would need all the help he could get. And he offered up another prayer for his poor son, in whatever lonely ditch his remains rested now, who did not deserve the infamy heaped on him by the unworthy queen he had died for.
The zbrojnošov gathered in the courtyard in the January cold, and made ready to march together with the gathered levies from the surrounding countryside. This time, they would not be marching far. Bratromila’s forces had gathered merely two days’ march to the south of them, and they would be waiting there together with the East Franks and the Lotharingians. Not for the last time, Bohodar lifted his head up toward the pearly clouds above him and offered up a prayer for deliverance. He had little hope of surviving this war, but for his son’s honour and for the sake of his own last promise to Mechthild, he would gladly die in their defence.
As they neared Kostelany, Bohodar’s scouts came back to him bewildered and confused. The muster from Velehrad had not shown up at all, nor did they show any indication that they were ever there, on the march between Přerov and Brno. On the other hand, the East Franks had been there en masse, two thousand strong or more, and they were busy laying siege to Přerov itself.
‘Ignore them,’ Bohodar had told his troops. ‘Our business is with Bratromila. Keep marching southward until we reach Velehrad.’
They reached Velehrad and saw in the snow only the footprints and hoofprints and cartwheel-tracks leading off westward from Rastislav’s city, as though in flight! But there was no mixture, no evidence of hurry, no indication of panic in their movement. Wherever they had gone, it was clear that their action had been deliberate.
‘Stay alert,’ Bohodar had told Bratislav. ‘It might be a trap.’
But even as they took up their positions around Velehrad against the garrison, and even as they stood on alert in their camps, Bohodar’s scouts saw neither hide nor hair of the Queen’s troops. Indeed, the greater foe was the ague that had begun to set in among Bohodar’s troops on account of the cold weather and the insufficient firewood. But to all appearances, Bratromila had decamped and marched, quite orderly and deliberately, in the direction of Ivančice. The men of Olomouc had stood around Velehrad for several weeks when one of the scouts came riding back through the snow in great haste. The youngster flung himself down at Bohodar’s feet, his cap tumbling off to reveal a messy sheaf of blond hair.
‘My lord, the Queen’s troops have engaged the Dread Masque of Balaton.’
‘Drahoslav is here?’ Bohodar couldn’t help but break into a grin. It was just like Drahoslav to turn a disfiguring injury sustained in illness into a point of pride and a cognomen. ‘Well, and how does he fare?’
‘Uncertain to say, milord. The two forces were about equally matched when they began to pitch; that’s when I rode back to report.’
‘Rise. You did well.’ Bohodar clapped the young man on the shoulder. He then barked out the orders to break camp and move west to join the battle. A thumb on the scale now was just what was needed.
The muster of Olomouc followed Bohodar’s orders and set off in formation westward. None of them could have known it, but as they passed through the crossroads between Zlechov and Boršice, they trod right by the same ditch – its frost-hard turned earth now buried under snow – where the severed remains of Bohodar’s son had been unceremoniously deposited. That had been the readiest site for the Queen’s deed of infamous sacrilege, well out of the eyes of men.
Bohodar’s army marched tirelessly west, until they reached Křenovice a short ways east of Brno. It was then that they beheld in the midst of the dark-boughed winter wood, another armed force marching with equal purpose eastward. Already Bohodar could see their vanes: red and white. But was it the red and white of Balaton, or the red and white of the Mojmírovci? Bohodar held up one gloved hand, calling his army to halt. The Olomouc men fell still, and the only sounds to be heard in the chill were the crisp, crunching echoes of horse hooves and the boots of men in the snow, and the creaking of wooden wagon wheels over frosted ground. But was it the Queen raising her vanes in victory, or Drahoslav?
In truth, Bohodar beheld the metallic glimmer of Drahoslav’s masque, leading his men high and arrogant from horseback, before he saw the welcome yellow lion sprawled out upon his victorious banner, flapping in the cold wind. Bohodar let out a hoarse friendly hail, and was answered by a cocksure wave from the same young rider, who came over to him. Another rider broke free from his formation, and Bohodar saw that this one, riding slowly to keep pace, was towing behind him a prisoner.
Though the sight should have gladdened Bohodar, his heart wrenched with a sickening pang of pity. The blonde hair and the round-cheeked profile beneath her mailed cowl was unmistakeable to a man who had known her since she was an infant. Hilda might have said it was the workings of wyrd: having disgraced the remains of her first husband in such a way, to be dragged pinion behind a horse like a common convict was only poetic justice. But Bohodar could not find it in him to rejoice at his opponent’s downfall, however much wrong she had done.
‘Hail, dedko!’ Drahoslav shouted. The unsightly mask could not dampen one bit this man’s swaggering bravado, could it? ‘I brought a present for you!’
‘So I see,’ Bohodar nodded to him. ‘Hail, Queen. I hope you have not been treated ill.’
‘Spare me your false pieties, Bohodar,’ Bratromila sneered. ‘I should have known it from the start: like son, like father. I never should have trusted you again, but should have clapped you in irons when you opposed my laws.’
‘Is that what this is about?’ Bohodar grieved. ‘Was it well done to wait thirty years, just to dig my poor son’s body out of the ground and cast him out of the churchyard, out of God’s grace, all to sate a schoolgirl grudge? Was it worth it? See what it brought you!’
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ Bratromila snarled. ‘You could never understand me.’
‘What you have to understand now,’ Bohodar answered her, ‘is that I will serve you no longer. I will continue in my remembrance of your father. But over Olomouc and over the Czech lands – you, my lady, will never have suzerainty again. Now… tell me: where is Radko? Where have you buried my son?’
Bratromila merely spat at Bohodar.
Bohodar wiped the offending matter from his cheek, and told Drahoslav: ‘Treat her gently. Bring her back to Velehrad with honour. But also let her know that I no longer see fit to recognise her as the rightful mistress of that town.’
‘With pleasure, Gramps!’ Drahoslav cocked his head to the other rider and to Bratromila. ‘Come on, you. You heard what the old man said – gentle with the lady, now!’
Bohodar was left behind to grieve. He had won the war. But he had lost his wife to old age. He had lost his son to his queen’s grudge, and did not even know now where his bones lay. And he had lost his best friend to a darkness of the spirit which – it was true – he could not understand. Drahoslav could make the most of his victory: he was young, and had a full life ahead of him. Bohodar’s time was waning, and he felt the weight of the years upon his back and shoulders.
‘Come,’ he said wearily. ‘Let’s return home.’
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Chapter Thirty-Two
THIRTY-TWO
Lover of Words
30 June 911
Lover of Words
30 June 911
There is soon to be held a Church zbor in Olomouc. The patriarchs of Constantinople and Antioch wish to meet here to discuss how best to further the mission of Saint Methodius, which I have been tasked with protecting throughout my life. [Father Honorius, the Patriarch of Rome, could not attend… he is busy planning for a war of the Cross, so that not only Antioch, but also Jerusalem might be taken into Christian hands.]
Father Radoslav has asked me how I would like to be introduced to them. Even as I write this, I am not sure if I am fit to be introduced to them at all. Put not your trust in princes, in sons of men, in whom there is no salvation, says the Prince of the Lyre… and I am certain I am not exempt. All my life I have struggled to uphold the Great Law of Moravia, and keep the realm of my kinsman Rastislav intact. Now it has fallen into pieces, and – God forgive me! – I am the culprit of its destruction.
The only thing that will be said to my credit, in the end, is the baptism and enlightenment of the Češi. But even here I stand the least among greater men. The mission among our western brothers would be nowhere without my dear friend Vojmil of blessed memory, and without the devoted service of men like Bratislav Pohanský. Vitislav Slavníkov, may God be kind to him, has taken up the cause with greater zeal than I. Apart from Olomouc, only Hradec, Sedlec, Plzen and Žatec may be said to follow the True Faith with any degree of popular support. And that is owing to the efforts of better men than I.
With Mechthild gone, it has been harder to keep hospitality at my court. The recent fall of the kingdom of the White Croats to our east before the invasion of the Mögyer has been a devastating blow. Tomislav, the chieftain of the White Croats, is dead. His children scattered to all corners of the Slavic lands. One of them, Mirjana, wound up here. I gave her to wed a good man of my court, Vratko, but she soon sought out a living elsewhere—in Usora, among the Bosniaks. I truly hope they treat her and her husband well! That the Croats of the Carpathians should be refugees from their own land, forced to wander… I hope that they meet with hospitality wherever they go. They always were good brothers to us, and I shall take care to instruct my grandson to show them the hospitality Abraham and Sarah showed to the angels, if ever they come under his care.
My children… my Radko… if only I knew where he lies! Vieročka is happy, bless her, though I would rather she seek her happiness in prayer rather than in bowls of ale. Krasnoroda still mourns for her Horislav; God took him early. I rarely hear from Slavomíra at all. Vlasta dotes upon her Avar, Tüzniq – it still surprises me how close those two are. The same I can say for Blažena and Boško, yet I worry about them too. Where has that woman taken my son? If only I knew where my son lies!
Looking back at my life, the only other good things that I have accomplished have all been in letters: poetry, translations, scribbled notes on history, notes on alchemy and the other sciences. I have not been worthy enough or blessed with enough spiritual insight to dare put quill to parchment to pass comment on the works of the holy Fathers of the Church. But translations into Slavonic: yes, those I have done. God willing, they will be to the profit and salvation of my brothers and sisters.
If Father Radoslav insists upon introducing me to the Patriarchs of Constantinople and of Antioch when they come here to Olomouc for the zbor, I will not ask to be introduced as a knieža. No. But as a slovoľubec – a lover of words? Yes, that might be acceptable…
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EUROPE AT THE END OF THE REIGN OF BOHODAR „SLOVOĽUBEC“ RYCHNOVSKÝ
The Byzantine Empire is doing quite well for itself, managing to hold most of the Balkans and Dalmatian coast, southern Sicily and eastern Puglia.
Khazaria is still a monster, and Hungary has all but completed its conquest of Pannonia and the Carpathians.
Western Europe is quite fragmented but not as bad as it could be. The British Isles are a hot mess and a half, but they are Christian - mostly.
It's intriguing how East Francia is basically split down the middle by Bavaria, and manages to keep its capital halfway between them. Politically astute of them, if not particularly bright in terms of strategy.
The Byzantine Empire is doing quite well for itself, managing to hold most of the Balkans and Dalmatian coast, southern Sicily and eastern Puglia.
Khazaria is still a monster, and Hungary has all but completed its conquest of Pannonia and the Carpathians.
Western Europe is quite fragmented but not as bad as it could be. The British Isles are a hot mess and a half, but they are Christian - mostly.
It's intriguing how East Francia is basically split down the middle by Bavaria, and manages to keep its capital halfway between them. Politically astute of them, if not particularly bright in terms of strategy.
The Two Moravias.
Bratromila was left holding onto Nitra plus a small rump consisting of Brno and environs. Bohodar had free reign over Moravia Proper and the Czech lands.
Bratromila was left holding onto Nitra plus a small rump consisting of Brno and environs. Bohodar had free reign over Moravia Proper and the Czech lands.
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Interlude Three
INTERLUDE III.
The Legacy of Bohodar slovoľubec
1 October, 2020
The Legacy of Bohodar slovoľubec
1 October, 2020
‘Bohodar Rychnovský was known to posterity by the Slavonic cognomen of “slovoľubec”, or in modern Moravian, “učenec” – “the Scholar”,’ Grebeníček lectured. ‘This was how he chose to be remembered: a transmitter of tradition and a lover of literature, who had translated ibn Yazîd’s testament into Slavonic, as well as several Greek religious texts, and himself authored several commentaries. But: he was also the first independent ruler of Olomouc, and the patriarch of the family that would end up regathering the Moravian lands. Unfortunately, the last years of his reign, leading up to his death, were bitter. Despite the legal dispute between Bratromila and Bohodar when she was still a child, Bohodar had spent the better part of his life shoring up support for Bratromila, defending her claims, expanding her realm and generally trying to keep it from falling apart. And then—she spitefully flung all of his efforts back in his face. Now… how do you think most medievals reacted to this? … Yes, Mr Čič?’
Ladoslav Čič put his hand down. ‘They didn’t react well, that’s for sure. Called her everything in the book from “harlot” to “witch” and back.’
‘Quite true, Mr Čič. Now—I have held in this class that we ought to treat Bratromila with at least some degree of sympathy. It’s easy for modern historians like me to sit back and condemn Bratromila for her lapses in judgement, particularly toward the end of her reign. Her betrayals of her husband Chlothar Karling and her vassal Bohodar were unconscionable. Bratromila Mojmírová’s name became synonymous with perfidy, backstabbing and ingratitude in contemporary Greek histories. She is correctly blamed for tearing Moravia apart at the seam. But, as I believe Živana astutely pointed out, she was something of a caged bird. She resented the control over her life exerted by her vassals. It is likely that she grew to envy Bohodar for his conquest of the Czechs and the glory that reflected on him.’
‘He always has to take the contrary point,’ Cecilia whispered with a wicked smirk to Živana.
‘I heard that, Ms Bedyrová,’ Ed Grebeníček smiled complacently. ‘But someone has to play devil’s advocate, don’t you think? Or at least the advocate of the alleged mistress of said devil.’
A chorus of chuckles went up from the class.
‘Now, Bohodar slovoľubec was what the medievals like to call a “good ruler”. He upheld the law, but was merciful to criminals. He was deferent to the Church, and gave liberally to Orthodox parishes and monasteries in his realm. He converted the Czechs. And he kept his family in good order… mostly. He set the precedent among Rychnovský men—with three noteworthy exceptions—of being faithful and attentive to their wives. Yes, Mr Pelikán?’
Dalibor Pelikán put his hand down. ‘He kept his family in good order? What about the marriage of Bohodar mladší to his aunt? That happened under his reign, didn’t it?’
