Always sad to see childhood friends grow apart... and then start a war with each other over feudal rights. We’ve all been there.
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The Lions of Olomouc: a CKIII Ironman AAR (Duchy of Moravia, 867)
- Thread starter Revan86
- Start date
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Hmmm, that was not the object for summarising the view on the character through a readAAR's eyes. Hell no, writing is superb. Now re-checked whatever blabber was written in own post; apparently an inflation of the concept narzissmus occurred in the remark; and it may not exactly match the definition. Will still hold the view, though.
- Errr... Mate, that was two weeks ago.
- So? What is the problem? It is not necro?
- Yeah, but I mean, it has been two weeks since you have checked the ones you read, on- or offline. You have not logged in for a long time too.
- ...and? Is this supposed to be a criticism for my punctuality? Just say our piece, I have to-
- There has been many updates on the story.
- Look I get it, I may have fallen a bit behind, but I'll catch it up. Hang on.
<checks the chapters; his face changes abruptly>
-...but, but...
- Uh, that is what I was trying to tell you. <hesitates for a moment> ...and Book II has been already concluded.
- WHAT?!
<starts to read in delirium; this will be a long night>
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Always glad to see you back, @filcat! Sorry about the overload there; like I said, I've been kind of on a writing bender lately.
I'll try to pace out my updates better over the next few weeks. Both for own sanity and for readers'.
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- See. It wasn't that hard. It took all night though.
<looking at the eyes, reddened, twitching, half-opened>
- Mate... Are you all right?
- Yes. Yes I am.
- Errr...
- No worries. Came for the comments?
- Y-yeah.
- Hit the music. Something superfluous, rhythmic perhaps, to keep up the energy.
- O-ok. Suncore by Niky Nine. Pseudo-retro.
- Huh. All right. Let's go!
Confirming the use of the title Kráľ for the monarchs of moravia-bohemia-czech-slovak; was savouring this since the beginning of Book II (got distracted by a former colleague, known as the friendly watchdog; nevermind).
Some fun trivia, despite of it being a common knowledge (therefore sincere apologies for repetitive information):
Assuming (the rough, meaningless, and banal) division of east and west for the cultures of the continental europe (it being a continent again by superficial classification, that has no meaning for geology);
The monarchies of the eastern cultures, mostly slavic, adopted the use of Kráľ form as the name of the title for the highest position, whereas the use of Caesar also held its value for some of the cultures, in the forms of tsar and kaiser. The western cultures of latin went with the root rex (indo-european; cognate of raja) for king; except the isles, which went with king (germanic; cognate of knyaz князь). The obvious etymological root for Kráľ is accepted as Karl der Große, Charles the Great, or from the french Charles-le-magne - Charlemagne, from its latin form Karolus (Imperator Augustus) Magnus.
Even though it ıs not attested in the old church slavonic (but the name charles is attested as cearl of mercia in Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum, 731 ce), it is certainly used as the royal title and known commonly, to the point that it is borrowed by the ottomans. Through them some of the altaic sprachbund languages use this root for translating king for the rulers of cultures other than themselves as kral (in turkish and azerbaijani; король in kazakh, from russian), even though many other forms are still in use for their own historical figures, as han, hakan, kağan (khan, khagan; altaic); sultan (arabic); şah, padişah (padishah; persian).
Elegantly summarised in one reply of a conversation here of course; kudos.
Oh, by the way; that image of Raina. Yeah, ck3 (and all pdx games) at its best. Who knows what happens to these characters; at one moment they smile, and next they show up beaten, bloodied on face, mauled to death. Of course, if there is no trait to indicate a clue (flagellant... ehh... the most inflated-overused trait in the game. Look, it is to an extent understandable when certain characters show it; but hundreds from mali to burma, from tamil to siberia come up with this, yes, it is ridiculous), there remains no explanation to what happened to them. Sigh. These event-based games. At least give the player a possibility to ask about the character: Why are your eyes blackened? Eh, whatever.
Oh now showing off. Holy carl runge and wilhelm kutta. Wrote and scanned...? Damn.
Beautiful detail. Kudos.
BOOK III
...and so it begins.
...and to the new starters, the enthusiasts, those already writing, those who would like to take the passion and cast it into words; this is how it is done; the arc, beautifully foreshadowed; the plot, stylishly presented; the outcome, masterfully exposed.
Kudos.
<looking at the eyes, reddened, twitching, half-opened>
- Mate... Are you all right?
- Yes. Yes I am.
- Errr...
- No worries. Came for the comments?
- Y-yeah.
- Hit the music. Something superfluous, rhythmic perhaps, to keep up the energy.
- O-ok. Suncore by Niky Nine. Pseudo-retro.
- Huh. All right. Let's go!
Bold move to talk about ethics with the Kráľ at that point, Prohor, but suit yourself.
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Intermission; Friendly nerdic defender of the fictional lores enters the stage;Confirming the use of the title Kráľ for the monarchs of moravia-bohemia-czech-slovak; was savouring this since the beginning of Book II (got distracted by a former colleague, known as the friendly watchdog; nevermind).
Some fun trivia, despite of it being a common knowledge (therefore sincere apologies for repetitive information):
Assuming (the rough, meaningless, and banal) division of east and west for the cultures of the continental europe (it being a continent again by superficial classification, that has no meaning for geology);
The monarchies of the eastern cultures, mostly slavic, adopted the use of Kráľ form as the name of the title for the highest position, whereas the use of Caesar also held its value for some of the cultures, in the forms of tsar and kaiser. The western cultures of latin went with the root rex (indo-european; cognate of raja) for king; except the isles, which went with king (germanic; cognate of knyaz князь). The obvious etymological root for Kráľ is accepted as Karl der Große, Charles the Great, or from the french Charles-le-magne - Charlemagne, from its latin form Karolus (Imperator Augustus) Magnus.
Even though it ıs not attested in the old church slavonic (but the name charles is attested as cearl of mercia in Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum, 731 ce), it is certainly used as the royal title and known commonly, to the point that it is borrowed by the ottomans. Through them some of the altaic sprachbund languages use this root for translating king for the rulers of cultures other than themselves as kral (in turkish and azerbaijani; король in kazakh, from russian), even though many other forms are still in use for their own historical figures, as han, hakan, kağan (khan, khagan; altaic); sultan (arabic); şah, padişah (padishah; persian).
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Smiling as the fan-predictions are poured on lines as words; but terrified to see as it happens. Approaching to that throne is a dire business, after the... uh... incident.
...sure. Certainly. Promise.
Good, very good planning and wonderful execution of bringing the story from the depths of misery to the highest level of hope, for the now and the future. Kudos.
A sad and a well-known, short side-story. What do you think, Penka; would you not think of any impending risks of being at the service of a monarch, being at the mercy of a ruler, being at the hands of a master? You have nothing else but your shackles to lose. Run, Penka, run, and say farewell from the never-happened but ever-realistic fictional past to your readers in the dreams and the nightmares of the now and the future.
To be specific for the previous commentary on Radko; this was the actual object to achieve trying to explain it. Detached from the reality and the people, he embraces the only concept he is comfortable with: His authority to rule all.
Elegantly summarised in one reply of a conversation here of course; kudos.
...and here the pattern of erratic behaviour is shown; he does not have any gains from it, as he has already achieved what he wished, to show his presence, without indulging any humane contact. The rest is easy for him to dismiss; and yet, he cannot be satisfied, because his insanity is insurmountable.{*}
Farewell, Raina. Your poor life was poisoned by those who never cared for your being; farewell.
Oh, by the way; that image of Raina. Yeah, ck3 (and all pdx games) at its best. Who knows what happens to these characters; at one moment they smile, and next they show up beaten, bloodied on face, mauled to death. Of course, if there is no trait to indicate a clue (flagellant... ehh... the most inflated-overused trait in the game. Look, it is to an extent understandable when certain characters show it; but hundreds from mali to burma, from tamil to siberia come up with this, yes, it is ridiculous), there remains no explanation to what happened to them. Sigh. These event-based games. At least give the player a possibility to ask about the character: Why are your eyes blackened? Eh, whatever.
{*} ...and here it is, the reason of his demise, and he can never achieve it, but he would try asserting it through whatever means he could, thus the violence, now ends in complete psychosis.
...
...and there it ends. No, Radomír was never a victim, it cannot be seen as such, and he was truly terrible. The pity of the readAAR is reserved for only Raina, and it is miraculous to see children surviving such a character.
What the-
Oh now showing off. Holy carl runge and wilhelm kutta. Wrote and scanned...? Damn.
Beautiful detail. Kudos.
BOOK III
...and so it begins.
{**}
{**}
...and to the new starters, the enthusiasts, those already writing, those who would like to take the passion and cast it into words; this is how it is done; the arc, beautifully foreshadowed; the plot, stylishly presented; the outcome, masterfully exposed.
Kudos.
Welcome to the jungle, we've got fun and game, Vratislav.
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Did not want to disrupt the flow of the writing, not an overload this is. Never listen to the whims of the ones pathetically slow at reading (or catching up); write, write more, and all will be read.
Of course, if there is a need of resting, take all the time (but write more damn it
)
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Admiring amazing work ethic. But! This is Orthodox AAR, not Protestant. Take mesimeri. Have a cup of tea... or a shot of rakija. Writing I have already done, is not going anywhere. Take your time!
Modesty and circumspection are not two of this strutting young White Croat's strong points, heh.
I love the etymological digressions. And of course Bogöri was calling Pravoslav patša back when... which was just from this Chuvash / Old Bulghar / Turkic borrowing from Persian!
Lol. Jakub isn't a bad sort in the last analysis, but even he is his father's son in some ways.
This is excellent analysis, and absolutely correct. Anything vulnerable, tender, caring, human in Radko - got stomped out of him early. What can be left? He is detached indeed. His only contact with others comes through his neuroses.
Yes. The thing is that I rather liked Raina Srednogorski, and really did want her and Radko to end up well together. But the m@#&/$ing game had to go and pair him with that minx I hired for a physician. Ah well. I ran with that one as well as I could.
What the-
Oh now showing off. Holy carl runge and wilhelm kutta. Wrote and scanned...? Damn.
Beautiful detail. Kudos.
Indeed. Helvius Turonicus turns out to be quite a pivotal character in this AAR.
