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IV.
23 March 973 – 23 February 976

White knights appear,
Silhouetted against the dark –
In the battle of Vratislav
The tables turn!

Few knights appear,
But masters of the fight:
In the battle of Vratislav

The tables turn!

wroclaw.jpg

In a field of winter wheat outside of Brassel, the Silesian defenders of the town stood in a nervous line. Only two in ten of them had mail – these were the local zbrojnošov – and most of their weapons were improvised from farm implements and tools: pitchforks, staves, scythes, pruning-hooks. Their shields were likewise thrown-together affairs: simple wooden planks or pieces of bark. There was no clear leader at their head – certainly none of any repute.

And then they saw the enemy arrive at the far edge of the field. A long line of glimmering metal helms, and a heathen battle-vane in black and red upon a gold field, fluttering aloft in the wind. Proper shields with bosses and metal rims and blazons were borne before the men of Kujawy. The difference could not be starker. At the head of the line was a rider clad in blood-red. His personal device left no doubt about who he was: Jarosław, Captain of the Nositelia Viery.

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A hush of dread came over the men of Brassel. A few of them crossed themselves and prayed for God’s mercy. The rest did not dare even do that. The heathen mercenary captain’s reputation was as bloody as his tabard. He revelled in slaughter. Those few men who had come south from Poland, and had faced the Nositelia Viery in battle thus far, described the cruel laughter of Jarosław as he led his men in cutting down those who fled: mutilating and befouling their bodies, and then festooning the trees with their torn and broken remains. There was little doubt in the minds of many present, that soon the men of Brassel would meet a similar fate at his hands. After all, there was no leader present for them.

Across the field, Jarosław grinned banefully. The opponents he was facing here, just as he had told Snowid, were weak. Sheep among wolves. The sad part was that none of them would afford him much amusement in battle, since even their arms-bearers did not look that skilled or well-equipped. Ah, well. More sport for the boys after the battle had been won.

‘Let’s soften them up a bit first,’ he stroked his yellow beard. ‘Archers at the ready! … Shoot!’

The volley went up, and the collected villagers, townsmen and country gentry raised whatever meagre protection they had to hand. It wasn’t enough. The sickening sounds of arrowheads landing in flesh sprang out all around, followed by pitiable groans and cries. The line wavered dangerously. It soon became clear that they wouldn’t be able to withstand even a single push when the mêlée came. The hope of the ragtag Upper Silesians gave way to despair. A number of the rearguard gave ground and made ready to flee.

But then a cry, not of injury or dismay but of something much more buoyant, arose from the rear right flank.

From the southeast, against the darkening late-afternoon sky, appeared a line of Slavic riders. Their round helmets, all with long nose-guards and mail veils, gleamed in the falling western sun, as did their lamellar coats. The bits and bridles on their horses were decorated with red and white tassels, blazoned in Slavic fashion with ornate geometric patterns. But their shields bore not the avian or ophidian emblems of the heathen, but instead the Holy Cross, blood-red upon a white field, together with the Greek letters ‘ΦΤ’. ‘Phylakēs Taphou’. ‘Guardians of the Tomb’.

‘The Brotherhood! The Brotherhood of the Holy Sepulchre is here! Praise to Christ our God!’

A wild cheer of joy and relief went up from the rearguard. The battle-horns sounded from the zbrojnošov, and the Silesians regrouped and firmed up their line to meet the enemy advance. They were not alone or friendless after all!

The Brothers of the Holy Sepulchre readied their blades and their spears, and spurred their horses forward to a gallop. They left a broad wake through the green grass as they rode faster and faster, preparing to break like a wave over the light skirmishers that Kujawy was fielding. Foremost among them was the king’s son Luboš, who rode the crest of that wave with his spear in deadly couch, firmly against his shoulder.

Za Prázdnu Hrobu!’ Luboš’s shout carried over the early spring field. And then came the clash.

The crunching and splintering of shields, the grunts of struggle and the whinny of horses in fright and rage rang out as the Silesians prepared to advance. But then again, from their right rear, came a number of spear-bearers, zbrojnošov, light footmen and a long row of archers, just in time to rain a volley of death down upon the heathen in retaliation for the one they’d loosed before. The Brotherhood broke off to some distance before wheeling about for another pass. Again, one of the Silesians let up a cry:

‘The King! The King!’

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Pravoslav himself strode out onto the field in mail and helmet, his sword drawn and his shield up, at the head of the detachment of light footmen bound first into the fray in the wake of the riders. The king’s unit crashed into the Kujawy left flank, making several breaches in their line.

The heathen of Kujawy and the Nositelia Viery suddenly found themselves outnumbered and unavoidably outflanked. Jarosław scowled. He’d been hopeful for a decent amount of sport against these riders of God – at least they looked like they could put up a fight. But now with the much better-equipped and better-disciplined troops brought in from the reserve, and the King of Moravia – a master of the blade to be dreaded in private combat – himself at their head, it was clear to him that the tide of battle had turned against them. What had first appeared an easy victory, now would take luck to avoid turning into a full-on rout.

‘Branimír! Świętosław! Hold off the knights of the dead god!’ barked Jarosław.

The heathen knights nodded their acknowledgement, and rode out to meet the knights face-to-face.

Luboš saw them coming, and broke off from the charge line to have ado with Świętosław one-on-one. Crossing himself, he prayed: ‘Pane Iisušu Kriste, Syn Boží, zmiluj sa nado mnou!

The two horsemen rode at each other full tilt, spears couched, and made jabs at each other as they passed. Christian and heathen missed each other, turned their mounts about and made to ride another pass at each other. Luboš scored a glancing blow on Świętosław, but he felt his arm judder and wrench with sudden pain as the tip of the heathen’s spear lodged firmly in his shield. There was a sharp crack. Peering out past the edge of his shield, Luboš could see as Świętosław rode by that he had in his hand only a splintered stump of useless timber, which he tossed aside in preference of a straight blade.

Luboš raised his own spear and slid it into the band on his back. He too drew his sword – not necessarily out of any kind of chivalry or innate sense of fair play, but because he was confident matching steel with steel, and wanted to save his spear for the enemy’s backs when they broke into flight.

Luboš and Świętosław fought fifteen more passes, each getting wilder and more desperate than the one before. At last, Luboš dropped his wrist, causing his sword to swing clumsily down. Świętosław fell for the bait, and leaned in for a chance to slash at the Brother of the Holy Sepulchre’s neck. Swift and sure, up came the Brother’s blade, delivering a crippling slice just below the heathen’s sword-arm. Robbed of his power to fight, Świętosław had little choice but to limp back to the retreating line.

Branimír had fared little better against the other knights. They had cornered his horse between them and hauled him down off of it, binding him and hauling him back to the Silesian line.

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The battle was won. The Silesians, bruised and wounded though they might be, had still held onto their town and lands against the heathen invaders. A great cheer went up for the Brothers, for Luboš in particular, and for King Pravoslav, whose swift and timely action had saved them. Far and wide did Pravoslav’s reputation spread in the north country as a result of his action at Brassel.

‘Hail to Pravoslav! Hail to the King!’

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~~~​

Pravoslav had little time to stay in the Vratislav kraj, however, and had to march quickly back the way he came. Maria of Poloteskŭ, renowned for her fanatic devotion to Rod, was assaulting Sadec with reckless abandon, and Tarkhan had sent word asking for his liege’s aid.

It did give Pravoslav a bit of pause to be fighting against a woman who bore the same name as his departed wife – almost a bad omen to his mind – but those fears quickly dispersed when it became clear that her armies were vastly inferior to his own. She had more horses and riders than Pravoslav did, even counting the Brothers of the Holy Sepulchre. However, her foot troops were sparse and her lines were therefore thin. Keeping the zbrojnošov to each flank to fend off charges from her riders, Pravoslav made the advance and quickly smashed through Maria’s defences.

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Captain Jarosław arrived on the scene far too late to help, and could not extricate himself or his men soon enough to escape the vollies of Pravoslav’s archers or the points of the Brothers’ spears. This time, another of the Guardians of the Tomb distinguished himself in this battle. Vlastislav, a Nitran knight who had come to Kroměříž as a child oblate, managed to unseat one of the Nositelia, named Dalimír, who was subsequently trussed up and brought back to Sadec to be held for ransom.

Two years passed. No further assaults on Moravian towns were made, and the armies of Pravoslav settled into the long business of wresting control of the Kujawy-ruled lands – those around Věluň and Miliče, respectively – on his northern border from the young fool Snowid’s grasp.

Jakub came of age on the third of September, just after the turn of the New Year 6485, and earned the right to don mail and bear arms with the rest of the Moravian here. Pravoslav knew Jakub would be an ideal soldier. Fearless but possessed of a remarkable degree of restraint, he had nerve and steel both – necessary both on the battlefield and among the court. In addition to this, he had proven his exceptionally selfless habits by his consistent yielding of reward on his own account, but lavish praises and gifts upon others.

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Luboš, Velemír and Tarkhan readily admitted the young princeling into their fellowship. On account of Jakub’s bold and unflinching demeanour (as well as in reference to his father’s device, his mother’s Bulgarian lineage and his own long black mane of hair), the three of them took to calling Jakub ‘čierny lev’, or the Black Lion. Jakub was pleased indeed by this nickname, and even contrived for himself a booming battle-roar to match it.

He had the means to test it soon enough as well.

The Poles who had joined Snowid’s war came to the defence of Miliče. Pravoslav took to the field against them, and they had fought through most of the morning on that late September day when riders under a red vane appeared at the edge of the field. Tarkhan recognised them at once.

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‘Maria of Poloteskŭ has come!’

‘Let her come,’ answered Jakub, ‘if she dares!’

Jakub led his men toward the riders, stopping boldly in front of them, with shield and sword in hand. Deep in his throat he issued a low growl, which caused the horses to clop their feet back half a pace. Jakub’s growl mounted slowly, deepening and rising in volume, until he let forth an almighty bellow that was, for all the horses could tell, indistinguishable from that of a great beast of prey. They forgot their training and reverted to the primal instincts of grazing hoofed beasts before a deadly foe. Bucking and shying beneath their dismayed riders, a number of them bolted and fled. Tarkhan’s jaw fell as he saw this. For her part, Maria soon thought better of joining a fight where her forces were likely to be outmatched.

‘Let all heathen fear the roar of the Black Lion,’ Tarkhan boomed, clapping Jakub on the back.

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With the Poles’ defeat at Miliče, Kujawy had run out of allies to call upon and had run out of forces to spend against Moravia’s might. It wasn’t long before the same insolent herald that had delivered Snowid’s declaration of war returned to Pravoslav’s camp, cap in hand.

‘The fates have chosen to side with you this time, Pravoslav of the Moravians. On behalf of Lord Snowid, I am sent to deliver to you his terms for peace. He sends two thirds of a pound of fine gold as tribute, withdraws all his troops from Moravian-held lands, and relinquishes all of his claims over Brassel and its attached lands.’

Pravoslav, not being a vindictive man, accepted the terms of Snowid’s surrender, and himself took the heavy bundle of gold nomismata from the herald’s hands.

‘Assure Snowid that we shall no longer pursue his armies, but shall return home in peace.’

At long last, after Pravoslav retired to his tent, he slumped down in his seat and let each and every one of his sore muscles relax. After nine years without end in the field, at last Moravia was at peace.

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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.’
Magnificent.
No other words needed.

The remaining reaction is the question, and it has to be asked: How the hell did you manage to find Chuvash - Чӑвашла vocabulary or grammar books to construct the dialogues?

<remembering previous posts of Revan86; scanning through the bookmarks for very old ones>

Ohh, right; never mind.:D

The names of our ancestors are borne eternally on the north wind, and are reflected forever in the great blue sky.
Beautiful description.
Fun fact (and apologies if already known):
Blue and sky are the same word in old turkic languages; kök (as in Köktürks-Göktürks; the same root of gök - sky in modern turkish).


‘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.
Farewell, Marija the unfortunate.

Even in her death, Pravoslav is able to find a monstrously selfish way to abuse the relation to his wife. An incredibly vile character, and worse, he is unaware of his own evil narcissism; he deservedly takes his place in the list of villains.



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.’
Hmmmm.

house-carls
Confirming the calque for the old norse term, that it is possible to expect it to be used in 10. century local tongues, even if it is associated with the danish conquests, usually with Cnut's campaigns, and later established in the culture as observed in the tapestry (circa 11. century ce).
(Friendly nerdic defender of the fictional lores reported. Coming next, news of the fictions: Did friendly nerdic defender really defeat friendly watchdog? If no, then where is it hiding rather than trying its chances?)
<a silhouette is seen far over the mountains, watching closely the comments of the friendly nerdic defender; after the end of the comment, it retreats to unknown beyond; the wind carries the whispers: 'friendly watchdog will return'>



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!
...and such silent and lightning-quick references are only the few among the many reasons that this AAR is magnificent. Kudos.

