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

[Revan86]

TEN
Panzdaumanis pastanga
5 November 943 – 17 September 944​

‘Milord,’ Alvydas iš Kulmas approached the king, ‘might I have a word with you in private?’

‘Of course,’ said Boško. His leg, still stiff and throbbing, was bothering him again. He hobbled more than walked off to a corner of the High Hall where he might better converse with his hrabě of Bytom. The newly-minted Prussian lord let out a breath and began:

‘My liege, ever since coming to this court, my kinsmen and I have not felt at ease. By God’s grace, we have all converted to the One True Faith, but the language… it comes hard to us. And I fear that your other vassals are not nearly so accommodating as you have been so far. It would mean a great deal to us – the Kulmas family, that is – if you would author and issue a proclamation of some sort in our tongue.’

‘In your tongue? Prussian?’

Alvydas nodded. Boško considered. Alvydas was, to put it mildly, not the most handsome of individuals, and his social skills and graces were decidedly lacking. But for all that, he was a hard-working, scrupulous and conscientious administrator, as well as a brave warrior who had been of invaluable service in the late Silesian war. Any such request of his, Boško felt himself obliged to honour.

‘Very well. Perhaps one proclamation.’

Alvydas bowed, a grateful smile on his bearded face, and withdrew. Boško himself returned to his rooms. Once there, he found Blažena in animated discussion with their grandson, Radomír.

‘… yes, I see,’ his grandmother was saying. ‘Your understanding of the expected protocols for each of the offices is remarkable!’

‘But, dedo promised I could have an obruček if I progressed well in my studies.’

‘Well, I don’t know about that…’

‘Radko,’ Boško called to his grandson from the doorway. ‘Look on the far end of the table, on the side of the cabinet.’

Radomír dutifully went where he was bidden, and gave a little gasp of pleasure as he lifted down from it an iron hoop around three feet in diametre, as well as a wooden stick with which to push and guide it.

‘Thank you, dedo,’ Radomir came to his grandfather and bowed politely.

‘You earned it,’ the king of Veľká Morava answered his grandson.

Radomír gave his grandparents one last delighted smile before he ran off to try out his new plaything in the courtyard. Blažena stood and went to her husband, folding her arms around his shoulders.

‘Hm. Do you think it’s wise, teaching him to place such implicit confidence in you?’

‘I’m a man of my word.’

‘I’ll say you are, at that,’ Blažena wrinkled her nose in a smile, and tugged at his neck until he leaned down and kissed her. And kissed her again. And again. ‘Bošiško môj, what would I do without you?’

‘Ow, ow, ow,’ Boško grimaced, staggering his way to the chair at his desk and sitting heavily in it.

‘Your leg again,’ Blažena chuffed. ‘Didn’t I tell you to get it looked at months ago?’

‘It’s nothing,’ Bohodar shook his head. He didn’t want his wife worrying over him. ‘I’m sorry, I need to get to work. Alvydas wants me to take up learning Prussian, for his family’s sake. I couldn’t well refuse him – he’s been nothing if not constant in his duties to me, and then some.’

‘A man of his word,’ Blažena muttered tartly with a sigh of frustration. But Boško felt her hands run through his hair all the same. There was a longing desire in her touch that she couldn’t quite conceal from him, and it still stirred his loins to raging hardness despite his vow not to touch her in that way again. But at last she loosed him, and the fire diminished. ‘Shall I get you some vellum to work on?’

‘Yes, dearest one. That would be much appreciated.’

~~~​

‘Wâlintajs—no, wâlintweis…’

Boško tugged at his hair. Snow was falling – great fat fluffy flakes of it – outside the window, and blanketing the whole of the Moravian landscape in pearlescent silence. The only thing which seemed to break it were the rustle of vellum in various sheets, and the groans of frustration and feeble attempts to string together individual Prussian words in halting half-phrases. Boško grasped the cases well enough—those were similar enough to Slavic cases that he could simply memorise the correspondences with ease. But the moods! Prussian had so many of them, and keeping track of them was too much for Boško to handle all at once. He grabbed fistfuls of his hair again and pressed his forehead into his palms so hard they turned white. It all suddenly seemed so useless. How long had he gone without sleep? How many sheep had been slain and given their skins to this fruitless endeavor? How many geese had given their flight feathers? Why was he going to all this trouble for the sake of a vassal – a foreigner, at that, and little better than a nemec! – to whom he had already granted land and high rank in thanks for his services?

The thought had no sooner struck him than he regretted his selfishness and self-pity. He took a deep breath, glanced out the window at the snowfall outside, and then looked back to the vellum in front of him, the scratched-out phrases, the interrupted constructions, the frustrated misspellings and unfinished sentences he’d tried to kludge together. And it struck him at once what he needed to do.

He needed a tutor.

He stood up from his desk, and immediately slumped over to his knees with a noisy thud, stars winking in front of his eyes with the burning pain from the wound in his left leg. Even though it hadn’t turned gangrenous, it had never quite healed properly. The doctors which had visited the palace, at his wife’s insistence, had been able to take certain palliative measures—binding it tightly with linen on a splint, for example, the way one would for a broken leg—but nothing had yet succeeded in closing it fully or causing it to knit right.

Hearing him stumble from another room, Blažena flew in and straight to his side, helping her husband to stand and to find the crutch he used when the pain got too much to take.

‘And where do you think you’re going?’ Blažena asked him.

‘A tutor—I need to find a Prussian tutor—’ Boško spoke through gritted teeth.

‘Like hell you do,’ Blažena snapped. ‘You’re going to stay right here in this room, sitting on the bed. If you need a tutor for your little proclamation, I shall have one brought to you. You rest.’

Nephew obeyed aunt.

Aunt left the room in worry, with tears in her eyes that she didn’t want nephew to see. The only man she’d ever loved and ever would love was suffering, and it wasn’t getting better but worse by the day. But she straightened herself out, stiffened her lip, stifled her tears, and went on the errand she’d promised the King that she would fulfil.

~~~

View attachment bytom.jpg​

Bêrtulis came each day to visit the king for an hour each day for the next several weeks. A big, blonde, barrel-chested bruiser of a man, he looked more the part of a marauding severan warrior than that of a scholar of languages and a tutor—but he took to the job cheerily and happily tutored the king on the Prussian tongue, its moods, declensions and participles. Although it was clear from his brow and beard that the first few tutoring sessions were exercises in frustration for them both, by the time February rolled around, Bêrtulis began looking much more cheerful.

And soon Boško was conversing with Bêrtulis in full, correct—if broken—sentences of Prussian. Although Blažena did not understand the tongue with all its ‘ehs’ and ‘aises’ and ‘jas’, still she was heartened to see her husband’s confidence return. But the state of his physical body was another story. He could hardly stand anymore without pain, and relied more and more upon the acrid willow-bark tincture that the folk-healer came to prepare for him.

At long last he completed – not only a proclamation – but a full recension and update of the Slavic Law Code of Rastislav, with a few flourishes of his own approved by all of the nobility, in three languages: Moravian, Greek… and Prussian! And he ordered his servants to prepare a carriage again for him to deliver it to Bytom, where he would proclaim it as the writ throughout Great Moravia in all three languages one after the other. Of course Blažena went with him, to support him as much as she could in spirit and in body.

Boško ascended to a hillside east of Bytom – a hill which was called thenceforth throughout the mediæval period as Kopec Pravdy, the ‘Hill of Truth’ or the ‘Hill of Law’. And there he proclaimed, first in Moravian and then in Greek, and finally in Prussian. During the whole time, his voice was high and clear, and his face jubilant, and Blažena was glad that her hand only had to steady him twice the entire time. But once he was done, and back in the carriage home, she noted with helpless concern how pale he looked, how pained, how stretched to the limits of what his body could take. She balled her fists tightly in her lap, determined not to let him see the tears that she was desperately trying to hold back.

It had been a masterful work of diplomacy. But it had also drained him utterly. This last struggle to learn the language he had spent the past four months agonising over, was to be his last ever but one.

~~~​

The summer came, and Boško seemed to melt away as the weather grew hot. Bishop Radoslav came in to give Boško his last confession, and to administer to him the Holy Gifts. He spoke over Boško’s weakening body and fading consciousness three of the penitential Psalms meant to offer a defence against the enemies of the soul: Psalm 70 (‘In thee, O Lord, do I put my trust: let me never be put to confusion’), Psalm 142 (‘Hear my prayer, O Lord, give ear to my supplications’), and Psalm 50 (‘Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy loving-kindness’). Boško gave whatever assent he could to all, even voice to the Psalms where he was able. All the while, Blažena gripped his hand—not so much to offer comfort as to draw from it the same, for as long as he drew breath. And breath did linger in his body for weeks more. But he was gone before the first leaves started to turn, on the 17th of September of the year 942, by the Western reckoning.

And then the tears that Blažena had held back for so long would no longer be contained, but escaped her in torrents – a grief which seemed boundless. The sole light of her life, the one man in whom she had ever placed faith, was gone. And no one could take his place.

It was a long time before Pravoslav was admitted to his mother’s presence. And when he was, she would not look at him. Her eyes were bent completely upon the still form of her departed husband.

‘Slávek… I want you to promise me something.’

‘I shall endeavour, mamka.’

Blažena took a long, drawn, quivering breath, and let it out. ‘When I die—and I pray it will not be long—I want you to bury me in your father’s arms. In the same grave, in the same casket. I want nothing between his body and mine. I don’t know whether or not God is just, but if He is, then I want the first thing that I see in the life to come to be Boško. And if God wills it that I should moulder in the ground and crumble into dust—I want whatever wretched sediment I become to rest in the bosom of my husband, where I have always belonged.’

‘It shall be done as you wish.’

‘Thank you, Slávek,’ Blažena at last flicked a grateful glance over and sideways at her son. ‘Now, please leave me. I wish to be alone.’

God answered Blažena’s prayer – perhaps one of the only ones she had ever uttered as such since childhood. Six days after Boško’s passing – on the 24th of September – grief claimed Blažena Rychnovský, and she too gave up the ghost.

Pravoslav saw no reason why his mother’s last wish should not be carried out to the letter. Aunt and nephew, husband and wife, lover and lover, were embalmed together, laid out side-by-side upon the same bier, nestled in each other’s arms and wrapped in the same shroud, laid in the same casket together, and interred in the same earth: in the courtyard of the Cathedral of Saint Gorazd.

Whatever the morality and seemliness of their union, and whatever the approbations of the Church (however muted by political expediency), Boško and Blažena were beyond all reproach and beyond all revilement now, wrapped blissfully in each other to rest until the end of days. Pravoslav – now King Pravoslav – crossed himself and knelt down at the graveside as the earth covered them.

 

[Revan86]

EUROPE AT THE END OF THE REIGN OF BOHODAR 1. „MLADŠÍ“ RYCHNOVSKÝ

Who's the real Moravia NOW, sučka? ... Also, bordergore. So much bordergore.

Actually, to be perfectly frank, Boško wasn't that big on territorial expansion. He took Velehrad (Brno) from Bratromila, took Upper Silesia back, and... that was it.

East Francia just kind of imploded. Same with the English kingdoms, they just fragmented all to hell. As you can see, Hungary, Moldavia, Wallachia and Bulgaria are four separate kingdoms now. They continue on like that until quite late in the game.