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One might be able to say that the Terrible is gone to demonic possession just as he deserved it through his actions. Yet it is always easier to judge, and truly good people didn't have better luck for their deaths.
Jakub has gotten acquainted with the age-old tradition of revolting right after the succession, and it might become a permanent thing in Moravia now that its gains are consolidated. He does make for quite the contrast to his late father.
And Vratislav is now a landholder! Kvetoslava's plan didn't work out for herself, but her son at least lives a good life. If Pravoslav knew, he'd curse the woman even more than he did in life.
Jakub has gotten acquainted with the age-old tradition of revolting right after the succession, and it might become a permanent thing in Moravia now that its gains are consolidated. He does make for quite the contrast to his late father.
And Vratislav is now a landholder! Kvetoslava's plan didn't work out for herself, but her son at least lives a good life. If Pravoslav knew, he'd curse the woman even more than he did in life.
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Book Three Chapter Three
'For He maketh the d20 to roll natural 20s on the evil and the good; and sendeth natural 1s on the just and on the unjust.' Amen.
Intriguingly, Vratislav's line with Sara (which the game counts as a cadet branch of the Aqhazar family, because bastard founders don't inherit) turned out fairly well. No cause for complaint, other than that dedo had mamka knifed to death in the street...
Jakub's approach is indeed a bit different to his father's in managing the kingdom, as shall be seen here in this upcoming chapter, in fact!
THREE
Dinner Diplomacy
27 August 1004 – 5 March 1006
Prohor, having walked across the Pont over the River Loire and having turned off the Royal Road onto the Grande Marche, found himself standing outside a bookstore in Orléans, with the copy of the Animadversiones in hand that had saved his leg and perhaps even his life. He still walked with a bit of a limp, though he had progressed past the need for a walking-staff. He was determined to find the author of the book he had in his hand, and after having spoken with the monks at Abbaye Fleury – in particular Brother Claude and Brother Rémy who had discovered it – he had traced it back to this bookstore.
It was a typical French mercantile house: two stories, half-timbered. It lacked the semi-open storefront with the overhang facing the street that most such shops had, but because its medium of trade was so dear, the Croat knieža was not surprised in the slightest. Prohor took a deep breath and entered the shop. A little bell over the door rang as he swung it open and stepped over the threshold. The welcome, musty smell of thin vellum, cured leather and binding greeted Prohor’s nose, evoking in his scholarly mind all of the wonders and mysteries that a bookstore could hold.
A stooped little man with wispy white hair came to greet Prohor.
‘Bienvenue, Monseignor!’ he exclaimed. ‘Welcome, milord. Is there anything that I can help you with?’
‘Are you the proprietor, good man?’ asked Prohor. ‘The man they call Jean-Jacques?’
The white-haired man gave a tilt of the head. ‘That is what they call me, milord. Might I ask what such an eminent personage as yourself, clearly coming from afar off, wants with a humble bookseller like me?’
Prohor held up the volume in his hand, and showed it to Jean-Jacques. ‘This book,’ he told the bookseller, ‘saved my life not long ago, in the hands of my wife and my chaplain. It was given to me by a pilgrim from West Francia, and I have traced its original back to this shop—to you. Might you enlighten me as to where you got it, so that I may repay the debt of gratitude?’
The elderly man grinned and took the book into his hands. ‘Well, let me see here—’ but no sooner had he turned the cover and glanced at the title and the writing on the inside, than his face clouded and grew guarded and closed. Prohor marked this. ‘Pardon, Monseignor,’ he said. ‘I am afraid I cannot help you—perhaps you have the wrong bookstore?’
Prohor knew at once that the old bookseller knew more than he was telling. ‘Come now,’ Prohor put on a winning smile. ‘Surely the good brothers at Fleury wouldn’t have led me astray. There’s a good name at stake in it for me. Perhaps the two of us might come to some agreement…?’
‘Non, non,’ the old man said quickly. ‘I have never met a soul named Helvius Turonicus. Now, Monseignor, if there is anything you wish to buy in my shop…?’
Prohor made a couple more attempts at politely prising the information out of Jean-Jacques that he wanted, but the old man was quite obstinate in his disavowal of any knowledge of book or author… even as it grew plainer to the knieža that he knew both quite well.
‘Well…’ Prohor said with a defeated sigh, ‘perhaps I had best inquire elsewhere. My apologies for having taken up your time. I shall check with the other booksellers in town.’
However, Prohor did not quit Jean-Jacques’s bookshop quite so easily. He had garnered his father’s knack for getting information he wasn’t supposed to, and he knew that one of the best ways of doing that was to simply wait. And so, he loitered in front of a tailor’s stall across the Grande Marche, in full view of the bookshop. Morning drew on into afternoon before he saw a young boy of perhaps twelve or thirteen years enter the shop and spend a few minutes inside. A boy that young, buying books of his own? Curious indeed. The more so when he came out, not with a book or any other such wares, but with a rolled-up piece of vellum with a string and seal around it.
Prohor got up from where he sat and approached the boy.
‘I’ve got two coppers for you,’ the knieža told him, ‘if you can tell me where you’re taking that letter.’
The boy looked the lord over suspiciously until he drew the two pence out of his scrip. Making up his mind, the boy held out his hand and Prohor deposited them in it. Then the boy said:
‘The bookseller asked me to take this letter to the Maire de Valençay.’
Prohor smiled. ‘Off on your errand, now. Good lad.’
The bookseller had taken warning from this inquiry, and was making moves perhaps to protect the secrecy of the author who’d written the book. Whoever Helvius Turonicus was, then, he would be connected with the burgomaster in Valençay. But Prohor alone might not be able to convince the burgomaster to divulge his secret. Perhaps another plan of attack was in order…
~~~
‘You don’t need to do that,’ Jakub told his wife tolerantly. ‘We can get a wet-nurse.’
Jakub having been raised in a court where nursing infants was considered low-class and unfashionable, and Eirēnē having been raised a level-headed common woman of the countryside to think wet-nurses a needless luxury, this was an old and longstanding dispute between husband and wife. But it was carried on now more for the amusement of it than out of any real desire to change matters. Eirēnē smiled demurely as she continued to hold and breastfeed their newborn, Rachel. ‘Why go to all the trouble and expense? Besides, milk’s a gift from the Almighty, and it’s not going anywhere else. It would be sin to waste it.’
‘Sensible as always,’ Jakub chuckled.
‘As always,’ Eirēnē agreed. ‘By the way, what were you going to do about the… northwest matter?’
‘I haven’t quite decided yet. I suppose I could bring Ivan to heel the same way my father brought his grandfather to heel, making him swear an oath in front of the court. He is a Rychnovský, after all, and I am the head of the house. But I feel like I could handle it with a bit more subtlety.’
‘Mm,’ Eirēnē nodded approvingly. ‘How were you planning to go about it?’
‘Dobromila actually gave me an idea recently. Pretty-Boy Ivan evidently cares a great deal about the family line. I was thinking I could commission a copy of my father’s family epic to give to him.’
‘Such an expensive gift would no doubt please the knieža,’ Eirēnē noted shrewdly. ‘And it would have the added effect, I think, of letting Ivan know exactly what he owes the family. He might think better of stirring up dissension against you.’
‘I’m glad you approve, Eirēnē!’
It was done just as Jakub ordered. The scribes in Olomouc were put to the task of copying out the Rozprávky z leta dávno preč, the Tales from Summers Long Gone, letter-for-letter, illumination-for-illumination, and finishing it with the same flourish that the original enjoyed. He then also commissioned an ornate gilt box from the chiefs of the carpenters’ and goldsmiths’ guilds, in which to place the completed book. This kingly gift, in the end costing over a pound and a half of pure gold, was delivered to Kráľ Jakub’s vassal and kinsman in Milčané.
He heard nothing back from thence for months. But then, one day in early December amid the expectancy and holy quiet of Advent, a Milčanský Srb came to Olomouc from the north, and brought a message to the king.
‘Your Majesty, your servant Ivan, knieža of Milčané, wishes to express to your Majesty his great gratitude for the gift you sent him, and also his deepest wish that you would join him in God’s name for the Christmas feast. You would do our house great honour with your visit.’
Eirēnē smiled knowingly from her seat at her husband’s side, and he answered the messenger:
‘Very well,’ Jakub answered the messenger. ‘Please inform your lord of our goodwill and our best wishes for the season; and please tell him to expect our visit at Christmas to partake of his hospitality.’
The whole royal family embarked on the snowbound wintry roads through the Czech lands and through the far side of the Ore Mountains to Míšeň, the chief settlement of the Glomiti, from whence the Bulgarian-raised Ivan ruled. At one long, red-roofed hall, the knieža awaited the royal party, and the king and his family lit from their horses and carriages and exchanged greetings with their kinsman.
Jakub found that Pretty-Boy Ivan lived up to his nickname. He had a head of thick, lush dark curls, and a pair of keen, blazing hazel eyes. His cheeks were unblemished and clean-shaven, and his lips were full and red, like a girl’s. At the same time, Jakub noted the intelligence behind the delicate features – this was a young man who noticed more than his appearance would let on, and very much so took and kept his own counsel. He gripped the king’s arm with a light, but firm, grasp.
‘Welcome, Lord Kráľ! Please come within; all is made ready!’
On Christmas Eve, the priest officiated over a light supper (the štedrý večer) made up of twelve Lenten dishes, in honour of each of the Twelve Apostles. The first was the koľiva, a slightly-sweetened honey pudding made from boiled wheat. Then there was pogača – a traditional Bulgarian bread which would be served with honey and grated garlic to each member of the house after the prayers, boiled halušky dumplings with cabbage and onion, a sour soľanka soup with mushrooms and cabbage, a lighter soup with lentils and pease, buckwheat kaše porridge with dried berries, shredded sour pickled cabbage, a mixed-vegetable ragú, sliced Spanish aubergines, mussels on the half-shell, candied pears, sweet poppyseed bobaľki and gingerbread biscuits. The only beverage served was sour small ale in wooden bowls.
