The Lions of Olomouc: a CKIII Ironman AAR (Duchy of Moravia, 867)

[Revan86]

@filcat - You are far too kind! I'm glad you appreciate the verbal flourishes in my writing, though I'm afraid sometimes they might turn readers off. And yes, I also hope things turn out well for Mechthild and Bohodar, though for that we need to stay tuned...

@Henry v. Keiper - Yes, indeed. The surviving children do end up in quite a few places, not all of them good. The 'lion of Olomouc', though, refers to the coat-of-arms that CK3 gave the Rychnovský dynasty, which is a gold lion on a sable field.

I'm going to try something a little bit different here, for the next 'chapter', which I hope doesn't give away too much of what's in store next, but which I hope does add a little bit of flavour to the in-game world I'm building...

INTERLUDE I.
Two Moravias
16 September, 2019

Živana Biľaková brushed a strand of red hair away from her glasses and quickened her step, adjusting the strap of her bookbag next to her. The copy of Early Moravia: 512-982 AD which she carried in it was weighing heavily on her as she hurried to the class it was meant for. The great bronze bell had already rung for first Monday period, and she was late for History 510 – Slavic Late Antiquity. Moving across the campus quad of Univerzita svatého Michaela Archanděla in Olomouc with a brisk step, Živana found the white stucco building she was looking for and pushed open the heavy oaken door. She didn’t quite run toward Lecture Hall 7, but she was certainly at a power walk when she entered the classroom.

Professor Edvard Grebeníček, the dean of medieval studies at Michaela Archanděla for the last thirty years, checked his step as Živana came briskly in through his door and, a bit shamefaced, took her seat with her other classmates. Late students were nothing new to him, and he continued writing on the whiteboard as usual. Živana looked at what he had written. In green dry-erase marker, Grebeníček had written this at the top, dividing the board in two between them:

Bohodar Rychnovský | Bratromila Mojmírová

Under Bohodar Rychnovský, Berkyov had written the following:

• Olomouc
• Mission of Ss. Cyril and Methodius
• Pro-Constantinople, Slavonic Liturgy
• Extant writings in OHG – why?

And under Bratromila Mojmírová:

• Velehrad
• German priests
• Links with Carolingians
• Extant writings in Slavonic – Latin script

Grebeníček turned where he stood. A thin, bespectacled old man with wire-rimmed glasses and a thick, bushy moustache, wearing a tweed suit, he looked almost like a caricature of a university academic, though he did have a wry and often ribald sense of humour. Holding up the green dry-erase marker, Grebeníček made a sweeping gesture like a conductor and said:

‘Two Moravias! One centred in Olomouc, the other in Velehrad – what is now Uherské Hradiště. You see here the two personalities which guided both sides of Moravia after the death of Saint Rastislav. Now, from the reading you did: why do we care about these two people? Why do they matter for us now, living in modern Moravia?’

There was a shuffling and glancing among the reticent students in their seats. Živana watched and waited for her classmates to come up with the answer, but when none did, she raised her own hand.

‘Yes, Miss Biľaková?’

Živana cleared her throat. ‘They represent the Western-facing and the Eastern-facing sides of Moravia?’

Grebeníček grinned broadly, his eyes glinting. ‘Well, I’m glad someone read the textbook passage for today, though it would help if she also came on time for class. Please, though – elaborate. In what ways do they represent West and East?’

Živana blushed a little at the rebuke, which she knew was meant lightheartedly. But she continued: ‘Bohodar inclined politically toward Constantinople. He kept the Byzantine rite in the churches. We have records that he commemorated first Saint Photios and then Ignatios II. But most of his writings were in German, not Slavonic. As for Bratromila, she was surrounded by pro-Papal priests and pro-Karling advisors for most of her early life. She had no choice but to face west, politically. But because most of her writings are in Slavonic, we can assume that she was a bit reticent.’

‘Excellent analysis,’ Grebeníček gave his tardy student a salute of acknowledgement. ‘Now, can someone else tell me: why these contradictory tendencies in these two people? Why—’ here Grebeníček rapped the whiteboard at the relevant bullet point, ‘—did Rychnovský choose to write in German, if he so favoured Constantinople and the Byzantine rite?’

Here one of the other girls in the class, Cecilia Bedyrová, raised her hand. ‘Wasn’t it because of his wife, Matylda Štíhradsková? Weren’t they madly in love with each other?’

There were a couple of suppressed giggles in the class, and an impish look came over Grebeníček’s moustachioed face as he answered her question.

‘Hmm. Many historians would dismiss that interpretation as mere sentimentalism, but there is some merit to it, I think. We do have that touching poem of his in your textbook – “Wir jetzt im grünen Tiefthal bleiben” – with its floral and riparian imagery being allusive to their intimacy. And the fact that this love poem was preserved rather than disposed of speaks to how Matylda received it. But – if we really want to talk about Rychnovský men and their “moments”… we have Eustach Staviteľ and his French wife, who got up to the kind of naughty bedroom antics which made bishops thunder. For a marriage that was tender, affectionate, prolific and politically-effective, there’s Bohodar III and Czenzi Árpád. And then of course there was the epic romance of Kaloján and his cousin Bohumila. So if that sort of thing interests you, sign up for my High Mediæval course!’

There was another smattering of laughter. But Grebeníček raised a hand for silence, and when he got it, he went on:

‘There is another reason that your textbook gives for this West-facing tendency in an otherwise pious Orthodox Christian. Bohodar Rychnovský was sincerely interested in other cultures. He was versant in Arabic and Greek as well as German. Despite his being a clear partizan of Cyril and Methodius – and by extension Photios of Constantinople – he wasn’t a zealot. He kept a Frankish scholar as his household physician, and he forged dynastic alliances with English as well as Greek and Serbian nobles. But what about Bratromila? Can anyone tell me why she might have baulked at writing in French or Latin?’

Živana considered for a while before she raised her hand again.

‘Yes, Miss Biľaková.’

Živana hesitated slightly. ‘I’m not sure, Professor, but… didn’t she kind of resent a lot of her retinue? I mean, they virtually had full control over her life since she was a child…’

Professor Grebeníček grinned and gave a tap on his nose. ‘Very astute, Živana. Yes. She did.’

The class fell into a hush as Grebeníček’s voice fell to a theatrical stage-whisper.

‘Bratromila – the last regnant monarch of the house of Mojmír – was a desperately unhappy woman. You are right, Živana; she had very little control over her own life. Surrounded by advisors with their own agendas, she strained and rebelled against them every way she knew how from a very young age. This is something to bear in mind when we examine aspects of her later life. Mediæval Moravian and Greek historians reviled her in the strongest and most polemical terms. In particular, in his Essence of History, the twelfth-century chronicler Athanasios Kegenes infamously called her a “painted Jezebel”, a “faithless, pox-riddled harlot” and a “black-hearted witch, whose only loyalty was to Lucifer”. But – speaking personally as well as professionally – I think she deserves a greater degree of sympathy and understanding, for precisely the reasons Biľaková gave us.’

He raised his voice again to its normal tone.

‘The thing is, if we want to understand the two Moravias – the Moravia with its capital at Velehrad and the Moravia with its capital at Olomouc – we need to first understand this complicated relationship between Bratromila and her most influential vassal, Bohodar Rychnovský...’

 

[Revan86]

EIGHT
Zbrojnoš
30 September 873 – 2 May 876​

Bohodar’s ambles into Olomouc regularly took him past the wooden church, where he would invariably meet with his metropolitan bishop. It was not uncommon after the nones hour to see the knieža and the bishop sitting outside the church on a bench, drinking bowls of homebrewed hops beer and eating sausages and cabbage together, and talking over various matters. Bohodar and Vojmil had developed a firm friendship in the wake of the incident at the barracks, and both of them quickly found that they could converse sensibly on a broad range of topics, but their favourites to discuss were theology, natural philosophy, politics, rhetoric, astronomy and mathematics. Bohodar found in Bishop Vojmil a man not only of broad learning but of good sense, fine taste, and humane instincts – his only weakness being the occasional overindulgence in food and wine. He did not talk quickly or haphazardly (unlike Přerovský, for example), but always thought through what he wanted to say before he said it. Bohodar not only respected that, but it also put him at ease.

‘It’s not easy at all for her,’ Bohodar said. ‘Wratysław at her left hand, and Svätopluk at her right – flexing over her, and glaring daggers at each other. And then there’s that burgomaster of Pohansko, Jaromil, whom she has looking after her household in Velehrad now. He knows what he’s doing, that’s sure enough, but he’s also a willing tool and agent of Karloman. I sometimes feel as though, if it weren’t for me in that council room at the High Hall, the three of them would eat the poor girl alive.’

‘Not easy for her, you say?’ Vojmil stroked his beard slowly. ‘She does have at least one powerful friend to look out for her. That’s not something every ruler can say, and it’s something to be thankful for. And what of you? It can’t be easy for you, either.’

Bohodar hung his neck and shook his head wryly, resting his elbows on his knees and folding his hands together in front of him. ‘No. It’s not. I have to watch my back all the time. Sets my teeth on edge. And I can’t wait to be out of the room whenever I’m in it.’

‘I can imagine,’ Vojmil said. ‘What are you doing about it? Aside from talking to me, that is.’

‘I haven’t decided yet,’ Bohodar owned frankly. His procrastinating streak was still one of his weak spots in that regard. ‘I’d thought about taking up running. I do already get out for walks. And then I’ve heard the benefits of just writing things down… not calling for a scribe and dictating, but putting the ink to parchment myself. And… then there’s the cask. Oh God, the days that I just want to drown in one…’

‘Ah, yes,’ Vojmil sat back complacently and folded his hands over his belly. ‘He makes wine to gladden the heart of man, oil to make his face shine, and bread to sustain his heart – so says the Psalmist. Not too much at a time, mind.’

Bohodar smirked. A bit rich coming from someone with Vojmil’s appetites, but no less true.

‘If I were you, I’d try writing,’ Vojmil advised Bohodar after an amiable silence. ‘You have a fair hand. That’s rare among the laity. It might help you sort matters out. But before you begin to write, I would advise you to start with the Trisagion and the Lord’s Prayer, and ask God for humility and patience.’

Bohodar nodded.