~~~​

Hey @filcat, sorry for not replying to you before:

...which prompts a still-shot of a figure, sitting on a rugged throne, brows knitted down; the screen slowly zooms-in towards the calm but the monstrous fury pouring from the eyes, with The Beast (Jóhann Gunnar Jóhannsson, soundtrack from Sicario, 2015) in the background playing.

Ohhhh, yes. And this is indeed Pravoslav's son to whom I refer. Again, will say no more at the present. All will be revealed in time.

Farewell, Viera. ‘Suozi suozi Viera! Guota magadla Viera… Iz, slâf in ruowa, Muoti ist bî, Fatti ist ouh bî, Vierilîn.’ (for the late comers: B.I, Ch.3)

Indeed. I miss Viera, drunkard and pervert though she was. At least she was a nice drunk and pervert, heh. Her descendants in the female line will actually be quite influential in later chapters. All of the house of Nitrava and all of the Bijelahrvatskici - those are her descendants.

Yes Boško, what have thou done?

'Put not thy trust in princes, in sons of men, in whom there is no salvation...'

Finally, the horror is over, and -


(Your friendly watchdog from fact-checkers of fictional lores cuts in abruptly:
Contesting to the -

Your friendly nerdic defender of the fictional lores jumps in immediately:
You again! I warned you, do not interfere for your frivolous objections! Have you forgotten your outrageous scandal for lion rampant or?

Friendly watchdog insists, while looking at its adversary threateningly:
I want to point out that the latest chapters lack the threadmarks again; they are necessary especially for the new readAARs.

Nerdic defender looks confused, then proceeds with an unwilling affirmation, yet fights back for the winning punch:
In that case, I would concur, but that is a stylistic choice of the publication; if you would check it more carefully, the last two chapters are with multiple parts, and they are exempted from the threadmark system, whereas their initial parts are already labelled as chapters seven and eight.

Friendly watchdog yields:
Fine. I yield. Though the scandal that you accused me of, that was not me, but the epic fail of the boss. You and I; we are not done.

Nerdic defender boasts:
Any time, any where, any AAR, I am ready to defend everything against you.

Friendly watchdog turns its back, walks away:
We will meet again; and you are free to try.

It is now clear, that the animosity between the two former friends Friendly watchdog and Nerdic defender has evolved into a war, which will resume forever, until all will be consumed by it)

'And as for you, Son of Mogh... you should have killed me when you had the chance.'

 

[Idhrendur]

That was sad, but so well written

 

[Revan86]

Thanks, @Idhrendur! I appreciate your comments as always.

INTERLUDE IV.
Symbols and Signatures
15 October 2020

‘So,’ Ed Grebeniček folded his hands together and addressed his class from behind the lectern. ‘Have any of you heard of graphology?’

‘The study of signatures,’ Dalibor answered him. ‘It still has some use in forensic science and historical document attribution, but it’s largely been dismissed as a pseudoscience.’

‘Correct you are, Mr Pelikán,’ Grebeniček answered him. He switched off the lights by remote, and switched on the overhead projector. The EnerGrafix presentation which he had up on his Apricot laptop glimmered on the whiteboard behind him. On the wall in front of the class were the images of five antique-to-late-mediæval pieces of Slavonic writing. Each of them had abstracted, magnified and blazed in white the ending sections of the writing—and each of these was clearly a signature of some kind.

‘And what do you think we have here?’ asked Grebeniček.

‘Signatures,’ piped up one female student in the back. ‘All signatures of Moravian kings.’

‘Well… not all of them. See that first one, there? That’s not the signature of a king… not quite. But yes. Very good, Ms Hončová! We’ve only got a dozen or so extant signatures from the rulers of Moravia, and even those ones we’re lucky to have. Now… regarding graphology, which Mr Pelikán rightly described as mostly a pseudoscience—these signatures have been examined from every possible psychological and sociological angle. Many of the conclusions that were reached by our graphologers from the nineteenth century were fairly spurious, subject to confirmation bias and so on. But there are some insights that I think were interesting. Whose signature do you think that is, if not a king’s?’

‘Well,’ Jolana Hončova offered again, ‘if it’s not that of a king, then… is it Bohodar slovoľubec’s?’

‘Well deduced!’ Grebeniček opened his hand to her. ‘But…? It looks like you have something more to say…’

‘It’s… kind of hard to make out…’

‘Let’s bear in mind,’ Grebeniček gestured to the board with his open hand, ‘that the first knieža of Olomouc was a bit of a mystic, a bit of a scholar, but a lover of words and a sincere Orthodox Christian. He adopted the cruciform signum manus style that was popular among Frankish kings and dukes… possibly being influenced by his German wife. But see the Cyrillic characters inside?’

Grebeniček clicked his remote, and a series of animations flashed up on the screen, highlighting the Б, Г and Р on the upper bar; the Д on the crux; the А on the descending bar; and the Оs coming off each side. A general murmur of comprehension went up from the class, who had likewise been confused by the odd signature.

‘Also, see the body text above it? Not Slavonic. It’s in Greek. Whom do you think it was written to?’

‘The Byzantine Emperor?’ ventured Ľubomír Sviták.

‘Close! Very close.’

‘Wait! I know that letter!’ Živana Biľaková raised her hand. ‘Isn’t that the letter that Bohodar wrote to Œcumenical Patriarch Ignatios II, after the Photian controversy? Assuring him of Moravia’s loyalty and support?’

‘Wonderful, Ms Biľaková!’ Grebeniček praised her. ‘Not very revealing from a personal aspect, I’m afraid. Most of it’s fairly formulaic, standard-issue flattery. The interesting point, apart from the signature, is the story of how it came to be preserved.’

‘Monks?’

‘Monks,’ Grebeniček answered her. ‘Now, of course miracles and acts of God were “everywhere present and filling all things” in the mediæval imagination, but this I think could legitimately count as a miracle even by our modern standards. Some monastic reader, maybe even Ignatios himself, took the letter, folded it up—see that crease running across the middle?—and used it as a bookmark in a Studite copy of John Moskhos’s The Spiritual Meadow, and then forgot about it. That’s how it was discovered in the archives of the Patriarchal library in the early 1800s. Otherwise, a letter this old probably would have fallen to dust by now. This second signature—‘ Edvard clicked through to the next slide, ‘you should all recognise.’

Half a dozen hands shot up. Grebeniček called on Petronila Šimkovičova.

‘That’s Bohodar the First’s signature,’ she said.

‘How do you figure this?’ Grebeniček smiled.

‘Three reasons,’ Petra answered. ‘First, it reads only “Богодар. Краль.” No other king would have used that signature. Second, it’s written in early ustav script, before the Moravian royals adopted the tower-capitals “monach” style for charters. Third, the trilingual text above – Old Moravian, Greek, Old Prussian – indicates that the text is from the Sliezsky zakón: the first law code produced by the Rychnovských in the tenth century.’

‘A law code which, typical to the Slavic tribal tradition, was itself an adaptation of the earlier Law of Rastislav. Why fix what works, right? The only two capital crimes continued to be arson and high treason. But he made some remarkable concessions to local sentiment. He protected groves, placed limits on clearances, imposed fines for overgrazing and so forth.’

Grebeniček switched over to a third slide. The signature which greeted them now was a simpler, more free-flowing hand, and it read “Богодар.Г”. ‘And whose is this one?’

Cecilia Bedyrová’s hand immediately went up, and she had a knowing smile on her face. ‘That one,’ she said knowingly when the professor called on her, ‘is from “Dňestr nesie moje sěrce po-proude”. One of the greatest love-songs ever written in Old Moravian. Imperial Archives in Pest.’

‘Two bonus points for today, Ms Bedyrová, if you can tell me how it got there!’

‘Bohodar 3. wrote that poem for his wife, Árpád-Hotin Czenzi, who is said to have kept it rolled up in a silken pouch between her breasts for the rest of her life – so much did she treasure it and him. Bohodar himself gave the pouch with the handwritten script in it to her kin after she died. Like most of the Árpád patrimony, it fell into the hands of the Detvanský family after the formation of the Carpathian Empire.’

‘Points well-earned, Ms Bedyrová. Rather touching story, eh?’ Ed nodded. ‘See how it’s written? Careful, meticulous, scholarly, ustav-like – but casual, flowing. There’s no politicking here, no loaded semiotics. It’s meant for the eyes of one person alone: the one person who mattered. Now, you don’t need to do any sophomoric pseudoscientific grasping at straws the way the old graphologists did, to understand the intimacy of this signature.’

Again Grebeniček clicked the remote, and another signature flashed up on the screen.

‘What does that fourth one say about its author?’

Dalibor let out a guffaw. ‘It says “Ja ľubľu Rossija”!’ Several classmates joined in his laughter, and even Grebeniček’s moustaches rose appreciatively.