Roaring with pain, Ilık fell back.
Sht. Why is it always the bold (and the poor) to fall first?

...or simply, paradox-pseudorandom number generator, at its best. Sigh.




all my other readAARs who are celebrating on the New Calendar:
And to those on the Old Calendar, a happy feast of Saint Spyridon the Wonderworker!​
And a blessed winter holiday to all! Will be back soon with more content. Cheers!

Will return for more to cover the remaining chapters to comment. Cheers, and best wishes for a happy new year!
 
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Magnificent.
No other words needed.

The remaining reaction is the question, and it has to be asked: How the hell did you manage to find Chuvash - Чӑвашла vocabulary or grammar books to construct the dialogues?

<remembering previous posts of Revan86; scanning through the bookmarks for very old ones>

Ohh, right; never mind.:D

I couldn't find any free resources for Old Bulgar, sadly. I kind of had to piece together a bastardised patois from a Chuvash lexicon and some Kazakh grammar structures in order to come up with something that looks and sounds close. Still a fun exercise, but probably not one I'd do over again!

(Until a certain Ugorka with an ESFJ personality shows up and throws off my resolve for not including snippets of her language in my AAR...)

Beautiful description.
Fun fact (and apologies if already known):
Blue and sky are the same word in old turkic languages; kök (as in Köktürks-Göktürks; the same root of gök - sky in modern turkish).

:) Cool!

I fully admit, though, when it comes to writing Turkic-Altaic cultural aspects and when you comment on them, I do often feel like a novice tyro showing off for a somewhat tolerant and indulgent shifu.

Farewell, Marija the unfortunate.

Even in her death, Pravoslav is able to find a monstrously selfish way to abuse the relation to his wife. An incredibly vile character, and worse, he is unaware of his own evil narcissism; he deservedly takes his place in the list of villains.

Pravoslav is a fun character to write, but you're right: he is an insensitive, self-centred jerk, particularly to his wife. He didn't have any affairs, but that's about all I can say in his favour.

Hmmmm.

Confirming the calque for the old norse term, that it is possible to expect it to be used in 10. century local tongues, even if it is associated with the danish conquests, usually with Cnut's campaigns, and later established in the culture as observed in the tapestry (circa 11. century ce).
(Friendly nerdic defender of the fictional lores reported. Coming next, news of the fictions: Did friendly nerdic defender really defeat friendly watchdog? If no, then where is it hiding rather than trying its chances?)
<a silhouette is seen far over the mountains, watching closely the comments of the friendly nerdic defender; after the end of the comment, it retreats to unknown beyond; the wind carries the whispers: 'friendly watchdog will return'>

I'd been under the impression that the 'house-carl' cognate was in common use in Ænglisc spræc in the wake of the Danish invasion. This might be slightly anachronistic on my part, though.

...and such silent and lightning-quick references are only the few among the many reasons that this AAR is magnificent. Kudos.


Sht. Why is it always the bold (and the poor) to fall first?

...or simply, paradox-pseudorandom number generator, at its best. Sigh.

Alas, poor Ilık. Speaking personally, I like him, Bogöri and Tarkhan much better than my player character. (Hence, why I chose to write We Hold the Pass the way I have, pain in the butt though it is to reconstruct from notes...)

Will return for more to cover the remaining chapters to comment. Cheers, and best wishes for a happy new year!

Happy New Year to you as well, Cat of the Fil! It is always a joy to read comments from you and @alscon. And I shall be posting more content here soon.
 
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Book Two Chapter Twenty-One
TWENTY-ONE
Ambivalent Vindication
15 March 976 – 12 December 977


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‘And… do you also enjoy the out-of-doors, milord?’

‘Oh, you should have seen me when I was younger, Markvart. I was a rather sickly little boy. Weak lungs. Often found it hard to breathe, you know. The two things that helped me, you see, were practising with the blade—you need control of your breathing as well as control of your feet and your legs…’

‘Well do I know it, sire!’ the king’s šafár Markvart shook his head with a smile.

‘True, true! A lot of swordsmen make the mistake of straining their shoulders, or swinging above the head. A real master knows how to shift his feet. Small steps.’

‘That way you don’t spend as much energy,’ Markvart shrewdly finished the thought.

‘Just so, Markvart! Just so. Anyway, swordsmanship is one of the things that’s beneficial for my lungs. The other is getting outside. I love just going out-of-doors, and out of the town gates. Into the woods. You know my great-grandfather loved the Desert mystics: St. Anthony, St. Pimen, St. Moses the Æthiop and so on. When I’m out there, I can see why. The further away you get from the worldly city, the closer you feel to God.’

‘I know exactly what you mean,’ Markvart Přemyslovec told the king. ‘I find myself deepest in prayer, and most at peace, when I’m out by myself in the vysočina. Some of my most treasured moments.’

‘Well, and one gets to observe all manner of living creatures. One time, my father took me to Sisak. Saw a monkey there… it was tame, though. Fellow from Africa brought it. And then there was a time when I got to see a whale, on the boat across the North Sea to visit kin in England. What sorts of wildlife do you get to see in the vysočina?’

‘Oh, you see the usual: wild swine, deer, hares, pheasants, grouse, ducks. I was lucky one time… I stumbled on a swampy little lake. Nothing so great as a whale, of course. But I did catch a sleek, long shape on the bank not five feet from my left, that at first I mistook for a snake or a large lizard. It slid like such into the water, you see. But then it came up again, and I saw it had whiskers! And fur – but such sleek fur that it looked to me like scales or scutes.’

‘An otter!’ Pravoslav exclaimed, clapping his hands.

Markvart opened his palm in affirmation.

Vydra-ricni-Lutra-lutra-01.jpg

‘Oh, I do envy you!’ sighed the king wistfully. ‘Perhaps I should come out to visit you in the vysočina sometime.’

‘Oh, do that, milord! One of these days we shall have to organise a hunt.’

‘That can be arranged. I should warn you, though, I’m not a great hunter. Sometimes when I see a magnificent beast in the wild I just can’t bring myself to shoot the bow.’

‘Hunting is just a pretext,’ Markvart said smoothly. ‘I can show you the best places to spot and watch wildlife, undisturbed, if that would please your Majesty better.’

‘Splendid! I may just take you up on that,’ said Pravoslav.

On his other side, Radomír spoke up. ‘I never knew you knew so much about wildlife, Father! Your range of interests and knowledge goes a lot further than I thought.’

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Pravoslav cleared his throat slightly. ‘Yes. Well. I fear I haven’t been a very attentive father, Radko. Particularly to you. And I do feel the shame of it. You should come with us – me and Markvart – when we take our breath of fresh air, what say?’

‘I’d be honoured, Father,’ Radomír inclined his head thankfully.

‘I’m sorry, would you excuse me for a moment?’ asked Pravoslav to the two men on his either side. Both Radomír and Markvart readily agreed.

Pravoslav made his way across the high hall to where his granddaughter—Radomír’s daughter Dobromila—was seated. He brushed her shoulder and murmured to her:

‘A word, Mila.’

He then left the high hall and waited outside. Dobromila’s dark head soon showed itself from the doorway, and she stood before him, hands folded neatly in front of her.

‘I happened to use the záchod yesterday night as the wine was going around. On my way back down I heard something rather interesting. Coming from your room, Mila.’

‘Truly?’ Dobromila lifted her eyebrows in surprise. ‘And what might that be?’

Pravoslav examined her shrewdly. Not a twinge of guilt or a trace of doubt on her face. Cunning little dissembler. Good thing he was certain of his charge, otherwise he knew she could make things quite difficult.

‘And what were you doing with Bohuslav Zemplinský at that time of night?’

Dobromila’s face was impassive for a moment, as though she were gauging her options and her likelihood of successfully dissembling or evading him. Then, deciding humour was probably a better gamble than a diminishing chance of credible denial, she gave a shameless little smirk. ‘Are you sure you want to know… all the details, dedko?’

‘No, I’d really rather not,’ Pravoslav sighed and massaged his temples. ‘You and Zemplinský are going to Niphon. Tomorrow.’

‘So soon?’ Dobromila asked, surprised. ‘Shouldn’t we, um, prepare first?’

Tomorrow, Mila. Push me any further and I’ll have him wed the two of you tonight.’

Dobromila shrugged. ‘Tomorrow it is, then. I suppose we’ll make it through alright. Bohuslav’s a nice enough kid. Being a zbrojnoš he’s got, um… quite the longsword. And he knows how to sheathe it.’

The king made a noise of disgust as Dobromila slid past him back into the high hall.

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Pravoslav reflected that he’d been far more lenient with her than with her father. He hadn’t slapped her across the face, called her a shameless slut and locked her up in her room. Besides, knowing Dobromila and her devious ways, if he’d done so she’d be out and fornicating with the boy the moment he turned his back – just to spite him. The king shook his head. He was getting soft in his old age.