Later that evening, he tucked in Vieročka, Radko, Vlasta and his and Mechthild’s newest-born, another redhead whom they’d named Krásnoroda, and read them a bedtime story about a sacred grove, a wise owl and a ferocious dragon who lived under a mountain. He then kissed his wife good-night and went to the study in his castle. As he sat at his table by candlelight, he took out a scrap of old parchment, scraped it off with a knife, ground out and watered some ink, and cut a quill to write with. He glanced at the icons of Christ and the Mother of God which hung on the eastern wall, and began praying to them:

‘Svätý Bože, Svätý a Krepk‎ý, Svätý a Nesmrteľný, zmiluj sa nad namy…’

And then he spread out his arm and picked up the quill, and began to write. He wrote on the parchment, as though writing a letter to himself, and wrote and wrote until the light was just a fading flicker amidst a cage of molten and set beeswax trails. With every stroke and every line, with every thought that he snatched from his brain and wrestled onto the paper in bonds of charcoal emulsion, Bohodar felt the strain in his neck and in his back begin to melt. He felt his teeth begin to unclench. He felt his shoulders begin to lighten as though they had been relieved of a heavy yoke. And tears dropped from his eyes and splattered upon the parchment – as much of relief as of anything else.

~~~​

The Lord’s Pascha came and the spring months blossomed. The days lengthened and ripened into summer. The children spent their time outdoors at play. The harvests began to come in. Then the days began to shorten again with the approach of the Dormition. Bohodar found himself to be more attentive, more observant than he had been, as a result of his writing. Something about keeping track of his thoughts on paper made it easier for him to appreciate the fragrance of the lindens, or the ripening of bilberry and sloe on the hillsides. Somehow the exercise of finding the right word made him listen more keenly to the notes of the wrens and sparrows which spring and summer made voluble.

Bohodar did not spend all of his nights in his study, however – writing actually made him a more attentive lover as well. He had enough time for Mechthild that several months later she found herself carrying their sixth child within her womb. Soon, however, she began to show worry on her face.

‘Bohodar…’ she told him, ‘it’s hurting again. This one within me is making me feel ill and weak.’

Bohodar hugged her close. ‘How bad?’

‘Bad,’ she answered him. ‘Worse than with… our one that passed. Bohodar, I’m frightened! What if God should take this one from me too? What if this one, too, is born without breath? I don’t think I can bear losing another like that. Or… what if I… cannot bring this one to life without giving my own…?’

Bohodar lay a calming hand on her head and rocked her against his shoulder, where she wept freely. He told her:

‘We will pray to God that won’t be so, and ask the prayers of the Theotokos as well. The Heavenly Queen and Mother of God is merciful; she won’t turn away from you!’

Mechthild continued to weep against Bohodar’s shoulder, but she gripped him by the arms and nodded firmly. And so she did pray. But rather than alleviating the pains and infirmities of her pregnancy, instead her symptoms seemed only to worsen. On her cheeks was none of the glow she had with their previous children. She could not keep food down, and she could barely drink enough water. To this was added some plum juice or small beer, and on this she barely knit body and spirit together for several weeks in the approach of the Nativity, as the autumn of the year 875 began to wane. With alarm, Bohodar watched his wife waste away in front of his eyes – even as her belly swelled, her face became gaunt, pale and sunken, and her arms and legs seemed to shrivel. Bohodar spent many sleepless nights by his wife’s bedside, simply watching her and listening to her take breath after troubled breath. He knew none of this pain, and yet he felt his own keenly for her.

Bohodar went to his study and fell on his knees before the icons of Our Lord and the Holy Theotokos, and he prayed aloud:

‘Dearest Lord, hear this wretched sinner’s prayer, and have mercy upon Thy servant Mechthild, and upon our child yet known only to you. Grant them both life, health, peace and safety.’

In his heart, he prayed also: Lord Jesus, if you allow both this child and Mechthild to live, I will look after them both myself, and – boy or girl – this child will be my favourite and dearest one, and shall be my heir of all my fortune that law and custom will allow. Only let them both live! Mechthild told me she couldn’t bear losing the babe – God, you know well that I couldn’t bear losing either of them!

Again he took to his writing, but this time it didn’t seem to help as much. Instead he went out into the courtyard for a brisk walk – but when he had reached the gate, he ran straight into Blahoslav of Kroměříž and very nearly knocked the man clean over.

‘Terribly sorry,’ said Bohodar, helping the burgomaster to his feet. ‘Are you alright?’

‘Don’t worry for me, milord,’ Blahoslav gathered himself together and rubbed his palms together in his usual unctuous manner. ‘I bring tidings for you which I hope will please you.’

‘Do you?’ Bohodar tried not to scoff. He felt at the moment that only a healthy birth and a deliverance from illness for his dearest ones would please him. ‘Well, man, what is it?’

‘You remember those, ah… outlays you made to me last month?’

‘Mm,’ Bohodar told him. ‘Yes, I do recall the ninety-nine solidi I gave you for that procurement.’

‘Well,’ the burgomaster answered him with a broad grin, and then stood aside with a theatrical sweep of his arm. ‘Here is what those ninety-nine pieces got you.’

Into the courtyard marched a full sotňa of a hundred hardy young men, all in good wool tunics. Each of them had at least a short blade and either an axe or a spear. The best of them had well-kept helmets of the conical design that Bohodar himself favoured. Most of them had a coat of ring-mail. All of them marched in perfect form, and at a single barked order from the burgomaster came to a halt and snapped to attention. Bohodar, impressed, walked down the line in front of them.

‘Zbrojnošov,’ he ordered, ‘at ease.’

The men set their legs apart and brought their main weapons to rest, hilts on the ground.

‘Impressive, are they not, milord?’ Blahoslav smirked to Bohodar. ‘Indeed they are zbrojnošov, all healthy young men from rural families throughout the Morava valley. These past months they have trained at Kroměříž both in close combat and with arrows, as well as in the tactics needed to conduct a war in the hills or in the woods.’

‘You have outdone yourself, Blahoslav,’ Bohodar nodded. ‘You have my thanks.’

‘Zbrojnošov,’ he continued, addressing the men in front of him, ‘you are hereby charged and commanded with serving as armigers in my personal revenue. You will lodge and take your meals here at the barracks, and you will care for your gear meticulously, as your life and the lives of all within the castle depend upon it. You will receive your pay from my šafár at the ides of each month. Any questions? No questions. Good. Sotňa – dismissed!’

The men turned and marched off to the barracks, again in a formation that brought Bohodar a smile of confidence and gratitude. Blahoslav might be a bit of a brownnoser, but he well and truly knew his business when it came to the training of troops. Bohodar’s smile fell, however, when he considered that these men, however formidable they might be in combat, would afford no protection against the fiend that was robbing his wife of her health, and his unborn child of a chance at life.

 

[filcat]

the verbal flourishes in my writing, though I'm afraid sometimes they might turn readers off

Can only say this: Never back down from the struggle against the dullness of the common, never surrender the striving for a new horizon; ever reach for the skies of the delicate words, ever trust in the words of the never-heard; always deliver them to create unique dreams of the never-cited, even the common words will be friends to conquer the fictional uncharted; fly now into the universe of the dictionaries, and awaken the new worlds in all, for they are our only hope.

---

touching poem of his in your textbook – “Wir jetzt im grünen Tiefthal bleiben”

He is the outcast of the discipline, only an amateur fool at best, and he has to deal with his nonlinear system of partial derivative equations, yet he has been at the history class, he could not keep himself from it. Only to listen, always afraid of participating, he did not even talk for once in the entire semester. Hearing those words from the back of the classroom, still leaning on the wall instead of sitting, he failed in his fight against stopping himself to join in the discussion.
Still, he managed to wait for the end of the session, then he timidly approached.

"Err... Sir. If we are going to use high german to reconstruct the dialects, shouldn't we translate it as Jetzt bleiben wir im grünen Tal?"
That was it. He immediately sank into the deepest point of the regret, and he thought he had to save himself from his own misery. To his own luck, he remembered the professor's words on his other class.

there’s Bohodar III and Czenzi Árpád. So if that sort of thing interests you, sign up for my High Mediæval course!

"Err... I'd like to sign up for that High Mediæval course; I'm interested in Árpáds and Dulos, too. Ahem...if it's open for extra-curricular students. Sir."
It was not enough, though. He knows he will suffer from those regrets of his forever.

---

Pheww. Should have just said cool writing or something like that. Well, the writing is that good, so it is inevitable for one to get lost in it. Kudos.

---

what if I… cannot bring this one to life without giving my own…?

Oh no. Should not have expressed hope for them so early.

 

[Revan86]

@filcat: That exchange is headcanon. Which, my being the author, means that it's canon now. And thanks again for the words of encouragement; I'll continue to write as I have done!

NINE
Blažena
3 June 876​

The oppressive heat was not the only thing causing Bohodar to sweat. No matter how many times he heard it, no matter how muffled by the seclusion, the birthing agonies of his wife always gave him a knot in the pit of his stomach and a sharp sympathetic pain in his lend. This time, though, it was worse. It had already been seven hours since the contractions began, and still the heavy winded breathing issued from upstairs. Bohodar stared at the dregs of the hops ale in his bowl. This was already his second; he tried to resist the urge to pour himself out a third, but that resistance was growing thinner by the minute. Dread began to set in. What if Mechthild’s words about giving her own life turned out to be prophetic?

She had already made some recovery since her initial bout of illness, and had made up for the loss of appetite in her later months. Mechthild had taken to eating large meals of venison and fish in particular, and had taken to snacking on walnuts and caraway and ripe bilberries between mealtimes. Bohodar, in relief at this returned interest in food, had happily furnished his wife with whatever she craved. True, she had gained back some of the weight she had lost, but it still seemed not to be enough. Mechthild’s belly continued to swell to well past potter’s-wheel size, but the rest of her remained gaunt and pale.

