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III.
Uprising at Ilburg
7 April 952 – 1 March 954

‘You got three of ‘em.’

Shhh! Keep your voice down. I knew it was a mistake bringing you along!’

‘But who’s the other one for? Huh?’

‘Be quiet. You’re going to get us both caught.’

The two boys tiptoed their way up the stairs from the cellar with their ill-gotten haul. The older, darker one tried to hide it underneath his cotte and keep it from slipping underneath the hem, though it made his progress awkward. The younger one, the redhead, padded close behind – now being extra careful not to make sound so as not to upset his older friend. They made it to the top of the stairs, and not even one of the servitors or watch saw them.

At last Mutimír allowed himself a sigh of relief, and behind him Mikulica did the same. They then stepped across the hall and strode as naturally as they could, down the hall and out into the courtyard. Once they were outside the gates and on the path into town they were safe.

‘So—are you going to tell me or not? Who’s the other one for?’

‘I’ll show you, don’t worry.’

Mutimír and Mikulica went together to a corner by the town wall, and sat down together. Mutimír drew out from under his cotte the three strings of smoked sweet sausages that he’d pilfered from the castle larder, and gave one of them to Mikulica. One of them was for himself. And the third…

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It wasn’t long before a cat appeared, around the grey ragged corner of one of the wooden zemnica houses of Olomouc. It was a young cat – it might have been a kitten or it might have been older. It had grey tabby markings. Its legs and tail were whip-slender and its ribcage was showing. One of its ears had been half bitten-off, and there was a weepy crust around one of its amber eyes. However, it came up expectantly to Mutimír. In typical cat fashion, it did not beg, but instead rubbed against Mutimír’s leg and then pretended to saunter off a ways, before making up its mind to return and reluctantly take one link of Mutimír’s third sausage.

‘So it’s for the cat?’ asked Mikulica.

‘Shh. Wait. Watch.’

Following the grey tabby there came two or three other cats, as well as a puppy – and each of them took a link from the third string of sausages that Mutimír had brought.

‘You’ve been feeding all the strays in Olomouc?!’ Mikulica levelled an accusing brow at him.

‘Someone has to,’ Mutimír shrugged. ‘In the lean months even the mice and rats starve; and how are the stray cats and dogs supposed to feed themselves? I couldn’t stand to see them suffer, and besides, your mother has saved up more than enough this year to go around. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.’

Privately, Mikulica had to agree – and to approve himself. He munched on the chain of smoky savoury ground pork which was his own share of the plunder. Mutimír had made a good and Godly use of his natural charm and his talent for subterfuge, in using it for compassion. It reminded Mikulica of a hagiography of the Irish Saint Brigid he’d once had to read for school.

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~~~​

Marija put her hands on her hips and sighed in displeasure as she viewed the hooks on the cellar wall. She would once again have to ask the servants to keep a better eye on the larder. Three more strings of sausage had gone missing.

Thankfully, it was only a minor annoyance. Even her aunts had to admit that in Blažena’s day there had never been so much beer and wine to go around, so much meat and cheese. Meal was plentiful and even the spices she was able to acquire cheaply. Indeed, Marija reflected with satisfaction, she had been able to save up enough silver through her careful management of the household and efficient entertainment of guests, to expand her husband’s treasury by at least a tithe.

She climbed the cellar steps again and was about to enter the High Hall when she found her husband waiting there.

‘Ah, Marija! There you are!’

A pleasant smile from Pravoslav. He was evidently in a cheery mood.

‘Milord?’

Hrabě Přemysl the Younger was just telling me that I have, not him, but you to thank for the recent windfall. So it must indeed be true. I’ve never known that brown-noser to pass up a chance to take credit even when it is due elsewhere!’

Marija nodded. ‘It is true, Slávek.’

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‘Well,’ Pravoslav pondered. ‘How might you suggest we make use of this silver?’

‘I can think of several projects your Majesty might undertake. I would be happy to host a great banquet in the High Hall. Alternatively, the money might be seeded into the merchants’ quarter, or spent on some added men on the watch, or saved away for an event of need.’

‘For now, perhaps it’s best we save it,’ Pravoslav suddenly stepped toward her and wrapped his arms around her, kissing her on the head briskly. ‘Thank you, Marija! You always were my match and more at this sort of thing. I don’t know how I’d manage without you.’

What? Was this tenderness? From Pravoslav, of all men? It was as welcome to Marija as it was unforeseen, and she took it to her every bit as greedily as a starving man might grab an offered crust of bread. Her arms circled around Pravoslav’s waist and held him as long as he would stay there, even if it wouldn’t be for long. At least for the moment, she was – perhaps not loved, but at least appreciated by the only man whose appreciation mattered.

‘Oh, what is it now?’ grunted Slávek. He disentangled himself from the glowing Marija and strode out briskly into the courtyard. There was a herald there who was being closely tailed by Patriarch Miloboj.

‘Messenger to you, milord,’ the Patriarch was saying. ‘Said it was urgent and wouldn’t wait.’

‘I have a message,’ the herald said, ‘from Miloslav Grzymała.’

‘Who?’ asked Slávek blankly. But the messenger cleared his throat and began to read.

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Hold it right there, Pravoslav, tyrant and oppressor of faithful followers of the ancient ways! You have uprooted our holy groves and destroyed our shrines. You have trampled on the time-honoured rights of the people of Milčané. Your actions are unforgivable! I am the handsome sailor and soldier of Rod and Veles, Miloslav! And now, in the name of Perun, I shall punish you!

As he finished reading the message, the herald made an odd gesture at Pravoslav with both hands, thumbs and forefingers and pinkies extended. An awkward silence fell over the courtyard. Mewing, a scrawny black cat with a yellow mark on its forehead scampered across the green in pursuit of some small burrowing rodent. Pravoslav turned to his Patriarch at last.

‘Is this… supposed to be some sort of joke? A reference to something, maybe?’

‘I… couldn’t rightly say, milord.’

Pravoslav shrugged. ‘Just as well. It’s probably not kid-friendly in the original language, anyway. You, there, fellow! You go back and tell this… Miloslav, was it? that he’s certainly welcome to try. Miloboj, see him out.’

After he did so, Pravoslav summoned Lada and Radomír. ‘Call up the zbrojnošov. I think we may have some trouble soon.’

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~~~​

Radomír and Lada rode out at the head of a large contingent of Olomouc’s zbrojnošov some weeks later. They crossed over from the lands of the Češi into the lands of the Milčané without incident. However, when they came to the crossing of the Elbe, they found that Prech z Harrach was not there to join them. Fresh tracks in the early spring mud, however, were still clearly visible, and they led out from Míšiň in the direction of Ilburg to the northwest.

The leaders of the army soon came to the march where they viewed the arrays of men one against the other. On one side, they clearly saw Prech z Harrach arrayed in mail, flying the banners of both Moravia and his own demesne into battle. On the other side were the heathen led by Miloslav, who had gathered under a vane in the symbol of the crescent moon.

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‘Looks like our friend the new hrabě has taken the initiative,’ Lada folded her arms in front of her in wry observation. ‘I would never have credited it to him.’

‘He’s holding his own fairly well,’ Radomír observed.

‘Mm,’ Lada smirked. ‘Unsurprising. Miloslav is fielding mostly rural farmers, woodsmen, a handful of mercenaries and local gentry. Prech’s men have the advantage of training and unit discipline.’

‘But there must be over two thousand of them!’

‘Yes, indeed. No way Miloslav could have gathered that many to him by himself. He must be getting help from somewhere, probably in the form of coin. We’ll figure that out once we have Miloslav in bonds.’

Lada spurred on her horse, and Radomír followed her. The zbrojnošov were not far behind on the charge. With the added forces in addition to the men from Míšeň and Chotěbuz, they made quick work of the ‘soldier of Rod and Veles’, and quickly had him transported back to Chotěbuz under arms. There he quickly divulged that the source of his army’s strength had been Wszebora Woewodskij, the young chieftess of the Litoměřici. Once this information was relayed back to Pravoslav, the king calmly replied:

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‘Perhaps it is time I did Hrabě Markvart a good turn in answer.’

The same army which had swept in and defeated the Polabian heathen rebels, soon also occupied the lands and holdings of Miloslav’s sponsor, who was forced to flee from her patrimony along with her retainers. Markvart thus gained control of the last Czech border march not already in Moravian hands. The northern border was secure… but it would not be an end to Pravoslav’s troubles, which were at a hard brew within the walls of his own house.

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Book Two Chapter Fifteen
FIFTEEN
Brotherhood of the Holy Sepulchre
7 June 954 – 30 July 955


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‘… What? Mutimír’s married now, but not to his betrothed?’

‘Aye. The ceremony happened this past Friday. Mutimír’s intended, Rósa Sigrica, was appointed as burgomistress of a town in Nitra, over the King’s objections. So instead he matched him with another White Croat, named Bogna.’

‘And what did the boy think of it?’

There was a giggle. ‘Oh, he didn’t object at all – especially once he caught sight of Bogna, that vamp! Ooh, to have been a fly on the wall for their nuptials…’

Another giggle. ‘Oh, he’ll be almost as happy as the prince with the doctor…’

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Hraběnka Blahomíra had been listening at the maids’ gossip. It was always useful to know what the help were thinking, and in this case they were going some way toward confirming the suspicions she’d been building for a long time. Never anything concrete before now, but… the fact that the Srednogorski girl had not yet conceived a child was troubling. It suggested that in their five years of marriage, Radomír had not spent many nights in her bed. And she had caught the way Radomír addressed the leech, the fond look in his eyes, the tender tone in his voice. And she had also seen saucy flashes of her eyes toward him that suggested illicit liaisons. She went to the High Hall and took her dinner with the other lords and courtiers in attendance. Then, as the desserts were being served:

‘Father, excuse me,’ Radomír announced politely as he stood from his seat, ‘I think I will retire. I’m not feeling too well, though, perhaps I’ve had too much to drink.’

‘Mm,’ Pravoslav murmured sympathetically. ‘Why don’t you stop in with Kvetoslava? She may have something to help with that.’

Radomír gave a deep nod of gratitude. ‘I shall, Father. Thank you.’

Blahomíra followed Radomír out with a sharp glance. Truly? Tonight? Could it be? The hraběnka didn’t have to use any such polite excuse to dismiss herself from the table, but melded into the shadows with the grace of long practice that her occupation had perfected. And she followed the Crown Prince unseen to Kvetoslava’s chambers.

As she reached the door, she could already hear the soft, breathless but urgent voices of a man and a woman, tête-à-tête. Evidently she had been awaiting him for some time already. Then: the sounds of lips touching, the rustle of fabric, the creaking of a bedframe, a sultry sigh of lust. Blahomíra listened at the door just long enough to hear the foolish young adulterer get to work in earnest, before she retreated back into the shadows of the hall. The boy’s father ought to hear about this before anyone else did.

~~~​

Kvetoslava gave a cry of alarm the following morning, as the servants hurriedly and unceremoniously began removing her belongings from her chamber, and depositing them in the courtyard. She hurried out after them, demanding to know what they were about.

‘How dare you? Those are my tools—my books—my herbs! You’ll ruin my preparations! What on earth gives you the right to—’

And then Kvetoslava glanced back at the door of the castle. Pravoslav stood in the doorway. His hands were folded across his chest, and his expression closed and pitiless.

He knew. Damn the man. Somehow, he knew.

Behind him, her love, Radomír, was hissing something in his father’s ear and struggling to get past him to her, but Pravoslav would not permit it, and waved his son’s objections off as one might a fly’s buzz.

Kvetoslava stood up with a studied dignity and dusted off the front of her gown. She made no further outcry. She would make no appeal to pity, no other plea, no such show of weakness. Instead, she arranged herself as well as she could, gathered up her belongings, turned on her heel, and walked by herself out the front gate.

Pravoslav turned to his son, grabbed him by the front of his cotte, dragged him inside the door and slapped him twice, hard, across the face.

‘You lout! You vain, goatish, dissembling little varlet!’ Pravoslav growled at his son and heir. ‘How could I have raised such a base, faithless pizzle-wether as you? Did you spare no thought for your father, no heart-burnings for your mother? Have you no pity upon Raina? Have you no feeling for this family? Are you so determined to be the ruin of the Rychnovských?’

Radomír could say nothing, but only hang his head in shame.

‘You shall stay in your chambers,’ Pravoslav raged, ‘until I send for you, and not before. Even the sight of you makes me sick. Go.

Radomír shuffled off to where he was bidden. Marija touched her husband on the elbow, but he shrugged her off roughly and turned back to the High Hall, where he took his seat in dejection, covering his face in his hands. He knew that Blahomíra was there without seeing her.

‘How long had it been going on?’

‘I couldn’t tell, milord. Years, perhaps.’

Years…’ Pravoslav groaned. ‘Under my very nose. In my own castle!’

‘Milord…’ Blahomíra told the king, ‘I beg your pardon if I overstep my bounds, but I must speak. I do not think Kvetoslava will give up her hold on the prince as tamely as that. That she was capable of such deceit while a member of your household, makes me think she will try to keep her claws in him as long as she sees any chance of profit in it.’

Pravoslav saw no reason to doubt her. Not only had she uncovered this liaison, but she had also uncovered the murder plot against his chief bishop, as well as the one who planned it. That had been a blow, as well – it had been his own sister, Slavena.

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‘What would you have me do?’ Pravoslav asked miserably.

‘I would suggest…’ Blahomíra spoke quietly, ‘a more… permanent solution to the problem, milord.’

Pravoslav made a chuff of disgust. ‘To even think such a thing… a disgrace to the family. To my name. No – I will not compound my son’s wrong with one of my own. But clearly it is owing to some fault in me.’

Blahomíra wisely withdrew.