He waited a few moments longer to dispel any possible suspicions, then went back into the high hall. The feast would be winding down, having already gone on for a fortnight thus far. Soon it would be time to be seeing off his guests.

~~~​

‘Oleg Kostolanský to see you, sir,’ Markvart introduced the supplicant.

Kostolanský turned out to be a tall, thin, but hardy-looking villager of Moravia proper, with swart hair and beard. By the state of his hands and the hue of his cotte, like as not he was one of the woodsmen of Opava. ‘Milord,’ he spoke up boldly, ‘this will not stand.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Pravoslav asked with an ominous calm.

‘I—I mean,’ the villager explained, ‘myself, and the other men of Opava—of town as well as village—have already paid enough for all of your wars. There isn’t a family in the whole kraj that hasn’t lost a son fighting the English, or the Poles, or the Užhorodci. And to add insult to that injury, too many of us have had to tighten our belts for all of the grain and meat and ale that your fighting-men commandeer for their own use.’

‘And?’

‘And… we hear you’re planning to go to war yet again. And this will not stand with us. We need time to bury and mourn our dead, to restock and fend off starvation. We won’t be able to do that this year. If you go forward with your plan to attack Užhorod yet again, I warn you, sire—there will be consequences.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Pravoslav told him, ‘you, Oleg Kostolanský… are warning me?’

‘I am,’ Oleg said stoutly.

‘I am a merciful liege,’ Pravoslav told him, unfazed, ‘so I am giving you this one chance. Go home, think better of your choice of words, contemplate your station in life, and thank the Lord God I am choosing not to swing you from a branch by your neck for this insolence.’

Oleg bowed stiffly. ‘Sire.’

And he left. But Pravoslav saw to his chagrin that the stiffness of Oleg’s shoulders and the hostile swing of his arms as he left the court did not bode well for his advice being taken reasonably.

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That had been in November. The following month a band of peasants with Oleg at its head attacked Opava. As rural revolts usually are, the rising of the villagers and woodsmen of Opava was put down with ruthless efficiency. By March of 6485, the revolt had been utterly crushed. Oleg Kostolanský’s return to Olomouc Castle was much quicker than he had doubtless anticipated, and far less ceremonious. Pravoslav still didn’t have the heart to carry through on his promise to swing him by his neck from a branch. But he was confined closely, in shackles, in one of the lower rooms of the fastness.

And the Moravian claim upon Užhorod was pressed with the same swiftness and thoroughness. The title had reverted to Boleslav Kopčianský, and he had swiftly broken troth with Nitra. Pravoslav mustered in early May. It was Dobromila’s groom, Bohuslav of ‘Quite-the-Longsword’, who led the attack and utterly crushed Boleslav’s paltry force. (Dobromila had given birth to their daughter on the very day of the battle. They named her Jarmila.)

Boršód was taken, and the war was over by November of 6486.

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And thus a longstanding wrong was corrected. At the age of thirty-nine, after having waited patiently his entire life, Mutimír was enfeoffed in the seat of his family’s former honour. And after eighty-five years in their familial exile, Užhorod was once again in the hands of a Bijelahrvatskić.

Mutimír Dubravkić Bijelahrvatskić knelt and grasped the sword. He swore once again the oaths he owed to King Pravoslav, and was dubbed Knieža of Ungvár. Once more he was lord over the Carpathians and over the White Croats to whom he belonged.

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‘Mutimír, my dearest,’ Kňažná Bogna asked her husband, stroking his chest with affectionate worry. ‘What is wrong?’

Mutimír heaved a deep sigh. Truth be told, he had never felt right about being named knieža this way, although he knew no way to express what he felt without sounding churlish. And so he had kept silent, keeping his regrets and his worries to himself all these years. But in his heart, he felt like a traitor, even though he knew himself to be nothing of the sort. He had regained the position that he had always been told was his right… over the bones and over the blood of the very folk he now ruled. Although he owed Pravoslav (and Bohodar kráľ before him, and Bohodar slovoľubec before him) everything he now had, and was duly grateful to them, he still couldn’t help but feel somehow sullied by sin, by the crime against his own people.

‘Do you… resent me, Bogna?’ asked the knieža.

‘Darling,’ Bogna blew out an exasperated breath. ‘I have never once resented you. You are witty, you are strong-willed, and most important to me: you are sweet and gentle and kind. What cause should I have to resent such a husband?’

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‘I don’t mean, as a wife,’ Mutimír shook his head slowly. ‘I mean, as a White Croat. So many of our people have lost their lives, in these constant wars. The Magyars. The Mojmírovci. Now Moravia. Have I done the right thing by joining with Pravoslav, by being in his court, by benefitting from the blood that our folk—your folk, Bogna—have shed?’

Bogna shook her head firmly, and gripped her beloved husband’s hands with ardour. ‘You underrate your countrymen. Our lives have always been hard. We’ve always depended on herds of scrawny sheep, and whatever we could glean from the forests. There have always been lean years, and there have always been feuds. Our only true friends have been the mountains. How could we hold that against you? You, Mutimír Dubravkić, the only great-grandson of Gostomil Vitimírić! The sole living scion of our first chieftain, Tvrdoslav! In your blood, you represent a past when we were a free people, living without foreign masters among these forests and meadows, in the shadows of our sacred Beskids and Carpathians. My love, you give us hope again.’

Mutimír still sounded unconvinced. ‘I hope that hope is not misplaced.’

Bogna took his hands and pressed them firmly against her heart. ‘It is not. You have me. We have our daughter, our two sons. We have a life. And where there is life, there is always hope.’
 
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Catching up again takes a while, but is as always worth it :). And while I can't contribute in that regard, consider me intrigued and educated by the linguistic tidbits.

Nice to see that Mutimír remains very much the good guy at court. The Rychnovskýs are different - Oleg isn't wrong when he says that Pravoslav is kinda a warmonger (he's perhaps grown too much out of the weakness of his youth, a very strong desire to test his strength combined with ruling a kingdom the result), and Radomír seems to be a disappointment, with consequences for his own children as well.
 
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Nice to see that Mutimír remains very much the good guy at court. The Rychnovskýs are different - Oleg isn't wrong when he says that Pravoslav is kinda a warmonger (he's perhaps grown too much out of the weakness of his youth, a very strong desire to test his strength combined with ruling a kingdom the result), and Radomír seems to be a disappointment, with consequences for his own children as well.

Psychologically, I think that is quite astute, @alscon. It may be that Pravoslav has something of an axe to grind as a result of his infirmity. I had to go back and check my last backup/static save in CK3 to be sure, but Pravoslav was the most warlike of my kings (having fought in 21 wars total) and hands-down the most eager of my player characters to fight in offensive wars.

Radomír is... complex. I don't want to give too much of the game away up front. But being physically abused by his father and, in essence, sexually abused by his father's physician certainly colours his later behaviour.
 
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Book Two Chapter Twenty-Two
TWENTY-TWO
On Two Fronts
1 May 979 – 22 February 982

‘God go with you, my liege.’

‘God protect and heal you, my friend.’

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Kráľ Pravoslav and šafár Markvart Přemyslovec embraced – Pravoslav taking special care to avoid Markvart’s hunting-wound as they did so, gotten last year when he’d fallen from his horse tracking a boar with Pravoslav in the vysočina – and took their leave of each other. Even with his injury, however, there was no one that Pravoslav would rather have entrusted than Markvart with running the affairs of Moravia in his absence.

Once Pravoslav had decided to return to Saint Catherine’s on Sinai, the place of his prior pilgrimage and penance, the rest rather fell together with relative ease. He knew his road: the Pilgrim’s Way running north-south through Magyar lands, through the southwestern corner of the Bulgarian Empire into Eastern Rome, and then across the Bosporus, Asia Minor and the Levant to the Sinai. He joined a troupe of overland merchants from parts west going to the City of Constantine for trade, and went incognito for the sake of convenience. Pravoslav carried with him only a single bundle of luggage, containing some provisions, a Slavonic Psalter, a spare cotte and hose and foot-wrappings, and – cleverly concealed among the clothes – a short spike-hilted blade of the severan type.

The travel wore on Pravoslav more than it once had. Old age had made his breathing problems harder to control. Still, when the merchant party was attacked by bandits not far from Constantinople, Pravoslav was more than ready to take them on. Out came the short blade, and off went the bandits – those that were wise, anyway. Those who weren’t were cut down where they stood by the elderly but still-expert swordsman among the group.

Pravoslav passed into the City without further incident, took his leave of the merchant party and joined a band of pilgrims setting out for the Holy Land. However, as they were making their way across Asia Minor, the pilgrimage party happened into a village where a lone man was standing on an overturned cart and loudly declaiming in Greek that the Day of Judgement was at hand, and that the people needed to repent of their sins. Most of the villagers ignored him, although a few of the curious stopped to listen to him speak. Such were some of the pilgrimage party, including Pravoslav.

As Pravoslav came close, he detected some marks of the man’s insincerity. Although he was dishevelled and clad in a suitable hair shirt for the role, his hands were clean, soft and white – not calloused from labour, burnt by the sun or emaciated from habitual austerities. On closer inspection even his haggard look seemed to be composed of a subtle and artful use of pigments to disguise the shape of his face and the quality of his skin.

‘This is no holy man!’ Pravoslav loudly declaimed. Overriding his umbrage, Pravoslav displayed to the crowd his proofs of the preacher’s worldliness. Then the king turned to the man. ‘Get down from your cart, go to the nearest church, and repent of your sins.’

The preacher loudly began reviling Pravoslav as being among the wretched and the damned, but the villagers were no longer fooled. They took the man and flung him off his cart, trussed him up, and frogmarched him up the road to the nearest theme, where the governor would pass sentence on him. (Like as not, a sentence involving putting out his eyes, slitting his nose or cutting out his tongue.)

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There were no further obstructions to Pravoslav’s progress to Sinai, and he arrived at Saint Catherine’s in peace, honour and safety… but not in health. The travel had thrown his humours out of balance. His asthma attacks had become more frequent, longer and more painful even than when he had begun his pilgrimage. Among the prayers that he offered at Saint Catherine’s were those for the health of his body and the relief of his breathing, although it was an affliction he had suffered lifelong.

However, when he returned from his journey to Alexandria, he was not in a particularly good temper. He spent long hours in the company of Kňažná Lada erínysa (that is, ‘the Fury’ – evidently Luboš’s nickname for her had stuck), evidently making some sort of preparation. Eventually, Knieža Mutimír sought out his friend, the heir-apparent.

‘Radko,’ Mutimír murmured gravely, ‘you must stop this madness.’

‘What madness do you mean?’ asked Radomír. Mutimír still had much keener ears and a much quicker sensibility for gathering secrets from the castle.

‘You must speak to your father. He is preparing some sort of retribution upon the battlefield, upon the head of Knieža Přisnec of Nitra, together with your aunt Lada.’

Radomír shook his head slowly. ‘I’m not surprised,’ he told his friend darkly. ‘As far as he’s concerned, the Mojmírovci are a thorn in his side, and Nitra’s continued independence a thumb in his eye. He hasn’t yet had the means to challenge them openly, though – they’ve been fairly cagey with their alliances. I wonder what’s changed?’

Mutimír looked distinctly uncomfortable.

‘Spit it out,’ Radomír urged.

Mutimír heaved a sigh. ‘I have been challenged by Boleslav Kopčianský for control over Ungvár… and he has been urged and supported in doing so by his kinsman, Přisnec Mojmírovec.’

Radomír’s mouth hung open, in outrage on Mutimír’s behalf. At last he found his tongue. ‘That grasping, scheming, back-stabbing conniver! He should be made to pay for this.’

‘No!’ Mutimír choked, ‘Please, no. The lands of my people have already been troubled all these decades by too much bloodshed. The White Croats have bled long enough for the greed and power-lust of kings and princes. I may be the wronged party in this whole affair, but I do not want this for a solution. Please, convince your father to abandon this folly.’

Radomír gazed intently at his friend. There was nothing but pain, heartfelt and sincere, in his eyes. He sighed at last. ‘Very well. I shall try to intercede with Father. I cannot promise success.’

‘That’s all I ask,’ Mutimír said. ‘If I thought he’d listen to reason so easily, I’d have kept at it longer myself, rather than asking you.’

As it turned out, though, Radomír’s pleas on Mutimír’s behalf fell on deaf ears. Salzburg and Rosáno, whose rulers were in-laws of the Rychnovských, had both readily promised Pravoslav their support in his punitive campaign against Nitra. And the blow was struck not two days after their conference, as the levies of Moravia marched southeast from Velehrad to Nitra. The town was swiftly captured, and the army sped their way northeast to Trenčín.

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At Lada’s suggestion, Pravoslav placed Ilık’s son Hrabě Tarkhan at the head of his armies. He quickly saw why. Tarkhan was still a lad of meagre years, slight of build, clean-shaven… and effeminate, even a tad girlish in his mannerisms and temperament. But Ilık’s boy very swiftly demonstrated a keen strategic acumen. He also intuited readily the importance of flowing water (whether crossing quickly and safely, or holding the army to one riverbank when travelling, or moving quickly to intercept enemies while they were fording), and developed tactics suited to keeping Moravia’s weapons-bearers attuned and ready to seize this advantage at need.

This was readily proven in the very first engagement. Tarkhan had easily surmised that being caught by Přisnec out in the open would prove disastrous. And so he had kept to the left bank of the River Váh and followed it upstream.

‘If I were Přisnec,’ Tarkhan mused as he looked at the map, ‘I would want to attack us… here, just south of Púchov. There’s a crossing here which he will want to control.’

‘Perhaps we should wait for him to cross,’ Radomír suggested. ‘That way odds would be even instead of against us.’

‘Mm, no,’ Tarkhan shook his head. ‘This time we need to strike, and strike fast. He’s on the right bank. If he tries fording at Púchov we can catch Přisnec and his horsemen midriver and send them for a swim.’

Pravoslav yielded the judgement to young Tarkhan, who forced the zbrojnošov, the more lightly-armoured warriors and levies to make double-time upriver toward Púchov. And they made it to the left bank opposite the town before Přisnec’s riders had finished fording. Shouts of dismay from the other side echoed over the water. Tarkhan at once sent the men into their formations, shouted back to the archers and had them loose a high volley straight into the middle of the river.

At once men and beasts were caught beneath the deadly rain, and several limp bodies collapsed into the water and were washed downstream, back toward Trenčín.

The battle did not last long before it turned into a rout back across the river to the right bank. With his swift action, Hrabě Tarkhan had managed an easy victory with a minimal loss in men. Pravoslav was quietly impressed, and reminded himself to give Lada his thanks for the recommendation.

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Tarkhan wasn’t yet done, though. Instead of giving pursuit to Přisnec and his men, he pulled a volte-face and ordered the men to march eastward, hugging the left bank of the Váh until they reached the Malá Fatras. With the tall mountains on their left across the river and a confluence before them, they managed to head off yet another army. This army, led by a Pannonian Slavic woman – Boľka Pavelková – had stopped before getting to the river in their path. Tarkhan held up his hand to bring the Moravian army to a halt.

Tarkhan Aqhazar surveyed the deployment of Pavelková’s troops. She was being cautious – perhaps even overly so. Just to test the waters, Tarkhan sent a couple of feigned flanking manœuvres across the bank. Pavelková delayed before a response, but when she was provoked into responding she let her troops pursue the flankers beyond what a seasoned commander would do. Tarkhan smiled. His opponent clearly did not want to risk casualties with bold action, much less place her vane at risk, but the degree to which she would pursue a fleeing enemy showed another side to her personality.

Satisfied with his initial probings, Tarkhan reported confidently to Pravoslav: ‘This Boľka is a coward, but – like many cowards – she has something of a vicious streak to her. It won’t take a prolonged effort to turn this army to flight, but we need to be careful when we pursue.’

The Khazar dared to ford against her. Having only foot soldiers and not beasts to worry about, it was a quick and smooth operation with fairly few losses from her archers. Sure enough, Boľka had not taken advantage of the window of opportunity to attack him while fording – and this gave him time enough to form up his forward line on the far side of the river when she finally decided to advance.