And now she was struggling for both of their lives upstairs. Bohodar swilled the dregs in his bowl, and went upstairs again to wait and pray some more.

Another hour ticked by. And then another. And then another. It was taking far too long. Mechthild’s longest labour up until now had been seven hours; now she was already past nine, and still the bellows continued without abatement. Bohodar’s heart was torn out of his chest in sympathy.

And then it all stopped. Bohodar bit his finger until it bled. The midwife wasn’t coming out, and no sound came. But then—

A cry. A healthy baby’s cry. And a woman’s weak laugh of relief.

Bohodar broke down entirely and wept from sheer relief. He had not composed himself by the time the midwife emerged, but was still inhaling in gulps with streams down his cheeks.

‘It’s another baby girl,’ the midwife told him. ‘And she’s a big one! Eleven pounds and two lotes[1].’

Bohodar gaped as he gazed down at his youngest daughter, who was indeed surprisingly heavy. She had an adorable, pudgy round face, and her eyes were already a middling hazel which would get darker as she grew. The thin fringe of hair on the top of her as-yet-unformed and fragile infant head, was not red, but instead the same dark brown as her father’s.

‘And… and Mechthild? Is she…?’

‘She’s fine,’ said the midwife as her husband breathed a sigh of relief. ‘But it was a hard birth. She will need to take care of herself attentively for several months after this. You, husband – do not approach her for coupling during the next three months at least, even if she asks you to. She will also need to start eating again, but slowly. Soups and milk to start with, nothing too heavy or oily like she had been eating.’

‘May I see her?’

The midwife nodded. ‘That would be best. She asked for you.’

Bohodar went in to see his wife. She was still drawn and weak, and there was a thin film of sweat on her face. But she smiled when she saw him, and took the infant girl back from him. She reached up her hand to his, which he took.

‘I’m glad—’ Bohodar began, but he never finished.

‘I know,’ Mechthild replied weakly. ‘Me too. How should we name her? Kostislava, perhaps: “glory in the bones”?’

Bohodar shook his head. He saw the wisdom and meaning in that choice, with the way it hailed to her ancestors. But there was only one name now he would even begin to consider for her. ‘Mechthild, we are blessed. You have your life. She has hers. Both of us were worried that we would lose both. I won’t hear of her taking any other name than Blažena.’

Mechthild gave her husband a knowing smile as she cradled the large baby girl. ‘She’s going to be your favourite, isn’t she?’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘I’m your wife. You think by now I can’t tell? Besides, she’s the one who most looks like you in her colour – fair-skinned, but dark in hair and eye. So that’s natural. Just… try not to make it too obvious. Radko is still your heir, and Viera, Vlasta and Krásnoroda are all deserving of your love as well.’

‘I know. I haven’t forgotten,’ Bohodar assured her. ‘In fact, I’ve already begun to make plans for Radko.’

‘Oh?’ asked Mechthild. Bohodar took it as a good sign in her, that she perked up and her eyes began to sparkle with interest at this promise. ‘Tell me more.’

‘I have been inviting various nobles from the west, including East Francia and even further afield, in search for a suitable bride for our son. One of them has accepted my invitation and has agreed to meet me here next month. His name is Cenræd eorl, and he comes from a minor holding called Bedan Ford in the kingdom of Wessex.’

‘In England,’ Mechthild nodded knowingly. ‘And I assume he has a daughter? What is her name? What are her years?’

‘The girl’s name is Æþelhild – I think that’s the same root as your Swabian “Adelheidis”. She is of the same years as our Radko, I believe, or maybe a year older – which would put her age at about seven. From what I hear, she is a quiet but intelligent child.’

‘A good match for our Radko, then,’ Mechthild said approvingly. ‘What about the accommodations? Are both of them to visit us here, or just the father? Come, tell me!’

It gladdened Bohodar to see Mechthild stir to this interest and energy. It seemed to him that even the colour of her cheeks was returning. The mother of a son will always be interested in potential daughters-in-law. And, of course, Mechthild thrived in company and loved to plan social occasions… something that Bohodar tried to avoid if needed. And so, as the infant Blažena nodded off in her arms, she peppered him with questions until she had managed to glean from her husband not only all of the details about Æþelhild Cenrædadohtor that she could, but also those about Cenræd himself – their likes and dislikes, their family’s wealth in land and silver, their retinue and hosts, their position among the English kings – and also about the meeting that Bohodar had planned for them. Mechthild then proceeded to give her husband some advice about how to set up the meeting.

‘Hm. Are you sure it was Cenræd himself who corresponded with you? His way of expressing himself sounds decidedly feminine. He may very well be a man of fastidious tastes,’ Mechthild mused. ‘It would be better to have Zdravomil prepare a meal for them that’s filling but not too extravagant. And use the pewter wares rather than the silver; I don’t think Cenræd will be impressed too much with ostentation. Oh—and English is a language that is similar to German; I don’t think it will be too hard for you to pick up a few phrases just for politeness’ sake, but most of the conversation could be held in my tongue.’

Bohodar made mental notes of all of this. ‘What would I do without you?’

Mechthild leaned up for the kiss he offered, and then made a noise of frustration. ‘Ugh! If only I wasn’t bed-ridden and on a liquid diet for these next weeks. I would dearly like to meet this English lord and his daughter myself.’

Bohodar was silent for the time being, but he smiled inwardly. It was a very good sign for her health that his wife had shown this characteristic interest in Radko’s betrothal.

---

[1] Roughly 4.5 kg in modern units – a remarkably large baby!

 

[filcat]

A cry. A healthy baby’s cry. And a woman’s weak laugh of relief.

Indeed that is a relief.
Send the words, call to all poets, bards, storytellers! Tonight, we dine in wine! Errr... or first will drink the wine in celebration, before going into more dionysiac ways of festivities.

‘In England,’ Mechthild nodded knowingly.

Confirming the toponym for the island, as it should be commonly known by then since the Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum of 8. century ce.
(friendly watchdog from fact-checkers of fictional lores reported. Coming next, the controversial news: Is byzantion the only bridge between two continents arbitrarily defined by gaius plinius secundus? And was he really the elder of his name?)

 

[Revan86]

One of the greatest English historians, Venerable Bede of Jarrow. And also one of England's greatest saints.

 

[Revan86]

TEN
A Letter to the City
15 March 877 – 6 October 878

Again Bohodar and Bishop Vojmil sat in the shade of the overhang of the zemnica at their favourite corner by the wooden chapel in Olomouc. With their wooden bowls of beer in hand and a fine stout cask and ladle between them, they enjoyed calm and easy company, often without need for much speech, happy to be in each other’s presence. When Vojmil finally spoke, Bohodar perked up.

‘That little blonde girl I saw leaving the courtyard earlier with the stringy long-haired fellow. That was Æþelhild and her father?’

‘It was.’

‘Ah.’

‘Second visit?’

‘Third.’

‘Mm.’

A couple of slurps of beer later, Vojmil added: ‘Watch out for the quiet ones. “Blessed are the meek”: they often take their inheritance in ways we don’t expect.’

‘Something you saw or heard of her concerns you?’

Vojmil shrugged. ‘She’s English. She comes from a long line of seafaring dobrodruzi. You watch how she carries herself when it’s just her and her father. She’ll bend rules as she sees fit, she won’t back down from a fight, and she won’t give up once she’s sunk her teeth in. You tell Radko for me: he’d better keep a firm hand if he doesn’t want to end up henpecked.’

Bohodar chuckled. ‘I’ll do that.’

Again the two of them ladled out and sipped at their beer and enjoyed a companionable silence. In front of them the street corner of Olomouc lay with its grey triangular thatch roofs, quiet save for the occasional clop of a mule’s hooves, the clucking of hens or the barking of a dog. Every once in a while they could hear snatches of human voice from around the corners, though the words were indistinct. At length, Vojmil spoke up again.

‘Mechthild doing well this time?’

At that, Bohodar grinned genuinely. ‘Much. No illness this time, her diet is normal—well, mostly—and her colour is good. God willing, this pregnancy will be an easy one for her.’

‘May God grant it,’ Vojmil said genuinely, and crossed himself.

The silence stretched once more. This time it was Bohodar who broke it.

‘And Blahoslav? I hope he isn’t making too much of an imposition on you so far.’

Vojmil weighed his words in answer with care. ‘I haven’t noticed him much myself, actually. But a number of the čierni duchovní have come to me with words of praise for him. I don’t know him for a particularly pious or God-fearing man. But the recent material contributions he has made to our parishes, with books, Greek tutors and lay scribes, have been remarkable. I appreciate your giving him leeway to take the initiative there.’

‘I’ll be sure to tell him that,’ Bohodar answered.

‘The Church of Christ is the body of Christ, and the gates of Hell shall not prevail against it,’ Vojmil intoned, ‘but it never hurts to have the hands and feet of the Church remain active in aiding her and those who need her help. The recent… unpleasantness between the late Patriarch Ignatios and Patriarch-Emeritus Photios has been a real scandal. There has even been talk of a new upsurge of iconoclasm in the City.’

‘God forbid,’ Bohodar made a sign of warding.

‘So indeed he may,’ Vojmil said – with an ever so slight smug tone to his voice. ‘The compromise that the Emperor was able to effect between the parties of Ignatios and Photios was practically Solomonic in its acuity. Photios was somehow convinced to accept laicisation, in exchange for an acknowledgement that his patriarchate was valid and apostolically blessed. That could very well have inflamed resentment among the partizans of Ignatios, were it not for the fact that with the same stroke the Emperor also asked the bishops of the City to lay hands upon a young black cleric of the Ignatian party, who took on his deceased mentor’s name upon becoming the new Patriarch.’

Bohodar whistled. ‘I don’t envy that fellow. He has his work cut out for him – not just dealing with the fallout from the apostolic succession, but also with the Bulgarian problem and the relations with Rome.’

‘… And the mission of our brother Methodius,’ Vojmil added wryly. ‘God keep him. And you – keeping the flickering flame alive in Olomouc and Opava.’

‘As you say,’ Bohodar nodded after another gulp of beer, ‘it never hurts to have more hands. I don’t think it would come much amiss if I was to, say, write a letter of support to the new Patriarch.’

‘Mm,’ Vojmil nodded and stroked his beard. ‘I would be happy to help you with it.’

‘Come by my study at the castle tomorrow morning, then,’ Bohodar told him. ‘We’ll see if my attempts at writing out my own thoughts have borne any fruit worthy of the name.’