Ed Grebeníček tapped his nose and smiled. ‘Good point, Mr Pelikán: that was, in fact, the biggest complaint we see against him in contemporary polemics between Byzantine and Latin churchmen. In fact, the Frankish bishops did hold up the marriage of Bohodar the Younger to his aunt Blažena – incontestably incestuous even by Orthodox standards – as a glaring example of the corrupting effect Byzantium’s lax canon law had on the Slavs. And to Byzantine-Rite churchmen, this proved a profound embarrassment and scandal, not easily answered. Orthodox clergy could only answer that such close-kin marriages had also been practically ubiquitous among German and Irish nobility, despite the Roman Catholic Church’s increasingly strenuous attempts to stamp out the practice.’
‘So how come medievals kept calling him a “good ruler”?’ asked Dalibor.
Grebeníček held his hands behind his back and set to a quiet pace. ‘Remember that most of these authors were writing in retrospect, and that the first great push for “setting the record straight” among Slavic historians came during the 980s and 990s. What was happening at that time in Moravia?’
Cecilia raised her hand. ‘That was when Radomír the Terrible was ruling. The massacres of the Sorbs and the Lusatians, and the bloody suppression of the Prague Uprising had just happened.’
Grebeníček favoured her with a broad smile beneath his bushy moustache, and an open hand. ‘Well answered. Yes. Medieval monks – remember, the ones who were writing the history were mostly monastic – had a particular incentive to cast Bohodar in a good light, as a literary foil. The ruler they were writing under, and to some extent for, had a very different temper and… let us say, a very different approach to the rights and wrongs of statecraft. Now… the real question is: was Radomír really possessed by demons?’
‘It could have been a political tool,’ Živana said thoughtfully. ‘A ruler who wants to inspire fear, for the ends of consolidating power, might carefully cultivate a “demonic” image to further those ends. And western Moravia’s government did begin to become more centralised under his rule.’
Cecilia shook her head emphatically. ‘But the textbook says that he was accompanied by two priests and a professional exorcist at his death, and that he died in agony. Whether we call it possession or not, it’s difficult to believe he would take a mere political stunt that far.’
‘Or,’ offered Ladislav, ‘it may have been “psychological” to some extent. He went out of his way to befriend and confide in a younger man and a commoner, Vratislav. That… isn’t normal?’
Grebeníček chuckled contentedly as the students went back and forth attempting to interpret the reasons for Radomír’s cruelties – whether they were the result of psychology or carefully calculated for political effect or the result of real possession, or a mixture of all three. He loved to see the students taking ownership of their learning this way! He let the conversation go on for a short while, and then held up a hand for silence.
‘Very good points, all of you. It is excellent to see how you have engaged with the book, and recreated here one of the great debates over Radomír the Terrible’s legacy. However, to bring us back around to the first Bohodar, Bohodar the Scholar. Yes: it was mostly through rose-tinted specs that medieval authors were appraising him. And, of course, the fact that nothing succeeds like success. The Christianisation of the Czechs was a real feather in the cap, so to speak. And of course, Bohodar slovoľubec’s successes were built upon avidly by his successors. Beginning, of course, with Bohodar mladší…’
~ END OF BOOK I ~
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Bohodar's foundation was certainly a good one, and the man had a good character. Future generations didn't have to exaggerate that much.
The true question now is which one of two Moravias truly is the greater one? I've got a feeling that this is something the next generation will spend quite some time with.
The true question now is which one of two Moravias truly is the greater one? I've got a feeling that this is something the next generation will spend quite some time with.
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@alscon: Quite true. On both counts. And the formal reunification of Moravia solves some problems on the surface, but... let's just say that regional and family sentiments still linger.
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Book Two Chapter One
BOOK TWO. A Sound Foundation
The Reign of Bohodar 1. mladší Rychnovský, Knieža of Olomouc and Kráľ of Veľká Morava
ONE
Paragon
9 May 915 – 5 October 915
The Reign of Bohodar 1. mladší Rychnovský, Knieža of Olomouc and Kráľ of Veľká Morava
ONE
Paragon
9 May 915 – 5 October 915
‘Ocko,’ Pravoslav asked his father, ‘tell me again about Sisak. Please?’
Boško, now knieža Bohodar the Younger, turned back to where his son was riding behind him. Boško had worried for his son, heart aching for him, ever since the first bitter signs had shown in his first year, and he had begun gasping for breath some nights, feeling like he was being suffocated. Winfrida had no cure; but she advised that he be kept in a clean room with a good draught of air. That had slowed and mellowed the nightly attacks, but had not rid Pravoslav of them entirely. Even now, Pravoslav looked thin and drawn atop his horse, a pale slip of a five-year-old boy. But his spirits were high: he had never before left Olomouc, and to be taken on travel by his father was cause for excitement.
‘Well,’ his father began indulgently, ‘it’s an old Roman city, and the Romans of the East still consider it rightfully theirs. It lies on an island formed by the confluence of three rivers. Thus it formed a natural hub for trade, though it really began to flourish during the reign of Augustus. The first Christian bishop in the city was a martyr named Quirinius. On and off, though, it’s been ruled by the Slavs of Balaton. Why, what else did you want to know about it?’
Pravoslav considered, in the stern and serious way that five-year-olds often do. He came up with: ‘Are there el’phants there?’
‘Elephants!’ Boško laughed. ‘Well, I’m not entirely sure. I’ve never seen an elephant there. But the traders do bring all sorts of odd things, including creatures from India and the African provinces, which is where dedko told me the elephants naturally live. So who knows?’
Pravoslav was not entirely satisfied with this fatherly evasion of his perfectly reasonable question, and let out a sound of suitable scepticism. Then he asked, with equal seriousness: ‘What about monkeys?’
‘Monkeys!’ Boško exclaimed. ‘Dear one, to see monkeys in Europe one would have to go all the way west to the other side of the Middle Sea, to Monscalpe! And I’m afraid we’re not going quite that far on this little outing.’
Pravoslav was crestfallen. If there weren’t elephants or monkeys in Sisak, what was the point of going there at all? He didn’t understand it.
Bohodar the Younger regarded his young son fondly. Despite the inward infirmity that tightened his lungs and shortened his breath, his mind was always active, and his creativity in not only getting into places where he shouldn’t but also – as often as not – wheedling his way out again with creative arguments and loopholes, was truly astounding. And he evinced a very right and proper curiosity for a young boy – about every beast, every creepie-crawlie, every bird, everything that moved upon the earth’s face, from the lowly common bush cricket all the way up to… yes, elephants. When the time came for it – and if God and his health allowed – Pravoslav would be a delight indeed to bring on hunts!
He had initially worried about bringing Pravoslav with him on this trip, though Blažena had insisted that the boy go himself – and he usually did well to follow his wife’s good judgement. And he had cause to thank her for that now. As they passed through Bratislav and made their way southward past Sopron, as the road wound among and between the Alpine foothills on the way toward Balaton, Pravoslav’s face became bright, his cheeks lost their pallor and gained a healthy pink flush, and the more they climbed into the Austrian hills, the more his breathing came naturally and deeply. Being outside, in the fresh, clean mountain air – could there be a better medicine for a young boy given to gasping and struggling for breath?
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And then their road descended as they left the hills. The views of distant white-capped peaks were replaced by rolling slopes, and then by broad flat plains as they descended into the upper Balkans. It became visible from afar off: the nearest corner tower of the fortification at the triangular confluence rising out of the earth with a jarring suddenness. As they neared the river, too, they could see the sandy-tan band of masonry embankments which the Romans had built to ward off flooding and to direct incoming barges. Bohodar and Pravoslav steered their horses along the road toward the bridge leading into the city. Bohodar lit from his horse as they came onto the paven surface on the other side, and took the reins of Pravoslav’s pony as he did the same.
‘Now, stick close to me and don’t wander off,’ Bohodar warned his son. The dark-haired lad nodded gravely in response.
That promise soon proved hard to keep. The sights and scents and sounds of Sisak came at Pravoslav from all sides. Now, had Bohodar chosen to guide their route through the much larger and busier Graz and Wien instead of through Sopron, Pravoslav would have understood Sisak to have been in fact a rather modest-sized Byzantine town. But as it was, the place still awed him. The crowded earthen apartments with their red slate roofs and tiny, closed courtyards crammed the streets in, and all along the street Pravoslav could see and hear people conversing and haggling and gossiping together in groups of three, five, ten, or hurrying from one place to another with goods or coin in tow. In one waft the air smelled of exotic Eastern spices and sweet fresh-baked pastries; in another the unmistakeable tang of peat smoke; in another yet it smelled of manure or tannery. Pravoslav hadn’t expected a town to be nearly this exciting! His steps began to tarry, then to quicken to catch up with his father, and then to fall behind again at the sight of some other novelty: a stall with fresh fruit or bolts of silk or toys. He stopped too long at one of these latter stalls to examine an enviable-looking wooden sword, and turned to ask his father if he could get it, but could see neither hide nor hair of Bohodar or the horses!
Another child might have panicked, screamed or cried. But not Pravoslav! He knew he could take care of himself, even in such a strange place as this – and besides, being out from underneath the smothering wings of the nurse and the constant worries from his mother about his asthma, he felt exhilarated and excited rather than daunted! Still, without money to buy the sword, it soon slipped his interest, and he moved down along the other streets.
So many people! Now, again, in comparison with Wien or Constantinople or Venice, Sisak was considerably smaller fry. But to eyes that had only beheld Olomouc, it was a great marvel of the world. Amid the general babble of strange tongues he figured he could catch a Slavic phrase here or there – though it would have been a South Slavic dialect rather than his own Moravian. People were wearing all kinds of dress. He saw Slavic and German men in tunics, Greek women in long robes, servants in homespun on errands for their masters, craftsmen and apprentices in leather aprons at work on wood or iron or stone.
There were some women on the street who wore a lot of make-up on their eyes and cheeks and lips, and had their dark-brown hair elaborately done up, and they wore colourful red sashes draped over their shoulders. Seeing Pravoslav walking by himself, they giggled at him and blew him kisses; Pravoslav returned these politely (setting off another chorus of giggles), though he was rather confused at what these strange women could mean by it. There were black-browed men with long noses, who wore long, loose, light-coloured robes and wrapped their heads in turbans, with curved knives at their belts. There was even a group of men who had skin nearly as black as Pravoslav’s hair! They wore knee-length tunics of brightly-patterned green and gold, and the hair that peeked out from underneath their caps was curly like the wool of sheep! Pravoslav gawked at them, not aware that he was being rude. One of the men saw him and flashed him a broad grin of strong white teeth, holding up a hand with several golden rings upon it in greeting. Pravoslav started and his eyes widened, but he held up his hand in answer. He was even more startled when the tall black man said to him, in slightly-accented Slavonic:
‘Dobrý deň, mladý muží!’
‘Dobrý deň,’ Pravoslav answered him politely.
‘Kde je tvoj otec?’
Pravoslav shrugged, though he wasn’t too worried. ‘Neviem. Išiol dopredŭ.’
The black fellow’s eyebrows rose in surprise, and he knelt and told Pravoslav carefully: ‘You do not know where your father is? Would you like us to help you find him? It is not at all safe for a small child to wander a large town like this by himself.’
‘Okay. He might worry about me,’ Pravoslav admitted.
‘I am a father too,’ the man told him kindly. ‘And if it were my son, I would pray Almighty God to return him to me safe and sound. Come. You said he went ahead of you? Perhaps we should try looking at the town centre, by the plaza?’
Pravoslav nodded. The man took him by the hand and led him back to where they had a cart with goods and a couple of horses to draw it. They set them to a walk, and drove the cart forward to the town plaza. As they rode, Pravoslav caught a quiver of movement amid the bolts of brightly-patterned cotton. A fuzzy head peeked out. The big, round, curious eyes which stared down at Pravoslav were a deep shade of red; the nose was long and thin and shallow, and tufts of blonde fur emerged from its dark cheeks.
‘A monkey!!’ Pravoslav cried with delight.
The fellow who held his hand turned his head and gave a noise of tolerant disapproval. ‘Yes, that is the pet vervet belonging to Tesfaye. He mostly stays in the cart because he does not like the climate up here. It is too cold for him in the autumn.’
‘Tesfaye?’ asked Pravoslav.
‘That is the name of my elder son,’ the man explained, gesturing with an open hand to the younger man drawing the horses. ‘I am Alemayehu the Merchant, of Jarma. What is your name, young man?’
‘I’m Pravoslav,’ he answered politely. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Almighty God protect and keep you, Pravoslav!’ Alemayehu clapped the Slavic youth on the shoulder.
Just as the African merchant and his kinfolk entered the plaza with Pravoslav in tow, the young boy heard a cry of relief and delight.
‘Pravoslav!’ his father came running toward him and clasped him gladly around the shoulders, a hug which the boy happily returned. ‘Thank God you’re safe!’ And then he turned to the three African men who brought him. ‘And thank you, good men, for returning him to me.’
Seeing that the man who had come to claim Pravoslav was well-dressed and a high noble of some kind, the merchant gave a deep nod of respect. ‘Almighty God be thanked that he ran into us, and not some less honest! Your Pravoslav had a bit of an adventure, I should think, but he has come to no harm.’
‘Ocko, guess what?’ Pravoslav grinned excitedly. ‘Al’mayehu’s son has a monkey! I saw it!’
Boško gave his son’s shoulder a subtle shake. ‘You can tell me about it later, Pravoslav. Right now, there’s someone here who very much wants to meet you, and we shouldn’t keep her waiting.’
Alemayehu raised his ringed hand again. ‘Be well, Pravoslav! Fet’arī kanite gari yihuni!’
‘What’s that mean?’ asked Pravoslav.
‘That is how we say “good-bye” in my tongue.’
‘Fe-ta-ree—’ Pravoslav attempted.
‘—kanite gari yihuni,’ Alemayehu guided Pravoslav the rest of the way through. He gave another grin, clapped the youngster on the shoulder, and sent him back with his father.