It quickly turned into a disaster for Pavelková’s army. There was enough space and cover on the far bank of the river by now to allow more Moravian troops across safely, filling in behind the forward line and moving off to reassemble flanking units. Broad sections of archers were allowed to shoot volleys, punching significant holes in Boľka’s formation. Her army was soon broken and on the run before Pravoslav’s. Tarkhan resisted the temptation to order a charge in pursuit, but instead made a careful advance to clean up behind and rob her of any stragglers.

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Instead the Moravian army made a slow advance in the long depress between the High Tatras to the north and the Low Tatras to the south. The army would soon need to winter, and it would be best not to winter in the mountains themselves, but instead where quarter and provision could easily be obtained. However, November had only just come when a herald came for Pravoslav from Milčané, having followed the trail of the army as it led east into the high valley from the battlefield at Vrútok.

‘Speak, man! What is it?’

‘I bring ill news, sire,’ the messenger said ruefully. ‘Milčané is under attack by the heathens of Lužica. The lady of Lužica claims all of our land there as hers by right of arms, and flies her devilish vanes there in brazen defiance of your lordship.’


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Once again the northern border was under attack while Pravoslav was busy in the south. For all their bravado, the heathen certainly were predictable.

‘It appears we will be wintering in the northwest, gentlemen,’ Pravoslav informed Velemír, Mutimír, Tarkhan, Radomír and Jakub as he met them in his tent and explained the situation.

Mutimír looked distraught, as though the news were a reflection of a personal failure on his part. Velemír, however, offered: ‘Perhaps this is for the best, milord. Salzburg is coming this way to reinforce us anyway. Let them contend with Přisnec here while we march north. We can also call upon the Brothers in this instance, where the defence of Christian lands from the unbeliever is at stake.’

‘That is good advice,’ Pravoslav allowed. ‘You have something more to add?’

‘It might be good for morale, milord,’ Velemír told him, ‘if you commissioned some more striking and imposing attire to be worn while striding forward into battle. The zbrojnošov as well as the common soldiery look to your person for leadership. How you appear in battle matters a great deal to them.’

‘I second that,’ Tarkhan added.

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‘Very well, I shall take that into consideration as well.’

The army made incredible time across the country: from the southeastern border with Nitra all the way to the march of Milčané by February. And Pravoslav’s tailor did fit him for a new tabard and mantle to be worn into battle—but he never got the chance to wear it, or to lead his men into battle at all.

The Moravian army had only just taken up position to challenge the heathens of Lužice when Pravoslav was taken with an asthmatic attack. A serious one. Alone in his tent. He fought for breath, fought the rising panic in his constricted chest, and nothing seemed to work. His throat was as thin as a reed, and he found he no longer had the strength even to stand. He tried to call out, but his wind was far too restricted for anyone to hear.

Rad… ko…

His vision swam, pooled in circles of dim green and red, then faded to black.

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Been awhile since I did a map post. Should do one now that Pravoslav is no more.

Also, apologies for not having done one for Boško. I have gone back and corrected that error.

EUROPE AT THE END OF THE REIGN OF PRAVOSLAV RYCHNOVSKÝ

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The political fragmentation of everywhere Germanic continues apace while Eastern Rome stands strong. Also, there is apparently an Empire of the Caucasus now.

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Veľká Morava saw some massive expansion in two directions under Pravoslav: northward into Meissen (what I call Milčané in the AAR) and eastward into Sacz and Užhorod. Time to see if I can finally wrangle Nitra under my control...

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The Cherven Cities are actually fast becoming a regional power. Worrisome...
 
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Interlude Five
INTERLUDE V.
The Battle-Flag
29 October 2020


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‘Živana! Here she is!’ Professor Ed Grebeníček beamed at her. ‘Did you bring what I asked you?’

Živana Biľaková nodded, grinning back. She brushed a strand of red hair away from her face and carefully – even reverently – laid her book-bag on her desk. ‘Dedko only let me borrow it under protest, I’ll have you understand. I had to promise to help clean his attic next spring. And I also had to promise to follow the Usage Code down to the letter, even though it isn’t actually a state symbol.’

‘I’ll be sure to send him a bottle of slivovica and a thank-you note after today’s class,’ Grebeníček assured his student.

With due dramatic flair, Živana opened her book-bag and drew out a neatly-folded piece of red linen. Upon inspection, it was clearly a flag, as one side of the fabric had a thick white hoist with a truck on one corner. She carefully unfolded it, taking special precautions not to let it touch the floor, and laid it on the table with the hoist side left facing the class. It was clearly a Partizan battle-flag. The red field was emblazoned with a yellow star and a raised fist clutching a Russian Kalashnikov. Underneath that were the words, defiantly blazing the same gold hue:

ХЧЕШЬ ВОЙНУ ДАМ ТО​

Several of the students gaped in awe. It wasn’t often one saw such a relic from the twentieth-century Wars of Ideology. The heroism of the Partizans was practically legendary in modern Moravia.

‘Where did you get that, Živana?’ asked an awestruck Ladislav Čič, a note of wistful envy in his voice.

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Dedko got it from his father, my pradedko, Bajan Biľak. Pradedko was a Captain in the Resistance against the Révnat troopers when they invaded Moravia. He fought in the BSV irregulars: this was their battle-flag. He said helping to drive out the Révnats was one of the proudest achievements of his life.’

‘Indeed. And what does BSV stand for?’ asked Grebeníček.

Brigáda Svätopluka Velehradského,’ answered Živana. ‘The Svätopluk Velehradský Brigade. It was named after, I guess, one of Róbert Rychnovský’s generals?’

‘Mmm,’ Grebeníček waggled his hand back and forth. ‘In a manner of speaking. In fact, the historical figure the BSV was named after, Velehradský, was a more interesting character than that. He rose to be the head of the Nositelia Viery. That’s a name we’ve heard in our class already. Does anyone remember who they were? Yes, Dalibor?’

Dalibor Pelikán lowered his hand. ‘The Nositelia Viery were originally a band of free-born fighters. Their captain Jarosław offered his services to Snowid of Kujawy when he attacked King Pravoslav. Originally they were heathens, but they were consecrated to Orthodoxy around the year 1200. Even so, the Nositelia Viery had a certain predilection for religious sectarianism and political radicalism. They supported various peasant revolts and millenarian religious movements.’

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Heraldic shield of the Nositelia Viery​

‘Mm-hmm,’ Grebeníček nodded. ‘That would make them natural patrons for the Partizan movement, eh? Marxist freedom fighters looking for inspiration to various communistic religious radicals in the past. That’s quite true. Many of the Captains were out-and-out heretics. Hromislav Beckovský and his right-hand man Koceľ were Adamites. Vyšebor was a Gnostic of the Albigensian variety. Widukind z Ljubice came under the influence of John Wyclif at Oxford. But Svätopluk Velehradský, who—you’re right, Živana—was contemporary with Róbert Rychnovský, attended Orthodox parishes all his life, was never barred from the chalice, and was never formally condemned by an Orthodox synod.’

‘What do you mean, “never formally condemned”?’ asked Petra.

‘Exactly what it says on the box,’ Grebeníček opened a palm. ‘Velehradský was a close friend and associate of the likewise-controversial Orthodox priest and religious philosopher Ján Hus, some of whose polemics against property and Church corruption later inspired the Non-Possessor movement in Ruthenia. This made many bishops in Moravia highly dubious of Velehradský, even though neither he nor Hus ever advocated open heresy. Now, Velehradský was of a different temper than Hus. He’s described in the Moderský letopis as “milovník sokolov a psov[1] – hardly the stuff of a religious controversialist. But what made him a threat to the bishops was that he took Hus’s teachings against property to heart. He forswore all claims on the wealth of the Nositelia Viery as captain, and distributed it all among them – from each according to his skill, and to each according to his needs.’

‘I see why the Partizans liked him,’ said Dalibor.

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‘So, you see the slogan on it?’ asked Grebeníček. ‘What does it say?’

‘“Chčeš vojnu, dam to”,’ Živana recited. ‘“You want a war? I’ll give you one.”’

‘A fitting motto. They gave it to the Révnats,’ Grebeníček grinned. ‘The BSV staged raids on weapons depots. They blew up, scrapped and otherwise put out of operation railway lines, bridges, transfer stations and radio towers. They captured and assassinated frontline commanders and political operatives – both French and local collaborators. But who knows the origin of the slogan?’

‘Róbert Rychnovský said it,’ Ľubomir Sviták volunteered. ‘Wasn’t that when he faced the Bohemian Rising in 1415?’

Grebeníček gave an appreciative clap. ‘Yes! Wonderful! And of course, that was the same war in which he called upon Svätopluk Velehradský and the Nositelia Viery. But the phrase didn’t originate with him.’

Grebeníček pulled down the map of Moravia hanging on the wall, and pointed to Věluň. ‘At the very beginning of his reign, Kráľ Kaloján chrabrý delivered this four-word declaration to the Prince of Věluň when he sent a force over the border into Krakov, as Kaloján was dealing with his own vassal uprising. And then before that…’

Here Grebeníček pointed to the city of Brehna on the East Frankish side of the border with Dresden. His voice dropped to a theatrical whisper.

‘The motto of the BSV was indirectly taken, if we credit the Budinský letopis, from the reply of Radomír hrozný to Chieftess Lydia of the Sorbs. It was the prelude to the infamous Blood Court of Brehna – the wholesale massacre of the Sorbian Milčenský family which shocked even his closest advisors – in which Radomír truly earned his byname of “the Terrible”.’


[1] ‘a lover of falcons and hounds’, i.e. an aficionado of hunting
 
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Radomír the Terrible - sounds bad enough, going further than the initial impression he's left. Life clearly left a deep mark on the naive boy to turn him into that.
 
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Book Two Chapter Twenty-Three
The Reign of Radomír 1. hrozný Rychnovský, Kráľ of Veľká Morava

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TWENTY-THREE
Disaster
22 February 982 – 30 November 982


‘Jakub—I say, Jakub,’ Radomír approached his son on the field outside Novy Hrad.

The dark-haired youth turned toward him. ‘Yes, Father?’

Radomír sized up his son. Jakub was perilous in more ways than one. A fearless dark lion in the thick of the fight, he was naturally gifted in length of stride and breadth of shoulder, and his very presence upon the battlefield struck dread into the hearts of his enemies. But those same gifts had a remarkably different effect in the court. Easygoing, amiable and gracious, he had no trouble at all attracting the attention of girls his age (and even a few older women) in attendance at Olomouc. Radomír had often seen him chatting with one or another – with evident interest on their part, and something of a friendly indifference on his.

In the end he decided that perhaps the direct approach would be best. ‘Jakub, what do you say about finding you a wife and getting you married? Are there any at court that have taken your fancy?’

Jakub’s eyes widened. The question had come a bit like a bolt from the blue—certainly not what he’d expected to be discussing with his father when preparing to do battle over Novy Hrad.

‘Quite a few of them are pleasant enough,’ Jakub shrugged, ‘but to be honest I hadn’t given it much thought. I guess I’d always assumed you or dedo would arrange me when the time was right.’

‘You really don’t have a preference?’

Jakub thought. ‘I think I could get along with any woman who has a good temper and good sense. But you’re asking my preference. My ideal woman would be graceful, demure, modest… and I’ll own that I’ve always preferred a brunetka with long hair.’

Radomír raised his eyebrows. Earlier generations of Rychnovských – including himself – had long had a notorious weakness for willowy blondes.

‘And would you like to hunt your own game in this regard, Jakub? Or would you rather I make the match for you?’

‘Father, you did just ask me my preference. I place my trust in your judgement.’

Radomír sighed. He could see more than a bit of himself in his and Raina’s son, but did Jakub always have to be this… agreeable?

A shout of dismay arose from behind them.

‘The King! Help the King!’

Radomír and Jakub rushed up the hill to the king’s tent. There they found a knot of the other nobles and their attendants – Bogöri, Mutimír, Velimír, Tarkhan, Tarkhan’s brother-in-law Vratislav. There was a grim hush over them all. His heart pounding with dread, Radomír elbowed his way through. There he saw his father Pravoslav stretched out on the ground, his blue-tinged and lifeless face a grim masque of breathless agony. Already there was a field leech kneeling on the ground next to him, feeling his neck for a pulse. The man gave a sad shake of the head.

Gospodi pomiluj,’ Radomír crossed himself. Jakub next to him did the same. ‘Blažený pokoj, večná pamäť…

‘It is an evil omen,’ one of the footmen in the tent said. ‘The king dying like this, upon the morning before battle…’

‘Silence,’ Radomír said to the footman. ‘Show respect.’

The whole of the tent fell into a hush that now couldn’t be thought of as anything but ominous. The leech laid the king out, closed his eyes, smoothed out his face, and arranged his body in a dignified pose, then covered him with a shroud to be placed on a cart bound for Velehrad. More could not be done here. Although Radomír was the undisputed heir, the chaplains had no chrism with them, and no proper anointing could be held here before the battle was due to begin. Moravia was, at least for the moment, kingless.

Tarkhan emerged from the tent and took command with confidence, but he could not long suppress the word among the troops that the king had fallen. Morale was already faltering by the time the Moravians took to the field. As a result, the Moravians were crushed.

The heathen must have learned of Pravoslav’s passing as well, for the taunts of ‘A dead king for a dead god!’ came pealing out across the line of battle along with the shafts of their arrows. The Moravian line buckled in several places, including most dangerously in the centre. Tarkhan waded into the thick himself in an effort to shore up the line, but it was in vain. The Moravian line buckled as the front defenders, robbed of their boldness, turned and tried to flee.

The victorious heathen gloried in slaughter as their own front line charged jubilantly into the fray, spearing and hacking at anyone unfortunate enough to be in front of them after the shield-wall had collapsed. Tarkhan sent up the banner signalling for an orderly retreat, and at least his own section of the centre followed him out with a solid rearguard action. Radomír and Mutimír likewise kept cool heads and extricated some hundreds from their respective wings. But the message was lost on the other footmen and their captains, who had lost all sense of discipline, and fled like a stampede of panicked oxen. And like expert predators amongst such a herd, the men of Lužice drew blood where they willed.

Not one man in every four made it off of that battlefield with life and loyalty and dignity intact. The Moravian army entered Milčané with five thousand five hundred men… and left with fewer than thirteen hundred—and one fewer king.

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~~~​

Worse still:

‘Help! Leech, help!’

Mutimír was clutching his leg and grimacing in wordless, intense pain. He had taken a minor wound in the battle, barely a scratch. But it had festered. Now, all around the wound, Mutimír’s skin and flesh was turning mottled red, purple and even black – and the lesions were spreading. The leech had caught sight of it only once before he stood back.

‘Leprosy. It’s leprosy!’

At once everyone stood back with a worried murmur from Mutimír, crossing themselves and muttering prayers for deliverance. Everyone except the leech’s young assistant, barely a page-boy in years, who examined the knieža of Ungvár’s wound more closely.

‘It can’t be leprosy,’ the assistant argued calmly. ‘Leprosy deadens and whitens the skin, making it insensitive to pain. But you see the flesh here is black, and his lordship is in agony[1]!’

‘Hush, lad. What do you know?’ the leech said with evident fear. ‘Mutimír’s sins have brought this ailment down upon him. We must pray for his deliverance, and keep him sequestered.’

The sequestering and the prayers of the army chaplain did no good. Mutimír was dead within hours of going into the sanitary tent. It was that same day that a messenger arrived from the east under a white vane of parley.

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‘Can I speak with Mutimír Dubravkić?’

‘Not this side of the Day of Judgement,’ came the answer. ‘He has passed from this life.’

‘Mm. Pity,’ the messenger said in an indifferent tone. ‘I was to deliver the message to him that milord Boleslav Kopčianský now holds Šariš Castle, that his wife and sons are now his prisoners, and that if he wishes to see them alive again he must surrender himself in his person. Well—surrender himself he has, it seems, though not to my earthly lord. May I see him and confirm his death?’

The messenger was allowed into the sanitary tent to see Mutimír’s body, which by now was nigh-unrecognisable, so swiftly had the evil disease disfigured him before taking his life. However, he did recognise Mutimír’s device and the heirlooms of the Bijelahrvatskići upon his person, and was satisfied that the dead man lying before him was indeed the man he sought.

‘I will report this news back to Lord Boršód. It seems that Užhorod is to have a new master in any event.’