~~~​

Vojmil came a little late to his appointment; by that time Bohodar had already finished one draught of his letter to the new Archbishop of Constantinople. He set down his quill and blew out a breath.

‘Would you read what I have so far?’ Bohodar asked his metropolitan.

‘Happily!’ said the rotund cleric. He took the piece of parchment and began to peruse it. The Greek lettering on the page was small and neat, but the polytonic accents and breathing-marks had a bold flourish that bordered on the outlandish. Vojmil adjusted the paper in front of his eyes, and began reading the letter aloud.

To the most superb and resplendent lord spiritual, the Archbishop of Constantinople, New Rome, and Œcumenical Patriarch Ignatios the Younger, the unworthy Bohodar, doux of Moravia Proper, sends his warmest regards and affection in the name of Christ our God.

It has long been my most ardent wish, upon opening my ears to the supreme efforts with which you have restored amity and peace among the brothers and sisters in Christ, to express my admiration and esteem for your All-Holiness. In my pitiable state of ignorance, God has not yet bestowed upon me the honour of making me acquainted with your person. And so it is in the knowledge of your benevolence and the hope of your charity that I have made bold to write you this letter.

As the philosopher says: ‘For the true pilot it is necessary to pay careful attention to year, seasons, heaven, stars, winds and everything that is proper to the art, if he is really going to be skilled at ruling a ship.’ So too it must be for the pilot of the Ark which is the Church, and the skill and clarity with which you have read the present condition, and sought to return us to our proper course, is the clearest evidence of God’s favour upon you. The good God sends His beloved servants always what they need, and I thank Him daily that upon your All-Holiness, beholding your own formidable abilities, He has seen fit to bestow youthful vigour, strength and soundness of body and mind.

I too am concerned with the right guidance of the Church within the lands over which, beyond my dessert, I am appointed steward. Despite my own clumsiness and sloth in doing God’s will, He has nonetheless had the mercy to keep the excellent bishop Vojmil at my side, and the liberality to send among us, at your bidding, able and skilful teachers of sound doctrine and virtuous life. I entreat your All-Holiness to persevere in your efforts to uplift our ignorant flock, and keep the names of our priests and laity in your remembrance before God.

May your All-Holiness be kept always in the unbounded grace of Christ and of the All-Holy Mother of God.

And it was signed beneath:

‘Mm,’ Bishop Vojmil considered as he ended the letter. ‘It isn’t bad. I do think you need to be careful in some of these passages, to ward against false humility. But the overall thrust of the letter is good. Your reference in the captatio to his “youthful vigour” is particularly well-chosen.’

‘Thank you! Let’s hope he thinks so,’ Bohodar answered. ‘Now, which passages would you have me scrape and rewrite, so that the letter sounds less falsely humble?’

Together, Vojmil and Bohodar worked on revising the letter, and soon it was ready to be folded and sealed. Bohodar sent it to the City in September, shortly after his birthday. It was into October before he received a reply from the Hagia Sophia.

 

[filcat]

God willing, this pregnancy will be an easy one for her.

Can only say this: Bohodar has much to learn about human physiology. Living in an age eons before the scientific revolution and the modern medicine does not help the situation, though.

It was into October before he received a reply from the Hagia Sophia.

It is good that the letter was replied. On the other hand, the look of Ecumenical Patriarch Ignatios II, well, is really telling how much he appreciates the letter.

 

[Revan86]

@filcat - yeah, Bohodar's kind of a typical dudebro in terms of his knowledge of physiology; but again, considering his day and age, this isn't surprising. Also, yes, the current EP does have that 'Hugh Laurie having a reasonably good day' expression to him...

ELEVEN
Taking Sides
19 June 879​

‘What in God’s name is the meaning of this?’ the queen fulminated at her vassal. ‘Why is your name – you, of all men, whose loyalty I thought I could trust – affixed to the bottom of this treasonous letter?’

Bohodar’s heart wrenched with sympathy for Bratromila. The eleven-year-old only daughter of Rastislav was doing her level best to project strength and sternness. But as with many whose years are too tender, her rage had the exact opposite effect. Bratromila’s outburst showed not her fortitude, but instead her vulnerability and insecurity. That had been close to the entire point. But if he tried to tell her so directly, she would take it as an insult, and that would get him nowhere. Bohodar gave a silent sigh.

More and more Bratromila reminded him of his own eldest daughter. Viera had already developed a very firm sense of right and wrong, which delighted her father to see. She was also, however, a bit too fond of getting her own way and setting her own pace – and let others keep up with her or be damned. This was a bit less to her father’s liking. But Viera had been given a significant amount of leeway by her indulgent father, and that was leeway that Bratromila had never gotten. Bratromila was meek and sweet by her very nature, and Bohodar could see easily how such a young woman could dazzle and captivate if ever she got the chance to bloom. But the ever-looming presences of Svätopluk on one side of her, and Wratysław on the other, had caused her to smother and shrink, like a seedling bereft of water and light. Bohodar couldn’t help but pity her and want to protect her. But what he had just done, however good his motives had been, felt much more like a betrayal.

Was it indeed a betrayal? Bohodar thought to himself. He had told himself always that he was acting in her best interests, and in the best interests of the Moravian realm. But the letter she was now shaking in front of his face had been a clear blow to her.

He had indeed aligned himself alongside the knieža of Nitra – the greedy and hated Svätopluk’s son Mojmír – in publicly demanding the repeal of several laws that Bratromila had taken it upon herself to pass, giving greater rights to Velehrad over those of her vassals. And Bohodar knew exactly how it looked. He now appeared to her as yet another conniving, controlling, self-serving grasper more intent on his own gain than on her honour. But his aim here had been entirely different.

He had known – and opposed – the laws in question, not because they infringed on his own rights in any measurable way, but because they threatened to tear apart the very kingdom they were meant to strengthen. Silesian raiders from the lower plains were rampaging across their marches, and the petty independent chiefs of Poland were greedily eyeing the ripe morsel of a vast and rich kingdom in the hands of an ill-friended and easily-cowed little girl. However much she – and he – might dislike the vassals who stood over her, she needed their power, and she needed them united under her to survive. These laws threatened to do the opposite: drive them away from her and leave her truly helpless.

‘Well? Say something!’

Bohodar let out another breath, not realising he had been holding it. All this time he had been trying to figure out what to say, and how to say it. Bohodar had always been fairly slow to action or to speech, and now that tendency was not serving him.

‘My liege,’ Bohodar began, ‘I don’t deny the reasoning or the value behind the new vassalage laws that you’ve put into place. I even agree with your reasons. I understand that you want to exercise some greater degree of control over your own realm, as well as over your own destiny. But – please do me the courtesy of hearing me out on this – now is not the time. Heathen raiders are already crossing our northern borders. You can bet the princes who sent them are looking at this realm with the eyes of vultures. The situation calls for a lighter touch on your vassals. If you squeeze them too hard, you may find that even the loyal ones slip through.’

‘Loyal ones like yourself, perhaps?’ the eleven-year-old sneered her resentment. ‘All my life I have been counselled to patience, to self-control, to curbing my desires – like you have done just now. And yet the very same men who lecture me on this, are the ones who declared war on my father, who greedily grabbed up all the land they could, who feast on venison and veal and quail’s eggs in their own halls while setting a meagre servant’s portion before me. I thought you were better than this, Bohodar. You were loyal to my father when no one else was. That’s why I trusted you. I see now I was mistaken.’

‘I can say no more, your Majesty, that would make you believe me. Only put my deeds to the test.’

‘And this is not a deed?’ Bratromila again shook the parchment. ‘The “lighter touch” you would have me use on selfish men like Wratysław and Mojmír will only serve to crumble this kingdom.’

Bohodar shook his head sadly. ‘I can’t agree – not at this time. I’d hoped to convince you by less drastic means, your Majesty. I’m sorry indeed that it came to this.’

‘So am I,’ Bratromila’s honey-blonde braid hung sullenly. ‘Well I know this is a fight I can’t win, and I don’t have the heart to cause the deaths of my own people over this matter. I’ve already dictated the decree that rescinds my vassalage laws and returns them to the arrangement you had with my father.’

Bohodar inclined his head in acknowledgement. Again his heart wrung with sympathy for this girl. Yes, this was a fight she couldn’t win. So far she hadn’t had any fights she could win against her more powerful vassals, and Bohodar hated to be the one to quash this one attempt of hers to fight back. In seeking to protect her and her realm, though, had he hurt her even more? Again the similitude between the Moravian queen and his daughter struck him like an arrow through the heart.

‘There it is, Bohodar. You’ve got what you want,’ Bratromila murmured. ‘You’re dismissed.’

‘Majesty.’ Bohodar bowed to the young queen, whose back was now turned expressively to him.

Bohodar left the High Hall and went out into the streets of Velehrad, turning at the corner which led to the guest-house which served now as his lodging whenever he had cause to come to the capital. A dark stormcloud was brewing in his mind as he went inside, closed the door to his room, dropped the latch on the door, and went and sat on the mattress. Here there was no Bishop Vojmil to listen to over bowls of beer. Here there was no Mechthild to talk sense and right to him, or to offer him the comforts of her desiring body. Here it was just him, alone with his thoughts. And his thoughts tormented him cruelly.

He went over and over in his mind all the things that had come before he’d signed his name to Mojmír’s letter. He scrutinised every one of his own motivations. Open, base treason – no, that was never and never would be one of his motives. But he had deliberately gone counter to the will of God’s anointed, the daughter of his benefactor, and deeply damaged her trust in him. Was that not wicked enough a betrayal? Further: had he not underestimated Bratromila? Had he not doubted her ability? Had he not crushed her sense of self-worth? And in so doing, had he not openly defied the will of God? Was he not deserving of a traitor’s death? These thoughts and worse chased each other around his head.

Bohodar felt a cold panic clawing within his chest, and a paralysing pain. His breathing quickened and his heart pounded. He grabbed both sides of his head in his hands, tore at his hair, and let out a howl of grieving desperation and shame – much like the howl of a wounded animal. He reached for the knife at his side, but his trembling hand found his scrip instead, which jangled with silver coin. Could he not give away this money to heal his soul, and cleanse himself from this sin? Or he could go out and buy a vat of wine to drown his worries in.

And then his eyes, which had started to swim from the pressure he was putting on his temples, saw through the rainbow patches of shadow to the table opposite. There was a spare scrap of parchment lying there, as well as a quill. Bohodar got to his feet, shuffled to the table, and sat down heavily on the stool.

For a long time he regarded the blank surface with an equally blank expression. At length, he picked his head up, ground out some ink, dipped his quill in, and began to write.

… Both Slavomíra and her mother, praise God, are healthy and well. I am now a father six times over.

I believe Mechthild understands me better than any other. I laughed it off when she told me Blažena would be my favourite, because she resembles me most of our children. But I remember the oath I swore to God before her birth. And she is such a dear maiden, sensitive and sweet. I cannot deny that I do show her great favour and indulgence, beyond our other children. This troubles me, both because I do not wish to spoil her, and because I do not want any of my other children poisoned by the sin of envy.

My thoughts often stray to Vieročka and Radko. I must give the glory to God and thanks to their mother, that so far I have observed them to be blessed with sweet tempers, hearts which strive toward Christ, and a sincere interest in fairness and decency. And yet I fear that the powers of this world and the lord of the air will bring upon them great sufferings and trials within this vale of darkness.