~~~​

‘Marija…’ Pravoslav entered their room.

‘Yes, husband?’

Pravoslav shuffled over to where she was sitting, and all but collapsed on her shoulder, wracking himself with sobs. Marija put a comforting arm around his shoulders and held him tight against her neck, until she felt his breath start to seize. With alarm, she extricated herself and drew him onto the bed, looking into his eyes.

‘Steady—’ she said. ‘Steady. Calm. Calm down. I’m right here. Breathe. There.’

It took several minutes for the asthmatic attack to pass, but Pravoslav pulled out of it. He still looked utterly miserable.

‘One thing is clear,’ Marija ventured a wan smile. ‘You’ll need a new physician. I can give you some names if you’d like to consider.’

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‘Marija,’ he croaked, ‘I’ve done wrong by you. All these years, I’ve never valued you rightly.’

‘Slávek,’ she commiserated, shaking her head. ‘No, no, you always—’

‘Marija, please,’ Pravoslav held her hands. ‘Let me own my own sins. I may have taken care of you, provided for you, protected you, but I’ve never loved you as a husband ought to love a wife. You needed more from me, and I never noticed. If only I had… would I have seen it? Would I have known Radomír felt the burning he did?’

‘There was no way you could have known before Blahomíra did,’ Marija soothed him.

‘But there was,’ Pravoslav laughed bitterly. ‘You told me yourself. You didn’t think he was happy being married to Raina. I failed to listen to you then. How can you forgive me so easily?’

Marija could have told him, but if he hadn’t guessed it by now it wouldn’t do any good. She gave a sad smile, and rubbed his hand which was still holding hers.

‘I must repent,’ Pravoslav said suddenly, and with conviction. ‘I will make my way to Egypt, to the monastery of Saint Catherine, and I will confess my sins to God as I just now have to you, and beg His forgiveness there. Perhaps He will have mercy upon us.’

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~~~

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God exacted His penance upon Pravoslav, sooner than he had anticipated.

Not long after he had set out for his African destination, as the party he was travelling with neared Sopron, Pravoslav felt himself obliged to stand in the rain while a homily was being given. Not long after that, he had developed a strong head cold. To make matters worse, the medicines that his new physician Jarmila had provided him with before he’d started on his journey were utterly useless, and made him feel even worse.

Still, he did make it to Sinai, and to the Monastery of Saint Catherine, alive and in one piece. Once there, he made a full confession to a priestmonk who lived there, and went forth from thence in peace of mind, back into the desert. Back across the Eastern Empire. Back home.

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Pravoslav still did not want to see Radomír at all, but he made particular efforts to be gentle and gracious to his wife, who had all these long years had to cope with such an indifferent husband. Pravoslav couldn’t honestly say that he loved her… appreciated her, certainly. Valued her. Respected her. And in a way he was beginning to care for her and understand her care for him. Perhaps that was a start.

There was one order of business that needed tending to, however.

‘Lada,’ Pravoslav called to his marshal.

‘Yes, milord?’

‘Do you know that armiger of yours—the son of Bratislav Pohanský? Is he within Olomouc now?’

‘I believe he is.’

‘Send for him at once, and command that he be shown to me in person.’

‘Yes, milord.’

Pravoslav did not have long to wait before a sullen-looking older man was brought to him. He clasped his hands behind his back and took stock of him. Not very prepossessing – he had the closed, resentful look about him that all of his kin seemed to have. But if the rumours about him were true, he could be quite useful to Pravoslav’s purpose.

‘Siloš Pohanský, at your Majesty’s service,’ the man stood at attention.

Pravoslav walked over to the man, looking him over carefully. ‘I have heard something of a rumour, Siloš. A rather distressing rumour that you were making plans to leave us… and take the tonsure.’

‘And what if I have, your Majesty? Is it your place to countermand the will of God?’

Impudent man. Bold, certainly. And quite dangerous too, if one got on his wrong side. Perfect.

‘I would certainly not so presume,’ Pravoslav answered him. ‘However, I might be able to provide you with a more… suitable alternative, were you able to scrounge up – let us say, seven – trusted men who are of a similar bent of mind.’

‘And what would I do with these seven men, assuming they were to be found?’ Siloš’s eyes flashed a glimmer of curiosity through his wall of sullen wariness.

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‘You will undertake a journey,’ Pravoslav told him, ‘to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre constructed by Zenobios in Jerusalem. Once you are there, you will swear an oath upon your swords to the Orthodox Patriarch of that city, which lies under the captivity of the Muslims. You will swear to him to defend both that most holy of churches, which is the place where Our Lord was buried, as well as all Christian pilgrims who seek to enter therein and touch the earth where the Myrrh-bearing Women first found that Our Lord had been raised from the dead.’

Siloš’s eyes kindled with a sudden zealous fire.

‘I have already made the arrangements and paid the expenses for your travel, as well as sending a suitable gift in your name to the Patriarch,’ the king told Siloš. ‘You have both his blessing, and mine.’

‘Thank you, milord.’

‘See to it that you get started at once. You are dismissed.’

Siloš bowed deeply, with a gratitude he likely rarely felt, and backed out of the room. Pravoslav turned back to the window. This was not part of his penance, but he hoped it would go some way toward saving his family from the doom that his son seemed to have sown.

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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.
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?
This is the darkest heartbreaking moment to read, and it is inevitable for the readAAR to feel with Marija the inescapable bleakness of the situation.

Kudos.



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.
Interesting view on the incident; but what shown here, is more in the territory of readAARs witnessing the initial steps, yet in cellular level, leading to consequences of much later to see, which foreshadow an agonising tragedy to come.



Pravoslav turned to his son, grabbed him by the front of his cotte, dragged him inside the door and slapped him twice, hard, across the face.
<tragedy to come>



‘Is this… supposed to be some sort of joke? A reference to something, maybe?’
Yes, yes it is, Pravoslav; it usually is a sort of joke.




‘However, I might be able to provide you with a more… suitable alternative, were you able to scrounge up – let us say, seven – trusted men who are of a similar bent of mind.’

‘And what would I do with these seven men, assuming they were to be found?’ (...)

Siloš’s eyes kindled with a sudden zealous fire.

This will never end 'cause I want more
More, give me more
Give me more

If I had a sword I could fight you
If I had thousands I'd battle
After the night when I wake up
I'll see what tomorrow brings

Aaah, ah-aaah, ah-aaaah
Aaah, ah-aaah, ah-aaaah
Aaah, ah-aaah, ah-aaaah
If I had thousands I'd battle
 
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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.

‘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!’

 
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I half-expected Pravoslav to tell Siloš to take Radomír with him to found the order. The one most in need of repenting is his wayward son, after all. The penance did at least open his eyes a little towards his wife.

Penance will clearly be a keyword for Radomír in the coming years. Looks like he can count on Mutimír's help, at least.
 
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This is the darkest heartbreaking moment to read, and it is inevitable for the readAAR to feel with Marija the inescapable bleakness of the situation.

Kudos.
I know what the Prophet Jeremiah says, and I know it's not what God does, but it's difficult as a writer for me not to visit the sins of the parents on their children. Unfortunately, Radomir is not yet done paying the price (however long delayed) for Hilda's and Blazena's incestuous plans way back when.

Interesting view on the incident; but what shown here, is more in the territory of readAARs witnessing the initial steps, yet in cellular level, leading to consequences of much later to see, which foreshadow an agonising tragedy to come.
<laughs wickedly in authAAR>


<tragedy to come>
<laughs even more wickedly in authAAR>

Yes, yes it is, Pravoslav; it usually is a sort of joke.
I drop in stealth nerd jokes a lot here. This one was pretty hard on the nose, and almost didn't make it into the final cut.

This will never end 'cause I want more
More, give me more
Give me more

If I had a sword I could fight you
If I had thousands I'd battle
After the night when I wake up
I'll see what tomorrow brings

Aaah, ah-aaah, ah-aaaah
Aaah, ah-aaah, ah-aaaah
Aaah, ah-aaah, ah-aaaah
If I had thousands I'd battle
Oh there is more. There is most certainly more. And the Brotherhood of the Holy Sepulchre is just getting started.
 
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I half-expected Pravoslav to tell Siloš to take Radomír with him to found the order. The one most in need of repenting is his wayward son, after all. The penance did at least open his eyes a little towards his wife.

Penance will clearly be a keyword for Radomír in the coming years. Looks like he can count on Mutimír's help, at least.

True. Very true indeed. Radomir isn't going that way - he's the son and heir after all. But the Iron Brotherhood is indeed open to all who will swear by the Steel! \m/
 
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Book Two Chapter Sixteen
SIXTEEN
From Zhořelec to Sadec
2 November 955 – 3 February 959

‘How is he?’ asked Queen Marija.

Jarmila’s grim look answered for her, but the new physician crossed herself and told her anyway: ‘Fever is still running hot. And he’s started coughing up blood along with the phlegm.’

Gospodi pomiluj,’ Marija crossed herself as well, peering through the open door at the prone form of her youngest son Luboš. It was then that Raina happened upon them both. The Bulgarian girl also inquired after her brother-in-law, and the physician told her the same. Raina’s face fell.

‘I’ve treated worse cases before,’ Jarmila told them. ‘But I won’t beat around the bush. Phthisis of the lungs – which this assuredly is – is serious, and often fatal. The boy will almost certainly weaken and lose weight. I will do everything I can to save his life, but he will not have an easy time of it.’

That wasn’t good news. Luboš already ate so little as it was, having happily taken after his father in terms of his abstemious habits. For him to be suffering an ailment that caused him to eat even less—!

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‘What can we do?’ asked Raina.

‘Pray,’ Jarmila told her bluntly. ‘God may yet have mercy upon the boy’s sins. It is best now to keep him isolated, make sure he drinks water and rests as much as he pleases.’

‘I will go and draw the water,’ Raina told her mother-in-law.

‘Shouldn’t you be looking after Mila?’ asked Marija. ‘Won’t she worry if you’re gone?’

Raina gave a dimpling smile. Nearly three years ago now, Radomír had finally gotten a child by her – a daughter, dark of colour and brown of eye, like both her parents. ‘She’s eaten her dinner, said her prayers and gone down for a nap. She sleeps fairly well now. She won’t wake for another hour or so, God willing.’

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Marija nodded to her in reluctant acquiescence, and Raina went off dutifully about her errand.

‘Now,’ Jarmila asked her, ‘what news from the east? The King and your eldest son – are they well?’

‘Prech z Harrach was the one leading the troops, last I heard. They won a victory over the heathen at Sadec. Slávek has taken to relying on him quite a bit – particularly since that unpleasant business between Lada and Gardomír some years back; Lada has had a lot to tend to in her own lands since then. But both Slávek and Radomír are well – both of them have survived the battle and are laying siege to the town.’

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‘It’s hard on you,’ Jarmila sympathised.

‘Not as hard as I would have thought it,’ Marija said, a trifle defensively. ‘I have faith that both of them will return. And these years Slávek hasn’t kept me at arm’s length the way he had earlier.’

‘But he has been away from home more,’ the physician noted.

It was true. Pravoslav had followed up his victory over the Milčané by taking Zhořelec from the Chieftess Sambuja, and by taking the town of Drážďany from the Chieftain Josif Assen – such that he now held an undisputed sway and mastery over the land of the highland Wends. With the assistance of the newly-consecrated Knights of the Holy Sepulchre, Pravoslav had merrily stomped upon both of the heathen petty rulers with ease. And although that was a venture that had caused him to call again upon the financial support of the Œcumenical Patriarch, that young man already had such a high opinion of the Moravian king that he was happy to oblige.

