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Book Two Chapter Twenty-Seven
I want to put a WARNING tag up front on this post. I very nearly stopped this AAR dead with this chapter, as I felt kind of bad about writing it. This chapter gets fairly dark in terms of violence and in terms of describing a gruesome method of execution.

TWENTY-SEVEN
Blood Court of Brehna
10 November 985 – 11 November 987

The key turned in the lock, and the cellar door swung open. A gaunt Slav with blond hair turned his head up toward the thin knife of light which jutted down into his darkness. The silhouette of a heavyset man descended the stairs and stooped over him, rattling his keys in his hand as he did so. Hardly believing his ears, the gaunt blond Slav listened—one couldn’t really ‘watch’, in this dark—to the scrape and squeal of the key in the lock that fastened his shackles by a chain to the wall, followed by the click and the clatter of iron links that lightened his wrists at last.

‘What’s all this about?’ asked the prisoner mistrustfully.

‘Lord Kráľ asks for Andrei Pavelkov? I give him Andrei Pavelkov.’

‘That’s Andrei Rodislavič Pavelkov to you.’

The guard struck Andrei a heavy blow across the face with the back of his hand.

‘No lip,’ he told the prisoner. ‘Up the stairs. Now.’

Shrugging, Andrei Rodislavič Pavelkov sauntered up the stairs, ignoring the impatient shoves the fat guard behind him was giving. Ah, daylight. Long time—no. He squinted, his eyes aching from too much input. Through his watery eyesight the figure of a robed man with a golden band around his head swam into focus at last.

‘So,’ the prisoner drawled. ‘We meet at last, off the field of battle. Radomír Rychnovský himself. Son of the mighty Pravoslav Rychnovský. Kráľ of Veľká Morava. Somehow I thought you’d be… taller.’

Radomír, unfazed by Andrei’s taunt, stepped forward and looked the man over.

‘You should be glad,’ Radomír told him at last. ‘Today you will have your freedom… provided you behave rationally.’

‘Is that so?’ Andrei shrugged with a dismissive smirk. ‘Sorry. Whatever game you’re playing with me, it won’t work. Boľka isn’t the sort to fork over good coin, even for her kin.’

‘As you say,’ Radomír agreed. Then he stood aside and showed his prisoner the bank of the Mulde that lay just beyond him. Already there was a priest waiting. In his hands were a censer and a phial of chrism. A white robe had been prepared and laid out on a table on the river’s edge. A look of dawning comprehension came over Andrei.

‘You think I’ll take a plunge in the brook for your god?’

‘You will,’ Radomír told him, nonplussed. ‘I’m a man of my word.’

Andrei considered. ‘Just say a few words? Take a quick bath? And I can be on my way? Simple as that?’

‘Simple as that.’

Andrei did not hesitate much longer than that, but submitted himself meekly to the priest to be dunked three times in the Mulde, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. And then Andrei Pavelkov was indeed sent on his way, with a horse and provisions to boot, back to Hungary.

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‘Most merciful, my Liege,’ Bogöri commented.

Radomír folded his arms. ‘Hardly.’

‘I must again ask you, though, is it wise to pursue such a course of action? He could very well apostasise the moment he’s at large, and betray all manner of our secrets to his liege, who might seize upon your distraction in the north to attack from the south.’

Radomír said simply: ‘I know what I am doing, kancelár.’

~~~

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Radomír met his troops near the clay pits at Ilburg. Over seven thousand, all told, had answered his call, including the Brothers of the Holy Sepulchre. Reviewing them with care, he noted approvingly that the zbrojnošov all had clean, well-kept gear, that the riders were well-saddled and well-bridled, the archers all outfitted to the small knives at their boots, and even the levies were standing promptly at attention with whatever arms they had to hand. He gave an approving nod. Lada Erínysa had done her job well indeed.

Behind him, Hrabě Tarkhan barked the order to move out – east. The formations of the army were kept tight, their pace deliberate. There were few places that Lydia’s Lužičania could strike with ease, and it was with confidence that Radomír advanced upon the fortification at Hartenfels on the Elbe. Let Tarkhan loose to play where he was most adept. As expected, using his superior force and tactical control of Elbe fords and bends, Tarkhan was easily able to herd the Lužičania into a trap and then decimate them with his archers.

Radomír’s armies then continued marching eastward and northward into the Spreewald, nigh on the Polish lands. Fighting in these hilly woodlands was a trickier task, but Tarkhan managed it well by drawing his opponent out into the open at a lea near Gubin.

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In the battles at Hartenfels and Gubin, Radomír’s army had taken several prisoners, including three of high rank: in point of fact, all of Chieftess Lydia’s sons – the brothers Tadeus, Křeslav and Bohdan Milčanský. Word of Radomír’s notable clemency upon Andrei Pavelkov had reached them by then, so none of them were too concerned, but went quietly along with their captors, hopeful of being ransomed or asked to convert.

Radomír ordered his troops back through the Spreewald, past the Elbe, past Ilburg until they came nigh upon the seat of Chieftess Lydia’s honour at Bielefeld, actually not that far southwest of the town of Brehna proper. He then bade one of the local Sorbs to take a curt message to Chieftess Lydia:

Počuvajte svojich synov,’ was the message. ‘Listen to your sons.’

~~~

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The Moravian army took up position, at Radomír’s instruction, along a ridge south of the fastening. They chose a spot to camp where the pine trees were sparser—within full view of the castle, and within earshot though not within easy bow shot. Radomír had two detachments of the levies avail themselves of some of the local pine in order to build a scaffold on the open promontory, with five plain posts in single file along it. He then set out to find and hire five local lads who lived on pig farms, and had them bring their dressing-knives.

‘Your Majesty,’ Bogöri Srednogorski approached his liege with evident consternation when he figured out what they were doing and why, ‘this goes far too far! Those lads are valuable bargaining-chips. Don’t tell me you truly intend to—’

The cold look with which Radomír answered him was enough to still his voice.

The three brothers who had been taken captive, and two others taken besides (Straš and Věnceslav) were called forth. Again thinking no evil, and hopeful of their swift release as Pavelkov had been released, the five of them were stripped naked, marched up to the scaffold, and lashed by their wrists to the posts as the king had ordered. As it dawned on them, the finality of what was about to happen, their eyes grew wide with terror. Věnceslav began gabbling incoherently, and Křeslav strained helplessly against his bonds as he bellowed out:

Radomír! Curse your whole family, Radomír Rychnovský! What is the meaning of this outrage?’

The king stepped in front of the scaffold, faced the condemned prisoners, and spoke in a level voice.

‘Your mother was party to the peace at Chotěbuz two years ago. She betrayed that peace. Now, all of her line shall suffer the fate due to traitors.’

Radomír nodded to the five local pig-farmers, who stepped up next to the prisoners with their dressing-knives at the ready. And then came the fatal command:

‘Flay them.’

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This gruesome method of execution, of using heated knives to strip the skin from the flesh beneath and leave it exposed to the air, could leave the victim alive for hours to days after the process was completed. Never before had such a punishment been ordered by a Christian king in these parts, even upon heathens. The soldiers, and particularly Radomír’s vassals, watched in grim dismay and dread as the sentence was carried out before their eyes, by young men whose practice was in skinning hogs. Blood and other bodily fluids began dripping from the scaffold, and the condemned – torturously robbed of nature’s shield against the elements – shrieked and cursed and howled pitiably.

To some, as to Bogöri, the sheer brutality of Radomír’s choice of location for the execution, as well as his message to his foe, at this point became clear. He had chosen this clearing along the ridge, in full view and hearing of Bielefeld Schloß, so that Chieftess Lydia might personally watch the fate meted out upon her three sons, and hear their dying cries.

His vassals looked to Radomír as the execution was carried out. And although he took no visible enjoyment in it, no twisted pleasure or sport in the cruelty, they were disturbed to see that neither was there any trace of sympathy in his cold blue eyes.

When the lads had completed their work, on Radomír’s command each of them was presented with a silver piece in payment. Of the five, only one of them was impious or desperate enough to take it. The others cursed and spat over their shoulders, and walked away from the blood-money that was offered to them. The five condemned prisoners, human in form but no longer so in appearance, stood lashed to their posts on the scaffold, their seeping, denuded flesh quivering under the exposure as night set in.