~~~​

For his part, Radomír fell into a gloom. He had lost his father, lost his army, lost his best friend – all within the space of a week. He brooded in his own tent, and would speak to no-one.

‘Vratislav,’ Tarkhan told his brother-in-law. ‘Go and check on the King’s son. It is not good for the army to have the man all know must be the next Kráľ, keeping aloof from all his men.’

Vratislav looked stunned. ‘Me, brother? Why me?’

‘Why not you?’

‘Well… dash it, Tarkhan. I’m a bastard. I suspect the prince rather dislikes me.’

‘Oh, don’t be such a ninny,’ Tarkhan sniped. ‘I gave you a command. Now hop to it.’

Vratislav bowed stiffly, and stalked off to Radomír’s tent. He was surprised when the heir-apparent admitted him at once upon declaring himself. Vratislav stepped dutifully into Radomír’s tent and stood at attention, waiting to be addressed. Jakub was and would always be his heir, but the blond mustachioed man before him was truly his first-born son. That was not something Radomír could easily forget or dismiss, though he would never speak of it aloud.

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‘Vratislav of Budín,’ Radomír addressed him mildly. ‘To what do I owe this visit?’

‘Lord Tarkhan wishes to know why your Grace has sequestered himself,’ Vratislav spoke dutifully. ‘It’s doing bugger-all for the morale of your men.’

‘That time,’ Radomír answered his unacknowledged son with a twinge of pain, ‘has been spent in prayer and reflection. We have all suffered great loss.’

‘Is this the reply I’m to make, your Grace?’

‘It should be sufficient for your purpose,’ Radomír told him. Again he searched the face of the blithe and easygoing youth before him, and again he was haunted by the ghost of Kvetoslava there, and again there rose within him a riot of conflicted emotion over the remembrance of her.

Vratislav blew out a breath and clapped his hands together. ‘Well, if that’s all…’

‘Wait,’ Radomír told him. ‘I understand you have a new son back in Sadec.’

The new father’s chest swelled proudly. ‘Yes, sire. My little Svatoboj actually turns one this month.’

So Radomír was a grandfather already! The heir-apparent regarded Vratislav with affection. ‘Such a lad shouldn’t go without a mount for riding-practice. I shall give you a breeding stallion and mare from my personal stables. May serve you and your son well, along with their offspring.’

Vratislav wasn’t the type to look a gift horse – or, indeed, two – in the mouth. As the initial shock at this unexpected offer wore off, his mouth broadened into a grin and a flush of pleasure spread across his young face. It was with a feeling like a stab that Radomír beheld again the likeness of Kvetoslava in him. ‘Well… truly… thank you, sire! I hadn’t thought… well, no matter. I say, that’s dashed decent of you.’

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‘Tell your lord and brother-in-law,’ Radomír told him, ‘I shall be out and among the troops in fair time. That is all.’

‘That I shall and gladly, your Grace,’ Vratislav bowed. This time he did so with natural goodwill, before withdrawing and delivering Radomír’s message back to the man for whom it was intended.

Recuperating from the disastrous defeat at Novy Hrad, regrouping around the vane and finding fresh recruits for the army was slow work. Few lads wanted willingly to join an ill-fated here whose king had perished on the front line on the eve of battle. However, Radomír took to it with the same patient resolve that he would have for any other purpose. Eventually, however, a rare bit of welcome news came from the southern front: Salzburg and Rósano had triumphed over the Mojmírovci. Nitra had been defeated, and when the new king was finally anointed, a Mojmírovec would indeed be present to swear his oath of allegiance.

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[1] Author’s note: Poor Mutimír contracted ‘Leprosy’ in-game and died incredibly soon afterward. I’ve taken a few liberties with what CK3 was telling me here, because leprosy doesn’t act this way in real life, and also because in the real Middle Ages leprosy was often mis- and over-diagnosed. The leech’s assistant is right, though of course his advice went ignored. Mutimír wasn’t suffering from leprosy but instead from toxic shock syndrome – a rapid-onset skin infection that can be deadly if not treated immediately.
 
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Radomír the Terrible - sounds bad enough, going further than the initial impression he's left. Life clearly left a deep mark on the naive boy to turn him into that.

Quite so, @alscon, quite so. Radomír is open, honest, even a bit gullible, eager to please... but growing up the way he did, did indeed impact his character.
 
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Will return for more to cover the remaining chapters to comment.
Heh. When this was written, it was meant for the two sub-chapters in the Ch. XX of Book II.
Until being able to return, four (4) chapters more have been already published.

...and you consider this pathetic readAAR a shifu, just for bringing up a couple of obscure references about altaic sprachbund?

No, shifu, sensei, agathos kai sophos, guru, ustad, no; you are the one to be called a machine of art, a word-caster of tales, a dream-forger of stories.

Pheeww. Four chapters in one week, eh?
1642091635191.gif


‘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.’
Cannot describe the exact feeling about this, but there is the intuition left after the dialogue, that it is not going to be the happiness of joy at the end of this will be. Not as estranging and betrayal, no; but another outcome, that is yet to be grasped by this readAAR.
Hmmm.

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.’
Have to admit that Pravoslav has a knack of way to suppress all his sins as he breathes; world known to you is collapsing? All right, let's go and fight!

Though, apparently the world around him also brings a lot of opportunity for that kind of distraction to him{*}.


At long last, after Pravoslav retired to his tent, he slumped down in his seat and let each and every one of his sore muscles relax. After nine years without end in the field, at last Moravia was at peace.
Is it though, I inquire Thou, my Lord, is it really?



‘I’m sorry,’ Pravoslav told him, ‘you, Oleg Kostolanský… are warning me?’
{*} ...and furthermore, Pravoslav never misses any of such opportunities bestowed upon him.

Mutimír still sounded unconvinced. ‘I hope that hope is not misplaced.’
Bogna took his hands and pressed them firmly against her heart. ‘It is not. You have me. We have our daughter, our two sons. We have a life. And where there is life, there is always hope.’


‘That’s all I ask,’ Mutimír said. ‘If I thought he’d listen to reason so easily, I’d have kept at it longer myself, rather than asking you.’

As it turned out, though, Radomír’s pleas on Mutimír’s behalf fell on deaf ears.
Poor Mutimír. Asking for impossible, expecting from unable, hoping in desperation.

Those are always, and always, deaf to such pleas, poor lad. Even if they hear, be certain to anticipate another loss, as it is inevitable from such minds.

Rad… ko…

His vision swam, pooled in circles of dim green and red, then faded to black.
...and then comes the silence, accompanied by the faint screams of the fallen, buried under the unfair, the unjust, the unlawful.

There is no need to curse on the ones now gone forever, however the anger stays dormant, yet now the living have to carry the burden.
What only can be said, as for all; farewell, Pravoslav.


Underneath that were the words, defiantly blazing the same gold hue:

ХЧЕШЬ ВОЙНУ ДАМ ТО​
Several of the students gaped in awe. It wasn’t often one saw such a relic from the twentieth-century Wars of Ideology. The heroism of the Partizans was practically legendary in modern Moravia.
:D

If the link does not work, then The Partisan by Leonard Cohen would also do (Songs from a Room, 1964).

‘Mm-hmm,’ Grebeníček nodded. ‘That would make them natural patrons for the Partizan movement, eh? Marxist freedom fighters looking for inspiration to various communistic religious radicals in the past. That’s quite true. Many of the Captains were out-and-out heretics. Hromislav Beckovský and his right-hand man Koceľ were Adamites. Vyšebor was a Gnostic of the Albigensian variety. Widukind z Ljubice came under the influence of John Wyclif at Oxford. (...)
Errr... what?:D


‘Silence,’ Radomír said to the footman. ‘Show respect.’
It already shivers, when this inherently-angry chap talks.

‘Help! Leech, help!’

Mutimír was clutching his leg and grimacing in wordless, intense pain. (...)

‘Leprosy. It’s leprosy!’
...

Now having the regret, that saves nothing, but pathetically embroiled in its drowning seas. It is the emotion when the readAAR knows what has happened cannot be helped, yet still trying desperately; would it end differently if the previously mentioned ominous intuition was not talked about, was not even thought of; would it change this end? No, of course not.

<tragedy to come>
...and the story is riding head-on.

For his part, Radomír fell into a gloom. He had lost his father, lost his army, lost his best friend – all within the space of a week. He brooded in his own tent, and would speak to no-one.
Sigh.

Jakub was and would always be his heir, but the blond mustachioed man before him was truly his first-born son. That was not something Radomír could easily forget or dismiss, though he would never speak of it aloud.
Wait - what?! He knows it?
<starts to check previous chapters, to find out where it was missed; or if it was only implied, how could it be missed?>
<you are faltering, filcat. you need to re-read>
<just hang on for one second, will ya?>

<Sht>

Radomír stood back from them – partly to give his father a respectful space, and partly to examine Vratislav. The resemblance startled him.
<See? You missed it>
<No, I read it, but I was just distracted by the death of Ilik in that chapter, and I ->
<I hear only excuses and more. Go now, and re-read it>
<bowing head in despair> <As you wish, master>
<as the novice leaves the room for his readings, master Filcat shakes his head>
<I swear, a new one is born and comes here everyday. Huh. Amateurs>
 
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White knights appear,
Silhouetted against the dark –
In the battle of Vratislav
The tables turn!

Few knights appear,
But masters of the fight:
In the battle of Vratislav
The tables turn!
‘The Brotherhood! The Brotherhood of the Holy Sepulchre is here! Praise to Christ our God!’
Heh, you didn't think that would be overlooked, did you?
HELL YEAH!
Face me evil bastards, smell the hate of angels
Glory, pride and bloodshed
Cowards and beholders, rapers of my wisdom
mix of dust and bones
Go back to your abyss, Moravia will not fall
but your heads will soon roll
Test the blade of heroes, fury of the thunder
hit my golden shield

So we'll fight against the wind for the glory of the kings
to defeat the evil enemies
And we'll ride with our Lord for the power and the throne
in the name of holy thunderforce

Luboš and King Pravoslav with the turkic warriors
on their way to Brassel
Chaos and oblivion, turmoil and disorder
will have now their name
The last fallen heroes will defeat your forces
Thousands spirits calling
On the furthest field I will see your fire
quenched by holy frost!