‘Pravoslav,’ Boško told his son sternly, ‘what did I tell you about sticking close to me? That African merchant was right; you should thank God that you met someone as good as him, and not a thief or a kidnapper or worse. Not all cities are as well-ruled as Olomouc. And what if you’d had an attack, and I hadn’t been there? What would you have done?’
Pravoslav, chastened but by no means repentant, swiftly changed the subject. ‘Who wants to meet me?’
‘You will see soon enough,’ Boško told his son.
They went toward one of the larger homes that stood on the plaza. Indeed, it looked to be the burgomaster’s residence. But when they approached, it was not a man who came out to greet them, but an older woman with a pinched face and a sour expression. She wore her grey hair in two long braids behind her, and a long robe and a sash, both of them elegantly patterned. She was obviously the woman of high standing in this town.
‘So this is the boy?’ she asked. Her eyes narrowed in distaste. ‘You ought to keep better control over him, knieža. If one of mine had behaved so, I would see to it that his behind smarted for days afterward.’
Pravoslav very nearly let out a breath of outrage. A common townswoman like her, touch his behind? He thought not. But his father gave him a firm nudge in the back, and he held his tongue.
‘We apologise for the lateness, Jadviga,’ Bohodar responded to her politely. ‘But he is ready to see her now.’
‘Hm,’ Jadviga sneered down again at Pravoslav, who glared back up at her. At last she sighed. ‘Very well. A deal is a deal. Come within. I will see to it that she comes out to greet you.’
Bohodar gave a polite incline of the head. He led Pravoslav through the courtyard (rather larger, it appeared, than those which other houses used) and over the threshold of the earthen house, and went into the parlour. The proud, stuffy Jadviga – whom Pravoslav took, not incorrectly, for the burgomistress – retreated into the women’s quarters of the house, and soon came back with a girl in tow who was roughly Pravoslav’s own age. She had creamy-fair skin and her wavy black hair was drawn back elegantly, but she still seemed to shrink under the gazes of these two male strangers. When Jadviga released her arm, Pravoslav noted that she recoiled a bit from her, and stood shyly, ill at ease, in the doorway. Evidently other children didn’t like Jadviga either.
Jadviga addressed Boško directly. ‘I confess I was a bit surprised by your offer, milord. From what I hear, you have already arranged some rather more fortuitous unions than this one. The Saxons, the Bulgarians, the Company of the Skull Cup—even the Emperor himself has promised his younger son to one of your daughters, so I hear. So… I confess I am at a loss why you would approach me, or want a tainted girl like this one for your son and heir to wed.’
The girl behind her hung her head at hearing this description of herself, but did not flinch. Evidently, she was inured to being reminded of her status as a bastard by the mistress of the house. But Boško answered her:
‘Burgomistress Jadviga, you cut me to the quick. The girl’s mother entrusted her to you for safekeeping. I should have thought you’d be delighted that she would be getting a good match.’
The older woman crossed her arms. ‘Oh, no. You’re taking her off my hands, and I’m quite happy to be rid of her. But, pardon my curiosity, it is rather odd for a great lord to match his son to a by-blow with no, ah… financial expectations, is it not?’
Boško raised his eyebrows. ‘Not at all! There are more important things than money or arms. The blood of the great Kobilići runs in that girl’s veins. Come here, Marija – let me take a look at you.’
Hesitantly, the black-haired girl stepped forward. Boško knelt down kindly and took the young girl’s hand, and placed it in Pravoslav’s. Pravoslav was startled at how warm Marija’s small, delicate, milky-white hand was.
‘This is a promise, Marija,’ Boško told her. ‘When my son gets old enough, he will take you as his wife, and no other. Is that agreeable to you?’
Marija looked from Boško back to Jadviga, and then to Pravoslav. Her lower lip trembled, but she mastered herself and gave Boško a slight, brief, but unmistakeable nod. Boško gave the girl a kindly pat on the head, at which point Jadviga came and drew her roughly away.
‘Alright, that’s enough. Your part in this business is done, girl. But don’t you go getting any airs with me just because some mush-headed lord from up north has more romantic notions than sense,’ Pravoslav heard her voice grumble at her as she led her back down the hallway to the women’s quarters of the house. He turned in outrage to his father, who merely gave his son a brief shake of the head. After Jadviga came back out, Boško and she concluded the solemn promises and the finical side of the betrothal business – grown-ups doing grown-up talk. Pravoslav began to hate being in the house – the place was too confined, too stifling. His chest started to feel tight, and then the feeling like he was being pressed under a heavy rock, like a criminal undergoing peine forte et dure. A wave of dread took him as he tried to gulp in a mouthful of air. His windpipe rebelled, tightened, thinned to the width of a straw. He tried to take in more air, and it came in short, shallow, painful breaths.
Behind him, Boško heard the tenor of Pravoslav’s breath change, and heard the telltale whistling sound that told him his son was having an attack.
‘Would you excuse us for a moment?’ Boško said to Jadviga as he took his son roughly by the hand and brought him out into the courtyard. Once there, he put his hands on Pravoslav’s shoulders.
‘Focus,’ he told his son gently, stroking him soothingly on his arms. ‘Calm down. You’re outside. Breathe.’
Pravoslav tried to obey his father. But his breath was still coming in horrid, painful gasps – never enough at a time, like trying to thread heavy rope through a needle. With effort, he struggled to calm himself. Still his breath came hard, for minutes at a time. Having his father here helped, though. He gripped Boško’s elbows and squeezed them for comfort.
‘What is the matter?’ came Jadviga’s voice, tone suggestive of anything but sympathy, from the doorway. ‘What’s wrong with him?’
Pravoslav saw Boško roll his eyes subtly. Clearly he’d had enough of this place, and Jadviga’s company, as well. Understanding this, Pravoslav relaxed – and so did his airway, just a touch. But he turned to her pleasantly and said to her: ‘Nothing too serious. He just needed a breath of fresh air.’
Jadviga’s lip curled sceptically, but she kept her doubts behind her teeth. ‘Well, we’re about finished with the preliminaries, anyway. I’ll expect you back after the boy’s turned fifteen?’
‘Of course. I will, as well, remain in touch with you regarding Marija’s well-being and instruction.’ Boško said it sweetly, but there was solid steel beneath the velvet. ‘Easily-intimidated’ would not have described Jadviga, but she readily agreed:
‘Yes, naturally. I will expect your correspondence, then.’
And with that, they were off. Once they were on the road, and he had enough breath in him to attempt to speak, Pravoslav turned to his father and asked: ‘Why do you want me to marry that girl?’
Bohodar mladší spoke sternly: ‘Pravoslav, men in our position have responsibilities to the poor, meek, widowed, orphaned and friendless. And my grandfather taught me that we Orthodox Moravians have a particular duty to care for our brothers, the White Croats of the Carpathians.’
‘Like Adrijana?’ asked Pravoslav. It was Adrijana Bijelahrvatskića he meant, one of the refugees from Ungvár that had wound up a guest at Olomouc, and had of late wed a local man named Raslav.
Bohodar nodded. ‘Yes. Exactly like Adrijana.’
‘Marija is a White Croat?’
‘She is. Her mother brought her to Sisak as an infant. Her tutor was Greek and she grew up speaking Greek, and knows little of her own tongue. But the blood that runs in her veins is that of Mikulica Kobilić, a brave warrior who held a mountain pass with thirty zbrojnošov against the Mögyer horde for four whole days so the villages behind the pass could flee to safety.’
Pravoslav nodded seriously. Thinking about the pale, thin, dark-haired little girl cooped up in that house with that horrid woman looming over her all the time, gave him a sympathetic lurch. A sudden resolve arose in his gut – that for every tear that Jadviga wrung from her, he would do something to please her, make her laugh, make her life easier.
‘So,’ Boško gave his son a sly smile. ‘You got to see a monkey in Sisak after all!’
Pravoslav nodded energetically. ‘Uh-huh! It was tan all over, and had a long black nose, and had huge red eyes—!’
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Book Two Chapter Two
TWO
Blindfold
23 May 916
Blindfold
23 May 916
‘We’re here,’ Boško murmured to his wife.
Blažena had felt more than a bit silly. Boško had insisted on showing her a surprise outside Olomouc Castle, and so she had agreed to let herself be double blindfolded and cowled, and led out through the city on horseback, with Boško taking the reins in the borrowed garb of a lowly groom. She could tell from the sounds and the smells that they had gone through the back streets of Olomouc. Now they were outside the town somewhere – she could no longer hear the voices of people, only the chirping of birds and the chitter of small scurrying animals – and she could feel on her clothes and her skin the warmth of sunlight and the gently-swaying dapple of shadow. Boško helped her light down from the horse, and she couldn’t help smiling despite herself at his easy handling of her.
‘Well?’ she asked. ‘What’s here?’
Boško lifted the cowl off her head and undid the blindfold. Blažena took it off her face and peered around. Her smile broadened into a grin as she recognised the place her husband had brought her. And she already knew what he would tell her in answer.
‘You and me – together, alone,’ Bohodar answered her, looking deep into her eyes.
Indeed, they were at the same disused byre that Blažena had brought him to when he was fifteen, so they could practise kissing. And it was beautiful in the bountifully-lit May midmorning, with wildflowers in bloom at the corners of the foundations, and the ivy fully unfurled over the eaves. The poplars with their pale underleaves flashed green and white in dazzling patterns above them. And above all… yes, here was Boško, taking her by the hand.
‘And how did you manage it, O knieža?’ Blažena raised a sceptical eyebrow.
‘Mm? Oh, that. I had Pohanský fill in for the day – he owed me one anyway. And I had him also make sure that this whole croft and holding would be off-limits to any, er… visitors besides us.’
‘Abuse of power,’ Blažena tutted. ‘Don’t let it go to your head!’
Boško gave her a smile that was pure cheek. ‘What, you don’t trust me?’
‘What aunt would trust a flattering, conniving little dissembler of a nephew like you? And you’ve brought up our son the same way, I should note.’
‘I grew out of it,’ Boško feigned umbrage. Turning serious, though, he clasped Blažena by the hands and told her: ‘You asked me here before, whether or not I liked you. I don’t think I gave you a proper answer.’
‘You didn’t need to,’ Blažena assured him. ‘You let me know your feelings in other ways.’
(That was true. While she had been pregnant with Miroslava, Boško had for her sake gone haring off in various monastic ruins after rare orchids from Bengal, Bihar and Armenia not once, but three times. And he had come by his fair share of cuts and bruises for his not altogether successful efforts.)
‘Come, Blažka. No woman should have to be content with that,’ Boško told her feelingly. ‘My answer is this: I don’t just like you, tetuška. I love you, and you only.’
Blažena’s eyes widened and her cheeks began glowing bright red. ‘Stop it,’ she told him, abashed. ‘I’m your wife; we share an honourable bed. Isn’t that enough?’
Boško traced a gentle finger underneath her firm, slender jaw, then turned her face upward toward his. He bent low and gave her – not a delicate peck, nor an aggressive snog – but the gentle, lingering caress of a lover sure of himself. He wasn’t an awkward, gangling fifteen-year-old anymore, and he was well aware of his advantages now. Unable to help herself, Blažena laid a hand on his chest and took another such from him. And then another. And another.
‘You think I never noticed,’ Boško mouthed conspiratorially, ‘how hot you blaze when I call you teta?’
‘Don’t you dare sass your aunt that way,’ Blažena whispered back. But then she made sure he followed that command by giving him far more pleasurable use for his insolent tongue.
For a sweet and languid time, the ducal couple necked and petted each other slowly, and then she let the heat overtake her and coaxed Boško into warmer, more urgent embraces. She wouldn’t be stopping him this time. Up came Blažena’s gown over her head. Off came her shift. Sunlight and shadow fell over her healthy, lustrous skin. Her mouth hung agape in a breathless gasp and her pleading eyes held Boško’s as he unbelted. The ring of the buckle as it struck the grassy turf, and the rustle of his hose falling down about his ankles, were music to Blažena’s burning ears. He straddled her. She twined her bare arms about his neck.
For his liege, Bratislav Pohanský was good to his word. The day passed by, and nothing disturbed the slow, adoring congress of nephew and aunt in the wet May grass under the eaves. They whiled, lost in each other: the influent and effluent countermotion of each other’s hips and backs and thighs; each other’s soft bare skin and throbbing heartbeats; each other’s long gusts of desiring breath; the fresh fragrance of each other’s early summer sweat. The only witnesses to their blissful consummation were the birds and the small scurrying animals in the trees.
~~~
Boško lay back and watched as Blažena stood, gathering up her discarded shift and gown and shaking them out to make ready to wear again. He had an excellent vantage point, and made full use of it, admiring the sensuous subtle curve of her spine and the well-rounded form of her shoulders. Even after having borne five of his children – Blahomíra, Zbislava, Pravoslav, Miroslava and Ladina – her body still had a full, healthy, voluptuous draw. Boško couldn’t help but note how the heavy waxing crescents outlining her bailans peeked around to each side of her naked back. He called up to his wife:
‘Blažka, it’s truly stunning the way your t—’
‘Stop it,’ Blažena cut him short. But the complacent smirk she showed him told him she appreciated the attention all the same. ‘You’ve complimented my “impressive physical shape” before. I enjoyed it. Don’t overstay the welcome.’
After they had dressed, Blažena refused to ride the horse back. So Boško gallantly offered to walk alongside her, and lead the horse unburdened. To this, his wife gladly agreed. They walked back to Olomouc Castle, holding each other’s hands firmly. Whenever Boško stole a look her way, Blažena’s cheeks were still rosy, her eyes glimmered with mischievous pleasure, and she occasionally toyed with the coiled sable braid on one side of her head with her free fingers.
‘We’re going back through the gate?’ she asked.
‘Sure,’ Boško shrugged. ‘There’s no need for secrecy now, is there?’
Blažena regarded her nephew quizzically. ‘You’re taking us by the alehouse, aren’t you? You wouldn’t happen to have made arrangements with Kochan to meet there this afternoon, would you?’
Boško cleared his throat.