‘Quite so! Radomír the Fourth loved everything about Russia. His wife was Russian. He wore Russian clothing. He befriended Russian monarchs and spent much of his time in Kiev. Culturally, politically, spiritually, he was a thoroughgoing Russophile, though they wouldn’t have called him that back then. But—Mr Pelikán, explain your reasoning, please.’

‘Those monach capitals are so tall and thin they could be a children’s cartoon,’ Dalibor critiqued. ‘And the “stacking” of his titles at the end…’

‘Mm—excellent observations. Yes, this was the signature and titling style that was preferred for legal proclamations among the Rus’ princes at the time, possibly a bit exaggerated…’

Grebeniček clicked through to the fifth and last slide.

This signature was unlike the others, and thus also quite distinctive. On the one hand, the clustered capitals and nestled vowels in the name left no doubt whom it belonged to. But then there was the ornate circular emblem on the side containing a lovingly-scripted piece of Arabic calligraphy.

‘Bi-fadl ‘Allâh Rûbirtu malik Muwrâfiyya al-Kabîr,’ the professor read aloud. ‘By the grace of God Róbert, King of Moravia the Great. Naturally the name of God is placed at the apex, and the rest of the calligraphy flows around it.’

The classmates stared in awe at the calligraphic work of the last mediæval king of Moravia.

‘Any insights about this signature?’

‘How long would it have taken him to write it?’ asked Ľubomir. ‘That is an incredibly intricate hand.’

‘On a document like this? Chances are he would have laboured over it as carefully as a monk doing transcriptions would have done.’

On the final slide, all five signatures were arrayed out together. Even though each of them was in a distinct personal style, still there seemed to be a natural evolution that flowed between them, from the early-mediæval to the late-mediæval. The class discussed each of them for some time.

‘Just a fun tidbit to share with you,’ Grebeniček smiled. ‘Now, onto the reading for today. We are going to talk a little bit about the reign of Pravoslav, the son of Bohodar mladší…’

 

[Revan86]

The Reign of Pravoslav Rychnovský, Kráľ of Veľká Morava

ELEVEN
A Promise Four Generations Old
29 March 945 – 25 February 947

Mutimír Dubravkić Bijelahrvatskić went into the room with a bit of a tremble. Even though the King was his cousin through his grandmother Viera, he was still a King. Thus far in his life, Mutimír had not had much ado with his landed kin, and he did not know at all what to expect. Why in God’s name would the most exalted person in all of Moravia wish to speak to him, of all people? Was he in trouble?

As the young lad entered the High Hall and faced the king’s throne, he faltered in his step, fearing to go further forward. Yet there was the king, his long shoulder-length black hair draped around his shoulders, his beard immaculately trimmed, the double circlet of gold around his head. As he had entered the room, he had been conversing with his son – yes, Mutimír recognised Radomír the crown prince – while the Queen stood in the background. Evidently it was she who had brought him.

‘Come forward, Mutimir,’ the king bade him mildly.

The dark-avised six-year-old tiptoed forward timidly, casting his eyes between the three people before him in an attempt to read what they wanted of him.

‘Let us get a good look at you,’ Pravoslav beckoned gently.

Mutimír took several more tentative steps forward, and looked up at Pravoslav. There was a moment of silence between them, where young boy and man approaching middle age scrutinised each other.

‘Mutimír,’ the king began, ‘I have spoken with your aunt, Adrijana. She tells me you are quite a clever boy, with an able tongue… when you choose to use it. I am going to make you an offer, but first I will tell you a little story so that you may better understand it.’

The six-year-old nodded gravely.

‘When I was about your age, or perhaps a bit younger, my own father told me about the fate of the kingdom of the White Croats, of whom your fathers’ fathers were rulers. And he impressed upon me, from that very early age, the duty that we Orthodox Moravians bear to care for our White Croat brethren in the faith, especially those who come to this court in need. That was, in fact, how I was introduced to Radomír’s mother.’

Behind him, though he did not notice it, Marija Kobilić was wringing her hands together until her knuckles turned white. Radomír caught the motion of her hands in the corner of his field of sight and turned toward his mother, giving her a quizzical look. But her face betrayed no emotion. In the meanwhile, the king was going on:

‘Mutimír, you are very precious to me, whether you knew it or not. You see… one of the promises I made to my late father was to take care of any White Croat refugees who darkened our door. And not only are you one of the last of the Bijelahrvatskići—the last of a noble house. You are also the grandchild of my auntie Viera: that I’m sure, you do know. Now, the offer I made to your aunt was to take you as my ward—to be responsible for your upbringing. You will study, not your aunt’s pursuits of scheming and plotting, but instead the noble arts of courtliness, manners and gentlemanly comportment. You would have me for a guardian, and Radomír here for a foster brother. He’s already said he approves of the idea. What do you say?’

‘Mm-hm,’ Mutimír nodded vigorously. Adrijana was his aunt, but she was still kind of mean and had a biting tongue when she chose to lash out at someone. King Pravoslav seemed much nicer. And of course it wasn’t every little boy who got to be the ward of a king! ‘I’ll be your ward. And Radomír, I’ll be a good little brother to you!’

‘I’m sure you will,’ the older boy smiled down at him warmly, and took him by the shoulders in a one-armed hug. ‘I’ve always wanted a little brother!’

Radomír had not forgotten his mother’s evident distress, but he could not at all account for it. Could it be that she disliked Mutimír for some reason? Why should that be so? Weren’t they both White Croats, and kin? Hadn’t his grandfather on her side been a loyal knight of the Bijelahrvatskići? He was hard-pressed to account for it, but he took his new younger foster-brother out to play gladly. Good to put the lad through his paces at a game of hoops!

‘Must you have told all of that story to the boy?’ Marija asked her husband after they were behind closed doors and out of earshot of anyone else in the castle.

‘Why should I not?’ Pravoslav answered her, taken aback. ‘I told him only the truth. As a Bijelahrvatskić, does he not deserve to know it?’

Marija let out a frustrated breath through her nose. ‘That isn’t the issue, Slávek. That never has been!’

Pravoslav understood, but it did not please him. He put his hand up to his face and rubbed it hard. They were about to tread old ground now. ‘Oh, Marija, this isn’t about…’

‘How is it that you can treat a mere boy with that kind of solicitude, and not—’

‘Marija,’ Pravoslav interrupted her, irked. ‘Do I abuse you? Threaten you? Strike you? Harm you in any way?’

‘No, you just—’

‘Dare you say that I slight you? That I do not look after your expenses? That I do not care for our children?’

‘No, Slávek. That’s—’

‘Have I been unfaithful to you?’

Marija narrowed her eyes at him and put her hands on her hips, gazing up at him.

‘No. You haven’t. And I know you wouldn’t.’

‘And surely,’ Pravoslav pulled her toward him brusquely, ‘I haven’t left you wanting where it matters?’

‘Oh, Slávek—!’

Marija gasped as her husband roughly undid her girdle and tugged gown and shift off her body. She wasn’t going to say no. Marija Kobilić would never say no to this, not to Pravoslav. It did not take much for Pravoslav to get her aching with want, panting, begging for more… and then it was over. Pravoslav was done. And then he rolled over and turned his back to her. Like he always did after samelies.

A tear slid down Marija’s cheek, though in the dark Pravoslav wouldn’t have seen it even if he’d cared to look. And that was the problem.

Marija didn’t know whether she loved or hated it—sharing a bed with a man who was polite to her, who was punctilious to her, who was correct to her in every particular, all duty and honour… but who merely tolerated her as a wife, when he didn’t subtly resent her. She had his body, which she couldn’t deny she wanted. She knew no other flesh-and-blood woman would—that wasn’t the fastidious Slávek’s way. She loved him for that. She loved him. And he did not love her.

And for a woman as hard-working, as straightforward, as kind and passionate as Marija, and blessed with sleek ebony-hair and blemishless ivory-skin looks that would turn all but the most jaded men’s heads to boot, loving a man who did not love her back was an agony. She had often wondered idly if it wouldn’t be better if he were faithless to her. Then he might be easier not to love. Then she might have someone she could hate, and blame for his lovelessness.

But no. She was trying to steal his heart, not from any earthly seductrix, but from a phantom—a remembrance. Marija didn’t know who she was, only that she had been there first and deepest, and that Pravoslav hadn’t been able to forget her. And what was even more frustrating to her sensibilities, as straightforward and guileless as she herself was, was that she hadn’t the slightest idea how to dislodge that succubus from his mind.

~~~

Marija missed her next issue of blood.

The visible signs appeared during the summer, just as Pravoslav was negotiating marriages for their eldest daughter, Mislava (to Bogoris Srednogorski, heir to the count of Chilia); for their second daughter, Svätoslava (to King Alain of the Lotharings); and for their ward Mutimír (to a girl his own years named Rósa Sigrica). Perhaps Radomír’s wish for a little brother among his elder sisters and younger—a brother of the blood this time—would come to fulfilment.

There was one other diplomatic matter that had to be done.

‘Radomír, a word with you, if you don’t mind?’

His son obeyed meekly.

‘When I was a young boy, I was sent to Nitra…’ Pravoslav’s eyes took on a nostalgic mist and a tenderness that Radomír had not yet seen in him, ‘to forge better ties between ourselves and the Mojmírovci. I feel the time has come for you to have the same opportunity. I have already made arrangements for you to travel with Tas there: my old swordmaster owes me a favour anyway. You’ll meet with Ždar’s son Boleslav—do try to be friends with him, if you can. And, uh… any information of a privileged nature that you can bring back to me from Nitra, I would most appreciate.’

Radomír nodded gravely. ‘I will do my best, Father.’

~~~​

The next time little Mutimír saw his big brother Radomír, he was visibly rather out-of-sorts. His brow was stormy, his pace nearly too brisk for Mutimír to match, and he swung his arms to and fro as though he wanted to hit someone with them.

‘Radko?’ Mutimír ventured. ‘Hey, Radko? What’s wrong—what’s the matter?’

Radomír turned back to his White Croat cousin’s earnest and open face, and let out a sigh.

‘Mutimír,’ he said heavily, ‘you’re going to find out sooner or later that some people are just intolerable.’