Even his own soldiers now went in terror of Kráľ Radomír. He had a steel will for cold revenge that was absolute and unremitting, and harboured a depth of cruelty that few could conceive. His every order was now carried out without delay, and his every word was carefully weighed when spoken. But the whispers began to follow him. Had this man no fear of God? Had this man no pity upon his fellow men? And his own vassals began to refer to him, half in awe and half in dread, by the byname of hrozný: ‘the Terrible’.

~~~

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Lada Erínysa, grandchild of Tüzniq and Vlasta Rychnovský, Kňažná of Horné Slieszko, and maršalka for two Moravian kings, passed from the earthly life not long after the Blood Court. For all that her death was at an enviable age, she had well and truly earned her horseside shroud, and the knightly honours that accompanied her body back to the Christian Silesian lands. Her duties naturally fell to the one she had recommended to, and mentored in, the position: Hrabě Tarkhan Aqhazar of Sadec.

The siege of Bielefeld Schloß lasted nearly the entire year, and the Moravian army held its positions all around the castle, including upon the ridge of the Blood Court. The bodies of the five executed had been left exposed upon the scaffold long all that time, and their decomposing remains subject to wind and rain were picked clean by foxes and birds-of-prey until nothing remained but their bones.

The defenders of Bielefeld held out as long as they possibly could against the Moravian besiegers, but the needs of the flesh prevailed over bravery. The Schloß was yielded with minimal fighting. The Moravians did a thorough sweep of the castle. In addition to Lady Lydia, they also managed to find ensconced in a narrow hiding-hole, her three-year-old grandson Sambor: the only son of the condemned Bohdan whose bones bedecked the scaffold in full view of the castle ramparts.

Radomír swept into the keep, together with his retinue. Tarkhan brought out Lady Lydia, who immediately launched into a string of voluble curses against the tormentor and murderer of her sons.

Odjebało ci, Radomír! Crooked, nine times cursed Radomír! Shade! Wraith! Crazed hedgehog-swiver! Spawn of hell! Give me back my sons! You will pay! One way or another, you will pay for what you’ve done!’

Radomír sat before her, unmoved by the woman’s rage. He steepled his fingers, and then signalled to Bogöri. ‘Bring him.’

Bogöri hesitated.

‘Now.’

After some dithering, Bogöri went off. Lydia paused long enough in her vituperations for Radomír’s order to register with her, and as soon as she understood what ‘him’ he meant to be brought, her face went from red to white, and she very nearly choked on her bile. When she found her tongue again, she took a very different tone.

‘No—’ the grandmother gasped, and her panicked eyes pleaded him. ‘No! Please, no! For pity’s sake, Radomír! Spare him! He is only a child, little more than a babe! I beg you, Radomír! I beg you, spare him! I’ll give you anything—silver, lands—only spare him! I’ll promise anything!’

Radomír stood and brushed past where Lydia was kneeling as Bogöri returned.

Babka!’ cried the mousy-haired little Sambor, struggling to free himself from Bogöri’s grasp.

Radomír gave a jerk of his head, and Bogöri let him free. Sambor scrambled as fast as his little feet would carry him to his grandmother, but he never reached her. Radomír unsheathed his steel and, with icy despatch, brought it down upon Sambor’s neck as he ran past.

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Lydia’s eyes went wide with horror. Her hands in their bonds trembled. It seemed the woman could scarce draw her own breath. At last a pitiable strangled sound escaped her lips, which then turned into a blood-curdling shriek of agony and despair, seeing her only grandson’s life ended before her eyes. Her shrieking continued, on and on for minutes, with Radomír standing stonily by.

The only word which eventually came forth from her was: ‘Why?

Echoing her first missive to him, Radomír spoke to her as he walked out of the hall:

‘Because you are weak.’

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That got the message across, in gruesome irony. The naive boy who was seduced by his father's physician has truly been hardened enough by his life to lose all compassion in revenge. People would think twice before angering the king.

And I think you've done a great portrayal, as always. Violent execution methods are a part of the age, and it really exemplifies Radomír's character as the Terrible.
 
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-Incoming transmission-

Previously on 'Deciphering the Character Radko'

Naively gullible, unusually observant, insufferably spiteful.
*​
"Pravoslav turned to his son, grabbed him by the front of his cotte, dragged him inside the door and slapped him twice, hard, across the face."
<tragedy to come>
*​
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.​


Part I

Ch. XXV
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.
In this case, Radomír can be seen as a person that is able to reinvigorate himself after surviving childhood-adolescence traumas, as well as sudden tragic losses, which would incur innumerable sufferings on one's mind.

One could argue that as he is deprived of his ideal conditions for living, it would cause the monarch to act irrationally in a sudden burst due to resentful anger towards his own life, in this case his destiny, as it would be called such in that age of human history.

On the other hand, it gives Radomír greater excuse to push himself out of the life he is in, as the lines are followed after the war of his late-father's doing;

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.
In this case, he would like to be unseen, to remain silently away from the greeting, which could be an odd behaviour had it be an act of another one, whereas as it was pointed out, Radomír inherently resents of being, living, or actually, existing.

He is actually cut off from his own life by his own choice, so much to his vigorous dry tone, he declines the offering of any interest shown by the others, in the most plain way;
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.’
In this refusal, he is able to provide an excuse among many others that he could, that he defends his choice as it would have been dishonourable, to him and to his wife. As elegant and rightful as that excuse can be seen, for this specific case it is also showing the hint of irreparable narcissism of the character, since he does not claim any other excuse, e.g. in the case of the age the events took place, the morality of the proposal, and that would actually connect him to the others, assuming the existence of morality (of any type) shared by humans. He refrains from this, and he is actually unable to do so; he is a person detached from any level of connection to anyone. In this regard, he follows the irregular pattern of such behaviour, what would be called as sociopathy.

He is in the resentful shape so much to the degree that he is also deprived of his sleeping-routine; yet his level of self-consciousness is higher than average, thus he seeks help. But his self-harming detachment is beyond any help from others, therefore his cry for it is only in the prayers, as it can be expected from the age of the events;
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 (...)

Another perspective could argue that Radomír is trying to heal in terms of the wounds in his mind, by showing gratitude and empathy for his children; and especially, for the child that is unaware of him being his father;
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.
On the other hand, this argument falls when compared to the initial assessment, as it only supports it further. In his love for his children, and more for Vratislav, he is actually setting impossible goals for himself. It can be claimed to be an irregularity for his pattern, but actually he would like to suffer more by not achieving the goals he sets for himself, thus he is ultimately resenting his own existence, to the point of self-destruction by pain caused by it.

End of Part I
 
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Part II

Ch. XXVI
‘It might be the easier,’ Radomír remarked dryly, ‘if I knew what those conditions were.’
In this attitude, Radomír shows his beyond-average skills of adapting to the world of his post-trauma. He has mastered in concealing his anger, or wrath, as long as it does not serve his actual struggle.

Although Radomír had little knack for deception and could often seem a gull, there was a certain cold steel underneath that placid exterior.
His fortune comes from the fact that he had been perceived as the shadow of his predecessor. By surviving the abusive relation with his father, he actually gained self-confidence; yet his detached-personality allowed him to show his intents milder, or different than his father, in his own words. With this attitude, he is able to secure the allegiance of his vassals, who were loyal to his father, yet not to him; increasing resentment bolsters his own image in his mind for the others. As he silently draws himself away, it can be argued that he is able to show himself as a modest monarch, yet his observant intellect outshines at this to achieve the authority he desperately seeks. That is why Bogöri feels himself cornered after he abides the rule of his kral.

The self-pitying resentment peaks in the narrative, as Radomír is unable to forget but constantly reminds himself the cursing words of his father;
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.

In this attitude, as he has to hide within himself in order not to show his actual anger, he is able to show empathy, in the least amount that is possible;
‘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.’
It is the least possible way of empathy, as even in the show of mercy, his example consists of nostalgia for his lost ideal conditions, which reverts back to his own image, bolstering his narcissism.

This is also shown as his subjects feel comfortable around him, showing that he truly is capable of giving them the trust they can account for; in one such act, as one of his subjects throws out, he simply ignores it for the sake of the showing merciful understanding;
‘Never fret, Velemír. This useless bore of a rag of mine never impressed the nobles when it was clean!’
Yet, his actual goal is not tainted by this act, so he does not need to show his true thoughts.

That side of his mind erupts, and becomes obvious, when he is given the news of war declaration;
‘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.
This is the point that ends the patience of the character, Radomír. As any event in the history, none happens with a single act, starts with a single point, is caused by a single incident, but develops in multiple levels, adds up, and leads to case of the subject that is analysed. In this case, every event that Radomír has undergone culminated in the answer he provides;

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

Chčeš vojnu? Dam to.
As such, Radomír is not actually out of patience, nor he is ever going to. It is simply the case of opportunity for Radomír to achieve his own ultimate goal, to feed his narcissism, to bolster his own self-harming resentment; to overcome the authority he had been under, and to assert his own;
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.

End of Part II
 
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Part III

Ch. XXVII
So begins the ascension of Radomír,
‘Most merciful, my Liege,’ Bogöri commented.

Radomír folded his arms. ‘Hardly.’
to the level of his own ideal conditions to live, to fulfil his own self in terms of achieving the authority he desperately wishes to show. It is therefore hardly a merciful act to release Andrei.

His indifference reaches to level of insanity, as it is not even a vile act in his eyes, when he utters the words.
Počuvajte svojich synov,’ was the message. ‘Listen to your sons.’

As he does not enjoy it, nor is he startled, while he is watching his orders carried out; and he is only watching, with no connection to humanity, as he is by this point completely detached, and unable to return back, just as he would like to be.
His vassals looked to Radomír as the execution was carried out. And although he took no visible enjoyment in it, no twisted pleasure or sport in the cruelty, they were disturbed to see that neither was there any trace of sympathy in his cold blue eyes.

Then it comes the end of the forceful show of his own authority. As the beast roars his true face, exposing his true image, he does not enjoy, nor shies himself out of it; his insanity is beyond the level of lunacy, because he is able to achieve his goal.

He exactly knows what he is going to achieve with this act, the monstrous notoriety, and thus he does not hesitate any more;
Radomír sat before her, unmoved by the woman’s rage. He steepled his fingers, and then signalled to Bogöri. ‘Bring him.’
Bogöri hesitated.
‘Now.’

Therefore he does not need to hide his true feelings any more after he defeats his enemy, but furthermore, by defeating the self-tormenting mind of himself, so he replies in his most honest manner;
The only word which eventually came forth from her was: ‘Why?
Echoing her first missive to him, Radomír spoke to her as he walked out of the hall:
‘Because you are weak.’

In the end of these insufferable events, and yet after considering all the traumatic upbringing he had endured, it is obvious to claim that the fame is not a choice of historians exercising a rivalry by historiography, but truly deserved; Radomír of the Rychnovský was truly The Terrible.

End of Part III


End of the 'Deciphering the Character Radko'. Retrieved from the public archives of Archeo-Library, 9 September 2259, unknown origin, documentary series aired on possibly 21. century ce, Earth.

-End of transmission-
 
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That got the message across, in gruesome irony. The naive boy who was seduced by his father's physician has truly been hardened enough by his life to lose all compassion in revenge. People would think twice before angering the king.

And I think you've done a great portrayal, as always. Violent execution methods are a part of the age, and it really exemplifies Radomír's character as the Terrible.

Thanks, @alscon! I did want to convey the same sense of shock that his vassals felt when they saw him order this execution, that ended up getting me the 'Dreadful Ruler' achievement.

In this refusal, he is able to provide an excuse among many others that he could, that he defends his choice as it would have been dishonourable, to him and to his wife. As elegant and rightful as that excuse can be seen, for this specific case it is also showing the hint of irreparable narcissism of the character, since he does not claim any other excuse, e.g. in the case of the age the events took place, the morality of the proposal, and that would actually connect him to the others, assuming the existence of morality (of any type) shared by humans. He refrains from this, and he is actually unable to do so; he is a person detached from any level of connection to anyone. In this regard, he follows the irregular pattern of such behaviour, what would be called as sociopathy.

He is in the resentful shape so much to the degree that he is also deprived of his sleeping-routine; yet his level of self-consciousness is higher than average, thus he seeks help. But his self-harming detachment is beyond any help from others, therefore his cry for it is only in the prayers, as it can be expected from the age of the events;

@filcat, this is an incredible reading into the psychological depths of Radomír's psyche! But now I definitely feel like I did not write him carefully enough.

My aim was not to show Radomír as having a narcissistic or antisocial personality. Pravoslav was a classic narcissist, craving for others' attention and validation, and constantly seeking control over those close to him.

But Radomír doesn't feed like his father did on others' admiration for him, and he is at least in some sense capable of telling right from wrong. Radomír's problem (at least, this was my hope in writing him this way) is that he has an anxiety disorder. He has an overactive superego that is consistently telling him that he is not good enough, not worthy enough, and provokes in him guilt and an overarching dread of punishment. He doesn't let himself get close to Raina because he feels guilty and thinks he cannot repay her; on the other hand, his attempts to get close to Vratislav are motivated by a similar guilt and a feeling of debt to him that he can repay.

When he snaps and his id takes over, though, he truly becomes a monster. He deals out the kinds of punishment he feels he deserves himself - and worse.

Again, though, I feel like this is the result of my not being very clear in writing Radomír consistently from the start...
 
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Book Two Chapter Twenty-Eight
TWENTY-EIGHT
Icon of the Holy Martyr
2 April 988 – 3 December 993


I.​

An ominous wind blew south from Brehna. It bore upon its breath the news, carried in hushed whispers and furtive glances, of the defeat of Chieftess Lydia, and of Radomír’s brutal annihilation of the entire male line of her family. As such breezes do, it travelled faster and further than Radomír’s army itself did on the return march.

Within the Church there was significant consternation. Archbishop Ľubomír of Moravia was rarely shocked at anything done by earthly princes, but even he thought the Kráľ’s bloodthirsty behaviour in war was a matter worth calling a local zbor over. Soon he had gathered all of the bishops and suffragan bishops throughout the realm in Velehrad, and broached the rumours with them.

‘Why are we even discussing this?’ asked Ioulianos, the Bishop of Upper Silesia, when the topic was broached. ‘The heathen attacked us, recall. What loss to the world are a few such rabid dogs? Are we to wring our hands and weep after every letting of blood in the heat of every battle?’

‘In point of fact,’ came the gentle voice of the urbane Suffragan Bishop Hektorios of Spreewald, ‘Abba Pimen of the Desert Fathers tells us that even for those of us who appear sinless, three or four men mourning continuously would not be enough to weep for his sins. And the great Fathers of the early Church – Saint Cyprian of Carthage, Saint Ignatius of Antioch, Saint Irenæus of Lyons, Saint Basil of Cæsarea – all condemned war itself as a great sin and as a great occasion for sin. It was forbidden for Christians to take any life.’

‘Yes, well,’ the Archbishop remarked dryly, ‘later generations in the Church certainly did find their ways around that little inconvenience, didn’t they?’

‘To take up arms against the enemies of the True Faith is right and blessed,’ Ioulianos held stubbornly, ‘and I am not about to overturn the righteous judgement of saintly kings and emperors going all the way back to Constantine for all your mystical qualms. Again, what loss? The cause of Christ triumphed over the cause of evil. Why should we mourn for any who fell in the cause of evil?’

‘This is beside the point,’ the well-fed Bishop Tobiáš of Doudleby interjected. ‘God judges each person on his own deeds, and Christ reminds us that not everyone who says “Lord, Lord” will enter the Kingdom. Even a Christian who abuses a non-believer does damage to his own soul. Is it fitting for a Christian king to indulge in Attila’s barbarian rages?’

All eyes turned back toward Archbishop Ľubomír, who stroked his beard, and then gestured with his hand toward Tobiáš.

‘I must reluctantly agree with my brother from Doudleby. We’re not here to argue over history or the ethics of war. A man’s soul is at stake. I hate to credit the rumours of what is laid at Radomír’s charge, but if even half of them are true, then he must be urged to make restitution and repent. Brother Radislav, you’ve been rather quiet all this time, but among us you seem best placed to know. What truly transpired among the armies that went through your see?’

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Bishop Radislav of Milčané heaved a heavy sigh. It was clear that what he was about to relate gave him much pain. ‘After several engagements, five heathen captives were taken by the army, some of whom were among the family of the chieftess who declared war upon us. Radomír brought these to a promontory overlooking the castle of his opponent, and had these captives tortured and executed. Without forewarning, and without even the chance for any of the captives to confess or convert. After the castle was taken and subdued, the king deliberately smote a deadly blow upon a three-year-old child taken prisoner.’

‘You are absolutely sure of these assertions?’ Ľubomír asked.

‘I witnessed the execution of the five captives myself. For the death of the child I appeal to the witness of milord Knieža Bogöri.’

An appalled silence fell over the assembled bishops. Archbishop Ľubomír ran his hand through his sandy beard. Although his outward demeanour could seem dismissive and jaded, the Archbishop still grieved sincerely over the cruelties of the world and of man to man.

‘I shall remonstrate personally, in private, with the Kráľ,’ Ľubomír informed the zbor. His shoulders slumped under the weight of the daunting task before him. ‘May God have mercy upon Moravia.’