I fear the same for my liege.

Bratromila was robbed of her father by the very same men who now claim to swear fealty to her. For her to begrudge them would be only natural. Yet it is these men that she must keep sweet with her every breath and movement. She has been given a heavy cross indeed to bear. So far as her kancelár I have tried to be a Simon of Cyrene for her; now, how I fear that I have instead been a Judas Iscariot!

Bohodar set his quill down and sat back with a sigh. Merely the act of writing had helped him sort his thoughts down. And he began to reflect on how a man motivated by base greed for gain, and a man motivated by the thought of preserving the realm and protecting the faithful, might be moved to do the same things. The outward look of the deed might be the same, but the inner motivations completely opposed. Only God can read the heart. And yet still he hoped that somehow by deeds of loyalty, he would be able to bridge this gulf that had now appeared between himself and Bratromila.

 

[filcat]

Very good depiction of one's turmoil embroiled in despair of remorseful dilemmas, eating up one's very own existence. Kudos.

Bohodar felt a cold panic clawing within his chest, and a paralysing pain.

Not sure about this one, though. On the other hand, personally preferring amorphis for searching the beauty in the metal-lic sounds (or månegarm, or immortal, or led zeppelin, or falkenbach, or equilibrium, or pink floyd, or sólstafir, or stribog, or dark tranquillity, ...), therefore will listen to it again to find the essence it possesses.

 

[Revan86]

Thanks as always for the kind words, @filcat !

Not sure about this one, though. On the other hand, personally preferring amorphis for searching the beauty in the metal-lic sounds (or månegarm, or immortal, or led zeppelin, or falkenbach, or equilibrium, or pink floyd, or sólstafir, or stribog, or dark tranquillity, ...), therefore will listen to it again to find the essence it possesses.

Big fan of Månegarm, Led Zep, Pink Floyd and Dark Tranquillity! Personally I thought of Angel Dust when considering Bohodar's tormented state here, but there are multiple artists who would be fitting here.

Now, an announcement. I added this already to the introductory post, but just so that it is here in the thread itself to be seen...

Basically, it has taken about 11 chapters to get us to a point where something interesting happened gameplay wise (Bohodar taking control of liberty faction, having a mental break as a result). Considering the glacial pace, I thought it would be a good idea to discipline myself and attempt something a bit more structured.

I have decided to divide this AAR into seven 'books'. Tentatively, these books are as follows:

Book 1: Moravia Divided (866-911)
Book 2: Moravia Reforged (911-1001)
Book 3: Moravia Ascendant (1001-1107)
Book 4: Heroism and Heresy (1107-1220) [WARNING: on account of the rise of Adamitism in EE, many images in this book will be spoiler-tagged.]
Book 5: A Legacy in Steel (1220-1268)
Book 6: Thin Wedge of Europe (1268-1345)
Book 7: Among Giants (1345-1453)

As you can see, Book 1 and Book 5 cover much shorter time-periods than the others; these represent the rules of my founding character (Bohodar) and the most renowned and warlike character I've played so far (Ján the Valiant). I'm thinking of striking a balance between narrative and history-book styles in this AAR by having these two books be more narrative-heavy, and the others deliberately less so. I may use the 'history-seminar' at the St Michael Archangel University setting in my fictional 'modern' Olomouc more liberally in these sections.

 

[Silverio90]

I have decided to divide this AAR into seven 'books'

I really like the ideas of the books but I must say that the first three books' names sound redondant. Those Moravian monks didn't have a good imagination

 

[Revan86]

Thank you for the recommendations, @Silverio90! As I said, these were merely tentative titles. I have made some revisions in the intro post to... five of the seven titles, actually.

 

[Revan86]

Another quick announcement:

Gameplay has finished for this CK3 game, and I have already reserved a space for the EU4 megacampaign continuation. We'll see if I ever get to it! Also, visit the EU4 thread at your own risk if you don't want the ending for this AAR spoiled. I feel somewhat justified for creating the thread there, though, in that it was kind of a bumpy ride getting to that point.

My efforts on storytelling will be focussed here, though. Please stay tuned!

 

[Revan86]

TWELVE
No Game, A Successful Hunt
18 November 883

It was a clear, cool November – not cold, but cool. The air didn’t bite so much as gently nip, and the sun hadn’t yet grown so lazy in its skyward arc that it couldn’t warm the skin with its shafts. The subtle scents of pine needles and falling birch leaves which wafted over the air were punctuated with the sharper accents of smoke and curing meat. Although the weather was reminiscent of early rather than late fall, the trees knew that the time for soaking sun was gone, and the Moravian folk knew that the time had come for culling the older animals and preserving their flesh for the lean months ahead.

Outside of Olomouc, throughout the Morava valley, there could be seen new clearings and reclamations. The villagers had cut some sections of forest, and built up wetland areas with walls and drainage trenches of new earth, so that new fields could be planted between. The work had begun too late in the year this year for new planting in these fields, but the effort put in this year would assuredly pay off the following one – or the year after that, or the year after that.

A small procession of richly-dressed and fair-skinned men and women made its way up out of the Morava valley and into the woodlands to the north once again. As they passed through one village, a bold pair of beggar children came up to the younger among the party. Their mothers rushed out to scold the rascals and clear the way for the noble party, fearing the children would receive a beating for their trouble. But instead of blows with the whip, the young lady and the young gentleman on horseback reached into their scrips and tossed, not copper, but good silver coin toward the village imps. The mothers were left staring after them in pleasant surprise.

Seeing their children behave in such a way, the kňažná leaned over to her husband and told him:

‘And who was it who taught his children to throw away good silver like that?’

‘I haven’t the slightest clue what you mean,’ Bohodar told his thrifty Swabian wife airily. ‘I only saw Vieročka and Radko laying up their treasure in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroy and thieves do not break in and steal.’

Mechthild sighed. ‘Ah, my ever-pious Bohodar. And of course you would quote Saint Matthew – I know enough Slavonic by now to hear Bohodar as your native kenning for the Holy Evangelist. I suppose it could be worse. But again I’ll warn you that piety alone doesn’t keep the larder stocked, the fires lit, the roof intact, or the walls in good repair.’

It was an argument of long standing between the two. They went about it with a mutual understanding and complacency that bespoke their intimacy and comfort. But eventually Mechthild’s gaze turned thoughtful as she regarded their daughter.

‘I hope that Serbian lad you found will be good to her.’

‘What, Tihomír?’ Bohodar asked in surprise. ‘He’s a fine boy: peaceful and quiet, like his name suggests. He takes after his father Moise. Viera might not like how slow and easy he takes life, but on the whole I think they’ll understand each other… and I never heard you express such qualms about Æþelhild, my dearest! Why is that? Could it be you have greater trust in fellow Germans than in us Slavs?’

Mechthild smiled. ‘Æþelhild’s a spirited girl, I grant you that – fearless, like the shieldmaidens of old. But, on the contrary: I know Radko can handle himself! He takes after his father completely in his temper.’

The two eldest of the couple were indeed fast approaching the marriageable age, and Bohodar couldn’t help but notice that both Viera and Radomír were transforming before his eyes from impish, squabbling children into fetching, well-favoured young adults. Somehow the intermingling of Marharic and Irminonic blood had concocted a particularly perilous hybrid breed – red of hair, clear and bright of eye, graceful of gesture, fair of complexion, smooth and regular of feature. Bohodar still very much favoured his darker younger daughter, but it was with some satisfaction now that he regarded the two older children and their undeniable physical quality. Who could tell what prodigies might spring from their planned unions, and the further infusion of Antaian and Ingvaeonic heritage, respectively?

‘By the way,’ Mechthild told her husband as they rode on northward, ‘I never thanked you properly for how you stood up for me against that person. I know how you want to be even-handed, and I forced your hand. It can’t have been easy for you.’

‘Say no more about it,’ Bohodar told his wife. ‘You’re my wife. Of course I’ll stand by you.’

The incident with Nitrabor was not something the two of them talked about often. Bohodar recalled clearly how his wife had approached him alone, on the verge of tears, and told him about how Nitrabor had deeply insulted her, and that she wanted him to leave. Bohodar, moved by pity to comfort his wife, still inquired about how the incident came to pass. Nitrabor, after all, had proven capable across many different areas of competence, and was a valued member of Bohodar’s družina. But, composing herself with care, Mechthild had unfolded to her husband the long series of lewd comments and malicious rumours about her which Nitrabor had been assiduously spreading through the household, such that even her maidservants had taken to despising her and whispering spitefully. Bohodar had stopped her mid-sentence with a finger over the lips, and gone off to find Nitrabor. The young man was dismissed in disgrace and banned from Olomouc the very same day.

The small hunting party continued northward out of the Morava valley and into the Beskids. Even in the higher mountains the sun continued to shine and the air remained mildly cool. The hounds and the horses exulted in the exercise, and the noble folk were all in good spirits and high colour. Here they were far from the cares of castle and town, and the troubles of another young girl on the cusp of adulthood in far-off Velehrad seemed no longer as pressing. They settled into the new hunting lodge, which was warm and well-stocked.

Surprisingly few were the living creatures that they encountered in the November forest in the following days. Perhaps they had taken to their burrows already, or perhaps they had sensed the approach of a hunting party and were quite justifiably taking precautions not to be seen or heard. But two-legged and domestic four-legged continued to search undaunted.

Bohodar and Mechthild led a party of retainers out around Čižina. The tree-covered hillsides gave way suddenly to a clear glittering lake. They paused only briefly admire the scene and to breathe the air, heavy with the damp waft of the lake, before going off along a woodsman’s track in search of game.

‘Bohodar,’ Mechthild called to her husband, ‘look! Boar tracks. And they look fresh.’

Boar tracks they were, but they didn’t look that fresh. Bohodar gave his wife an odd look, but she answered only with a rise of her eyebrows. Bohodar gave a hand signal to his retainers to continue along the track, while he and Mechthild went off in search of the boar.

They set off at a brisk pace along the lakeshore. It was true that something large, built stoutly and low to the ground, had passed through here recently, but Mechthild didn’t seem particularly concerned. They went about half a mile further along the lake, and then came to a small open lea on the northwestern side. It ran about fifty yards from the top among the trees all the way down to the lakeshore. Mechthild broke into a run down toward the strand.

‘Mechthild! Wait! What are you doing?’