So we'll fight against the wind for the glory of the kings
to defeat the evil enemies
And we'll ride with our Lord for the power and the throne
in the name of holy thunderforce [*]

[*] Appropriated from Holy Thunderforce of the album Dawn of Victory by Rhapsody (of Fire), 2000; the link given is the re-mastered version from the album Legendary Years, 2017
 
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Huzzah! @filcat is back!!

Heh. When this was written, it was meant for the two sub-chapters in the Ch. XX of Book II.
Until being able to return, four (4) chapters more have been already published.

...and you consider this pathetic readAAR a shifu, just for bringing up a couple of obscure references about altaic sprachbund?

No, shifu, sensei, agathos kai sophos, guru, ustad, no; you are the one to be called a machine of art, a word-caster of tales, a dream-forger of stories.

Pheeww. Four chapters in one week, eh?

Yeah, I've been kind of on an all-out sprint lately. I don't think I can keep this pace up, but happy to put in the time while the inspiration lasts.

Cannot describe the exact feeling about this, but there is the intuition left after the dialogue, that it is not going to be the happiness of joy at the end of this will be. Not as estranging and betrayal, no; but another outcome, that is yet to be grasped by this readAAR.
Poor Mutimír. Asking for impossible, expecting from unable, hoping in desperation.

Those are always, and always, deaf to such pleas, poor lad. Even if they hear, be certain to anticipate another loss, as it is inevitable from such minds.
Now having the regret, that saves nothing, but pathetically embroiled in its drowning seas. It is the emotion when the readAAR knows what has happened cannot be helped, yet still trying desperately; would it end differently if the previously mentioned ominous intuition was not talked about, was not even thought of; would it change this end? No, of course not.

Alas, Mutimír Dubravkić suffers the frustrations and the ultimate fate of all too many good, kind and caring people, who fall under the control of the unscrupulous and powerful. I don't think I'd be spoiling too much to say that we've not seen the last of his progeny, however.

Have to admit that Pravoslav has a knack of way to suppress all his sins as he breathes; world known to you is collapsing? All right, let's go and fight!

Though, apparently the world around him also brings a lot of opportunity for that kind of distraction to him{*}.


Is it though, I inquire Thou, my Lord, is it really?



{*} ...and furthermore, Pravoslav never misses any of such opportunities bestowed upon him.

:D

Hammers, nails, etc.

Pravoslav was already something of a failure as a diplomat. Perhaps if he'd followed his father's lead more, he would have treated Marija at least semi-decently and not gotten into so many wars. But when the one thing he's good at is swordsmanship, well...

...and then comes the silence, accompanied by the faint screams of the fallen, buried under the unfair, the unjust, the unlawful.

There is no need to curse on the ones now gone forever, however the anger stays dormant, yet now the living have to carry the burden.
What only can be said, as for all; farewell, Pravoslav.

Not a good man. Not even that good a king, all told. Effective in expanding his borders, though... at the cost of the lives and hopes of too many.

Errr... what?

Yeah, I've been telegraphing this way too hard. Eastern Europe explodes into extreme heresy in my midgame. Cathars, Lollards, Adamites, Bogomilists... what happened to the Nositelia Viery is really just a sign of the times.

Also, my alt-historical retcon of Jan Hus as a reform-minded Orthodox priest does seem to have some support in certain corners of the Czech and Slovak Orthodox Church...

Wait - what?! He knows it?
<starts to check previous chapters, to find out where it was missed; or if it was only implied, how could it be missed?>
<you are faltering, filcat. you need to re-read>
<just hang on for one second, will ya?>

<Sht>
<See? You missed it>
<No, I read it, but I was just distracted by the death of Ilik in that chapter, and I ->
<I hear only excuses and more. Go now, and re-read it>
<bowing head in despair> <As you wish, master>

I hate to point it out at this point, but, uh... he'd had his suspicions even before that...

Also, VERY high and unconditional approvals and commendations for @filcat's choices of musical accompaniment all around, from the Russian Army Ensemble to Roberto de Micheli and back.
 
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Book Two Chapter Twenty-Four
TWENTY-FOUR
A Coronation, a Wedding and a Dance
19 December 982 – 2 July 983


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For reasons of the political legitimacy of a new king being granted the undisputed sway over his territory by the hand of God Himself, Moravia’s enthronement solemnities were always performed at the traditional seat of power of the Mojmírovci – in Velehrad. After Bohodar mladší had wrested control of Velehrad from the hands of Bratromila Mojmírová, several things had happened there in short order.

First: a simple, but large, cruciform stone marker was erected in memory of the first Radomír Rychnovský in the courtyard of the church, in lieu of his body which no one knew where it now rested. Second: the church in Velehrad, which had been dedicated according to the Latin rite to the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin, was refurbished with a cupola in the Byzantine style, adorned with a proper iconostasis, and rededicated to the Dormition of the Holy Theotokos as well as Saints Cyril (in life Constantine) and Methodius. Third: the archbishop of Moravia had moved the seat of his diocæsan authority from Olomouc to this church, and had there so continued.

Bohodar slovoľubec and Mechthild had been buried in Olomouc, and their graves were not disturbed. But Bohodar mladší and Blažena had been buried together in Velehrad, in that very churchyard, according to Blažena’s last instructions. Having died within a week of each other, their two bodies were entwined in each other in the same burial shroud, shared the same coffin, and were committed to the same earth. Pravoslav Rychnovský and Marija Kobilić now lay in the (separate) graves next to them.

2021_06_16_189b.png

Radomír had left his regathering army in Čáslav under protest, at the insistence of Hrabě Tarkhan. In the end, though, Radomír had to admit that Tarkhan was right. Without the blessing of the Church, without the sanction of the Most High God, without the crown of Moravia firmly and unquestionably upon his head, he could not hope to defeat the heathen who were attacking the northern border. An army without the hope of God’s protection and vindication would crumble and falter, just as it had at Novy Hrad. And so the anointing and enthronement could not wait.

The solemnities were all fully observed by Niphon, although it was clear that the Moravian primate’s trust in the new king was not total. As was customary, the neighbouring Orthodox states all sent parties to Velehrad to attend the new king’s anointing and enthronement. King Boris 2. of Bulgaria, King Braslav Rajnić of Serbia, and the Voivods Mihai and Basarab of the Vlachs, all came in person. Even Emperor Nikēphoros 2. of Eastern Rome sent a high diplomatic delegation to Radomír’s enthronement, led by Doux Theodōros Katakalitzes-Mosynopolis of Strymon. It was unfortunate that Radomír had elected to use the same tailor that had designed his father’s battle-raiment, for the regnal attire attracted not a few snickers from the better-appointed kings and Imperial delegates in attendance.

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All was not ruin, though. Among the Byzantine embassy, there was a certain young lady who caught Radomír’s eye. Not by her looks alone – although those were agreeable and pleasant enough. But as he observed her closely, he found her to be vivacious, pleasant and amiable in her manners. Among the womenfolk in attendance at the festivities, this young lady socialised readily, although she possessed a modest reserve and kept her distance from the men. He noted with interest that she was always ready at an elderly lady’s elbow when she needed assistance, or eagerly volunteered for her older peers to look after their babies and children, who were by no means shy of her. And beneath her veil Radomír noticed that she kept her hair in two long, sleek black braids.

Good temper? Check. Good sense? Check. Graceful? Demure? Modest? Check, check, check. Very much so a brunette with long hair? Check and check.

‘Raina?’ Radomír called.

‘Yes, husband?’ came the reply from his side. There indeed, at his elbow, was his wife.

‘Do you see that lively-looking young maiden in the white linen gown?’

Raina nodded.

‘She’d be about our Jakub’s years, yes?’

‘Probably a bit younger, actually.’

‘See if you can’t arrange for an interview with her. Jakub is still in need of a wife.’

Raina courtesied to carry out his wishes. After the solemn enthronement ceremony had been completed, with the fragrant chrism still fresh upon his forehead where Niphon had marked it, and as the festivities afterward were in full swing, Raina approached him again.

2021_06_16_187a.png

‘She is with Komissa Apollonia’s party, and her name is Eirēnē Drougouvitissa. Evidently she was named for where she was born, in Eirēnoupolis. She’s comfortable speaking in Bulgarian,’ the proudly-Bulgarian queen spoke with evident pleasure, ‘and she even bade me call her Irina. To me she seems very much so a sweet and pleasant girl. She is also unattached.’

‘Excellent,’ Radomír patted his wife on the hand. ‘Now to arrange a more formal meeting.’

The Greek Komissa Apollonia of Eirēnoupolis soon appeared at the appointed audience room off the High Hall in Velehrad, with the eighteen-year-old Eirēnē Drougouvitissa following demurely beside her. The new Kráľ Radomír was present, as were Raina and Jakub. Radomír cast a side glance at Jakub, and was gratified to see his son’s eyes glimmer with interest in the dark-haired girl. After a few polite exchanges, the king, the queen and the countess withdrew by themselves and let the two young people speak together for a couple of hours. After they had done, Jakub approached his father.

‘Well? What do you think of her?’

Jakub grinned. ‘I think I’d be happy with Irina, if she’ll have me.’

If I’ll have you?’ Eirēnē smiled herself and prodded him good-naturedly. She turned to her countess. ‘If you’d have told me before coming here that a crown prince was offering to make me his bride, I’d have laughed. What else is a girl supposed to say to such an offer, but “yes, please”?’

‘This is a very high honour for me,’ the Countess said. But Radomír couldn’t help catching her doubt.

‘My parents are simple village folk,’ Eirēnē clarified. ‘I’ll bring what I can to the match, never fear, but I don’t have much to offer by way of a dowry. And, I believe the Komissa rather fears for the good name of the Moravian royal family, if I should graft myself as a branch onto your tree.’

‘On that count, do not fear,’ Raina assured her. ‘You are good and honest, and on my own behalf, I value that in a daughter-in-law more than riches. I am sure that Jakub and Radomír do as well, both being good and honest men themselves.’

Raina’s praise stabbed Radomír sharply in the heart. Whenever she praised him thus, his conscience did reproach him, sharply, for his betrayal of her in his youth. For that reason, he felt he could never get as close to Raina as he might otherwise have liked. For his part, however, Jakub smiled earnestly at Eirēnē, who favoured him with a bright one of her own.

‘Well!’ the Komissa clapped her hands together briskly. ‘Who am I to stand in the way of so exalted a connexion with Moravia? You’ve managed well for yourself here, Eirēnē. Do try your best to deserve it.’

‘Never fear, milady. I will.’

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~~~​

As it turned out, the nuptials were actually held, not in Velehrad but in Sadec. But for the fact that Moravia was still at war with the heathens on the far march, all was as it should have been for a wedding, and it boded well for the young couple thus thrown together in one yoke. Prayers were said. Wreaths were laid upon the newlyweds’ heads. There was kissing. There was toasting. There was feasting. There was dancing. And Vratislav was among those who celebrated most heartily the marriage of his unknown half-brother, good-naturedly quaffing drink after drink and leading all of the men in a traditional Slavic ring-dance.

At the end of the dance, Radomír sought out Vratislav in order to get better acquainted with the young fellow. Vratislav, as unguarded as ever, his cheeks flushed with drink, happily gabbled along together with the King. Among other things, Radomír learned: that Vratislav had long considered Ilık to have been a father to him, and Tarkhan to have been a brother of the blood; that although the bride was pleasant enough, there was no other woman for him than his Sarä and no other babe for him than their Svatoboj; that although he felt no ill-will toward the man who sired him he nonetheless had long felt his paternity a mystery best left unsolved; and that he was something of a gourmand as well as a tippler, with particular fondnesses for dumplings, sausages and fowl dishes of various sorts.

Radomír had long felt the guilt of his illicit liaison with Kvetoslava, and he could not help feeling guilty at her death. But knowing Vratislav a bit better now than he had—that eased Radomír’s long-aching conscience… at least a little. On Radomír’s part there was a genuine desire… if not to set things entirely right, then at least to mend what he could and do what good was possible to this secret son of his.

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The night passed agreeably enough for bride and groom, as it was well past the Sext prayers when Jakub emerged from their nuptial chamber, clearly flushed and pleasantly invigorated with their nightly labour. But she knew as well as he that the royal party would be due again to march westward with little time to linger. Radomír having been crowned and Jakub properly wedded and bedded, the retinue set back off to where the vane of the recuperating army still flew at Čáslav.
 
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I hate to point it out at this point, but, uh... he'd had his suspicions even before that...
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Heh, that is right; did not want to bloat the post (which is already extremely long) with further quotes, therefore settled with the one left off for the remaining comments. Löl.



Pravoslav Rychnovský and Marija Kobilić now lay in the (separate) graves next to them.
Sigh.

Radomír had left his regathering army in Čáslav under protest, at the insistence of Hrabě Tarkhan. In the end, though, Radomír had to admit that Tarkhan was right.
Well, the lad is not a buffoon, so able to listen to the others, it seems. Even after surviving whatever with his parents, he is still unusually observant, as it was foretold subtly before.