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‘It can be tempting,’ Jarmila went on, a bit airily, ‘to take refuge in other sources of comfort at times like this: sweets, for example, or wine. I would simply caution you not to indulge either want too much.’

‘Indulge?’ Marija snapped. ‘Just what are you insinuating? Do you see me scarfing down marzipans? Do you see me drowning my sorrows at the barrel? Indulge, what a notion!’

Jarmila courtesied. ‘I’m sorry, milady. I do not dare to presume.’

‘Take care of my son, physic. He, not I, needs your attention now.’

‘Milady.’

Jarmila wisely obeyed, and left the Queen of Moravia alone.

Left to herself, Marija wrung her hands fretfully. Her youngest son was sick. Her second son was off at a monastery – Mikulica, that brash little zealot, had leapt with eager determination upon the chance offered by Slávek to take the vows. Raina as yet knew nothing of Radomír’s straying, but Slávek had still not forgiven his eldest son – even though he’d let him accompany him on campaign. She longed to talk to people, but she had little opportunity. These worries and more weighed down on her.

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Automatically, Marija’s feet carried her down to the cellar – her hands reached for a wooden cup – she tapped the open barrel of wine and took the draught of it down without noticing. She then filled the cup again to sip at. It was there that Blahomíra found her. She came upon the Queen as usual, quietly and seemingly out of nowhere.

‘Pardon the intrusion, milady,’ the older woman said. ‘I hope I’m not interrupting.’

‘Not at all,’ Queen Marija told her. ‘Can I get you something?’

Blahomíra held up a hand and shook her head with a subtle smile. ‘No, thank you. I do have some news that touches upon your Ladyship, however, and in your husband’s absence I believe you have the most right to know.’

‘Well?’

‘I believe you are acquainted with the attempts of a certain person to plot against your Ladyship’s life?’

Marija’s skin crawled, but she tried not to let it show – particularly not to this unnerving woman before her. ‘Yes, I am aware.’

‘Well, now we have a name to match to the attempted deed,’ Blahomíra told her. ‘The maids in the castle have again proven most effective in their work. The source of the plot against you, milady, is your sister-in-law Slavena.’

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Marija brought the cup to her lips and took another sip—heavier this time—of the sweetly aromatic liquid within it. She heaved a heavy sigh.

‘Again? How long is that wretched woman to remain at large? Wasn’t she behind the plot to murder the archbishop, too?’

‘She was, shame to say. Perhaps… if I was allowed to deal with her in my own way…’

‘No,’ Marija said firmly. ‘No—family are not to be touched. The queen forbids it.’

‘Admirable in you,’ Blahomíra smiled unnervingly. ‘I will only note that, clearly, not all of your family shares your sense of scruple. If that is all…?’

Queen Marija gave Blahomíra a courteous gesture of dismissal, and she left as softly as she had come.

Queen Marija finished her second draught of wine perhaps a bit more quickly than she intended. A murder plot against her, from her own sister-in-law. Well, perhaps such things attended upon becoming royalty. It couldn’t be said that she regretted her new status, but it did engender in her a significant deal more stress than she had bargained for.

~~~​

Radomír rode out from Sredec, having discharged his errand from his father to the King of the country. Even in wartime, the niceties of diplomacy were not to be left by the wayside – Radomír understood this every bit as well as his father did, and had volunteered to undertake the mission personally. But now, instead of turning his horse along the Pirot Road to the right—to the north, back home—he instead steered it to the Pernik Road to the left. There was a certain other matter that needed tending to.

The youngster made rapid progress: past Pernik and the town that bore his name the first day; stopping in Rila the second; and by the third night he was at the border settlement of Bansko, on the march between the Eastern Roman Empire and the Kingdom of the Bulgars. He went to a wayhouse, shook the cold and snow of the road off of him but kept his cloak on, and then approached one of the local boys. He handed the boy a piece of silver and an elder branch – and told him that if he delivered it according to his exact instructions, there would be another silver piece in it for him when the intended recipient arrived… but a box on the ears if he did not do as asked. The boy ran off, out into the cold.

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Radomír waited a long time in the Bansko wayhouse, but not in vain. The boy returned first and told him he’d delivered the elder branch. Then Radomír bade him wait. At length, in through the door of the wayhouse came a tall, willowy woman with a circlet of gold hair bound about her head. She spoke to the innkeeper and paid for a room, then went upstairs. She gave no indication at all that she knew anyone inside. But Radomír stood from his seat and gave the obedient lad another piece of silver from his scrip.

‘You did well,’ the crown prince of Moravia told the Bulgarian urchin, ruffling his hair. ‘Run along now.’

Radomír had no other aim now but the room which Kvetoslava had gone into. But when he reached that room and knocked, there was a long silence before he was reluctantly bidden inside. When he swung open the door, he saw Kvetoslava sitting on the bed, slowly twirling the elder branch in her fingers.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ she asked at length.

‘I wanted to see you,’ Radomír told her.

See me?’ Kvetoslava hissed. ‘Well, you’ve seen me now. I’m leaving.’

She stood suddenly and made to sweep past him out of the room, but Radomír held her.

‘Let me go,’ she told him. ‘You have a daughter now, or do I hear wrong? You have a pretty young wife. Go back to her if you’re feeling lonely, and leave me alone.’

‘Kveta,’ Radomír told her, ‘please listen to me. I feel the burning only for you. Ever since I was fourteen and you took pity on me and lay with me – it has only ever been you! Can’t you see that?’

‘Can I believe you?’ Kvetoslava asked him. Her shoulders relaxed under his hands, and she made no further struggle to leave, though her voice was still cold. ‘Take pity on you? Strange turn of phrase. And where was your pity for me when your father had me thrown out into the courtyard like a drudge caught stealing from the kitchens?’

‘I fought for you, begged my father to let you stay, took all the blame upon myself,’ Radomír told her earnestly. ‘He answered me with blows and curses, and ordered me confined to my rooms, not to show my face before him again. He still hasn’t forgiven me for standing up for you. What more could I do?’

Kvetoslava looked at him earnestly with her cornflower-blue eyes. ‘Do you mean that?’ she asked.

‘With all my heart,’ Radomír told her, clasping her hands. ‘With all my soul.’

‘With all your loins, more like,’ Kvetoslava pouted. ‘Whenever you saw me, you were all over me like an untrained puppy. Every time.’

‘Kveta, I love you, and only you! Please take pity upon me again!’

Radomír knelt before Kvetoslava. Kvetoslava savoured the moment a little – she wasn’t about to stop the besotted youth while he was grovelling to her – and then raised him to his feet and put her arms around him.

‘I’ve missed you,’ she told him. ‘I had hoped you felt the same way.’

Radomír turned her face up to his and kissed the older woman with every ounce of passion in his body. Kvetoslava let every ounce of her resistance melt away in his embrace, and soon she was holding him back, closer and harder than he was doing.

‘Don’t you dare leave my side tonight,’ Kvetoslava told him.

‘I won’t.’

~~~​

Radomír lay entwined in Kvetoslava’s arms, the warmth of his body still encircling her and coursing through her. Kvetoslava smiled secretly. Again she had the boy she wanted, right where she wanted him. And now she had something of his inside her, which she had wanted desperately ever since she had first lain with him.

With her free hand she fingered the wax fertility amulet at her breast, inscribed with prayers to the Theotokos written in her own hand. With any luck, those prayers would not be in vain. But perhaps she would try again with him in the morning… just in case.
 
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Book Two Chapter Seventeen
SEVENTEEN
A Necessary Sacrifice
22 February 959 – 28 June 960

The silver ornament clanked on the makeshift table in front of the king. The one who had flung it down, hrabě Zdravomil, gazed wanly at the king. There was no need for the king to ask what the bauble was; he knew it at first glance. It was a cloak-pin, round and heavy. The design on the front was an eight-point star set with shimmering iridescent Carpathian opals, with the middle carved in relief an intricate geometric design. There was none other like it on earth: such jewels were designed to be unique. As such, he knew exactly to whom it belonged: it was Radomír’s, given to him by his mother on his twelfth birthday. And he also knew exactly when it had gone missing. Radomír had returned to the front in Sadec from his errand to Bulgaria without it. The loss had grieved him sorely.

‘And how did this fall into your hands,’ asked the king, ‘after three months missing?’

Zdravomil grimaced. He knew he was as likely to receive punishment for this as praise, but the truth could not be hidden from the king. ‘It was… stolen, milord. By a maidservant acting on orders from Blahomíra.’

Pravoslav’s eyes glittered dangerously. ‘Explain.’

‘Ever since your Majesty expelled your prior physician from her employment, Blahomíra took certain… precautions against her. This included having this maidservant accompany her to her new employment under Hrabě Stracimir in Bansko. She has been there ever since.’

Pravoslav, stricken, placed his face in his hand. He might as well hear out the rest, even though he knew what Zdravomil would say. ‘Go on.’

‘One night – this was about three months ago, while your son was delivering his message to the King of Bulgaria – the maidservant saw her mistress enter her chambers with an elder branch in her fingers. She left from her chamber in haste out into the winter cold, and the young woman was at some pains to follow her to an inn just outside Bansko. Kvetoslava had taken a room upstairs. She was not using the room to sleep – in fact, she was overheard by many of those drinking below.’

Pravoslav couldn’t suppress a groan.

‘The maidservant stole upstairs when they had quieted down. She saw that the man that Kvetoslava had lain with was your son. And she took this pin as proof that it had been he who had lain with Kvetoslava that night.’

‘That stupid, thoughtless, insolent whelp,’ Pravoslav muttered.

‘That’s… not all, milord.’

Pravoslav glared at the hapless Zdravomil, who was shuffling uncomfortably.

‘The maidservant has confirmed to Blahomíra that Kvetoslava is pregnant.’

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‘Radomír’s?’ asked Pravoslav hopelessly.

‘I am afraid so, milord.’

‘And she took no other idiot youth to her bed? She’s lain with no other man?’

‘Milord, I would not be standing here before you now, if I entertained any doubts on that matter.’

Ten zaostalý kokot!‘ Pravoslav flared into a rage, his breath suddenly feeling dangerously constrained. ‘A pojebal tú kurvu! I’ll have his hide for this!‘

‘Your Majesty! Calm yourself!’ Zdravomil’s expression showed his concern.

Calm myself!’ Pravoslav blazed. ‘That imbecile son of mine will be the ruin of me! Of our family! Of our honour! That he would go that far in his disobedience—! What am I to do? What can be done?’

‘There is,’ Zdravomil stressed, ‘a solution.’

‘Then speak it.’

‘You will not like it.’

‘I already don’t like it, Zdravomil,’ Pravoslav growled threateningly.

‘Eliminate the strumpet,’ Zdravomil bit out mercilessly. ‘Do it quickly. Then, there will be no threat to your honour or to the good name of the Rychnovských.’

Pravoslav fell silent for a long while, holding his head in his hands.