‘Intol…?’

‘I mean bad. False,’ Radomír chuffed. ‘So false you don’t want to be in the same room breathing the same air with them another minute. I tell you, Mutimír, I’m glad you’re my brother at least, not him.’

‘The boy in Nitra you were supposed to meet?’ asked Mutimír.

Radomír looked sharply at his foster-brother. That kid had a real knack for learning things he wasn’t supposed to know. He wondered viciously how many doors Mutimír had listened at before he’d left and when he’d been gone… and for how long each time. Mutimír had looked up to Radomír long enough to learn a certain degree of patience in getting what he wanted… though unlike Radomír he wasn’t above a bit of skulduggery to get it.

‘I can’t stand those fakers,’ Radomír raged. ‘And worst of all—I couldn’t keep my promise to Father.’

It was true. Radomír had been slightly more perceptive than his father had been on his own trip, and he knew that Ždar and his son had been pulling the wool over his eyes. It was just that he had difficulty sorting out what was a lie and what was true. Radomír really was a rather simpleminded lad—not stupid by any stretch, but rather lacking in the more subtle forms of discernment. Mutimír nodded gravely and mouthed an ‘ah’ in response.

‘Have you been back home yet, though?’ he asked.

‘Not yet. Why?’

‘You have a real younger brother now!’ Mutimír giggled. ‘They named him Mikulica.’

Radomír’s eyes widened. ‘Truly?’ Maybe Mutimír’s gift for knowing things he wasn’t supposed to quickly wasn’t such a bad thing after all. ‘Can I go in and see him now?’

‘I don’t see why not. They let me!’

 

[alscon]

So young Radomír grows up with a real friend as a foster brother - I'm certain Mutimír's talents will also be useful in filling up the hole in his own education rather nicely. But even if he's gullible, his trip to Nitra left no deep marks as is the case for Pravoslav.

That episode on signatures was impressive work just like the rest.
Looks like Moravian kings will be exposed to a few different cultures.

 

[Wolf6120]

Bit late to the party I suppose, but I just feverishly read through and caught up with this story over the last three days, and just wanted to drop a comment saying how amazing it is.

As a Czech it's been absolutely incredible to see how well you wield Slavic traditions, languages, and history and weave them into the story in a way that feels both natural and authentic, while still being sufficiently fluid to reflect that history in this world isn't playing out the same way it did in hours. I've been especially impressed by how well you've managed to cope with the gendering and conjugation of Slavic languages, and even threw in a few authentic idioms like "my o vlku" at times!

Also, being from Hradec, it was pretty surreal seeing you use a picture of Jiráskovy Sady, which my grandma lives around the corner from, at the start of Chapter Nineteen in Book 1 (though we haven't seen a lovely blanket of snow like the one in the picture in a long time lol). Speaking of Chapter 19, I do want to point out one of the only mis-translations I spotted in this entire story (at least I think it's a mistranslation), not because it's particularly egregious but because it's unintentionally quite funny;
When the Norse soldiers ambush Vladimír Přemyslid's troops, he calls out to them "Nakreslete!", which I assume was meant to be something along the lines of "Draw in!" or "Draw up!" ? In this case though the verb "nakreslit" only means "draw" in the sense of sketching something, as opposed to drawing up close to each other in formation (Something like "Stáhněte se!" or a simple "K sobě!" would probably be better equivalents).

I only point it out because I found it quite funny and ironic to imagine that Vladimír, this serious young lad so eager to prove himself a mature, responsible adult, would respond to a viking ambush by instructing his men to quickly pull out their crayons

 

[Revan86]

So young Radomír grows up with a real friend as a foster brother - I'm certain Mutimír's talents will also be useful in filling up the hole in his own education rather nicely. But even if he's gullible, his trip to Nitra left no deep marks as is the case for Pravoslav.

That episode on signatures was impressive work just like the rest.
Looks like Moravian kings will be exposed to a few different cultures.

Actually, the in-game reason I paid such attention to Mutimír is because the Hungarians conquered the high chiefdom of Ungvar early, and I ended up inviting most of the last dynast's children to my court as advisors. I tried keeping the Bijelahrvatskić line going as long as possible, and Mutimír is kind of their last hope at present. It's a good thing he does get along fairly well with Radomír at this point.

And thank you kindly for the praise on the interlude, @alscon! Funny story - I was actually in Crayola Experience with my kids before I started writing that, and at one of the stations I started using the chisel-tip markers to doodle Slavic signatures in a variety of styles. I ended up importing some of those with a piece of graphics software (GIMP) and... the rest kind of wrote itself.

Bit late to the party I suppose, but I just feverishly read through and caught up with this story over the last three days, and just wanted to drop a comment saying how amazing it is.

As a Czech it's been absolutely incredible to see how well you wield Slavic traditions, languages, and history and weave them into the story in a way that feels both natural and authentic, while still being sufficiently fluid to reflect that history in this world isn't playing out the same way it did in hours. I've been especially impressed by how well you've managed to cope with the gendering and conjugation of Slavic languages, and even threw in a few authentic idioms like "my o vlku" at times!

Cheers, @Wolf6120! Welcome to the AAR, and I'm glad you're enjoying it so far!

I actually took an evening Slovak class when I first moved to the Twin Cities, that was before I had to start working nights. I've still got the little green Slovak phrasebook from that class which I've been using fairly liberally for this story.

Also, being from Hradec, it was pretty surreal seeing you use a picture of Jiráskovy Sady, which my grandma lives around the corner from, at the start of Chapter Nineteen in Book 1 (though we haven't seen a lovely blanket of snow like the one in the picture in a long time lol).

That's awesome! Hope to get to visit there myself someday, when a global pandemic isn't happening...

Speaking of Chapter 19, I do want to point out one of the only mis-translations I spotted in this entire story (at least I think it's a mistranslation), not because it's particularly egregious but because it's unintentionally quite funny;

When the Norse soldiers ambush Vladimír Přemyslid's troops, he calls out to them "Nakreslete!", which I assume was meant to be something along the lines of "Draw in!" or "Draw up!" ? In this case though the verb "nakreslit" only means "draw" in the sense of sketching something, as opposed to drawing up close to each other in formation (Something like "Stáhněte se!" or a simple "K sobě!" would probably be better equivalents).

I only point it out because I found it quite funny and ironic to imagine that Vladimír, this serious young lad so eager to prove himself a mature, responsible adult, would respond to a viking ambush by instructing his men to quickly pull out their crayons

Actually, I think my intention there was to say 'Draw [your swords]' or 'Draw [your bows]'. Still presents the same problem of translation, though, ha!

 

[Revan86]

TWELVE
Doctor Deceptive
2 July 947 – 3 April 948

‘This way,’ said Marija to the young woman who had just arrived. There was little ceremony, for there was little time for it.

The two of them made an odd pairing as they swept through the hallway together. Marija Kobilić, brisk and bold, dark and short. And a step behind her at a less hurried pace, a woman of maybe twenty years. Long and willowy, with a golden braid of curls wrapped around her head, this woman was more reserved and closed in her expressions than the Queen of Moravia, though her eyes held within them the spark of some deep-burning conviction… or desire.

‘In here,’ the Queen motioned to the woman.

The woman swept into the room, and beheld the lethargic, unconscious form of King Pravoslav lying in his bed. She asked the queen in a quiet voice. ‘And the symptoms? Can you be specific?’

‘He was taken with fever two days ago, and complained of hurts throughout his body – in his head, his elbows and knees, his back. My husband… he has had these attacks of wheezing before, but now it’s like he’s constantly fighting for breath. He has also had trouble keeping food down, and that which he does take in, passes straight through him.’

‘Liquid stool?’ asked the healer.

‘Yes,’ said the queen.

‘May I examine him?’

‘Please do.’

The young woman with the golden braid knelt down at the King’s side – felt his forehead, felt his pulse at his wrist. She also examined his eyes and tongue before pronouncing with conviction:

‘It may be that he has some sins left unconfessed. A priest should be sent for. In the meantime, though, it is clear to me that he is suffering from an overabundance of blood. He should stay in a cool, dry place. On the outside, he should be bled, but that will not stop the imbalance of humours. I have… a special preparation, that can increase his black bile and stanch the blood within him.’

‘Can you prepare it, Kvetoslava?’ asked Marija anxiously.

‘I can and I will,’ said the young blonde woman with feeling. ‘All of true Christendom looks to Moravia, the great northern outpost of our Holy Faith against the sickness of schism and the ragings of the heathen. Our king must be made well.’

The door opened and another person entered. It was fourteen-year-old Radomír, who had seen the tall, willowy, blonde and feminine stranger arrive, and had been curious as to who she was. Kvetoslava flicked one cornflower-blue eye over toward the door, but that glance was enough to take him in. His high brows, wide eyes roving over her hungrily, and slightly-parted lips told her more than he knew he was giving away. Kvetoslava knew, of course, that she was attractive – and the attention even of young boys was not unwelcome to her. But she returned to her work, not giving any other indication that she’d noticed him taking notice of her.

Kvetoslava produced a white stone mortar and pestle and selected three dried herbs from a selection of strings which she drew out of a small scrip. And then she began to grind them out. The smell that struck both Marija and Radomír was pungent: it was bitter and bilious, and yet it clung in the air heavily the way garlic does. Indeed – garlic may well have been one of the ingredients she used. But when she was done crushing it, she mixed it in a small wooden bowl with a phial-full of honey to help it go down easier.

She introduced the bitter medicine in small spoonfuls to the ailing king by way of his mouth. Even in his unconscious state, when his tongue smatched the honey the concoction slid down, though he revolted at the bitter substance within it. Still, slowly – spoonful by small spoonful – the medicine went down.

‘There,’ she told the queen. ‘That should help with the fever. But to restore him to strength, I firmly believe that confession of sins and prayers should be in order for him.’

Marija clasped the young woman’s hands. ‘Thank you, Kvetoslava. Thank you.’

The willowy beauty gave a slow smile. ‘Not at all, I assure you.’