After the prayers were chanted and the various Lenten dishes had been consumed, the dishes were left on the table and the Sorbian priest who was officiating led them out into the moonlit snow, across the grounds to the chapel, where they stood for the Liturgy celebrating the birth of Christ. On the way out from the church, loud shouts of ‘Christus raždajetsja!’ and ‘Oslávte Ho!’ could be heard pealing out over the streets of Míšeň, and the crisp chill air was sweetened with the sound of melodic carols glorifying the Incarnate Lord. Jakub noticed that Eustach had been attentive without, holding his candle in front of him during the Liturgy with trembling devotion. All throughout Advent the youngster had taken on the serious attitude of a spiritual warrior in the arena, and had meticulously upheld the fast and redoubled his prayers both in morning and evening. And now that he was out in the street at midnight on Christmas Day, his young voice pealed like a soundly-cast brass bell, to join in the carolling with the joy of the feast.
All of a sudden, Jakub felt something soft and wet and cold slam into the side of his head; and one portion of his long black locks began to drip with the thrown snow. He turned about and saw his daughter Rebeka chuckling with mischief and stooping down to collect some more snow in her hands.
‘Christus raždajetsja, ocko!’ she crowed.
‘Ho ho!’ Jakub grinned back, and himself stooped down to fetch some snow and fling it back playfully in Rebeka’s direction. Eirēnē turned back and crossed her arms with a tolerant smirk, while Eustach gaped.
‘Ocko, stop it,’ he muttered, covering his face with his hands. ‘You’re embarrassing me!’
Rachel was excitedly cheering on her older sister, and soon ran out to join her in the volley, while Alžbeta offered words of encouragement to her father before also getting involved in the snowball fight.
When they came back inside the hall, the Lenten dishes had been whisked away and in their place, around the centrepiece of a massive roast pig upon a skewer, were grouse, quail eggs, all manner of cheeses and butters, fine cakes made with eggs and honey, sausages (served with pickled cabbage, naturally!), proper dumplings with cottage cheese, herring, and fragrant varené vino (mulled wine).
‘You really pulled out the stops, Ivan,’ Jakub remarked appreciatively.
‘And who would do less on Christmas?’ Ivan asked. ‘One cannot be stingy, not when God has given His own Son to an undeserving world. Whatever is left here will go to the poor who have no food.’
‘As is only proper,’ Jakub told him. ‘Have you found that the Sorbs have many needs in that direction?’
Ivan tilted his head. ‘And what answer, sire, would be likelier to get me more favours from you? Would you praise my administration and advance my state if I showed you how well-fed and happy the people are here? Or would you shower me with gifts if I pled their pitiable plight with you?’
Jakub laughed aloud at that. ‘You seem to know all the angles already.’
‘A certain degree of… ambiguity is indeed a valuable tool for a leader of men,’ Ivan admitted. ‘That said, some facts are considerably more… fungible than others.’
‘I see I’m going to have to keep a close eye on you,’ Jakub cast an appreciative eye over Pretty-Boy Ivan.
Loyal. Snerk.
This young vassal of his was in equal parts amusing, troubling and oddly sympathetic. Ivan was not entirely of the same temperament as Jakub. Jakub tended to be straightforward, whereas Ivan tended to be cagey. Also, while Jakub manifested his father’s sang-froid, Ivan had inherited a nomadic spleen, which he occasionally gave vent to when it came to the members of his own household. Yet king and vassal both had an appreciation for political niceties and the art of forging ties, and the two of them easily bonded over that commonality.
As the festive Christmas dinner wound to a close at least for this night, his wife gave him a friendly wink. Close in confidence as they were, he knew precisely what Eirēnē meant by it: Your father wouldn’t have managed it half so well as you have – and I’m grateful you are keeping your promise.
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Quite the interesting figure this Kalojan/Ivan, and those stats are quite impressive for such a young character. Someone to keep an eye on indeed.
Also, for what it’s worth, the descriptiveness of this chapter left me very hungry at work lol
Also, for what it’s worth, the descriptiveness of this chapter left me very hungry at work lol
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Bogori left quite the talented progeny. Also a rather shifty character...
Heh. Mission accomplished.
I do tend to go a bit Brian Jacques when I get to my descriptions of victuals, though I do have a rather notorious weakness for die mitteleuropäische Küche. And Mediterranean food as well.
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Book Three Chapter Four
FOUR
Helvius Turonicus
17 January 1007
Castle at Valençay
Helvius Turonicus
17 January 1007
Castle at Valençay
‘Let me see if I understand you correctly, my šafár,’ King Jakub steepled his fingers and pointed them toward Prohor. ‘You are saying that the prescriptions in that book saved your life. You wish to find the author of this book. And you have already traced the book back to… the burgomaster of Valençay?’
‘Arnulf de Tréguier, your Grace,’ Prohor answered his liege. ‘His family on his mother’s side seems to have landed in Brittany with the severan raiders of Hásteinn. His kinfolk have since that time adopted Frankish ways and a Frankish tongue, though they still remember and honour their Northman heritage.’
‘Mm,’ Jakub mused. ‘You’ve done your footwork, I see. Still… it seems an odd place to find a master of the healing arts, among such Norman driftwood?’
‘Even if Helvius Turonicus is not Arnulf himself, Arnulf must certainly know who he is,’ Prohor pressed. ‘Jean-Jacques sent a missive in that direction as soon as I made inquiries there, and he definitely knew more than he let me know.’
Jakub clasped his hands behind his back thoughtfully. ‘A man who writes under a pseudonym like that may not wish to have his true identity known, for whatever reason.’
‘Even so,’ Prohor went on, ‘I owe him—a debt of gratitude, at least.’
Jakub sighed. ‘Very well. I shall extend an invitation to this Arnulf de Tréguier, along with his entire household, to visit us here in Olomouc for a small gathering. For your sake I shall do some gentle probing; we shall see ourselves if your sleuthing instincts have been led aright.’
‘That is all I ask,’ Prohor assured the king.
~~~
The party from West Francia arrived in the bailey of Olomouc Castle some weeks later. Jakub crossed his arms and studied the Norman burgomaster as he rode in. A young man of below-middling height and a lean frame, the Moravian king at once ascertained that this Arnulf de Tréguier was a fighter, and one whose meagre height and reach had often been underestimated to his opponents’ dear cost. He sat in the saddle with the easy, condescending assurance of someone born to the art. The burgomaster’s slender frame concealed a hard, wiry strength – wound taut like a spring, or like a lynx ready for the pounce. The straight, hard honey-gold brow running level across his face – a helmet’s edge – framed a pair of hard, shrewd sea-blue eyes that assayed and evaluated in an instant whatever they lit upon. Yes: the severan blood ran thick in this one. He would not be an easy opponent to face in battle.
Riding a horse-length behind him was a tall woman with austere auburn hair kept under a modest townswoman’s cap. If it were not evident to begin with that this woman was the burgomaster’s wife, to judge by the proprietary air with which he led her and guarded her, then the swell of her belly – five or six months along, by the look of things – left little doubt of the fact.
The third of the party was like in colour to the burgomaster, but not in temper. She kept in her hand a rosary, and her firm small mouth was speaking prayers under her breath as she counted the beads with her fingers. She was a neat, well-kept young woman whose honey-gold hair and attentive sky-blue eyes attested at once to her blood relation to the man. A younger sister, perhaps, or a niece? Although like her kinsman she did not stand very tall, the bosomy figure that dismounted with such grace could not be that of a daughter—not to such a young man as Arnulf! The three of them strode over to where Jakub and Prohor were standing, and the king stepped forward to greet the man with his arm extended.
‘God greet you, sir!’ the Moravian king gripped the Norman’s arm, and found his grip to be as firm as a vice. ‘Welcome to Olomouc Castle. I am Kráľ Jakub of Veľká Morava, and this is my vassal Prohor Mutimírić, knieža of Užhorod.’
‘Enchanté,’ replied the Norman with a calculating stare. ‘Yes, I had surmised as much, O King. And it is well to meet you also, Prohor de Užhorod. I am Arnulf FitzCopsi de Tréguier. This is my wife Pernette de Pontchâteau. And this is my half-brother Hrørekr’s girl, Dolz de Touraine.’
Both women, the auburn-haired and the honey-blonde, made deep courtesies to the king and his vassal.
‘Fitz… Copsi, did you say?’ Jakub asked, intrigued, still gripping the Norman by the hand and examining his face. ‘Tell me, would your sire by any chance be Copsige of Leicester – a monk?’
See the family resemblance?
Arnulf raised his brows. ‘My father was indeed Copsige of Leicester. And a monk he was of a sort, though rather loose in the habit, given his ado with my mother. Why do you ask?’
‘Then we are kin, you and I!’ Jakub laughed. ‘Your grandmother would have been Hilda of Bedanford, who was my… let’s see, great… great-grandmother. So that would make us…’
‘Bien seür,’ Dolz answered mildly behind him, ‘cosins-germains, deux foiz sevrés.’
‘Hush, girl,’ Arnulf snapped.
‘No, no,’ Jakub spoke in mild surprise. ‘She’s right: you and I are first cousins twice removed. At any rate, welcome to Olomouc, cousin! Would you and your kinswomen care to come within for some warmth and some refreshment?’
Indeed, the January chill did bite eagerly, and the party from West Francia was quite happy to get withindoors and within reach of a roaring hearth. Jakub sat down next to Arnulf de Tréguier, and began asking him about his village and about his trade.
‘Have you much ado with booksellers, by any chance?’ asked the King.
‘Booksellers indeed,’ Arnulf scoffed. ‘I beg your pardon, O King, but I haven’t the time to read a great many books. The mayor of a town in West Francia must be both a diplomat and a warrior – this by your reputation, I think, you understand.’
‘Certainly, certainly. It’s just that my friend Prohor here, happened across a certain book from West Francia – the Animadversiones de occasu ossium – that saved his life a few years back. He tracked the author, by the name of Helvius Turonicus, back to your fair town, sir. I was wondering if you knew of either the man or the book.’
Arnulf stroked his moustache. It was clear that if there was any glory or recompense to be had in owning it, either for himself or for his town, he would no doubt jump at the opportunity. But at length he let out a long breath and said:
‘Pardon, but I have no recollection at all of this tome. Nor does the name of the author ring clear to me. I don’t know of anyone named Helvius, or Helvie. Yet you say he lives in Valençay—interessant!’