~~~

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One pleasant thing that Radomír noticed upon his return to Olomouc after the conclusion of Brehna’s war, was that his eldest daughter went out of her way to be more agreeable to him. Whether it was the fact that Dobromíla was now again a new mother, or whether she simply didn’t dare to gainsay her father when she knew what he was capable of, was… unclear. But Radomír graciously welcomed the result, and was happy to forgive and forget where his daughter was concerned.

On the other hand, his ward Prohor had a definite opinion on the subject and was not shy of sharing it.

‘Based on my studies of classical ethics,’ Prohor had declaimed with every erg of the certainty and self-seriousness of his youth, ‘Kráľ Radomír, your treatment of your prisoners-of-war was wrong indeed. Monstrously so. Surely, whatever the perfidies and crimes of their mother, the sons themselves had done nothing to warrant such punishment?’

Radomír had only crossed his arms and replied mildly to his ward: ‘Well, Prohor—right you may be. But hrabě that you shall be, I can only hope that you never have to face such a decision yourself.’

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In the meanwhile, that same hrabě’s allegiance had changed hands—through no fault of his own. Přisnec Mojmírovec, who had retaken Užhorod by force from a dying Mutimír Dubravkić, himself had died – and left his main title to his kinsman Radislav Kopčianský. This left overlordship of both Nitra and Užhorod in the hands of the same Mojmírovec house head once more. These machinations stuck in the king’s craw, and he would soon see them appropriately addressed.

Kráľ Radomír of Veľká Morava thus called his newest and most powerful vassal before him. The thin, emaciated, dark Radislav – a member of the Mojmírov dynasty through its prestigious cadet line hailing from Kopčany – strode into the Great Hall in the presence of all of the other vassals of Radomír. There was an ominous hush throughout the room, for all feared what might come. Even Radislav for all his power and wonted insouciance checked in his stride and bobbed his deep Adam’s apple nervously as he approached Radomír’s throne. The Kráľ sat with one hand upon his knee, the cold blade which had struck the head of Sambor Milčanský resting flat between, and with the triskelion-emblazoned insignias of the Bijelahrvatskić family enclosed in his free hand.

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‘Come forward, Radislav Kopčianský.’

The thin, tall man took two paces hesitantly toward the throne. Radomír regarded him with a hard and impassible eye.

‘Before I took the throne of my father,’ Radomír began, ‘Kráľ Pravoslav took up your cause, Kopčianský, for the lordship of Nitra against Přisnec, in exchange for your oath of loyalty to him. That was, at least in my recollection, with the gentlemen’s understanding that the claims of the Bijelahrvatskići to the high lordship of Užhorod would be upheld.’

Radislav Kopčianský began to object. ‘That is highly contestable, my liege—’

‘Bogöri Srednogorski,’ Radomír overrode him smoothly, ‘you were there. Velemír Abovský, so were you. Alas, I was not; I had to learn of it second-hand. So, if you would please clarify matters? Whose plight was it that precipitated Kráľ Pravoslav in pushing this man’s claim?’

There was a dreadful silence.

Radomír leaned forward. ‘When I ask, wise men are prompt to answer.’

Velemír stepped into the light. Although he was visibly uncomfortable, he wasn’t one to shy away from speaking when the situation demanded, and he knew that if he spoke untruth here the consequences would be dire. ‘I was there, Majesty. It was Mutimír Dubravkić and the dispute over Užhorod, but he—’

‘Thank you,’ Radomír gave him a curt nod. ‘Bogöri, does Velemír speak truth?’

‘He does, milord, but—’

Thank you.’ Radomír cut off his kancelár, before turning back to Radislav. ‘There you have it, Kopčianský. Two first-hand witnesses. But please, go on… I take it you were saying something droll about this matter being “highly contestable”? … No? …’

Radislav swallowed bitterly.

‘Well, then. Since Mutimír Dubravkić is no longer among us to press his claim, and since his son is as yet too tender in years for such duties… As overlord, I shall take your title over Užhorod in trust until such time as Prohor Mutimírić is ready to assume it himself. Someone has to stand for the child’s rights.’

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‘This is an outrage!’ Radislav exploded. ‘An abuse of the throne, a flouting of centuries of our tribal laws!’

When no one else spoke up in support of him, though, Radislav – with some effort – swallowed the rest of his anger. Better to lose one title than to lose liberty or life in fighting a hopeless battle for it. Between clenched teeth, Radislav took out a signet ring – the seal of his lordship over Užhorod – and proffered it to Radomír, who took it and set it among Mutimír’s insignias. He then turned on his heel and made to leave the hall.

‘Oh, one other thing, knieža. Please deliver the message to your kinsman Zemislav Kopčianský, requesting and requiring him to attend my court. You shall be appropriately compensated.’

Radislav Kopčianský checked in his stride, but made no other acknowledgement of the king’s command.

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~~~​

‘Who’s winning?’

Eirēnē lay in bed, nursing her newborn daughter Alžbeta at her breast as Jakub looked out the window into the wintry courtyard, where his father and younger brother Radoslav were laughing and having a snowball fight. Jakub turned to meet his wife’s smile.

‘Hard to say. Radoslav got the first clean shot on Father – right to the head. Father flung a few back, but only one of them caught him, on the leg of his robe. I’d say Father’s letting him have the advantage… Now they seem to be at a bit of a standoff. Father’s hiding behind a tree at the moment, with Radoslav moving to flush him out.’

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‘I’ve never heard of a monk playing like that,’ Eirēnē remarked serenely. ‘But then your brother does get away with a great deal, doesn’t he?’

Novice monk,’ Jakub corrected her good-naturedly. ‘I take it the rules are somewhat laxer for them.’

Eirēnē shook her head with a sudden, grave consternation. ‘I still can’t believe it of your father. How could he do something like that to another child—and then play so light-heartedly with his own?’

Jakub frowned. ‘Like I told you before, I wasn’t there when it happened—I was securing the garrison. So I can’t say for sure. I will tell you, though, he doesn’t take it light-heartedly. I don’t think he got a single night of sleep for weeks after Brehna.’

‘That doesn’t make it right,’ Eirēnē told him. ‘Nor his high-handed treatment of Kopčianský. I don’t know much about ruling kingdoms, but from the readings of the Prophets in church, I hear that God doesn’t tend to let kings rule like this for long.’

‘Well, if it’s any comfort, I agree with you. And so, it seems, do the bishops. Ľubomir has been holding private conversations with Father, and he certainly didn’t seem pleased with him either.’

‘Promise me you won’t rule so,’ Eirēnē blurted out suddenly.

Jakub went to her and clasped her hand. ‘I promise.’

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II.

Do we believe in the holy martyr?
What is the secret yet to be unveiled?
Offerings are made upon the altar—
Hallowed be thy name, or has he failed?


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The winds of rebellion, when they came, did not come from the Mojmírovec lands to the east. Instead they came from the lands of the Češi, to the west. Velemír Abovský had not in the slightest enjoyed being made use of as a witness and accessory to such a power-grab on the king’s part. And although the missive demanding protections of vassals’ traditional rights against such royal prerogatives came under the name of Hrabě Slavomír of Žatec, it was perfectly plain to those who knew him well that the initiative for it had all been Velemír’s. Among them, only Velemír had the gumption to stand up to Radomír directly. In the end, three of his vassals—all Bohemian—rose up in arms when Radomír had calmly and firmly refused the demands: Slavomír of Žatec, Velemír of Praha, and Domaslava of Doudleby.

‘Prohor!’ Jakub called out. ‘Prohor!’

No answer came from within the hall. He wasn’t in his chambers. He wasn’t in Father’s chambers. He wasn’t in the hall. He wasn’t in the barracks.

Jakub’s brow furrowed. His foster-brother should have been ready to muster with the rest of the men, seeing as he’d come of age, but he was nowhere to be found. Jakub folded his mailed arms and tapped one booted heel. At last he shook his head – there was one place he hadn’t yet checked. He turned and strode outside, across the courtyard to the stables.

The stables had been cleaned and emptied that morning—all the mounts had been led out for the riders who were gathering at the training-grounds west of the town. There were none of the usual sounds of rustling hay, stirring horseflesh or inquisitive nickers. But there were muffled sounds of movement, exertion and heavy breathing coming from behind the stables.

Jakub walked out and circled the corner of the stables to the space between the rear post and the palisade. He stopped dead in his tracks as he did so, stared for a moment, blinked, then instantly averted his eyes and moved back around the corner from whence he’d come.

Prohor was together with his kinswoman and sweetheart, Suzana. They had been enjoying the fine June weather in the time-honoured manner: his hose down at his ankles; her skirt hiked up above her waist. Both of them were lost in each other and going at it hard when Jakub rounded the corner. The two of them had given him looks of mortification and shock so identical they might have been twins, and it was an effort for Jakub to forbear from laughing. Still, he gave them their space to finish up and make themselves decent. Prohor came out at length, still fiddling with his belt, ears and cheeks bright red.

‘Really, brother,’ he remonstrated. ‘We’re due to march out today.’

Prohor, still flustered and more than a tad embarrassed, muttered: ‘Just saying good-bye. Don’t want Suzka to be too lonely when I’m gone.’

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‘Hm.’ Prohor and Suzana were still hardly adults, and – as far as Jakub knew – not even married yet. But he couldn’t be too hard on the kid: Jakub had given Eirēnē a similarly fond farewell the night prior. He decided to skip the homily against fornication, and kept to a military reprimand on Prohor’s duties as a hrabě in the king’s service. ‘Even so, you needed your mail, spear, shield and blade clean and on you an hour ago. Both your liege and the men sworn to you depend upon your preparedness. Hop to it!’

A mailed, armed and appropriately-chastened (but by no means humbled) Prohor Mutimírić rode out with the King, Jakub, Tarkhan and the rest of the royal retinue against the rebelling Bohemians. They met Hraběnka Domaslava’s forces just as they were beginning to take up their positions around castle and town of Plzeň: and here again, with all of the running water around the town, Tarkhan was at his best advantage in terms of terrain.

Prohor and the men of Šariš were sent to head off a possible retreat path southwest of the town, and when Tarkhan herded the fleeing rebels of Doudleby toward him, Prohor stood firm before his men. They met the disorganised charge in flight head-on, and presented the rebels with a solid wall of shield-timber bristling with spear- and scythe-blades. The Doudleby men panicked before tracking and breaking northward, with Tarkhan’s archers and skirmishers picking off men at their flanks and rear all the while.

‘Well done, lad,’ Tarkhan congratulated the young hrabě.

‘Naturally,’ Prohor straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin.

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The Moravian army gave chase to the rebels before them, following them northward through their own lands to the other side of the Ore Mountains. They met Slavomír’s forces in a wooded vale not far from the castle at Děčín. Here it was the bower-levies in the muster with their guisarmes who demonstrated their worth most effectively; in these woods, the javelin-throwers and archers among Slavomír’s men-at-arms were unable to aim well, and once the dispersed formations of men armed with spears, staves and fauchards had come within striking distance, they made quick work of them.