‘You little sneak,’ Blažena chuckled tolerantly. ‘And here I was thinking I had you all to myself today, more fool me. Well, go on then, meet your friend. At least I know you won’t get pissed and go off chasing after other women. You’re too much like Father.’
‘And you,’ Bohodar mladší squeezed his wife’s hand fondly.
‘I do wonder,’ scoffed Blažena. ‘At any rate, don’t forget who it was who set you up with Kochan in the first place.’
Boško feigned umbrage. ‘You told me to go out and line up all the zbrojnošov along the streets at every corner to cow the poor fellow into submission! It’s a good thing I turned down your advice.’
‘Hmph! Think what you like. I knew you two had that much in common when I first laid eyes on him.’
‘Did you indeed, Jôchaveda moja?’
Blažena tugged on his hand and drew him close for a firm kiss. ‘I did, Amvramě môj. But there’s no one quite like my husband. Go on and meet him now, but don’t be too late coming back.’
‘I won’t.’
Boško saw Blažena to the castle gate, handed her the reins of the horse and bade her farewell before doubling his steps back to the alehouse where he saw his loyal vassal and friend Kochan Žatecký waiting for him. The lean, dark-haired hrabě – about a year older than Boško – lit up as he saw his knieža approach. The two of them embraced, gave each other the kiss due between friends, and went off into the street, arms around shoulders.
‘You’ve spent an enjoyable day,’ Kochan remarked shrewdly. ‘Blessings of family, eh?’
‘You said it,’ Boško agreed with a grin.
‘Well, we’ll lighten our scrips as well as our hearts this evening,’ Kochan confided to him, ‘and lay up our treasure where moth and rust do not destroy.’
‘Sounds like a plan.’
Attachments
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It seems like Boško can enjoy blissful family life and true friendship. The harsh reality of a ruler's duty either hasn't caught up with him yet or he's simply doing well. One might hope for the latter.
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Book Two Chapter Three
Oh, they're coming for him, @alscon. Probably sooner than he likes.
‘Mother,’ Chlothar spoke to her sotto voce at the head of their formation, ‘we need to press the attack. We can’t risk waiting for the armies of Constantine to show up on our rear!’
Bratromila regarded her son with a sad wistfulness. Chlothar, for all he bore the name of the husband who didn’t love her, nonetheless was as dark and handsome as the Mstislav she had loved. His temper, though, blazed the way her father’s was said to in life. Several in her court at Velehrad thought from this that he might indeed be a Karling by blood… but the elder Chlothar had not, evidently, been fooled. Nor had his son. With a pang in her heart, she noted how even now, riding at her side, the blood of her blood and the flesh of her flesh regarded her with mistrust and suspicion.
‘Mother! Are you well?’
‘I’m fine,’ Bratromila said.
‘Fine, like hell,’ snapped Chlothar. ‘It’s that old scar flaming up again, isn’t it? God’s wounds – if you weren’t well enough to travel, then why did you not leave the campaign in my hands?’
‘Like I said,’ Bratromila said bracingly, ‘I’m fine.’ Truth be told, she couldn’t tell at the moment whether it was the long, ugly, ill-knitting wound across her back that was bothering her, or the pang in her heart. ‘It’s not that I think you incapable, Chlothar. As long as I could sit upright in the saddle, I would have come myself. I’ve waited too long for this, and I want to savour this moment. At last Bohodar’s depraved, inbreeding grandson will have the comeuppance that his grandfather should have taken.’
‘Yes, well,’ Chlothar frowned, ‘we had best make our attack soon – strike hard, and then move off west into Austria. We have only five hundred men, and as I said, we don’t want to be here when the Eastern ruler of the Greeks arrives.’
‘Ha!’ Bratromila laughed bitterly. ‘At least we have Étienne comte de Modène and Queen Margarethe of the East Franks on our side.’
‘If we don’t finish it soon,’ her son urged, ‘that could turn into a very long, very bloody, very costly war for us… and Moravia right in the middle.’
Queen Bratromila surveyed the field. They were in an open clearing on the right bank of the Morava, which was otherwise sheltered by trees along its banks. The village of Uničov lay to their north, and the village of Litovel lay across the river to their south. The hot August sun beat down upon the verdant treetops, from dark spruce up to the silvery undersides of poplar leaves, dazzling the eyes with green. In short order, the troops of Bohodar mladší came north and west along this bank to meet the lightning advance from Velehrad. At their head alongside the knieža, Bratromila noticed with another pang, was her dead paramour’s kinsman, Bratislav Pohanský. They took up the southeastern corner of the lea, while Bratromila formed up the Velehrad line along the northwest.
Boško rode forward at the head of his men. ‘Hail, Lady Bratromila. I trust you’ve had a pleasant journey through my realm?’
‘Spare me the pleasantries, you incestuous brat,’ Bratromila snarled. ‘War is upon you whether you like it or not. You pressed upon me the furtherance of your grandfather’s unjust claim, traitor that he was. And now you will answer for it, to me and to God.’
Boško saw how heavily she breathed, and how she sat wincing in her saddle, as though in deep pain. His brow furrowed with pity. ‘It’s not too late to end this mess,’ he said. ‘I can promise you safe passage back to Velehrad, without bloodshed, if that is what you wish. I’d rather not see you hurt.’
But Boško’s compassion and chivalry, however earnestly meant, served only to provoke Bratromila to deeper fury. She would not be made the object of any man’s pity – particularly not from the scion of Bohodar Rychnovský! ‘The only thing that will gratify me will be your cries for surrender, and you personally at my mercy.’
Boško pleaded with her: ‘Bratromila, we stand poised between us to start a war that will pit Greek against Frank, East against West, in a terrible slaughter that may last generations! Is this truly the battle you wish to fight?’
‘If that is how it must be,’ Bratromila told him.
‘Then the wages of it be on your head,’ Boško answered her, and rode back to his line. The orders were shouted up, the horns blasted into the air. Arrows began flying thick through the air in both directions. The front lines with their shield-bearers moved toward each other slowly, closing the distance across the lea beneath their feet. Although Bratromila’s troops and Boško’s were, for the present, evenly matched in number, it soon became clear that the levies from Velehrad, hastily mustered and forced to march too soon downriver, were outclassed by the zbrojnošov from Olomouc.
And then, sudden and startling as thunder, the blast of horns ripped through the air. They could be heard from the northeast, from the direction of the Uničov road. And then up went a fearsome war-cry, not in the Slavonic tongue but in Elder Bolghar: ‘Puçta ura! Puçta ura!’ – ‘Skulls at our feet! Skulls at our feet!’
And then, breaking forth across the lea, the sight of the leather helms and glistening lamellar of the feared Bulgar band which had taken for itself the ultimate symbol of Khan Krum’s dread ferocity. His mouth open in a roar, sabre in hand, riding down heavily against the Velehrad line upon a black horse, was tall, fierce, athletic Balin! A thousand of the proud nomadic warriors-for-hire stormed across the calm Morava lea, coming to the aid of Bohodar mladší.
Chlothar let out a roar. ‘Bulgars! What are the Bulgars doing here?’
The Velehrad line was broken into disarray in several places under the Bulgarian assault. Bratromila tried to rally the remainder of her Great-Moravian levies around her banner, but the Bulgars were already on top of them. The Velehrad Moravians fought bravely, but the better-armed and better-armoured Bulgarians made quick work of them.
Bohodar mladší saw it, leading the troops on the right flank: Bratromila on her white horse, and Balin on his black, suspended in silhouette against the bright summer sky. Bratromila was shouting an order to hold; and Balin saw her. He thrust his spear and it caught her full in the leg just above the knee. She cried out in pain and drooped to one side. And then, a flash of bright steel whirling through the air. A Bulgarian throwing-axe caught Bratromila just under the helmet, tearing away part of her cheek and crushing her eye socket.
The battle was over. All the weapons came down, all the shields lowered as one of the Bulgars, seeing the enemy commander fall, lifted the brutally-mauled queen down from her horse and laid her on a litter. She still breathed, but all consciousness was gone. One side of her face was a mass of bloody pulp, and the spear that had pierced her leg had gone all the way through. She would never walk on it whole again.
Bohodar mladší and Captain Balin of the Bulgar band of the Skull Cup crossed the field, littered as it was with bodies, and came over to where Bratromila had been laid. They were intercepted, however, by Chlothar, who shoved Balin roughly back.
‘You! You won’t take my mother’s head for a trophy and gild it for a drinking-piece. Get gone, villain. I trade no words with hirelings. My business is with this one.’
Balin raised his hands politely and withdrew two paces, but stood squarely within reach of the knieža who was his brother by marriage, and kept a wary eye on the choleric Chlothar.
‘Is there anything that can be done for her?’ asked Boško mildly.
‘Keep your false sympathies! You’ve done more than enough already,’ Chlothar spat, echoing his mother. ‘But I yield to the judgement of God, so clearly manifest today in your favour. Velehrad is yours. I will send word ahead to the town provost to admit you.’
Boško nodded, looking down gravely at the woman lying prone, grievously injured, unconscious and bleeding profusely. This woman had done great harm, committed great sins. She had defiled her marriage-bed. She had plundered his father’s grave. She had given such great offence to Bohodar Rychnovský that he could no longer serve her. Boško had every reason to hate her. Yet looking down at this wayward daughter of the Mojmírovci now—broken utterly in body, crushed in spirit—he found he could not hate, but only pity.
Chlothar, on the other hand, had little sympathy for a mother who had caused the man he had always called ‘father’ to be a cuckold, and who had lied to him for his entire youth. Never having been wholly comfortable in the Slavonic tongue, his heart and his expectations from the elder Chlothar were Savoyard instead. Velehrad held little value for him. He would be good to his word.
Boško repaired to Velehrad, and took up residence in the hall that had once belonged to Rastislav. Blažena joined him there, holding the hand of the sturdy 20-month-old boy, Radomír – their healthiest child to date – that they had conceived that day behind the byre. The knieža did rejoice in their company: Radomír was a fine and winsome youngster and easily stole his father’s heart, as well as his elder brother’s. (Pravoslav was not the sort to hold Radomír’s good health against him in envy, but ran and laughed and wrangled and rough-housed with him as any well-meaning older brother would.)
But two months after the battle, past the ides of October, a herald came to Velehrad from Savoy, bearing the seal of the soi-disant King of Great Moravia, Chlothar Karling-Bari. His mother, Queen Bratromila, had succumbed to her wounds. Having lost a leg and an eye, and her body being broken into the bargain, she had given up the ghost into the hands of whatever power would claim her. Boško slumped into the chair that had once belonged to her father, and covered his face in his hands.
‘Save your tears, Amvramě môj,’ Blažena laid a comforting hand on his shoulder after Chlothar’s herald had left. ‘I won’t dare say it’s the judgement of God – who knows or cares what He thinks, anyway? But look at the choices she made: the bed she slept in; the grudges she nursed; the petty revenges she laid. She did have it coming.’
It was in Boško’s nature to be mild and sweet, and so it was up to Blažena to provide the pepper in their relationship. She did that well: an arch brow; a clever quip; a saucy turn of phrase; a perfect barb to puncture whatever pretenses to holiness, virtue and glory that lesser men thought to wrap themselves in – these were Blažena’s specialties. Even here, her appraisal of Bratromila helped Boško gain some perspective, even if the sympathy he felt would not leave him. Boško gripped his wife’s hand and gave her a wry smile.
‘Dearest aunt,’ Boško kissed her. ‘And how should I stand up, if you were to shine a light on my faults?’
‘How can you ask that, and still be thought clever?’ Blažena wrinkled her nose. ‘I may have overestimated you there, surely. Why should I shine a light on the faults of a man who thinks of others’ needs first, who places his family and his vassals and even his servants before himself, who eats last and least, who spares kind thoughts even for his bitterest enemies? What sort of thankless harridan do you take me for?’
Boško laughed at that. ‘Why, my thankless harridan. Who else?’
‘And don’t you dare forget it, my adorable idiot.’
THREE
Downfall
19 October 917
Downfall
19 October 917
‘Mother,’ Chlothar spoke to her sotto voce at the head of their formation, ‘we need to press the attack. We can’t risk waiting for the armies of Constantine to show up on our rear!’
Bratromila regarded her son with a sad wistfulness. Chlothar, for all he bore the name of the husband who didn’t love her, nonetheless was as dark and handsome as the Mstislav she had loved. His temper, though, blazed the way her father’s was said to in life. Several in her court at Velehrad thought from this that he might indeed be a Karling by blood… but the elder Chlothar had not, evidently, been fooled. Nor had his son. With a pang in her heart, she noted how even now, riding at her side, the blood of her blood and the flesh of her flesh regarded her with mistrust and suspicion.
‘Mother! Are you well?’
‘I’m fine,’ Bratromila said.
‘Fine, like hell,’ snapped Chlothar. ‘It’s that old scar flaming up again, isn’t it? God’s wounds – if you weren’t well enough to travel, then why did you not leave the campaign in my hands?’
‘Like I said,’ Bratromila said bracingly, ‘I’m fine.’ Truth be told, she couldn’t tell at the moment whether it was the long, ugly, ill-knitting wound across her back that was bothering her, or the pang in her heart. ‘It’s not that I think you incapable, Chlothar. As long as I could sit upright in the saddle, I would have come myself. I’ve waited too long for this, and I want to savour this moment. At last Bohodar’s depraved, inbreeding grandson will have the comeuppance that his grandfather should have taken.’
‘Yes, well,’ Chlothar frowned, ‘we had best make our attack soon – strike hard, and then move off west into Austria. We have only five hundred men, and as I said, we don’t want to be here when the Eastern ruler of the Greeks arrives.’
‘Ha!’ Bratromila laughed bitterly. ‘At least we have Étienne comte de Modène and Queen Margarethe of the East Franks on our side.’
‘If we don’t finish it soon,’ her son urged, ‘that could turn into a very long, very bloody, very costly war for us… and Moravia right in the middle.’