There wasn’t much to catch his eye, but Jakub did notice Arnulf’s young kinswoman Dolz flick up her blue eyes rapidly at the mention of the Animadversiones, and again a look of bewilderment and even embarrassment when the name ‘Helvius’ was mentioned. Just as Prohor had ascertained that Jean-Jacques knew more than he let on in his shop in Orléans, now Jakub knew Dolz knew something about book and author. He turned back to Arnulf and, with apologies, changed the subject again. He and Prohor would have to inquire with Dolz later, perhaps. It appeared she wasn’t likely to be forthcoming in front of her uncle and aunt.
~~~
‘Escusez-moé,’ came a small, hesitant voice at the door of Jakub’s study after dinner. In the doorway there appeared the bright, round Norman face of Dolz de Touraine. There was one of the family maidservants at her side.
‘Come in,’ Jakub bade her. Prohor was there standing by his desk as well. ‘You have something you wish to say?’
‘O King… please do not be angered with me,’ Dolz murmured. She was clearly quite awed at being in the presence of such exalted folk, even if they were not of West Francia but some other kingdom. ‘You asked, at dinner, about Helvius Turonicus. The author of the Animadversiones.’
‘So I did.’
Dolz lowered her head and took several deep breaths, composing herself before she spoke again. ‘Your Majesty… I am Helvius Turonicus.’
‘You?’ Prohor exploded beside Jakub. ‘You cannot have written the book which healed me. Why, you’re no more than sixteen years old, a girl! How could you be the author of such a text?’
‘It’s true,’ Dolz explained patiently. ‘I was only ten when I wrote down my observations, devotions and prayers on spare pieces of vellum from my uncle’s ledger. I… regret my sin against you, that I have misled you by signing to my odd collection a man’s name: Helvius for the colour of my hair—’ here she indicated her uncapped head, ‘—and Turonicus for Touraine.’
‘I shall not listen to any more of this nonsense,’ Prohor growled, and he stalked brusquely past Dolz and her maidservant-chaperone, and out of the room.
‘Well,’ Jakub sighed, ‘that makes one of us. I should like to hear more. You say you wrote it at age ten?’
Dolz nodded. ‘I wanted to understand pain and injury, so that I could become a healer someday myself. So starting at the age of six I began visiting way-houses and churches and watching how local priests, soldiers and learned men bound up wounds, set bones, or healed diseased skin or flesh. I also took note of which prayers to God and the Blessed Virgin seemed most effective when they did so, and committed those prayers to memory.’
Jakub fiddled with the book between his hands. ‘And which prayers did you recommend, for the setting of a bone?’
Dolz bent her head solemnly and intoned, each in turn: the Pater Noster… the Miserere nobis… the Agnus Dei… each of the Ordinary Prayers… followed by the Magnificat and the invocations for Saint Luke the Evangelist and Saints Cosmas and Damien… then the Mozarabic Lord our Physician collect… then Saint Dionysius’s prayer for unity…
Jakub followed along in the book in candlelight as Dolz recited each of the prayers aloud in turn, in her steady mezzo voice. She had indeed committed all of these prayers to memory, precisely in the order they were found in the Animadversiones, without one word or one stress out of place. In Jakub’s mind, there was no way that she could be acting. Her every word seemed utterly sincere.
‘Well then,’ he said, ‘if you wrote this book, then how did it fall into the hands of Jean-Jacques in Orléans, and from there into the monastery in Fleury?’
‘I didn’t even know it had been at Fleury,’ Dolz shrugged. ‘But I gave my notes away to Gerhildis here, and told her to dispose them as she saw fit when it struck me that to keep them would be to indulge the sin of pride. As your vassal gave notice just now, it is not seemly for a young woman to puff herself up too much, to become swollen-headed with her own meagre intellect.’
Jakub raised an eyebrow at this extreme of self-effacing modesty. From what little he could learn of her in this brief interview, Dolz’s intellect was a great deal more than ‘meagre’. And true, she was uncapped, and there was no band around her fingers on either hand.
‘Well,’ the impressed Jakub said, ‘even if Prohor would not thank you, I would like to thank you on his behalf. You’ve convinced me that you wrote this book, and thus helped save the life of one of my most valued vassals. I have a son a few years younger than you. What would you say to taking his hand, when he’s ready—and then coming here to serve as my court physic?’
Dolz de Touraine gave a small, but polite, dip of her skirts. ‘Your Majesty, it is far beyond my deserving. But if you are in earnest, then of course I would accept. I am sure that my uncle would agree as well.’
~~~
Arnulf had readily agreed, seeing advancement should his niece should marry a king’s heir. Eustach, however, when he heard of the wife he was to have, demurred. Volubly.
‘But she is a barbarian, a severánka,’ Eustach griped. ‘She follows the descendants of the false Emperor, and she writes in Latin – the language of the debased Bishop of Rome. Does she also impiously add the filioque to the Symbol of Faith? Does she also take unleavened bread with the Gifts?’
‘I admire your zeal,’ his father said patiently, ‘but you have not even met the girl yet. I daresay you’ll find her not only clever, but mild and gentle and demure… and of a rather like turn of mind to yourself, if you’ll pardon a father’s observations.’
‘Hmph,’ scoffed the thirteen-year-old, full of teenage righteousness and certitude.
‘Well, at least take a look at her for yourself,’ Jakub offered. ‘I daresay you’ll find her agreeable.’
The betrothal interview between the two of them went… a bit awkwardly. It was evident to his observant father that Eustach, despite his misgivings, was attracted and intrigued upon sight. It seemed he had the infamous Rychnovský weakness for cool, intellectual older blondes. But there was still a great deal of doubt and hesitancy in his acceptance of the proposal. Perhaps he thought the religious differences between East and West still posed too high a barrier? For her part, Dolz beheld and approved a healthy youngster with regular features and a strong build… and although it didn’t seem she found his shyness, rigidity and curtness offensive, it was certainly not an encouragement to her either.
Jakub sighed to himself. Well, so be it. Many a marriage was contracted on no sturdier a basis than physical attraction, only to blossom into fullness later. Perhaps he had simply been lucky to have met someone like Eirēnē, where the intellectual stimulation provided by a kindred spirit had come first.
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Book Three Chapter Five
FIVE
Athwart the Snake
14 February 1007 – 2 July 1009
Athwart the Snake
14 February 1007 – 2 July 1009
Although Prohor was the knieža of Užhorod, in fact he held only half of the town to which he was quite literally entitled. The river Už – which meant ‘snake’ in the tongue of the White Croats – ran through the middle of the town. On the right bank to the north lay Prohor’s holdings, and on the left bank to the south lay those of the Magyar conquerors. There was an uneasy and unstable peace on either side of the river, and the fords and docks along the Už were closely watched and guarded, with Magyar and Slav eyeing each other suspiciously without end for years.
Ironically, then, though unsurprisingly, the next great proxy war between the sons of Charlemagne and the heirs of Eastern Rome was fought on the eastern side of Veľká Morava. Lotharingia’s king Érrard 2. was quick to leap to the aid of King Ctibor of Hungary, and both Despotēs Matthiaos of Nikaia and Doux Ioannēs of Thessalonikē, with the blessings of their Emperor, sent their own forces northward in support of Jakub.
The fords between the Croat side of the Už and the Hungarian side were soon thick with arrows and red with the blood of the fallen in the first engagement, but the Magyars overran the banks of the river with a vengeance, and surged up past Užhorod toward the fastness at Krupina. Jakub was caught quite off his guard by the suddenness of the attack, thinking he had more time available to him to muster his forces.
Thus it was left to Jakub’s allies to sort out the mess. Matthaios was, thankfully, better than decent at managing supply lines and forwarding marches with efficiency, and his forces reached northern Hungary well before Jakub’s zbrojnošov had set out. They met the Magyars on the edge of a birch forest near the Nitran march. Although the enemy commander was a brilliant tactician and a tenacious defender, the Greek despotēs nonetheless had an army that was larger, better-equipped and better-fed than the Magyars.
When King Jakub heard of this victory, he led his armies straightaway to the River Už and flooded across it with a vengeance. He laid siege to the last holdouts of Magyars in the southern part of the town, including the fastness to which they fell back when the city fell. The siege itself lasted a little more than four months, from February to June of that year. Massing together with Matthaios and Ioannēs, Jakub swept downstream along the River Tisa, besieging and taking all of the fastnesses that lay along its length. What Jakub had lacked in initiative, he more than made up for in terms of personal out-front leadership.
~~~
Still, what most preoccupied Jakub was keeping his realm intact and at peace within, rather than just outside. Once the peace with Ctibor had been concluded, he had given control of Užhorod – the whole city this time, not just the north bank – to Knieža Prohor. And then he had turned his attention to what he considered to be more important matters of business.
Keeping the Mojmírovci and the Bohemians happy was rather a full-time job. The Přemyslovci in particular were upset by the fact that Hrabě Soběslav had succumbed to an illness while kept confined in Olomouc. That would take some considered effort on Jakub’s part to smooth over.
And then there was Hrabě Slavomír Žatecký, who was continuing to be a living nuisance even under lock and key. Slavomír had somehow gotten word out to the Metropolitan Lavrentios of Žatec, and the latter had been assiduously poring over old charters and documents from King Pravoslav’s time in order to uphold a claim on a stretch of territory stretching all the way up the Ore Mountains.
‘… Pretty-Boy Ivan has been doing an admirable job,’ Jakub rubbed his long chin as he considered his next move, then moving the black bishop out to the fourth row forward to defend his kingside rook, ‘putting out diplomatic fires large and small while I’ve been out on campaign.’
‘He’s been a good friend to you, that’s for sure,’ Eirēnē allowed. She swept up her hand and moved her queenside knight to her sixth row up. ‘Check. I still think he’s a bit dodgy – he certainly could have handled the unfortunate situation with Soběslav a bit more honestly. You’d be well advised to keep a better eye on him than you have on your king.’
‘Čert. I shouldn’t have castled,’ Jakub grimaced, moving his king one space to the left. Too late he saw his mistake. Eirēnē moved her kingside knight into the fatal position.
‘Checkmate,’ she smirked. Jakub groaned and ran his hands through his greying hair. ‘Husband, do you want me to talk to Ivan for you?’