Only Velemír Abovský’s men were left, and Tarkhan caught up to him in late November, as the first snows were beginning to fall over Zhořelec. He fought valiantly, but still his seven hundred shivering and hungry men were no match for Tarkhan’s three thousand, well-fed, well-clothed and well-supplied. The rebellion of the Czech lords was all but over.

~~~​

Eirēnē loved going to the market in Olomouc. She didn’t even necessarily go there to buy, although now that she was married to the Crown Prince of Moravia she had much more money at her fingertips each day than her bower parents had ever managed to scrounge together their whole working lives. She just loved to go there to be among the sights and smells and colours of the men and women selling their wares. Banners of gold and red and green and blue, emblazoned with the representations of goods of trade of all sorts, flew over the stalls. Purveyors of wines, perfumes and spices had placed their booths with special vantage to wind and traffic, such that folk might be drawn to them by the smell of what they were selling. And Eirēnē had to own that she had a fond weakness for the candied fruits and almond marzipans that were occasionally sold here. But the biggest draw for Eirēnē was going there to speak her own tongue among those who knew it.

Raina Srednogorski was always available to her, true, and she was always kind and sympathetic to talk to. Eirēnē enjoyed her mother-in-law’s company very much, in fact: Raina was such a kindly and gentle soul that the love of a daughter flowed naturally from Eirēnē for her. And Raina took pride in the fact that she knew the tongue of her people’s Bulgarian subjects – not all that different from that which Eirēnē spoke. But she came from high-born Old Bulghar stock, speakers of a frempt Asiatic speech even weirder to Eirēnē’s ear than her husband’s Slovien tongue. In order to hear the lively, dramatic, expressive idiom of her working-class Druguvite parents – voluble in love and in sorrow, in joy and in wrath – Eirēnē had to visit the market.

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This time, she had brought Alžbeta with her in a linen sling, as well as several coins in a pouch around her neck. The little girl was sleeping peacefully, wrapped in her mother’s warmth and in the sway of her mother’s stride, and the hubbub around her was no more disturbing to her slumber than the flow of a little brook might be. Eirēnē wandered around the market with her. She passed by a lively battle of wits between a local weaver and a wool merchant from the south, and couldn’t help herself. She joined a throng of people who had taken a like interest and listened in on the dispute. The bystanders were already taking sides: the weaver being the local man his support seemed to be in the ascendant among the crowd. However, being a hard-nosed man of business, the weaver was not without his rivals and detractors, and Eirēnē knew several of the local folk who took up the wooler’s cause were among these.

The wooler, of course, had hauled his bales of fleece over many days’ journey, over bandit-infested roads and through treacherous hills and unmarked roadways. Besides, these fleeces came from good Shumen sheep – they were naturally coppery-red without any need for added dye, and soft and warm for anyone who might need it in winter. You wouldn’t find any like it up here! They were worth every copper he was asking for.

The weaver, however, was having none of it. He was an honest tradesman who always sold at fair prices, and for the hard work and time he put into his cloth he expected the means to feed his family withal. He could get good bales of local white fleece for a quarter of the price, have the stuff dyed every bit as red as the wooler’s wares, and still not get to six-tenths his asking rate. If the wooler wanted to unload his cart on him, he’d have to do it at a more reasonable cost!

Already there was banter back and forth as to what the ending price of the wool would be. When their deal was shaken on—as it assuredly would be in twenty minutes or so—much more coin would change hands than the ones the principals traded, as bets on the fact would be won and lost. Eirēnē was—she had to own it—more partial to the wooler’s case, being a rural woman of the south herself, but mostly she was just caught up in the excitement. It was almost by accident that she swung her head about and found a woman staring intently at her from within a stand across the street.

Eirēnē held her gaze. She was a thin woman with olive complexion and iron-grey strands in the hair which she kept neatly under a solid green homespun kerchief. Her mouth formed the word: ‘Princess.’

Eirēnē, rather unnerved, turned back to the haggling, but could no longer give it the same attention she had been. Instead, she turned toward the stall with the strange woman.

‘Do you know me?’ asked Eirēnē.

‘Know you?’ asked the woman. Although she looked stern, her voice had a friendly lilt to it. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, but I don’t think we’ve met before. God greet you! My name is Barbara. What is yours?’

‘I’m Eirēnē. But… just now you were calling me…’

The woman crossed herself hurriedly. ‘My dear, you’ll have to forgive me. My mind tends to wander when I’m watching the stall. I know it’s a sin not to keep my mind always on God, and to let sloth overtake me… I didn’t say anything… untoward, did I?’

Eirēnē scrutinised the woman. She didn’t appear to be out of her wits, and she was too young to have succumbed to the vagaries of mind of the aged. On the other hand, she didn’t have the sly, unctuous manner that she’d learned to spot in market charlatans. ‘No, no you didn’t,’ the princess assured her. ‘What is it you sell here?’

The middle-aged woman bowed her head. ‘By the grace of God, a monk of Ohrid met me when I was younger and told me I had a gift for painting, that I should bend toward the glory of God. I am an iconographer.’ Barbara took out from below the counter of her stall several planks of wood, upon each of which was painted a likeness. One was of Christ; one was of the Holy Theotokos; and the third was of Saint John Chrysostom. Eirēnē examined them. The vibrant gold of the haloes, the gentle drape of the fabric, and the heavenly impassivity of the faces impressed her: they could well be the work of a master painting the screen of a cathedral!

‘What’s the little girl’s name?’ asked Barbara.

‘Alžbeta,’ answered the princess.

‘After the mother of John the Baptist?’ asked the iconographer. ‘Does she have an icon of her patroness yet? I do have—’

‘Yes?’ asked Eirēnē.

‘—No,’ Barbara shook her head. ‘No. This one is one you should take.’

She took out a tiny icon that had been seemingly painted from the slice of a pine branch. It seemed to the young mother as though it had been painted with a brush made of a single hair, and the gold leaf applied with the tip of a sewing needle. Upon the icon was portrayed a man upon horseback, with armour and a blood-red robe and a spear in his hands. The miniscule red writing around his halo read: ‘Ο Αγιος Ευσταθιος’.

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‘Saint Eustathios?’ asked Eirēnē incredulously. ‘But there’s no one in my family named for him!’

‘Not yet,’ said Barbara, in dead earnest.

‘What do you mean, “not yet”?’ asked Eirēnē.

Barbara spoke to her patiently. ‘Your husband will return to you on the twenty-seventh of October this year. On that day, you must make forty prostrations before the icon of the Holy Theotokos in the morning, and forty in the evening before he returns. Make sure you wear that icon around your neck all day, and offer the tropar and kontak to the holy martyr with your morning and evening prayers. When your husband comes back to you that night, lies with you and knows you, do not take it off, just as you do not take off your baptismal cross when he lies with you. The child that you conceive that night must also be named for that Saint Eustathios, for he will be born on the feast-day of that saint. Your son will be most bold in battle, most lucky in love, and the stone which he touches shall bear his mark forever.’

‘That’s quite the prediction,’ Eirēnē raised a quizzical brow.

Barbara smiled calmly. ‘You are, of course, welcome to take my advice or not, Princess.’

She’d done it again. Eirēnē baulked. ‘What did you say?’

Barbara blinked. ‘I said: “of course you are welcome to take my advice or not, Eirēnē”.’

Eirēnē again scrutinised the woman. If she truly knew who she was, and was acting, she was surely a master of the art. On the other hand, no amateur or charlatan could have made the icon she was holding now. Every stroke, every feature exact, every inlay made with loving detail. She took a coin from her pocket and handed it to Barbara.

‘God be with you, Eirēnē,’ said Barbara.

Half in doubt and half in wonder, Eirēnē made her way back to the castle. (The fun was over; the wool had gone for three-quarters the wooler’s asking price.) She fingered the icon and examined the figure of the holy martyr: the austere face and warlike posture, the horse’s full white mane and proud trot. Almost before she knew it, she was already saying ‘Your holy martyr Eustathios, O Lord, through his sufferings has received an incorruptible crown from you, our God…

And, strangely, all happened thereafter as the strange woman in the market had foretold it.

The army moved southward to head off the rebels as they aimed to besiege Jihlava, and they passed through Olomouc in late October. Having completed her forty prostrations and her evening prayers, Eirēnē had lain down and not quite slept yet when Jakub entered – and having been in the field so long, there was one thing only on his mind. Of course Eirēnē conceived that night. And on the morning of the twenty-eighth of July, the feast-day of Saint Eustathios, she gave birth to a healthy, ruddy-faced, brown-haired son, to whom she gave the saint’s name. In Moravian: Eustach.

‘Little Eustach,’ Eirēnē marvelled at him. ‘Will you in truth be bold in battle and lucky in love? And what does this mean, that the stone which you touch will bear your mark forever?’

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Book Two Chapter Twenty-Nine
TWENTY-NINE
Just What’s Agreed
13 October 994 – 16 September 995


Shields and swords
May win you wars,
But in the end,
The battle’s for our hearts:

Fought by bards…


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In the year 6419, the knieža Bohodar died in Olomouc. His body was taken to the churchyard there and buried alongside that of Matylda Štíhradsková, his loyal German wife.

Having received from his youth the doctrines of the Orthodox faith by the instruction of Methodius, Bohodar kept them faithfully throughout his life. He loved books of all sorts, and applied himself diligently to learning from them, and great was the profit to his soul that he derived therefrom. ‘Take fast hold of instruction; let her not go:’ says the wise king, ‘keep her; for she is thy life.’

Those who served Bohodar never lacked for treasure, nor his guests for food and drink, for Bohodar did not begrudge his substance to them. In matters of the law, Bohodar upheld the Law of Rastislav with meticulous attention, and yet he showed mercy upon criminals…


Penka was holding up the parchment and examining her work with a critical eye when suddenly through the door swept Archbishop Ľubomír. He approached the elderly nun and placed his hand on the table.

‘You don’t have good news,’ Penka said shrewdly.

Ľubomír shook his head.

Penka answered him with a sad smile. ‘I had been getting into the work, too.’

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‘So I see,’ the Archbishop responded, looking at the writing that the nun had been doing. ‘And fine work it is, having received the blessing of His All-Holiness himself. Holy indeed is the labour; the Lord shall see to it that none of it will have been in vain. But now I must see to getting you to safety. Radomír is not in a mood now to listen to reproof, even indirectly.’

‘This history means a great deal to him,’ Penka retorted. ‘And I think he genuinely wanted me to emphasise the accomplishments of his ancestors here. Do you truly think there is a danger to me, the one whom he chose to write it?’

Ľubomír’s brow darkened. ‘I’m sure I needn’t remind you of what happened last December?’

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Penka shivered despite herself. No, Ľubomír needn’t have reminded her; she knew quite well. After another invasion from the north had been thwarted, Radomír had again made a display aimed precisely at striking terror in their leaders, having slain two children and a woman, and staked their bodies on the northern march. Though he had not yet turned his wrath upon the Christian folk of his own territory, still the prospect remained. And if the Archbishop tended to think now that the history of the Rychnovských she was working on—the history Radomír himself had commissioned—was placing her at peril, she wasn’t one to doubt him.

‘Even so, I will not have it said that I fled from the truth to save my own life.’

‘Then do not think of your own life,’ Ľubomír told her. ‘I am thinking here of a certain man’s soul. By removing you from his reach now, we do not place in his path an occasion for grave sin. If martyrdom comes to you, do not flee it; but also, do not embrace it without thought or sense. That is not our way.’

Penka let out a breath. ‘Very well. Where would you have me go?’

‘Wallachia,’ the Archbishop answered her readily. ‘There is a convent consecrated to Saint Barbara in Hrabě Basarab’s territory. The mother superior has agreed to shelter you for the time being, and has assured you of employment there. I pray we may get you back safe and whole.’

Penka shrugged. ‘I am only an old woman: a sinful old woman with too little time left in her to repent. You worry too much on my account, your Eminence. Whether you see me again in this life or not, thank you for giving me this opportunity to tell what I know. And bless me for wherever I end up.’

Ľubomír traced the sign of the Cross in the air before Penka’s head, and she bowed and kissed the clergyman’s hand. ‘May God protect you and go with you.’

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~~~

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Radomír circled the hill once again on his mount, and surveyed the new hilltop fort at Lukov with a critical eye. This time, he could not see any flaws in the implementation. The palisade encircling the hill’s steep slopes was tight, without gaps or skewed stakes. And the bridge this time had been well-constructed, not looking like it was fit to collapse when an army trod over it. The watchtower in the centre had a good vantage for watchmen and archers. Radomír smiled grimly. So, the knieža of Nitra could be of service, provided he was given the proper incentive.

Kopčianský had been rather insufferable since the Kráľ had stepped in and removed from him a title that was not his by right. Moravia’s hold on Nitra was still rather loose. And so Radomír had had to tighten the reins, hard. Giving him the task of completing this hilltop stockade had been just the opportunity.

Radomír had given Kopčianský a timetable that had been ambitious, to put it mildly. When the corvée from Nitra had fallen behind on the work, Radomír had set the knieža down firmly with biting sarcasm among his other peers in the high hall. And then when he had rushed to complete the palisade, tower and bridge, he led all of the other noblemen of Moravia out to inspect it. The results then had been as shoddy as he’d expected, and the reaction of the other nobles had spoken for itself. Radomír then set for Kopčianský a new timetable as a concession, and it seemed he’d gotten the message this time.

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Radomír crossed the bridge, through the gate into the bailey, and then climbed the central watchtower to examine the fortress’s construction from within. He was approached by his eldest son.

‘How does it look, Father?’

‘Construction is sound,’ Radomír looked around appreciatively. ‘It looks like I get a fairly solid fortress out of the bargain. No, I am satisfied with this work.’

Jakub smiled. ‘Still, you were a bit harsh on Lord Nitra.’

‘Was I?’ asked Radomír placidly. ‘Clearly he was capable of better. I only spurred him to it.’

‘The lords will not love a hard taskmaster,’ Jakub, diplomat that he was, observed.

‘They needn’t love me. They need only obey,’ Radomír answered his son.

Jakub was a bit disheartened by that reply. Radomír was still stung from the rebellion of the Bohemian nobles, as well as from what he considered to have been a base betrayal by Bogöri Srednogorski. Though now that the rebellion was over, and now that Bogöri was dead and replaced as kancelár by Zemislav of Boršód (who had even been trusted with the task of reviewing the chronicle after Penka had written it), Jakub had hoped that his father would mellow a bit. Others might see only the fruits of his wrath; Jakub was close enough in his confidence to know that Radomír was instead continuously shocked and discouraged by what he considered the dishonesty of those who served him. And although Jakub understood this, and even sympathised with it, he had made a promise both to himself and to Eirēnē that he would not rule in such a manner himself.

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‘There is another thing, Father,’ Jakub mentioned. ‘Sister Penka has retired from her work on the Rozprávky. There is urgent business which has called her elsewhere.’

Radomír’s face fell slightly. ‘That is a shame. I hadn’t read her most recent entries yet, but I’m sure they’ll be up to the quality of what she’d written up to now. What about that other monk, Brother Eugen—the illuminator from Hradec? He’s still available, isn’t he?’

‘Very much so, Father. He’s in Olomouc now, designing the margins.’

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‘Ah. You anticipate me.’

Jakub shrugged. It was one of those things a son learns to do for a father. ‘But who will we get to replace Penka?’

‘I’m sure there are scribes enough in Olomouc to take her place,’ Radomír answered.