‘See it done,’ he rasped.

~~~

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Kazimierz of Sadec did not hold out much longer against the combined siege and assault of Pravoslav’s forces and the Brotherhood of the Holy Sepulchre. When the town of Sadec finally fell to Pravoslav’s armies, he left another Turk – Ilık Aqhazar, a refugee and supplicant to the court in Olomouc – in charge as castellan, and then went home.

He found to his amazement and delight – as well as Marija’s – that under Jarmila’s ministrations his youngest son Luboš had made a full recovery from his phthisis. He was still a bit thin and peaky-looking, and he still occasionally had a cough, but he had his energy back and was on the mend. Even more, the suffering he had endured in his sickness had given him a profound sense of empathy with others who suffered, which was heartening to see. Also, Radomír had not been home two months before Raina began showing the signs of another pregnancy.

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Still, even this was not enough to improve Pravoslav’s mood. News which should have caused the king joy instead caused him consternation. The sight of Raina now reminded him that the half-brother of her own child was also growing, somewhere in the Bulgar kingdom. And that if he was to act—he needed to act quickly indeed.

The king kept to himself and brooded. That he had been brought to this—! That he was making himself a murderer twice over for his worthless son’s sake—! He hated the very idea of it, and yet he also knew with a dread certainty that it had to be done, for the sake of the family honour. He had stepped through that door, and closed it behind him. He had to keep a stiff upper lip and try not to let the strain of it affect him.

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The months passed, and still there was no word from the agents that Zdravomil had sent to infiltrate Hrabě Stracimir’s household.

And then Raina gave birth – to a strong, healthy, dark-haired and dark-eyed baby boy, whom she and Radomír named Jakub. The king saw and adored little Jakub along with the rest of the family. But as he beheld Raina, happy with her boy in her arms, his mind went back to the golden-haired she-devil who had almost assuredly by now borne his elder half-brother. And that spoiled the happiness he should have felt.

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At last the day came.

‘Kvetoslava is taking precautions herself,’ Zdravomil reported. ‘It’s impossible for me to position my men to catch her alone or off-guard at any time of the day. But—I have heard that she is going to visit a patient living some ways outside Bansko. With the right handling of coin, we may be able to convince a band of footpads – such as there always are, so close to the border with Eastern Rome – to do the job for us.’

‘Very well.’

‘Do you have any… other orders, milord?’

Pravoslav considered, and his mind went once again to little Jakub, lying innocently in his mother’s arms. No—Kvetoslava must pay for her crimes against his family, but he would order no such harm to an innocent child.

‘No other orders. Do it.’

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~~~​

Kvetoslava didn’t usually take little Vratislav with her on errands like this one, but today was an exception. Vratislav had recently recovered from a slight bout of colic, and was hungrier than usual in his recovery. She would have to feed him herself, and more often than she normally did.

She looked down at her little blond son with tender affection as he snoozed softly in her arms. This love-child of hers, begotten of Radomír the Crown Prince of Moravia, was the most precious thing in the world to her – and not only for the political advantages he might one day bestow, or for the reminder of where she had conquered. He was a dear child, sweet and innocent, and Kvetoslava needed feign nothing in her care for him.

‘Oh, what is it now?’ her coach-driver muttered.

‘What?’ asked Kvetoslava. ‘What is it?’

‘Some farmer’s bloody wagon broke down,’ the coach-driver jutted his chin up toward where the offending obstruction clearly lay. The peasant himself was crouched down under the broken axle and was trying to remove the wheel. ‘Hang on, I’ll get this sorted.’

The driver leapt off the carriage, with his riding-whip in hand, and approached the peasant.

‘Oy, you! Get your cart off the road! We need to pass.’

The peasant turned his head and got to his feet, shambling up to the driver. ‘Oh, I beg your pardon, sir. Hang on, just let me get this wheel up, and—’

Kvetoslava saw the flash of steel in the peasant’s hand, which fell and lodged fatally in the driver’s side before she had a chance to scream. She was already out of the coach and running into the woods when the peasant turned back toward her.

The footpad, as the peasant clearly was, wasn’t alone. She heard coarse voices hallooing and shouting behind her. Still, keeping Vratislav cradled safely in her arms, she made her way as fast as she could through the woodland underbrush and between the trees. Panting, she attempted in vain to shake them. Now two of them were closing in on her, one on either side. Kvetoslava stumbled, and she knew it was over. Her pursuers let out a chuckle, and one of them raised his blade.

‘No—!’

Kvetoslava turned her back to shield Vratislav from the blow, and the blade transfixed her straight between the shoulder-blades. She slumped to the earth atop Vratislav, and rolled off of him as the blade left her.

‘Please…’ she moaned. ‘Spare…’

She got no further.

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One of the two men looked down at the infant, now bawling piteously at these strange men. The little blond-haired boy’s face was spattered in his mother’s blood, and his mouth and eyes were agape with wretched and helpless terror.

‘What shall we do?’ asked the other one. ‘Do we kill him too?’

‘Those weren’t our orders,’ the first one said. ‘The woman we were told to execute. But do you want this innocent’s life on your account before God?’

The other shook his head firmly. The first man wiped off his blade on Kvetoslava’s skirts, and sheathed it.

‘Leave him,’ the man said. ‘Let his fate be in God’s hands.’

And so Vratislav lay there, bawling disconsolately beside the body of his dead mother, until a villager herding a flock of goats came by, saw the wreck of a farmer’s cart, the abandoned coach, and the dead body of the driver… and heard the voice of a baby crying. Crossing himself, the villager crept into the woods in the direction of the voice, and saw the horrid sight of the dead woman, one arm still draped over her very-much-still-alive and pitiable child. Golden hair on the woman, and golden hair on the son – very different indeed to the Bulgarian peasant’s swarthy and weather-beaten countenance. But crossing himself again, the Bulgarian peasant gently picked the child up, shushing him as best he knew how—evidently he needed changing soon as well as feeding—and took him back with the herd of goats. He would bring him to his wife, who would know how to take care of the boy. And he would report this brazen act of devilry and murder on the roads—of a nursing mother, no less!—to the burgomaster. With any luck, the khaghan would find and punish the fiend who did this hateful thing before God.
 

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That should solve the problem... permanently. As naive as Radomír is, he might not even connect the dots leading back to his father.

Still, not a fully decisive action - that might one day come back to cause some uproar, though more as a puppet than anything else.
 
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Ten zaostalý kokot!‘ Pravoslav flared into a rage, his breath suddenly feeling dangerously constrained. ‘A pojebal tú kurvu!

:D Beautifully said, sire.

I suppose Kvetoslava finally learned, entirely too late, why you’re best off leaving the royals and nobles to their own games.
 
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With her free hand she fingered the wax fertility amulet at her breast, inscribed with prayers to the Theotokos written in her own hand. With any luck, those prayers would not be in vain. But perhaps she would try again with him in the morning… just in case.
First time reading it, the unbearable fear preyed upon the mind.

Then the next chapter happened.



(reenactment of filcat, reading ch seventeen)
‘What?’ asked Kvetoslava. ‘What is it?’

‘Some farmer’s bloody wagon broke down,’ the coach-driver jutted his chin up toward where the offending obstruction clearly lay.
No, no, no.

The peasant turned his head and got to his feet, shambling up to the driver. ‘Oh, I beg your pardon, sir. Hang on, just let me get this wheel up, and—’
Told you, no. No!

Kvetoslava saw the flash of steel in the peasant’s hand, which fell and lodged fatally in the driver’s side before she had a chance to scream. She was already out of the coach and running into the woods when the peasant turned back toward her.
Yes, run, run now, run!

Now two of them were closing in on her, one on either side. Kvetoslava stumbled, and she knew it was over. Her pursuers let out a chuckle, and one of them raised his blade.
...

‘Please…’ she moaned. ‘Spare…’

She got no further.
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Fortunately, ch. seventeen has a very peculiar start of an arc hidden in its end.
With any luck, the khaghan would find and punish the fiend who did this hateful thing before God.
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Masterful writing of the tragic end, and leading to many wondrously curious arcs. Kudos.
 
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That should solve the problem... permanently. As naive as Radomír is, he might not even connect the dots leading back to his father.

Still, not a fully decisive action - that might one day come back to cause some uproar, though more as a puppet than anything else.

It might. It might not. :)

Ten zaostalý kokot!‘ Pravoslav flared into a rage, his breath suddenly feeling dangerously constrained. ‘A pojebal tú kurvu!

:D Beautifully said, sire.

I suppose Kvetoslava finally learned, entirely too late, why you’re best off leaving the royals and nobles to their own games.

I thought you might appreciate that, @Wolf6120!

Yeah, in-game I wasn't a big fan of Radomír cadding about with the doctor when Zdravomil told me about it. I had Pravoslav take steps to end that at the cost of quite a bit of stress, but she was already pregnant when I started the intrigue, so...

First time reading it, the unbearable fear preyed upon the mind.

Then the next chapter happened.



(reenactment of filcat, reading ch seventeen)

No, no, no.


Told you, no. No!


Yes, run, run now, run!


...





Fortunately, ch. seventeen has a very peculiar start of an arc hidden in its end.




Masterful writing of the tragic end, and leading to many wondrously curious arcs. Kudos.

Glad you enjoyed it, @filcat! And I'm glad always to have such an appreciative reader. The ending of the arc that you're anticipating may end up being a bit anticlimactic for your tastes, but... let's just say, I hope to draw out the thread of it into Book III.
 
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Book Two Chapter Eighteen
EIGHTEEN
In Confidence
1 August 960 – 19 July 963


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Ilık Aqhazar clutched the reins of his mount and ground his teeth in frustration. Although it was late August and the days were long, dark was now setting in, and he needed a place to stay the night on his ride back west. He glowered as his horse clopped along the path toward a village some ways west of Bansko. When at last he saw clearings and land under cultivation, he allowed himself a cautious breath of relief through his nose, though it did not take from him the cause of his underlying frustration.

He made his way up the dirt track between the strips of field where the villagers had only just finished binding up their shares of the harvest for the day. He approached the largest house in the village and stepped down. He was greeted at the door by the village elder, who gave him a friendly hail.

‘God greet you, milord,’ the elder said, shrewdly marking the fine caftan and jacket, well-tooled leather riding boots and intricately-embroidered riding cap that Ilık wore – as well as the curved sword at his side. All of these things marked him as high-born and well-to-do.

‘God bless you and your home,’ Ilık answered in kind. ‘I am travelling, and in urgent need of a place to stay the night.’

‘Our house is open to you,’ the elder said graciously. ‘If you will come within and take refreshment?’

Ilık nodded and lit down, handing his mount over to be guided to stabling by one of the elder’s children. The elder then showed him inside and sat him down on a mat on one side of the pounded-earth floor. Across from him sat a woman – presumably the elder’s wife – sewing together a garment from pieces of felt. The elder handed Ilık a bowl of stew from the hearth.

‘Is anything the matter, milord?’ the elder asked worriedly, noting Ilık’s dour look. ‘If anything is amiss or awry with us, please let us know so we can accommodate you.’

‘No,’ Ilık shook his head with a distracted smile. ‘I approve your hospitality – there is nothing wrong with it, and I thank you for the gesture. There are simply… problems that I must face on my own.’

It was then that a woman’s voice rang out from the street. As it was getting dark, she was calling the boys home. There trundled past the open doorway in front of the village elder’s house two dark-haired and dark-eyed boys… and one flaxen-fair one toddling along on sturdy-but-unpractised legs behind them. Strong and hale of body, clear of eye and complexion, he kept up with his elders quite well.

‘And how did you get here, my lad?’ Ilık murmured to himself. It was clear that the boy had not hailed from this village.

The village elder followed Ilık’s gaze. ‘Oh, him? He’s a foundling. Came to us several months back. His name’s Vratislav, or so the castellan at Bansko tells us. Elian brought him to us after his mother – a Moravian leech or a physic of some kind, I suppose – died in an attack by masterless men on the road not too far south of here.’

‘Who looks after him now?’ asked Ilık. There was a thoughtful glimmer in his eyes.

‘The same Elian, milord. And his wife, Nedelja. She’s nursed the child along with her youngest.’

Ilık gave the village elder a thoughtful glance. Then he fished into the breast of his caftan and drew out a silver cross on a leather strap around his neck. Pointing to it, he said: ‘I know that I must appear to you a heathen, but in truth I follow the same Christ as you. You have shown me hospitality, and now I wish to tell you the burden that lies heavy upon my heart.’

‘I am no priest,’ said the village elder, ‘but I can keep confidence.’

‘It is no such matter,’ Ilık assured him. ‘You call me “milord”, but let me tell you that it was not always so. I once was a Jew by faith, and wandered from place to place seeking employment where I might find it. It so happened that one winter I happened into the Moravian court, and the king kindly gave me a place there. It was there that I inclined to his faith.’