Again Kvetoslava’s eyes flicked toward the doorway. Radomír was still transfixed and staring as though he was looking at a visiting angel. Kvetoslava again gave no indication in her bearing or movement or countenance that she’d taken notice… but she had. Well she knew it. And she wouldn’t discourage it.

~~~​

In the days and weeks that followed, Kvetoslava did not actively seek out Radomír. She kept herself on as the court physician, of course, as Pravoslav’s fever broke and his strength began to recover from her remedy. And if she didn’t actively seek him out, she did tend to put herself into places where he was likely to run across her. And each time he did, he would at once slow his walk to the sort of devoted reverence that an awe-stricken child has upon entering the nave of a church. His dark eyes would widen, his breath would catch, his fair young cheeks would redden becomingly, his lips might part a touch. He might even lift his hand a bit, as if yearning for and imagining the touch of her. Kvetoslava saw all this, and understood it even better than her pubescent worshipper did. And a sly smile played on her lips when he wasn’t looking her way.

Still, she went about her duties in and around the castle, and out into Olomouc, with a kind of easy self-assurance. And if she ever encountered the prince, she would take care to bid him a courteous ‘dobr‎ý deň’ – making sure her appearance was charming, but never overdoing it. Let Radomír think her a sweet, pure, disinterested angel. She wasn’t about to disabuse him of that.

As more weeks went by, Kvetoslava began encouraging him in subtle ways. She would catch him looking at her and give him a dazzling grin and a frank and inviting gaze. Again, nothing was overdone: she had him on the hook, and in the humours puppy love had put him in, he wasn’t about to wriggle free. She could take her sweet time drawing him in at her own pace.

One day she went out to gather bez, or black elder, along one of the little ponds outside Olomouc. As she went on her way with a small basket in hand, she heard faint rustles at some distance behind her – and smiled to herself, knowing already exactly who it was. Well, let Radomír follow. She wasn’t about to alert him to her awareness of him just yet. But… the two of them alone, out here… she toyed with the thought of having a bit of a conversation with him when she could be sure they couldn’t be heard.

But she soon reached the pond and found the little grove of tall green shrubs that she was looking for, with their bright green spade-shaped leaves and drooping clusters of black berries upon brilliant red stalks. These she began snapping off and gathering into her basket, again going on at a casual and unhurried pace, knowing of course how best to appear to her advantage seemingly without effort. At last there was the snap of a branch near her which she couldn’t pretend not to ignore.

She chuckled. ‘I know you’re there, Radomír. You needn’t hide from me, you know.’

Radomír emerged from behind the elder bush he had been using for cover, hands in front of him, head hanging, cheeks burning nearly as red as the elder stalks. But Kvetoslava gave him a kindly and sympathetic touch on the arm—felt him shudder with the first keen, frightening stirrings of the desire of touch, young and raw and overpowering—and favoured him with a mild and considerate smile as he lifted his head to her in awe.

‘There,’ she said, ‘not so hard? Won’t you help me gather? Another pair of hands won’t be unwelcome. Though I wasn’t planning for company—fear I’ve only got the one basket. We’ll have to share.’

Radomír gawped for a long, awkward moment, amazed at the God-sent luck he’d been handed undeserved, and then nodded blushingly. He set to work gathering the small, potent-smelling black fruits. After he’d gotten a couple of heaping handfuls of them, he brought them dutifully to Kvetoslava and laid them in her basket. His arm brushed against hers, and again she could tell from the thrill that went through him the effect of touching her had. He didn’t speak to her for a long time, though clearly he was agonising over what to say—what could he say to such a lovely celestial creature as her? But Kvetoslava continued to work, and he continued to work, and soon the basket was heaping with clusters of elder. Kvetoslava, having practised this art of gathering for some time, knew well how to keep the juice from staining her skin. But Radomír’s hands were mottled purple despite his best efforts, and there was elder juice on his face as well.

‘You’ve been a great help,’ Kvetoslava told him gratefully. ‘Twice the hands, half the time.’

‘H—happy I could help,’ Radomír murmured shyly.

‘Won’t you keep me company back to the castle?’ she asked. ‘We can walk together—you don’t have to follow me at a distance, you know.’

Again Radomír gawped open-mouthed, and answered with a trembling blushing nod. The fourteen-year-old king’s son trod the path step for step beside the new-minted court physician of twenty-one summers, keeping pace as best he could with her, and trying his best to square up his shoulders and look manly. Given his fresh, fair, almost girlish features, his attempts more than once caused Kvetoslava to giggle—not unkindly, but still enough to make him self-conscious.

‘Do you often come out this way?’ he asked.

‘Only during gathering season,’ she said. ‘The crushed berries are good for a number of curative syrups and brews. The leaves have some uses too, but not in quite the same way.’

‘You know so much,’ Radomír said.

‘Well, I should hope so,’ Kvetoslava answered. ‘Wouldn’t be much use to your father if I didn’t know a thing or two.’

‘And—and you’re so… so kind…’

Kvetoslava laughed aloud at that. ‘Oh, you are a sweet boy! No, I am a sinner like everyone else. God has had mercy upon me more times than I care to count. The least I can do is to obey His commandment to care for my neighbour.’

‘Like my father?’

Kvetoslava glanced aside to him. ‘Your father is a ruler of many men. Hundreds of families swear fealty to him. He provides the law and promotes the worship of God in righteousness and in truth. By curing him and helping him strengthen again, I can help many more of my neighbours, can I not?’

As they walked, Radomír’s hand brushed against Kvetoslava’s—entirely by accident, but he still quivered and blushed at the touch. Kvetoslava looked across at him, smiled… and took his hand in hers. Radomír, stunned speechless, held it with the worship one might tender a relic of a holy saint, and looked at her beaming face the way a novice monk in the rapture of his prayers might gaze upon an icon of the Theotokos. But this… this was a woman’s touch. And not just any woman, but the fairest and most wondrous of her sex that Radomír had ever laid eyes on, the deliverer of his father’s life. And she was holding his hand—even enjoying it! How was it possible? Radomír’s heart quickened and threatened to burst from his breast.

He held her hand firmly until they reached the outskirts, when she gave it a squeeze and released him. But from the hooded glance she gave him he knew she meant they must be secret and not be seen by others. Kvetoslava stood a couple of paces apart from him once they neared the gate, head down, hands folded neatly around the basket handle in front of her, willowy and graceful in her stride… and Radomír could not long bear to take his eyes off her. These new and powerful surges within him, running down his spine, through his heart, into his stomach… what could they mean? He accompanied Kvetoslava through the gate, up to the castle, and to the door of her chamber there. As she bade him good day, she paused a thought in the doorway – again her eyes held low, but with a soft smile on her lips that sent Radomír’s heart again into raging paroxysms, from which he would not recover until late that night.

As for Kvetoslava… her painstaking and slow subtlety was beginning to bear fruit. Soon now – very soon indeed – she would be firmly entrenched in the bosom of the Moravian royal family, and her position would be firm and secure. She smiled with satisfaction at her performance behind the closed door of her room.

 

[filcat]

But he was gone before the first leaves started to turn, on the 17th of September of the year 942, by the Western reckoning.

‘Now, please leave me. I wish to be alone.’

Unacceptable, untenable, indefensible, yet the same word as for all will be uttered when the end comes: Farewell, Blažena; farewell, Boško.

Leaving from the perilous waters, now sailing towards the truly uncharted seas.

---

And he impressed upon me, from that very early age, the duty that we Orthodox Moravians bear to care for our White Croat brethren in the faith, especially those who come to this court in need.

Another string of an arc that is wonderfully twisted through a slipknot. Kudos.

---

When the Norse soldiers ambush Vladimír Přemyslid's troops, he calls out to them "Nakreslete!", which I assume was meant to be something along the lines of "Draw in!" or "Draw up!" ? In this case though the verb "nakreslit" only means "draw" in the sense of sketching something, as opposed to drawing up close to each other in formation (Something like "Stáhněte se!" or a simple "K sobě!" would probably be better equivalents).

Actually, I think my intention there was to say 'Draw [your swords]' or 'Draw [your bows]'. Still presents the same problem of translation, though, ha!

<Your friendly watchdog from fact-checkers of fictional lores>
– About the corrections;

‘Bi-fadl ‘Allâh Rûbirtu malak Muwrâfiyya al-Kabîr,’ the professor read aloud.

– ...'malak' would be a noun, corresponding to angel, whereas the same root (m-l-k) would have maalik, that would mean owner, ruler, monarch, chieftain, etc. Moreover, instead of 'Muwrâfiyya' the expected transliteration for Moravia would be -

<Your friendly nerdic defender of the fictional lores jumps from behind onto Your friendly watchdog>
<friendly watchdog tumbles and hurls friendly nerdic defender front; catching its breath, friendly watchdog gets up from the ground; friendly nerdic defender as well; they look at each other. friendly watchdog dashes its right fist, but friendly nerdic defender parries with left, while going for a right-kick on the shank. friendly watchdog holds the breast-armour of friendly nerdic defender at the same time, and they fall on the ground together again. After another tumbling, friendly watchdog has the upper hand by tying the neck of friendly nerdic defender with its arms. About to lose the breath, friendly nerdic defender grasps the head of his nemesis, puts down his feet solidly, and throws friendly watchdog with all the power he has in his capacity, so far to the other side of the bridge.>

<Suddenly, the bridge collapses, leaving the fighting enemies on each side stuck>

<Your friendly nerdic defender of the fictional lores>
– I told you - I told you not to -coughing- This will never end; will it not?

<Your friendly watchdog from fact-checkers of fictional lores>
– It will; one day.

<friendly watchdog gets up, and walks towards its ship; gets onboard, starts the thrusters. With enormous noise, the ship propels into the atmosphere, then faraway, above the sky's reach>

<friendly nerdic defender slowly rises, while holding his hurting neck, trying to catch his breath>
– One day.

---

‘… yes, I see,’ his grandmother was saying. ‘Your understanding of the expected protocols for each of the offices is remarkable!’
‘But, dedo promised I could have an obruček if I progressed well in my studies.’

...caught the motion of her hands in the corner of his field of sight and turned toward his mother, giving her a quizzical look. But her face betrayed no emotion.

‘So false you don’t want to be in the same room breathing the same air with them another minute. I tell you, Mutimír, I’m glad you’re my brother at least, not him.’

Again, nothing was overdone: she had him on the hook, and in the humours puppy love had put him in, he wasn’t about to wriggle free.

Naively gullible, unusually observant, insufferably spiteful.


Hello, nice to meet you, Radomír of the Rychnovský.

 

[Revan86]

Unacceptable, untenable, indefensible, yet the same word as for all will be uttered when the end comes: Farewell, Blažena; farewell, Boško.

Leaving from the perilous waters, now sailing towards the truly uncharted seas.

Indeed, indeed. To both of those.

Another string of an arc that is wonderfully twisted through a slipknot. Kudos.

Oh yes. The Bijelahrvatskici will come to be quite important in Moravian politics, and we can thank Boško for that. Mutimir is only the first of any note.

<Your friendly watchdog from fact-checkers of fictional lores>
– About the corrections;

For the record, @Wolf6120 and @filcat, I have corrected 'nakreslete' to 'vytáhni své zbraně' and 'malak' to 'malik' respectively.

But far be it from me to stand in the way of the epic eternal duel...

​

Naively gullible, unusually observant, insufferably spiteful.


Hello, nice to meet you, Radomír of the Rychnovský.

We shall be seeing plenty of him in the chapters to come!

 

[Revan86]

THIRTEEN
Ready for the Pounce
19 July 947​

The nineteenth of July was a fateful day for two of the Rychnovský men.

For one thing, Pravoslav was receiving a most exalted guest in Olomouc. The bishops had met in Constantinople to approve a new Œcumenical Patriarch, and the man they had agreed upon was… well, barely a man at all. The lowly monk Isaakios, in the world Iasōn Stemnitziotēs, had been voted into the position by the majority of the bishops of the Empire, despite his tender age of seventeen years. Although he was not the most observant or patient of monks, and did not suffer fools lightly, Isaakios had already gained a reputation for being a selfless and even-handed mediator, and his doctrinal knowledge was – if not scintillating – then at least sufficient for him to avoid the pitfalls of heresy and schism. Within the empire, he was considered rather a ‘Patriarch of the people’, a struggler and a striver after truth who would respect the dignities of the poor. Emperor Dauidēs, a kind-hearted ruler for all the troubles his vassals had given him, had not taken too long in confirming the boy to the highest ecclesiastical office in the Empire, primus inter pares among the four faithful Patriarchs.

This was the person who arrived in Olomouc on the morning of the nineteenth. Thankfully, Kvetoslava’s preparations had done wonders for the king, such that he was able to stand and speak, although his wheezing and coughing fits still overtook him as he made his way around the castle. The interview with the new Œcumenical Patriarch took place in the High Hall, and the young Patriarch was seated in honour near the King’s right hand while the two of them dined together.

‘Your father did very well for himself,’ the young Patriarch said as he cut into his meat. ‘Although Nitra remains beyond our reach, at least he managed to retake Silesia and begin the blessed work of drawing its people back into the ark of salvation. And your grandfather—uncle—how do you call him? The first Radomír, the one who died in battle.’

‘I call him my grandfather,’ the king said simply.

The youngster breathed. ‘Ah. Of course. The male line is the more important, I do understand. At least he is avenged, and his courage and loyalty demonstrated by the grace of God.’

‘The real work is only beginning,’ Pravoslav remarked. ‘Moravia borders on the kingdom of the Franks to the west, on the high chiefdom of Pannonia to the south, and on Nitra to the east, beyond which lies the realm of the Magyars. To the north of us are all number of petty Slavic kingdoms who do not yet bow before Christ. The last is the task which lies before us.’

‘I see,’ said the Patriarch gravely. ‘What is it that you’re planning?’

‘It’s not what I’m planning,’ Pravoslav viciously speared a slice of mutton. ‘It’s what they’re already doing. The heathen are already staging raids into Češi lands. They are building up massive armies, with the support of the severané to the far north, and their raids are getting bolder and bolder.’

‘God save us from such unreasoning fury,’ Isaakios crossed himself.

‘We need to mount a punitive expedition against the Milčané on our northwestern march. That tribe is the most troublesome at the moment. At the moment, though, I do not have the men or the resources.’

‘… and you hoped to apply to the Phanar for funds,’ Isaakios said shrewdly. Despite his youth the Patriarch was not unobservant nor lacking in understanding, that much was clear. ‘Ah, such is ever the plight of kings…’

‘But you do not object?’

‘Object?’ Isaakios looked taken aback. ‘My dear Pravoslav, you are defending a Christian folk under your rule against plunderers and slavers, against those who live by the rule of the strong. Your cause is a just and a holy one. Why, is there some reason I should object?’

‘No,’ Pravoslav smiled. ‘No, none that I can think of.’

‘Good,’ said Isaakios. ‘May God grant you swift and bloodless victory. At the moment I can spare only one hundred fifty nomismata worth of gold and jewels, but that should be enough to feed and bolster any force that you raise in such a venture for some months.’