Jakub looked his victorious Macedonian wife over. Then a thought occurred to him. ‘Dearest one, would you teach me Ivan’s tongue? My grandfather spoke it well, long ago, and of course there was my mother. I’m eager to learn as well.’
Eirēnē scrutinised him. ‘You do understand that my lingo is that of the common folk of Veroia, right? Like your mother was, Ivan will be versed in the steppe-speech of the Old Bulghars, which, I warn you, I’m not very good at speaking… though, I grant you, many of the Old Bulghar families have taken to speaking more of our words.’
‘Anything will help, I think,’ Jakub owned.
‘Well, if that’s the case,’ Eirēnē spoke, ‘Da započíname.’
Queen Eirēnē and her new pupil began their lessons promisingly. Jakub was an adept student already, she found. Being his mother’s son, and having half-remembered from his youth bits and snippets of his grandfather’s speech in Old Bulghar, Jakub took to learning both the noble and the common forms of the language with evident ability. Eirēnē noted with approval the way in which her husband and student was able to approach a problem in his learning the languages—a false cognate, an irregular declension—with care, and compose himself carefully until he grasped it. After several months, Eirēnē and Jakub were conversing fluently in common South Slavic, and she was even able to toss some Old Bulghar phrases his way and he to answer them cogently.
When he was in conference with Ivan next, he spoke to him in a mix of the two, and with pleasant surprise Ivan had answered him in kind.
‘This way,’ Ivan noted, ‘if there is something you wish me to keep from certain ears, you have a language in which to speak to me without fear of disclosure. A most wise idea, sire.’
~~~
Jakub went out looking for Eustach, not many days after that. He wasn’t in castle or courtyard on that fine late July day. Jakub took the road down into the town, and went to the western gate. He found Eustach there discussing something with Adléta, the village headwoman of Svatý Mikuláš, and Bronislav the burgomaster of Olomouc. Evidently the discussion was rather serious, as Eustach stood with arms akimbo, and the provost with her hands on her hips. Bronislav stood at Eustach’s side, and the king caught an eager glimmer in his eyes.
Jakub was tempted to intervene—but his son was sixteen now; he should be allowed to handle this himself without the king putting his thumb on the scales. There were several more exchanges between Eustach and Adléta, before Adléta extended an arm and Eustach gripped it, with Bronislav witnessing the agreement. There was a pleased grin on the burgomaster’s face when he noticed the king.
‘O Kráľ!’ the burgomaster cried. The burgomaster approached Jakub, with Eustach not far behind. With satisfaction, the rotund eminent townsman declaimed to the king: ‘Your son, Kráľ, is a most perspicacious negotiant, if I do say so myself! I’ve never known anyone of Olomouc to get the better of Adléta in trade, and yet your son drove her to a bargain to be envied. Now we shall have enough clay and wood and masonry to complete our repairs to the western wall, and we shall have it nearly at cost!’
Jakub looked over his younger son, who stood by placidly.
‘It was merely a matter of getting her to understand where her own interests lie, sir,’ Eustach explained. ‘The men and women of Svatý Mikuláš rely, as do we, on the good repair of the city walls. Once she acknowledged that, the rest fell into place rather easily.’
‘You’re too modest,’ Bronislav said. ‘Adléta can be a real mule, let me tell you. Even getting that acknowledgement out of her was a feat!’
‘High praise from our burgomaster,’ Jakub told his son. ‘It seems to have been earned.’
‘You taught me well,’ Eustach nodded meekly to his father. ‘You and Mother both.’
That much was quite true. Eustach had often accompanied Eirēnē on her social trips into the marketplace, and – like her – had taken pleasure in watching how business was conducted between tradesmen, and even dabbled in it himself once he began to understand the flow of it. Jakub made a mental note to give proper appreciation to Eirēnē for her tutelage of the boy. But—
‘Have you prepared properly to receive your bride?’ the king asked Eustach.
‘M—my—?’ Eustach stammered. Somehow his self-assurance evaporated when Jakub mentioned Dolz; his eyes cast down and his cheeks reddened.
‘Your bride,’ Jakub repeated. ‘The woman you are going to marry! Dolz de Touraine and her party should be arriving here in Olomouc this week. Please tell me you will have as suitable a reception for her as the bargain you’ve gotten for the townsmen just now!’
Eustach darted up the street toward the castle, while Bronislav and Jakub stood watching. Bronislav let out a chuckle as he watched the boy run.
‘I wouldn’t worry too much about him, sire,’ Bronislav told the king. ‘I’m sure that a boy who can bargain like that with Adléta won’t have any problem keeping a wife in line.’
‘Mm,’ Jakub said doubtfully, his eyes cast in the same direction. ‘Managing a marriage is not like managing a contract in business, Bronislav. The stakes, I fear, are rather higher.’
By the time Dolz de Touraine arrived again in Olomouc, Eustach had taken particular care to appear at his best – bathed and scrubbed, hair neatly brushed, dressed in his best blue tunic. But he still went rigid, like a beast of prey at the sound of the horn, when Dolz entered with the bridal party. She had her honey-hued hair done up in an elaborate chignon, and was wearing a white gown. Dolz walked to the front of the church and moved to Eustach’s side. Archbishop Ľubomír then solemnly presented them with the marital crowns and offered the prayers for their union.
Eirēnē was overjoyed to see a son wed, but Jakub couldn’t shake his own misgivings. Although he was getting a physician of redoubtable skill and intelligence as well as goodwill out of this bargain, the tenseness between the young couple as they said their vows to each other still boded a bit ill.
‘Bold in battle and lucky in love, eh?’ Jakub murmured under his breath. ‘Let’s hope that iconographer’s predictions weren’t just prattle.’
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Book Three Chapter Six
SIX
Where All Roads Lead
1 October 1010 – 19 October 1012
I.
1 October 1010 – 16 October 1010
Where All Roads Lead
1 October 1010 – 19 October 1012
I.
1 October 1010 – 16 October 1010
It had to be Genesis 38.
The reading back in February had been a suggestion from Dolz de Touraine, and although Jakub did enjoy listening to readings from Scripture – particularly the Old Testament narratives of the patriarchs – the meaning that Dolz had meant to convey with her choice of passage left twinges of doubt in Jakub’s mind. He found himself worrying more and more for his beloved younger son, that his wife would entertain the sorts of thoughts that she seemed to be thinking.
Judah and Tamar
Those suspicions were confirmed at the beginning of October when, in a strange reprise of her confession to the authorship of the Animadversiones, she again appeared in the doorway of his study when he was alone. And she was alone – unchaperoned. She had washed herself and perfumed her body, and had made up her face liberally with lily-root and rouge, so that she looked almost doll-like. The Norman woman stepped forward into the room and presented herself demurely to the king, head lowered. She made to shut the door behind her when Jakub told her bluntly:
‘No. Out.’
‘But I need to talk to you,’ Dolz protested.
‘You may talk to me out in the hall,’ Jakub said, gently, levelly, but brooking no argument, ‘where we may be heard by anyone. I’m sure, whatever you have to say to me, it may be said outside as well as in.’
Dolz hung her head and left the study, and Jakub followed her out into the hallway. Her shoulders were trembling, and a tear was running down one of her carefully-painted cheeks. They stood there silently for the space of several breaths. Then Jakub unfolded his arms and said to his daughter-in-law:
‘You don’t want to do this.’
‘How do you know?’ Dolz asked him. She couldn’t quite keep the bitterness out of her voice.
‘For one thing, if you did want to do this, you would have tried something more artful,’ Jakub answered her bluntly. ‘For another, Dolz: you devote yourself to God and to your duty, and you care for my son. You would take no pleasure in this, and regret it the rest of your life, and so would I. You are not Tamar: Eustach yet lives. And I am no Judah: Eirēnē warms my bed.’
‘Does she?’ Dolz asked him, her blue eyes blazing up resentfully. ‘I never saw any indication of that. The two of you are amiable together, sure, but I haven’t seen any passion between you two.’
‘My wife keeps her passion where it belongs,’ Jakub told her in subtle reproach.
Dolz’s shoulders quaked and her breath caught. Her cheeks flushed deeper with misery beneath her rouge, and the tears began to roll in earnest down her face. ‘I do care! I do care for Eustach! But… we didn’t… we haven’t… Eustach has never touched me! I fear that… I fear that he…’
Jakub leaned back, lifted his eyes to heaven and let out a long sigh. Of course Dolz found herself too frustrated to make such an ouverture to Eustach – she clearly felt a man must naturally come to his wife. He knew his son’s temper as this proud Norman girl did not. Eustach might be bold in the face of his enemies, but he was of such a temper, unflappable even in the best of times, that he turned cold and rigid in the face of someone he liked. And now here he was, thrown together in one yoke with a woman he burned for in secret, and of whom he went in awe as though in the presence of an angel.
‘Dolz, will you promise to do something for me?’
The dejected Norman girl nodded.
‘Then, please trust me on this. Eustach will do his duty by you, just give him time. Exercise that patience I know you’re capable of. Go back to your chamber and pray. You will do this for me, if you love me as a daughter-in-law should.’
Dolz still looked miserable, but she shuffled off back toward her room obediently. Jakub had no doubt that she would kneel before her Greek icons – those with which she had replaced her French statuary – and pray to God as he had bidden her. But now Jakub himself needed to take swift action. As soon as his daughter-in-law was safely out of earshot, he bade a servant send for his younger son.
Eustach himself appeared in his father’s study, and Jakub laid his hands on the table in consternation. The delicate approach he’d taken with Dolz would not work on his son. A swift boot to the rear was called for in this case.
‘You sent for me, ocko?’ asked Eustach.
‘You have a problem,’ Jakub told his son icily. ‘To wit, you have a very unhappy wife.’
Eustach gaped, just as he might have done if his father had kicked him physically. His mouth worked, but no sound came out. Eventually, what he said was:
‘I don’t understand… I honour her, I cherish her, I uphold my vows—’
‘—at a distance,’ Jakub cut him off mercilessly. ‘A wife is not for adorning and admiring from afar.’
‘But you and Mother never—’
‘Your mother is quite particular,’ Jakub told him bluntly. ‘She likes to hold herself aloof. Not all women are like her, and especially not the one you have in front of you! She isn’t an enemy to be feared; you needn’t approach her like one. But if you want to keep her, you need to approach her. Once you do, the rest will come naturally. Do I make myself clear?’