‘God be praised!’

‘In time, I grew to earn the King’s trust. He set me up as castellan at Sadec, where I have been ever since. But the problem is this: none of the other Moravian or Czech nobles want to match their sons with the daughter of a lowborn Jewish convert; however blessed she is with health and social grace. I came to the Bulgarian court with a similar aim, only to be frustrated there as well.’

‘I see,’ said the village elder, stroking his beard.

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‘I know how strange it must sound,’ Ilık told the elder, ‘but I think I would like to have your little foundling Vratislav for my son-in-law. In age he is much like my Sarä. He also seems a healthy and sturdy youngster. And from what you’ve told me, his parentage is Moravian and honourable. Might we be able to come to some agreement? It would take a great weight off my shoulders.’

The village elder’s look was guarded as he answered. ‘I cannot make answer for Elian and Nedelja, milord. I will make your story known to them, if you’ll permit it, but the decision must rest with them. They’ve been the only parents the lad has ever known.’

‘I would be grateful.’

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~~~​

The last of the heathen Sorb chieftains of the Frankish March, Krystyn ‘hlupák’ of Přísečnice, had brought his submission to Olomouc after being roundly defeated and captured on his own territory by the redoubtable Prech z Harrach. And yet, when Marija went and found her husband after the ceremony had ended, she found him slumped in a chair, loudly and uncontrollably weeping.

Marija went at once to her husband’s side. ‘Slávek? Oh, Slávček, serdce muj! What is wrong?’

Pravoslav took in a long, shuddering breath, and gave his wife a glare of reproach through his tears. ‘Have you been at drink again?’ he asked.

Marija flushed deeper than she was already. ‘Only two or three cups. Nothing I can’t handle. Now: what’s wrong?’

Pravoslav took a deep breath, and then let it out with a shudder, bringing himself under control. These outbursts – of rage, of tears – they weren’t like him. His sins – blowing up at Radomír, ordering Kvetoslava’s death – were weighing heavy upon his soul. He had told his priest and had received absolution, but that wasn’t enough.

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He looked again to his wife. He looked into her eyes, droopy as they were from her binge. Marija had always been there, hadn’t she? Ever since she first rode into the courtyard. And she had never once broken her word to him or betrayed his trust. He held out to her the paper that he’d been reading.

Marija blinked and looked blearily at what he had extended to her. She had not gazed through for a full minute before she lay a hand on her breast and caught her breath with dismay. She crossed herself slowly. ‘Poor Míra!’ she let out a sob herself. ‘Killed in the siege! And still so young.’

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Pravoslav sat back in his chair and looked long at the ceiling. ‘God is punishing me. Vyšemíra is dead on account of my sins, my neglect, my anger.’

And then the King of Moravia unburdened himself wholly to his Queen, every detail of the deeds of darkness he had committed. He had lied. He had cheated. He had bribed a man to cover up the misdeeds of another man. He was an accessory to murder.

‘And the most damning thing of all,’ Pravoslav concluded, ‘is that if I had it all to do again… I would. If the price to be paid – and it is a small price – not just for Radomír’s soul and his marriage, but for the stability of Veľká Morava, is the conscience and the self-respect of his father, the King, then I will learn to live with it. But… our Vyšemíra… she deserved so much better.’

Marija listened on. By the time he was finished, her mute shock at her husband’s intrigues had sobered her up thoroughly. She took it, though, with a surprising degree of calm.

‘I’m happy you told me,’ she gripped her husband’s hand firmly. ‘I feel finally like you trust me enough to share these burdens of your rule with me.’

‘You don’t blame me for Míra’s death?’

Marija took a long, indrawn breath. ‘I… understand… that the exercise of power may not always be pretty, and that you may have felt yourself forced to do things well outside your nature. I cannot condone them. But blame you, Slávek? I know how kindhearted you are. You have blamed yourself enough already; what more could I do?’

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Pravoslav scoffed bitterly. But then he looked back at his wife, and found her perfectly sincere. The honesty of children and drunks, Pravoslav thought to himself. And he had to own that it was true. He had suffered more heart-burnings in the months since Kvetoslava had been reported dead, than in all the months of preparation leading up to it. His victory had given him no satisfaction. It tormented him. And here was Marija – neither smoothing over the pain which he felt with soft words, nor pushing the knife in further and twisting. She neither excused his sins, nor hid them, nor rubbed his face in them. Instead she had listened with patience. She had understood him. She had called him back to be the man she believed he was at heart. What a fool Pravoslav had been, to have spent so long slighting and misprizing this worthy and noble creature who stood every day by his elbow!

‘I think…’ Pravoslav told her, ‘I want to tell you everything.’

‘I’m all ears.’

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~~~​

With the subjugation of Krystyn ‘hlupák’, and with the willing submission of the Italian comte Liutfredo who had taken possession of Znojmo from the Karlings, Pravoslav had now gained the unquestioned right to call his realm ‘Moravia the Great’. His realm now extended over the Milčané in the northwest, over the Češi in the west, over the upper Silesians in the north, and over Sadec in the east. Of the traditional Moravian lands, only Nitra, the seat of the Mojmírovci, lay outside his grasp.

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The undoubtable military successes against the harrying northern heathen that Pravoslav had won, had given him a clear measure of diplomatic clout otherwise. So it was that the Eastern Roman Emperor Dauidēs was happy to renew the alliance that Bohodar mladší had sacrificed so much to honour… though this time the alliance was clearly more to the Emperor’s mind than to the King’s.

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It was in this spirit that Pravoslav’s new-minted vassal, hrabě Ilık Aqhazar of Sadec, held a celebration in the king’s honour. Pravoslav was flattered, and although he tended to be fastidious even in his own feasting (a habit he’d come by quite honestly), it would have been churlish of him not to attend the event. And so Pravoslav, along with Marija and Radomír, rode to Sadec to attend the feast at the easternmost castle of the Moravian realm.

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The Turkic lord greeted all of them graciously as they entered, and bade them sit on cushions around a great dastarkhân in the centre of the hall. Ilık gave Pravoslav the seat of honour, and Radomír took up a seat opposite.

Before them was laid an extravagant spread of tantalising dishes with delicious scents rising from the centre of the colourful tablecloth. The centerpiece and the clear main course was a pair of succulent crisp twice-cooked geese, wafting with the warm tang of roasted garlic. Around this were set: sweet almond pudding. Piquant fresh cheeses. Baskets of fresh-baked rolls, white and rye. Pies both sweet and savoury. Spicy lentil soup. A salad of sautéed onions, turnips and other root vegetables. Platters heaped high with candied fruits and berries. Bowls of nuts dripping with a golden honey glaze. Wine flowed freely: it was white, and carried the scent of a delicate mix of spices. Clearly Ilık, the attentive host, had pulled out all the stops for his royal guests. And Pravoslav found, to his pleasant surprise, that the Turkic host at his side did not lack for conversation, either!

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‘You’ve been a busy bee indeed, milord,’ Ilık grinned at his liege. ‘And tell me, how fares the Emperor in the East?’

‘Better than I would have thought. He seems to be keeping his subordinates in line – which is a great relief to me. He spends a good deal of time with his wife and his son, and his son’s little brood. He might have a face like the wrong side of a horse, but his manners are indeed those of an emperor.’

‘Mm,’ the Turk nodded approvingly, stroking his black beard. ‘And… Ruprecht of Salzburg for a son-in-law! Intriguing choice. Reaching out to the East with one hand, and keeping the West close with the other? Your grandfather Bohodar slovoľubec would be proud, I think.’

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Pravoslav was more than pleased, he was charmed. He hadn’t spent a lot of time with Ilık before. At first, he had thought him a pitiable piece of court flotsam. In time, after Ilık had been recommended as a stalwart and bold name among his ranks, Pravoslav had set him up as castellan in Sadec. But although Ilık was by no means a learned man, he was not lacking in natural curiosity or social grace. And after some rounds of wine had gone down – Marija as usual partaking more deeply than she ought of that particular hospitality – Pravoslav had made up his mind about Ilık. A broad-minded, generous, simple soul, he was a natural mediator. He had all of the qualities Pravoslav most admired in the men of his own family, and he couldn’t help but feel an intense like of Ilık.

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‘And what of you?’ asked Pravoslav with a laugh. ‘I hear you’ve managed to secure a young lad for your daughter, is that not so? Tell us about him, this lucky young groom!’

‘Well…’ Ilık slapped his thighs and declaimed, ‘as you know, milord, not being born to this station myself, it was not at all easy to find a boy worthy of my Sarä. But I did manage to find a Moravian, a sturdy and well-mannered and winsome little imp, in a remote little village in the Bulgar lands, whose caretakers were agreeable to the idea.’

‘Go on,’ the king urged.

‘His name is Vratislav,’ the Turk went on blithely. ‘His mother was a physic in Bansko, but she was killed, poor thing. Fell foul of some footpads along a road on the border with the Empire, sounds like. Neither burgomaster nor khaghan found the scum who did it, either.’

Pravoslav’s heart froze. And Radomír, who had not been paying close attention to Ilık’s banter up until this point, pricked up his ears at the mention of a woman killed on the road near Bansko.

‘What—what was her name?’ asked Radomír, trying to keep his voice casual.

‘Oh, I forget,’ Ilık scratched the back of his head. ‘The burgomaster only mentioned it to me once. Started with a “K”, I suppose. Hair as golden as the boy’s. Thought quite a beauty by many at the court, though she held aloof from men. Took everyone by shock when she was found with child, and a lot of the courtiers at Bansko felt her swain must be quite well-favoured, given how choosy she was.’

Radomír tried his best not to let the shock show on his face. But what little he showed confirmed his father’s fears. No doubt about it now: Radomír knew Vratislav, now the intended of Ilık Aqhazar’s daughter, was of his getting. However, Ilık went on about his little prospective son-in-law’s virtues, oblivious to the tension of his new friend the king at his side, and equally oblivious to the brooding silence that had fallen over the king’s son. Of all the guests, probably only Marija knew as much as her husband did of all that had gone on. She gave Pravoslav’s hand a warning squeeze, which Pravoslav answered.

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Despite that moment of tension, the feast ended more than amicably, and Pravoslav found himself refreshed as Ilık went arm-over-shoulder with him out of the hall with promises to remain loyally in touch and with generous extensions of hospitality whenever the king would care to visit.

‘What are you going to do?’ asked Marija when she had a moment alone with Pravoslav. No need for further elaboration: Pravoslav knew exactly what she meant.

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing at all?’

‘I have done enough harm already. Let God sort the rest as He wills.’

Marija went to her husband and hugged him close.

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The ending of the arc that you're anticipating may end up being a bit anticlimactic for your tastes, but... let's just say, I hope to draw out the thread of it into Book III.
Naaah, you far super-exceeded any own anticipation, way long ago, with your remarkable writing.
As a writAAR, should you accept this mission Jim, write, write more, and all will be read in great delight.
As readAAR, will continue to speculate, nonetheless.



‘What are you going to do?’ asked Marija when she had a moment alone with Pravoslav. No need for further elaboration: Pravoslav knew exactly what she meant.

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing at all?’

‘I have done enough harm already. Let God sort the rest as He wills.’

Marija went to her husband and hugged him close.
It will not end there, however you forgive yourself, Pravoslav.
 
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Naaah, you far super-exceeded any own anticipation, way long ago, with your remarkable writing.
As a writAAR, should you accept this mission Jim, write, write more, and all will be read in great delight.
As readAAR, will continue to speculate, nonetheless.




It will not end there, however you forgive yourself, Pravoslav.

Excellent! As always, glad to have you along for the ride.

And to @filcat, @alscon, @Wolf6120, @Idhrendur, @Henry v. Keiper and all my other readAARs who are celebrating on the New Calendar:

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And to those on the Old Calendar, a happy feast of Saint Spyridon the Wonderworker!

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And a blessed winter holiday to all! Will be back soon with more content. Cheers!
 
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Book Two Chapter Nineteen
NINETEEN
A Thorn in the Side
2 February 964 – 17 February 967

The crack and thud of wood striking wood resounded in the courtyard below as Pravoslav descended. As he came out into the bailey he saw his youngest son Luboš, bare shoulders and back perspiring, in close combat with his aunt Lada. Both of them were armed with wooden practice swords and shields, and were again squaring off and slowly circling each other. Then Lada launched a punishing flurry of strikes against her nephew’s head, neck, torso and thighs which he had a hard time holding off. Lada bashed him with her shield, and he stumbled backward. Luboš took notice of a knot of earth behind him, and stepped to avoid it. The lad retreated a pace and a half to bring Lada over it so he could use it to his own advantage. But she too had seen it, and stepped half a pace to the side to avoid it being underfoot. She kept swinging at Luboš with strikes that were dangerous enough with a length of wood, but would have killed easily if steel lay in her hand instead. Pravoslav very nearly intervened, but Luboš, seeing his father, gave a firm shake of the head before launching his own attack.