~~~​

While Pravoslav was entertaining the Œcumenical Patriarch, Radomír was waiting for Kvetoslava just inside the gate to the castle. She had gone into town that morning to consult with a patient, and Radomír tholed her return with equanimity. When he saw Kvetoslava’s willowlike form swaying through the gate, he broke into a grin and went at once to her side.

‘How was she?’

‘Jelena? She will be well,’ Kvetoslava assured him. ‘She merely… needed a few purgatives, and something to restore her humoural balance afterward. Wild celery and garlic should do the trick.’

Radomír again looked upon her with awe.

‘Kveta, I wish I had your knowledge, your goodness.’

‘My goodness, you certainly have and more,’ Kvetoslava answered him with a graceful dip of her long neck. ‘As for my knowledge, that is merely a matter of study, observation. If you have a good teacher, that is another thing in your favour, of course.’

‘Do you—do you think you could… could, um…’

A slow smile spread across Kvetoslava’s lips. ‘Teach you something?’ she asked. ‘I don’t see why not. Of course, all my texts and preparations are in my chamber. Would you like to come with me there?’

‘Come with you? To your chamber? Inside?’ Radomír felt light-headed, and his stomach fluttered.

Kvetoslava merely shrugged lightly. ‘Why not? Don’t you like me?’

‘Yes, I do, but—’

‘And don’t you trust me?’

‘I do, of course! But—’

Kvetoslava lay a finger across young Radomír’s lips. ‘Then “but” me no “buts”. I like you too, and I trust you. I would not admit you otherwise, you understand.’ Then she took his hand. ‘Come with me.’

Radomír could not get in another word, but instead followed her as though in a dream. She drew him inside the door by both hands, and latched the door behind him. Radomír looked around with mingled awe and curiosity. It was a well-appointed room, with candles and a brazier for light and heat. She had carefully arranged on her table her mortar-and-pestle, several vellum pouches with piles of crushed and powdered herbs in them, a portable copper kettle and still, a leather roll with surgical tools, several books including a Psalter, and a number of written prayers on pieces of scrap paper, wooden charms and amulets, jars of various sorts of honeys and syrups. Around the room were hanging bundles of dried herbs: some fragrant, some pungent, some even slightly caustic to the smell.

Kvetoslava gave a sweeping gesture around the room. ‘Here we are! Why don’t you have a seat?’

Radomír sat in a chair by her table.

‘Now,’ she said, leaning in close to him, ‘what is it that you would like me to teach you?’

Radomír took one trembling hand and brought it up to Kvetoslava’s well-formed jawline, tracing slowly from her cheek down to her chin. Kvetoslava leaned in even closer. He could smell her breath – sweet like roses. And then he felt the soft warmth of her lips on his, which hit him like a bolt from the heavens. Kvetoslava broke apart from Radomír after a couple of seconds, and looked down into his dark eyes.

‘Teach me… that,’ he asked her.

‘I thought you’d never ask,’ Kvetoslava breathed.

Kvetoslava and Radomír kissed again and again and again, each time longer and tenderer than the last. Radomír was in heaven, touching and being touched by the woman he desired with every fibre of his young being, being drawn closer and closer to her, a glowing warmth spreading throughout his body. His lips touched her cheek, and then her jaw, and then her neck. A new and frightening compulsion began to grip him. All he knew was that he wanted more of her, to get as close to her as possible. He gazed down her neckline, and then back to her mouth, her perfect lips bent up in a subtle smile.

‘How do you feel, Radko?’

‘I… I don’t know,’ Radomír said breathlessly. ‘It feels weird, tingly, but… good…’

‘I can help you feel even better,’ Kvetoslava murmured in his ear. ‘Come with me to the bed.’

~~~​

One of the maidservants heard the cry of the crown prince coming from the room of the court physician. She came to the door and was about to knock and ask if he was alright, but checked herself as she realised the leech might be treating him for some injury. But then she heard the voices of both the crown prince and the physic – male and female, low intimate moans and pants and gasps of delight – and the urgent repeated knocking of a wooden frame against the wall, quickening in tempo. So the leech was treating Radomír: just… not for any injury. The maidservant turned away from the door and walked away. As far as she knew at the moment, this was none of her business, and she would say nothing of it.

~~~

The following morning, Blahomíra, the hraběnka of Časlav, found Pravoslav in a good mood: he was feeling much better of late – the physician’s cures had been most effective – and his wife’s maid had given him the welcome news the night before, that Marija was pregnant again. Blahomíra approached Pravoslav just as he was done entertaining the young Œcumenical Patriarch over breakfast. Pravoslav respected Blahomíra – and she was indeed quite good at her job – but he found it difficult to like her. Still, Pravoslav could not say that someone as versed as she was in secrets and subterfuge was without her uses.

‘My liege,’ Blahomíra told him with a courtesy, ‘I have some news for you.’

‘Yes, Blahomíra? What is it?’

‘Patriarch Miloboj – my contacts have informed me of a potential conspiracy to end his life by unnatural means. We don’t know yet who is behind it, but I did take the liberty of putting the good bishop on his guard – and now you as well.’