~~~​

Radomír’s reaction to the offending passages in Penka’s Rozprávky z leta dávno preč was considerably more temperate than Ľubomír feared. Although her indirect criticism of Radomír’s reluctance to listen to instruction and to his treatment of prisoners by way of comparison to his ancestor did register, Radomír’s levelheaded response to her work was this:

‘The Lord God sends troubles upon each according to their ability to bear. The troubles of Bohodar’s time are not the same as the troubles of mine. Even so, let Sister Penka’s work stand unaltered.’

The Archbishop was surprised to hear this. He needn’t have feared for Penka’s work, and perhaps he needn’t even have feared for the elderly nun’s life. But the decision had been made. The work on the Rozprávky z leta dávno preč was out of his hands and out of Penka’s, now – and in the hands of lay scribes answerable to the king alone.

The work on the chronicle continued through the spring and into the summer, and the heat of the scriptorium ended up getting to the lay scribes. Eventually the head scribe petitioned Radomír:

‘Milord, the hours we have put in on completing the Rozprávky are long. Please give us several days to rest, and we shall complete the work you have set before us.’

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Radomír regarded the scribe coolly for a long moment, and told him:

‘Very well. I would rather have this chronicle written well if slowly, rather than quickly and slipshod. But understand this well: you and your fellow-clerks will be held responsible in full for the quality of the content. And this request of yours shall not be forgotten in the evaluation.’

The scribe gulped nervously before bowing with thanks and retreating. However, the message had been received loud and clear. At long last the Rozprávky z leta dávno preč was completed, the illuminations of Brother Eugen all lovingly inlaid on each page, the black-and-red Cyrillic writing standing out, declaring aloud the history of Bohodar slovoľubec and his descendants: both the illustrious and the ill-fated. Although Radomír was not a great one for reading, nevertheless as he clasped the book in his hands he felt he could glimpse in some small way the importance of what he was holding: an epic that would echo down generations and centuries. An epic within whose illuminations and phrases he, along with all of his forebears, would stand judged by posterity.

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Fell behind a bit over Christmas (thank you for the lovely well-wishes, and RIP to Pravoslav) but I’m caught up again.

Another sad sequence of events for the Czechs within Velká Morava it seems, but it was quite the foolhardy rebellion.

Also, I couldn’t possibly hazard anywhere near as lengthy or in-depth analysis of Radomír as has already been presented in this thread, so I will only throw in my own simplistic musing that he reminds me very much of the depiction of Pharaoh Rameses in Prince of Egypt - particularly whenever he thinks back to Pravoslav chastising and slapping him, I think of Rameses crying out “I will not be the weak link!” harkening back to the verbal abuse which his own father (whose statue looms in the background) heaped upon him in his youth. Oh the terrible things we sometimes do to try and please long dead fathers...
 
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Fell behind a bit over Christmas (thank you for the lovely well-wishes, and RIP to Pravoslav) but I’m caught up again.

Another sad sequence of events for the Czechs within Velká Morava it seems, but it was quite the foolhardy rebellion.

Also, I couldn’t possibly hazard anywhere near as lengthy or in-depth analysis of Radomír as has already been presented in this thread, so I will only throw in my own simplistic musing that he reminds me very much of the depiction of Pharaoh Rameses in Prince of Egypt - particularly whenever he thinks back to Pravoslav chastising and slapping him, I think of Rameses crying out “I will not be the weak link!” harkening back to the verbal abuse which his own father (whose statue looms in the background) heaped upon him in his youth. Oh the terrible things we sometimes do to try and please long dead fathers...

Not a problem! Glad to have you here and still reading, @Wolf6120!

The Czechs unfortunately don't have a lot of luck this game, but they do make a considerable comeback in the EU4 megacampaign continuation.

Also, it's been waaaay too long since I've seen that movie. But yeah, I can definitely see that parallel. Radomír and his relationship with his father does have some echo of the relationship between Rameses and the previous Pharaoh voiced by Patrick Stewart.
 
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Book Two Chapter Thirty
THIRTY
Šariš
8 November 995 – 28 December 998


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‘We’re here at last,’ Prohor said.

Suzana Vasiľevna turned about to face her husband. ‘It’s wonderful, dear. Wonderful.’

The two of them were standing together in the solar at Šariš Castle, on their third day in the estate. Prohor Mutimírić had his arms affectionately around his dark-haired wife, who was looking out at the dark, tree-bound mountains across the village and the river from them to the east. Prohor was again master in the castle he had always considered his own, and held sway over a great swathe of territory stretching from Šariš in the north to Boršód and even Zemplín in the east. The territory of the White Croats – or at least part of it. Zemplín had been won by force of arms from the Kingdom of Hungary under Ctibor Árpád. However, the rest had been granted by King Radomír peaceably, with no loss of life for the locals. For that, at least, Prohor was profoundly grateful – as his father would have been.

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‘I only wish Mother were still here to see it,’ Prohor mused with a sigh. ‘All of her hopes rested upon this place. Upon me.’

Suzana rested her hand on her husband’s. ‘Babča always used to say, “Where there’s life, there’s hope”. And we have life enough between us – you and me, and our son.’

Suzana straightened her shoulders and turned in Prohor’s arms, lifting her head expectantly. She was not disappointed when Prohor lowered his mouth to hers. When she was alone with him, Suzana was all desire and affection—as was only right and proper, of course, when she had Prohor Mutimírić on whom to bestow it! Suzana was not the most intellectual of women – she could be flighty and somewhat silly at times. But she was a White Croat, and the forthrightness and boldness of their folk was strong within her. Prohor had found very early on that he couldn’t help but be drawn to her for these.

The two of them passed some time thus quite pleasantly together, before Prohor went out-of-doors to inspect the castle grounds, call on the village headman, and talk to some of his tenants. The duties of a lord, to whom lordship came quite naturally.

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The village was made up of many of the same sorts of timbered houses, with post and wattle and thatched roofs, which made up the zemnicy in other Slavic towns, and the same kinds of enclosures. The cluck of domesticated fowl and the bleating of sheep and goats greeted the ears of the new lord as he passed by them. He stopped to scratch one dog behind the ears, who wagged his tail appreciatively. He came up to the headman’s house when he saw two men standing in front of the door before him. His initial annoyance soon yielded to pleasure as he recognised them both.

‘Luboš! Pravoslav Radomírovič!’

The two of them, uncle and nephew, turned around. Luboš grinned as he recognised his brother’s ward, the new knieža of Užhorod. The other, Radomír’s youngest son, kept his expression much more guarded. In general he wasn’t one to be demonstrative, and kept close counsel over his own thoughts, but in truth he also didn’t have many warm feelings for his foster-brother.

‘What brings the two of you out this way?’ asked Prohor Mutimírić.

Luboš answered him, turning a fond cheek to his nephew and clapping him on the shoulder. ‘This one here—is joining me on pilgrimage to the Holy Land, to take the oath in the Church of the Sepulchre. It was more than generous of my brother to agree to take him; Pravoslav’s turned out quite well.’

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‘Please, uncle,’ Pravoslav allowed himself the ghost of a smile.

‘Were you arranging to stay the night in Šariš?’ asked Prohor.

‘That we were, when you came up,’ Luboš said.

‘Well, in that case, allow me to invite you up to the castle,’ said Prohor kindly. ‘You’re welcome to stay with us for a week or two. Suzana and I would be delighted to have you with us.’

Luboš greeted the idea with enthusiasm, but Pravoslav demurred: ‘Truly, brother, we wouldn’t want to impose upon you. I’m sure that we can find more than adequate lodgings here in the village. Uncle, I truly don’t mind a straw mattress and a corner cot.’

‘What, when you’re being offered hospitality by the knieža? Don’t be daft, boy,’ Luboš chided him. ‘We would be delighted to stay up at the castle with you, Prohor Mutimírič. Lead on!’

The business he had with the village headman and the bowers in the hills would have to wait. Prohor led the two Rychnovský men – one Brother of the Holy Sepulchre, and one prospective Brother – up to the castle, saw their horses stabled and saw them both seated with drinks in their hand and food before them at the table. Prohor raised his own vessel to them.

‘Long may the Brotherhood flourish,’ he cheered, ‘for they are getting a true champion.’

Suzana, Luboš and Pravoslav all drank to that—Pravoslav perhaps a bit suspiciously at first.

‘Radomír and Raina must be proud,’ Prohor told his foster-brother.

‘Father is,’ Pravoslav answered bluntly. ‘Mother is dead.’

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‘Oh.’ Prohor’s mouth turned down, and he set his drinking vessel on the table. ‘I am sorry to hear that. Most sorry indeed. Raina was a good woman; I am sure that she is with God now. You must miss her.’

‘My brother, I think, misses her deeply as well,’ Luboš said, ‘although he won’t let it show.’

‘How about the rest of the family? Jakub, Eirēnē?’

‘I actually think Eirēnē took it hardest. Of them all, she was the closest to Raina – she was able to speak her own tongue with her, and they understood each other well. But since she gave birth to Rebeka, her attention has been mostly on her youngest.’

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‘Well, we’ll have to invite her here soon – all of them. Nothing says “cheer” like genuine White Croat hospitality, after all!’ Suzana exclaimed. ‘After several months’ wait for sitting the little one, of course. And several more for mourning.’

‘That would be an excellent idea. Perhaps by then,’ Prohor turned to Pravoslav, ‘you’ll have come back from the Holy Land: a Brother in full, sworn before the empty tomb of Our Lord!’

‘Yes, quite,’ Pravoslav gave a slight bow of his head and sipped at his wine.

‘There have been quite fair prospects for the Brotherhood in recent years,’ Luboš confided to Prohor. ‘Our exploits in the defences of Moravia’s northern border against the heathens—despite my brother’s rather unfortunate excesses—have not gone unnoticed. When I was a youth, we were contracted to help suppress revolts in Stoenesti and Syria… not some of our worthiest work. But of late we have been honoured as guests of King Hranimír in Bulgaria. It may be that we shall face a worthier adversary fighting alongside Raina’s folk.’

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‘For honour and glory, eh?’ Prohor smiled. Then he turned confidingly to Pravoslav. ‘You take good care of this old man here, alright? Make sure he doesn’t go poking too many bears.’

For the first time, it seemed, the younger lad broke into a broad smile. ‘You can count on it.’

‘Of course, my husband will have told you this, but you are welcome to stay here as long as you please. However, whenever you choose to leave, please let us know if there is anything you need from us,’ Suzana offered graciously. ‘Water, changes of horse, fresh provisions for the road.’

‘We thank you,’ Luboš answered her. ‘We’d be most grateful. And of course we will offer prayers for you at the Holy Places for your kindness.’

Suzana waved an impatient hand and gave a scoff. ‘Rubbish. Speaking for myself, I’m not extorting prayers from you even if I wanted them. We Bijelahrvatskići owe the Rychnovských far more than we can ever repay. I mean only that you are always welcome here, and that you are welcome to whatever part of our substance might speed and aid you.’

As it so happened, the two martial pilgrims did stay with the Bijelahrvatskići for the better part of a month. It did take rather a while for Pravoslav to open up a bit more to the foster-brother he’d disliked growing up, but by the end of that month the two of them were indeed on speaking terms. Luboš and Pravoslav continued their journey southward through Hungary, upon the Jerusalem Way, with full saddlebags and lighter hearts, while Prohor and Suzana made plans between them to host Jakub and Eirēnē at Šariš when inviting them would be more appropriate.
 
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Book Two Chapter Thirty-One
A sweet little bit of continuity there with Pohor showing kindness to the village dog, just like Radomír taught him once upon a time :)

Thanks, @Wolf6120! Prohor might be a bit full of himself, but he's his father's son: he's got a big heart to match the big head. Both Prohor and his wife will continue to be important recurring minor characters in Book Three...