Queen Bratromila surveyed the field. They were in an open clearing on the right bank of the Morava, which was otherwise sheltered by trees along its banks. The village of Uničov lay to their north, and the village of Litovel lay across the river to their south. The hot August sun beat down upon the verdant treetops, from dark spruce up to the silvery undersides of poplar leaves, dazzling the eyes with green. In short order, the troops of Bohodar mladší came north and west along this bank to meet the lightning advance from Velehrad. At their head alongside the knieža, Bratromila noticed with another pang, was her dead paramour’s kinsman, Bratislav Pohanský. They took up the southeastern corner of the lea, while Bratromila formed up the Velehrad line along the northwest.
Boško rode forward at the head of his men. ‘Hail, Lady Bratromila. I trust you’ve had a pleasant journey through my realm?’
‘Spare me the pleasantries, you incestuous brat,’ Bratromila snarled. ‘War is upon you whether you like it or not. You pressed upon me the furtherance of your grandfather’s unjust claim, traitor that he was. And now you will answer for it, to me and to God.’
Boško saw how heavily she breathed, and how she sat wincing in her saddle, as though in deep pain. His brow furrowed with pity. ‘It’s not too late to end this mess,’ he said. ‘I can promise you safe passage back to Velehrad, without bloodshed, if that is what you wish. I’d rather not see you hurt.’
But Boško’s compassion and chivalry, however earnestly meant, served only to provoke Bratromila to deeper fury. She would not be made the object of any man’s pity – particularly not from the scion of Bohodar Rychnovský! ‘The only thing that will gratify me will be your cries for surrender, and you personally at my mercy.’
Boško pleaded with her: ‘Bratromila, we stand poised between us to start a war that will pit Greek against Frank, East against West, in a terrible slaughter that may last generations! Is this truly the battle you wish to fight?’
‘If that is how it must be,’ Bratromila told him.
‘Then the wages of it be on your head,’ Boško answered her, and rode back to his line. The orders were shouted up, the horns blasted into the air. Arrows began flying thick through the air in both directions. The front lines with their shield-bearers moved toward each other slowly, closing the distance across the lea beneath their feet. Although Bratromila’s troops and Boško’s were, for the present, evenly matched in number, it soon became clear that the levies from Velehrad, hastily mustered and forced to march too soon downriver, were outclassed by the zbrojnošov from Olomouc.
And then, sudden and startling as thunder, the blast of horns ripped through the air. They could be heard from the northeast, from the direction of the Uničov road. And then up went a fearsome war-cry, not in the Slavonic tongue but in Elder Bolghar: ‘Puçta ura! Puçta ura!’ – ‘Skulls at our feet! Skulls at our feet!’
And then, breaking forth across the lea, the sight of the leather helms and glistening lamellar of the feared Bulgar band which had taken for itself the ultimate symbol of Khan Krum’s dread ferocity. His mouth open in a roar, sabre in hand, riding down heavily against the Velehrad line upon a black horse, was tall, fierce, athletic Balin! A thousand of the proud nomadic warriors-for-hire stormed across the calm Morava lea, coming to the aid of Bohodar mladší.
Chlothar let out a roar. ‘Bulgars! What are the Bulgars doing here?’
The Velehrad line was broken into disarray in several places under the Bulgarian assault. Bratromila tried to rally the remainder of her Great-Moravian levies around her banner, but the Bulgars were already on top of them. The Velehrad Moravians fought bravely, but the better-armed and better-armoured Bulgarians made quick work of them.
Bohodar mladší saw it, leading the troops on the right flank: Bratromila on her white horse, and Balin on his black, suspended in silhouette against the bright summer sky. Bratromila was shouting an order to hold; and Balin saw her. He thrust his spear and it caught her full in the leg just above the knee. She cried out in pain and drooped to one side. And then, a flash of bright steel whirling through the air. A Bulgarian throwing-axe caught Bratromila just under the helmet, tearing away part of her cheek and crushing her eye socket.
The battle was over. All the weapons came down, all the shields lowered as one of the Bulgars, seeing the enemy commander fall, lifted the brutally-mauled queen down from her horse and laid her on a litter. She still breathed, but all consciousness was gone. One side of her face was a mass of bloody pulp, and the spear that had pierced her leg had gone all the way through. She would never walk on it whole again.
Bohodar mladší and Captain Balin of the Bulgar band of the Skull Cup crossed the field, littered as it was with bodies, and came over to where Bratromila had been laid. They were intercepted, however, by Chlothar, who shoved Balin roughly back.
‘You! You won’t take my mother’s head for a trophy and gild it for a drinking-piece. Get gone, villain. I trade no words with hirelings. My business is with this one.’
Balin raised his hands politely and withdrew two paces, but stood squarely within reach of the knieža who was his brother by marriage, and kept a wary eye on the choleric Chlothar.
‘Is there anything that can be done for her?’ asked Boško mildly.
‘Keep your false sympathies! You’ve done more than enough already,’ Chlothar spat, echoing his mother. ‘But I yield to the judgement of God, so clearly manifest today in your favour. Velehrad is yours. I will send word ahead to the town provost to admit you.’
Boško nodded, looking down gravely at the woman lying prone, grievously injured, unconscious and bleeding profusely. This woman had done great harm, committed great sins. She had defiled her marriage-bed. She had plundered his father’s grave. She had given such great offence to Bohodar Rychnovský that he could no longer serve her. Boško had every reason to hate her. Yet looking down at this wayward daughter of the Mojmírovci now—broken utterly in body, crushed in spirit—he found he could not hate, but only pity.
Chlothar, on the other hand, had little sympathy for a mother who had caused the man he had always called ‘father’ to be a cuckold, and who had lied to him for his entire youth. Never having been wholly comfortable in the Slavonic tongue, his heart and his expectations from the elder Chlothar were Savoyard instead. Velehrad held little value for him. He would be good to his word.
Boško repaired to Velehrad, and took up residence in the hall that had once belonged to Rastislav. Blažena joined him there, holding the hand of the sturdy 20-month-old boy, Radomír – their healthiest child to date – that they had conceived that day behind the byre. The knieža did rejoice in their company: Radomír was a fine and winsome youngster and easily stole his father’s heart, as well as his elder brother’s. (Pravoslav was not the sort to hold Radomír’s good health against him in envy, but ran and laughed and wrangled and rough-housed with him as any well-meaning older brother would.)
But two months after the battle, past the ides of October, a herald came to Velehrad from Savoy, bearing the seal of the soi-disant King of Great Moravia, Chlothar Karling-Bari. His mother, Queen Bratromila, had succumbed to her wounds. Having lost a leg and an eye, and her body being broken into the bargain, she had given up the ghost into the hands of whatever power would claim her. Boško slumped into the chair that had once belonged to her father, and covered his face in his hands.
‘Save your tears, Amvramě môj,’ Blažena laid a comforting hand on his shoulder after Chlothar’s herald had left. ‘I won’t dare say it’s the judgement of God – who knows or cares what He thinks, anyway? But look at the choices she made: the bed she slept in; the grudges she nursed; the petty revenges she laid. She did have it coming.’
It was in Boško’s nature to be mild and sweet, and so it was up to Blažena to provide the pepper in their relationship. She did that well: an arch brow; a clever quip; a saucy turn of phrase; a perfect barb to puncture whatever pretenses to holiness, virtue and glory that lesser men thought to wrap themselves in – these were Blažena’s specialties. Even here, her appraisal of Bratromila helped Boško gain some perspective, even if the sympathy he felt would not leave him. Boško gripped his wife’s hand and gave her a wry smile.
‘Dearest aunt,’ Boško kissed her. ‘And how should I stand up, if you were to shine a light on my faults?’
‘How can you ask that, and still be thought clever?’ Blažena wrinkled her nose. ‘I may have overestimated you there, surely. Why should I shine a light on the faults of a man who thinks of others’ needs first, who places his family and his vassals and even his servants before himself, who eats last and least, who spares kind thoughts even for his bitterest enemies? What sort of thankless harridan do you take me for?’
Boško laughed at that. ‘Why, my thankless harridan. Who else?’
‘And don’t you dare forget it, my adorable idiot.’
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It seems like Bratromila really never should have messed with the Moravians - her fate was to be captured by them (or rather, their allies). She didn't get what she wanted, but what she deserved. Even if Balin was denied his trophy.
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Yeah. As I was playing I literally was trying my level best to prop up this girl despite her long streak of really bad decisions. And then I got the 'Betrayal' event and just went 'sod this'. There's only so far I'm willing to tolerate AI shenanigans.
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Book Two Chapter Four
FOUR
Banquet at Bedanford
16 September 922
Banquet at Bedanford
16 September 922
‘Come on, is that the best you’ve got?!’
Pravoslav struggled to stay on his feet and on his guard. The narrow blade of wood came at him, it seemed, from five directions at once. He took a half-step back and turned his own blade to the side. But his wild-eyed opponent kept pressing him back, and back, and further back. Pravoslav’s thighs and calves were burning with trying to keep his stance steady, and his shoulder was growing tired from the constant battering his teacher was giving him.
‘Too slow!’ cried Tas, striking Pravoslav heavily on the shoulder with a swift downward sweep.
‘Aggh,’ the lad moaned, dropping his sword arm. This was the sixth time he’d been beaten so far today, and he felt no closer to getting anywhere near Tas, let alone striking him.
‘How’s he doing?’ asked Boško of the Czech hrabě, who shook his head dispiritedly.
‘He’s got the stance down,’ Tas acknowledged grudgingly under his breath. ‘And we’re working on the power through his shoulder. He’s a bright lad: he understands the basics, is calm, measured, listens to every instruction. But… he’s simply too gutless and indecisive. He’s pulling his blows. I can see it a mile off. He’s never going to be a good fighter unless he knows how to go for the killing strike!’
‘Or,’ Boško mouthed, ‘perhaps he doesn’t want to rob me of a perfectly useful vassal.’
Tas gave a nervous quirk of a grin. ‘As it please you, milord. But if you want to make a passable zbrojnoš out of him, he’s got to be tougher and meaner.’
‘We’ll speak of this later. I’m afraid we have to leave off the lessons for today,’ Boško said, a bit louder.
‘Whatever for?’ Pravoslav asked. ‘We were just getting started with skirmish! I should go a few more rounds to get up to speed today.’
‘No arguments, Slávek,’ Boško shook his head. ‘Run and get your things.’
Pravoslav did give his father a mutinous glance, but then biddably ran off to pack. Boško watched him with a small degree of satisfaction as he went. Tas’s rigorous regimen of stretches, runs, drills and bouts of swordplay were paying off, at least as far as his health was concerned. Pravoslav had only had two of his wheezing attacks this past fortnight, and both of them were fairly minor and of short duration. He looked and acted a lot healthier now!
Boško did have to agree, grudgingly, with Tas’s assessment of Pravoslav’s temper. Pravoslav was admirably active, constantly outdoors and on the move. But he would never make a great hunter: he loved living animals too much, and if he came across one in his romps, he would either leave it alone or, if it was injured, try to help it. Likewise, although Pravoslav had a noteworthy gift for the blade and its handling, it was unlikely he would ever intentionally attempt to do a man harm with it.
‘England, milord?’ asked Tas.
‘England,’ nodded Boško. ‘Bedanford. Apart from Blahomíra, the children haven’t seen their grandmother or their uncle Prokop yet. It’s high time they did. In fact, I imagine that’s why Mother arranged this little banquet and invited us all.’
Tas sighed. ‘I see. God be with you! Just remember your own promise when you return.’
‘I haven’t forgotten it,’ Boško answered him.
~~~
When Hilda had first come to Moravia, she had gone by horse to Lundenwic, and from there taken a ship from the mouth of the Tamys over the North Sea to the East Frankish port town of Hammaburg. From there she boarded a riverboat which bore her and her father up the Elbe nearly all the way to its source, and from there it was a relatively easy ride to Olomouc. The journey that her son took to visit her, forty-six years later, took much the same route, only in reverse.
For Boško and Blažena and all their children (save Blahomíra – she was with her own husband Mihail, the younger brother of Captain Balin), the journey to England was a rare treat and a privilege. Blažena was of course eager to see her old friend Hilda again. And Pravoslav’s early teenage attitude hadn’t quite faded his enthusiasm for the natural world and its attendant wonders. Pravoslav had brought with him several pressed leaves of cured birchbark, used them and a piece of charcoal to sketch the trees, hills, birds and animals that he saw along the river as they went downstream.
They passed through the Sorbian fishing and trading port of Drježdźany – a small hamlet, still mired in heathenry, whose absolute importance for Pravoslav personally and for the fate of the Rychnovský family far into the future was as yet unknown and unseen to him. Pravoslav was more intrigued with drawing and making observations of the corncrakes which were coming down toward the Elbe along the slopes to feed. Pravoslav maintained his interest when they changed ships at Hammaburg, and was pleased to spot, one day when they were far out on the North Sea between the mainland and Britain, a great slate-grey leviathan with a curved rear fin and a head shaped like a melon, but much larger. (Pravoslav’s sketch of the beast is probably the first example of a medieval sighting of a Hyperoodon.) Poor six-year-old Radomír, who got seasick, was considerably less enthusiastic about the voyage.
Hilda had already gone to the trouble of arranging horses and carriages to pick her Moravian relations up in Lundenwic, and they were soon off on the road north. Blažena gripped her husband’s hand and beamed at him, and Boško lifted hers to his mouth and kissed it. Little wonder! She hadn’t seen her friend in many years.
‘Blaženka moja!’ Hilda cried out from the gate in front of her hall as their carriage approached. She was grinning and waving madly, and Blažena’s face was incandescent with delight as she lit from the carriage into Hilda’s waiting arms. Sister-in-law embraced sister-in-law in a cascade of delighted tears and laughter. Whatever else might have motivated Hilda, at least this reception was genuine.
‘It’s been far too long,’ Hilda bubbled in Slavonic, long unpractised but now exercised for the sheer delight of the partner to converse with. Hilda’s formerly dishwater-blonde tresses were now white, and deep crows’-feet were etched around her eyes, but there was a warmth in her smile that made her seem younger, almost childlike, in Blažena’s eyes.