‘I see.’ Pravoslav’s brow darkened. He wasn’t particularly fond of Miloboj either. But the man did know his business, and Pravoslav could think of far worse candidates for the position of primate in Moravia. ‘Well, I’ll tell the staff to keep an eye out whenever he’s here, and I’m sure he’ll do the same for the attendants in the cathedral. If you find out anything further about who wants him dead…’

‘I will, of course, inform your Lordship.’

‘Thank you, Blahomíra,’ Pravoslav dismissed her.

‘It is no trouble.’ She made to leave, and then turned around as though with an afterthought. ‘I say, my Liege, did your son ever return to his chamber last night?’

‘He did… fairly late, though.’

Blahomíra gave a soft ‘ah’. ‘If I were you, I would also keep a close eye on him, milord. He’s getting to a rather troubled age, and he is—you will pardon my saying so—a tad naïve. Not all among your vassals would be loath to use him for their own ends. Good day, milord.’

 

[Revan86]

Just a heads-up here.

I have the next ten chapters titled and dated, though not written yet. They are as follows:

FOURTEEN: Masters of Milčané
FIFTEEN: Brotherhood of the Holy Sepulchre
SIXTEEN: From Zhořelec to Sadec
SEVENTEEN: A Necessary Sacrifice
EIGHTEEN: In Confidence
NINETEEN: The Fury of Silesia
TWENTY: Drink to Be Forgotten
TWENTY-ONE: The English Campaign
TWENTY-TWO: Bijelahrvatskići Vindicated
TWENTY-THREE: On Two Fronts

At least two of these will be multi-parters, though probably on the shorter side (2 or 3 sections each). The third part of Book II will likely be shorter than ten books.

 

[Wolf6120]

Like father like son, lol, seems older blonde women are the Kryptonite of the Rychnovský men. (Maybe even grandpa too? I forget if Hilda was older than Radko Sr.)

 

[Revan86]

Like father like son, lol, seems older blonde women are the Kryptonite of the Rychnovský men. (Maybe even grandpa too? I forget if Hilda was older than Radko Sr.)

There does certainly seem to be a pattern, doesn't there? It's weird, because the wives I seem to find for my kids are all brunettes.

Had to go back and check - it's been that long, evidently - but I think Hilda was roughly the same age as Radko Sr.

 

[Revan86]

FOURTEEN
Masters of Milčané
24 June 948 – 1 March 954

I.
Asymmetric Tactics in the Gera
5 July 948 – 6 June 949

Pravoslav grinned as he beheld his eldest son. His youngest, Luboš, had been born only recently, but right now the attention of the king was fully on the one going off with him to war.

Radomír made a fetching figure indeed. He stood proudly, his shoulders straight, his feet set apart at attention. His mail was bright and well-kept, with a blue tabard and mantle to match, and a keen sword at his side. His dark hair was freshly cropped in bowl fashion. Pravoslav looked over him proudly. The one thing rather out-of-place in his son, newly a man, were his delicate and almost girlish facial features: graceful cheekbones over full, rosy-fair cheeks and soft jawline. Those, he had gotten from his mother. But however he looked – as long as he could fight, that was the key thing. Pravoslav proudly clapped his son on the shoulders.

Apart from that, Pravoslav was well-pleased with his son’s education and how he had turned out. Having never really mastered the finer points of diplomacy himself, he was pleased to see how well Radomír could not only hold his own in polite company but even smooth over conflicts, anticipate guests’ needs, stand his ground when interests of state were at stake.

There was one other looking on with admiration as Radomír stood at the head of his contingent of zbrojnošov. Kvetoslava caught Radomír’s eye boldly when his father was off inspecting his other troops, and gave him a saucy smirk. Radomír’s cheeks flushed with pleasure. He kept close to him the secret the two of them shared, along with a token: a lock of her honey-gold hair, bound with a silken thread scented with her rosy perfume, kept in a small clasped box in his scrip. He hoped this campaign wouldn’t last long, so that he could come back to her the sooner – and her sustained, burning stare assured him that she felt the same way.

The horns sounded aloud, the riders on their horses set off at a canter with the foot troops following, and thus began Pravoslav’s expedition against Bretislav z Milčanóv, the chieftain of the Sorbs.

‘We should first attack the Glomiti,’ Pravoslav’s cousin Lada had told him. ‘The main circuit of the Sorbian chief runs through their main settlement at Míšeň, which is also a key port on the Elbe. If we can take Míšeň, we will demoralise the Sorbs who depend on Bretislav’s justice, and also control movement along the river. Both will give us a decided tactical advantage.’

Pravoslav nodded to his cousin. The hraběnka was a stunner whose looks and physique were the envy of Moravian court ladies and the desire of no small number of male courtiers, but Lada had never once shown interest in court intrigues. As a lady of the march, her whole attention and energy were thrown at the protection of her realm and the defeat of her enemies. Pravoslav found from experience that her strategic mind was keener than that of most men, himself included – and despite her being a woman, he was happy to rely on her advice when it came to matters of war.

‘Won’t we have to march through Drážďany?’ he asked her. ‘Won’t the woodland tribe object?’

Lada waved a hand. ‘They’re no real threat to us, and they owe no fealty to Bretislav in any event. Still… yes, I think some precautions against ambushes should be taken there.’

As it happened, however, the woodland Sorbs left the marching Češi and Moraváci alone, and no ambushes took place. As winter set in, the Glomiti managed to scrounge up a force of some three hundred men in defence of Míšeň, including some archers and spear-bearers… but they were no match at all for the discipline and sheer numbers of the advancing force from the south.

Lada again gave her suggestion to the king, as they pored over his map in his tent.

‘Once we have secured the Elbe on both banks,’ she told him, ‘we need to strike westward and engage the enemy, at once. If we can catch them off guard, we may be able to end this war that much quicker.’

‘Where do you think we should go?’ asked Pravoslav.

Hraběnka Lada traced a finger over the map, eventually landing on a spot of secluded woodland in the west. She tapped it thoughtfully.

‘If I were Bretislav, I would use the woodland around the Gera to my advantage: as cover to mass my troops in secrecy, in the hope of retaking the Elbe crossing when my enemy’s back was turned. Once Míšeň has fallen, we should march on the Gera and begin beating the bush.’

Pravoslav nodded. ‘I’ll take your word for it. Thank you, Lada.’

Míšeň didn’t last long under siege, having only a short wooden stockade for defence and being choked off from river trade on both sides. Once a Christian vane was flying from the battlements, Pravoslav left one of his men – a rather lighthearted and easygoing young Czech zbrojnoš named Prech z Harrach – in charge of the garrison, and marched with the rest of his men upon Gera, where Lada believed Bretislav to be gathering his men.

The virgin woodland of Gera was dotted with small encampments of Sorbs, hardy men and women of the wold who lived in small wooden huts and made their living from gathering and game. ‘Beating the bush’ among them was not as easy an exercise as Lada had made it sound. It was all but certain that Bretislav had the trust and goodwill of these forest-dwelling communes, as whenever the Moravians thought themselves close on the approach to where Bretislav was hiding, no trace of them could be found – and surely that was the work of local hands. However, all it took was one late notice. The Moravians surprised the Milčané on the right bank of the Bílý Halštrov just as they were breaking camp, and fell upon them with an eager fury.

Radomír led his zbrojnošov into battle with careful deliberation and timing, but decided relish. His men, and most notably a soft-spoken Turkic Bulgar batyr of his own years named Bogöri, fought tenaciously and swept around the Milčané left flank to subdue the commander. It did not take long for Radomír himself to emerge from the fray, gripping and leading by the collar the bloodied and subdued form of Bretislav’s son Bohumír – a well-fed youngster not that much older than Radomír himself.

‘Wonderful!’ the king exclaimed as his son presented him with the gisel, knowing how dear it would cost his enemy. ‘You have made me proud today, Radko!’

‘Thank you, Father.’

Even so, the main force of Bretislav managed to melt into the woodland. There were no real fortifications in the Gera, and bringing Bretislav to heel was not a matter of laying siege to a single fastness. Instead, Lada persuaded him into a protracted strategy of squeezing the communes of Gera Sorbs who were giving him shelter: seizing their victuals, game and fodder, and setting up checkpoints along the forest trails where provisions could be intercepted. To Pravoslav it felt strangely unlike a siege, and yet the result was quite similar.

A little under a year after Pravoslav had set out on his expedition, Bretislav had been starved into submission and given himself up to the Moravian king’s mercy.

‘I yield myself,’ the Sorb snarled. ‘Now—give me back my son.’

‘That I do with goodwill,’ Pravoslav opened his palm. Radomír hauled Bohumír to his feet and cut the twine which bound him, and sent him over to his father. ‘But you yield not only yourself, but all the lands and tribes over which you claim sway.’

Bretislav was in no position to disagree.

‘Bogöri Srednogorski,’ Pravoslav called.

The slender, gangling young Bulgar among the king’s men-at-arms came forward, his swarthy face wary and closed. He presented himself silently to his king.

‘Step forward and take the staff from Bretislav’s hand,’ the king bade him.

The Turkic youngster strode forward and extended his hands to the Milčan ruler. With gritted teeth, the Sorbian lord handed over the ancient and precious symbol of his rule to the Bulgarian youth, who took it with awe and brought it to his king, kneeling before him with it proffered above his head.

But Pravoslav shook his head briskly.

‘This staff is now yours, Bogöri. So is the rule over the western Sorbs here in the Gera. I take from you only that which you have already given: and that is the fealty which you owe me.’

‘I thank you, Lord Pravoslav,’ the Bulgar youth murmured shyly. ‘And I shall not fail you.’

‘Your first duty,’ said Pravoslav sternly to Bogöri, ‘is to ride back to Míšeň, and to tell Prech that he now has permanent rule over that town, as well as the fastness of Chotěbuz na Spréve. Tell him that the duty falls upon the two of you equally to keep the Sorbian laws and to spread the Gospel of Our Lord Jesus Christ among them.’

‘It shall be done, milord, and gladly,’ Bogöri told him, crossing himself. ‘Aslălăx Turăsı En-Hăvatlă!’