His wife answered him only with laugh – a high, girlish, exuberant peal of giddy exhilaration. She went all the way down toward the water and splashed into the shallows, regardless of the hem of her skirt. Bohodar followed her down to the water’s edge and came within arm’s reach of her. She quickly dodged his playful swat and came up to him, her eyes still sparkling with laughter. Bohodar then felt a pair of determined hands unbuckling his belt and tossing it up onto dry land. Those same hands then began pulling his tunic up over his head.

‘Mechthild…?’

But Mechthild continued tugging, and Bohodar felt the cool lake air first on his belly, then his back, then his chest and neck as the hem came up over his face. And then he felt adoring lips and tongue on one of his tender spots, and heard a breathy sigh of desire. When Bohodar’s head emerged from the cloth, he saw Mechthild’s head leaning against his shoulder, and her dark eyes were smouldering up at him.

‘It’s just you and me out here now,’ said his wife. ‘And I’ve been waiting for an opportunity like this.’

Bohodar agreed, not so much with his words as with his hands. Mechthild biddably allowed her man to ungirdle and unlace her. Hose and gown soon joined tunic and belt in a rumpled pile on the shore. Their owners stood naked in the shallows, dun skin and fair skin touching as much of each other as they could, their hearts thudding harder and quicker against each other. Soon, the cries of a man and a woman in lively disport began to echo out over the water, a duet that built steadily into a long and heated crescendo before reaching a jubilant peak, and then sinking contentedly into a windy coda.

No game had been caught. But the hunt was a great success.

After they were done, husband and wife took turns washing each other in the lake. Mechthild had already passed her fortieth summer. Soon she would be past the age of childbearing. The creases and spots of age had already appeared on the skin he was now tenderly caressing. But somehow Bohodar found his wife’s body far more illecebrous and enticing for these, than the pale perfections and promises of an ideal unblemished youth. How was that possible? Were these the blind eyes of love? Or perhaps there was something deeper to the aphorism that beauty is not only skin-deep?

As if she could read his mind, Mechthild mused: ‘You always will stand by me, won’t you?’

‘Always.’

 

[Revan86]

THIRTEEN
Investigatiouns Alchemickal, Medickal and Mystickal
31 March 884 – 29 September 885

Before Bohodar on the side table lay the original Arabic Risâlat, open to a particular page, as well as several other books on alchemical processes. Open scraps and scrolls of parchment lay littered around them, although all were kept assiduously away from the bench where he was heating a small cast-iron pan in a brazier which he had deliberately stoked with pine branches, carefully arranged to allow for a higher intake of air, and sprinkled with various chemicals designed to increase the intensity of the flames. The sharp scent of burning pine mingled with the acrid stench of molten brimstone as the experiment progressed.

Bohodar had already tried the ‘golden rain demonstration’ with lead sugar and seaweed ash, and had discovered that the crystals that he obtained from that were translucent and thus not true gold… and now he was trying something slightly different. The pine fire was burning particularly hot – and a high heat was needed for this particular investigation.

The pan was glowing bright orange now, and the lead pellets inside had already melted and were beginning to form small puddles amid the bright orange powder. Then even that too began to melt and slide away into the metal. Flames leapt up from the sides of the pan in bright violet and blue, but the contents of the pan were not themselves combusting. Instead they began to blister. The blisters became bubbles, and then the bubbles began to froth noisily in the pan as Bohodar watched intently from a safe distance back. Bohodar heard the door open behind him.

‘Good God!’ came Radomír’s voice. ‘What is that reek?’

Bohodar turned his head over his shoulder and regarded his son, who was currently covering his nose, with fondness. ‘Brimstone, I’m afraid. Or rather, the powdered form thereof. And perhaps a bit of pine resin thrown in. We’ll soon see the results from this, I think…’

Radomír himself had a scholar’s bent, and his curiosity quickly overcame his disgust as he stepped over to his father’s side, and peered down with wondering eyes at the contents of the flame-ringed iron pan. The froth was now a full, hard boil, and the molten metal itself had taken on a dim, rusty-red hue amidst the orange glow of the hot iron. Bohodar, his hand gloved with a heavy leather gauntlet, took the pan off the fire and began to let it cool. The rusty-red molten metal began to settle, and its lustre began to fade to that of clay. Radomír was trying, but not succeeding, to hide his disappointment. No words passed between them as the last of the blue flames died down.

Gingerly, once the iron pan had returned to its normal black colouration and the liquid in the centre had begun to condense, Bohodar prodded the formerly-molten clay-toned cake in the centre with one finger. Pellets in the centre, each of them as small around as a head of wheat, turned out of the cake. Bohodar picked one up and handed it to Radomír.

‘Go ahead, Radko. See if you can’t clean that off.’

Radomír did so, a bit dubiously. The thing still smelled foul. But after he dug in with his nail, he was surprised to see a bright glint of brassy metallic yellow leap up at him.

‘Father, I think you’ve done it! This might be gold!’

Bohodar took the pellet back from his son, held it up to the light approvingly, and then placed it between his teeth and bit down.

‘Mm. No – not quite. The colour is almost right… you see how it’s shiny, metallic and yellow? But it’s not as deep a yellow as gold. And if it were true gold, it would be soft and malleable. This pellet is too hard on the outside. No, we’re not quite to making gold out of lead just yet. But, who knows? The heated-iron and brimstone process hinted at in these Arabic texts may be one step in the right direction.’

‘I don’t think our dear metropolitan would approve,’ Radomír smiled wryly. ‘He certainly wouldn’t approve of the smell.’

Bohodar started to wave a hand impatiently, but stopped himself. ‘Say. Speaking of Vojmil – you wouldn’t have gotten word back from him yet, have you?’

The young man straightened his shoulders proudly and broke into a sincere grin at the success of this mission for his father. With all the appropriate dramatic flair, he brought out from behind his back a fernwise-folded letter, sealed and addressed to Bohodar personally in Vojmil’s own hand. Bohodar cracked the seal, unfolded the letter, and began to read it.

To the amiable and magnanimous Bohodar, by God’s grace knieža of Moravia, the unworthy bishop Vojmil sends his most heartfelt love and true affection in the name of Christ our God.

Olomouc is truly blessed to have a lord of your kind heart, bounteous magnanimity and exceptional virtue. It would be altogether too fitting for that blessing to extend upon the heathen living in sad ignorance all around us. It has always been my aim to bring honour upon you and your household.

My labours here in the City have not been entirely wanting in fruit. I made before them the case for you regarding Hory Kutné and its environs. But Emperor and Archbishop both agree that the state of all of the lands of the heathen Samoites is a pitiable one, and that one such as yourself bearing the Gospel of Christ and the mission of Methodius among them would indeed be fit to be recognised as ruler over them. Here, I fear I must trespass somewhat upon your generosity, as I am in some small need of funds. His All-Holiness may be willing to help here as well.

It is too long since we last sat together and enjoyed a quiet evening with a ladle and barrel between us and the Word of God upon our hearts and in our minds. I remember you in the morning and at night, and pray always for your health and honour, and those of Mechthild and the children. With love and affection I remain ever your loyal servant and friend, and may the blessings of God Almighty go with you always.

Vojmil

Radomír whistled softly. ‘It sure pays to be friends with the bishop, huh?’

Bohodar traced the letter with his finger. ‘He said “all of the lands of the heathen Samoites”. That would place us right up against the march with the East Franks… but it would further Methodius’s mission in the western lands; there’s no doubt about that.’

‘Do you think it’s worth it?’ asked Radomír. ‘Pressing into the lands of the Češi all at once would be a risky, messy business. Of course, I know exactly what Hilda would say – she’s a risk-taker and a half.’

Bohodar smiled at the mention of his soon-to-be daughter-in-law. The preparations for the upcoming wedding of his heir were proceeding apace. ‘Are you two getting on well?’

Radomír shrugged. ‘She’s a woman. And she’s an Englishwoman at that. I’m not sure I’ll ever understand her fully. But she’s nice enough to look at, and she’s got a stout and faithful heart. I don’t think I should ask for more than that in a wife.’

Bohodar’s smile deepened. ‘I wonder what the response would be if I asked Tihomír the same.’

‘He probably wouldn’t reply at all,’ Radomír’s brow furrowed a bit at the mention of his Serbian brother-in-law. ‘He lives up to his name, that one – agreeable as a hound, but quiet as a stump. I’d be surprised if he and Viera have spoken three complete sentences to each other the entire time they’ve been married.’

‘Give him time,’ Bohodar said. ‘He may not yet be used to the strange company.’

Radomír shrugged again. ‘Oh, by the way, father—Winfrida was looking for you. Said she needed someone to help her with a passage in Greek, or something.’

‘Sounds like my reputation is spreading. Very well, I’ll see what she needs.’

Radomir gave his father a hug, and then stepped over the threshold and up the stairs out of the laboratory. Bohodar made to follow his son, but the lingering scent of the pine resin made him check his step. And his eyes lit, as it were, upon a small glass phial lying on the side table off to his right at the entrance to the laboratory. Bohodar went to it and picked it up. It was a small bottle of essence of spikenard. And that reminded him of another of the experiments he was intent on doing. He pocketed the phial in his scrip and went with Radomír to find Winfrida.

He didn’t have to search long. Winfrida spotted Bohodar across the castle courtyard and came to him with a determined stride and a book crooked in her elbow. She looked a bit vexed.

‘Lord Bohodar!’ she cried out. ‘I need your assistance.’

Radomír gave his father a final parting wave and left him to Winfrida. Bohodar nodded to his Frankish court leech and strode up to her to examine the book.

‘What do you have there?’ he wondered.

‘It should be,’ Winfrida held it up, placing a bitter emphasis on the word ‘should’, ‘a Vulgate recension, at least in part, of the Corpus Hippocraticus. But some of these entries in the Aphorisms can’t possibly be right. Some of the treatments prescribed here would do immense harm to my patients. I was hoping you might be able to help me out with a cross-reference… and, I hate to say it, but my Greek is a little rusty.’

‘Come into my study and we’ll have a look together.’

Winfrida followed Bohodar up into the castle and into his study, where he produced a different recension, in Greek, of a text from the Corpus for comparison. The Frank and the Moravian placed the two volumes side-by-side and hunted for a decent cross-reference for one of the passages that was troubling the leech.

‘Here,’ Winfrida pointed to the Latin text. ‘On the use of purgatives. It says here that we should stop applying purgatives for matters that are foreign to the body, but that doesn’t seem to be right. Purgatives are meant for expelling matters that are foreign to the body.’