‘It has, sister, it has!’ Blažena’s nose wrinkled with delight.
Hilda gripped her arms and kissed her soundly. Then she turned to her son and did the same. ‘My dear Bohodar. Welcome home!’
‘Thank you, mother,’ Bohodar hugged her. ‘You look well!’
‘Now that you’re all here, I’m flourishing,’ Hilda gripped her son’s hands. ‘I’ve missed you both! And are these all my grandchildren?’
Bohodar stepped aside smartly and bade his children descend from the carriage. The diminutive Zbislava came down first, followed by Pravoslav, Miroslava, Ladina, Radomír – who was holding their youngest, the three-year-old Slavena, by the hand. Each of the children in turn made their formal greetings to their grandmother. Hilda held out her hands and gave each of them firm, demonstrative squeezes of affection around the shoulders.
‘All but one,’ Blažena clarified. ‘Our eldest Blahomíra is but newly wed, and had to decline the invitation.’
‘I see,’ Hilda’s face fell a little, a bit saddened. The last time she had seen Blahomíra there had been a rather heated argument between them which Boško had been compelled to settle. ‘Well then, tell her she must come next time, and that her tyrannical and impatient grandmother simply will not brook no for an answer! Procopius, come meet your brother and sister and nephews and nieces!’
It was then that Bohodar saw the gangly young man hanging back in the shadows under the eaves, and recognised him at last for his younger brother. (How different he looked with such a long beard! Last he’d seen Prokop before he’d left for Bedanford, he’d merely had a frosting of teenage burns and whiskers!) But then he caught the glint of terror in his brother’s wide blue eyes at being mobbed by this bevy of strange children he’d never met, all at once. Boško intervened at once.
‘Let’s head inside first, mum. It’s been a long journey, and the children are probably longing for a proper seat, some small ale and a bite to eat.’
‘Of course,’ Hilda said indulgently. ‘Come, children! I’m sure that the cook already has something on the table for you.’
Bohodar mladší turned his face back to Prokop, whose eyes darted him a glance of relief and gratitude. Boško offered him no words, but only a pat on the shoulder as they filed past, and Prokop answered it with a gentle one of his own. Better that he should meet them on his own terms, one or two at a time if it could be helped.
‘How many guests are coming, Mum?’
‘It’s not a large affair, dear,’ Hilda assured Boško. ‘Apart from myself, you, your children and Procopius, Ealdgyth will be there, as will Ulfi and Copsi. I thought it best if I just kept it to close family.’
‘Ah,’ Boško nodded. His maternal aunt he knew quite well. But Ulfi and Copsi—
‘Bróðor!!’
Before he knew what had happened, a sandy-haired child probably about Ladina’s age came hurtling out of the hedgerow and barreling straight into Boško. The lad was tall and burly for his age, and had a broad, toothy grin on his face as he hugged his brother—really his half-brother—around the middle in a bear’s grip. Boško knew at once that this must be Copsige, Hilda’s son by her second husband Ulfcytel. The knieža of Moravia returned the young lad’s hug, although he had been slightly winded by it.
‘Copsi!’ stormed his elderly mother, grabbing him by the collar and boxing his ear. ‘Is that how you greet your brother?!’
‘It’s alright, it’s alright,’ Boško told her easily. ‘I’ve had an eight-year-old boy myself!’
‘So you have,’ his mother answered. ‘And one that will be soon,’ she smiled at Radomír. Then she turned back sternly to Copsi. ‘Now, I expect you to behave!’
‘Madam,’ Copsige replied in stiff effrontery, ‘I always behave. You heard my brother – he had no issue with my manner of greeting him. And now, Mother, I shall show him the grounds of estate and castle, trusting that meets with your high standards of proper behaviour.’
Hilda sighed. Perhaps aware that this imperious and cocksure youngster was a reflection of her own self-willed youth, she was wont to indulge him. ‘Very well, Copsi,’ she said, ‘but have him back before dinner begins.’
~~~
Boško warmed to his little English half-brother at once. Copsige did traipse about estate and castle grounds as though he himself were master there – rather than his mother mistress. But he was at all points solicitous and attentive to his guest and kinsman, and treated him with the proper affection and awe due to an elder brother. After a most serious discourse on the merits and correct uses of the cones of various evergreen trees as projectiles, and another on the appropriate method and desired length and heft of fallen tree branches for use as practice-swords, Copsige and Boško disclosed to each other a shared appreciation for outdoor games like chivvy and skittles. Boško could see already that Copsi would grow up to be a formidable opponent on the battlefield, being possessed of cunning and physical strength… though his temper toward living things inclined the same way Pravoslav’s did, toward the merciful and kind.
By the time they returned to the hall, a large kettle was already roiling over the hearth, spilling a mouth-wateringly savoury tang into the loft around the hall. Bowls were brought out and ladled of the thick, spiced meaty concoction, and Hilda’s family all dug in.
Boško found himself seated next to Ulfcytel, his new stepfather, and to Ealdgyth his maternal aunt. After his afternoon romp with Ulfcytel’s son, he had expected to like the father. Sadly, getting on with Ulfcytel proved difficult for Boško.
‘I say, you’re the lord of Prag, Olemyce, and Wælgegerd all three?’ Ulfcytel said – mangling the names of the Moravian towns in his own English usage. ‘It’s a secure position, I’ll warrant. Hills. Well defended. How much sterling are you raking in from all those estates? Should be ten pound a month at least?’
‘Seven,’ Boško mumbled into his stew.
‘I say, that’s no good at all,’ Ulfcytel shook his sandy beard, and let out an almighty belch. ‘To be lord of three walled cities, making only seven pound a month? Look here, you can’t let those good-for-nothing clods who work your lands take advantage of you like that. Always sneaking to get out of doing their part. Firm hand on the whip, that’s the trick. That’s what you need. But tell me—now you’ve got Wælgegerd out of the hands of that mincing simpleton Chlothar, you’ve basically got the whole dale to yourself, yeah? Just a couple lost-cause holdouts malingering in the southeast. You could name yourself king, couldn’t you?’
Boško thought back uncomfortably to his run-in with Leopold the fool. True enough: having rule over Velehrad was enough for Moravian tradition to proclaim him king. But… ‘Haven’t gotten around to it yet.’
‘Well, do it, lad. Got to let them know who is master. I tell you, when I was younger…’
Boško felt his attention slip. What was rambunctious direct simplicity in the son, had calcified into haughty imperiousness, avarice and contempt for inferiors in the father. Boško found himself hoping that his mother could exercise control over Copsi’s education – he would hate to see all that exuberant goodwill in his brother turn into… that. He turned his attention to Ealdgyth on his other side.
‘I say, aunt – I haven’t seen cousin Offa here today. He isn’t ill, I trust?’
‘Oh, no!’ Ealdgyth answered. ‘Quite the contrary, I assure you! No – he and Isabella are at home with their newborn. She hasn’t been churched yet and the little one hasn’t been christened, but the three of them are well and snug enough. I’d be envious, but now that Offa’s out of the house, it’s been just me and Sæxbald at home, so…’
‘Ahh, say no more,’ Boško grinned. Ealdgyth flicked a sly glance toward where Blažena was sitting.
‘I suppose power has its advantages. A knieža—is that how you say it?—wouldn’t want for governesses. I’d been given to understand that your marriage, young man, was largely to my younger sister’s gain, and due in no small part to her persistence. And yet, take it from a happily-married woman. I can tell the two of you truly do understand and value each other, despite the, ahem… canonical irregularities.’ Here Ealdgyth gave her nephew a nudge and a wink. ‘Or, perhaps, because of them?’
Boško laughed at the old woman’s mischief. ‘And you don’t feel awkward speaking to me about it?’
‘Whyever should I? Oh no, I’m no threat to you and your favourite little auntie’s bed. And you’re no threat to mine and Sæxbald’s either, lad. My son’s not the only one who’s snug. Don’t take it amiss.’
Boško shook his head. ‘Likewise, ma’am.’
‘Oh, to be frank, I envy the two of you. So many years together yet. It’s a blessing, nephew, for a husband and wife who appreciate each other to be together. Not all are so lucky. Cherish it.’
‘I intend to.’
Boško hadn’t intended upon returning to Bedanford to bond with his maternal aunt over—of all things—marriage and its blessings. Yet, here indeed he was. And he found that he and Ealdgyth had much more in common than that, despite being separated by a native tongue, a continent and a channel. It was in a much more relaxed mood that he returned with Blažena and their children at the end of their stay.
Attachments
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Book Two Chapter Five
FIVE
Golden Braids
20 August 924
Golden Braids
20 August 924
‘You’ve been a fool before, Bohodar. But this time you’ve really outdone yourself.’
Never mind the glower on Blažena’s face. Never mind that she was leaning forward over him at her full and formidable height. The fact that she had used his full Christian name was evidence enough of her displeasure. Even so, the newly-minted Kraľ of Veľká Morava was set in his determination, and not even the approbation of his irate aunt, wife and soulmate could deter him at this point.
‘I don’t think I am. Slávek can take care of himself!’
‘Don’t give me that!’ Blažena snapped. ‘He is a fourteen-year-old, a mere child! And you’re sending him out, unsupervised, unprotected—!’
Bohodar mladši tried to suppress a noise of derision, but that belated attempt fooled Blažena not a whit. ‘Unsupervised and unprotected? Hardly that! The lad’s had some of the best tutoring in swordsmanship to be found in all of Moravia and the Czech lands. Tas is escorting Slávek, and he’s more than a match for anyone who might try him at arms!’
‘Don’t play word-games with me,’ Blažena hissed, her eyes blazing. ‘For one thing, Tas is not fully recovered from his injuries yet. For another thing: you know full well I don’t mean man-to-man fighting. You’re sending him to a foreign court – to the Mojmírovci! An enemy court!’
‘You think they will do harm to the crown prince of Moravia?’
‘They don’t recognise your claim!’ Blažena shouted at him, her face reddening. ‘You seriously think that ring of gold on your brow protects you, you stupid man? Those schemers think of that as their own already, don’t you understand? You really don’t think they’d stoop to hostage-taking, blackmail, or worse, with our Slávek as their edge? How can you be so irresponsible with your own son’s life?’
Boško was taken aback by his wife’s blaze of anger at him. ‘I’m no such fool as all that. I’ve already taken adequate steps to ensure Slávek’s safe passage and conduct while he is on Ždar’s territory. He will stand to lose horribly if he makes any attempt on our son.’
‘As much as he stands to gain,’ Blažena’s eyes gleamed dangerously, ‘should he succeed? And have you thought of the other tricks he might try—a young boy and a young girl, together? Has the bull forgotten that he too was once a calf?’
Bohodar made a gesture of dismissal. Blažena stood from the table in a huff and raised her hand to slap some sense into her husband. But she thought better of it, and the same hand lowered.
‘We’ll see about this. I swear—’
She stormed off angrily. Boško frowned. Blažena had originally thought it a wise decision to arrange for a meeting between their son and Ždar’s sister Držislava. Evidently she had only just learned that the venue would not be Olomouc. At this point she wouldn’t be able to do anything to alter or interfere with matters, but he’d find a way to make it up to her later. Something involving a visit to a hot-spring and a couple small glasses of damson wine, perhaps – or one of the comedic or satirical sketches put on by the gašparkov in the square; she always loved watching those[1]! But for the moment, his attention was all on the upcoming formal visit he had planned with Ždar of Nitra.
To tell the truth, all of Blažena’s concerns had already occurred to him and entered into his plans. That was not deception on his part. Boško was taking a risk, but he was not a simpleton. The surety that Ždar had already agreed to was already over twice the customary weregild due for the ransom of a king’s son, and Bohodar had already seen to it that Slávek would be overseen personally by Tas himself even to the very gates of Ždar’s court, and make regular reports back to him personally.
After all, this wasn’t only a little meet-and-greet between Boško and Držislava.
‘Oh, no. It’s much more than that,’ Boško breathed to himself as he unfurled the latest epistle from the knieža of Nitra.
Speaking of potential costs and potential windfalls: it was a chance for him to place on display the dignity, glory and might of the Rychnovský family; a chance for him to exert himself as an equal among the other rulers in central Europe; and not least, a chance to mend bridges with the Mojmírovci. Bratromila’s loss of Velehrad, injury and death had been a grievous and smarting blow to the pride of the house of Mojmír and to the house of Karling both. By building a bond of personal trust between another Mojmírov and another Rychnovský, perhaps some of that damage might be mended. Blažena’s was being a mother hen and seeing only the potential dangers to her beloved child. She wasn’t seeing the whole picture of what might be gained! And besides, Pravoslav himself was keen on the idea. A gentle and irenic soul at heart, any mission of peacebuilding appealed innately to the boy, and he was at the tender age where flights of innocent idealistic goodwill came as naturally as pimples or cracks in the voice.
‘Father?’ asked the lad. My o vlku…
‘Yes, Slávek.’
‘Is everything ready?’
‘As ready as it will ever be,’ Boško nodded, though his gaze was a bit distant.
‘I heard you and Mum arguing,’ he noted skeptically. ‘Is something wrong?’
Boško shook his head and clasped his son’s hand. ‘Nothing for you to be concerned with. Let’s get you ready and on the road. Tas is waiting for you already.’
~~~
Pravoslav said the ‘Our Father’ ten times and the ‘Kyrie’ forty times before he mounted his horse. He understood the politics of his own situation far better than either his mother or his father supposed: he knew quite well the stakes for his family that would meet his success, as well as his potential worth as an anchor against his father’s board, so to speak. But for all his prayers to God, the prospect of danger, far from discouraging him, rather elated him. To be tasked with such a quest for his family’s honour and for a settled peace with their neighbours was exhilarating!