‘Glory to Almighty God,’ Pravoslav answered Bogöri in kind.

 

[Revan86]

II.
More Severan Troubles
11 October 949 – 10 June 951​

The winter march south and east across the German lands was long and disheartened.

‘Bravery alone is not enough,’ Lada was telling her liege patiently. ‘Not when the numbers are that badly mismatched. You need to learn to pick your battles.’

Pravoslav’s head hurt, and his heart was heavy. The cost of his folly had been high. Over a thousand of his men – one in every three he had brought north with him – had been slaughtered on the banks of the IJssel by the heathen under the banner of Ríkólfr Grímsson. The sight of that utter bloodbath, the stench of the oceans of blood, smoking iron and mangled severed limbs, still haunted his dreams and kept him from sleep. The heathen here had given chase upriver, and forced him into a rearguard battle again near Brevoort, which had gone about equally badly.

Radomír urged on his horse behind where Pravoslav and Lada were, catching up until he was riding abreast with them. ‘And what of Charles Fitzalan?’ he asked. ‘What is to become of him? Is he to lose his whole kingdom?’

‘I fear we can no longer be of any help to Charles,’ his father grumbled. ‘We haven’t the men, we haven’t the provisions, and our spirits are low.’

It was indeed a diminished and demoralised force that came through the gates of Olomouc in the winter at the end of the year 949. The Feast of the Nativity, a joyous occasion on any year, was observed, and yet merriment was far from the hearts of Pravoslav and his retainers at their defeat.

~~~​

‘We all fall short of the glory of the kingdom,’ little Mikulica was saying.

‘What are you on about now?’ said an older boy. ‘Who do you think you are – some kind of starec?’

‘I don’t say I am holy,’ Mikulica answered earnestly. ‘None of us are. We should listen to our parents, acknowledge what we do wrong, and humbly submit ourselves to the priests and to their discipline. It is the only way for us to reach Christ.’

‘Then you go to confession yourself,’ said the older boy, giving Mikulica a rough shove.

‘Hey,’ Mutimír Bijelahrvatskić strode over quickly, stepping in between Mikulica and the other boy before the situation got any further out of hand. ‘What’s going on here?’

The older boy shot a hostile jaw at Pravoslav’s second son. ‘This one thinks, just because his father is the king, somehow he’s holier than the rest of us! Putting on airs like a monk.’

Mutimír stared the boy down. ‘I heard what he just said. He wasn’t saying anything like that. Were you, Mikulajek?’

‘No, Mutimír,’ Mikulica said earnestly, spreading his little hands.

‘Still, Miki,’ Mutimír said calmly, ‘remember what Father Jánek said about only preaching what people are ready to hear? Not giving meat to someone who can only drink milk?’

Mikulica blushed and nodded his head. ‘Sorry, Evzen,’ he apologized to the older boy.

Evzen merely glowered and stalked off, evidently thinking the confrontation was no longer worth it. Mikulica turned to Mutimír.

‘Thanks, Mutimír,’ he said meekly. ‘I owe you one.’

‘Nah, you don’t,’ Mutimír told the young prince fondly. ‘We need to look out for each other.’

~~~​

‘Presian pıccă! Christ is Born!’ cried Bogöri, running across the hall to embrace his uncle as soon as he was seen and recognised. Queen Marija had seen the welcome guest into the hall.

‘Bogörim pahım,’ the warmhearted uncle hugged and ruffled the hair of his nephew, giving him the kiss due between kin as well. ‘Glorify Him! You return well and safe! And I hear I am to congratulate you, Batyr and Conqueror of the Sorbs of the West!’

Bogöri lowered his head modestly. ‘It was as God willed it.’

‘Of course, of course,’ Presian said.

Pravoslav stepped forward. ‘Have you given any thought to my proposal, Presian?’

‘I have,’ Presian told Pravoslav, ‘and I am favourable indeed to the idea.’

‘Is the girl here?’

Presian stood aside, allowing a well-kept young slip of a Bulgar maiden to step past him and present herself. She had wavy auburn hair and a dun complexion, with round cheeks, high cheekbones, a small mouth and a narrow chin which altogether gave her an elfin look. She stood modestly and allowed the Moravian king to examine her thoughtfully.

‘Well, Radomír?’ asked Pravoslav meaningfully to his son. ‘What do you think of her?’

The hapless, guileless boy for whom the auburn elfin girl before him was intended could not wholly disguise his reluctance. No other girl would ever hold a candle for him to golden Kvetoslava. He’d been playing doctor-and-patient with her, aided by various aphrodisiacs and scented oils, on and around her bed on every night of the whole Christmas feast. He even still harboured romantic thoughts of marriage to his father’s physician. Still, as his father’s displeasure at his pause began to show, he knew he had to make some reply.

‘She seems… nice,’ Radomír said tactfully.

‘Nice?’ Pravoslav hissed angrily to his son so that Presian couldn’t overhear. ‘You need to do better than that, boy. Raina Srednogorski is a fine one indeed – more than fit as a bride for you.’

But Pravoslav stepped forward graciously and knelt before the girl, taking her by the hand. ‘Would you agree to take my son as husband?’

The Bulgar girl looked up at the Moravian boy. She saw before her the young man with fair, delicate and almost girlish features, wide and honest eyes and a patient demeanour, and she approved. ‘I will take him,’ she told the king with a graceful nod.

‘Good!’ Pravoslav smiled, standing up proudly. ‘Splendid! I’ll have some arrangements to make with your father, and you may marry Radomír when you come of age.’

Said Radomír was taken aback. Not that there was anything wrong with Raina Srednogorski per se – she was good-looking and seemed pleasant-natured enough – but she simply wasn’t Kvetoslava. If there was yet any way to get out of this union or change his father’s mind, he would assuredly find it.

Radomír’s mother, however, had noted the change that came over her son’s face. Marija knew that look… all too well. It was the same look that her husband Pravoslav – then Crown Prince – had given her, the first time she had come to Olomouc. And now here was Raina, in Marija’s own shoes from then: preferred by the father, but not by the son. Radomír loved another: now his mother knew it. Marija’s heart went out to the girl in sympathy, but she knew she would have words to speak to her husband.

That night, after Pravoslav had returned to their chambers after hammering out the betrothal agreement with Presian, Marija tried in vain to talk to him about it.

‘Pravoslav, you need to know… our son…’

‘What about him?’ asked Pravoslav.

‘I think he might not be altogether enthusiastic about this marriage,’ Marija told him.

Pravoslav scoffed. ‘Enthusiastic? Radko doesn’t need to be enthusiastic, he only needs to be obedient. He is a prince, and he should understand his duty.’

‘Duty,’ Marija murmured bitterly. ‘Duty. Honour. Obligation. Your word as your bond.’

Pravoslav eyed his wife suspiciously. ‘And what else is there? If we of the nobility do not have honour and do not abide by our duty, what do we have left? How can we maintain order without the fealties on which we depend?’

‘Slávek!’ Marija cried out, striding over to him and gripping his hand as hard as she could. ‘Where is your heart? Where is your heart?’

Pravoslav was gripped with a sudden surge of anger. ‘How dare you. My heart?’

Pravoslav grabbed his wife by the shoulders, viciously tugged her girdle and undid the laces of her gown. Marija did not resist at all, nor did she want to. She yielded herself up to Slávek like always, and tried to enjoy what he was offering. He didn’t give Marija the love she’d been starving for since she was a little orphan girl – only the pale and flickering shadow of it. He didn’t enjoy her except in the most animal sense. He didn’t even look at her. He looked off somewhere far away, back to some memory.

Marija loved and hated it at the same time. She went limp and lay down on the bed, and waited until Slávek was snoring before she allowed herself to shed silent tears, hugging herself about her slender shoulders. Was this the future that awaited that poor Bulgarian girl, too?

Marija slid her legs off the bed and tiptoed over to a floor chest, from which she drew out a flask and a goblet, cleverly hidden among the clothes. She poured herself a deep draught of the wine – rich and black in the darkness, and took a long drink. The alcohol spread from her mouth and throat into her chest and stomach, gave her warmth, dulled the ache in her heart and in her head. It wasn’t the warmth she wanted, though. Like the pitiless samelies she had to endure from her dutiful and honourable husband, wine was only a pale substitute for the intimacy she craved. But it was better than nothing.

~~~

Ten months later, Marija gave birth to another girl. She named her Slávka: the feminine version of her husband’s name – and hoped beyond hope that he’d take the hint. Pravoslav made no objection, but he also gave no indication or acknowledgement of the message she was trying to send.

By that time, the betrothal of Radomír and Raina Srednogorski, kinswoman of Bogöri and daughter of Knieža Presian of Dobrudža, was a fait accompli. As too was Vyšemíra’s match to Hranimir, the son of the Knieža of Vlaško, whom she married the following May.

And then in June came the final news that Charles Fitzalan, the son of Alain of the Lotharings by Pravoslav’s daughter Svätoslava, had lost Gelre to the Northmen.

 

[Wolf6120]

Pravoslav really hasn’t been blessed with even the faintest shred of self-awareness has he

 

[alscon]

I'm not sure if the fact that Radomír's a good diplomat will alleviate Marija's fears a little or do the exact contrary - much of diplomacy is keeping up a good facade, after all. In any case, a Pravoslav still reeling from the defeat against the vikings was not in the right mood to talk - not to say he would change his mind anyway.

The tact of his friend might certainly help the young prince come to terms with the situation, even if it remains troublesome.

 

[Revan86]

Pravoslav really hasn’t been blessed with even the faintest shred of self-awareness has he

No. No, he has not.

I'm not sure if the fact that Radomír's a good diplomat will alleviate Marija's fears a little or do the exact contrary - much of diplomacy is keeping up a good facade, after all. In any case, a Pravoslav still reeling from the defeat against the vikings was not in the right mood to talk - not to say he would change his mind anyway.

The tact of his friend might certainly help the young prince come to terms with the situation, even if it remains troublesome.

Will say no more at the moment. Things will unfold as they will unfold.