Good temper? Check. Good sense? Check. Graceful? Demure? Modest? Check, check, check. Very much so a brunette with long hair? Check and check.
‘Raina?’ Radomír called.
‘Yes, husband?’ came the reply from his side. There indeed, at his elbow, was his wife.
‘Do you see that lively-looking young maiden in the white linen gown?’
At least Radomír had first asked and made sure about how Jakub would react to a proposal such as this.
 
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Heh, that is right; did not want to bloat the post (which is already extremely long) with further quotes, therefore settled with the one left off for the remaining comments. Löl.

Not to worry! Say no more! I shall not disparage your readAARly honAAR any furthAAR, sir. /salutes

Sigh.


Well, the lad is not a buffoon, so able to listen to the others, it seems. Even after surviving whatever with his parents, he is still unusually observant, as it was foretold subtly before.

No, this Radko is not a buffoon. Not with that diplomacy score of 26. And to be a 'lad' at 49 summers is nothing to sneeze at! I suppose you're only ever as old as you feel, and age is only a number after all.

At least Radomír had first asked and made sure about how Jakub would react to a proposal such as this.

He better be happy with it, kid's taking a -300 prestige hit from this marriage to an absolute nobody. But then, he did get specifically whom he asked for.
 
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Book Two Chapter Twenty-Five
TWENTY-FIVE
Chotěbuz
27 September 983 – 26 January 985


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Tarkhan sent the archers under his command to either side of the bend in the Spree, knowing already that they would be needed when he made the charge. It had been the critical mistake of the Lužičanie to challenge the Khazar Hrabě of Sadec to a test of tactical wits along a river, however much they might call that river home. Their confidence had led them straight into a trap.

Tarkhan used one wing of the Brothers, under a knight named Vladimír, to goad them into pursuit of his centre, and they followed him into the river where they hoped to overwhelm him. Vladimír stayed in the river too long to hold the enemy in position – and received a long scrape on his side from an enemy spear for his trouble. But on Tarkhan’s signal, after the enemy force had entered the water and were well within range, volleys of arrows erupted from where the archers lay ensconced on either bank. Caught in a crossfire, the heathen now paid dearly for their earlier taunts and bloodletting, as line after line of them was decimated – not knowing which way to turn their shields, and being shot at or speared regardless of which they chose.

Now it was Lužice’s turn to be routed. ‘Hristos purădı!’ Tarkhan bellowed through the spray at the backs of the surviving heathen as they scrambled or limped their way out of the river. The arrows still flew thick into their ranks and smote them down by the hundreds. ‘Patša purădı! Christ lives! The king lives!’

Radomír was indeed both alive and king: very much among them and alongside them, and Jakub right along with him in the thick of the fighting. The courage that his men got from seeing him again, along with Vladimír’s contingent of the Brothers of the Holy Sepulchre, had given the reassembled army the courage that it had lacked at Novy Hrad. Cheers of victory went up from the Moravian side of the Spree as the few heathen remaining standing fled back over their side. The battle of Chotěbuz had been won—and with it, the war. All that remained now was to wait for the new High Chieftain of Lužice to come to terms. The peace of Chotěbuz was agreed between Radomír, Mihovil and all their respective vassals.

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~~~​

When the royal retinue returned to Olomouc, Raina and Eirēnē were waiting in the courtyard to greet their respective husbands. Jakub and Eirēnē’s wedding-night over eight months prior had clearly borne fruit, as the rosy-cheeked Ægæan woman’s round and heavy abdomen all too clearly showed. Indeed, Jakub clasped and kissed her hands and asked:

‘Eirēnē, shouldn’t you be resting, being as you are?’

Eirēnē laughed. ‘Husband, I’m all slices[1]! And I’m happy to see you! A pregnant woman is not an invalid, you know…’ she started and lay a hand on her rotund belly. ‘Even one as far along as I am.’

Even so, Raina and Jakub were not far from either of her elbows as they crossed the yard and made their way into the castle. Radomír made his way in a couple of paces back from them. He was blessed indeed to have a growing family – and again he recalled with a guilty wince, just how far beyond his deserving. Once inside the castle, his stride became much softer and more cautious – not quite sneaking, but clearly with the demeanour of a man who particularly did not want to be noticed by some other party than his closest kin.

He groaned inwardly as he realised he’d failed in his objective. Iva had spotted him.

Iva Balgarsko, the daughter of Ognen Balgarsko and the widow of a Moldavian boyar, had come to Radomír’s court with the ostensible aim of pressing some of her claims to Ognen’s former properties. However, of late Radomír had grown increasingly aware of a certain other aim she harboured.

After Raina had retired to her chambers, Radomír heard her voice behind him with a sinking feeling.

‘I thought I might find you here,’ she purred.

‘Did you now?’ Radomír asked politely.

‘You’re a predictable one, O Kráľ,’ Iva gave a soft giggle. ‘I do hope you’re not off to your bed so soon. I can think of several more pleasurable ways for you to pass the time.’

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Radomír resisted the temptation to roll his eyes heavenward. This woman had been pursuing him steadily for months, ever since he’d been anointed. It was all too obvious what she wanted from him. Radomír did have to own that she was a pleasant-looking woman, but at the end of the day, she was still a reminder to him of his betrayal of Raina for Kvetoslava in his youth. This game of hers had already gone on too long. Frankness being one of Radomír’s strong suits, he told her levelly:

‘Lady Balgarsko, you have been asking something of me which I cannot grant you. I will not so dishonour myself or Raina by accompanying you further.’

Iva raised her eyebrows. She was not so easily put off. ‘Come, now. The crown is a heavy burden to bear. And even in lesser courts than yours, the man in charge will often avail himself of side dishes to keep his mood, and… other things… up.’

She was too close for comfort now. Radomír took Iva by the shoulders and, as gently as he could given the situation, set her away from him.

‘I have given you my answer,’ Radomír told her mildly. ‘I will not change it.’

‘Is that so?’ Iva sneered. ‘I hear whispers, you know. Nothing I can prove, but from what I hear you weren’t always so fastidious as you are now. Tell me, would it help my cause if my braids were blond?’

Radomír took a pace backwards, his face stricken as though stabbed. The spurned widow’s sneer turned up into a malevolent smile.

‘Well, well. I did touch a nerve, there. Didn’t I?’

That was the first of several sleepless nights for poor Radomír. Although Raina cosied up next to him soundly in their bed, Radomír himself still felt dirty, soiled, polluted, unworthy to sleep by her side. He had gotten up in the middle of the night and knelt before his icons of Christ Pantokratōr and the Most Holy Theotokos, lit the lamp before them, and began to pray from Psalm 50:

Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy lovingkindness: according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions. Wash me throughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin, for I acknowledge my transgressions and my sin is ever before me…

Although this was the most commonly-heard song in the Psalter, and he had known it from memory since he was a child, when he chanted the words now, softly before the icons, it was not from rote. Would that God would create in him a clean heart, and put a right spirit within him! But what was past was past, and could not be changed. Like the Psalmist, he had defiled himself in adultery. And even if he had not committed or sought Kvetoslava’s death the way Uriah the Hittite’s had been sought, still – the intuition that his father had been behind it ever half-formed in his heart – he felt he could not escape the guilt of it.

~~~​

Eirēnē went into labour several days after that. A worried Jakub leaned against the wall opposite the door of the birthing-chamber, feeling a sympathetic stabbing pain in his loins with each cry of agony his wife let out, the strain of each desperate push, each gust of the wind of her exhaustion. But at last there was a note of relief, and the cries and the straining ceased, replaced by heavy breathing. Then a slap. And then a different cry – a living babe’s!

The midwife exchanged some words with the new mother, and it wasn’t long before she came out into the hall and presented the baby to its father.

‘A boy!’ Jakub exclaimed.

‘Indeed,’ the midwife told him, before leading him into the room and giving the he-infant back to his mother. ‘I’ll leave the two of you alone for a few moments.’

Jakub looked down at Eirēnē’s face, drawn, dishevelled and moist with sweat, but happy and fulfilled in the contemplation of the face her and Jakub’s progeny.

‘What should we name him? I was thinking something strong. Stanislav, perhaps.’

Eirēnē shook her dark head firmly. ‘There is no choice to be made. The son of Jakub must of course be named Jozef. And I will not hear of anything else.’

Jakub gave her a teasing smile. ‘I see. Angling for the honours of Rachel for yourself, are you?’

‘I should hope not!’ Eirēnē gave him a likewise-playful look of mock offence. ‘As if I’d ever share you with three other women. What a thing to think! But his name is still Jozef.’

‘Well, alright,’ Jakub allowed. ‘Jozef he is. Just don’t expect me to make him a coat of many colours; I’ve never been good with a loom.’

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~~~​

Already Radomír was regretting his promise to Radislav Kopčianský, knieža of Nitra, and the rest of Moravia’s lords. The display of ‘generosity’ he’d chosen to make as a concession to his vassals, a hastilude after the East Frankish fashion with a two-team mêlée and several rounds of mounted single combat, was already off to a horrendous start. As nothing like this had ever been held in Moravia before (mock combat having largely been confined to the traditional wrestling-matches and unarmoured ring-bouts with wooden swords), there was a good deal of delay as the rules were clarified and various lords and their retainers went to reassess their equipment and prepare afresh.

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Dobromila, sitting in front of her royal parents, heaved an exaggerated sigh. ‘I should have known this whole thing would be for a fart. Try getting four Slovien lords together to do something and you’ll end up with five different results, none of which are good. I honestly don’t know what Father was thinking by putting on this frippery.’

Radomír scowled.

He tried not to play favourites among his children. Jakub was of course his heir, but he had a determined fondness also for the two he affectionately called ‘milí malí čerti’: Radoslav and Pravoslav. Radoslav had been born two years before Pravoslav, but if you sat the two of them together (and so not rely on the gap in their height to distinguish them), they looked like pease in a pod—and were inseparable as such. They climbed and laughed and roughhoused together. Most often it was Pravoslav who got the two of them into trouble, and Radoslav who was left with his charm to get them out of it.

But between his two daughters, Radomír couldn’t help but feel a preference for one over the other. His red-headed younger daughter, Milomíra (the wife of Komēs Chrysophios of Rósano), was more than a bit of a flirt—but at least she was personable and pleasant company. Dobromila, on the other hand, had always been difficult, and Radomír found his considerable reserve of patience tried by her shrewish tongue, which she was now wagging freely and sawing his ears off with.

‘If it were up to me, sister, I would have set down the rules well in advance. Which weapons are allowed and not, which forms of armour, what counts as a touch or an unseat. These details do matter…’

Radomír knew there was a filled horse-trough four feet below the platform of the wooden watch-stand he and the family were on. He was sorely tempted to put one of his booted feet in the small of Dobromila’s back and kick her straight over the edge and into the drink… but he merely rolled his eyes heavenward and prayed for God’s mercy for harbouring such a malicious thought. He noticed, however, that idling by the next stand over, near where Tarkhan was reviewing the practice equipment for his men, was Vratislav – already fully outfitted and ready for action, and well frustrated by the lack of it.

‘Would you excuse me, dear?’ asked Radomír of his wife.

‘Yes, of course,’ Raina adjusted her skirts and pulled in her feet for her husband to manœuvre around her and down the stand to where Vratislav stood.

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‘Ho there, Vratislav of Budín!’ hailed the king.

Vratislav stood to attention and bowed formally. ‘Your Majesty!’

‘No, no, none of that,’ Radomír clapped Vratislav amiably on the shoulder. ‘You present the appearance of a man who could use a good cool bowl of ale.’

‘Your perception is correct, liege,’ Vratislav gave Radomír a grateful grin. ‘I could use a good draught. I saw some barrels over by one of the auxiliary tents.’

Radomír steered Vratislav over to that tent, cracked open a barrel and poured two bowls – one for himself and one for the blond youngster. They whiled the time until the hastilude began by drinking, joking, laughing and arguing good-naturedly with each other about which team would win. Yes… Radomír did love this child of his as well. But he could never let him know his true pedigree. Nor did it seem the lad wanted to know: he was looking to the future, to his wife and son. Whatever need he had for a father was long behind him. But a friend…? Surely Radomír could be that to him.


[1] Greek idiom (όλα φέτες). ‘Sound as a bell’, ‘fit as a fiddle’, what have you. – Ed.
 
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Book Two Chapter Twenty-Six
TWENTY-SIX
Determined
30 January 985 – 5 November 985

Radomír’s brow clouded slightly as Knieža Bogöri stood before him in private audience. The knieža spoke softly to thwart the ears of the walls.

‘Svätoslav Mojmírovec-Hont of Žvolen sends his regards, Majesty, and also sends back the Velehrad-educated priests whom you sent into his territory to receive his Confession. They report that Svätoslav remains on the same course he was, devoted to the Latin Mass.’

‘And the other?’

Bogöri cleared his throat. ‘Svätopluk Mojmírovec-Hont seems… more amenable, your Majesty, but he has stipulated some… conditions to his reception that he will discuss with you at some later point. Will you agree to these?’

‘It might be the easier,’ Radomír remarked dryly, ‘if I knew what those conditions were.’

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Bogöri sighed. ‘The Mojmírovci have long been trouble, sire.’

‘Speaking of trouble,’ Radomír’s voice fell to an ominous hush. ‘These… “rides” that are happening in Milčané. These… “musters”, these “exercises” that are happening in the north. Would you care to explain them to me, Bogöri Gavrilovič?’

‘Explain, milord?’ Bogöri’s eyes grew round with innocence. ‘Nothing to explain. Nothing out of the ordinary. Given the troubles we’ve been having on the northern march—’

Radomír slammed his open palm down on the table in front of him, causing Bogöri to start. But when he went on, his voice was as eerily level as ever.

‘Such “troubles”, knieža, are a matter for Lada Erínysa. Not for you alone. Or perhaps you think you’d be better fending off the heathen by yourself?’

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‘I don’t… well… I wasn’t…’

Radomír cut off Bogöri with a raised hand.

‘Speak plain to me, brother. You served my father faithfully and with distinction. I expect you so to deal with me. Now: if you tell me that the northern troubles are all that these exercises are about, then that’s good enough for me. I take you at your word. In that case, however, you would not mind renewing the oath of service you swore to my father, in public, in the High Hall—perhaps with my sister Mislava, your lady wife, as witness?’

Although Radomír had little knack for deception and could often seem a gull, there was a certain cold steel underneath that placid exterior. Bogöri was cornered now, and he knew it. If he accepted to renew his oath to the Crown, it would kick the legs out from under any plans for rebellion he might be harbouring. But if he refused, he would be openly admitting to plotting sedition, and his lands would be subject to seizure before he could flee and reach them.

‘Very well, your Grace,’ the Bulghar bowed, a trifle stiffly. ‘I would be most happy to oblige you.’

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‘You are dismissed,’ Radomír told him.

The king glowered at Bogöri’s back as he left the room. The Mojmírovci had submitted, at least formally, to Olomouc’s overlordship, but it was clear that they still relished their autonomy and perhaps still harboured ambitions to take his throne from him by force. Bogöri Srednogorski, as well, did not respect him as he had Pravoslav, and would doubtless have taken matters into his own hands had Radomír not called him to task. The Mojmírovci were one matter. But it was bewildering and detestable to Radomír, to whom trust came naturally, to be faced with such a clandestine threat to his rule from a man he had long considered a friend and comrade.

Have you no feeling for this family? Are you so determined to be the ruin of the Rychnovských?

Radomír winced as, in his mind, he could hear his father shouting at him so once more. He could very nearly feel the sting of his father’s hand upon his cheek.

No. Radomír was determined not to be the ruin of the Rychnovských, and he knew that taking Bogöri’s oath in front of his family and vassals would not be enough. He had to do something: a bold gesture, an assertion of power. It had to be so. With few exceptions, all of his vassals needed to brought sharply to heel, and to learn exactly who was master in Veľká Morava.