Lada, fighting in a girt-up shift and still strikingly handsome for a woman of eight-and-forty, had seen Luboš’s attack coming. She knew all too well this arrogant boy’s weakness, in that he wanted to show off for an audience. The fancy bladework he was doing now left a gaping hole in his guard on the left flank. Lada parried and struck to her opponent’s left with a quick lunge. Luboš deflected the blow, but too late to ward off Lada’s shield, which crashed into his face and sent him sprawling off his feet into the turf. Lada’s practice-blade was at his throat before he could sit up.

‘Not bad, boy,’ Lada told him frankly. ‘You made me sweat for it that time.’

Luboš was crestfallen, losing yet again to a woman – even though she was his father’s maršalka. But he wasn’t about to sulk in front of his father. He let his aunt bring him to his feet, though he glared daggers at her as she saluted the king.

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‘You’re up early, kňažná Lada,’ Pravoslav told her.

‘Just getting in a bit of sparring, my liege. Best way to start the day,’ Lada grinned. ‘And this one here could use the practice.’

‘So I see.’

‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a barracks to inspect,’ she hoisted her shield and again gave a salute both to her king and to the prince she’d been sparring with, picked up her clothes and sauntered off.

Prekliata Erínysa,’ Luboš muttered at her retreating back.

‘Now, now,’ Pravoslav told his son calmly. ‘She’s kin, you know. Though I don’t know but what she might approve of that nickname. Are your things packed?’

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‘Aye, father,’ Luboš nodded, pointing with his practice-sword to a pair of saddlebags at the side of the ring. ‘Let me get my clothes on, and I’ll be ready to go with you.’

Pravoslav waited as his youngest son got his tunic, ring-mail and tabard on. Then Luboš hauled up his saddle-bags, nodded to his father and they went to the waiting horses.

‘So where are we going?’ he asked.

‘We are bound for Lubliniec,’ Pravoslav said simply.

Luboš bowed his head thoughtfully as their horses went out through the castle gate and into the town. Then he turned to his father again and remarked: ‘Lubliniec—that name sounds familiar. Didn’t you have some dealings with the Brotherhood over that town?’

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‘Indeed I did,’ Pravoslav told Luboš. ‘Grandmaster Siloš asked me to lease the town to him, as it would suit the Brotherhood’s growing need for revenue. He also made another request of me. But I had to disoblige him for the time being… until I could ask you.’

Luboš turned toward his father, and broke into a slow grin. ‘Truly?’

‘Truly, what?’

‘Grandmaster Siloš requested… me?’

Pravoslav regarded his young son with pride. ‘He did. You’re a promising young fighter, Luboš. And you have many of the qualities that the Brotherhood seeks, suited to a life of sanctity. Siloš has seen you in action, and he values you as much as I do. I wanted to give you the choice – you can continue in my service, training under Lada, or you can journey to Jerusalem, take the vows to serve God at the Holy Sepulchre and join the Brotherhood.’

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Luboš’s eyes took fire. His desire to serve and to fight for a noble cause was genuine, even if he had a certain overly-high opinion of himself and an unseemly degree of vanity. He turned to his father with a glimmer in his eyes, as if he could already see the heights of the Mount of Olives before him.

‘I will go to Lubliniec,’ he said gravely. ‘And from there – Jerusalem.’

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~~~​

Upon his return – alone – from Lubliniec several days later, Pravoslav found Bogöri in the courtyard, playing together with six-year-old Jakub. They were playing at jamički – each of them had a stick and were contemplating small piles of smooth round river stones, unpainted or painted red or black depending on their position. Bogöri and Jakub each took turns pushing stones into different piles arranged in front of them with their sticks. Pravoslav regarded the two of them intently.

Bogöri Srednogorski, now knieža of Milčané, had taken to his little cousin, the son of Radomír and Raina Srednogorski, with all the affection that the ties of blood were due. Bogöri did not particularly enjoy being in company, but spelling together with Jakub clearly gave him joy. For his part, Jakub – whose curly dark locks now dangled down to his shoulders – was a far more outgoing and inquisitive little youngster, and had an aspiring boldness which bordered on the foolhardy. Pravoslav approached them.

Ej Bogöri!

Ej Patša!’ Bogöri answered his liege. ‘Esě cas tavărănıńız pa?

Yvălim qasettı bolsın,’ Pravoslav told him.

Ai, lajăh, lajăh!’ Bogöri clapped his hands together in satisfaction. ‘Tin kilĕšrĕ.

Cănah.’ Pravoslav affirmed. ‘Jakub-ırtăncăh esěni itleńdai ba?

Dedo,’ Jakub interjected, a bit miffed that he couldn’t follow. ‘What are you saying?’

Bogöri laughed. ‘Your grandfather’s just practising his Old Bulgar! And his grammar is certainly getting better, even if his pronunciation still leaves a little to be desired.’

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Pravoslav breathed a sigh. ‘The Old Bulgar tongue is difficult for me. I much prefer the Slavic way of speech of the commoners in your land.’

‘Ahh,’ Bogöri answered him, ‘you Slavs love peace, your hearths, your fences, your little villages. Your tongues all show this. However, we Bulgars know the quest for eternal fame and honour. The names of our ancestors are borne eternally on the north wind, and are reflected forever in the great blue sky. We know the rhythm of horses’ hooves, we know the melody of steel and leather. Our tongue is the poetry of battle. I think you know of what I speak. I can already hear it when you have speech in our tongue.’

Pravoslav smiled. ‘Your own tongue is quick and clever, I’ll give you that.’

Bogöri was not as able a rider or as quick with a blade as his liege, but there was no question about his fashioning of words or – despite his retiring, even reclusive, nature – his winning manners. He served ably as Pravoslav’s kancelár, and now being honoured as knieža of the north, he had that much more clout to work with. It helped Pravoslav as well having Bogöri Srednogorski close at hand. He had someone with whom he could hone his Old Bulgar.

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‘I do have some… ill news for you, my liege,’ Bogöri spoke reluctantly. ‘The succession of the Vysočina has been settled. For the time being, the title has reverted to Eadbald Eoten, the eorl of Legacæstir, in Mercia. The English lord has asserted his rights, and has already appointed a castellan in Jihlava, who holds the town for the Mercian king.’

Pravoslav’s brow darkened, but only stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘Is there any way we can contest it?’

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‘There are always ways to contest it, but as to the particulars… you’d have to ask Niphon, milord.’

Bogöri meant the bullheaded new Patriarch of the Moravian Lands, a Greek of the Empire who had been appointed as Miloboj’s successor after the latter’s repose. Pravoslav had found him well-learned and well-spoken. Further, his straightforward attitude and uncompromisingly rigorous approach to his new post were rather refreshing. Pravoslav was already predisposed to like the man.

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‘Very well,’ Pravoslav told Bogöri. ‘I’ll seek him out when I have the opportunity.’

‘Milord.’ Bogöri then turned his attention back to little Jakub, who had been tugging on his sleeve.

Pravoslav went into the castle, and he was greeted by a loud chorus of wails. One of the female servants came running out into the hallway, made a hurried courtesy to the king, and burst out:

‘Your Majesty—your lady wife, the Queen—she—’

The servant choked on a sob. Pravoslav had already gone past her down the hall toward his wife’s rooms.

There was a cluster of similarly tearful maids outside her door, and Jarmila as well. Jarmila turned to the king with a look of deep sadness and chagrin. Pravoslav was already stricken as the fateful words came forth from her.

‘There was nothing I could do,’ she told him. ‘Her heart gave out. Too much drink.’

Pravoslav bit his lower lip. ‘May I go in?’

Jarmila stood aside from the door. ‘Of course.’

Pravoslav entered his wife’s room, and saw her laid out on the bed. For all he knew she was dead, she looked indeed as though she were sleeping. He went to where she lay and took her hand – already stiff and cooling fast.

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‘Marija… Marija, moja žena…’

She was gone. A single tear ran down his cheek and into his beard.

Pravoslav had never felt for his wife the same passion that he had once felt for Držislava Mojmírová, though in their last years there had grown in him a fondness and a trust for Marija that was in some ways deeper than that youthful kind of passion. Perhaps, wherever Marija was now, already in the bosom of the grave awaiting the resurrection of the dead, she would be gratified to know that, however belatedly, her husband found that he missed her, and that he would have a hard time going on without her at his side.
 
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Book Two Chapter Twenty
TWENTY
Nine Years at War
14 July 967 – 23 February 976


I.
14 July 967 – 14 January 969

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In the hills, the Hohe Schrecke, outside the Saxon town of Collithi—then still under the control of Saint Lul’s Abtei in Hersfeld—few would have suspected in the ploughing and gathering season of the Year of Our Lord 967 that an English army would march through on the way to fight a Moravian army.

The continental Upper Saxons watched with varying levels of bewilderment and wariness as they watched the blue-and-gold devices of their insular Mercian cousins file along the old Roman road, occasionally cutting through fields which were freshly ploughed. (That did not win them much fraternal affection.)

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But fight they did. The Mercians had begun besieging Nový Hrad on the northeastern march of Milčané, after the Moravians had already taken castle and town at Jihlava from Eadbald Eoten. But the Mercians retreated back over the march into the Upper Saxon hills to stand their ground. Soon the beech-forested slopes of the Hohe Schrecke thundered and echoed with the clop of hooves, the clashing of steel, the cracking of wood, shouted orders in Slavic and Teutonic tongues, the grunts and struggles and cries of two great heres of men locked in a deadly contest of nerve on either side of a shield-wall.

The Moravians had far more men than the Mercians: nigh on four thousand to their three thousand. But the Mercians had the advantage of the terrain. Godwine cyning had deployed his men along a ridge, which required fewer men to hold, while Kraľ Pravoslav had counted on his force of numbers to take the ridge. It took him too long to realise his mistake.

Godwine still held the ridge, held it tenaciously, and lost very few men in the keeping of it. His line of doughty house-carls staved off all attempts to capture the higher ground. Meanwhile the archers behind that line kept raining down volleys of airborne death on the struggling Moravians below. Pravoslav strove mightily for a superior position, but soon saw that he stood to lose far more men than that ridge was worth. As day wore on into afternoon, he ordered a retreat into the beech woods. He saw to his chagrin that over a quarter of his force lay dead or dying on the hill behind him.

It was a humiliating defeat, against a foe far his inferior in number.

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~~~​

‘Um, thanks,’ Jadviga said belatedly to the nine-year-old.

‘Oh, don’t mention it,’ Jakub told her blithely, as he skipped down a step from the castle wall into the courtyard. The lad bubbling with energy, with the locks of long black hair, still seemed to Jadviga an unlikely contender for defusing the storm that had been about to brew up above. Indeed, it had seemed to her at first that he’d stepped in looking for a fight!

Jadviga went over it in her mind again.

She’d been speaking to Blahomíra’s grandchildren, offering her condolences over their grandmother’s recent death. Somehow the conversation had turned around to the afterlife. That hadn’t gone over well. Jadviga tried to figure out where she might have gone wrong doctrinally… to little avail. What would mother say? Hm. ‘You need to read the other person’s face. See how they’re feeling.’ But that had always been hard for Jadviga—taking a conscious effort of will and a great deal of attention and energy. She had a tendency to get wrapped up in her own thoughts to the exclusion of how others around her were feeling. She didn’t understand why Blahomíra’s grandchildren had gotten so angry at her. The priest had said no one really knows where the dead will go in the afterlife. All she’d said was she didn’t know that Blahomíra was in heaven, given some of her personal habits. Doctrinally she was on safe ground. So why were they so upset? That mystery still eluded her.

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And then Jakub had stepped in.

‘Get your hands off of her!’ he’d said. And he’d bodily hauled one of Blahomíra’s brood off of her. Jadviga wasn’t good at reading people, but she remembered strongly the feeling that a vicious scuffle was about to begin.

But just as soon as it happened, Jakub had begun reasonably talking with the lad who’d laid hold on her. And then—what had he said?

‘We all saw it. The priest was there. He gave her the Gifts, didn’t he?’

‘Yes…’ the boy had said sullenly.

‘And he gave her the chrism and spoke the prayers for unction. Right?’

‘Yes…’

Standard Liturgical rubric, Jadviga reflected. Why was he saying things that everyone there already knew? And how had that managed to calm the other boy down? That was strange.

‘Blahomíra died in peace and comfort, surrounded by those who loved her. By us,’ Jakub had said. ‘We did all we could to ease her passing, to a God Who loves her. What more can we do? And is there any use fighting about it?’

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But she hadn’t said anything different from what Jakub said! Jakub didn’t know that Blahomíra was in heaven either, did he? And hadn’t he as much as said so? So why did the boy react so much more mildly to him than he had to her? Jadviga gave an internal shrug.

‘Hey, Jadviga!’

‘What?’

‘Do you want to go with me to find Liutfredo? He promised to show me a new trick; I’m sure he’ll show both of us if we go together.’