THIRTY-ONE
t̸͎̠̓͠Ḣ̷͈Ę̵̮̊͑ ̵̪̰̿̔ú̸̱N̴̡͚̄͝e̸̋ͅX̸̜̉͝p̶̟̞͒́Ë̵̻̀c̸͍̤̔Ţ̴̋ę̶̞̚ḓ̵̾̒ ̵̛̤̆G̴̗͔͑͐U̵̥͗Ȩ̴̪͑̀s̴̝̝̓̔t̵̼̋
30 May 999 – 8 April 1001


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Radomír scrambled over the rocks, past the gnarled trees and shrubs growing between them, after the snatches of echo that taunted the edge of his hearing. Echo – no, not an echo. A voice. A woman’s voice. A voice which he knew, or seemed to know, from long ago. Did he dare to speak her name? He knew that she was dead—he couldn’t really be hearing her. But he kept hearing her, even when she was calling to him in his dreams, by name. ‘Radko.’ That voice had led him to this place. She was here.

Where was he? He had been on the Jerusalem Way himself – not long after his wounded brother’s return. But now he was in the midst of mountains which he did not know. Mountains against mountains, fading into the blue and grey of the distance. He whirled around. Was that a laugh, or a trick of the wind?

Where was he? Radomír squinted back the way he’d come, tried to find the rocks he had climbed past or the shrubs he had dodged in his pursuit of the voice. Nothing looked familiar to him, not from this angle. He retraced his steps, or tried, in first one direction, and then another. Hope and despair tugged at each other in his breast as he thought first one, and then another rock was one which he had passed. And he spent the whole afternoon and evening that day trying to find his way back to the road. To no avail.

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‘Radomír…’ came the voice again.

Yearning was there in it. Cornflower-blue eyes. Golden braids. The vision danced before Radomír’s eyes, and he did not know if he was awake or if he was dreaming.

Two days more the King of Moravia spent off the beaten track. He did not know it, but he was lost in the Vodno: a sloping range of mountains south of Skopje. He had wandered well to the west and south of the road he’d been on, en route to the City. On the third day, he managed to stumble out from the mountains back onto level ground, and found his way back onto the road. Looking like a wild man, with scraggly beard and clothing which was tattered, torn and soiled, none would have known him for the Kráľ of Veľká Morava. And the Bulgarian innkeeper was more than shocked – but did not refuse – when this deranged-looking wanderer plonked down good silver on the counter and asked for a room.

He asked around about his travelling companions, and learned they had not gone too much further ahead than him. It did not take Radomír long to catch up to them. But when he told them what had happened, they looked around at each other, and one of them told him nervously:

‘Lord Kráľ… we heard no voice.’

Some of them crossed themselves. Beings which spoke to one, and not to any other, and who led men astray… those were indeed beings which were to be feared. And only in the name of Christ could such beings be driven out.

At length, they entered Thrace, and embarked on the high road which led to the City of Constantine, still a jewel, gleaming gold and alabaster with its estates and its grand pillared heights, its massive domes which soared toward the Heaven they sought to replicate upon earth. The City rose splendid behind its high walls over the glittering straits, leading between the Middle Sea and the Euxine. Radomír’s breath was taken away, as were those of his companions. And he went with them by the main road through the Gate of Charisius, climbed the Sixth Hill and gazed out over the bustling streets toward the Phanarion and the Golden Horn, the waters gleaming gold beneath an azure sky. The pilgrims travelled around the city in a clockwise fashion. However, when they came to the entrance of the chapel at Blachernæ on the northernmost point of the city, Radomír fell into a deep swoon before he could even cross the threshold.

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In consternation, two of his fellow-pilgrims brought him to a doctor, who could find little that was wrong with the King that had been brought before him. Exhaustion was the prognosis he gave, and he recommended rest. Radomír obeyed, and bade the two pilgrims with him go on to visit the churches first… he would catch up later.

‘Radomír…’

Again that voice. Calling with a physician’s solicitude. But it was not this physician, but another that Radomír remembered. One who had taken him to her bed.

‘Who is there?’ Radomír called out.

‘I beg your pardon?’ the Greek physician who had been tending to him answered.

Radomír shook his head. Strained his ears. Nothing answered him.

‘Nothing… never mind,’ the elderly Kráľ said. The Greek physician shrugged and attended to another patient who had been brought in, who was in rather worse condition.

Radomír did not visit any of the churches in Constantinople. He found that his steps would not lead him near their doors, and that if he tried to get close, something would always drag him away – often like a physical hand grasping him and tugging at him not to go near. When he fared back to Olomouc, likewise he would not go near any church, claiming that his illness and weakness from the road would not allow him. And still the voice tormented him. Other voices joined in. Three young men. A child.

Jakub worried incessantly for his father, and so indeed did his eldest grandson. Jozef, indeed, rarely spent any time away from the Church, and he prayed without cease for his grandfather’s deliverance from this strange and invisible ailment he suffered. It was saddening to Jakub and Eirēnē, but far from surprising, when Jozef announced his intention of taking holy orders and renouncing the world for the contemplative life.

Radomír’s behaviour, in the meantime, became stranger and stranger. He had been under a great deal of strain since his brother Luboš’s death of wounds sustained in the service of King Hranimír of Bulgaria. But there was more to his odd manner now than just strain.

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He began smelling fresh bez. Even though those fruits were not in season. And he kept going to the room which had once been Kvetoslava’s, and knocking at her door.

‘What are you doing?’ asked one of the maidservants.

‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Radomír, before straightening his shoulders and fixing her with a cold glare. ‘I am the Kráľ. I go where I please.’

And then he turned his head abruptly, as though he had heard something afar off. The maidservant, however, heard nothing. She courtesied hurriedly.

‘In that case, I will not trouble your Majesty further,’ she said, sweeping herself as neatly as she could out of his presence. Radomír stared after her, a little astounded.

‘What have I been doing?’ he wondered to himself.

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~~~

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Jakub was placing the finishing touches upon a diplomatic missive in his study: a carefully-worded reply to the Chieftain of Lužice, which gave certain guarantees but stood resolute on the issue of the border. Naturally, each word had to be put in its proper place in order for this letter to have its desired effect, and forestall any future incursions on the northern border. The staked bodies on the frontier, sad to say, had not had the intended effect upon the heathen, who were merely provoked into committing outrages of their own upon the innocents of Milčane. Hopefully, with some niceties around the edges, Jakub could put an end to them without need for further bloodshed.

Eirēnē was the one who burst in upon him, her brow furrowed with worry.

‘Come,’ she told her husband. ‘It’s your father.’

Jakub followed his wife as she strode at a brisk pace down the corridor. And he heard what was happening well before he saw it. His father’s voice was raised in pitch and ululating an unearthly howl. Then he heard the voices of not one, but two priests within the same room, as they chanted over him:

Hode Bože spasenija našeho, Syne Boga živahô, na cherubimech nosimy previse si vsäkahô načala i vlasti…

Jakub gaped in horror as he saw the contorted face of his father, lolling unnaturally to one side, his eyes unfocussed and his teeth clenched in a grimace of a hate that could not be human. Two strong lay brothers restrained him by his shoulders as the priests swung the censer over him and continued to chant. Radomír made a sound like a whimpering, wounded dog, but then when one of the priests came too near to him he lashed out in fury, straining against his bonds and tearing at the priest’s vestments with his teeth as though he were rabid.

Jakub crossed himself, again and again, and folded his hands in front of him as he watched the exorcists praying over his father—or what once was his father and was now being controlled by something else, some unexpected guest, some power unseen. One of the lay brothers came over to Jakub and ushered both him and his wife out of the door.

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‘There is nothing more you can do for him,’ the brother had said bracingly, ‘but continue to pray. Prayers will do him good—better than any medicine or earthly help at this point.’

That was the last that Jakub ever saw of his father, living.

When one of the priests who had been attempting to exorcise his father met Jakub again, he said: ‘I am sorry, Jakub. We did all that we could do for him. We fought the power that was gripping him and overmastering him to a calm, and then we anointed the king with the holy oil. We administered the Gifts to him… albeit with some trouble. But when we came to him again to say more prayers over him, we found that his spirit had left his body.’

‘I see,’ Jakub said with a frown. ‘Thank you, Father.’

‘May God protect you, Jakub,’ the exorcist gave the sign of the Cross over Jakub’s outstretched cupped hands. ‘I shall see you again in Velehrad.’

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Map post time!

EUROPE AT THE END OF THE REIGN OF RADOMÍR 1. „HROZNÝ“ RYCHNOVSKÝ

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Germany and France are coming back together... sort of. Britain is still a mess. So is Scandinavia. The Iberian peninsula has all but succumbed to Muslim overlordship. And the Empire of the Caucasus has spectacularly collapsed. But Eastern Rome is still going strong!


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At last, the Mojmírovci have bent the knee, mwahahaha. And I've been gradually but assiduously slicing the salami off of Hungary. The extensiveness of the Cherven Cities is getting a bit worrisome, though.


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Both Bulgaria and Hungary are very odd shapes. Moldavia is more or less correct to its contemporary borders, but it is also ruled by Magyars.
 
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Maybe it’s just cause I binged through most of Radomír’s reign in one sitting, but I’m surprised that it even added up to 19 years on the throne - felt like it went by much faster than any of his predecessors. Though even with a relatively short time on the throne, it seems that he left a rather long-lasting mark on history, albeit not a very optimistic one.

Looking at the map, it seems like the growing Orthodox polities are soon going to run out of heathens to slap around in Eastern Europe. I haven’t read the EU4 portion of this saga yet (I like to take things in chronological order as much as possible), so I might be asking an already-answered question, but I do wonder how long it will before these growing regional powers start coming to blows.
 
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Maybe it’s just cause I binged through most of Radomír’s reign in one sitting, but I’m surprised that it even added up to 19 years on the throne - felt like it went by much faster than any of his predecessors. Though even with a relatively short time on the throne, it seems that he left a rather long-lasting mark on history, albeit not a very optimistic one.

Looking at the map, it seems like the growing Orthodox polities are soon going to run out of heathens to slap around in Eastern Europe. I haven’t read the EU4 portion of this saga yet (I like to take things in chronological order as much as possible), so I might be asking an already-answered question, but I do wonder how long it will before these growing regional powers start coming to blows.

No, sir; it's not your imagination! Bohodar slovoľubec ruled for 45 years; King Boško for 33; and King Pravoslav for 37. Radomír did rule for a comparatively short time. That Got lost modifier (curse you, empty coffers!) plus the Possessed event tree shortened his life significantly. However, yes, he did leave quite the mark.

Not to spoil too much going forward (I've already foreshadowed it in the interludes quite a bit), but even though Slavic heathendom does kind of collapse fairly soon, it gets replaced by a whole bunch of kingdoms following heretical sects: Cathars, Lollards, Waldensians and (ugh) Adamites. The Adamite kingdoms actually last into EU4, which made for an interesting religious map for awhile.
 
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Interlude Six
INTERLUDE VI.
The Three Baptised Kings
12 November 2020


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The court of Kráľ Tomáš 1. was legendary for its vibrancy, its high culture, and its frequent feasting. Although it maintained a Slavic character throughout, both Tomáš and his wife Ricciarda da Castro Arquato were famously gracious hosts and prided themselves on their hospitality. Contemporary Orthodox churchmen spoke disparagingly of the opulence and the worldliness of Tomáš’s palace, the unseemly excesses of the lavish dinner parties, and the theatrical performances and other idle pleasures in which the court indulged. However, foreign visitors to the court remarked with some surprise upon how warm, familiar and inviting it seemed to them, and how far out of the way the Kráľ, his retainers and his servitors went to accommodate their lodging comfort, tastes and even spiritual needs. It must be remembered, after all, that Tomáš’s mother was a Norman Frenchwoman of profound learning, and his own wife Ricciarda was a remarkably versatile cosmopolitan socialite who was at ease speaking not only in her native Italian, but also in Latin, Greek, French, Catalan, High German, English and Arabic.

As a result, the Janus-faced nature of Moravian society, which had been evident going back to the power struggle between Bohodar
slovoľubec and Bratromila Mojmírova, became pronounced particularly during the High Middle Ages. By the 11th century, Moravia at once became more confessionally devoted to Orthodox Christianity, and adopted a more westward-facing secular culture. It is true that Moravian kings continued to style themselves δεσπότης after the Byzantine usage; also that Kráľ Eustach built massive churches with high domed roofs to emulate the Hagia Sophia with local materials; and also that Moravian religious ceremonies followed the rubrics of the Byzantine Rite oftentimes closer than the Eastern Romans did themselves. But by the turn of the 12th century, Moravia had enthusiastically adopted German forms of chivalric device and castle construction, as well as Occitan styles of worldly lyric poetry. Moravian kings as well as lower nobility still turned to the Roman Catholic west to look for mates and alliances. It was only with the more introspective reign of Bohodar 3. that Moravian society more firmly embarked on an ‘Eastern’ diplomatic-cultural trajectory.