~~~​

‘Prohor! Prohor!’

‘I am here, Mother.’

Bogna ran across the wooden floor of the hall toward the voice. Upon seeing her precious son, so much the image of the husband she had lost to sudden illness, she flew to him and hugged him close. Prohor gently but firmly extricated herself from Bogna’s grasp.

‘Mother,’ he demanded, ‘what is this about?’

‘Prohor…’ Bogna told him, ‘The Kráľ of Moravia has made us a generous gift, as well as offering to take you personally into his wardship. What do you think about this idea?’

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Prohor jutted out a well-bred chin. ‘And whyever should he not? A Bijelahrvatskić should always be welcome in Olomouc. Haven’t you always said so yourself, Mother?’

Bogna stifled a small gasp of dismay. Prohor was a bright, attentive and serious child indeed, and she had always taken great care to remind him of the exaltedness of his family line, the sacred duty in his charge toward the White Croats of the Carpathians, and the hopes that they all placed in him. Sadly, it had gone a bit to his head, and he’d developed something of a swagger as a result. Perhaps it would be a good thing for him to be cared for by a man above his station, so that he might learn a bit of humility.

‘In fact, it’s quite agreeable to me,’ Prohor went on loftily. ‘I’d always wondered where Father spent his years when he was my age. This will be a good opportunity to expand my knowledge.’

Prohor Mutimírić and his mother together made the journey from Šariš to Olomouc, and they were both greeted with embraces by Radomír and Raina. His mother Bogna then embraced her son, and kissed him affectionately on each cheek.

‘Prohor, do take care,’ she told him.

‘Never worry, Mother,’ her son told her. ‘I always do.’

‘Radomír,’ said Bogna, ‘I charge you in the name of Our Lord, and upon your father’s and grandfather’s honour, to look after my son as though he were your own.’

‘Never fret,’ Radomír told Bogna. ‘Mutimír was my best friend, while he was still with us. I shall see to it that your son and his shall be treated with nothing but the best.’

Bogna took the king aside for a moment and out of Prohor’s hearing. ‘I also would charge you, not to be too lenient with him, as I fear I may have been. Prohor has something of a… haughty streak which I’m hoping being with you in your court will temper.’

‘I shall bear that in mind, madam,’ Radomír assured her.

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~~~​

Prohor only just had enough time to get acquainted with Jakub, Radoslav and Pravoslav before the Kráľ made plans to call upon Hrabě Velemír in Praha with his family. Prohor was some three years older than Radoslav, and five years older than Pravoslav. And he managed to alienate them both when, having been kindly invited by the milí malí čerti to come play with them, he airily declared that he far preferred his studies to such ‘babyish romps’.

With Jakub it was a different matter. Jakub wasn’t in a particularly good mood when Prohor first saw him. He had only just returned from a sojourn in Lotharingia, one which (judging from his dudgeon) had been more of a chore than a pleasure. During that time, Jakub spent a great deal of time in the company of his father. Behind closed doors. Prohor was not one to stoop to snooping, but he couldn’t help but wonder what Jakub and his father were talking about for so long.

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Jakub was more than twice Prohor’s age. And big. And he had a son of his own. Jakub’s prowess in battle was legendary: the Bijelahrvatskić lad had heard the stories of his putting to flight an entire wing of heathen riders just by roaring. Prohor would never have admitted this to anyone, but he went rather in awe of Jakub.

In any event, very soon all of them, along with Raina and Dobromíla, set off by carriage for Velemír’s summer-house in Suchdol, just outside the busiest of the Bohemian towns.

When they lit down, they walked up to the fence, outside which a scrawny dog stood, wagging its tail with its tongue lolling out expectantly. Prohor started at the sight of the animal, and muttered under his tongue: ‘Filthy beast.’

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‘When I was growing up with Mutimír,’ the king remarked mildly, ‘I remember he and my brother would get into trouble for stealing sausages from the pantry to feed the stray cats in Olomouc.’

Prohor checked in his stride. He wouldn’t admit it, of course, but the oblique rebuke stung him. Although he didn’t remember his father very well, he did remember his gentleness and generosity. And carrying on the family tradition and upholding the family honour was still of paramount importance to Prohor. But still… such a raggedy, gašparko-looking mongrel. Who knew where the mangy thing had been? Its ribs were visible, its muzzle was dirty, it had several long ugly scars along its flanks, and it clearly had fleas. But upon closer inspection, the eyes that still stared at Prohor were shiny, expectant and forgiving. Prohor muttered something else under his breath as he took a bit of jerked meat—his snack from the road—from his scrip and tossed it to the waiting dog. The animal caught the morsel in its mouth and wagged its tail happily at Prohor.

Radomír caught his new ward’s gesture out of the corner of his eye, and approved.

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The valiant Velemír Abovský and his family were there to greet his liege and welcome him and his retinue into his summer-house, where a sumptuous feast had already been set. There was already a trencher of fine wheat bread at each place, and a number of different fragrant and pungent wheels of cheese, whose sweet and sharp and savoury waft tantalised tongues to watering. Platters were heaped high with delicate filets of herring, silver skin and snow-white meat gleaming in the candlelight. There were soups with fish and fowl, lentils and turnips, wafting with hints of bay and ginger. Honey-glazed ham, boiled salted pork, dumplings drizzled richly over with tart purple žahúr, cabbages stuffed with tender twice-cooked pork, slow-simmered mutton with caramelised onions, richly-spiced fat links of sausage, sweet pastries stuffed with apples and pears and dewberries and honeyed hazelnuts… Radomír was duly impressed with the eight-course luncheon that his vassal had spread out for them. But more so once the king, having bowed and crossed himself as Velemír’s chaplain said the Lord’s Prayer over the food, set down with his knife to eat.

Truly Velemír’s cook, whomever it was, knew her business. The taste of each dish held true and deep to the delicious smells that rose from them. The meat was so tender that it seemed to melt into the king’s mouth, diffusing its rich savour slowly over his tongue. The muffled noises of gastronomic delectation and appreciation that came from the other diners of every age affirmed over what his own senses were telling him. From soup to sausage, from lentils to apple crisp, Radomír thoroughly enjoyed the entire repast.

‘Dear me, Velemír,’ Radomír dipped his bearded chin as he suppressed a burp, ‘your household truly has outdone itself! My compliments – my most sincere compliments!’

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‘You’re too gracious, Majesty. I daresay, though, I haven’t done too badly this time,’ Velemír told him. Velemir’s slender, long-haired wife Zlata gazed expectantly in his direction, but when he said nothing further her mouth turned down sourly, and she stood and asked to be excused.

‘There’s no trouble, I trust?’ Radomír asked his host.

‘Nothing I can’t handle, never fear,’ Velemír answered. ‘Tell me, though—is it true that you’re planning a campaign against Užhorod? The opportunity certainly presents itself.’

The bold hrabě glanced meaningfully at Prohor, who was still enjoying a slice of sausage.

‘Perhaps,’ Radomír answered his vassal with noncommittal ease. ‘In due time.’

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‘Oh, really?’ Velemír raised an eyebrow and gave him a sly smile. ‘Your father, God rest him, would have leapt on such a chance.’

‘Well. I am not my father.’ Radomír said it softly, and placed ever so slight an emphasis there, but the effect was bracing.

Velemír, unsure whether he should pursue the matter further, called out: ‘More ale!

The meal continued late into the afternoon, and the drinking along the long table, long after that. Velemír and Radomír stood up drinking long after their respective families had retired to their corners of the summer house and dozed off, and some more meaningful talk between lord and vassal could be entertained, the two of them sitting side-by-side. Velemír, it was clear, had sipped rather too heavily at his vessel, and even where he sat his shoulders were swaying and his cheeks were rosy.

‘And how about your ventures in the other direction?’ asked Velemír. ‘Scuttlebutt is that your Jakub made a bit of a state visit to the Lotharings lately.’

‘Mm,’ Radomír let out a disappointed sigh.

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‘Didn’t go well, eh?’ Velemír chuckled, then waved a drink-clumsy hand. ‘Never fret. Lotharingia’s a long way off. Your son will’ve benefitted from the exercise, won’t he? Ohh—ohhp—’

Radomír gave a cry of alarm, but it was too late. Velemír had leaned too far in his direction. There was a ‘hurk’ and a heavy splash. Much of the fine feast which Velemír had presided over, or at least that part which he’d partaken of, now wound up in a slick on Radomír’s robe.

‘Ohh—liege! I’m—urrp—I’m sorry—’

Velemír clearly expected Radomír to fix him with a cold and withering remark, but to his surprise, Radomír laughed out loud and clapped him heavily on the shoulder. The sick hrabě gave a nervous chuckle himself.

‘Never fret, Velemír. This useless bore of a rag of mine never impressed the nobles when it was clean!’

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A gust of wind blew through the door as it banged open, interrupting the two tipplers and rousing all of the sleepers from their corners. Into Velemír’s summer-house strode a Milčanian Sorb, gasping for breath.

‘What is it, man?’ asked Radomír, standing tall in despite of the unwanted décor Velemír had added to his attire. ‘Speak up—you clearly have something to say.’

The Sorb composed himself. ‘Lady Lydia—the heathen mistress of Brehna—has sent her forces over the march into the Spreewald. They are laying siege to the fastness there. She sends you the following message, and bade me give it to you word for word.’ The poor man winced as he knew what he was about to say had been phrased thus precisely to offend. ‘Kráľ Radomír—you are weak and I am strong. There are no other grounds needful for me to come and take what I wish from you.

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Radomír straightened his shoulders, levelled his jaw, and fixed the Sorb with an icy glare.

‘Can you take a message back to her? Word for word?’

‘I can, liege,’ the Sorb answered him.

Radomír’s roust was level as he spoke. Four words only.

Chčeš vojnu? Dam to.
 
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