~~~

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Why was it always when he was on campaign that he had these breakdowns?

The news of his sister’s death reached Pravoslav at the camp in the Gera, whence the Moravians had retreated to lick their wounds and recover from the humiliation they’d suffered in the Hohe Schrecke. He had lost Marija; now he had lost Blahomíra… and now all he could think about was grabbing another biscuit to slake a dudgeon which he seldom felt, and now felt all the more ashamed of.

What was he even doing? The son of a Bohodar, and the grandson of another Bohodar – who the hell was he to think he could live up to their standard? Duty, honour… all of it, seemed to crumble to dust in his hands. Some king he made, and some kingdom! His wife was gone. His sister, now, too. His second son off to be a monk, his third son sworn to the Brotherhood, and his eldest…! None knew what a faithless, feckless, ill-bred little ingrate Radomír had turned out to be – and least of all Raina. God willing, she never would, and nor would the kingdom at large. And what that fragile peace of mind had cost him—!

Well, there was someone who might understand, still. Pravoslav set back down on the platter the biscuit he’d idly picked up, and then called out the flap of his tent:

‘Send for Ilık Aqhazar, at once!’

The order was carried out, and soon the hospitable young hrabě of Sadec was standing before him.

‘My sister… has passed away,’ Pravoslav told him. ‘Same devil that destroyed my wife.’

‘Sire…’ Ilık’s guileless roust spoke all for him without need for more.

‘What manner of king am I?’ Pravoslav gasped, his breath becoming strained. ‘My wife and my sister are dead. My sons… I am impotent to guide them now, on the paths each of them has chosen. And even with the men under my sway, I cannot so much as deliver one victory to them over the English. I feel I am not so much a ruler, as… helpless as this. I am not used to… matters like these being out of my hands.’

‘Sire, perhaps they never were in your hands,’ Ilık spoke softly.

Pravoslav struggled to draw in a breath, and then let it go. Then he let out a chuckle. ‘Look at me. Having to be lectured by a mendicant Hebrew convert, of all men – about faith.’

‘Don’t make me quote Job at you,’ Ilık’s mouth quirked upward.

‘That simple?’

‘He never would have said so. And… neither did He, on the Cross.’

Ilık’s words cut Pravoslav to the quick. But he sensed both the humility in them, and the truth that only humility could show. That truth lit up the illusions of pride in Pravoslav’s own heart. The king clapped a hand on Ilık’s shoulder and drew his friend and vassal close in a warm embrace.

‘When all this is done, I owe you a drink myself.’

‘More than one, the way I see it. I look forward to it.’

Pravoslav drew another deep breath as he released Ilık. ‘Still we have some months until we’ve recovered our strength, bandaged our wounds, rallied back what force we lost. But, God willing,’ and here Pravoslav remembered to make the proper supplication, ‘we’ll teach Godwine a thing or two yet about contending for Moravian land.’

‘That we will.’
 
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II.
28 April 969 – 2 November 970

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The quiet patch of woodland by the right bank of the Bilý Halštrov, south of a hrad and within sight of a right tributary whose name has been forgotten by time, turned out to be the perfect staging ground for an ambush. Pravoslav knew full well that the Mercians would be marching through Plavno. As a result, he had deployed his troops off either side of the old road leading into the lands of the Češi from Saxony, east of the town. Grimly stroking his beard – now no longer black but iron-grey – he reflected a bit more soberly on his prior mistake.

Despite the Englishmen’s inferior numbers, Pravoslav was not about to underestimate Godwine again, nor rely on his number of troops alone to assure him victory. He now knew this about his Mercian opponent: Godwine was at his very best when staking out a prime piece of ground and holding onto it like a hungry hound would a bone. Godwine understood defence, and he understood terrain. Thus: Pravoslav knew to deprive Godwine of defensible terrain when he chose to engage.

The forest east of Plavno was ideal for several reasons. For one thing, if Godwine wanted to take advantage of the riders and ponies he’d brought, he would have to engage in the open, on the level ground along the river. For another thing, the field itself was more favourable to Pravoslav’s numbers. If he were lucky he might flank them and drive them back toward the Bilý Halštrov.

‘Milord!’ cried a young zbrojnoš of Nitra named Velemír Abovský. ‘They are coming! Along the very path you foresaw.’

Pravoslav smiled grimly. ‘Pozície. Teraz.

Knieža Bogöri, Kňažná Lada, Hrabě Prech and Hrabě Ilık all sent up their vanes and led their divisions to the positions along the road they had staked out beforehand. Blahoslav, the diminutive burgomaster of Hradec, took the downriver front position with Prech’s men on the right bank. His orders were to let Godwine’s men pass by until the last of the riders had forded, and then strike at whichever troops remained in the rear. In this way Pravoslav hoped to provoke Godwine into committing his riders to the rear while his other three divisions attacked the front.

Over the running water, Pravoslav could hear the splashing and bustle and English rousts even from where he stood on the upriver bank. The Mercians hadn’t yet spotted the Czechs lying in wait – there were no sounds of drawn steel or bows, or shouts of alarm. Those would come soon enough.

‘Stand firm,’ he sent the order. ‘Do not move yet.’

‘Something is wrong,’ Velemír said to Ilık in his division on the downriver rear. ‘I can feel it. What’s taking Prech’s men so long?’

‘You’re being jumpy,’ Ilık told him. ‘Just keep your eyes and ears open, and follow orders.’

Then the shout went up from the riverbank. Blahoslav of Hradec had charged forward with his contingent of skirmishers and engaged the stragglers still fording the Bilý Halštrov. From the cries of dismay echoing from the lea on the riverside, Pravoslav could tell that his ambush had been successful. He gave the order to engage at the front, raised his vane and led the charge himself into the lea. He was joined by Lada, and soon also by Bogöri’s Milčané. Godwine of Mercia struggled to get his house-carls out in front and his line organised into a shield-wall. Pravoslav saw to his satisfaction that the riders were not yet to be seen. Blahoslav had bought him the time he needed to form up his own lines and close in on Godwine’s position from across the lea.

But all was not well on the downriver rear. They had the full vantage of the battle which neither Pravoslav nor Prech had from their positions. Velemír Abovský saw what was coming first.

‘Godwine’s deploying the house-carls in a svínfylking formation!’ he cried. ‘The king and Bogöri will be alright, but Prech and Blahoslav are in trouble. The entire downriver front is going to get slaughtered!’

Velemír leapt from his position together with a contingent of zbrojnošov, and pounded downhill toward the downriver front. Ilık shouted behind him:

Eh-ehh! Damn fool boy! Get back to the line!’

But Velemír either didn’t hear him, or was too busy in the charge to take notice. The whippy green branches of the spring beeches scraped his face, neck and arms as he rushed through them with the singlemindedness of an enraged boar. He let out an angry yell as he pounded through into the lea.

It was worse than he feared by the time he and his zbrojnošov arrived. Prech was being pressed hard by the house-carls of Derby under Eadfriþ eorl, and the riders had managed to pick some disastrous holes in his line. Poor Blahoslav was left completely exposed with his Moravian town levies.

Charge!’ the foolhardy Nitran boy cried. ‘Za česť! Za slávu! Za Veľkú Moravu!

The battle-cry had an electrifying effect on the zbrojnošov, who made a risky run right at the rearguard ‘shoulder’ of Eadfriþ’s line of house-carls. The only thing that saved them in such a manœuvre was the fact that an attack from their corner of the lea had been completely unsuspected. The frenzied cries of ‘za česť!’ and ‘za slávu!’ broke the house-carls’ courage for a moment – but that moment was enough. Although many of the men from Hradec had been cut down and trampled to earth in the fray, Velemír managed to find Blahoslav – dazed, head bloodied, but alive – and drag the petit man back to safety behind the downriver front line.

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The only problem was that the position of the downriver rear, which had lain in hiding awaiting the signal from the king, had been exposed by Velemír’s rash charge to the rescue. Ilık cursed under his breath as he saw the svínfylking regroup. If Velemír had only waited for the signal, they might have been able to attack the formation at both ‘shoulders’ at once, possibly breaking the line in two places and leaving Godwine himself vulnerable. Velemír’s chivalry had saved Blahoslav, but it had also cost them a possible quick end to the battle and to the war. Now it would turn into a long, hard, costly slog against Godwine’s dogged defences.

Pravoslav had also seen the unsanctioned charge from the far side of the lea and let out an inward sigh of dismay. He would have to have some words with Ilık after this, for the breach of discipline. But at the moment he needed to concentrate on winning the battle. He ordered Lada and Bogöri to close on the enemy, and sent a message to Ilık to come out into the open.

As feared, the battle turned into a long slog. But Godwine’s defensive posture ultimately did not serve him well here. He controlled only a small corner of the open lea, and that lay against the river. His soldiers fought valiantly, but ultimately he was forced to leave Hloþhere eorl of Grantanbrycg to wall off the advance and organise a retreat behind him, again fording back to the left bank of the Bilý Halštrov. In the end Godwine of Mercia had escaped the ambush, and in his stead Pravoslav had only an eorl for gisel.

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‘Bring Ilık before me,’ Pravoslav ordered.

The hrabě came with chagrin before the king, whose face was composed but whose displeasure was evident. Pravoslav gave Ilık a long, disappointed stare before speaking.

‘You were ordered to wait before springing the trap on my command.’

‘That is true, Patša.’

‘Why were my orders disobeyed?’

Ilık hesitated. ‘I am at fault, Patša. You may punish me. I will not hold it against you.’

‘That doesn’t answer my question. Why were my orders disobeyed?

‘A breach of discipline. Sire.’

Pravoslav studied the broad, round face of his friend. Ilık was not particularly good at hiding his emotions. He ventured a guess.

‘Someone eager to prove himself in battle. Young. Dedicated. Idealistic. Mm, yes – I see your problem,’ Pravoslav nodded with a smile as Ilık’s face answered where his voice would not. His voice was tolerant and easy as he went on. ‘Bring me this young hothead of yours. That is an order.’

Ilık bowed. Soon Velemír Abovský was produced. Pravoslav regarded the black-haired young man, whose face was much more guarded than his overlord’s.

‘From what I hear,’ remarked Pravoslav drily, ‘my burgomaster Blahoslav has you to thank for saving his life. And I, on the other hand, have you to thank for springing my tripline early. Very possibly prolonging this war we’re in.’

Velemír squared and stiffened his shoulders, setting his jaw. Clearly he was expecting the worst.

‘You will get ten switches with the light rod for disobeying your liege lord’s orders… and a reward of fifteen marks of silver for your valour,’ the king declared sternly. ‘What’s more, I’m going to be keeping a close eye on you, young master Abovský. Ilık, I leave the punishment to your discretion.’