Eustach gulped and nodded.
‘I hope I have. Now, go. Think for yourself how best to act.’
The slump of dejection in Eustach’s shoulders as he departed from Jakub’s study and his line of sight was practically the mirror-image of his wife’s in the same attitude just now. Jakub shook his head slowly. Their marriage was off to a rocky start, but all was not yet lost. However, it might be best for everyone involved if he removed himself from the situation for a while. Thankfully, he already had a plan in place.
The Kráľ of Moravia looked down at his desk, and reached for a scroll which he unfurled. There was a route which was already indicated on the map, which went south along the Amber Road to its end in Venice, and then became the Flaminian Way.
‘Where all roads lead,’ Jakub murmured to himself as he traced his finger down the map.
~~~
Eustach paused before the door to his and his wife’s chamber and took a deep breath. Looking to the left and to the right, he knew that there would be no one else in the whole hallway. Rebeka and Rachel were both in Mladá Boleslav visiting with young Hrabě Záviš, the son of Soběslav Přemyslovec – another diplomatic olive branch from his father. He and Dolz would be completely alone in that whole wing of the keep. Completely alone.
Why was he hesitating now? This was foolish. He would not think twice about leaping into danger if it meant protecting someone else. So how come was he so timid around a member of the weaker sex, smaller than he, with such a sweet and earnest round face? How could so wondrous a creature as the one he’d married seem more terrible to him than the most hideous dragon of nightmares?
He took another long, slow breath, let it out… and opened the door.
There he saw her. Dolz was kneeling on the floor in front of the icons, praying ardently. He could tell that she had washed her face off in a basin, but her eyes were still puffy with tears. His heart slammed against his ribs and thundered in his ears as he stepped forward into the room.
Dolz crossed herself thrice, made three deep prostrations, kissed each of the icons in turn. When she turned to face her husband he was within arm’s reach of her. He met her searching blue gaze, and yearned to know what thoughts were behind them now. They stood there for what seemed an hour, before the seventeen-year-old boy’s hands came up and gripped Dolz’s arms, harder than was needful on account of his tension. She gave a soft little cry as he drew her closer to him, took a deep breath, and then planted a peck awkwardly upon her lips. Their first kiss since their wedding.
Eustach stood back, worried at how his ‘approach’ might be received. He didn’t know what to expect from Dolz at all. But there she stood, her eyes closed, her lips slightly parted. Almost as if she was… savouring the taste. Eustach was still rapt with surprise when Dolz wrapped her arms around Eustach’s waist and up his broad back. Warm, tingling pleasure poured into Eustach from his mouth as his wife kissed him back… longer this time. She let her lips linger… sweet as her name.
‘Embrache-moé com’ ci là,’ Dolz murmured.
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II.
17 October 1010 – 15 January 1011
17 October 1010 – 15 January 1011
Jakub had left before dawn, in secret, southward on the Amber Road – the Via Sucinaria, as the Latins called it. He’d taken his leave of Eirēnē the night before, and had told his kancléř Ivan of Milčané and his šafár Prohor Mutimírić about his departure, but let no one else know of his intended destination. This was something he needed to do on his own.
The two halves of the Christian Church—the Byzantine East and the Latin West—had never formally separated, but it was no secret that the Popes of Rome had grown distant from their brothers in the other four Patriarchates. The Roman patriarch had lent his support to the Frankish Karl the Big as Emperor in 800, in preference over the female Empress in Constantinople – his wife’s indirect namesake, Eirēnē Sarantapēchaina. Things had gone rather downhill from there, but at least for the time being, East and West were still in communion with one another, and Jakub’s pilgrimage would take him to the city where Pope Silvester 2. ruled. There would be no better place than that to offer prayers for his son and his unhappy new bride: Wend and Norman thrown uncomfortably together at his behest.
His route would take him southward through the lands of the Mojmírovci, and then skirting around the edge of Ctibor’s realm. Given the recent war between Moravia and Hungary, he couldn’t count on Ctibor letting him through his territory in peace, not even after the (comparatively restrained) letters the two of them had exchanged of late. Jakub would traverse the southeastern passes of the Alps, visiting the cities of Graz, Cellia and Laibach before reaching Venice. Then journeying from Venice to Rome was a fairly easy venture, most of it along the well-travelled Flaminian Way between Rémin and the old Imperial capital.
Not sure why I'm flattering this guy, given how he opens all his letters by insulting me...
Taking two horses – one for riding, and one pack-animal – Jakub made fairly good time. By road, the journey to Rome took a little over a month, and travelling in the early autumn, the crisp October air and the beautiful turning colours of the trees, at least in the lowlands, made the trip a pleasant one. Most of the journey, few people took note of the king on the road. There was little odd about even a well-dressed man taking a well-travelled trade-route with two horses south toward Venice.
He was only spotted and recognised once, and that was when he was staying in Graz. He had paid for his lodgings for the night with a few copper pieces, and was settling down to a bowl of beer and a plate of homemade bread and sausage, when a conversation taking place elsewhere in the wayhouse grew louder and more heated.
‘I’m telling you,’ a female voice was saying, ‘there’s only one way that the heathen can be dealt with. The former King of Moravia, Radomír, had the right idea. When the heathen commit their outrages upon good God-fearing Christian folk, you need to make an example of a few of them, send a message. That’s the only language they understand.’
‘Mention the King of Moravia, will you?’ a man near her laughed. ‘There he sits over there, in the flesh, eating his supper like any one of us!’
Jakub nearly choked on a mouthful of beer, in dismay at having been recognised and called to attention. The disputants came over to him, and the woman who had been denouncing the heathen and praising Jakub’s father examined his face.
‘Are you truly the King of Moravia?’ she asked. ‘Your people have suffered as few others of us have, from the depredations of the infidels. What do you think of your father’s approach?’
Jakub chose his words carefully in reply as he composed himself.
‘Well…’ he said, ‘it is certainly true that we have suffered many attacks and raids on our northern border, from the men who have not yet embraced the fullness of truth of Our Lord Christ Who died, Who rose and Who ascended. And it is certainly true that Chieftess Lydia was false to the oath her overlord swore making peace with my father. His reprisals were stern. But I tend to take a different approach in my rule. Whether they embrace Christ or not, the Poles and Lusatians and Obotrites are human just as we are. They have reason and understanding. And I have found that the peace that my father won through terror can as easily… and less dearly… be maintained through dialogue.’
‘Pah!’ the woman scoffed. ‘Talk! Such talk is only possible with them because your father showed the strength of his arm and delivered into their hearts the fear of the wrath of God.’
‘That may be so,’ Jakub allowed. ‘And if it comes to it, I will show the strength of mine. But until that time, I intend to make do with less sanguinary solutions.’
The exchanges went on a bit more before the zealous woman stalked off to find a more appreciative audience. The man who had pointed Jakub out, on the other hand, thanked him for his answers.
‘Don’t mention it,’ Jakub told him. ‘I mean that, sir: please don’t. I am not travelling in state.’
‘Understood, your Majesty,’ the man bowed. ‘I mean… Giacomo.’
The incident, and the questions attendant upon it, stayed with Jakub the rest of the way to Rome. He found himself wondering whether his rule really was much of an improvement on his father’s. Sure, he hadn’t found himself yet at war with anyone in the north, but his approach to the rebels in Bohemia had been fairly harsh. Was there a gentler way to rule?
Jakub reached the southern terminus of the Via Sucinaria at Venice, and hopped aboard a fishing-boat that stopped off in Rémin, from which he and his horses and travel-goods could make their way with ease to the chief City of the West. Jakub intended, long before he reached the City, to make a pilgrim’s journey anti-clockwise around the city. Starting in the south from the Cathedral of Saint Paul Outside the Wall, where the Chief of the Apostles lay, he would proceed northward past the Hot Baths of Caracalla to pay homage to the heads of the Apostolic Chiefs in the Church of Saint John in the Lateran; then to the Great Basilica of Saint Mary which housed the relics of Saint Matthias the Apostle who replaced Judas Iscariot; the Basilica of the Apostles, where Saint Philip and Saint James the Brother of the Lord rested; then past the Forum and across the Tiber at the Isle where the Tomb of Saint Bartholomew was; and finally to the tomb of Saint Peter in the Vatican.
Now, in order to make this plan good coming in along the Flaminian Way from the north, he would have to travel some extra distance down the Tiber first. However, Jakub soon found that the extra effort was worth it. He made his procession solemnly and with reverence around the great City as though Rome itself were a church, and in each of the churches housing the holy Tombs of the Apostles he touched and kissed and admired the relics of the men who first proclaimed the truth of Christ here when it was a capital crime… and whose bodies had since been venerated for nearly a thousand years by pilgrims exactly like him. The experience was a humbling one for Jakub. What was a Slavic kingdom on the very far northern fringe of the civilised world, in comparison with the ancient sanctity of this place?
Basilica di San Bartolomeo all'Isola, Isola Tiberina, Rome
There were also pangs of the heart to be had here – the prickings of conscience prompted the Moravian king not only to offer prayers for his awkward younger son and troubled daughter-in-law here, but also for his elder son at prayer in a far-away monastery, for his daughters both wedded and unwedded… and even for his dead father, whom so many called ‘Terrible’. That father had made a pilgrimage as well, fruitless though it had been, and had suffered a final agony under the rule of demons that Jakub would not wish upon his worst enemies. He prayed fervently to these great preachers of truth, to these men who healed lepers and cast out demons in Christ’s name, to have mercy upon the soul of Radomír, in whatever state he now found himself.
By the time he reached the Tomb of Saint Peter, Jakub was merely one among a great throng of pilgrims shuffling up the right bank of the Tiber – among them saints and sinners, thieves and hucksters, people suffering from disease or mutilation or infirmities of flesh and spirit. Despite whatever rich robes and jewels and symbols of state he might wear at home, Jakub Rychnovský felt suddenly quite poor… but it was a poverty which oddly lifted him out of all the illusions and shadows of the worldly gaze. The eyes of God were upon him, both stern and compassionate, just as they were upon each and every one of the souls here around him. Here, every manner of excuse he might make, every form of self-justification he might have, crumbled vainly away. The only air one could breathe here was the air of a merciful and loving God. As the Basilica stood before him, Jakub found himself saying the Jesus Prayer over and over again:
‘Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy upon me, a sinner.’