There certainly was a festive atmosphere in the court at Olomouc. However, the pomp and prestige of the court of Tomáš came at a cost, both to the landed nobility and to the lower strata of Moravian society. The nobility found themselves subject to laws which less and less resembled the Varangian-Slavic arrangement of a loose
comitatus formed around a powerful tribal leader, and more and more resembled the Eastern Roman practice of a powerful emperor surrounded by dependent bureaucrats. And for the townsfolk and peasantry, the shift was even more marked. As record-keeping and cartography became more precise, the peasantry were more closely confined to the land on which they were born – freedom of movement was harshly curtailed. In addition, with the introduction of high-quality silver denár coins minted at Kutná Hora under Eustach, the exacted tax burden began to be felt more harshly upon townsfolk and peasantry both.

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Caption: Moravian silver denár, ca. RS 6560 [1050 AD]
obverse - Queen Dolz and King Eustach

[note that the two of them are touching hands - ed.]
text - DULS . DA . I . EVSTACH . DES . M
reverse - Christ
Pantokrator seated
between two church steeples
at Uherské Hradiště
- Moravian Royal Museum at Olomouc

‘Thank you, Dalibor,’ Ed Grebeníček said. ‘Now, does anything from this passage stand out to anyone? Yes, Cecilia?’

Cecilia Bedyrová took on a thoughtful look. ‘If Moravia was westernising in terms of its secular culture, and adopting forms of art and courtly manners popular in the Francias, then why would they grow closer to the Orthodox Church during this time?’

‘Good question, Cecilia. Would someone like to venture an answer? Yes, Jolana?’

Jolana Hončová pursed her full lips and glanced upward with her brown eyes. ‘Could it be that the lack of a “nationalist” feeling in Moravian court culture created something of an identity crisis for the Moravian people? Perhaps with their kings and nobles feeling more and more cosmopolitan, the people devoted themselves to a common churchly culture that they all knew and understood?’

Grebeníček smiled. ‘A bit anachronistic, perhaps. You may be onto something important there, Jolana. But does that explain why the kings themselves were more devoted to Orthodox observance?’

‘Perhaps,’ Jolana ventured again, ‘if the kings were centralising power like the textbook says, they needed a prop of support against the nobles, who were sure to oppose it. Perhaps they meant to appeal to the Church for the legitimacy of the crown under God.’

‘Mm,’ Grebeníček nodded. ‘Two prongs of attack from Jolana, both converging upon the proper point. Well done. Yes: the Church was a sure means for a king at odds with his noblemen to both keep his noblemen in check and provide himself with popularity among the commoners, cutting out the nobles’ base of support in the event of a rebellion. Now… there is a saying that has been handed down for centuries. It’s become something of a saw, in fact; I’m sure at least one of you has heard it. What did they say about Kings Jakub, Eustach and Tomáš?’

Several hands went up. Grebeníček smiled and gave a signal for them to continue.

Jakub bol otcom; Eustach bol dozorcom; Tomáš bol právnicom!

‘Quite so. “Jakub was a father; Eustach was a master; Tomáš was a lawyer.” A very simple summation of the rules of the traja pokrstení králi, and the characters of each man. Yes, Petra?’

‘So why were they called the “three baptised kings”? Weren’t all the kings baptised?’

Grebeníček nodded. ‘Well, of course they were. But the kings up to this point had Slavic names: Bohodar, Pravoslav, Radomír. And the kings after Tomáš would all have Slavic names as well… at least, up until Kaloján. But these three kings were named for saints: Saint James the Brother of the Lord, Saint Eustathios the Martyr, Saint Thomas the Apostle. We have explored a little already a few of the reasons why the Rychnovský dynasts decided to put on this display of churchly piety.’

‘And were they actually more pious?’

Grebeníček let out an ironic guffaw. ‘Given the three re-founding kings that came before them, the last of whom had the reputation of a demoniac, that wouldn’t be a very high bar to clear, now, would it?’

‘I suppose it would depend on what kind of father, what kind of master and what kind of lawyer,’ Petra marvelled.

‘Well,’ Grebeníček clarified, clasping his hands behind his back and twitching his moustache, ‘let’s put it this way. Jakub and Eustach were popular not only because they were pious, but also because they were men of action, who liked to lead from the front. And Tomáš was… a bon vivant who loved food, drink and entertainment. But they were all shrewd men. If Radomír hrozný knew how to win power through terror, each of these three of his descendants knew how to hold onto that power by cunning, and wield it charismatically. Radomír reigned with the iron gauntlet; Tomáš with the velvet glove. But by the end of Tomáš’s reign, though, Moravia would be internally strengthened and legally unified in a way that only West Francia would rival. Still… what does the Budinsk‎ý letopis say about the three of them in précis? Yes, Dalibor?’

Dalibor read aloud from the excerpt.

Jakub guided the Moravian lands with the hand of a firm but loving sire, and his word was stronger than a band of iron. He led Moravia’s armies to glory upon the shores of Asia Minor. His son, the Builder of Churches, placed a monastery or a chapel on every bend of the River Morava. However, he carried his love for his wife beyond the bounds of God’s law. And Tomáš, a profound legal mind, went with great ease between the courtroom and the feasting-hall. He brought great splendour to Olomouc in both.

‘That should answer your question, Petra,’ Ed Grebeníček said. ‘Such a précis gives us a fairly good idea of the kind of kings we are dealing with here…’


~ END OF BOOK II ~
 
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Book Three Chapter One
BOOK THREE. Built to Last

The Reign of Jakub Rychnovský, Kráľ of Veľká Morava


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ONE
Staring Down the Sow
27 July 1001 - 27 May 1003


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Abbaye Fleury, Saint-Benoît-sur-Loire, West Francia​

‘Brother Rémy! Brother Rémy!’

Rémy the hospitaller turned. ‘Yes, Brother Claude?’

The tall, gangly novice reached into his robe and pulled out a small bundle of loose sheets of vellum, some of them merely scraps, and all of them clearly having been used multiple times. The hospitaller’s face turned sour.

‘And in God’s name what, Brother Claude, would I want with a stack of used vellum?’

‘It’s not the vellum, Brother. It’s what’s on them!’

Rémy took the sheets from the novice, and as his sharp blue eyes scanned the text upon them, his sour mouth soon took on a gaping, awed look. ‘Animadversiones de occasu ossium, de curatione vulnerum et de levatione doloris…?’

His hands curiously folded through the separate leaves of the document. The lettering, all written in meticulous, painstaking uncial miniscule from a clearly patient hand, went from Psalms and hymns and prayers all carefully copied out, into orderly, methodical observations of various methods of bonesetting, curing wounds and blemishes and diseases of the skin, and dulling pain. These observations were accompanied by marginalia consisting of careful anatomical sketches and drawings of both healthy flesh and wounded flesh, broken and mended limbs, and methods used for treating them. The aged Rémy was master enough of his art to recognise the work of a brilliant medical mind when he saw it. Yet it was odd that these notes were simply dashed off on scrap like this, instead of carefully stitched, glued and bound in leather. It was also odd that, although there were devotional prayers and Psalter readings on every single page, there were only scattered references to Galen or Dioscorides or Bald. It was as though this savant had pieced together these treatments and such from his own experience rather than from a careful study of medical theory.

‘Where in God’s name did you get this?’ breathed the wondering Rémy.

‘Oh, so it’s from “in God’s name what” to “in God’s name where”, is it?’ Claude snarked, but he quickly answered the question. ‘I got them off Jean-Jacques, the bookseller in town. He said he’d come by them cheap, and let me have them for three coppers.’

‘In town’ meant Orléans. This was, after all, Abbaye Fleury. Rémy flipped back to the front page and looked at the attribution.

‘Who do you suppose this “Helvius Turonicus” was?’ asked Claude.

‘Clearly, he was a man of deep learning and deep faith,’ Rémy told him, still tracing over the text with wondering fingers. ‘He may indeed have been a monk of our order. I shall have to try some of these remedies myself upon our patients. I wouldn’t be surprised if they work wonders, and if our abbey as a whole could learn from this text. In which case, we may have to begin writing copies for ourselves, and perhaps selling them to mendicant physicians and their sæcular patrons.’

Sure enough, les remèdes d’Helvie proved to be remarkably popular among the ill and injured at the hospital of Abbaye Fleury over the following months. The monks of the hospital administered them with full attention both to the methods prescribed and to the prayers and Psalms. The results for many of the patients proved nothing short of wondrous. And with the permission of Abbot Abbo, the manuscript responsible for these minor medical miracles was given to the novices in the scriptorium, to be copied out into proper books.