‘Mm,’ Bohodar said, glancing over at the same passage in the Greek. He spoke the passage aloud, then furrowed his brow. ‘Yes, that would seem to be the source of the problem. It looks like your Vulgate translator here got a bit confused by this ambiguity. See how the structure is parallel here? Typical rhetorical flourish. And you’re right, the author is advocating purgatives for foreign matter that is harmful internally to the patient – but he is being cautious in the following clause and saying that matter that is opposite to harmful, matter that should be in the body, should not be purged.’

‘Ah,’ Winfrida nodded. ‘Yes, of course that makes more sense…’

‘Were there any other passages here you wanted me to look at?’

‘Several, actually. I’ll go ahead and mark them out for you, and you can look them over at your leisure… Thank you, Bohodar. You’ve been a great help already.’

‘My pleasure,’ said Bohodar, handing her back the Latin Corpus.

Bohodar gave a sigh as his court physician left him alone in his study. And then his hand fell back to his scrip, and he remembered the phial of spikenard oil inside. Caught by a sudden inspiration from the fragrant oil, he looked up toward his bookshelf and brought down a volume in Slavonic that he’d acquired recently, entitled:

О ОБЪӏЧАНѨ ВЪНѪТРЬН҄Ь МОЛИТВЪӏ
С ГЛАГОЛАНИѨ ЕВАГРИѨ А ДИѨДОХА​

Bohodar had acquired this tome, recently translated by a handful of Bulgarian monks out of fragmentary Greek and Syriac texts, from a trader of dubious reputation at what he figured was likely an extortionary price. Still, the title alone – On the practise of inward prayer, with sayings of Evagrius and Diadochos – seemed worth it. Bohodar found himself intrigued by this application of esoteric prayer, and wondered if he could replicate the effects it described, bringing him closer to the Divine. He twirled the phial of spikenard oil in his fingers as he opened the text to its first page. After reading for several minutes, he decided to begin experimenting. He bolted the door to his room, lit several candles, and poured some of the spikenard oil on a nearby brazier, which began to smoke and fill the room with a delicately intoxicating fragrance. And then he began to pray the ‘Gospodi pomiluj’ over, and over, and over, all the while keeping his outward senses focussed on his breathing and heartbeat. At first there was a painful pang in his heart, and a stifling wave of boredom and a feeling of silliness… but these gave way eventually to a soothing calm.

He knew once he started that he had a very long way to go. He was very far indeed from the practice of inward prayer that was described by Diadochos of Photike in the text. But what he had come to experience here was certainly something worth exploring further. He debated on whether or not to tell Vojmil about it, and then decided against it, at least for the time being. It wasn’t so much that he feared these writings were themselves heretical, as that he feared them being misunderstood as some kind of magic or hypnosis.

Even so, for a long time he continued to experiment with this kind of inward-directed prayer and sensory focus on the breath and the beating of the heart. As he had begun to suspect with Winfrida, Bohodar’s dabbling in alchemy and his demonstrated ability in translating texts had already earned him something of a reputation that was beginning to be noticed. Little did the lord of Moravia know at this time, how deeply this nascent reputation would affect the entire course of his life and the legacy of his offspring.

 

[filcat]

Remarkable writing, incredible details - the love between the two, astonishingly depicted in its earnest desire and lust, and that is only one great detail out of the many. Kudos.


Lost in the mystery behind all the wonderful details, and now will embark on a joyous adventure in search for them:

"Saint Matthew" "Marharic and Irminonic" "Antaian and Ingvaeonic" "Samoites"

Apart from the obvious first one, for now could only reach De origine et situ Germanorum by Tacitus from 1.century ce for the Ingaevones; and Of the Russe Commonwealth by Giles Fletcher from 16.century ce for Samoites; have to check for earlier mentions. Pheww, this will be a wild night.

The heated-iron and brimstone process hinted at in these Arabic texts

Hopefully the experiments will not end up in black powder, and cause a massive accident; beware!

 

[Revan86]

Thanks for the kind and observant comments, @filcat ! And please do continue to look into the details! I can tell you where I came across these ones:

'Marharic' = from Marharii, a Latin name for the tribe of Moravians from the contemporary 'Bavarian Geographer', who was apparently writing around the same time as this story takes place
'Irminonic' = from Irminones, a Latin term for the Germanic tribes living along the Elbe, like the Thuringians and Swabians; I think it comes from Tacitus as well.
'Ingvaeonic' = bingo! Tacitus. Term for the western Germanic tribes living in the Low Countries, including the ancestors of the Angles and Saxons.
'Samoites' = this was kind of a creative fanfictional retcon. It comes from the Kingdom of Samo, the first Frankish tribal leader to unite the people who would become the Bohemians. I wasn't able to find a decent Byzantine-era Greek demonym for the Czechs, so I had to make one up. I honestly had no idea about its use by Fletcher!

As for the black powder - heh. No, I wasn't quite planning on turning Bohodar into the equivalent of the mad Morgaine le Fay from that one MacGyver episode, though that would be an interesting twist!

 

[Revan86]

FOURTEEN
The Other Side of Right
27 October 885 – 12 March 886

The crowning ceremony took place in late October, in the Year of Our Lord 885. Mechthild shed rare tears of joy, and Bohodar beamed proudly as his son took the hand of the daughter of the Earl of Bedanford. The crown suited the young English bride well, as did the scarf which replaced it over her dishwater-blonde hair. Amidst all the joy of the household, Bohodar did not mark how his new daughter-in-law’s calm eyes passed shrewdly over him and his other children. Æþelhild may indeed have been something of a fish out of water, but she was not going to stay so. She was already taking the measure of her new family, and the subtleties of the relationships between them.

In particular, her eyes were drawn to the second-youngest of her sisters-in-law, Blažena. Well she noted the immaculate trim of her white gown, and the gossamer-delicate embroidery in black and gold thread – the armigan colours of the Rychnovský house – that bordered around its hems along the neck and sleeves. Her sable hair was done up in elaborate braids, and she had about her the imperious air of a child who is favoured of her parents, and knows it too well. The spell this little girl-Joseph had over the Jacob who sired her was not difficult for her to ascertain, particularly when it came to the envious glares at her that came from their youngest.

Even so, the Englishwoman’s face betrayed no hint of her inner thoughts. She was also a quiet and pensive girl, not given to a great deal of talk. Gaily she took her husband’s hand in the dance, and sat fondly beside him at the feast. And when she retired with Radomír for the night, Æþelhild found herself glad to live up to the saucy reputation her countrywomen had among Continental men. But her mind did not stop working for all that.

Æþelhild was already beginning to form a mental picture of the dynamics of the Rychnovský household from her stays here. Knowing both silver and people as she did, she also understood what that would mean for her own condition within the family. As Radomír snoozed gently on the pillow beside her, his wife was already thinking of ways to secure her husband’s – and her own – fortunes.

~~~​

It did surprise Radomír to see his wife take such an acute interest in one among his sisters. Æþelhild went out of her way to make herself agreeable to Blažena: taking her outside to play along the mill-race, spelling with her at dolls and make-believe castles, reading stories to her and saying prayers with her before she went to bed. It was more than a little strange to see a newlywed daughter-in-law take such a keen and particular interest in one of the younger sisters of the house. One might even think that she was indeed a doting elder sister of the blood! Radomír shrugged and thought little of it – who could fathom women and their ways? – until Æþelhild approached him one day.

‘Husband,’ Æþelhild asked him, ‘I was thinking we might take a little holiday together around Salzburg: you and me and Blažena. What do you think of that idea?’

Radomír nodded, but couldn’t forbear from asking. ‘It’s a fine idea, and you know I’d be happy to go with you. But… why Blažena? She’s only eight. Do you think such an outing would be enjoyable for her?’

‘Whyever not? I’m sure even children of eight years enjoy getting out of doors, exploring new places.’

Radomír granted that, but persisted: ‘Alright, but why Blažena? Why not Vlasta or Krásnoroda or Slavomíra? Or – we could even do a double outing with Viera and Tihomír!’

Æþelhild crossed her arms stubbornly. ‘Husband. I said Blažena. I meant Blažena. The two of us are quite close, and I will have her along as my companion if we are to go at all.’

Radomír sighed. ‘Fair enough. It’s your excursion. I warn you, though – Ocko won’t like it one bit.’

Indeed he didn’t, but when Radomír found his father in his study, he evidently had other things on his mind. Bohodar was pacing up and down and fuming silently like a trapped lion. Something had clearly happened to upset him, and Radomír soon discovered what when his father came out with:

‘Mojmír and his sick little games! Just because I sided with him once when the unity of the realm was at stake, that grasping, snivelling little toad thinks he can cosy up to me every time he thinks Bratromila is turning the other way? And smugly imply that mine are the same base motives as his? I can’t stand it! I just can’t stand it!’

‘Well,’ Radomír held up his hands and smiled. ‘Clearly you need to vent. Don’t hold back on my account – it’s your study, not mine!’

Bohodar, his face flushed bright red, lifted a tin pitcher off the table and hurled it across the room with a savage yell. It smashed against the wood with a loud clang. He did the same with a wooden bowl.

‘DO—ČËRTA!! TEN CHORÝ—SKRÚTENÝ—MASTNÝ—CHŇAPAJÚCI—SYN KURVY!!’

Radomír tried to hide a chuckle at his father’s outburst of obscenities. Of course, his father’s distress and anger were no laughing matter, but the aspersions he was currently casting on the sexual proclivities of the women of Svätopluk’s house were simply too amusing for him to forbear. Thankfully Bohodar took no notice. He went on until he was well and truly winded, and then the knieža of Moravia slumped down on the stool at his rather messy desk with a sigh. He took a deep breath.

‘Thanks, Radko. I did need that.’

‘Glad I could help,’ said his son with a friendly hand on the shoulder. ‘Politics, eh?’

Bohodar patted his son’s hand. ‘And I thought dealing with that Silesian was bad. I tell you, Radko—never turn your back on one of us. Now a Serb like Tihomír, you can trust with your life’s blood. Serbs understand loyalty, honour, the fear of God. Vlachs, the same. A Bulgarian or a Croat—on a good day. Hell, I’d even take my chances with a heathen Ilmen or a Vätič or a Jew! But us Moravians, Radko…’ Bohodar shook his head. ‘Always beware the off-hand holding the knife.’

Radomír gave his head a thoughtful incline. He knew his father was still venting. If he did not love his own people as much as he did, he wouldn’t gripe and grieve about them so much. And he certainly wouldn’t care so much about what Bratromila, of the other line of Mojmírovci, thought of him.

‘And what of the English?’ Radomír asked gently.

‘What of them, indeed?’ Bohodar looked up at his son with a thin smile.

‘Hilda suggested to me that we might take an outing to Salzburg, when the weather turns better.’

Bohodar nodded. ‘A fine idea for a healthy young couple. But?’

‘But,’ Radomír sighed, ‘she also wants to take Blažka as her personal companion. The two of them are close, so she says. Surely you’ve noticed how much time the two of them spend together?’

Bohodar’s eyes turned soft and misty the way they only did around two people – his wife Mechthild, and Blažena. To him it was no surprise at all that Blažena had so thoroughly charmed his new daughter-in-law. ‘Well,’ Bohodar said indulgently, ‘I don’t blame her there. Of course, if you do take Blažka along, I’d want some strong assurances from you two that she’d be well cared-for and looked-after. I would only let you stay among our kinfolk, for one, and I’d want to get their written sureties as well. Why, did you have some other objections?’

Radomír shook his head and gave a ghost of a chuckle. ‘I don’t know. I guess I really don’t know too well what goes on in Hilda’s mind. Maybe she is really fond of the girl… or maybe there’s something else going on that I don’t know. I’m sure she means Blažka nothing but good,’ he said hurriedly.

‘Of course,’ Bohodar told him. ‘I’ve seen the two of them playing together, and Hilda teaching her various things. She’s nothing if not attentive and gentle with her. I’d say Blažka’s lucky to have such a friend. You have my conditions, though, if you take her with you to Salzburg this spring. And my standards are quite high when it comes to my daughter.’

‘Yes,’ Radko stroked his chin. There still seemed to be a certain shadow of doubt in his mind where Hilda and Blažka were concerned, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. ‘If we do go, I’ll be sure that you get all the recommendations, ocko, and that you can fix the seal on them yourself.’