Pope Silvester 2. was standing near the gates of his episcopal sway, conferring his blessings and those of the Church upon the pilgrims who came within. Jakub took his place among them and knelt to receive it. Silvester made the sign of the Cross upon him and placed in his outstretched hands a medallion of Saint Peter. Thanking the Roman Pontiff for the blessing, Jakub departed from the Vatican in peace. The king spent several more days in Rome before returning north. He found that, in the wake of his pilgrim’s route, the various sæcular entertainments of the City – feasts, dances, theatrical performances – seemed rather dry and pale in comparison; and he continued to visit the churches as long as he stayed in the City. He made the journey back in the early winter. As he crossed the threshold from the Austrian lands into the marches of his own country, he was greeted by a herald bearing the device of a golden many-spoked wheel upon a red field. This was the Aqhazars’ man.
‘Lord Kráľ,’ hailed the man, ‘God be with you! It is good to see you back within your own country!’
‘And God greet you, sir,’ Jakub answered him back. ‘What news from Sadec?’
The herald cleared his throat. ‘If you’ll pardon me for delivering my message to you so soon upon your return… milord Vratko Aqhazar extends to you an invitation for you to join his table at the Christmas feast this year, in Fríštak. It would do great honour to our humble house, and it would be a great boon to the Hrabě to become better acquainted with your Majesty, as his father was.’
‘It would be my pleasure,’ Jakub said gladly, ‘to share in the joy of Our Lord’s Nativity with the son of Tarkhan and the grandson of Ilık!’
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Wowza, quite the callback there with Copsi’s descendants popping by. Always fun to learn how the branches of the Rychnovský tree that have spread beyond Moravia itself are doing. How big is the dynasty at this stage anyhow?
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It's up around 30 living members or so around this time. Pretty-Boy Ivan and Lada's descendants certainly count in that direction. However, Vratislav was never acknowledged and he married into the Aqhazar family, which means by the game's standards that he doesn't count as a Rychnovský. Same with Copsige's son here, who is (of course) a bastard. Also, I think Copsige was actually Bosko's half-brother; Hilda remarried after she went back to England with Prokop.
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III.
16 January 1011 – 19 October 1012
16 January 1011 – 19 October 1012
And so it was that, before returning to Olomouc, Jakub attended the Christmas feast at Fríštak with the Hrabě of Sadec. In fact, even though the Hrabě had essentially inherited the position of maršal of the Moravian lands, it would be the first time he’d met Vratko Aqhazar in person—Tarkhan had never brought his son along with him on campaign. In truth, Jakub was eager to see what kind of man he had turned out to be. On the road, however, he also felt a bit of trepidation and guilt at Tarkhan’s manner of passing, and hoped that Vratko would not hold the death of his father against him.
Jakub recognised Vratko at once, once he led his horse inside the fence to his manor. Apart from his beard (Tarkhan was clean-shaven) and his coppery-red hair (Tarkhan’s had been black), and a bit of a paunch about his belly, he was the very image and likeness of his departed father: the same round cheeks, the same wide-set angular eyes, and a similar choleric complexion. At the moment, though, he greeted the king with a cheery hail.
‘Christos raždajetsja!’ Vratko cried. ‘My liege, it is a great pleasure to see you here! Parsbit, could you see his Majesty’s horses stabled? Come within, come within, dear me – it’s frigid out here!’
Jakub went biddably with his host, and at once found a full horn of rich mulled wine pressed into his hands and a plump round floor cushion at the spot of honour ready for him to sit on. The table of the Hrabě of Sadec was built low in the traditional Turkic style, and covered with a richly-coloured woven dastarkhân, which was laden even more richly with all manner of wonderful delectations from both Khazar and Moravian cultures. In addition to the centrepiece, which was a fatted calf upon a spit, there were platters of both aromatic spiced beef klobása and potent fermented sucuk made from horse-meat. There were rich egg-laden breads, as well as round unleavened loaves meant to be piled up with meat and vegetables. There were chicken dumplings served steamed, as well as flat wheat noodles which were made to be grabbed by the handful. Slices of winter melon and pickled cucumber adorned the table between all of the dishes, and there were deep bowls of lékvař made from Moravian table-grapes and Bülünjar cherries. It was clear indeed that Vratko was something of a gastronomist, and took delight in providing a sensuous repast, as befit the feast.
‘Dig in, your Majesty!’ Vratko said happily, after his chaplain had blessed the food. It was clear he was eager to do so himself. ‘I’m afraid we may have taken you a bit out of your way; I know you’ve been in Rome these past months and are eager to get home. Hopefully this will be worth your while.’
‘I’m sure,’ Jakub agreed, admiring the spread. ‘You have a splendid sense of table décor.’
‘Miroslava does well by me and mine,’ Vratko owned generously. ‘I say, Kráľ, you must tell me about your journey to Rome. Did you see the Forum? The Coliseum? The Palatine Hill?’
‘I confess,’ Jakub told his host truthfully, spearing a slice of veal with his knife, ‘during my stay there I mostly kept to the churches. I was there on pilgrimage to visit the Tombs of the Apostles.’
‘Ah,’ Vratko nodded understandingly. ‘Yes, I imagine being in a city so ancient as that, you’d have a great many things to occupy your time and attention, and the churches must be more worthy a destination than some. Even so… to be in a place where the wars with the Etruscans and the Sabines took place, would have proven a very different sort of temptation for me. To observe old battlefields…’
Jakub regarded his vassal thoughtfully. Vratko was an intriguing specimen, bearing some resemblances both to his father Tarkhan and to his aunt Sarä. He had Sarä’s clear love for food and comforts and conversation; but it was also apparent that the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree as far as his interest in rerum militarium was concerned. ‘Yes, you’re quite right,’ Jakub replied at last. ‘I did get a chance to pass by a few of those old battlefields myself, both in the city and on the way in: the Silva Arsia, the village of Frascati. There is something… about those old battlefields, I agree. As though you can feel the weight of what happened there, so many hundreds of years ago.’
‘The past is never really as “past” as it lets on,’ Vratko mused philosophically. ‘I’d love to be able to just drop everything and make a journey like that myself someday… Gülçiçäk, what’s the matter? You’re hardly touching your food!’
‘Mm? Oh. Forgive me, brother. I’m afraid my mind has been elsewhere.’ The nervous-looking woman speared a slice of sucuk and chewed it distractedly.
‘Why, what’s the matter?’ asked Jakub of the woman around the corner of the dastarkhân from him. She nearly leapt off her cushion like a startled doe at having been addressed directly by such an exalted personage.
‘Oh… pay it no mind, O Kráľ. The troubles of someone like me can be of little interest to you, I’m sure.’
‘Come,’ Jakub said winningly. ‘A king ought to take an interest in the wellbeing of his subjects, no?’
‘It’s… my daughter,’ Gülçiçäk Aqhazar murmured. ‘I learned that she… took a fall from a horse recently. I’ve warned her against doing these things that are best left to menfolk, particularly the dangerous tasks. But she would always go behind my back and do them anyway. And I worry about her, I do so worry about her…’
Jakub couldn’t help but sympathise.
‘But—she is dowered and married now, and she has a good Mojmírov husband to look after her. She’s off my hands. Is it wrong for a mother to worry this much about her children? Wrong or right, I find I can’t help myself. She’s my daughter. I just want God to look after her, no matter what she does.’
Jakub demurred in his opinions on the Mojmírov men, but did not say so aloud. He couldn’t help but see something of himself in Gülçiçäk. Was not fully half of the impetus for this pilgrimage of his just past, that he wanted to protect his son from his wife’s unhappiness and straying thoughts? In the end it was sink-or-swim for the two, and he knew it as well as anyone. Eustach had to deal with this issue on his own. But that did not stop him from worrying for them both.
Jakub raised his vessel of mulled wine toward Gülçiçäk. ‘I know exactly what you mean.’
‘Begging your pardon, O Kráľ,’ Gülçiçäk asked, ‘but hasn’t your youngest daughter lately been wed herself? To the son of the Despot of Nikaia? That should give you some comfort, at least.’
‘Mm,’ Jakub murmured thoughtfully. ‘Matthaios is a fine lad. Serious. I did give it as much thought as I could, with as much of an eye to Rebeka’s security as I could give. Even so, these things are every bit as much out of my hands, once done, as they are out of yours.’
‘Oh,’ said a surprised Gülçiçäk, who fell quiet and considered for a moment. ‘I suppose we all have to let our children go sometime, don’t we? Even kings.’
‘Just so,’ Jakub assured Gülçiçäk. ‘Just as you hope God looks after your daughter, I hope He looks after mine. All my children, in fact. It can be hard to let them go.’
‘Ah, but that’s more than just a wedding you’re speaking of, sister,’ Vratko tapped his nose. ‘Despot Hypatios is a valuable ally. And up here on the northern border, with Poles raiding every other year, we know exactly how handy such allies can be. Almost as much as good fortifications and good stockpiles of arms. I say, Kráľ, do you need any more help on that score?’
‘No, no,’ Jakub smiled, downing a gulp of wine. ‘Better to manage the muster we have, than to tax our good bowers and townsfolk unnecessarily. The recent report from Prohor was… eye-opening.’
‘Mm,’ Vratko said shrewdly. ‘That wasn’t the tune Velemír was singing several months ago.’
Jakub grabbed a fistful of flat noodles and put them on his trencher with a sigh. ‘With any luck, that particular composition has reached its coda. I confess, I do tire of Velemír bringing up such old news in council. I fear that age and drink have gone to the poor man’s head.’
He said it with sympathy, but the effect was much more complex. Velemír had lost much of the goodwill he had enjoyed even among the Češi with his complaints about Jakub’s administration; and Jakub had found that the easiest way to outwit him was to simply let him talk. Give him enough rope to hang with, and he’d do it himself.
As he had predicted, the Christmas feast at Fríštak was indeed a joyful one for Jakub. Naturally the food was excellent, and Vratko and his kinfolk were good company. Jakub spent Theophany in Fríštak with the Aqhazars, and attended the blessing of the waters and the retrieval of the cross. But then it was time at last to return home. His little heart-to-heart with Gülçiçäk about parents and their feelings toward their children had resolved, at least in some small measure, the trepidation that he felt in going back.