This was the way in which the reputation of Helvius Turonicus began to spread in West Francia.

~~~

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The manor house lay just off the Road of Kings as it came eastward through the town of Brassel. Jakub was eager to inspect the new dwelling. He had brought Eirēnē with him to hear her input on the management of the property, and of course with them went their three younger children: Alžbeta, Eustach and Rebeka. Alžbeta was naturally eager to explore the place and leapt toward the gardens as soon as she was loosed, while Eustach scrutinised the place from a distance before methodically inspecting the grounds, beginning from well and cellar and moving toward the stables. Rebeka toddled along hand-in-hand with her mother.

‘And you worried that Eustach wouldn’t enjoy being here,’ Eirēnē gave Jakub a sidelong smirk.

‘That’s not what I said,’ the new king answered his wife. ‘I said he probably would prefer to stay home and study. Though it does seem he has a keen eye for detail even in this, doesn’t he?’

‘So he does,’ Eirēnē agreed, looking with satisfaction at her son. She couldn’t help remembering the woman at the stall who had foretold his birth – Barbara – and her pronouncements on his fate. ‘He’s been a good brother to his sisters, as well. He looks out for them, gets them out of scrapes, keeps a level head all the while. He takes after his father that way.’

‘And his mother is far too modest about her contributions.’

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Eirēnē shrugged eloquently as she continued walking, past the garden and the well to look at the far side of the manor house and the fence on the other side.

‘Jakub, we’ll need to do more than a bit of maintenance here. Bear in mind, this place is on the northern border, and susceptible to attack. Am I wrong, or didn’t your grandfather fight a battle near here once?’

‘So he did. That was just around when I came of age.’

‘Hm,’ Eirēnē said, sizing him up. ‘I’ll bet you cut quite the figure.’

‘Sure,’ Jakub answered her with a mock salute. ‘Smeared with sweat, caked with blood, tabard streaked with mud… we were all quite a sight to see.’

‘All the more reason why you’ll need to set up ditches and embankments: just up here by the fence, as well as down there by the stream. It would make your job defending this place easier. Better to get the dirt on you now than in the thick of battle, no?’

‘I can’t rightly disagree with that.’

Eirēnē brushed his hand. ‘Let’s have a look inside the house, Jakub.’

So they did. Eirēnē took careful note of the kitchens and the cellars, of the hob and hearth, and of the furnishings in the main room. She made several suggestions with regard to the upkeep that sounded quite reasonable to Jakub.

‘We will want to make sure that the long tables are in good repair if we want to properly entertain guests,’ she noted shrewdly, ‘as you no doubt will. And we might want to arrange them so that bringing up wine or ale from the cellars would not be such a chore for the servants: you see—there, and there.’

As he looked on at her in admiration he understood suddenly how close she had become to him… how much he relied on her. Eirēnē meant much more to Jakub, being far more than the mother of his children and the pourer of ale at his table. She was a single-minded, open-hearted woman who not only never threw shade on her husband’s magnanimity but actively encouraged it. Bred and born to kingship and to the leadership of men, Jakub never thought to find a kindred spirit in a common-born bower’s daughter of few means—but here she was before him.

‘What, Jakub?’ his wife asked him. ‘What is it?’

‘Oh, I was just thinking how lucky I am. It’s good to have a sensible wife.’

Eirēnē let out a self-deprecating scoff. ‘I’d liefer say it’s good to have an appreciative husband. Not all men would value a woman’s advice as you do.’

The rest of their walk through and around the house was similarly pleasant. Although Jakub was intimately familiar with Eirēnē’s body and all of her secrets, the way only a husband and sire of five children could be, somehow he felt much closer to her while they were speaking frankly to each other like this—minds on an equal level, strivers toward a common goal. Was it love? Perhaps not in some ardent, passionate romantic sense. But warmth, familiarity, trust—all of these and more, they shared.

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~~~​

‘Alžbeta!’

Eustach was not quite close enough to her when he saw his sister, who had been leaning on the rail by the pigsty with her feet perched on one of the lower slats, lose her balance and tumble forward. She let out a cry of fright as the swine within, themselves disturbed and shocked at this strange young human that had broken their quiet and intruded upon their space, squealed in outrage. Eustach made up his mind in an instant. Even as the swine threatened to charge the still-dazed girl in their midst, Eustach had already broken into a sprint and leapt the fence in front of his sister. He gave her a hand and a boost back onto the fence of the sty, and whirled around to face the nearest angry sow – almost as tall as the boy and easily five times his weight. And he held his ground while Alžbeta ensconced herself safely on the outside.

The sow tossed her lowered head and pawed at the ground, and Eustach was still uncertain whether or not she would charge him. But the two of them made eye contact, and Eustach did not blink. Human and pig stared at each other for a long, tense moment, before finally the sow turned her head and walked back toward her litter – still keeping her body protectively between him and them, but no longer threatening violence.

Eustach let out his breath, without ever having realised he was holding it. Alžbeta stood up behind him on the other side of the fence and dusted off her skirts. Eustach clambered back over the fence and landed with both feet next to her.

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‘Thanks,’ said his older sister.

‘Don’t mention it,’ said the younger brother.

Perhaps it was from study of his father, but it was clear that Eustach had received quite honestly from Jakub both his sang-froid and his fearlessness in the face of a threat. This time, he’d stared down the sow and won. Thus far only Alžbeta had seen Eustach’s mettle, but soon enough his reputation would spread among his other siblings.

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Eirēnē was not a very demonstrative woman when it came to her affections. She kept a pace away from her husband at all times whenever they were in public, and he never failed to respect her space. But their affection grew by leaps and bounds. They not only shared a vision for the new property, but soon found they had all manner of common interests. Eirēnē may have been low-born, but she had still been a member of the court in Veroia, and she knew all of the refined arts expected of a Byzantine lady. Jakub laughed heartily when his wife managed to thrash him roundly in a game of chess, and he truly enjoyed going on long countryside walks with her. She was never wanting for conversation: whether it was the drawing-room cliques of the Bohemian ladies, the weaknesses and strengths of the Frankish realms relative to Eastern Rome, or the possibilities of negotiated settlement with the heathen on the northern border. Jakub found in Eirēnē a woman who truly valued peace and worked to ensure it around her, and while conversing with her, he strengthened his resolve to rule Moravia with a rather lighter touch than his father had.

Their closeness even accompanied them into the bedroom. Although they had lain as husband and wife their entire lives, somehow their samelies in this new estate in Brassel were more relaxed and more satisfying than they had ever been prior to this. Evidently good friends did make good bedmates. And it was no surprise to either of them when Eirēnē’s next issue of blood did not come.

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Book Three Chapter Two
TWO
The Second Bohemian Rising
18 June 1003 – 12 August 1004


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Suzana Vasiľevna felt faint when she saw her husband’s body lying on the ground. His beardless face was grimacing in agony, and there was a veritable lake of blood pooling around his leg where it had been impaled by a branch from a fallen tree. The bowers were busy clearing it away. Suzana ran to her husband’s side, her black braids flying behind her.

‘Prohor. Prohor, answer me,’ Suzana told her husband. It shocked her how level and calm her own voice sounded, given how frightened she was for him. ‘Stay with me. You’ll be alright. Can you move your leg at all?’

‘No,’ Prohor blew out through his gritted teeth. ‘No, I can’t. Suzka… it’s broken, Suzka.’

‘I see,’ Suzana told him. Suddenly she remembered something. ‘Hold on, my love, my heart—don’t move a muscle. I’ll be right back.’

Suzana ran fleetly back to Šariš Castle, her skirts swishing about her ankles, dashed through the gate and across the courtyard to the keep, and entered her husband’s study. Taking a couple of breaths in the doorway to calm herself—panicking would do no one any good, least of all Prohor—she went to his desk and with deft hand and eye began sifting through the papers and books upon it. Her husband was quite the bookworm, not she, but she did recall him bringing back a curious Latin item from a Frankish pilgrim on the Jerusalem Way who had stayed in the village. And he’d told her it had something to do with the setting of bones and the healing of wounds. Right now she hoped that he was right.

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Then she saw the Latin writing on the cover of the volume she sought. Anim—Anima—something or other. She snatched it up, then ran to fetch the chaplain, Dobroslav. A clueless and impractical little man, but at least he knew Latin, and could translate the directions into something she could understand.

‘Come quickly,’ she told him. ‘Your lord is hurt, and I need your help to save him.’

Dobroslav leapt up and followed her after she’d placed the book in his hand. They ran down the hill toward the river, toward the wooded area outside the village where the 27-year-old knieža had fallen beneath the tree. Suzana wasn’t one given to praying, but she lifted one up to God now to deliver her husband. He might be a bit full of himself at times, but he was a good man. She didn’t want to lose him.

The White Croat woman knelt at her husband’s side—thank God, he was still breathing!—and turned her head back toward Dobroslav.

‘Well? What does that book say about breaks in the leg and loss of blood?’

‘First,’ Dobroslav intoned gravely, ‘Helvius instructs you to say all of the Ordinary Prayers before starting work, then ask for the intercessions of the Blessed Virgin Mary, of Saint Luke the Evangelist as well as Saints Cosmas and Damien the Holy Unmercenaries. Then you must say the Mozarabic Lord our Physician Prayer, and the Prayer for Unity from Saint Dionysius—’

‘Never mind all that!’ cried an exasperated Suzana. ‘What does it say about setting the bone?!’

Dobroslav, muttering to himself, flipped forward a page and traced with his finger down the lines of carefully-copied Latin text. Then he began giving her the instructions: how and where to apply pressure with clean linens, how to place the patient with his head in the lower position than his legs, and finally how to place and tighten a straight hard splint next his leg. Suzana did all of it with careful attention and compassionate hands, and Prohor gazed at his wife with wonder as she tended to the work herself, even though her hands were sticky and red-turning-black with his blood, the knees of her skirts were grimy, and her face was dripping with the sweat of worry and exertion.

Soon enough, Prohor’s leg was back in a semblance of its former shape, and the bleeding had been stanched. Suzana still thought he looked pale, and his jaw was clenched with the persistent pain, but he was alive, and would live.

‘Thank you, Suzka,’ Prohor lay his hand on his wife’s arm with unaccustomed humility.

His wife grinned down at him, giddy with relief that, for the time being, he was out of danger. ‘Well. Thank Dobroslav too, while you’re at it. And Helvius Turonicus.’

~~~

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‘Milord Kráľ,’ Hrabě Soběslav Přemyslovec jutted out a belligerent bearded chin, ‘the laws which Radomír saw fit to lord over us must be rescinded, and your treatment of Knieža Radislav of Nitra has been nothing short of unconscionable! I tell you, the Bohemian lords of your realm barely tolerated your father’s tyrannies. We shall certainly not tolerate yours any further.’

Jakub spread his hands. ‘The matter between me and Nitra has been settled. Also, the Bohemian lords forfeited many of their rights when they rose up in rebellion against the former king. And you say I should restore them, because…?’

‘Because it is the right thing to do,’ Soběslav shot back angrily. ‘Is this the way of a Christian king, to sit upon gains that his father got through violence?’

‘And yet,’ Jakub noted, ‘it was the Bohemian lords themselves who first resorted to violence. No—if I give in to you on this, it shall undermine the very basis of trust upon which this realm was built. I shall not rescind my father’s laws under such a demand.’

‘Very well,’ Soběslav growled. ‘You have not heard the end of this.’

And he turned on his heel and marched out of the hall, several other Bohemians going out with him. Jakub sighed. It had given him no pleasure at all to put his thumb on the scale in the case of Nitra, but he owed it to Prohor to protect Užhorod’s rights even if he could not intervene directly in their dispute. It seemed the Mojmírovci had chosen to manipulate the Češi into challenging him openly in court rather than doing so themselves. Truth be told, Jakub admired more the honest and open challenge of the Bohemian lords than the subtle manœuvres of the Nitran. But it did not one whit change his determination when the hrabata Soběslav Přemyslovec, Velemír Abovský and Slavomír Žatecký all mobilised their riders and men-at-arms, and rose up in arms.

Jakub wasted no time. The armies mustered in Olomouc for the four-day march west to Čáslav. The summer weather was fine, and the ripening fields of oat and wheat waved their benedictions to the marching troops in the gentle breeze, interspersed with the odd linden or oak joining in with their ripe dark green foliage. Jakub noticed that the Hrabě of Sadec was suffering some form of complaint.

‘Tarkhan, are you alright?’ Jakub asked his friend solicitously. ‘You seem a bit… stiff.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ the Khazar lord snapped. His tone softened. ‘I often get these attacks at night. Swelling in the knees and ankles. It will pass.’

Jakub gave Hrabě Tarkhan a doubtful look, but did not press the issue. It was clearly something that his maršál wanted to handle himself. There was another thing that weighed heavily on them both: of their old fellowship during Pravoslav’s days, Tarkhan and Jakub were now the only two left. Luboš was dead of his wounds. And Velemír had now taken up arms against them in rebellion. However, this was a topic best not spoken of at present.

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Jakub’s army met Soběslav’s very near his mustering-grounds by Přítoky, a field standing north of the Bylanka River. The king’s prompt action had headed off a possible defeat: Slavomír Žatecký did not have time to bring his own armies to the aid of the Přemyslovec forces at Čáslav, by which they would almost certainly have outnumbered the king’s men. As it was, Soběslav was only able to field half of his force at Přítoky, and the results were as expected.

Although Soběslav had more riders than the king did, they were no match for Tarkhan’s ability to spread his archers out along the banks of the stream to protect his spear formations. The horsemen quickly exhausted themselves and their mounts in vain attempts to crush the Moravians’ line of battle. Přítoky soon turned into a rout for the Hrabě of Čáslav, and Žatec’s scouts saw enough of the battle to warn Slavomír against joining. He moved off to the northeast.

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Tarkhan’s joint complaints worsened after that battle, however, and his knees and ankles began to swell such that it became difficult for him to walk or ride. However, he was still well enough in his wits to plan to attack Žatec somewhere along the right bank of the Labe. As it turned out after they had gone two days’ march northeast, the armies of Žatec were encamped by the confluence of the Labe with the Úpa, not far from the village of Jaroměř. By the time they reached the Úpa, though, Tarkhan’s ankles and knees were swollen so badly and were causing him so much pain that he could hardly stay upright in the saddle.

Tarkhan gave the order of attack, and the archers at once went to work with the skill of long practice in following the Hrabě of Sadec’s orders which had led them to so many victories. And again, using the river to their advantage, the men of Žatec were caught in a deadly crossfire. It wasn’t long before they were beating the retreat.

But Tarkhan himself collapsed even as he was pursuing the enemy. The inflammation of his joints had festered, and the ailment had overpowered his body. Ominously, he fell out of his saddle just as he was about to reach Slavomír himself. By the time Jakub and his men caught up with the maršal, he was already dead. Now of the fellowship of Pravoslav’s knights, only Jakub and Velemír were left. And they were on opposing sides.

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Jakub settled into a long siege against the town of Čáslav. Correctly, the king surmised that if the Bohemian rebels were cut off from the silver deposits near Malín, their rebellion would collapse. As it turned out when Čáslav surrendered, Soběslav’s grandson was among those taken prisoner. The rebellion collapsed after that, and the three Bohemian lords were hauled back to Olomouc in chains.

As they knelt before the king, he looked over them solemnly.

‘Soběslav, this makes twice you have risen up in revolt against the crown, tempted by the ease of paying for it with freshly-mined silver. I shall make it so that this is no longer a concern for you, and I hereby strip you of lordship over Čáslav and its environs, including Malín.’

Soběslav ground his teeth, but could only bow his head in submission.

‘Slavomír Žatecky,’ the king said, turning his attention to the second noble prisoner, ‘Somehow you have wound up in possession of a piece of Slieszko which does not belong in your keeping. I hereby strip you of lordship over Bytom and its environs.’

Who could tell what went on behind the masque that hid Slavomír’s disfigured face? But he too bowed his head meekly in answer to the king’s decision.

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‘Velemír Abovský…’ Jakub looked sadly over the doughty fighter he had once admired and idolised in his youth. The fifty-year-old who had been elevated to the nobility by Jakub’s grandfather, now had a face that was bleary and puffy, and a paunch that had been rendered gross by the fact of his habitual tippling. He blew out a long breath in anticipation of the fate that would befall him. But looking at him, Jakub could feel nothing but pity. ‘For the sake of our old fellowship, I leave you in command of all your titles. Once your lands have furnished enough silver to pay out your release, you may go.’

It was with a pang that Jakub turned to Tarkhan Aqhazar’s nearest kin: Sarä Aqhazar and her husband Vratislav. Jakub already missed Tarkhan dearly, and he figured that the best way to honour his memory was by giving of the spoils to his kinfolk.

‘Vratislav, come forward.’

The blond man came to Jakub and knelt. The dark-haired king and his blond unknown half-brother regarded each other for some while. Radomír had never told his legitimate son about Vratislav, and nor did Vratislav know the truth of his father.

‘Take the hilt of my sword,’ Jakub told him, who did as ordered. ‘For the sake of Tarkhan, kin to you by marriage, and in memory and token of both his and your devoted service, I hereby proclaim you Vratislav, Hrabě of Bytom.’

‘Thank you, your Majesty,’ Vratislav told Jakub humbly.

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