~~~​

Of course, Hilda readily agreed to her father-in-law’s conditions. She was of such a nature that she wouldn’t let any such trifling little matter stand in her way. And so – calmly, methodically, thoroughly – she went about finding contacts of her own in Salzburg among the Hæstinga clan as well as among the Bavarian kindred of Mechthild. It hadn’t been that hard. The Hæstinga were well-represented among the English missionaries who had accompanied the holy siblings Willibald, Wynnebald and Wealdburg into the Bavarian lands over the last century, as priests and monks and nuns. As men and women of holy repute, their word was spotless and whose will and ability to care after an eight-year-old girl on holiday with her honeymooning elder brother and sister-in-law was impeccable. She penned a considerable list in her own hand and presented it to Bohodar with all due ceremony and formality. Bohodar in turn had warned her in the harshest terms the penalties that would come if anything should happen to his (unspoken: ‘favourite’) daughter, and Æþelhild had inclined her blonde head meekly and accepted the admonition. But it didn’t change her determination one jot.

And so it was a party of three that set off for the city of Rupprecht in February, just before the thaws that would bring floods to the Morava valley and render the roads treacherous. For her part, Blažena was giddy with excitement. Not only was she thrilled and touched beyond measure that Hilda had chosen her for a travelling-mate and confidant, but she was well aware that she had been given a high honour and opportunity that practically no other eight-year-old could boast! She was going beyond Velehrad! Few were the grown-ups who ever travelled that far! Her dark eyes were set eagerly on the road as she rode side-saddle in her warm wool cloak, snugly ensconced on her mount against her beloved sister-in-law’s lap.

‘Are there mountains in Salzburg, Hilda?’

‘Gracious—yes! Higher than those here, even!’

‘Higher than the Beskidy?’ Blažena’s clever dark eyes grew wide. She clutched the reins tighter in her cherubic little hands, grinning with exhilaration, her imagination already running wild with thoughts of great rocky spires and great floes of ice. ‘I want to go hiking!’ she demanded.

‘I’m sure there will be chances,’ Hilda told her sister-in-law indulgently.

All through the journey, Hilda obeyed Bohodar’s instructions to the letter. They did not stay with anyone who hadn’t given his reference to Olomouc. There was always at least one cloister of holy women nearby where Blažena could sleep easily and without fear while Radko and Hilda stayed in a guest-house. The journey between Olomouc and Salzburg was well over three weeks long even in good weather, and this was still the turn of winter – even so, Hilda’s planning had been thorough enough that Blažena in particular was never without a warm fire and a snug bed and a sound roof at the end of a day of travel.

At length, they reached Salzburg. The Alps amongst which the town sat were well beyond Blažena’s imaginings: she was enthralled with the sight of the massive, jagged peaks and their long white caps against a sapphirine sky. And the town itself held no small interest for her. The houses and shops and churches of Salzburg were packed tightly together, and there were few if any courtyards among them. The roads were not dirt but cobbled, and there was a constant sharp tang in the air of offal and refuse which made Blažena crinkle her cogitative nose. Were Bavarians really so comfortable living so close together, on these cramped stone streets and packed in these little houses? Even so, Blažena had to admire the beauty in the bustle of the town, the elegant shape and condition of the houses, the high-steepled stone churches in the Western style.

The three of them set up their lodgings at the guest-house of a local cloister, and then went out into the streets. Radko and Hilda set out arm-in-arm, and Blažena dutifully held her sister-in-law’s hand on the other side as they walked… at least until they came to the market square.

When they reached the square, Blažena noticed a great throng of grown-ups all craning their necks toward something which she couldn’t quite make out over their shoulders. They all seemed to be quite solemn and grave, so whatever it was they were looking at must be important. Hilda had stopped on the other side of the street to look into an open shop stall, and Blažena was at last free of her grasp. Slipping away from Hilda’s side, Blažena made a beeline for the throng, and managed to slip and slide between the hips and legs of the grown-ups standing around her until she came close to the centre.

She heard, before she saw, a man reading aloud from a scroll on an elevated platform, in a voice strident and high with official indignation. Blažena knew a bit of diutisca sprâhha from her mother, but in the Swabian dialect – it was hard for her to follow what this man was saying. But it seemed to her to be a list of crimes. The most serious she heard was that for the theft of a loaf of bread.

And then she saw another man, haggard and gaunt, with curly blond hair and a beard to match, his eyes haunted with a hopeless dread, being led up a set of wooden steps to the platform. And then she saw the high wooden pole and cross-arm, with the telltale notch in the end that told her what she was about to witness. Blažena saw how the condemned man shifted his weight to avoid tripping on the stairs. To Blažena’s eight-year-old mind, this drove home the sheer fact of this man’s being alive, his being aware, his being human. It was with dismay that Blažena’s dark eyes widened, unable – as in a nightmare – to move or to look away.

The herald’s voice rose into a righteous and implacable boom, as he made plain to the crowd below him the immensity and unforgivable nature of this man’s crimes against mitre and crown. Blažena saw the brown-robed Western priest with his sash and stole of office come up beside the condemned man, who only shook his head slowly and shakily as the brute reality of his end drew near.

The herald reached the end of his recitation, and then held out his hand to invite the condemned man to make a statement of remorse, to beg God’s forgiveness, to face his death with the expected dispassion and thus make himself acceptable before both God and man. But the haggard, curly-haired thief was deprived of any power for speech – as indeed was the eight-year-old Moravian girl with her dark braids, watching below in a mute horror that mirrored his own.

‘Then may God have mercy upon your soul,’ spoke the Bavarian herald, for whom mercy was the last thing on his mind. ‘Let the penalty commence.’

Blažena clutched her hands to her head, pinching her ears as though trying to awaken herself. The scene unfolding before her against the cloudless early March sky was too terrible for her to disengage. The criminal was dragged to the scaffold as the halter was flung over the notch in the crossbar. Blažena watched his weak attempts to struggle against his bonds with an ache of empathy, and her heart wrung within her as the dark hood was flung over the condemned man’s head and the halter fixed and tightened around his neck. And then the drop as the platform door swung open beneath him – the thrashing of elbows and knees – the hopeless struggle for breath as the condemned man’s neck failed to snap neatly. Several of the people around her crossed themselves in solemn silence. Blažena covered her mouth, unable even to scream.

‘Blažka!’ came a woman’s voice from the crowd. ‘Blažka! Where are you?’

A blond-haired Englishwoman in noble dress came forward to the front rows before the scaffold, let out a cry of mingled relief and remonstrance as she recognised her charge, and took her by the arm backward out of the crowd, scolding her: ‘Come away, Blažka! Now! Looking at such things—what would your father say?’

Blažena could say nothing in reply. Nothing at all.

~~~​

In the years to come, Blažena could not remember much at all about her journey to Salzburg. Even the mountains she had so longed to see paled and faded from her mind, appearing to her only as fleeting clouds in her recollection. But she never forgot the face of the condemned man in his final moments. For many nights afterward, the nameless thief haunted her sleep more thoroughly than any ghost. She held herself shivering and sleepless in bed, cognisant too early of the fleeting fragility of life.

‘Father…’ she asked Bohodar of a sudden when she returned home from Salzburg, a sombre look on her milky-fair round face. ‘Have you ever… ordered a man to be hanged?’

Bohodar started at the question. ‘Hanged? What? No, never. Why do you ask?’

‘So… what would you do if a man was caught in Olomouc, say, stealing a loaf of bread?’

‘A loaf of bread?’ Bohodar shook his head with a laugh. ‘Oh, Blažka, my heart – I certainly wouldn’t hang him! The law of the Slavs says that a thief must make payment equal in worth to the goods stolen.’

‘Would you ever hang a man?’ asked Blažena.

Bohodar, seeing his young daughter so earnest and grave, stopped to consider seriously, taking the question with the same gravity it was offered. He held his daughter’s hands. ‘Now, Blažena… I’m not sure. The great law of Veľká Morava under Rastislav prescribes death for only two offences: treason against one’s liege, and arson. We’ve never had any mad firebrands in Olomouc or Opava on my watch, and God forbid there should be any traitors to make attempts on my life, or yours! I can’t tell you positively that I would never hang a man. But I hope I never have to.’

It was clear to him that Blažena wasn’t satisfied with that answer. But she gave a fleeting little smile and squeezed her father’s hands in answer. And Bohodar was left to wonder, after he had put Blažena to bed (but not to sleep, not yet to sleep), exactly what it was she had seen that had prompted her to ask such questions.

 

[Idhrendur]

That was chilling. Very well written!