Even so… he couldn’t help but wonder, forestall and, yes, even fear a little, what manner of reception he would have at the other end. Pravoslav had never met Bratromila in person, nor any of the Mojmírovci. He knew nothing at all about Ždar Mojmírov beyond his name. Out of thin air, the lad’s mind conjured up the image of a beady-eyed, broad-shouldered, swollen-jawed giant with small moustaches and slicked-back hair. And then he wondered a bit about the girl he was to meet. He began, after the manner of youth of his age, to fantasise about her features – the colour of her eyes and hair, the curve of her cheeks, the width of her rump. Never mind, of course, that he was promised to that other girl – that shy and trembling White Croat under the abuse and neglect of that cruel burgomistress. In Pravoslav’s mind now she was little more than a pale and pitiable shadow, more wisp than girl. Though on an intellectual level, Pravoslav knew that she was his elder by a year and that by now she would be coming into her own as a full-grown woman, she was still in his mind leagues away and obscured by the mists of childhood memory.
So lost was he in teenage thoughts of girls yet unmet, that he hardly noticed the road around him, except for a vague sense of going up. Indeed, they had ascended into the mountains, and were making their way, day by day over the course of a fine and sunny summer week, from the Moravian valley into the northernmost ‘finger’ of the Carpathian foothills – the White Carpathians, as they were locally named – and then as the week drew to a close descending again into the valley in which the town of Nitra was situated. The town loomed near and Pravoslav felt his throat grow unaccountably tight with both trepidation and anticipation.
The party that met him at the gate consisted of a dark-haired youth – a boy, little more! – and an older girl with two waist-length flaxen braids and a pair of piercing cornflower eyes which roved over him with a curious mix of playfulness and wary caution. And, by heaven, was she ever a sight! Pravoslav was taken breathless for a space – in Moravia crowns brown, red and black were common enough, but this girl was as golden and icy-fair as a severanka! It was the lad, however, that stepped forward.
‘Your humble servant in God’s name, Pravoslav Rychnovský,’ he spoke with impeccably polite diction. ‘A hundred welcomes to our humble Nitra!’
‘God greet you, Ždar Mojmírov,’ Pravoslav ventured as he lit down from his horse for a proper greeting. This lad could be no other – but how unlike the brutal moustachioed giant of his imagining was this serious little fellow, so earnestly play-acting the great lord! Over his head behind him, the flax-and-cornflowers beauty caught his eye with a mischievous half-smirk and as much of a shrug as she would dare to escape her brother’s notice. Pravoslav shot her a little raised brow in response, in appreciation of being let in on the joke. But he kept his attention upon his host and strained to keep his voice level and earnest. ‘I am honoured to make your acquaintance.’
‘This is a great day in the chronicles of our fair realm beneath the Tatras,’ Ždar intoned with ostentation. ‘The sad passing of my elder cousin, whose unfortunate want of judgement was among the causes of this pitiable rift between your great-grandfather and herself, nonetheless heralds a horizon of new opportunities for us. With any luck, this visit of yours will mark a turn of the tide, and a new chapter in the shared story of our two families and peoples. May it be followed by many more.’
Pravoslav inclined his head and gave some suitably grave words of agreement. Evidently Ždar took a sublime pleasure in the sound of his own voice, which was all the more comical given his age. All the while behind his back it seemed Držislava – for who else could it be but she? – had her hand over her mouth. Her cheeks were red and her shoulders tense with the effort to keep from laughing out loud.
‘Allow me to introduce my sister to you,’ Ždar gestured to her with his hand as though he were showing off a prize horse. For her part, Držislava coughed, cleared her throat and arranged herself primly and obediently to allow Pravoslav to view her. But the one rebellious glance she cast up again over the head of her younger brother let the Rychnovský boy in on the joke. ‘Pravoslav, this is my sister Držislava Mojmírová, and it is she who earnestly desires to make your better acquaintance.’
Držislava stepped daintily forward and offered one immaculate hand for Pravoslav to kiss. He did so, and again did not miss the glint of mischief in the elder sister’s eye.
After the formalities – upon which the young knieža Mojmirov insisted at every point – they rode into town toward the main holding in Nitra. Pravoslav kept pace with the golden-haired girl, who engaged him in small conversation which was primarily innocent to this point. Once they arrived at the hall, Ždar laid out an elaborate light repast. Whether this gesture was calculated to meet with Pravoslav’s approval, or whether it reflected the tastes of the host (who likewise took only modest portions for himself and ate them with a punctilious dignity), the guest couldn’t exactly tell. Držislava, Pravoslav took note, ate heartily and with gusto – and yet she also did so with an elegance that charmed the young boy.
A bit more disturbing to Pravoslav’s notice, however, were the servants. At Olomouc, his father and mother were both on good and easy terms with the tenants, and his mother in particular saw to it that they received their due and more. As a result, although the retainers and servants at the castle were smartly attentive and dutiful, there was a kind of relaxed air about them, an easy familiarity that sat well with lord and tenant. Nitra was different. Although they were correct and meticulous down to the last crumb, there was a chill to the servants’ demeanour that sent shivers down Pravoslav’s spine. They went in dread of Ždar. Laughably pompous he might appear to his peers, but to his social inferiors he appeared a genuine terror. As soon as Ždar left the room, however, it was as though a long breath was exhaled in relief by the room itself. Clearly they did not go in the same dread of the elder sister, who turned to Pravoslav with a confiding smile. Two rows of fine, unblemished teeth.
‘Whew!’ she laughed. ‘Now I can let out my laces a bit.’
‘Is he always like that?’ Pravoslav laughed.
Držislava made a sombre mouth in lighthearted imitation of her younger brother. ‘Invariably. The God-given duties of the blood lie not lightly upon those burdened by them, however tender in years. So we are meticulously reminded without fail, at suitable occasions each month.’
‘Every night at Vespers?’
‘On every hour,’ Držislava laughed openly at last. The sound was like that of silver bells. Some dim vapourish warning sounded in the back of Pravoslav’s mind, together with a grey and ghostly image of a sad girl in a Sisak parlour. But that warning blew away with the next round of Držislava’s blithe laughter.
‘Well, um, here I am,’ Pravoslav sat attentively.
‘Here you are,’ Držislava leaned closer. ‘Tell me—do you enjoy riding and taking the air? Your father let me know you might, in the letters he sent me.’
Pravoslav breathed out gratefully. ‘More than anything! Well, except maybe swordplay – but I’m not very good at it yet, I confess.’
‘Tell me about the Silesian Beskids,’ Držislava asked eagerly. ‘Is there good hunting up there? Are there many raids, or skirmishes with the heathen? I hear there are even severané up there – have you seen any yourself?’
Pravoslav answered his questions as best he could. However inadequate he felt they were, they served only to whet Držislava’s appetite for more. But he knew and recognised in her a fellow lover of the outdoors.
‘Mother is such a worrier,’ Držislava confided. ‘I really don’t get to go out as often as I’d like. But wouldn’t you agree with me, Slávek, that it’s as important for a woman to stay in good shape and take care of her body as for any man? I mean, the Church teaches us that it’s our duty to bear children. If our bodies are not strong and fit, how are we supposed to do that?’
Pravoslav agreed heartily. ‘Yet despite your confinement, you haven’t done so badly by yourself, surely!’
She’d cast, hooked and landed. Držislava put a hand to her face. ‘Oh, stop,’ she said. ‘But—do you know, I’m glad you’re here? As long as Mother and Ždar think I’m… you know, putting the burnish on the old family crest and playing the hostess… they probably won’t keep me in such tight quarters.’
Pravoslav leaned closer to her. ‘I’ll make my preferences clear.’
‘Good,’ Držislava dimpled and grinned.
~~~
Pravoslav was good to his word. Držislava took relish in selecting a konícka for herself, and a matching one for her guest. And, almost giddy with pleasure, she took him out of Nitra by the northward road. Tas went with them, of course, watchful for any treachery, and one of Ždar’s sullen-faced retainers had been sent, clearly on a parallel mission, from his master (or, more likely, his master’s mother).
Držislava took evident and heartfelt delight in introducing Pravoslav about each and every natural feature of the Nitra lowlands – each grove and brook; each mysterious dolmen; each moor and hedge. She pointed grandly up toward the evergreen-covered grey outcrops of Mount Zobor, the gentle yet majestic slope that was their destination. She became particularly animated when discussing where the best hound-sport and hawking-grounds were along their route. And she regaled Pravoslav proudly about a particularly keen shot she took when she was eleven, and felled a prize doe clean.
But she could have been babbling sheer nonsense and Pravoslav would still have been enchanted. This older girl, all gold and ivory and sapphires, shone to him as though lit by a beatific halo on an iconostasis. Promises, promises! How distant now was that poor orphan girl in Sisak! And how near was this lovely creature near him, breathing in the fresh air and delighting in a spirited ride! How was it possible that anything base or treacherous could share any part of a pedigree with this sweet angelic being? No nail was drawn more strongly to a lodestone, than this Rychnovský was drawn to this Mojmírová!
Again that mischievous smirk. Pravoslav paid rapt attention when she gave a slight indication of her head. Tas and the Mojmírov retainer were both idling with their horses by a brook. Držislava gave him a hand-signal to dismount. When this was done she made quick work of tying the horses, then took Pravoslav by one trembling hand, and tugged him off the path and up a rocky section of hill.
A view of modern-day Nitra from the slopes of Zobor
Pravoslav’s heart was blasting like thunder in his chest, and not one whit from the physical exertion. The hand that was now in Držislava’s… he looked up to heaven and thanked God for that small beatific window of touch – and even if she led him plunging off a cliff to his death, he would die happy! As it turned out, Držislava had led him indeed to a cliff… well, not quite a cliff, but a small overhang. And looking out over it was a broad, sweeping, panoramic view of both Zobor with its gentle jut… and the whole of the town of Nitra below them, from the northern gate to the furthest southern watchtower. The shadows of sparse summer cloud ambled lazily across green field and silver stream. And holding his hand and watching it with him—the most perfect company in the world… turned to him, and murmured breathlessly:
‘What do you think?’
‘It’s gorgeous,’ Pravoslav gasped. But he wasn’t looking at the scenery.
Neither was she.
Držislava’s other hand found Pravoslav’s. Her cornflower eyes locked with Pravoslav’s bruin ones. She brought herself so close that their toes touched – their knees touched. Držislava’s hands found their way up his arms to his shoulders, where they rested. As biddably as a yearling lamb, Pravoslav’s hands found her waist. The shocking thrill of touching a woman’s waist melted pleasurably into an awareness of how natural it felt… how right.
‘Pravoslav,’ Držislava murmured. ‘You’re…’
Pravoslav leaned forward impulsively and lay a quick peck on Držislava’s cheek. She smiled – nerves, pleasure, a hint of disappointment.
‘Is… is that all?’ she asked.
Pravoslav tried again. Trembling. On the lips.
‘That’s better,’ she told him.
How many minutes passed? Five? Ten? The worried ring of Tas’s voice below them drew Pravoslav startled out of the sweet haze he was in. Pravoslav stepped forward and downward gallantly between the Mojmírová girl and himself to forestall any suspicion of his having taken any liberties upon her honour.
‘We’re up here,’ he cried. ‘Just get a look at this view, Tas!’
He looked back at Držislava, who had her hands clasped demurely in front of her and was dipping her neck bashfully. No angel ever blushed more wondrously, or smiled more sweetly.
~~~
The rest of Pravoslav’s stay in Nitra was one of seeking out abandoned corridors, secluded garden spots, lonely eaves or shades of wall, hand in hand with Držislava – and then matching mouths, twining fingers, stroking hair, tracing eyebrows and ears and cheeks. It was late August in Nitra, but for Pravoslav with Držislava it was the calends of April in all its sweetness.
And yet he never encroached upon her honour. The closest he came was one night toward the end of his visit, when he dared to sneak into her bedroom and climb into her bed. She welcomed him with kisses and embraces, and even let him touch her privy regions over her shift… but staidly checked any further advance.
Their parting was bitter and sweet – and Držislava begged of him a swift return, assuring him of her affections. Again the shadow of his betrothal loomed over Pravoslav, and the image of the sad little girl in Sisak. He was too conscientious to make Držislava a promise he couldn’t keep, and yet he told her earnestly how he desired to see her again, and assured her he would write to her.
The return was made heavily, and all the gloom and anguish of heart of separation that might plague any fourteen-year-old boy in the painful throes of šteňatá láska. Again the sad knowledge of his betrothal weighed heavily upon him. He wondered if he might prevail upon his father to call it off and pledge him to Držislava instead… knowing that the whole formidable weight of his father’s sense of honour, duty, charity and righteousness would be countervailing against him.
It was as he feared. Worse.
‘No,’ Bohodar told him. There was no anger in it – but also no ground for argument and no hope of appeal. ‘No—that is not why you were sent there. You know that. I am deeply disappointed in you that you would even ask such a thing of me. And you are not to marry anyone other than Marija Kobilić. I trust you have not made any... inconvenient promises to that other girl?’
Pravoslav hung his head miserably. ‘No, Father.’
‘That, at least, was well done on your part,’ Boško sighed. ‘No… unpleasant knots to untie that would leave us in a worse spot than when we started. Still. Pravoslav. I am going to arrange another meeting between you and the Kobilić girl, and that shall be held here. I expect you to do your duty by her – I demand no less of you.’
‘Understood, Father.’ A hint of rebellion in that tone. Boško checked himself.
‘Off to bed with you.’
Sullenly the boy marched out of the room. Again heaving a deep sigh, the kráľ of Moravia turned to where Blažena sat in the corner of the room, resting her well-defined face on the backs of her hands. She had warned him, and Boško should have listened. From Tas’s report to him, it was as bad as he feared: Držislava had proven a consummate actress—though it was true that she was an avid huntress, she had evidently exaggerated her outdoor interests for a gullible mark’s benefit. A gullible mark, moreover, who stood next in line for the band of gold around his head. Ždar, evidently cleverer by half than he had made himself appear to Pravoslav, had connived in the little stage drama. And, every bit like the fool his wife had said he was, he had sent his son straight into that wretched little seductress’s waiting jaws.