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Years into Jakub's reign, and he proves an able diplomat and administrator who's holding Moravia together well. Certainly a drastic change from his predecesor.
And everyone in the family clearly has a very different idea about how to treat their wives. *sigh*
A good way of the king to solve that particular situation.
And everyone in the family clearly has a very different idea about how to treat their wives. *sigh*
A good way of the king to solve that particular situation.
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Yup. Jakub's a competent commander, but at heart he's a talker rather than a fighter. Something which his vassals seem to appreciate, anyway.
And yeah, Dolz and Eustach got off a bit on the wrong foot. Probably a wise choice on Jakub's part to let Eustach try to solve that problem himself.
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Book Three Chapter Seven
SEVEN
The Shield of Nikaia
20 November 1014 – 3 January 1018
I.
20 November 1014 – 20 July 2015
The Shield of Nikaia
20 November 1014 – 3 January 1018
I.
20 November 1014 – 20 July 2015
Dolz loved going to the vigils, and had done ever since she was a little girl in Valençay. It was a little different between the Latin church of her youth and the Greek church she was in now. But there was something about the mystery and the quietude of standing in the church at night, listening to the Psalter being chanted aloud by candlelight. Although she knew that her vocation as a healer in this Moravian city was a blessed one in its entirety, it was in these small moments of stillness that Dolz truly did feel closer to God. There was nothing really quite like it. For these devotions of hers she chose to attend the Cathedral of Saint Gorazd on the eastern bank of the Morava, accompanied by her faithful maidservant Gerhildis.
However, on this occasion, standing before her in the wooden nave was a woman she had never seen before. And did she ever seem out of place! When she turned her head, Dolz noticed that her skin was a deep, rich almond-brown. In profile, Dolz noticed her slender nose, her full lips, and the warm glimmering black of her irises. This woman must be far from home indeed!
And then she noticed that, although the dark-skinned woman attended to the reader with great interest, shivers wracked the shoulders that were draped in fine cotton cloth. However colourfully it was embroidered upon the hems, with mesmerising geometric weave of red and green and gold terminating in an elaborate cruciform pattern upon the skirts, there was no question but it was entirely too thin for late evening in these waning Moravian autumn months.
Without hesitating, Dolz took the cloak from her shoulders and stepped forward toward the black woman. Placing a hand upon her shoulder, the Norman offered her own wool cloak to her. At first the woman gave a slight but firm shake of her head at this offer, but Dolz did insist, and the woman indeed was cold. Eventually she decided there was no point in making a penance of the vigil, and accepted the warm extra layer being offered by the younger woman. A simple gesture, but warm – and so was the gratitude with which it was received.
After the prayers for the vigil had ended, Dolz introduced herself.
‘My name is Dolz de Touraine,’ she told the visitor. ‘I’m the physician up at the castle. What is yours, and from where do you hail, madam?’
‘I am Retta Yostos,’ the black woman told Dolz. ‘I have come here on pilgrimage from Shewa by way of Alexandria. It was my desire to see with my own eyes, this last bastion of Christendom in the north – this beacon of God’s Truth ensconced among the heathen lands. And—I beg your pardon, young lady—your name and your speech are not like the others here. Where are you from?’
‘I hail from far west of here—from West Francia. I came here by the king’s invitation.’
‘I see,’ said Retta. ‘Well, at any rate, Dolz de Touraine… I thank you for letting me use your cloak in the church. I do appreciate the thoughtful gesture.’
‘It’s no trouble,’ Dolz told her. ‘Your dress, by the way… ele est delicatif… but it’s much too light a material for these regions when the winter approaches. It’s not… not linen, I see?’
‘Cotton,’ Retta answered her with a broad smile. ‘We import the material from the Indies.’
‘From the Indies? Indeed! And where is Shewa? Is that the same place as Sheba, in the Book of Kings?’ Dolz asked with interest.
‘The same,’ Retta told her.
With a bright grin, Dolz took the African woman’s hands in hers. ‘You must tell me all about the place you come from. You say you came here on pilgrimage, but it’s long been my dream to make a journey to the pious Christian lands far to the south of here. Retta, would you kindly stay with us at the castle in Olomouc for some days, and do me the honour of sharing your company?’
‘Well,’ the woman hesitated, ‘I would have to ask my husband. However, if he says aye, I would be more than happy to spend the time with you. And you may tell me about your life here as well.’
Dolz returned to the castle in a high mood, and looked forward to conversing with the new friend she had made at Saint Gorazd’s in town. Her mind was racing joyously with the questions she’d like to ask, and the things she might want to share with Retta, as she approached her chamber at the castle. She was about to enter when she paused.
What should she tell Eustach about Retta? Would he even take interest in her?
As she had spent more time around Eustach, she had come to learn that his awkwardness and shyness around her were by no means owing to indifference or resentment, as she’d first feared. But the king’s son, her husband, was still by and large a mystery to her. In her heart of hearts, she gave thanks to Jakub that he’d refused what she’d come close to offering him. She still had her womanly honour unblemished, and nothing but the initial despairing compulsion with which God and her conscience might reproach her. She wouldn’t be seeking such a shameful remedy again.
However, there was still a distance between her husband and herself that she was at a loss for how to overcome. He was a Moravian Slav; she was Norman French. Even for them to speak to each other – to understand and to be understood – was difficult. For her part, Dolz was frustrated by the rustic, often chaotic nature of life in a Slavic town, even one as well-respected as Olomouc. And she was intimidated by the fierceness of Eustach’s attachment to his big ‘projects’.
But still…
Dolz opened the door to their chambers, and found Eustach there at his desk, looking over a document she recognised as a map of Opava. From what she understood, he was still looking for ways to better manage the forests there, how to balance the needs of the woodsmen against the demands of noble sport, and how to do it fairly, with an outcome all could agree on. Dolz gazed at the young man who was concentrating so intently on his work. There was no doubt in her mind that he was handsome: tall and broad-shouldered, with a bowl haircut that strikingly reminded her of those the Norman men wore at home. But it was his eyes that really drew her in. Dark, intense and forceful, set beneath a firm, level brown brow with a little furrow in the centre… the passion there intrigued Dolz.
And she had seen him practicing at arms in the courtyard, and something stirred her Northern blood when she watched him. Eustach was always one for the mighty swing, the dramatic lunge, the bold gesture, often throwing his own safety to the winds when he fought. And he took falls as often as he scored, but when he got up it was always with a good-natured laugh and a handshake with his sparring-partner. Dangerous when embattled, ruthless when cornered, but magnanimous even when defeated – what Norman woman wouldn’t be moved by such a man?
‘Husband,’ Dolz said to him.
Eustach looked up from his map of Opava. Dolz hesitated a bit before going on.
‘I… made an acquaintance today, while at vigil in the church in town. I invited her to join us here at the castle for a few days. She’s very interesting; I thought you might like to meet her.’
Eustach pondered for a moment. ‘Oh, of course, Dolz! Any friend of yours will be welcome in the castle. You want me to see to making guest accommodations for her?’
Dolz wilted a little. She was trying to talk to him about Retta. She wanted to intrigue him in the distant country she came from, in the intricate manner of her dress, in the delightful way she spoke. But her husband’s mind was already all on logistics, on planning, on organising. He wasn’t seeing what was right in front of his face, wasn’t noticing her in front of him. Dolz almost found herself wishing that Eustach would get angry with her for not asking him first.
Well, at least she had his ‘yes’ for Retta’s visit. ‘Of course, husband. Merci.’
~~~
One morning the following summer, the horns sounded in the courtyard, rousing Eustach from sleep. He sat up in bed and looked down at his wife, who had also opened her eyes. The sheets were pulled up to her shoulders, but the admirable contours of her shape were still tantalisingly visible beneath. Eustach was about to swing his legs over the side when Dolz lay her hand on his arm. The touch sent warm thrills all the way up Eustach’s shoulder, right to his heart.
‘The cornets,’ she spoke.
Eustach leaned over and kissed Dolz, enjoying the feel of her cool, small lips. Dolz’s hands came up and circled around the back of his neck, pulling him close to her. Eustach had found his wife’s smell to be particularly enticing – fresh, sweet and woody, embracing her reminded him of fine spring days on the hunt, in riparian forests blanketed with new green fern.
‘Mm,’ Eustach answered. ‘Looks like the zbrojnošov are mustering in the courtyard. I should go.’
‘Eustach—!’
‘Yes?’
A sad little smile came over Dolz’s face. ‘… Ci là ne fet rien. Vas-i.’
Eustach nodded briskly, stood and dressed himself. It made him more than a little self-conscious, feeling Dolz’s eyes on him the whole time, not knowing just what she thought, or how she felt. The woman taking him in with her eyes was still something of a closed book to him. She still spoke his Slavic tongue in fits and starts, and reverted to Norman French as the mood suited. He wondered as her sky-blues gazed up at him if he even knew a quarter of what was on her mind. He certainly didn’t know now.
What Eustach did know, though, was that he wanted to do right by her, and to make her happy. She had certainly made him so, touching him and teaching him how to touch her – with a mixture of words and gestures that somehow got their meaning through. Last night had been particularly pleasant… with Dolz warming his bare shoulder with her sweet little gasps as he’d finished.
But again the horns of war blared. Eustach finished dragging on his tunic and hose, and reached for his coat of mail rings before strapping his belt with his weapons on. But even after he’d left the chamber and gone into the courtyard, his mind was still very much on his wife.
‘Are you ready to ride?’ asked his father. ‘Good. We have a long way to travel.’
‘What has happened?’ asked Eustach.
‘There has been a nobles’ revolt against Despot Hypatios of Nikaia. As Rebeka’s father, he has asked me to intervene.’
Eustach nodded his head. So they were riding to the aid of his brother-in-law. However, the Middle Sea was far away, and it would be a long time before he returned. He glanced back over his shoulder to the window of his chamber, where he knew Dolz de Touraine was, and stared up for a long time. At last the neat, comely oval face of his wife came to the window to look out after him. Her blue eyes locked with his dark ones, and between them they tried to convey to each other what words would not.
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