Ilık was an easygoing and kindhearted man in any event, and he ordered the captain of his zbrojnošov that the blows be perfunctory and lenient, as they were clearly meant. Velemír was chastened, but received no lasting hurt. And he received the silver with mingled gratitude and shame. The soldiers’ morale was improved, both by the king’s wisdom in the enforcement of discipline and by his mercy and understanding. And this formidable young zbrojnoš had earned a fast friend in Burgomaster Blahoslav.

~~~

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To his esteemed and gracious father, by God’s grace King of Moravia the Great Pravoslav, his son Luboš sends his kind remembrance and regards.

The strife that has arisen between you and Godwine over Jihlava grieves me deeply, not only because the safety of the man who sired me and who took such pains to raise an arrogant and wayward son like me is second only to my devotion to the Lord God, but also because I am now removed from you by such vast spans of land and sea. Dear father, although my sword arm fights for the Lord in the deserts of the East, my goodwill and my thoughts stray toward you far more often than they stay here.

I am currently posted in Seriana. I answer to Grandmaster Siloš, but it is Innokentēs who has begged our aid on behalf of the pilgrims who journey between here and the Holy Places. The roads, so he says, are plagued by cutthroats and bandits, but for all I can tell the men whom we are sent to fight are mere peasants and villagers who have grown weary of Innokentēs’s high hand. To speak truth, the man is both doughty and cunning—but a harder heart hadn’t Pharaoh to the Hebrews, nor a fouler temper King Ahab! Sworn though I am to obedience absolute to my Grandmaster, and through him to God, a cause like yours, dear father, would not cause me such misgivings as this one does. Please do not worry for me, father. I can handle myself and I know my duty.

For the present, I shall say no more, but send this letter with all speed to your keeping. May God Almighty protect you, father, and I pray you a swift victory. Written from Seriana by Brother Luboš, FT, on the fourth of January, in the thirteenth indiction, the 6,478th year of the world.


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Pravoslav closed the letter after reading it and deposited it in the sleeve of his cotte. It was indeed a comfort to hear from Luboš at this time, but it was a comfort he could ill afford. Godwine had not yet given up contending for Jihlava, and this time he would be coming over the road from Rakous to Vítkovec. If he wasn’t careful, Godwine might entrap him in an unfavourable position like in the Hohe Schrecke. This time, he would not be caught off his guard.

Pravoslav again inspected his contingent of archers, checked their bows and quivers, and drilled them once again in lining up, kneeling, drawing, loosing in tight volleys on command. He wasn’t satisfied until they could show instant obedience and precise reaction times. He then sent the archery contingents into waiting on the ridge overlooking the road.

‘Bogöri! Ilık!’

The young Bulgar and Khazar lords stood at the ready before him.

‘I want you both to wait in reserve, and engage the Mercians when they withdraw. Understood?’

Itlemin, Patša!’ answered Ilık boldly. Bogöri bowed deeply.

Pravoslav hoped that would be enough. When the Mercians finally cleared the bend of the road coming up from Rakous, the Moravian archers who were perched on the high ridge overlooking the oncoming here had already shot two tight volleys into their ranks before they could get their shields up.

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Once they did, though, they made a tough fight of it. Godwine was still as tenacious as ever, and his house-carls made the Moravians pay for every foot of earth they took in their battle line. Still, with the surprise volley that his archers had gotten in, and the pressure mounting from the crest of the road, Godwine had little choice but to turn back in the end.

Bogöri and Ilık leapt out into the open with their forces in reserve and gave chase to the retreating Mercians. However, the rearguard was manned by Wihtræd eorl, a veteran fighter who had seen far many more battles in victory and in retreat than either of his young Turkic pursuers. Bogöri swept into the gap with his skirmishers, but Wihtræd kept his retreating line orderly as the men ahead of them moved back down the road toward Rakous. When he saw the white-bearded eorl barking the orders, Bogöri moved at once to intercept him. He took a spear and thrust mightily through the shield wall straight at Wihtræd’s neck. One of the house-carls wrenched his shield up to knock Bogöri’s thrust askew, and it worked—somewhat. The spear still struck a devastating blow on Wihtræd’s helmet, knocking him into a stupor and bloodying his head.

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But a wounded beast is often more dangerous than a healthy one, and the same is true of a man. Ilık strode forward with his own weapon and made a second thrust at Wihtræd. This time, though, dazed though he was, Wihtræd’s blood was up enough that he could see, deflect and then parry the blow. Wihtræd’s sword-blade skimmed over the surface of Ilık’s spear—and sliced off his left arm at the elbow.

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Roaring with pain, Ilık fell back. Bogöri, standing at his side, caught him and brought him back behind the line to a position of relative safety. The rest of the battle was a blur for him and for Ilık. Godwine had retreated once again, and the Moravian army moved quickly to intercept him again at Rakous.

Ilık was sweating, breathing like a winded horse, and his face was screwed up in pain as Bogöri and Pravoslav tended to him. They took a hot brand to the wound to stop the bleeding, then bound the ragged stump of his arm in a clean strip of linen and wound it tight across. But by that time he had already lost a great deal of blood. Pravoslav looked down grimly at his friend and confidant as he passed into a fitful sleep.

Godwine finally surrendered when the Moravians met him again at Rakous, and he agreed to relinquish Jihlava and the lands surrounding to their rightful sovereign.

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III.
14 August 971 – 22 March 973

‘Come forward, Velemír Abovský,’ the King declared.

The black-haired youth strode forward boldly, and knelt with solemnity before his liege. Pravoslav drew his sword and placed it crosswise in front of Velemír’s head. Velemír clasped the hilt beneath his liege’s hand. The king intoned:

‘We have all seen your brave deeds in battle, Velemír. Will you now swear so to persist in my service?’

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‘My king,’ Velemír Abovský swore, ‘I make my solemn oath in the presence of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, the Trinity One in substance and undivided, that I shall defend your person with my body, my blood, and my life if needed. My arms, my mail, my horse, my lands and my goods are yours to command as you see fit. I swear never to flee from the battle when you call me to it, and never to abandon the fight while you still are in it. Should you fall, I swear to avenge your blood with as much as my steel can draw while I draw breath.’

‘Well spoken,’ Pravoslav said dryly. ‘I have no doubts about your sworn bravery, young man. No more would any who were at Plavno. But now we shall see how well you follow commands.’

Velemír bowed his head further.

Pravoslav touched the flat of his sword to each of Velemír’s shoulders in turn.

‘As your kráľ, I accept your fealty and your friendship, Velemír. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, I name you, Velemír Abovský, hrabě over the town of Praha and its environs – which properties are henceforth entrusted to you and your rightful offspring in perpetuity.’

‘I shall not forget your kindness, your Majesty,’ Velemír spoke.

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~~~​

Many of the lords of Moravia the Great were in attendance in that sacred churchyard in Velehrad as their King elevated yet another well-favoured young man to the peerage. If the Přemyslovci had any resentments about these newcome Srednogorskite (Bulgars), Aqhazarlar (Jewish conversos), and now Abovských (the second son of a minor hrabě in eastern Nitra), they didn’t give voice to them. However, among many of the older established noble families in attendance, there was a studied curtness and stiffness to their congratulations.

Further back amid the throng stood a tall, stocky young man with a short, stiff black goatee. He was unreservedly cheery at the high honour bestowed upon Velemír Abovský, so much so that a close friend of him took notice and asked him about it.

‘You are happy about this feoffment, Mutimír?’ asked Radomír, the King’s heir. ‘You do have a greater right to title than he has, by far. And he, a foe of your kin!’

‘Velemír wasn’t the one who dispossessed my forebears,’ Mutimír answered Radomír honestly. ‘I know no evil of him, and I’m not about to hold the sins of his fathers against him.’

‘Noble of you.’

‘Hardly,’ Mutimír replied humbly. ‘Blahoslav speaks highly of his bravery; that’s good enough for me. And when it comes to lands – it’s not Praha I’m interested in. If God sees fit to grant me such an honour, I would prefer it to be over the homeland of my people.’

‘Praha’s much richer than those poor hills,’ Radomír was smiling broadly now.

‘Poor or rich – that makes no difference to me. I belong in the Carpathians, where my fathers are all buried,’ Mutimír answered him. ‘I can wait.’

Radomír cuffed his friend on the shoulder. ‘You’d best be careful, then, Mutimír Dubravkić. From what I hear, you may be getting just what you’re asking for. And soon.’

Žartuješ,’ Mutimír laughed.

To vážne,’ Radomír retorted. ‘Knieža Prisnec Užhorodský has struck out, declared independence from the Magyars. The title is contestable. And, mark my words: Father means to contest it, on your behalf.’

Mutimír’s face fell, and he crossed himself. ‘Again, so soon! I fear for our realm if these border wars continue. Not to mention for my own folk, whom we would have to fight and kill.’

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~~~​

It was on Ilık’s land that Pravoslav mustered his forces against Prisnec Užhorodský that August. In addition to Sadec being a natural staging-ground against Užhorod, Pravoslav also wished to visit his ailing vassal and friend. Ilık had never recovered properly from the loss of his arm in battle, and the wound, rather than healing to normal, was festering and turning gangrenous. His children, Sarä and Tarkhan, were in attendance upon him, as was his prospective son-in-law Vratislav. Vratislav and Sarä were close to the age where it was proper for them to marry, and their marriage was fact in all but the ceremony.

Ilık lay in his bed, clearly still in great pain. Pravoslav went to his bedside and knelt beside him, gripping his good hand.

‘Are you well? Are you comfortable?’ asked the king.

‘The pain is no matter,’ Ilık told him in a resignation which, but for the physical strain of speech, sounded nigh cheery. ‘I fought and bled like a true Khazar. I am shriven white as at my baptism. My affairs are in order, as you see. I have no regrets.’

Pravoslav wished he could say the same. He gripped his friend’s hand harder.

Radomír stood back from them – partly to give his father a respectful space, and partly to examine Vratislav. The resemblance startled him. Though Vratislav had his mother’s golden fairness and the narrow bridge of her nose, his brows and the shape of his eyes and mouth belonged to the same face Radomír had seen in the mirror when he had been fourteen. More to the point: the lad was as open and guileless and cheery as Radomír had been at that age. He had inherited little of his mother’s devilish, bewitching charm and much of a blithe, easygoing good nature. If there had been any doubts in Radomír’s mind that Vratislav was his son, seeing him here at his father-in-law’s bedside dispelled them all. The fruit of Radomír’s indiscreet love for his father’s dead leech was standing before him, in the flesh.

For his part, Vratislav did mark the Crown Prince’s intense examination of him, though to his rather simple and unassuming mind the regard made little sense to him. He worried that perhaps Radomír disapproved of a bastard of low birth being in the same room with nobles. He asked Hrabě Ilık to be excused, and was allowed it. Radomír did not pursue him further. What could he possibly say to the boy that wouldn’t sound like an imposition?

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Ilık departed from this life on the first of September, just before the armies of Moravia were due to march southward. Although it would cost him several days on the march, Pravoslav stayed in Sadec to witness his friend’s commitment to the earth and to take Hrabě Tarkhan’s oath in his father’s stead.

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Pravoslav split his army and sent half eastward toward Prešov – himself leading the half marching due south toward the Tatras. The Moravians met the men of Užhorod in battle near the village of Gánovce in Spiš, in the Tatra foothills. Prisnec was, thankfully, neither as tenacious nor as skilful in the deployment of his men as Godwine of Mercia had been. His reputation was for small-scale hit-and-run attacks, meant not so much to destroy or confound the enemy as to harry him and plunder his goods. As a result, he relied upon quick, lightweight riders.

‘Stand firm,’ the new Hrabě Velemír ordered his zbrojnošov. ‘Spear-bearers, advance!’

Pravoslav looked to his left flank and smiled. Perhaps he hadn’t made a costly mistake in his choice of vassal, and Velemír was learning some much-needed strategic deliberation after all.

To Velemír’s credit, he waited until the horsemen had nearly closed on Pravoslav’s position before launching an attack – just as ordered. But he still could not resist the temptation to lead from the front. (Did all second sons have this much to prove?) He struck out boldly at the oncoming horsemen, and swung his sword in a long, high arc – catching the rider nearest him heavily crosswise across the chest of his mail shirt, unbalancing him and twisting his hip painfully out of its socket. That had been no lowly page-boy either, but Knieža Prisnec himself! The horse bearing the injured enemy commander spooked and fled back for the safety of the line. The demoralised Užhorodci had little will to fight after that, and most of them fled.

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Jakub had been watching the whole time from the safety of the reserve troop. He had seen in particular the bravery of Velemír, and had pumped his young fist in admiration when he saw Velemír strike the enemy commander with unflinching boldness. After the battle was over, Jakub made many excuses to spend time in attendance on the new Hrabě of Praha. There was more than a bit of hero-worship in Jakub’s attitude toward the brave young Nitran.

Apart from that one engagement at Gánovce, there was little left to the war on Užhorod. But the Mojmírovci had, like carrion birds, swooped in to take advantage of the attack Moravia the Great was making on their eastern neighbour. It caused Pravoslav some consternation to hear of Nitra’s opportunistic engagement, but his only response to it was to pen a message back to his forthright Greek bishop, who would advance the righteousness of his claims to all of Prisnec’s titles in Constantinople with zeal and conviction.

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Apart from Boršód, over which the Mojmírovci quickly exerted their control, Pravoslav moved quickly enough to secure all of the other lands of Užhorod, and extracted Prisnec’s surrender in March. It was a lopsided victory, however. Moravia the Great took control of Prešov. The rest of Užhorod wound up in Mojmírov hands.

~~~​

Hrabě Velemír?’

Čau, chlapče,’ Abovský answered back. ‘Why aren’t you with your grandfather?’

‘I came to see you, actually,’ Jakub answered truthfully. ‘How does it come that you were brave enough to take on the knieža himself?’

Velemír shrugged and laughed. ‘Opportunities always present themselves,’ he told Jakub honestly. ‘That’s something I kind of had to learn the hard way, myself. One time your grandfather had me horsewhipped for not waiting for that kind of opportunity.’

‘Horsewhipped? You?’

‘Yeah,’ Velemír chuckled. ‘I could be a bit full of myself, to be honest. But both Pravoslav and Ilık gave me a second chance. I wouldn’t be where I am if not for them. Remember, chlapec: even the bravest among us have others to thank on occasion. Never forget to give others their due.’

Jakub straightened his shoulders. ‘Don’t worry. I shan’t.’

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Dobrý chalan,’ Velemír extended Jakub a friendly arm.

It was at that moment that a herald came riding into the Moravian camp from the northwest. Jakub and Velemír both turned to where the newcomer was, and listened in as Pravoslav came out with his guard to meet the man, who was wearing a heathen device used by the Poles.

‘Hear, Pravoslav! Snowid, King of Kujawy, challenges you. Your encroachments upon the North have gone too long overlooked. Your dead crucified god is no match for the might of Perun, and this shall be proven to you in battle. Kujawy shall take from you the town, fastness and lands of Brassel for ourselves. Stop us if you dare.’

Velemír leapt up at the herald’s words. ‘Such insolence! Such disrespect! Let me tear this blasphemer’s tongue from his vile throat myself, liege!’

Pravoslav held up a hand to forestall his vassal’s rage, and answered calmly: ‘Very well. You may take the message back to your young master that we do indeed dare. He may expect us. You are free to leave in peace, but be warned: war rides swift behind you.’

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