‘Told you,’ she said simply.
‘You did,’ Boško closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘Do we disabuse him?’
‘Not a good idea. Not yet.’
‘I’ll listen to you this time.’
A bitter scoff. ‘Better late than never. Blbec.’
It was a long time before his wife spoke again.
‘For what you put me and our boy through? You owe me that week-long holiday you promised me at the Colonnade in Drahovice,’ Blažena told him point-blank. ‘Actually, make that a whole fortnight.’
An uncharacteristically sybaritic demand, coming from her.
‘You forgive me?’ Boško asked in surprise.
Blažena scrutinised her husband before wrinkling a sceptical nose and chuffing. ‘No, no, no. I haven’t said anything about forgiving you yet,’ she told him. ‘That depends on your stamina. For your sake, I hope the hot springs have all the, ah… health benefits for a man that the old wives say they do.’
[1] Though more than half of that enjoyment may have been due to the wrath such tumblers and songsters incurred from the sort of stuck-up churchmen Blažena despised – or the poverty and vagrancy they were wont to live in, which she desired to alleviate with her patronage.
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I foresee trouble. The Mojmírovci clearly haven't given up on their title, and are not beyond some more underhanded tactics to achieve their return to power.
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Ah, you've been reading The Thin Wedge of Europe interlude, I see, @alscon! (Either that, or my foreshadowing is not as subtle as I'd like.) But ohhhhh yes. Trouble is brewing indeed, with a great big upper-case M.
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Book Two Chapter Six
SIX
Second Place
5 June 926
Second Place
5 June 926
‘Stop sneezing,’ Blažena murmured to her husband.
‘If only I’d thought of that,’ Boško replied dully.
‘Don’t start,’ his wife told him. ‘It was really sweet how you attended to me in the Colonnade. But the point of a hot spring is to stay in the water if you’re naked. That’s how you don’t catch cold.’
‘I was in the water.’
‘Not all of you.’
‘I don’t remember hearing any of this advice from you while we were—’
‘Shush.’ But Blažena was blushing, and her mouth widened into a naughty smirk. ‘Not here.’
Pravoslav joined them in the courtyard shortly before Marija Kobilić entered, sitting side-saddle atop a serviceable mare of working stock, and Boško, Blažena and Pravoslav all three were there to greet her. The girl lit down briskly, handed the horse off personally to the groom with instructions for her care, and strode straight up to the king and offered him a deep courtesy.
‘Pleasure to meet you again!’ she said chipperly. ‘Though I must greet you as “your Majesty”, yes?’
‘Otec will be fine,’ Boško reached out his arms to embrace the black-haired girl, kissing her once on each cheek. For all Marija Kobilić was still petite in height and svelte in build, looking all the more like a fey out of Elphame for her delicate gossamer beauty, as the Moravian king embraced her he found her neither wispy nor fragile, but firm and wiry – a woman who made up in spirit what she lacked in height.
‘Very well, otec,’ Marija nodded sensibly, with the brief flash of a dimple before turning to Blažena – who in height and shoulder and monumental bustline towered over her as a giant over a sprite – and embracing her and kissing her with equal warmth, calling her ‘mama’. Blažena, for her part, was charmed, and held her hands for a moment.
Then Marija turned toward her intended expectantly. Pravoslav found that in size and shape she hadn’t changed all that much from his dim memories of that house in Sisak. And now, sure, she was scrubbed and washed and fitted and presentable, but it was her demeanour that startled him more by its maturation. The hand that she offered him to kiss was held out with heartfelt warmth and goodwill, and an abundance of sparkling verve that he would never have credited to that poor creature in the memories of his six-year-old self. Still, although pleasantly astonished, he hadn’t warmed one whit to this wife-to-be, who was not of his choosing or his liking. He took her hand and kissed it with a cursory formality that bordered on rudeness.
Marija, if she was nonplussed, hid it well. She cleared her throat with an irrepressible smile and turned back to her royal father-in-law, holding her hands in front of her.
‘It truly is good to see you all! But where are the others? Hrabě Slavníkov, shouldn’t he be here?’
Boško glanced aside at his wife, bewildered, but at seeing her equally bemused he addressed the young maiden again.
‘I… had hoped to let you take your ease from the road, and perhaps some refreshment, before I bother and trouble you with such household logistics? Vojtěch can wait, can’t he?’
Marija laughed gaily and quirked her head to the side. ‘Oh, that’s considerate of you! But, otec, you really don’t have to go out of your way like that for me. I will be daughter-in-law here. And – otec and mama – I know of course that my first duty is to my husband—’ she looked with a hopeful tenderness at Pravoslav, but Pravoslav pointedly looked past her, ‘—but… I truly didn’t come here to be fawned over; I came to be useful. Despite how I may look, I do know my figures and weights, I am good with my hands and I’m not shy of working with them or of managing tasks, if I can be of service to you.’
Blažena reached down a hand to her shoulder. ‘Girl dear, we’re no such heartless taskmasters as that! I’ll be straight with you: the best way you can be of use to me right now is to take your ease right now and enjoy our hospitality. That would ease the burden on my mind! God knows there will be much for you to do soon enough.’
‘You’re too kind,’ Marija bubbled earnestly. She was practically bouncing on her toes. ‘I’m just happy to be here now. They tell me at church that you and your grandfather have taken good care of my people, and I just want to let you know I’m grateful to you, and want to return the favour.’
Blažena took her future daughter-in-law by the arm and gently steered her toward the keep. Marija kept her occupied with animated and serious conversation – she was by no means able to keep off topics-at-hand; her talk was by no means ‘small’ – while Boško held back with his son.
‘Well?’ asked his father.
‘Well what?’ answered Pravoslav sullenly. ‘What is it you want from me?’
‘You make your bride feel at home,’ Boško growled. ‘Look at her. She’s happy to see you again. She’s barely off her horse and already looking to do good for this family. For you, child. I trust I haven’t raised an heir so ungrateful that he can’t reciprocate.’
Pravoslav smarted inwardly from the rebuke, and hung his head. ‘Understood, Father.’
Boško shook his head, regarding his son despairingly. Pravoslav’s hunting and hawking, his riding and swordplay, had all taken precedence over his courtly duties, and the result had been… this. His son could barely keep civil with the woman whom he was going to marry, and not because of anything she had done, but because he was still mooning over that devious demirep Držislava. The kráľ of Moravia had the sudden pang of guilt that he had let his elder son down badly in his upbringing. His younger son Radomír, on the other hand, had thankfully learned the importance of extending olive branches – his spat with their guest Alvydas iš Kulmas had been short-lived, and perhaps there was still hope for him. Still, Pravoslav did go in with them.
When they walked into the hall, Marija was already helping Blažena set table places around the hearth, and was discussing the appropriate arrangements, décor and entertainments for the wedding-feast. Blažena wasn’t just charmed now… she was downright impressed with her soon-to-be daughter-in-law. Meanwhile, Vojtěch Slavníkov had made his appearance and had already made himself known to the new lady in the household – thank God, the man was never truly that far away when he was needed. Recently more than usual, Slavníkov had shouldered not few of the burdens of administration that had been bending down Boško’s shoulders. Although he had struck up a friendly correspondence with his former foe Queen Margarethe of the East Franks and worked out a favourable trade accord as a result, managing it had proven a headache he’d been all too glad to pass on to Slavníkov.
‘… Are you sure you want to?’ Blažena asked her, barely suppressing a grin. ‘This is your wedding, but we had already made arrangements for the music…’
‘Mama,’ Marija held her hands, ‘if it’s important to you, I will keep them. I’m just telling you, though, I feel it’s more important than having musical entertainments, to invite the hungry and wanting if there is a feast, and let them share in our joy. I know Pravoslav values his fitness and would prefer smaller portions; I value a livelier and broader company. Issuing a general invitation to the people of Olomouc to receive food and blessings seems a good way forward.’
Beside him, Boško noticed his son give a grudging nod.
‘She’s a good woman,’ the king prompted him.
‘I know.’
‘She will do credit to this family.’
‘She already is, unless I’m much mistaken,’ Pravoslav sighed. ‘But she’s not Držislava.’
Boško was almost inclined to snap back with ‘Be thankful for that’, but in all likelihood Pravoslav would not take that as meant. And so, instead, he said: ‘Why don’t you join your mother and her – get to know her a bit better? She’s here for you, after all.’
Pravoslav crossed his arms, shot one last beleaguered look at his father, and then made himself presentable and made his advance. Vojtěch Slavníkov, meanwhile, came up to the kráľ.
‘My liege, a word – if you don’t mind?’
Boško reluctantly left the scene with Vojtěch, who began:
‘The maiden you got for your lad… look, I know what I said before about her breeding and my doubts about her lineage, but she’s a fine catch indeed. She knows Greek, Latin and Slavonic and she can talk circles around even Hrabě Kochan. I think she might even approach me in understanding accounts and managing house. I went over the wedding plans with her, and do you know? She managed to find two errors in sum that I overlooked! And she made recommendations on gifts that I’ll have to look into.’
‘I’m glad she meets with your approval,’ Boško nodded.
Vojtěch shook his head and set his jaw with a waggish grin. ‘Approval? Oh, if only I were fifteen years younger… The girl’s handy, thrifty and genuinely eager to please. Any boy should be on his knees thanking God for such a bride.’
‘Should be,’ Boško bit out. He shook his head and changed the subject. ‘I trust there haven’t been any hitches in accommodating Margarethe’s cheapmen?’
Vojtěch put an assuring hand on the king’s shoulder. ‘It’s under control. Never fear. Some of the crown properties along the northwest wall were not being used, so I leased them to the East Frankish traders.’
‘And they are pleased with the arrangement?’
‘They told me they had enough space, and that the location was optimal.’
‘Excellent, Vojtěch! I knew I could count on you!’
‘You always could,’ Slavníkov jutted a proud chin. ‘If you need something else done right, let me know.’
It wasn’t long after, however, that Boško ran into Kochan Žatecký. The dark-bearded Czech hrabě put an arm much more firmly and companionably about the kráľ’s shoulders, which Boško gladly reciprocated.
‘The big day is coming up fast,’ Kochan told his friend. ‘How’s the father of the groom holding together?’
Boško answered dryly: ‘The groom is reticent, and the father worries.’
‘Huh. Sounds serious. The girl? Anything wrong there?’
‘Nothing,’ Boško chuffed. ‘She’s bright, dutiful, earnest, mild-tempered – anything a man could want in a wife. Except that Slávek happened to see another first. Another I won’t let him have.’
‘Ah,’ Kochan nodded understandingly. ‘Well, we all learn, I suppose. I mean, you weren’t overfond of the wife your mother pushed on you at first, were you? She being older, and your aunt and all that?’
‘Perhaps not at first,’ Boško confided. ‘I did think her too old for me for a long time – too shrewd, too sharp-tongued. But I saw the error of my ways when she opened up to me. Talked to me like an equal rather than a child. Marija, though… she’s doing everything right, and Slávek won’t see it.’
Kochan waved that off. ‘He’s young. He’ll live. Pot of ale? I’m paying.’
Kochan always insisted on paying even though Boško was wealthier by far – it was one of the endearing things about him that he never considered the money he had to be his own.
‘I’m afraid I can’t, not tonight, I have to prepare…’
‘And I’m afraid I have to insist.’
Something bracing in Kochan’s roust caught the king by surprise. He looked to his friend, whose dark eyes were bent on him in earnest apprehension.
‘What is it you want to say to me, Kochan?’
Kochan gave a deep breath, struggled with it for awhile, and spoke: ‘Boško—my liege—I fear that Slavníkov is not being completely on the table with you. I heard about the deal with Margarethe and the cheapment from East Francia renting your lands, and… well, it has me worried.’
Boško laughed, but it turned into a cough. Devil with this cold. ‘You, worried? Kochan, you astonish me! I’ve never known you to speak ill of anyone, let alone one of your peers. What worries you about this deal?’
‘Liege, if it were any one thing about it, you know I wouldn’t say anything. It’s just that—well, isn’t it a little strange that the Queen of the East Franks starts sending you these… personal letters and then, all of a sudden, agrees to a trade negotiation with you? Isn’t it a little strange that she’s asking concessions in your town for her men? Isn’t it a little strange that the East Frankish cheapmen are setting up along the northwest wall, which was damaged in that Silesian raid two years ago and still needs repair? And isn’t it just a little strange that Vojtěch just offers to help in setting up this deal?’
‘Kochan, please say what you mean to say.’
Again the deep breath. Clearly this was painful for him – Kochan, who was wont to see the best in everyone and hated speaking evil of any. ‘I mean to say, Boško… that my honour sits near the march of the East Franks, and I hear things about Margarethe. She’s neither likely to forget a grudge, nor to scruple in how she takes her revenge. I would think twice about letting Vojtěch set up a ring of possible infiltrators or saboteurs near an area of the town which is vulnerable to attack.’
‘And you think he would do this… on purpose?’ asked Boško.
‘I think it’s hard to explain why someone with his incredible knowledge of logistics would direct our possible enemies to a place where our defences are weak. And it’s hard to know the man’s purposes when he deliberately holds himself aloof from his peers.’
‘Well,’ Boško shook his head a bit, ‘there is that to him. Part of it, I think, is a certain awkwardness he feels in society – and the other part of it is pride. Neither is a good excuse, I know. But I think if you approach him directly and talk to him yourself about your concerns, you’ll find he listens to reason. If after talking with him you still think he’s not all on the table, come back to me and we’ll see it sorted.’
Kochan let out a long breath, then shot one glaring look back up at his king and friend. ‘… Oh, all right. If it pleases you, liege, that’s what I’ll do, for your sake. But I won’t pull any punches over how harmful I think this deal is for your realm, this town and, potentially, your person and your kin.’
‘I expect nothing less, Kochan,’ Boško told him. ‘I can’t be truly at ease if I know my friend is worrying over me.’
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